#love how i put my thoughts under a read more like this post isn’t already very long lol

[luveline]

𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐟𝐚𝐮𝐥𝐭, 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 | 𝐚𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐫

When someone hurts you, you and Aaron both need time to get better, and to put things right. fem, 8k

cw canon typical violence, graphic scenes and imagery of assault/battery, recovery, mentions of being sick, issues eating. established relationship, lots of angst and comfort, hotch being vulnerable, jack being sweet 

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

You lay backward over the luxurious stretch of the couch and sigh as your spine gives a sharp crick. Your head feels heavy after a long shower, your arms ache from a day at work, but the feeling of soft cotton on your legs deters any moping. 

I hope these are more comfortable, his note read, a white post it note stuck to a boutique bag. You wrap an arm around your waist remembering how Aaron’s message had made you feel: spoiled, and considered. 

You’d mentioned in passing that all your pyjamas are old and rough as a consequence, thought nothing of it, and promptly forgot about the conversation entirely. 

When Aaron finally comes home tonight, you’re going to give him a proper thank you. You can imagine his reaction to such a thing, his smile as he says it’s no problem, his eyes shuttering closed as you press a kiss to his cheek. You hadn’t realised how prevalent affection would become in your life after meeting him, but everything he does inspires love. Awful, soft, marshmallowy love where he looks at you and you want to sit in his lap. 

You slide your phone up your chest lazily and click the button on the side to light the display. Aaron hasn’t claimed to know when he’ll be home tonight. All he’d said was to let yourself in. 

It’s odd but not the worst thing in the world to be alone in his apartment. There’s less and less free space each time you visit as Jack begins to outgrow his and his fathers lodgings, but there’s never a stain or bad smell, the Hotchner apartment feels homey. You’re excited whenever you’re invited to spend the night with them. 

Maybe some time soon he’ll ask you to move in, or better, to marry him. You’re not a hundred percent sure how you feel about marriage, about being someone’s wife, but there’s a great well of pleasure to be found in the idea that Aaron would want to marry you. He makes you feel loved already in a hundred different ways but the ring might be nice, like a symbol to signify how much you mean to him. 

You rest your hand across your eyes. It’s silly to think of. Sillier to want so soon. You’ve been together for just under a year, and you have no false hopes about rushing into the future, but it’s certainly a future you want with him (and with Jack, too). He’s taking things slowly for a hundred different reasons but he loves you, and gifts like your new pyjamas cement that. He really listens to you. 

Your phone rings a moment later. 

You smile at the screen. It’s nice to be in love with someone who loves you too. 

“Hey,” Aaron says when you answer, his voice warm even through the phone, “I didn’t think you’d answer.”

“How come?” You sit up with a little start. 

“It’s getting late, honey. I called Jess and Jack was already gone.” He doesn’t say anything further. 

“Are you okay?” 

“I wanted to hear your voice, I think.” 

“Well, where are you?” You struggle to envision him speaking saccharinely like this where his colleagues could hear him. He’s nice to you often, but he’s a reserved man. 

“I’m just,” —a crunching sound of metal, the trunk of his car closing— “about to get in the car. I’ll be home before ten. Can I have you until then?” 

“I don’t see any reason to say no. But do you think you could come home a little faster? I have a crick in my neck.” 

“And you want me to fix that?” 

“You always fix my neck.” 

“How have you done it?” There’s a sound you assume to be the car door closing, but you can’t hear anything beyond that. 

“I have bad posture.” 

“You have perfect posture.” 

“No, it’s quite bad.”

He laughs loudly. It took some time to draw the humour from him but he isn’t as stony as you’d think, and for a while he didn’t have much worth laughing for, anyways. Whenever you hear it, you try to prompt it twice. 

“You don’t have to lie to me, Aaron, it’s just like when you said my weird rash wasn’t weird.” 

He laughs again, to your pleasure. “It wasn’t weird, it was a heat rash, I promise. You act like you’ve never seen heat rash.” 

“One of us goes to hot cities all the time and one of us lives permanently in Virginia.” 

“What are you talking about? Virginia’s far from cold. You’re being argumentative, I can see your smile in my head. I’m never going to fix your crick if you keep acting like that.” 

“No, don’t be like that,” you laugh, tipping back into the cushions. “You’re always such a sore loser.” 

“What did I lose?” 

You can tell from his tone that you’ve promised yourself one of those hugs that borders on a straight jacket tightness, his face tucked into your neck as he asks you to repeat yourself. What did I lose? he’ll ask again, kissing your chin, the line of your jaw. Tell me clearly.  

“It hurts,” you say honestly, “please don’t be mad. I really need one.” 

“I’m not mad… I’m going under the overpass, my signal might cut out.” 

“Okie dokie. Hey, did you eat? I can make you something for when you get home. I got groceries.” 

“I’m not hungry, but you can make yourself hot cocoa, and I’ll drink it when I get there,” he says. 

“Or I could make us both some?” 

“It’s much more fun if I drink yours before you can, honey. You know that—”

You pause in the quiet, then hear a quick beeping. You pull your phone from your ear and find the call disconnected. 

Cruel overpass, you think. 

Sure he’ll call you back, you take your phone into his kitchen and set about finding all the things you’ll need for hot cocoa. One mug, because you should hate when he forces you to share, but you love the feeling of his fingers on yours as he takes it and the thankful kiss he dots on your cheek. 

The kettle is uncomplicated. You toy with the stovetop, set the kettle on the burner, and let the temperature rise. It begins whistling lightly a mere thirty seconds later. 

You click your phone on again. He’ll have passed through the tunnel now and will be calling you back any minute. You stare at the phone, hoping to summon him, slouched over the counter with the tin of cocoa powder by your fingers. The kettle whines with growing heat, but cool air kisses your back. 

Goosebumps rise. Up and down the lengths of your arms, the back of your neck—

A sudden chill. 

The lack of air comes before the hand, the pain a rush, a burst to be away from. Leather on your neck creaking without sympathy as a hand tightens and drags your body back against something hard. 

Not Aaron. Your scream comes strangled under cruel fingers as you fight to move forward again, straight for the burner, the kettle shoved across the burner grate and exploding with scalding water, heat of the burner kissing your chest— you scream, only it’s worse than a scream, sound from the deepest part of you forcing itself past the heat at your neck as you try to fling yourself away from the pain. 

You fall with a hard clout. “Stay still!” comes out enraged against the back of your neck. You drop to your knees, the pain lighting flaring up your chest, your gaze frantic as you search for a flame that isn’t there. You’re not on fire, you’re crawling and then scampering up into a standing position when the heavy weight drops itself on you again and smashes your face into the floor. 

All your fight leaves you. Your ears ring. Your panic wanes but the pain stays alert in your mouth. 

A hand grabs you by the back of the head and drives your face into the ground. It’s like light in your eyes and your nose, the brunt of it, the crack of your bone and the hot trickle of blood that swiftly follows. You gurgle in pain, spluttering and gagging against the linoleum, waiting for Aaron to turn you over and say sorry. It’s an accident.

Blood drains from your nose in spurts to match your racing pulse, so much blood you can see your eyes reflected in the dark stretch of it. Water drips down the front of the stove, your breath aches and begs, and your attacker takes a measured breath. 

He flips you over. You can’t slide away, there’s nothing left in you, your head a second body as he raises something. 

Your phone rings on the counter. 

“Please, don’t,” you plead with a sob.

You pass out as the pain connects. Just as quickly as it started, your body takes the reins. 

—

There’s a strange darkness waiting for you. Like waking before your alarm and stealing those last minutes, body aching, not wanting to get up and face the day. Aaron gets up early every morning, sometimes as early as four AM, and whenever you get up with him your eyes hurt for hours. 

Nothing, nothing, nothing. 

Hey, hey, I think your boyfriend’s coming.

What will he make of my handiwork?

You didn’t stay awake long enough for that one, did you? But you’re waking up now.

The pain is enough to wake you up again, a hot drag down the side of you to your hip and in. You aren’t aware of the sounds you make, but you can hear them. Your panicked squealing as the heat presses further and further in. Your crying, and your whispering, “Stop, stop.” 

“There’s handsome,” the dark voice says. “I’ve gotta go hide somewhere, does he carry after hours? I think I’ll find out.” 

“Oh,” you say, feeling sickly. You attempt to curl into yourself, when did you turn onto your back? “No,” you mumble, lips wet with something hot. 

“Honey?” a voice asks. 

“Honey,” you repeat, woozy again, darkness falling in all over again, where it stays. 

Honey, are you in here?

—

The window behind Aaron’s shoulder is cold. Rain patters fast like floods, thunder occasionally chewing through clouds, and Jack Hotchner cries sluggish tears into his dad’s shoulder. 

Aaron has his eyes closed. They’ve been at this for a while. “Shh, shh shh, buddy,” he says softly, patting the bottom of Jack’s back. He’d sway him back and forth if his arms weren’t about to fall off. 

Jack squirms closer, no room left between them. 

“I know it’s scary,” Aaron says. 

Jack just cries. This approach of quiet support isn’t working; Jack isn’t a baby that needs to be put to sleep, he’s a panicking little kid, and Aaron needs to change gears. He ushers him away from his chest and crosses his arm behind Jack’s back. Careful, he shifts Jack’s weight to free his other arm and brings his fingers up to the silky brown hair dropping onto Jack’s forehead. 

“She’s okay,” Aaron says, stroking Jack’s hair. His little forehead is clammy. “She’s not hurting. I know it looks scary, honey, but… she’s just resting.” 

Jack looks him in the eyes. “Her face.” 

“I know.” He nods emphatically. “It’s hard to see. Blood isn’t nice. You don’t have to see her again today, not if it’s too scary.” 

Jack lifts a hand to Aaron’s face. Clumsy but with clear attempts to be careful, he wipes at the skin under Aaron’s eye. Aaron bites back a smile. 

“I look tired,” he says. 

“Yeah.” Jack brings his hand back to wipe his eyes. He sobs as he does it. Aaron can’t describe the ache it gives him to see it. 

“Buddy, I’ll do it. Let me wipe your face. I can do it.” 

Jack drops his hands. Aaron turns his hand and wipes the smudge of Jack’s tears from hot cheeks, testing the waters with a little smile. 

“I couldn’t see you under all those tears.” 

Jack does a little smile back. “Yes you can.” 

“I couldn’t! But now I’ve wiped all your face I can see you again. You’re handsome, did we know that?” 

Jack giggles. He sniffles, and he presses his palm to Aaron’s neck. “I don’t want her to be sad, dad.” 

“She’s going to be sad, because something scary happened, but it’s okay. I’m gonna take care of her.” 

Aaron would offer to take him home, but they can’t go home. They may not go home for a long time —the team is still trying to work out how someone made it into the apartment without alerting the building’s security or Aaron’s internal system. And then escaped again without Aaron’s notice. Until then, Aaron has to make a decision about a safe house, for himself, Jack, and Jess, though she's extremely unreceptive to the idea. 

Aaron has to look after Jack, and he needs to take care of you. 

“What do you think, bud?” he asks, cupping Jack’s head in his hand. “Do you want to go home?” 

“You said I can give her a hug.” 

“If it’s too scary, we don’t have to. I don’t want you to get upset again.” 

“I’m not scared. I want to give her the hug,” he says. 

Aaron pulls him in for a hug of his own. “Okay, buddy. Just try to think of it like this. She’s where she needs to be to get better. Everybody here is looking after her. She’ll be okay soon.” 

Aaron looks over Jack’s head down the hospital hallway. It’s a quiet ward, and here between the main ward doors and the hallway that leads down to the individual rooms there’s complete silence. Night is approaching quickly again, and with it comes Aaron’s panic. Your head turned into a puddle, your face lax of expression in the dark. He can’t stop finding the women he loves bloody and on their backs. 

“Ready?” he murmurs. “Can you walk with me? My arms are tired.”

“Yeah.” 

Aaron puts Jack down gently onto his feet. He neatens his hair, chucking him under the chin as he goes to see his smile. He’s so pretty, like Haley was, with shiny eyes. He’s a beautiful kid. Aaron takes his hand and together they make their way down the hallway to your room. 

You’re sleeping. 

Aaron herds Jack through the door and to the plastic covered chair by your side, where he lifts him up and sits him down. He stays between you both. Jack isn’t scared of you, just the blood, but he wants to show Jack that he’s going to protect him from anything he needs protecting from. He also desperately wants to touch you, and reassure himself that you’re still breathing. 

He looks for your hand. Your pinky finger is splinted, but he can take it with care, give the palm of it a squeeze. 

The blood matted in your hair has finally been washed away after a turbulent day, as well as the staining that marred your face. Your nose is broken, and looks it, the bruises so fierce your eyes have turned puffy and your top lip has inflamed. There are second degree burns in multiple places but most affectedly on your chest. There’s a stab wound at your hip, allegedly done with a small blade. It nicked your small intestine. The bandages laid over you are a lump under your hospital gown. 

Aaron looks at you, and he feels a passionate disdain for himself. He wishes he could… be someone else. Someone who doesn’t have such a deep connection to a job that hurts the people around him, over and over. Haley used to say he was obsessed with being the hero, but this doesn’t feel heroic. 

“Do you wanna give her your cuddle?” he asks softly. 

Jack stays sitting. 

He’ll have to give it to you himself. Careful, Aaron leans down over your prone body and presses a half kiss to your ear, the only place that won’t hurt. 

You have an IV drip going into your arm, painkillers, an ECG monitor to the left. The room is white but busy, you’re a burst of colour against it all, your cuts and bruises, the evidence of violence he can’t remove. Aaron’s tired. He perches on the gap of bed by your leg and holds your hand, turning to Jack, who watches with a frown. 

“She’s sleeping,” Aaron says. 

“When can she come home?” 

“In a few days.” He feels the pad of your hand, terrified of your broken finger but needing to hold a part of you. 

“Why is she sleeping all day?” 

Traumatic experiences are exhausting. “I think she might want to be alone, so she sleeps.” 

“Should we go?” 

Aaron shakes his head. “I think we should stay. When she wakes up again she’ll be happy to see us, because we’re not strangers.” 

“We’re family,” Jack says. He’d liked that, when the nurse asked you how Aaron was related to you. Family only.

“We’re her family,” Aaron agrees. 

If he somehow miraculously fell out of love with you, you’d still be family to them. You’ve given so much of your heart since you met them. Aaron wants everything you have to give. 

You wake in a slow, slow upheaval. It takes effort on your part, the opening of sore eyes, the dreary decision to face your pain. Your hand jumps in his but relaxes when he shushes you, your slimmer fingers stilling under his rubbing thumb. For a split second, you keep your gaze half-lidded, jaw soft, like you’ve been indulging in a stolen nap. 

Then your breath catches and you screw your eyes tightly. 

“You’re okay,” he says, quietly, and not as lightly as he means to, “you’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay,” in quick succession. 

“Hurts,” you say, and gasp, a whine stuck in your throat. 

He doesn’t know what to do. Jack shouldn’t watch this but he can’t leave you alone. “It’s okay,” he says, holding your wrist to stop it climbing up your bruised face. 

You were worse the first time you woke up. Catatonic, then sobbing. You mumble and whimper now, pain threading goosebumps down your arms. 

“It hurts too much,” you say. A sob falls out of you like you’ve been ripped open. 

Aaron doesn’t think, but an instinct sparks. The pain, to hit you right out of the gate like this, to make you say something like that when you’ve always always made your problems small, must be torture. It must feel new and sudden all over again. 

Aaron checks that Jack is alright and leaves the room. He looks down one hallway and then the other, but there’s no nurse around —he races to the reception desk and begs the two nurses there for help with you, “She’s in intense pain,” he says, grasping the desk. 

The nurse he’s more familiar with clears her throat. “Mr. Hotchner, she’s already had enough motrin for two people at your request, she really shouldn’t need–”

“Pain is just as important to treat as the injury.” 

A second nurse puts her salad down with raised brows. “Do you want to overdose her?” 

“Excuse me?” 

Aaron has always seen himself as a gentleman, but the argument that ensues is tricky to navigate while remaining respectful, and he’s no closer to better treatment for you by the end of it. He gives each nurse a disapproving glower and takes his phone from his pocket, turning on the spot, ready to call whoever it is he needs to call for a second opinion. He’s not gonna listen to you cry when there’s no need. 

He pushes the door open with the phone still clutched in his other hand. Jack’s climbed onto your bed. He cuddles your face, sitting by your pillows and bent over you protectively. 

Aaron lets out a breath. 

“It’s okay,” he says, his arm behind your head and his arm on your shoulder. “W’gonna take care of you.” 

“I know,” you say, crying without sound, shaking under his arms.

His cheek smushes against your forehead. Your eyes are closed and your face braced for contact Jack doesn’t make, careful not to hurt you as he rubs his cheek into your skin. Your blankets are falling off of you from the squirming and your bruises shine with tears in the light, but Jack has calmed you down some. 

Aaron shouldn’t have left Jack with you. He’s been so scatterbrained since he found you when he should be the opposite, but Jack is doing better than Aaron managed alone. 

“I’m sorry for crying,” you say slowly. “I’m hurting, but it’s not bad. I’m okay.” 

“That’s good. You have a big scratch on your face, and bruises.” 

“I know.” 

“Dad says you have a bruise on your tummy too.” 

“I got lots of bruises, but it’s okay. Don’t worry about me.” You bring your hand up injured and uncaring to rub his leg. “You’re being a really brave boy, thank you.” 

A tear rolls down your cheek. 

“It’s teamwork,” Jack says. “I hug you and you hug me.” 

“Is that what you want? You want a hug?” 

“I want to go home,” he says, hugging you harder. 

You grasp his arm loosely where it’s just under your chin. “Jack, can you move your arm?” you whisper. 

Your breath comes quickly, but Jack moves his arm away from your bruised neck and you try to calm yourself down. 

Aaron jolts himself back into action. “Sweetheart,” he says, rushing to sit Jack back and give you more space. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine.” 

He watches. Not sure what to say. Not sure saying anything is wise. You squint at him through your lashes, eyes opening slowly, your mouth a line pressed hard to stop from crying. 

“I think it's time for Jack to go home,” he suggests gently. 

“Yeah,” you say, eyes swimming with tears. 

“No.” Jack squeezes your head again, to your panic. 

“Jack, buddy, please don’t touch her neck,” Aaron says, grabbing Jack from your pillow. 

He erupts into tears again. Frantic and vying for you, Aaron tries to calm him and he kicks against his chest, tears turning to disgruntled sobs at not getting what he wants. You wince, pressing your face completely into the pillow. 

Aaron carries Jack from your room, phone in hand. 

—

Is she breathing? Can she talk? 

I don’t– I don’t know, I don’t– She’s breathing. Honey, can you hear me? I don’t know what to stop. I don’t know where it’s all coming from. 

Where’s the worst of the blood? 

It’s everywhere. 

Abdominal? Chest? 

I can’t tell. I can’t tell. 

Mr. Hotchner, you can’t panic. Does she have a chest wound?

Yes. Yes, but– 

Is she conscious? How’s her pulse? Be ready to start chest compressions. 

Honey, can you hear me? 

Your name said clearly. 

“Hey, can you hear me?” 

“Yes,” you murmur. 

“If you need a minute, that’s okay.” 

You cover your mouth with your hand. Emily Prentiss has a soft voice like your boyfriend’s when she wants to have it. She’s never spoken to you like this, none of his colleagues have, but since the incident, everybody treats you like you’re made of glass. 

Cognitive interviews are meant to happen immediately after an accident, but you weren’t up for company. Aaron promised this would be on your terms, that Emily is the most practised, and that she’s reaped the most information from them than the rest of the team. So far, it’s worked to drag bad memories to the surface. 

“Maybe we should start from the beginning.” 

There isn’t a beginning. There’s just conversation. Aaron’s hand on your heart and his shaky voice, so unlike him.

“Okay.” 

Emily reaches for your hand. She smiles, and her nice features get nicer. That’s another thing they all share, good looks. “Okay. What did you notice, in the kitchen? It’ll help if you close your eyes,” she reminds you. 

You close your eyes. 

“What stuck out?” 

“Nothing,” you murmur. “I’ve been in there lots of times, and nothing ever changes.” 

“Nothing? Not even the drawings on the fridge?” 

“Jack’s particular about his best work, even if I think they should all be on display.” 

Emily’s voice turns to a shard of itself. “What did you do? Can you take me through it step by step? Make yourself a cup of hot chocolate.” 

“I never got that far.”

“What did you do?” 

“I filled the kettle.” 

“What kettle?” 

You don’t understand the need for specificity, but you answer. “Aaron got it for me, when he… he told me he loved me, and when we got home he’d bought me a kettle and a bunch of stuff to make my being there easier. The kettle, because… he said something about superheated water. How the microwave can be dangerous, and this would be easier than a pan.” 

“Alright. Okay, and what did you do after that?” 

“I put the kettle on the stove.” You lit the burner, and heat kissed your palm, and suddenly the room had felt cold. “I got goosebumps.” 

“When?” 

“The kettle started to whistle, and it was cold.”

“And then–”

“Then he grabbed me.” 

“Yeah,” Emily says softly. 

You touch your nose. “I tried… He didn’t feel like a person. He didn’t feel like someone I was fighting, it was just painful.” 

“Like he was quick on his feet?” 

“He was silent. I didn’t hear him until I made him fall.” 

“How big did he feel?” 

Your stomach churns. Big. He’d felt big. 

Where’s the worst of the blood?

“He said he was going to hide,” you remember. 

“He said that? He said ‘hide’?

“Yeah. And he asked me if Aaron carries after hours.” 

“When was this?” 

It’s a headache. You try to remember more, because that’s what they need right now. If you ever want to go home, if you want Jack to go home, you need to remember more. The BAU are good, but nobody can make a map out of slivers. 

“That was at the end,” you say. 

“After he stabbed you?” 

You wince. “Yes. After.” 

“You’re doing so good,” she praises, “I just want to fill in the gaps.” 

“I can’t remember. I was unconscious.” 

“When Hotch found you?” 

“No, before.”

“Before?” she asks. 

You’re sick of sitting there with your eyes closed. Sick of your hands shaking with nowhere to hide them, and sick of feeling sick, your nausea as present as the stinging pain of your burned wrist against your sleeve each time you move. 

You open your eyes and look around the conference room for something interesting. How nice would it be to think of something else for a few minutes?

“He called it handiwork when he cut me. Asked if I thought Aaron would like it,” you say, bordering monotonous as your gaze fizzles, unfocused, across the room. 

“Okay, Y/N. Okay. I know you’re tired.” She reaches for your hands to squeeze at the same time. “You did really well. Any details at all are details we can use to find him.” 

You’re not in the mood for talking anymore. Tears burn your eyes, waiting for a blink to set them loose. 

“I want to see Aaron,” you confess quietly. 

“I’ll find him for you.” Emily stands but bends, the dark of her hair a contrast to her pale face. She’s lovely, and her hand is gentle on yours. “Are you okay? Can I get you something to eat?” 

So Aaron’s not keeping that to himself. “I want to see him, please.” 

“Yeah. Okay.” 

This is a horrible room. It’s not their fault, but the big white board is tacked with bad photos of grisly cases —currently your own. You stare at a photograph of your blood in the kitchen and don’t know what to do. Should you look away? You hadn’t realised you bled so much. 

You turn your chair toward the door. Emily looks back as she leaves and smiles at you softly, but your eyes are already moving to the smaller dry erase board by the doorway. It’s ‘Hotch’s turn to clean up on Thursdays. How strange that they make the boss clean the conference room. 

You can picture him picking up coffee cups and wiping down the table. You can always picture Aaron. 

You can see him hovering over you, his hand pressed to the bloody mess of your hip to stop the blood. 

“It’s okay,” you whisper to yourself, wanting to break from the memory, following Aaron’s example. “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.” You repeat it into your hands, head tilting down. You sink until your knuckles touch your knees. 

That’s all he says when you panic. He’ll say it over and over again until you can breathe right. I have you, I have you, you’re okay. 

He’s much quieter this time. You hear his footsteps, his familiar gait, your head pounding too hard to move. Aaron makes a sound between a sigh and a hum, like he’s saying a sorry hello as he kneels in front of you. His hand takes your face, rubs softly over your ear. 

“My head’s just hurting,” you murmur. 

He doesn’t respond. You sit together for some time as your mind races with bad memories, your fear a rush of goosebumps down the lengths of your arms and thighs. It’s hard not to think about what happened, mostly because you’re still a walking bruise, your stitches sting when you move, the blisters on your chest ache, all of it inescapable. But it’s your anxiety that plagues you most. You’re in a constant state of dread. 

You had no idea someone could hurt you as badly as they had until it happened, and now you’re desperate not to be hurt again. 

“You have to look after me,” you say eventually, throat sore with how awful it feels to say. 

“Yes, I do.” 

“Please don’t let me get hurt again.” 

Total silence. You sniffle at his lack of an answer, only slightly comforted by his hands at your wrists now, pulling them from your face. “Let’s sit up,” he says, standing himself. “Come on, let’s sit up. You shouldn’t be putting so much pressure on your abdomen.” 

You lean back and everything aches like a stretch after a long run or a bad night’s sleep. 

Aaron pulls a chair next to yours. When he sits, your knees are pressed in between one another’s thighs, so close he could hug you. You might need one.  He’s given you a ridiculous amount of them each day, some for him and some for you. 

He has with him a takeout box and a bottle of water. 

“Here,” he says, popping the seal of the drink. “Three sips.” 

You feel like crying, but you drink. He opens the takeout box to reveal a normal looking sandwich already cut into two halves, but he takes a plastic knife from his pocket, peels away the wrapping, and cuts the sandwich again into quarters. 

“I’m gonna be sick,” you say. 

“No, you’re not. You won’t be.” He presses the sandwich flat with his hands and holds it to you until you take it. “Please, Y/N. You only have to eat what you can.” 

“I don’t want it.” 

“Please.” 

“Did Emily tell you about my interview?” 

He reaches for your thigh. Mildly unlike him when you aren’t at home. You assume it to be a tether for your sake. “No. Is there something you think I should know?” 

“I don’t want to say it again.” 

“Then you don’t have to. Someone will tell me when I get back.” 

You pinch the fluffy bread in your hands, eyeing wearily at the wet insides. “Can I come with you?” 

“You’re having trouble in the cognitive interviews, you won’t want to hear what we have to say.” 

You split the sandwich in half again, watching as salad and mayonnaise ooze from the bread. 

“If you don’t eat, you won’t get better,” he says, a touch stern. 

“I can’t eat when you won’t let me come with you.” 

“I’m not the only person capable of protecting you. I…” He circles your wrist before you can make a mess. “Can you please eat it?” 

You take a bite to appease him, your stomach roiling, food wet and cold on your tongue. You eat the whole quarter queasily, a lump at the back of your throat begging you to stop. 

Aaron takes an empty hand and rubs it tenderly. “Thank you,” he says, that rubbing turned more forceful, his hand journeying to your elbow and back again. 

It’s sweet how attuned he is to your needing his touch, but mortifying. This entire experience had been embarrassing from start to end. Couldn’t defend yourself, can’t get to grips with it, and can’t keep anything down. Aaron looks at you and your bruises and you wonder if he’s seeing you with blood matted in your hair, or hearing you beg for him to get you something stronger. All you’d wanted was a sedative. 

“I’m far from the only person capable of protecting you,” he says. 

“You saved me,” you say. You mean it in every sense of the world. 

“…This is my fault.” 

“I want to be with you,” you say honestly. “I don’t feel okay by myself right now, I just need you, or I feel so sick I wish that I died.” The anxiety is marrow deep. 

Aaron looks gutted. “Don’t say that.” His hand goes back to yours, back to tenderness. “I know you're scared.” 

“Then why won’t you listen?” you ask weakly. 

“I’m listening to you,” he says, his tone a dulcet, pleasing softness you’ve never ever heard before, “I need you to be safe, and I need Jack to be safe, and I can’t do that while he’s still out there.” His brows pinch together, agonised. “I’m sorry you’re scared. I didn’t protect you. But I won’t let anything happen to you again.

“I love you. Please believe that I’m doing what’s best for you right now.” 

You turn your head away. He cups your cheek regardless. 

“I love you,” he says again. 

“I know.” 

“No, I love you.” 

He’s saying sorry.

“I love you,” you mumble back. 

“How are you feeling? Is anything hurting more? Weeping?” 

Your eyes are heavy at his touch. “You only looked at me a couple of hours ago.” 

“Alright. Can I kiss you? I need to go.” 

You don’t answer. Aaron kisses your chin, your jawline, the type of roving, teasing kisses he’d give as he squeezed your sides, only he doesn’t squeeze you, he can’t without hurting you. His hand hesitates just above your deepest wound. 

His bright kiss works to spark a modicum of life back into you. Not a lot, but enough. It was likely his intention, some quick prodding kisses to remind you of something happy between you both. 

You curl your fingers over his hand and turn your face for a chaste peck. He smiles, the curve of his lips evident and relieving against yours. 

“Someone will take you back to the safe house, okay? Give Jack a kiss for me,” he says. 

You nod. Aaron strokes your cheek. 

—

Your assailant could have killed you while you were vulnerable, but he didn’t. “He assumes he’ll have another chance,” Emily surmises. 

“That’s cocky,” JJ mutters. 

“It’s telling,” Aaron says. “But he won’t.” 

The coaching has been extensive. You, sick, a breath from tears and hurting, your shoulders in his hands and his grip too tight. If someone tells you I’m dead, you wait. If Morgan tells you I’m dead, you ask Rossi. If he says I’m dead, you ask Emily. You can’t believe the first thing someone says. No one is going to move you from this safe house to another without seeing me first. If I do get hurt, you and Jack will be moved separately. You will always get my confirmation before you’re moved. 

I’m not gullible, you’d said, wincing at his sharp tone. 

It’s not about that. People will lie, and they will lie well. They will talk their way into the house if you let them. You can’t let them. 

I won’t. 

He’s racing against a countdown, because no matter what he says, what you know, or how many agents wait outside your house, sometimes it’s a force of will. 

Foyet didn’t need much more than that. 

He admittedly feels on surer footing knowing where you are. The decision to guard you without putting you in WITSEC is aching and scary but better, too. He knows where you are. He can be there in ten minutes. No guessing games, but no hiding for you either. 

Your dread is taking over everything you do. Today’s the first day since you came home almost two weeks ago that you could function without a live-in nurse or Jess there to look after Jack, and already he’s worried, because he’d convinced you total honesty was what’s best for the both of you, and so your texts are candid. 

One an hour for his sake, more if you're up to it.

Threw up my beta blockers. Jack misses you, he wants to make you a Lego boat and fishing rod, but I’m not sure how to do it. Please make sure you eat dinner. 

Your next message makes him smile, thankfully. I’m kidding about the dinner thing. Ha. I had one of those gels you got for me, and Jack wants fries, so I’m making waffle fries. 

He texts back quickly. Eat dinner. Please tell Jack I miss him too, and don’t worry about the boat, he’ll work it out. Then, feeling awful, he adds, I love you

Aaron should go home. He’d feel better if he knew he was there to help you keep your medication down, but if he leaves… He knows his team will give you everything they have, but he has more. He can fix this. 

He can’t fix this, god, his head hurts badly. You’re covered in cuts and bruises and burns and he thinks he can make up for that? You’ve been brutalised. Aaron can’t believe this is happening again. 

He rubs his brow. 

“You okay?” Emily asks. 

When he looks up, JJ is gone. 

“I’m fine.” 

“It’s okay if you’re not.” 

He’s not fine, but he knows what she’s asking. “I’m okay enough to do this,” he says. 

It’s hard not to confuse you with memory, your hurting similar to his own, your situation one that he’s already lived. Haley will haunt him for life. It doesn’t usually feel as punishing as he fears he deserves: he gets to remember the best parts of her everyday. He sees her in Jack all the time. He sees her in you, occasionally —you’ll touch his hair or rub his arm like she would’ve done, and it doesn’t make him miss her any more than he does, he’s not in the business of wishing you weren’t yourself, he loves you, but he remembers her. Aaron remembers how he failed her every day. 

He can’t fail you, too. 

“Is it ever easy?” Emily asks. 

Aaron looks around for a bottle of water. “Is what?” 

“Being in love.” 

He thinks about it. “I must make it look hard.” 

She laughs softly. “Sometimes, yeah.” 

Maybe that’s not fair, then, to you. For him to make it seem difficult to love you. To fail to correct Emily when she asks. 

He chooses his words carefully. “Loving her is the easiest thing in the world. But… I continue to work a job I know makes me hard to love in return.” And that puts you in danger. 

It doesn’t feel wrong to be sincere. Perhaps it’s easier with Emily. She saw so much of him during Foyet, and she’s family, truly. He can tell her how intense it’s felt. 

“Well, it doesn’t seem hard for her,” Emily says. 

He shakes his head. 

She continues regardless, “Even during her cognitive, she mentioned the first time you told her you loved her. When it was over she wanted to see you over anything else.” 

But I put her here, he wants to say. Or doesn’t want to say at all, but instead knows with surety. 

“She can’t eat if I’m not home,” he says. What a thing to do to someone. “It’s my fault.” 

Emily smiles, hair slipping off of her shoulder as her expression turns to playfulness. “I think you’re seeing it all wrong. Something bad happened to her, and you’re so safe to her that you make it better when you’re with her. That’s not fault, Hotch. Just love.” 

He turns his attention back to the board without another word. 

—

When the day comes, when they find the man who hurt you, you’re sitting at home with Jack Hotchner in your lap. You’re laughing at his laughing, cartoon fish on the TV, and Aaron’s got a gun in his hand fifty miles away. You both giggle, nearly in hysterics as the safe house living room glows pink and red, Jack’s favourite character swimming hurriedly across the screen, as Aaron negotiates the arrest. 

Usually capable of mediation, Aaron finds his patience completely unravelled. He offers the UnSub two choices: he surrenders now, immediately, and he keeps his life, or he deliberates and Aaron kills him. 

He has reason to believe the UnSub will try again, of course. Will keep hurting you until it sticks. 

He goes home satisfied.

“Dad’s home!” you say excitedly, your movie long finished, your thighs numb and stitches stinging where Jack has leaned against you. You encourage him off of you as the front door closes, the cold air from outside rushing in. 

“Honey?” Aaron calls. 

“Yeah!” You stumble into a standing position, sure you look about as disgusting as you have since the situation began, promptly sitting back down as head rush hits. 

Jack races for the door, meeting Aaron in the hallway with a whoosh. “Hey!” 

“Hi, buddy, what are you doing?” 

“We watched Finding Nemo,” Jack says, “and now I’m hugging you, duh.” 

“Duh. Well, I need to talk to Y/N for five minutes. Can you wash your hands for dinner?” 

“Yeah.” 

“You okay?” he asks. 

“I’m fine.”

You hear the sound of a light kiss, and then Jack rockets across the hallway and up the stairs. Aaron walks into the doorway, tie still knotted but with no suit jacket, and you know what he’s going to say before he says it. He wears a strange expression.

“You got him?” you ask. 

He puts a white bag on the coffee table, looking down at you fondly. “I got him.” 

“How did you find him?” 

He crouches down in front of you. He’s so careful to be harmless to you now, so tentative. “You’re not the only woman he hurt. We dealt with him in the past. From the information you gave Emily during your interview, and the information he left behind, we found him… If you weren’t as brave as you are, I couldn’t have kept you and Jack safe.” He holds your knee. “Thank you.” 

You stare at him. Staring, wondering what he means. “Brave?” 

“Brave.” 

“I’m a coward.” 

He shakes his head. “No. You’re not.” 

All you've done for days is cry and throw up and bleed, literally. You’ve ruined clothes and sheets, thrown up in his lap, terrified and aching. Each time was met with the same gentleness. A kiss on the cheek, or a hand rubbing your back. Is that bravery? You feel like a baby. 

Aaron’s brow is relaxed. He takes your two legs into his hands, and he looks at you with a reverence that leaves you breathless. 

“You’re hurt forever because of me,” he says quietly, you strain to hear him, “because of who I am, and what I choose to be.” 

“How can you say that? It’s not your fault.” 

“It wouldn’t have happened to you if I hadn’t missed his MO the first time.” 

“You’re not putting the knife in anyone’s hand,” you argue. 

“But it keeps happening.” 

His hair shines dark and wet. It must be raining outside, the safe house walls are thick, the windows shuttered permanently, you haven’t heard a peep. You stroke it back from his forehead. 

“Remember… when we first got together, and you told me you were sorry for how hard being with you could be. And I said it was okay, that it wasn’t hard, and you said it would be?” 

“I remember,” he says, practically mouths. 

“I was so afraid when...” You swallow roughly. “I still am. But not– not of you. Not of what you can do. When you told me it was going to be hard, I thought, well, it’s worth it, because I really liked you then and I love you now.” Tears collect in your eyes. Safe. I’m safe. “And you look after me, so��� so–” 

You stop as your voice turns to glass, worried you’ll make a fool of yourself and cry in his hands. 

“I didn’t want this for you,” he says. 

“Nobody wants this. Bad things happen to everyone, but who has someone like you to look after them?” 

He breathes out heavily. “Please… don’t cry.” 

You wipe your cheeks, taking a lengthy pause before you say, “I’m okay now.” 

He looks at you in silence. 

“Come and sit with me,” you say, scrubbing your cheeks, hot tears cooling on the backs of your hands. “Your knees.” 

He actually smiles. It changes his entire face. “What about my knees?” 

Aaron sits on the couch next to you atop Jack’s blanket, a bag of pretzels tipping between your leg and his. You attempt to rake his damp hair into submission as his fingers run against your thighs, fishing for pretzels to put back into the bag. 

You’d like for him to grab you and kiss you harshly, give you one of his straight jacket hugs, some roughhousing, but you won’t get that from him until you're better, and even then, it’s up in the air. So much has changed. 

But not everything. 

“I love you,” you murmur, fingertips scratching down behind his ear to the back of his head. 

He turns to you, sagging with relief and exhaustion. “Kiss?” he asks quietly. 

You nod. He holds your cheek, and you close your eyes at the same time for a kiss. It’s not a lot, but you have time. He can give you another one when you’re both better recovered. 

He pulls away. You open your eyes, finding his closed, his face downturned. “I love you.” 

“I love you, too.” 

“Was Jack good?” 

“Jack’s always good.” 

“Did the nurse have anything to say about your chest?” 

“She said it’s healing okay. That I need to use, uh, scar patches when they start to scab.” 

“I can get those.” 

“I know, I knew you would.” 

He gathers you up for a hug. For a moment, you think he’ll move on, that the end of your nightmare will kill his remorse, but he breathes in, nose wedged against your cheek. 

“Do you think that tonight, we could pretend it didn’t happen?” You’d like to just sit with him, press your hand to his chest and doze. It’s the first night in a while that you’ll feel completely. 

“Yeah. I can do that.” He hugs you rather tightly. “Do you want to see your present?” he asks, relaxing his grip. 

“My present?” 

He grabs the bag on the coffee table and places it in your lap. “I’m worried it’ll remind you of bad memories, but I wanted you to have nice things then, and I still do.” 

In the bag, there’s a pair of pyjamas. Very different to the ones you’d been wearing when you were attacked, they were girly and sweet, soft in your hands, these are sturdy. Still soft, but thick. The shirt is short-sleeved and the pants cuffed at the ankles, a hoodie tucked underneath them, and a packet of minky socks. 

“Thank you,” you say. 

Thanks for everything, for saving you twice, for taking care of you at your worst, and for wanting you to have something comfortable to wear at the end of it. To have experienced an abjectly cruel battering will leave its marks in your forever, but you meant what you told him. He looks after you, and you love him. 

He kisses your shoulder. “You don't need to say that.” 

He doesn’t add anything else, his nose pressed to your shoulder, his hand on your hip. Whatever goes unsaid can be felt in the other’s touch. 

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

thank u for reading!! it’s been a long time since I wrote a fic for hotch and it’s hard to write him being vulnerable but I hope this is alright anyways and that you enjoyed :D please consider reblogging if you did enjoy it (cos that way my fics get shown to more people <3) ❤️

[koolades-world]

Demons and Humans not understanding each other

Inspired by several other posts I read about this same thing <3 honestly even if the brothers insisted it was safe, I would consult Satan, Lucifer or Barbatos

this is mostly mammon freaking out

Humans think the deadliest things are like, adorable, like Cerberus. Mammon especially does not understand why Mc wants to run towards the very dangerous, very mad three headed dog. A few times he has had to throw Mc over his shoulder to keep them from staying behind

“MC CERBERUS BEING THE BEST BOY DOES NOT JUSTIFY HIS ACTIONS HE WANTS TO KILL US”

“But he’s so cute! He just needs a snuggle buddy”

Humans can also be very stubborn if they’re too hot or cold but refuse to admit it. It’s fine with Lucifer does it because he’s one of the most powerful and therefore resilient demons in Hell, but not so much when Mc does it. Beel and Mammon love playing in the Devildom snow, but given that it’s the Devildom, it’s definitely a lot colder than it is in the human realm. Even after ten layers, Mc is still freezing but refuses to admit it.

“Mc, are ya shivering? I thought ya would be too warm under all that”

“I’m sweating with this one jacket”

“I’ll live! Let’s go back to the snowman”

“no I don’t think you will”

On the same note, sometimes demons forget humans can’t withstand crazy temperatures. Asmo will invite Mc to a popular bathhouse, sauna or hot springs, forgetting that the temperature would literally boil Mc alive

“Hey Asmo this is the place you wanted to go, right?”

“Yes! Isn’t is cute?”

“Everything except the part where I boil alive”

“what!”

Some foods can kill humans just by being near them so imagine how the brother would feel when they learned this, it’s giving that lunatic pudding incident with Diavolo from that one card

“Mc! You’ll love this. Open wide!”

“Asmo I feel funny”

“DO NOT FEED MC THE TAKEOUT LUCIFER SAID ITS DEADLY FOR HUMANS IN LARGE AMOUNTS”

“FUCK NOT AGAIN”

In retrospect, humans probably sleep a lot compared to demons. Some demons probably don’t sleep at all, except Sloth demons. Setting aside about eight to nine hours of the day just to sit idly might not make sense to them until they learn they will shut down without it

“How are you feeling about the exam we just took? Exam week is finally over.”

“Mc? Mc, Satan is talking to you. Why are you on the floor”

“MY HUMAN IS DEAD”

“No, I think they’re just asleep idiot”

“oh. wait, THEYRE ASLEEP IN THE MIDDLE OF THE HALL lucifer is gonna kill me”

I’d say both demons and humans are social creatures, but humans will go insane without social interaction. Yeah a demon would probably be upset if they didn’t talk to someone for thousands of years but I don’t think a human could last more than ten without losing grip on reality. Humans tend to copy each other, which is probably bizarre to demons. Humans don’t even understand yawning so demons definitely won’t

Going back to the food thing, demons can probably go ages without eating, besides Gluttony demons. Humans need to eat so frequently compared to them

“So you’re tellin’ me that if Mc doesn’t eat for a whole week, their insides start to eat themselves?!”

“Yes. But, Mc ate a few hours ago.”

(Mammon was already gone when Satan turned back around)

Demons probably also play game that would definitely kill humans. My brother and I used to play crazy games when we were little (our favorite game didn’t have a name but we would put Barbies in the toy train tracks and see what would happen when different Thomas and friends character would hit her. The train tracks would glow in the dark! I did not let him put my favorite doll in the train track and he had to listen since I was the older one, she was not a barbie and had bendy feet? that’s not for now) but we never seriously got at each other throats. I cannot imagine what games demons and demon children must play. Satan was born fully grown but imagine if he was born little and the brothers had to play his favorite games with him. I feel like they would find the Barbie game I played a little weird too. Like, they would probably tell me that I should’ve done it in real life since that would be better experience or something batshit like that

“Aww, Satan, do you remember all the times we played “Five minute eye stab” with Lucifer? You were so cute. Sometimes I think Luci let you win.”

“Do not talk to me Asmodeus.”

“I’m sorry, you played what?”

“One time we gave him an actual knife by accident and since he was good, he ended up stabbing Lucifer’s eye.”

“You’ll be next if you don’t shut up and let me read”

“HE WHAT”

“Oh he’s fine now, clearly. Only took him a few hundred years to regain normal eye functions”

“Can we not talk about this anymore?”

Babe it is a miracle Mc is still alive

[vengeful-velvette]

Hey thanks for answering my ask! Yeah I agree, I think dealing with soul ownership in a body swap fic in this particular universe is a bit tricky.

How I view it is that the owner has ownership over the sinners body, but not their mind. So if Angel and Alastor swapped bodies, I imagine that Valentino is still able to force Angel's body/Alastor to do whatever, but he can't force Alastor to tell him anything he doesn't want to reveal.

He can't force Alastor to tell him a secret. But he can force Angel, who is in Alastor's body, to tell him a secret.

As for how this works if someone swapped with Valentino? I honestly I have no idea. I would assume they would still have ownership over whoever Valentino owns, but I definitely think it doesn't feel the same. It's kinda like a glitch? Idk, this is just how I personally view body swapping and soul ownership.

I know you said that you're not gonna focus on the 666 universe, which is like, extremely valid because a body swap is already pretty plot intensive, never mind adding the whole 666 dynamic into it!

But..... after I sent in this ask I couldn't quite get this idea out of my head, as it kept spiraling and spiraling as I kept thinking, "well, what if this happens...." "and what if what happens after that" "oh! That's pretty interesting, what if it happened...."

So after many "what ifs" I word vomited all of my Thoughts into my notes app. So why not share them here (maybe then the "what ifs" will stop tormenting me)

Expanding on this a little more on the idea of this body swap happening in the 666 live on air series. (With Vox and Valentino switching, and Angel and Alastor switching bodies)

I imagine that for Vox, being Valentino isn't all that difficult. In his introduction episode we see that Vox is actually really good at manipulating people and putting up an act to get what he wants (for example, when he's annoyed at Valentino but convinces him not to go to the Hotel and pick a fight with Charlie).

There's also the fact that Vox knows Valentino rather well, so I bet he knows all his little mannerisms and how to act like him. I bet he also knows what a typical day shoot looks like, as Valentino talks about them enough for Vox to pick up the basics, and Vox is so plugged into the internet that he must know what's popular in the porn industry at any given time.

Plus I could see Vox viewing it as a good opportunity to improve Valentino's image. Val is so difficult to control on a normal day, but now making sure that Val acts "perfect" is eaiser than ever.

That's not to say that I think this whole situation isn't stressing Vox out, it definitely is. It's one thing for him to be controlling Valentino's body, but another one entirely for Valentino to be controlling his. Now he has to work double time making sure that he appears the same as Valentino, while also making sure Val isn't fucking up Voxtek.

(Not to mention that Valentino is fucking blind and Vox has to put so much brain power into not bumping into everything)

When the day of the shoot with "Angel Dust" comes up, he thinks that Angel is lucky because for once he's going to have a "Valentino" that's too busy to get involved in the scene. As he picked out a random scene list from the pile and is half distracted with texting Val instructions on what to do regarding Voxtek to really pay him much attention.

Now switching over to Alastor and Angel's side; tbh I don't have as many thoughts on the two's thought process, or how exactly they handle the whole "Valentino owns Angel's soul, but Alastor is in his body so while technically he doesn't own Alastor, he can puppet the body he's currently inhabiting".

But I imagine that Angel will insist on tagging along with Alastor to a shoot. (If Angel is actually like, contractually forced to attend shoots, because I can totally see the two of them faking an accident or something to get Alastor out of it until the gang figures out a way to reverse the body swap)

But for now the two worlds intersect as "Angel" and "Alastor" are in the studio with "Valentino".

Vox has literally no idea why Alastor is here, and while a part of him is always pleased to see him (or, the vague shape that he sees of Alastor through Val's eyes), he knows that Valentino wouldn't be impressed to see him and tries to shoo him out the door and get the shoot underway so he can get back to running two businesses at once.

Something, something, Vox finally clues in that Angel and Alastor has switched bodies

(which is really a combination of factors: "Angel" being weirdly hesitant to start the scene, and acting in a way that's weirdly familiar, while "Alastor" acting totally foreign.

With the tipping point being that the weird way the soul contract is feeling, since "he" technically owns Angel's soul, that's not currently in his body but Alastor's, and him also owning Angel's body, which doesn't have his soul in it. Idk, I just imagine that the body swap reacts weirdly with body swaps. Plus there's the fact that he also swapped bodies with Valentino, so he's more inclined to automatically believe a body swap.)

And this is when the real panic sets in for Vox because he knows that "Angel" (Alastor) can't actually perform the shoot because he knows that Alastor wouldn't be comfortable with that and he's actually starting to care about Alastor, while also being acutely aware that they're in "public", or at least, in company who will absolutely take out their phones and record the trio if they start acting off.

So Vox very much wants to grab Angel/Alastor and shove him into an empty room and ask what the fuck is going on, but both Angel and Alastor aren't really comfortable with the idea of "Valentino" taking "Angel" into a private room, especially when he seems agitated.

So there's this rising point of tension where Vox really just wants to talk to "Angel" in private, and the actual Angel is starting to get really stressed that Valentino is getting more and more angry because he knows what Val is like when he's angry. But he doesn't want Alastor alone with him, while also wanting to do what "Valentino" is saying to hopefully calm him down.

And Alastor, who doesn't want to be alone with "Valentino" because he knows, or can take a pretty good guess, of what's going to happen behind closed doors (which is wrong because he hasn't put together the pieces that Vox is in Valentino's body), and is going against "Valentino" because he's pissing him off.

I can also see Alastor thinking "well, I do kinky stuff with Vox, what's so different this time? It's not like people know it's me" and thus is trying to start the shoot because he believes that it's "safer" (he also wants to piss off Valentino by not listening to him, and he's once again bitting off more than he can chew with his hubris on full display).

While both Vox and Angel really don't want Alastor to start the shoot because they know what actually goes on during one, and can guess that Alastor won't be comfortable, and wouldn't really have a way to stop it without seeming "out of character".

And Vox really just wants to talk to Alastor in private, because people are starting to whisper and he can see hands going towards phones. So a part of him wants to use the stupid contract to get Alastor alone, but he also knows that Alastor would hate that and that could destroy the relationship they've been carefully building up.

So in the middle of all of this rising tension, Vox eventually is just like "fuck it!" And physically grabs both Angel and Alastor and shoves them into a empty dressing room. And is like "hey what the fuck are you doing?!" And explains the whole body swap fiasco on his side.

I'm not quite sure how the rest of the scene goes. But I definitely think the tension breaks once everything is explained. With Vox possibly playing up roughing up "Angel" behind the closed door and stating that he "sent the whore home" or something to get Alastor out of the shoot.

Anyway, this was really supposed to be a quick "hey, wouldn't that be interesting" that kinda spiraled. Idk, maybe I'll make a "inspired by" fic and actually write this fic, because obviously I have ideas, lol. If I have permission to write the fic, of course, I feel a little bad about writing something based in a fic series I didn't write.

Idk, it feels a little weird to take a dynamic (from the 666 series) and swipe it. So I'll probably just continue to rotate the Thoughts and Ideas in my head as I've been doing lol.

Anyway, thanks for reading my long rambles once again, maybe now that the thoughts have been released they will finally let me be Free lol.

Ohhh I love a good body swap!

I love how there's some really good angst potential (like basically anyone swapping with Angel), and also comedy (Alastor and Vox, the Vees, etc).

I also like to imagine that there's multiple body swaps going around at once, just because I think it would be even more chaotic. Like, for example, maybe Alastor and Angel Dust swap, and the Vees also swap. I initially thought it would be really funny if Valentino and Vox swapped, because then there's the interesting dynamic of Vox technically having ownership of "Alastor's' soul (or the very least, the body Alastor is currently inhabiting).

Also, this could go two very directions. If this is in the 66.6 universe, then it has the option of ending more humorous as Vox clues into the situation as he's trying to act like Valentino and is internally like "SHIT SHIT SHIT" because on one hand he doesn't want to absolutely nuke the relationship they've barely built from obit, but Keeping Up Appearances in front of People is also very important to him.

This is doubly funny if Alastor hasn't quite put all the pieces together yet, and doesn't know it's Vox in Valentino's body, and doesn't really get why "Valentino" is try to get him alone in an empty room (so Vox can yell at him and be like "what the fuck??? What the FUCK!!)

But also, there's an interesting dynamic if this isn't in the 66.6 universe and Vox just hates (while still being obsessed with) Alastor. As Vox finally, actually, has power over Alastor.

Idk, I know you're writing, or like, planning out a body swap fic, and this isn't like, a Demand to do it this way. More so a "hey, wouldn't this be Fucked up and Interesting?"

OKAY I'M FINALLY HOME AND CAN REPLY TO THIS PROPERLY!

I think the soul ownership aspect of the body swap is really interesting, because you have to really get into what headcanons you're working with for how it works. Does your soul own the other soul, or does your body own the other soul? And is a soul defined as your consciousness, or are your body and your soul unanimous since you're in hell and presumably your soul just takes the shape it does in hell as your body because you certainly weren't a 7'4" spider in real life?

Anyway, I'm definitely going non-666verse and also def going the angst route for this fic, haha, and I'm admittedly specifically avoiding involving Vox much because that'd make the whole thing like 3x more complicated and I'm trying to keep it to the three-chapter outline I have! I think you're right and that involving Vox in realizing that he has actual, genuine power over Alastor has the potential to get absolutely wild. We see him act pretty zany because he's losing it over Alastor a lot, but the moments we see him where he's not going bananas over his crush make it pretty clear that the guy is both competent and fairly ruthless. I'm sure he'd figure out a way to take major advantage!

[whimsyfinny]

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: Charlie discovers the Winchester boys to be struggling with keeping the bunker tidy, looking after themselves and being able to do their job simultaneously. Luckily she has a friend who’s from a Hunter family that is in need of work and can help them with research. Or so she thought that’s what her job would be. When Dean sees your more domesticated side, his head won’t stop swimming with all the wrong ideas.

Slow burn, enemies to lovers, smut

Warnings: None (Yet) in chapters to come there will be smut (and lots of it) and possible violence/blood/gore

Chapter Word Count: 668

—-MDNI—-

A/N: My first Supernatural fic so I hope it doesn’t suck ass. Only proof read by myself, so pls let me know of any errors so I can correct! Also I know at this point in the series Dean is more serious, however I love pre-Hell Dean so imma bring some of those vibes in here. This is also posted on my AO3.

——————————————————————

I’m Not Your F*ckng Maid

-Prologue-

Dean was awoken with a slam inches from his face and he sprung to life, almost losing his balance before he realised where he was. He’d fallen asleep at the table with his face in a book and surrounded by heaps of paper - many of which he hadn’t even started to read through yet. Blinking awake and gaining his bearings, he heard a familiar voice ring through the room.

”You boys are disgusting, how do you live like this?” The older Winchester finally looked up to see Charlie lifting a plate of half eaten, day-old pizza whilst kicking several beer bottles aside so she could pull out a chair and take a seat next to Dean, who was pinching the bridge of his nose.

”Yeah well, we’ve been a little busy recently if you haven’t noticed,” his voice was gravelly from the sleep. Charlie put down the plate of old food and sat down, worry crossing her face as she looked at the man next to her. She knew they’d been under a lot of pressure lately with their work, so much so that the brothers were starting to neglect themselves. It had been months since they’d eaten proper food that wasn’t instant or take-out, they rarely went outside, always locking themselves away in the bunker to do research and the bunker itself was getting cluttered with bin bags and pizza boxes. Not to mention the piles of laundry that she’s noticed slowly starting to form its own ecosystem in the washroom.

“Yeah I get that, but you really have to look after yourselves. When was the last time you ate a vegetable?”

Dean scoffed.

“Yesterday, obviously,” he gave her a look like she was from another planet, and she rolled her eyes.

“The pizza sauce doesn’t count, Dean.”

He looked puzzled, raising an eyebrow, “Why not?”

Before she could even humour him with an answer, Sam emerged, rubbing his eyes.

“Oh hey Charlie, when did you get here?” His voice was equally as gravelly as Deans, so she assumed he’d also just woken up.

“Five minutes ago.”

“She called us disgusting Sam. And she said the sauce on pizza isn’t made from vegetables,” Dean gestured to Charlie like she was the fool as he looked up at his younger brother who now stood across from him on the other side of the table. Sam went to open his mouth to respond, but closed it again quickly and furrowed his brows, clearly unsure how to reply to his older brother without opening a can of worms. Charlie huffed.

“You guys need to sort yourself out. I only dropped by because I hadn’t heard from you for a while and thought you might’ve worked yourself to death. I can’t stay long because I’m meeting a friend for a drink. She’s already at the diner waiting for me”

“A friend?” Dean wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and the redhead smirked.

“I wish, sadly she’s into dudes,” she paused, a thought crossing her mind, “Come to think of it, she’s actually looking for work, you guys might be able to help.”

Dean and Sam shared a glance.

“She’s a hunter?” Sam asked.

“Not exactly. Her uncle was, so she knows about stuff, but from what I know she was just a research girlie,” Charlie peered at the mess of papers on the table, “and it looks like you could use the help.” She looked between the brothers as they stared at each other, like they were having some sort of unspoken conversation. A few moments passed before Dean slapped his hand on the table and stood up.

“Sure ok, but we’re coming with you today to meet her,” he went to grab his jacket from the back of his chair, an eagerness in his movements before Charlie put her hand out to stop him.

“Great!” She grinned, before raising her eyebrows and pointing to them both, “but first you guys have got to shower, because I can taste your BO from here.”

——————————————————————

Up Next

Chapter 1

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

A Hold On You 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, bullying, depression, controlling and abusive behaviour, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: you try to look on the bright side of life but a man comes along to blot out the sun.

Characters: Bucky Barnes

Note: Thank you all for feeding into this.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

It’s a nice day to get out. One of the last sunny days of autumn. You can smell the soil and leaves and hear the call of pumpkin spice. Maybe on your way back. 

You can’t spend another day inside. Not after the week you’ve had. Besides, once the winter hits, you’ll have more than enough reason not to go past your front door. You’re going to make the most of your day off. More so, you’re going to keep your mind busy so it doesn’t fall back into the pit. 

It feels good to move around. Between hunching at your cubicle desk and squinting over your dining room table, that crick in your neck needs to be ironed out. You have to remind yourself to stand up straight as the muscles tug between your shoulder blades. 

You stop and turn to face the record shop. As you do, you’re nearly bowled over by another pedestrian. You hadn’t realised they were so close behind you. You back up and apologise but the man doesn’t even look at you as he veers toward the front door. The bell jingle as he enters with a huff, the back of his dark jacket a vague splotch in your vision. 

Oop. You’re in the way. Again. You do your best not to do that. You never want to stir the waters or be a bump in the road but somehow you always find a way to do that. No good comes from wallowing in it. As stressful as it can be to brave the public and its unpredictability, a smile keeps you from falling apart. 

You approach the shop and swing open the door. Oof, it’s much heavier than that man made it look. You greet the associate behind the counter with a beaming morning and ‘hello?’ He asks how you are and you give the easy answer; ‘good, how are you?’ He responds with the same empty courtesy. 

You look around the covers and the little signs that delineate every genre. Before you can get into all that, you need the most important piece of all. A record player. For as long as you’ve been waiting to set foot in the shop, you’ve been saving up for the player. 

You near the table stacked with varying shades of suitcase players. You read up on each brand and style. It will be best to tuck away when you’re not using it. Your small apartment is already too cluttered. 

You pick a lilac player with little white roses stamped over the cover. It’s on sale. A sign above proclaims that you can get twenty percent off three or more records when you by a player. Well, how about that? It isn’t all doom and gloom. 

You hug the player under your arm and near the shelves mounted to the walls. You peruse the titles intently. Something new? Something you know? You definitely don’t want to get just one genre.  

As you sidle along, the corner of the box knocks against something. You look back and another ‘sorry’ bubbles from your lips. It’s that man again. He’s browsing the end cap behind you and growls at your apology. You stare at him for a moment, he seems at home in a place like this. 

“Um, excuse me, sir,” you say, “do you have any recommendations?” 

He grumbles and puts the album back in its slot. He looks over his shoulder with detest curled into his lip. The stone chiseled into his jaw makes you gulp. 

“What?” He scowls. 

“Sorry, I didn’t... I was only... curious. Have a good day, sir.” 

“Good? What’s good about it?” He hisses. You wince and move to the next section. Not far enough as he sighs, “you know, you wouldn’t like my taste anyway. Stick to your girly pop.” 

You resist a frown. You’re not going to let someone like that bring you down. You can tell that he looks for the worst in everything and everyone. You wouldn’t judge someone by their appearance but his demeanour says as much as his words. You won’t add to his cynicism but bothering him further. 

You pick out an Etta James album that you recognise. Your grandmother had the same one. You think your mother snatched it up after she passed. You didn’t get much from the inheritance. As it is, you’d rather have your grandma back. Someone to talk to. 

You move on to the rock section. There’s hair metal and classic rock and grunge and all sorts. You’re not unfamiliar with the genre but you don’t want to be too obvious.  

A scuff startles you and you glance over at the man in the dark jacket. He seems familiar. His short brown hair, his stubbly jaw, and his intensity trigger something in your head. You definitely don’t know him. Everyone you know is too busy for you. 

“Probably don’t even know how to use the damn thing,” he snips under his breath as he gets closer. 

You realise he’s talking about you. It’s no good arguing. You’ve met his kind before. Back when your friends had the time of day for you, you met that type at their parties. You avoided them. 

You leave the aisle. You don’t want to be in his way, though it seems no matter what you do, you are. You find yourself exactly where he predicted. Well, who cares? It’s all a matter of brain chemistry, right? You don’t get to choose what you like, you just like it. It makes your brain happy and heaven knows you need more of that. 

You pick out another favourite then head over to new release. You’ve never heard Sabrina Carpenter. You’ll give it a try. 

You approach the counter and as you do, another sigh storms through the shop. The man’s behind you. Oh no, had you cut him off? 

“You want to go ahead of me?” You ask as you keep your haul in your arms. 

He rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, a single record in his hand; The Boswell Sisters. You’ve never heard of them but it really doesn’t look like heavy metal. You turn back to the cashier and smile, “hello, um, this is it.” 

You put your things up as the man returns your smile. He asks if you want a bag and you say, ‘yes, please’. Things might not be perfect but it doesn’t mean you can’t try to make them better. And if a smile and manners can brighten someone else’s day, that alone makes yours a little sunnier. 

🪢

The box for the player has a little plastic handle. You’re happy for that as it makes your journey to cafe a little easier. You stand in line with your paper bag and bulky box and move along until it’s your turn. You order the pumpkin spice but think better of double up with the pumpkin cream muffin; you instead opt for the apple cinnamon with the chunks you can see through the top. 

Patiently, you stand by the wall until your order comes up. You crinkle around the other customers and claim it, balancing it all delicately toward an empty table. You tuck the box underneath and lean the bag against it. 

You tear apart the muffin, dividing the bottom from the top. You peel back the liner and eat the former first, pinching morsels between your fingers. You don’t know why you do it that way, you just always have.  

You taste the pumpkin spice. It’s good. Not too spicy at all. It tastes like real pumpkin. Considering the place is local, it might very well be. You pop the lid off to reveal the mostly melted cream and have another sip. 

You wipe the dairy mustache from your upper lip with a napkin and your eyes flick up to meet another pair. Not far from you, that man stands with his hands in his pockets. He’s waiting by the order window for his own delight. Well, that’s great. Maybe it will cheer him up. 

He glowers until you look through the window. Or not. The baristas call out a black coffee as you chew on the brim of the paper cup. You stare out into New York traffic and feel yourself getting smaller. It’s easy to feel lost in the city. 

As you watch through the window, a dark figure passes before it. You lift your gaze and again find yourself at the mercy of that man’s grim snarl. You quickly turn back to your latte. He must’ve had that black coffee. He might do with a bit of sugar. 

You try not to think about it. You don’t know him. You don’t know his problems. Just like anyone else. People don’t know that you feel heavy when you wake up or that you spend your hours keeping your hands busy so you don’t have to think. They only know the woman with the smile and the chipper voice and just as swiftly forget about her. 

You pick away at the muffin, savouring in each bite. You’re thankful for that. For that moment. You have coffee and a nice dessert and you got your record player. It's best not to think about all the existential stuff you can’t change. It will come back later when you’re alone. It can wait until then. 

🪢

Your walk home sees the sun hiding behind the clouds. The downpour begins a block away from your building and soaks you through. You keep your head down against the sheets of rain and hurry up the walk as the front door comes in sight. 

The elevator is out of order. Again. You climb the stairs in your squeaky soles and finally reach your apartment. You push inside and kick off your sodden shoes and peel away your jacket. The turtleneck beneath is just as drenched. 

You don’t strip down right away. You’re more concerned with your prizes. The records are fine, the covers just a bit damp, and the player doesn’t seem to have taken too much water. You leave it all on the counter and go to change into your favourite fuzzy pajamas. 

You come back out to the front room and stop to admire the slake of rain pelleting against the large windows. It might be dreary but it’s beautiful in its own way. You let the tempo lull you as you unpack the player and set it up on the book shelf.  

You slide the Etta James record from its sleeve and lay it on the player, moving the needle into place. You let it play as you back up, the boisterous tones of the legend melding perfectly with the raindrops. You smile; not the put-upon smile you wear for strangers but a smile of nostalgia and calm. You miss your grandma terribly but the music doesn’t make you sad. 

You go to the table, still messy from last night’s work. It never is clear. You always have scraps and bits littered over it, your sewing machine a permanent fixture on the worn wood. You sit and pick up the felt clump and go back to needling it to a discernible shape. 

Your brows nearly meet in the middle for your focus and it isn’t until the record begins to skip that you sit up. That damn kink is back. Your own fault. Can’t be mad at anyone but yourself. 

You flip the record and let it play out. When it’s over, you shut off the player. You eat the leftovers you’ve been parsing out for the week and settle in for your favourite romcom. It’s cheesy and a little lame but you only have to keep yourself happy. Or try to. 

You leave your plate on the coffee table and hunker down to finish the movie. You’re tired when it’s over but know you won’t sleep. So you go back to the table and work as the rain slows to a lazy rhythm. Your eyelids droop, your shoulders too, but you persist. 

The windows grow dark and there is only the distant shine of streetlights and few windows in the neighbouring buildings. You stare out at the blurring haze and it fades to a deep grey. You wake leaning back in the chair, your head hanging off your neck. You groan as you sit up and curse your carelessness. 

It won’t make work any less intolerable. You check the time ticking away on the clock that came with the apartment. You can get another hour or two. You get up and trod off to bed, not bothering to shut off the lights. You don’t sleep well in the pitch black. 

You fall into bed and just as quickly find yourself unbearable awake. All those little doubts and fears rise up to the surface and have you drowning just below. This is why you end up sleeping upright or folded over. Trying never works for you. Not at anything. 

[magicalbats]

Tavern Nights (Sampo x reader)

Rating: R-18+

Word Count: 5949

Warnings: Afab!reader, gendered language, alcohol, coercion, manipulation, just generally skeevy/predatory behavior, age difference, size difference, public fondling, public nudity, implied public blowjob

A/N: My second commission from the donation's for Parm. I was once again lucky enough to get permission to post this for everyone to read and (hopefully) enjoy, and I am very glad for that. I just don't think Sampo gets enough love! Someday everyone who's been sleeping on him will regret it, I promise you that! Anyway, thank you so, so much for working with me on this @rabbbitseason I had a blast! ❤️

⭐

It's been a long, long time since he last frequented The Tavern as much as he has in just the past week alone. When he was young and still figuring out his place in this expansive universe, he’d spent countless nights here simply taking in the ambiance and the drink, with maybe even a bit of gambling on the side here or there. Maybe a bit of fucking too, when he found an interesting partner to take into one of the frequently used back rooms. And the Masked Fool’s had no shortage of interesting people. 

But now he was older, arguably wiser and not quite so easily taken in by all the revelry and merrymaking of the familiar old haunt. In truth, he hadn’t thought he’d ever visit this place again after willingly parting with his mask. Sparkle drove a hard bargain though and after spending too much time with her on Penacony it was hard to tell her ‘no’ and actually mean it. 

He’d tried. Really, he had. But he hadn’t meant it. 

She’d seen right through it, of course. 

Sparkle isn’t with him tonight, nor had she been at his side the previous time either. Just that first fateful evening, wherein she’d pretended to be the good little chaperone accompanying her charge back to where he belonged (according to her, at least) like a shepherd returning the lost sheep to its flock. She’d ditched him quickly enough after that but he was fine with it. Glad, actually, because he’d managed to find someone much more his speed than ole’ miss Sparkle who in many ways had proven herself nothing but trouble. 

“Mister Koski! I wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon!” 

His poor heart practically melts into an unrecognizable puddle right then and there as you come bouncing over to him with an excited grin on your face. He couldn’t even remember the last time someone had been so excited to see him, if ever such a person had existed at all. It does his ego a world of good, and he pins you with a dotingly indulgent smile when you come to a stop before him. 

“Now, now. I told you to drop the formalities, didn’t I kiddo’? Just call me ‘Sampo’.”

“Okay, mister Sampo! Will do!” 

Cute. He thinks it’s really quite cute in a way that doesn’t seem particularly fair to him, or any other man with a working pair of eyes and a functioning cock, but he isn’t about to tell you that. You were already fidgeting before him like you were flustered under his attention, or perhaps excited to be on the receiving end of it, and he didn’t want to break the illusion just yet. 

In terms of young rookie Fools, you were perhaps the most bright eyed and bushy tailed he’d ever met. He’d seen more than his fair share over the years, had even been one himself at some point in the far distant past, but he’d never known one quite like you. Even putting aside your obvious fascination with him (only partially owed to his usual charms, he's willing to admit) there was something about you that just screamed … naive and a little too trusting. Like ‘please take advantage of me’ was stamped across your forehead in permanent ink. 

Sampo wonders, not for the first time, how exactly you ended up here with a dainty little mask perched atop the crown of your head like a hat. A somewhat unsettling hat, albeit, but a hat nonetheless. It looks like the blank face of a doll, which he finds rather fitting for you, with a full set of luxurious lashes but no eyes and no hair. Just an adorable button nose and a tiny mouth set in a neutral pout. He probably would have found it a bit creepy had it not only added on to just how very interesting he considered you to be. 

“Alright, enough of that. I’m just stopping in for one last drink before I head out.” He tells you with a velvety drawl. “Would you care to join me?” 

At some point he was probably going to end up regretting this but for right now at least he deemed that a problem for Future Sampo to worry about. In the present, he was much more keen on having some fun with you first before any silly notions like impropriety or moral obligation managed to sink its claws into him. 

At your eager nod, he reaches out to take your shoulder in what most would likely consider a too friendly gesture but you don’t even bat an eye at it when he steers you towards the back of the establishment. Finds a nice unoccupied booth in the corner, away from all the other Fool’s who have largely gathered around the bar to have their drinks and play cards with one another, the wagers of which could have ranged from anything as mundane as simple credits to the outrageous sort he’d seen on more than one occasion here. A long lost relic from a forgotten civilization, once, or even a mutually assured self destruction button courtesy of miss Sparkle herself. It was her favorite toy, after all. 

Much to his satisfaction, you obediently sit when he nudges you into the booth, scooting over along the bench to give him some space to join you. Bending at the waist when a chorus of hoots and hollers rises up behind him, Sampo has to lean down and get close to your ear in order to ensure he’s heard over the raucous noise. 

“What can I get you to drink, sweetheart? It’s on me.” 

There you go squirming again, looking really quite pleased as you sit up a little straighter and round your shoulders for him. “Whatever you’re drinking is fine.” 

How precious. 

“Ooh, now that might turn out to be a bit dangerous if you’re not careful. I have a feeling I’m a tad more experienced than you when it comes to, uh, drinking.” 

If you find the sleazy note in his voice at all off putting you certainly don’t show it, looking up at him with the kind of bright faced confidence only someone in their youth can pull off. ‘Take advantage of me’, indeed. 

“Don’t worry, I can handle myself.” You tell him candidly. “It’ll be your mistake if you underestimate me.” 

Was that a challenge? If he didn’t know any better, he’d think you were doing this to him on purpose. 

“Pft. I bet. Okay then, just sit tight. Don’t say I didn’t warn you though. I’ll be back momentarily.” He starts to straighten up but not without sliding his hand down from where it had reached out to brace against the backrest of the booth seat just behind you. Perfectly casual about it, Sampo palms the top of your head in a quick, harmless pat that shifts the little mask and ruffles your hair just so before pulling away entirely. He doesn’t stop long enough to take in your reaction or gauge what you think about it. He doesn’t really need to. 

This was not the first time he’d touched you in such a seemingly off handed manner and he already knew you were preening under the attention. No matter how many times he’d tested the waters the reaction was always the same. You liked him. Wanted him to keep touching you like that, either knowingly or unknowingly, he couldn’t yet say for sure, but he was more than happy to give it to you regardless of the reason. Lucky you. 

He returns to the table a few minutes later with a freshly made drink in both hands, watching carefully from under the fringe of his hair when he sets yours in front of you. It’s a dark, murky looking concoction that seems to announce in no uncertain terms that it’s potent and strong with just a glance. As expected, you don’t look quite so sure of yourself anymore when you take in the thick consistency inside the stout glass. 

But you keep a brave face, which he has to give you credit for, especially when you don’t hesitate to pick it up at his nudging insistence. The first tentative sip has you choking at the taste even as you desperately try to blink away the tears that come into your eyes, and he can’t quite stop himself from laughing at your expense. 

Sampo doesn’t push it on you anymore than that though, finding it much more entertaining to watch you slowly try to drink it all down completely of your volition. He doesn’t even need to wheedle you or coerce you into it. You just do it — because you had something to prove? Or was it because you wanted so badly to impress him that you were willing to get yourself drunk just to accomplish it? He isn’t entirely sure on that front either but it doesn’t actually matter. You were doing exactly what he’d hoped you would and that pleases him a great deal. 

By the time an hour has gone by, you’re slumped against him in the booth with your head tilted back, resting along his bicep where it’s curled over the back of the seat. He’s kept you talking for the greater portion of your time spent together, alternating between one triviality or another just to ensure you don’t accidentally doze off on him. He could now name your favorite color, the school you’d attended back on your home planet and the breed of your first pet. You hadn’t struck him as the sort to be fond of Pettu Hamsters, bizarre little rodent-like beasts that laid eggs and curled themselves into tight balls for protection, but you’d assured him that you were quite fond of them. Given the no nonsense look you’d leveled on him, he believed you. 

“And you know what happened next?”

It’s obvious you’re a little too relaxed to be self conscious anymore, and he doesn’t say a word about it when you not so subtly shift closer to him on the bench. You’re practically pressed right up against his side now but, still, he doesn’t make his move yet. Sampo may have technically been working to pull one over on you but that didn’t mean he was going to be a pig about it. 

“I’d never seen a meteor shower like that before. All up close and personal, right outside my window. It was pretty cool but kind of scary at the same time.” You’re rambling about nothing in particular. Just a fond reminiscence of the long list of firsts you’d experienced upon leaving home, which Sampo listens in on as much as he needs to. There were a few other first time things he wanted to introduce you to, provided you didn’t fall asleep on top of him before then. “I thought for sure one of them was going to slam into the ship and — and vacuum us out into space! All I remember going through my head at the time was that I didn’t want to die like that. I can’t imagine it would feel great. What do you think?” 

You tip your face towards him with the sluggish, heavy lidded lethargy of someone well and truly buzzed. Sampo just chuckles as he tips his chin down, cheek braced against his propped up fist for support. 

“I think you’ve had enough to drink for one night, darling. What was that you said earlier about being able to handle yourself?” 

Unmistakable fluster creeps across your expression, distant though it may be under the hazy mask of intoxication. “I didn’t know you’d get me something so strong. Are you sure you weren’t purposely trying to get me drunk?” 

Feigning hurt, Sampo draws his brows together in an overly affected lift and places his opposite hand over his heart. “Why, I never! Such a serious accusation to lobby at a gentleman of my esteemed standing. Just ask anyone here, missy, and they’ll tell you exactly what kind of upstanding, trustworthy guy Sampo Koski is!” 

You giggle at his theatrics and reach over to weakly shove at him. Your arm seems to immediately lose all of its remaining strength though, and rather bonelessly flops down to stretch out along his thigh. He can see his moment to strike fast approaching but it still wasn’t the perfect time. Soon, very soon, just not quite yet. 

“You’re funny.” 

“We’re all a bit funny here, I’m afraid.” He murmurs, dropping his voice to a slyly suggestive drawl again. “You’ve still got some growing to do if you want to fit into that mask on your head. Want some pointers?” 

Huffing softly at the suggestion, you visibly muster up the strength to send him a weak look of warning. “I’m already grown. I wouldn’t be sitting here with you right now if I wasn’t, would I?” 

Sampo sends a slow look of appraisal down at your chest, noting the weight behind the thin material of your blouse while images of what your bare breasts might look like dance through his head. Yes, there certainly would be no denying that you were of a mature build and filled out in all the right places. 

“Mmm, if we’re talking physically then you’re right, of course. I doubt anything I say would help you get any taller.” 

“Hey.” 

“But I wasn’t talking about that,” He goes on, ignoring your interjection. “I meant your future as a Masked Fool. You haven’t drawn Aha’s gaze yet, have you sweetness?” 

“… no.” 

You look like you want to pout about that, and Sampo chuckles at the petulant tug of your mouth. Seriously too cute. 

“Oh, but fret not, little one.” He coos. “You’ve got me here to show you the ropes, don’t you? I promise I’m a good teacher.” 

You seem to think about that for a long moment, giving it the due consideration of someone who hasn’t yet picked up on the scam. Not that he could really blame you or the alcohol making your eyes look so heavy and tired. Sampo was good at the game. Always had been, even when he was younger, and his technique had only continued to improve over time. Most people assumed him far too goofy and painfully obvious to harbor any ulterior motives after he started laying it on thick enough. That was the real angle to his schemes, once you got right down to it. Hiding in plain sight was in many ways his specialty. 

“What will you teach me?” You finally ask, roving your attention up towards his face once again. The way you look at him is so unassuming and guileless that he knew he could have offered you a tropical vacation home on Jarilo-VI and you probably would have bought into it without question. Poor thing. 

The muscles along his back gradually start to tense with the building anticipation of finally making his move, of pouncing on his chosen prey to claim it for himself, and he leans down, practically engulfing you in the mass of his much larger frame. You feel as tiny sitting next to him on the bench seat as you look, far outclassed by his much taller, broader build and such a sharp contrast to your feminine stature. He could have easily overpowered you if that was how he’d wanted to go about it but, well, Sampo Koski was never one for doing things the hard way if he could help it. 

His face now hovering just over yours with precious room to spare, he slowly reaches up to brush the tips of gloved fingers under your chin. Your lashes flutter at the touch, threatening to slide shut, but an attention grabbing upward nudge prompts them wide open again. 

“There are a few things I can think of,” He purrs, secretly delighting in the way you start to squirm for him. Nervous or eager? He’d find out soon enough. “An old dog like me has his trusty bag of tricks, rest assured. I’d be happy to share some with you, if you’re interested?” 

Your mouth parts, a tiny pink tongue inching out to glance over your lips and wet them. It almost makes him crack. Almost throws all of his self control and restraint right out the window, but he forces himself to wait. To let you respond first before he goes in for the kill. It would make everything so, so much more satisfying in the long run. 

“Okay.” You finally murmur. “I’m game.” 

“Glad to hear it. Shall we seal the deal and make it official then?” 

A small sound of confusion slips out of you but then he’s leaning the rest of the way in, closing the scant distance. You don’t protest or pull away. Just watch him with wide, fascinated eyes as he tilts his mouth to slot against yours, and a dull jolt works through your body at the contact. He keeps it brief and gentle, a mere brushing of mouths, before pulling back enough to pin you with a lopsided smirk. 

“There. Now it’s a promise.”

Tentatively, you reach up to touch your bottom lip. “Is that how all the Fool’s make their promises?” 

He shrugs broad shoulders, tracing shapes along the side of your neck with blunt fingers. “Only the really fun ones.”

Extending his thumb to prod the underside of your chin, Sampo carefully nudges your face back up at him until your hand finally falls away and you comply, offering him a vaguely flustered look. 

“Another, for good luck?” 

The first real glimpse of uncertainty flashes across your face at that. You hesitate, flicking a quick glance behind him at the rest of the bar and — 

“Oh, don’t you worry your pretty little head about them.” Soothingly, he cups your cheek in what otherwise would have been a comforting gesture had it not been for the way he gives the roundest part of your face a quick, mostly harmless pinch. “They’ll mind their business so there’s no need to get shy on me now. Besides, I’ve already kissed you once haven’t I? What harm could one more do?” 

You still don’t appear to be totally convinced but you give him a brief, stilted nod anyway. He’s pretty sure it’s the unmistakable gleam of excitement he can see reflecting back at him in your gaze, unsquashable despite your obvious nerves, and Sampo feels a smoldering hot rush of victory sear through his veins when he leans into your space again. 

His mouth brushing over yours in a light, coaxing caress, you simply sit there for a long moment of indecision like a frozen, petrified statue. So still he isn’t even sure if you’re breathing. But then, thoroughly dashing that impression against the floor, you come alive under him all at once. Give a squirming shudder and press up into him, fervently kissing him back as if in outright challenge. He feels your lips trembling against his and he can’t quite keep the leer off his face when he increases the pressure to kiss you just a little bit harder, claiming you as his own. 

The discordant noise of revelry and drinking, Fool’s eternally at play, seems to highlight the poignancy of what’s happening in the booth situated in the far back while at the same time it also recedes to a far distant thrum of vague sounds. Like everyone else in The Tavern was on the other side of some great, reverberating tunnel. His attention is focused entirely on you and the way you slowly bring your hand up to tentatively brace the palm of it against his chest. Your fingers feel dainty, something small and fragile, and he quickly decides to return the favor. 

Sliding his own hand down off your cheek, over the line of your neck and past the soft jut of your clavicle, he takes a slow pass over one breast. They’re big but his hands are bigger still, and it easily cups around the full weight of it behind your blouse. You react like he’d electrocuted you, jolting in your seat as your head tips back and your lips slacken, dropping open as if to moan. But he just follows you, keeping his lips sealed over yours so he can plunge his tongue into that cute, hot little mouth and truly taste you for the first time. 

Noising an incomprehensible kitten mewl against him, you close your hand around his shirt and give it a halfhearted tug. Like you wanted to pull him in closer but you weren’t quite confident enough to follow through on that urge; like your head was spinning a shade too fast from the alcohol as much as the surge of physical responses in your body to make any sense of what was happening and act on it. 

Sampo can tell you’re enjoying it though. It doesn’t exactly take a genius to figure that out. 

The proof is as plain as if you’d spoken the words aloud. You don’t bite at his tongue when it invades your mouth to explore every little nook and cranny inside, nor do you pull away in revulsion when he leisurely fucks it towards the back of your throat in slow, suggestive motions. You also don’t attempt to slap his hand away when it comes back up to caress over the fullest part of your breast again. He can feel your nipple rapidly stiffening underneath the layers of your clothes, responding to him with a great deal of eager enthusiasm that has you shuddering and pressing your legs together. So sensitive. 

He could really exploit that if given half a chance. 

At length, he breaks apart from the kiss with a low, seedy exhale of deeply felt masculine pleasure. Peers down at you with an easy, self satisfied grin, but you look to be a bit out of it and lost in your own little world. With your head tipped back and rested against his arm where it’s still curled over the top of the booth seat, you merely blink up at him through a hazy, distant gleam in your eyes. Panting softly, as if you couldn’t quite catch your breath while he was idly fondling your tit. Hardly any wonder there, given how much you seemed to be feeling everything in stunning high definition, but he wasn’t quite done with you yet. 

“Oh my, it seems like someone is having a good time now. I wasn’t expecting you to look at me like that, kiddo’. You’re gonna’ have this old man falling in love if you’re not careful.” 

Your breath catches in obvious surprise, a vaguely startled expression creeping onto your face. Sampo doesn’t give you a chance to question him or realize that he was only teasing though, and instead tips his attention downward to regard the weight of your chest. A fresh wave of innate satisfaction washes over him when you do the same, following his line of sight to peer down at yourself as well. 

“You’re looking a little hot under the collar, y’know. Let me help you with that.” 

Fingertips tracing the path over your breast, he reaches lower and you finally seem to snap out of it. You give a quick start, fumbling to get your hands down to try and grab at him, but even with both sets of digits locked around his blocky wrist it’s easy enough for him to tug your blouse free of your cute little skirt and get it inched up enough to reveal a smooth strip of your fluttering stomach. 

“M - mister Sampo!” You squeak, halfheartedly twisting in a futile attempt to delay the inevitable. “We’re — we’re still in public, you can’t - -“

“Hush now, sweetheart. Your ol’ pal Sampo’s got you. There’s nothing to be afraid of. See?” With a taunting flick of his hand, your blouse rises up another inch or so, and with it so too do your eyes grow even wider. “No ones even paying attention to us over here so they won’t see anything. Trust me. I’ll make sure of that. After all, you’re mine now, aren’t you? Can’t have anyone else eyeballing the goods, right?” 

Numbly, your gaze roves up to regard him again. There’s an unspoken question behind your expression, a sentiment that you hesitate to give voice to, and he just hums a playful little tune under his breath while he continues to toy the hem of your top. One more nudge is all it would take to reveal what sort of bra you were wearing and he couldn’t wait to find out. His bet was on something soft and girly, with a bow or maybe even a bit of lace? But first … 

“Don’t tell me you’re really that scared, sweetness? Even with me here?” 

Your brow pinches inward, creating an adorable little crease between them to go with the almost petulant pull of your mouth. An internal war wages, bloody and violent, behind your eyes while you no doubt weigh out the multitude of options at your fingertips. The truth or a deceitful lie, which would you ultimately decide? Sampo knew which one he would pick had it been him standing under the spotlight but he’d meant it when he said you still had a lot left to learn. That part, at least, hadn’t been facetious. 

Finally making your decision another series of heartbeats later, you at last give him a mute nod. It pulls a soft, doting sound from deep within his chest and makes him feel all warm and fuzzy inside as he dips his face close again, rumbling a low sound of approval. 

“Aww, you poor thing. It’s okay though. Just trust your old friend Sampo, okay? Here, I’ll even make it better with another kiss.” 

This time you eagerly tip your face up to meet him halfway, and a soft sound of need puffs out of you when your lips meet again. He kisses you deeply now, claiming your mouth for himself and swiping his tongue inside with a possessive, demanding gesture that has you mewling faintly in response. As he’d half suspected you would, you positively melt under him like you were happy to give into the pulse pounding heat and the risk of the moment as long as he was there to guide you through it. To lead you and to teach, just as he’d promised you he would. 

Thoroughly placated now, you don’t protest or make a move to stop him while he inches your shirt the rest of the way up, but you do shudder uncontrollably at the first waft against your exposed chest. Still fervently kissing you, Sampo cracks an eye open and peers out from under the fringe of his hair to look at what he’s working with. A dull thrum of pleasure promptly races up his spine when he sees that your tits are just as juicy and tantalizing as he’d thought they’d be, and he voraciously watches them heave within the confines of your pale peach colored bra. It’s a lovely shade that complements your skin tone perfectly but he’s a bit too impatient to simply admire it or the dainty blue bow on the front for very long. 

You groan into his mouth, arching against the booth, when he casually slips a long digit under the middle center of the dainty undergarment but he just swallows the noise and tugs. Doesn’t even give you a moment to understand what he was planning to do, and your breasts spill out with a meaty jostle as the cups slide up and away. Your nipples are already stiff and aching when they hit the air, pointing up off your chest in demand of attention, and you finally tear your face from his with a threadbare, faltering gasp. 

Sampo can’t quite find the wherewithal to follow after you and lay claim to your mouth again when he was so damnably transfixed by the sight of your bare tits, round and squeezable in all their fleshy abundance. He feels suddenly faint from how violently his cock instantly springs up in his pants to shove at the inside of the zipper, only vaguely aware of you turning your head away in bashful reproach while your hands come up to crowd together over your chest. 

Oh, that wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all. 

“Come on, don’t be like that.” He coos at you, the usually soft inflection of his voice noticeably absent now. It seems to have been replaced by a deeper, gravelly edge that makes his customary sing-song fall short. 

You don’t seem to mind though, much too preoccupied with softly whimpering when he takes one of your hands by the wrist and gently pries it away, curling it up and back so he can juggle it over to his opposite hand. Half restrained now, you can’t do much else but anxiously squirm in place when he reaches back down to lightly tweak the exposed tip of your breast between thumb and forefinger. 

“Ahhn!” 

“Mmm, these are awfully tender, aren’t they?” 

He doesn’t really expect a response, which is good, because you can’t seem to catch your breath long enough to actually speak. All that comes out of your mouth are short, tender little gasps and the softest moans his old ears have ever heard. It sounds like the sweetest music and he makes an effort to file it all away for later, when he was back in Belobog and lonely in the middle of the cold, frozen eternity that had yet to see any noticeable improvements since the Stellaron Disaster there was neutralized. Maybe someday it would, hopefully even soon, but he wasn’t expecting to return from this trip to find lush fields of green stretching as far as the eye could see. 

This night spent with you here in The Tavern was going to keep him comfortably warm for many more to come though, and he eagerly folds himself over you so he can bend down and seal his mouth around that pert, straining bud. You give a tiny little cry, a sensitive yelp that you quickly try to stifle, but not fast enough. 

Releasing his hold on your wrist, Sampo snakes his arm around the back of your head and covers your mouth with his broad palm. You let out a muffled protest behind his glove and try to turn your head away but it’s no use. He’s so much bigger and stronger than you that he can easily hold you in place no matter how you squirm or weakly shove at his forearm. Still sucking on your sore little teat, his mouth working the fleshy nub to a tight coil, he rolls his eyes upward to look at you from this angle. 

If he’d thought you were pretty before, now you were downright gorgeous. That hazy, flustered look of begrudging pleasure really suited you. Especially when it was because of what he was doing to you. 

He isn’t sure how much more of the anticipation he can stand when his cock was already aching, practically throbbing inside his pants, and he at least disengages from your breast with a noted hint of regret some moments later. In the wake of his attentions your stiff little teat is left flushed a noticeable shade darker than when he’d started and glistening with a fine sheen of sticky, fast cooling spit. The sight alone makes him groan, low and gravelly, as he looks upon it with longing. 

Oh, how he would’ve loved nothing more than to simply suckle at both of them for an hour or two but this was hardly the right place or time for him to indulge like that. Even what he had in mind for you had the potential to backfire with spectacularly disastrous (yet still amusing) results. It was time to get on with it before anyone’s attention was drawn towards the far back corner and curious interlopers came creeping over to check what was happening. 

“You seem to be quite sensitive, darling. Even moreso than I initially thought, and somethiiiiing tells me you’re going to be a screamer so we’ll have to play it a bit safe.” He murmurs, teasing you with a quick wink as he straightens up and allows his free hand to slide down lower to pinch at the hem of your skirt. 

Already askew from all of your fidgeting, it doesn’t take much for him to pull it up enough to reveal your panties moulded to the puffy outline of your cunt. Even just a quick glance assures him you’re wet and sticky given the way the matching peachy material sticks to you and he gives his tongue a soft click as if in reproach. 

“Really now, are you sure the possibility of getting caught isn’t exciting you? Well, you’re a hundred years too early to try and pull one over on Sampo Koski, I promise you that.” 

He shifts back into his seat to settle in next to you again before releasing his hold on your mouth. You promptly suck in a much needed lungful of fresh air, swaying somewhat unsteadily on the bench, but the reprieve is short lived. Grabbing you around the middle, Sampo effortlessly manhandles you around so he can pull you half into his lap, partially sprawled out across the seat and perfectly positioned over the tent in his trousers. Your little mask has been almost completely dislodged from its perch atop your head in all the shuffling, and he reaches up to pull it the rest of the way off while his other hand busily works on his zipper. 

“How about this,” He starts, using his most effective and well practiced salesman pitch, feeling much too hot and reckless to reconsider the wisdom in this move. If you finally decided you’d had enough of him and all his pawing it wouldn’t be hard for you to put him out of commission for the foreseeable future in this particular position. But, well, he didn’t really think he needed to worry about that too much. “Let’s keep that mouth of yours busy for right now and I’ll make it up to you later, huh? Whaddya’ say? I promise it’ll be worth your while.”

Panting and flushed, you slowly lift your face to regard him. A bright, sparkling gleam flashes through your eyes and you grin, looking like you were seconds away from bursting out into uncontrollable, wild laughter. You looked like a kid on Christmas morning being handed the one present she’d wanted more than anything else in the whole wide world and that youthful, beaming enthusiasm just makes his balls draw up achingly tight in heady anticipation. He couldn’t wait to sink himself into you. Any part of you. It didn’t really matter which, when you had him so painfully stiff in his pants and more worked up than he could recall being in a very long time. 

“You’ve got yourself a deal, Mister Sampo.” 

He almost laughs too, feeling the familiar bubbling sensation gleefully rising in his chest, but it’s swallowed up and doused by a shaky groan of relief when he finally manages to fish his cock out. It was starting to make more sense to him, why you were here rather than anywhere else in the vast cosmos, but he didn’t care enough to dig for any real answers. 

All that mattered was that you were interesting and you were fun, and as long as the two of you were having fun together then everything else was irrelevant to him.

⭐

Crossposted: here

[littlemissmentallyunstable]

title: look after my heart

pairing: nash hawthorne x (first person) reader

synopsis: you and nash have been together for a long while now and you’re insanely in love, but circumstance forces you apart

warnings:

a/n: nash is so underrated 🤍🤍 thanks for reading

tag list: @tornqdowarnings @whatsamongus @wish-i-were-heather @inmyheaddd @never-enough-novels @peterlcsingwendy @lxvebelle @xoxo-vee @emelia07 @f4iry-bell @zaraaaabear @thoughtdaughter3 @benny1989fredd @elysianwayy77

We agreed to meet up at 10 o’clock but I was there at half past nine. I needed that time to put things into perspectives, the analyse all the what-if scenario is one by one. Nash was my everything. And my everything might be taken away from me. Nash was a Hawthorne, a grandson to a very rich and powerful man, an heir, if you will, to a fortune. And I was nothing in comparison. I was a normal girl, living in a pretty regular house, with nothing too special or extraordinary about her. You can see how it might’ve gone down when he revealed to his family that we were together. At 10 o’clock tonight everything would change. For better or for worse I didn’t know. And I wish I’d never have found out.

I noticed a figure approaching. I could tell by the way he walked that it was him right away. I stood up under the lamp post and waited until he reached me. He came into the light and I saw it in his face before he even opened his mouth. My heart slowly sank in my chest and the lump grew quickly in my throat.

“It’s okay,” I said softly, taking a step towards him.

I knew it was anything but okay. But I had to say something. He shook his head. He couldn’t meet my eye. I waited silently until he was ready. He looked at me, his hazel eyes full of the most gut-wrenching pain. I couldn’t bear to stare at them but I forced myself to. I had to be strong. For Nash.

“My grandfather made it you or my family,” he told me, his voice was hoarse and taut, it was unfamiliar for me to hear him like this, “I either run from it all with you and stay and never see you again.”

“It’s okay,” I repeated, taking his hands into mine. He grasped them so tightly, his knuckles went white and my hands filled with blood.

“I can’t leave my brothers, I can’t walk out and leave them with what I had to deal with,” he said, his voice breaking, “no one deserves to deal with that.”

I nodded, swallowing back the tears. I kept reminding myself the same few words. I had to stay strong. For Nash. If I cried then it would make it even harder and that just wasn’t fair. He didn’t need me to make this any harder than it already was.

“But I can’t leave you,” he choked out, “because I don’t think I’ve ever loved anything more than I love you. It would be like someone ripping a chunk of my heart out.”

“Oh Nash,” I murmured, my voice growing a little shaky.

“It’s an impossible decision,” he said, the strain in his voice tugging at my heartstrings.

“That’s why I’m making it for you,” I said, biting the inside of my cheek, “you need to stay with you brothers, you need to forget about me, let go and move on.”

“No,” he shook his head, glossy eyed, “no I’m finding another way.”

“We both know,” I murmured softly, “that there isn’t another way.”

There was a beat. The truth had been spoken and both of us hated it. But neither of us could change it.

“I can’t leave you,” he insisted, letting a single tear roll down his cheek, “I can’t.”

“You have to,” I sniff, my fingers trembling.

There was a deathly silence and each fraction of each moment killed me softly. Torturing my already wounded heart. I didn’t understand why the world was so cruel, who gave it the right? I didn’t understand why for once things couldn’t go my way. I finally had found someone who loved me like no one had ever loved me before and now it was being robbed from me too. Those thoughts made me feel so selfish, so conflicted, but how could I not be? My bones began to ache as the wind began to whistle and the silence was not so silent anymore.

“You’re not angry at me,” he said, “why aren’t you angry at me?”

“How could I be angry at something that’s out of your hands?” I asked him gently.

“I don’t want to do this but…” he trailed off, unable to carry on, his voice too unsteady, too broken.

“You have to, for the sake of your brothers, I know,” I attempted to comfort him.

“I-“ he went to say something but can’t get his words out. His face contorts into a look of agony and he began to sob. There were very few times I’d seen Nash cry and when he had it had never been like this. I wrapped my arms around his shaking body and guided him to where I’d previously been sitting. I held him closely and let him break down in my arms. That was the most heart breaking thing I’ve ever had to do. I couldn’t amend his agony because I was the cause.

It was like I felt his pain running through me. It hurt me to see him this hurt. Every time his body shook, my chest constricted. Tears freely now ran down my face. I had to be strong but this was what strong was at the moment. Sometimes letting yourself fall apart is strong.

“I understand Nash, really I do,” I whispered, playing with strands on his hair to distract my sorrowful mind.

He didn’t reply and I had a chance to wipe my eyes and pull myself together a little so Nash couldn’t see that if fallen apart too. After a few moments he sat up, tear stained face, eyes red and puffy. He looked so unlike the strong Nash I knew and yet I fell in love all over again in the same moment. My heart was tied to his.

“I never deserved you, not for a second,” he shook his head, eyes connected to mine.

“No,” I shook my head, my voice thick with emotion, “that’s not true.”

“I’m sorry, I wish there was a way,” he rasped.

“It’s not your fault,” I said. His eyes immediately hit the floor, guilty practically flooded out of him.

“Hey,” I snapped, “Nash. Look at me.”

His eyes met mine. Sparks ignited all the way through my body.

“It’s not your fault,” I told him firmly.

Nash blamed himself for most things, I knew that better than anyone. He needed someone to really drill it in to him for him to believe it. And even after that, more often than not he still would blame himself. It was the way that stupid grandfather of his had brought him up to believe. I often used to wonder how someone so kind hearted, so loving could have been raised by someone so cruel.

“I don’t want to do this to you,” he told me, cupping my face in his palms.

His touch is killing me and he doesn’t know it. I know he’s never going to touch me like this again. I know I’ll never feel the comfort of his gentle hands grazing my face. But I have to stay strong. For Nash.

“You don’t have that kind of choice and I know that,” I said, drawing soft spirals across his face

“He shouldn’t have this much power,” he practically growls, taking his hands from my face and throwing them down, clasping them anxiously within each other.

“But he does and neither of us can help that, there’s no point in getting angry over things we can’t control, okay?” I soothed, rubbing the top of his arms.

“Okay,” he blew a breath out, “…okay.”

He looked as if he wanted to stay something else but couldn’t quite get the words out. He attempted to pull himself together but I could see it broke him further. Silent tears rolled down his face, the lamplight making them glisten in a horribly beautiful way.

“You don’t need to find any more words,” I told him, “I promise you, I understand.”

I cupped his face in my hands and wiped away his tears gently with my thumb. He looks into my eyes, pain shining through his.

“I love you,” he whispered, his lips quivering a little.

“I love you too,” I replied.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, “I’m so awfully sorry.”

“Shhhh stop apologising, you dont need to apologise,” I smiled through my pain, placing a finger on his lips. They’re velvety soft as always. I took in the moment and memorised that feeling and held onto it in my heart.

He stood up, causing my hand to drop. He extended a hand and guided me up with him. His hands coiled around the small of my waist. And I think in that moment he was the only thing holding me together.

He kissed me softly. Tenderly. Passionately.

We both knew how sacred these last moments were. We’d have to leave on another soon. His lips were so natural on mine. I closed my eyes, making it last a long as I could. Painting a memory in my mind, and burning it into the side of my brain to be sure I would never forget. Never forget these feelings, these kisses… I didn’t want to stop. Ever. I could feel the love radiating off of us each time our lips touched.

“I will never forget you,” Nash mumbled between kisses.

I breathed out shakily and stopped the kissing for a second. I stared dead into his sparkling hazel eyes and told him, “one day you’re going to find another girl, someone who is so beautiful and sweet and funny who you love more than anything, and you’re going to marry her and she’ll have your babies and your grandfather won’t be able to keep you apart.”

“I thought that girl was you,” he choked, emotion ripping back through his voice.

“Not in this story,” I shook my head, biting my lip to stop the tears from falling.

“Then one day you’ll find a boy who can give you everything I couldn’t, who treats you like you’re his whole world and more,” he said to me, hands tightening on my waist.

“You already did that for me,” I whimpered, my bottom lip trying not to tremble and failing.

“If I had, then why are we here?” he asked.

“Unfortunate circumstance,” I explained, tears freely rolling down my cheeks. My strength was wavering, my agony was winning and I couldn’t hold my pain in anymore, “maybe we weren’t meant to be.”

“You don’t mean that,” Nash said.

He knew me too well.

“No I don’t,” I agreed, “but it’s more comforting to think of it like that.”

His pressed his forehead onto mine. Our eyes were glued to each other and I wished I could’ve paralysed time, like time paralysed my ability to love after that. I wished I could’ve frozen us there and then so nothing ever changed. But that was not possible.

“I will never stop loving you,” he said, raw passion in the back of his voice.

“I will never stop loving you too,” I told him.

“This is where we let go,” he murmured.

“This is where we let go,” I confirmed.

“Goodbye,” he whispered, placing one last kiss on my lips. The sweetest kiss, laced with salty tears.

“Goodbye,” I said, in barely a whisper. It was all I could muster, all I had left.

I nodded at him softly, telling him it was time and he slowly turned his back on me. He walked away into the darkness of the night, looking back over his shoulder at me just standing there. Every cell in my body screamed for me to run towards him, fling my arms around him and beg for him to stay. But I didn’t. Because that would’ve broken him even more than he’s already been broken. And he does not deserve that.

“Look after my heart Nash Westbrook Hawthorne,” I whispered into the nothingness, the wind carrying my forgotten words to some far off place, where they’d probably never be heard.

a/n: credit to @sister-lucifer for the divider

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[foldingfittedsheets]

An FAQ!

Does your ask tag stand for "Folding Fitted Sheets" or "For Fuck's Sake"?

Both! I had been using the handle Foldingfittedsheets for a long time and someone shortened it to FFS and I immediately realized that it was hilarious. All ways of reading it are valid.

Before asking a bed question:

Here’s my helpful guide, I may have covered your question already. There’s also a “bed talk” tag full of info and advice!

Before asking a sex ed question:

Here’s my other helpful guide! Includes lube tips etc.

Can you actually fold a fitted sheet?

No. I thought it was a funny handle that was easy to say and hard to do. A metaphor for life being messy and complicated. A task that you can only ever try your best at although failure in inevitable.

When I moved in with my beloved I packed the linen closet and told them that I didn't know if we'd have enough room. They spent a day refolding everything beautifully and it took up a third of the closet. So some people are just built different.

Have you seen this guide on how to fold them??? It's easy!

I am content at my current levels of adequacy and would prefer to spend my time on other pursuits. Thank you for thinking of me, but I'm good.

Will you put a read more on comics?

No. I have tried to put out comics under read more cuts and they do not get the same traction. It's also unfair to ask me to change how I present my work. No one will ever have to scroll through them as much as me and I promise it's never more than 30 seconds which does not feel unreasonable.

Tumblr has a setting that will automatically shorten long posts, and I have provided a tag "do you love the color of the comic" so that you can take initiative to reduce the space they take up. You can also block the new individual comic tag after you’ve read it to stop seeing repeats.

Comics take months of my time to produce and I reblog them a lot when they first launch because I'm excited to share something that I worked really hard on.

I won't be offended if you unfollow me, but I will if you ask me to cater to your sensibilities on how long my art should be.

Will you reblog my mutual aid post?

I’m sorry, but no. If I don’t know you I don’t have the time to check for scams and Tumblr just really isn’t the best platform to ask for help if you’re in dire straits.

If you send a link to a gofundme I’m gonna block you. It’s not personal but I have no time to sift through what’s legitimate or not and I’ll assume you’re a scammer who did not read this.

Why don’t you have lesbian flags?

I prefer the rainbow and I have very negative connotations with it, which I talk about more here.

Why are all the ace flag creatures sleepy?

An ace friend loved the ace dragon in the first set and said, “It’s sleepy like my sexuality!” I thought that was very cute and when I did gryphons I made them sleepy too. I’ve since gotten a lot of really cute comments on how much people liked the sleepy ace creechurs.

When I went through and revamped the unicorns I noticed the ace unicorn wasn’t sleepy. I made a poll to ask if I should switch it to be consistent with the dragons and gryphons. It was an overwhelming yes so now all the ace creatures are sleepy.

[just-jordie-things]

love, death, and curses - toge inumaki

word count: 6k warnings: swearing, gore, stabbing summary: near death experiences make people confess the funniest things ___

A simple assignment.  It’s always the simple assignments that go horribly wrong, isn’t it? It must be some sick joke.  Why couldn’t things just go right for once? A break would be nice… but there were no breaks in this line of work.

“Fuck!”

(y/n) dropped herself to the ground before the four-eyed curse throwing itself at her could actually hit her.  With no time to catch her breath, she threw herself back, pulled the ring knife out of the holster on her thigh, and even with her hazy sight she was able to fling the small weapon into it’s skull.

Nope, no breaks.  Just knives and evil spirits.

“Tuna!”

Toge’s worried voice carried from some twenty feet away, or wherever he was taking on more grade threes’ than he probably should have, but even as (y/n) tried to make her way to help him, it just seemed more spirits were spawning.

“I’m fine!” She hollered back.

With a kick to the curse’s disappearing body, it rolled over and she was able to retrieve her knife.  Just in the knick of time as three more curses approached.

This wasn’t looking good.

And things had been so nice this morning. ___

~ earlier that day ~

“Mustard leaf”

Finger stalling on the line in the book she was reading, (y/n) glanced behind her, a smile blossoming on her face as her favorite cursed speech user approached.

She’d been studying in the common room all morning, and it was about time some better entertainment rolled around.  And with a cute language and cuter face, here it was.

“Hey,” She greeted him back, and moved over on the couch so there was room for him to sit.  “You here to save me from my studying?”

From the crinkles around his eyes, she knew he was grinning as he plopped down on the couch next to her.

“Salmon” He chuckled to himself.

Truth was, he’d been working himself up all morning trying to find a way to ask (y/n) out, to a movie or dinner or anything she wanted to do at all.  He’s been trying to do it for a while, but it’s hard when you can’t exactly just say the words.

(That was kind of a copout, there was always writing on the post-its he kept in his pocket, or taking her hand and staring deep into her eyes, but he wasn’t exactly the most experienced when it came to these things, and he really wanted to sweep her off her feet)

So now here he was, blushing like crazy under his collar, his hands fidgeting together, with about fifteen crumpled up post-its in his jacket pocket with everything he’d had prepared for this moment.

And this was the moment.  He’d decided.  He didn’t want to put it off any longer, and he’d told himself all morning that no matter what, he was going to ask her out!

(Panda was a big help too, but he was trying to not think about him right now)

“You alright?” (y/n) asked, drawing Toge out of his scrambling brain.

His brows furrowed, confused.

“You’re just quieter than usual,” She explained, laughing a bit.  “Usually you’re talking my ear off.  Remember at the market, that lady thought you were yelling at me about how to make rice balls?”

She laughs more at the memory, and it was a funny one, but Toge can only bring himself to force out a few chuckles.

“So what is it then?” She asks, closing her textbook and tossing it onto the coffee table so that he could have her attention.

Admittedly, he’d already had her attention as soon as he’d walked into the room.  He always did.  It didn’t matter what was in front of her, if Toge appeared, she was a goner.

(One time she was waxing Maki’s eyebrows when Toge appeared.  Maki still hasn’t forgiven her for taking half of the left one.  Even after it grew back)

He shakes his head, mumbling a ‘salmon’, which (y/n) assumes was meant to assure her he was alright, but it wasn’t all that convincing.

“Toge…” (y/n) said softly, turning her body sideways on the cushion to give him more of her attention.  “I think I know what this is about…”

His eyes go wide.

Did she? Was he so transparent? Had he been embarrassing himself this whole time?

“Yuuta hasn’t written in a while,” She sighed.

Oh.  Right.  That guy.

(Yuuta was one of Toge’s closest friends, but he hadn’t been anywhere close to present in his mind currently)

“I miss him too.  But he’s probably just busy, it’s a pretty serious assignment you know,”

Toge’s frozen for a moment, processing her assumption.  Unfortunately, (y/n) took his silence for sadness, and she continued on.

“I know that he thinks about us all the time though,” She said cheerfully, before shoving her elbow into his side.  “But who wouldn’t, right?”

The teasing is friendly, and normally he’d laugh and joke along happily.  But his nerves are eating him up inside and he feels really hot- was it hot in here? The common room was known for having a busted ac unit that always had a breeze in the room, and now here he was sweating.  

“He’ll write soon enough.  Probably with some crazy story.  It’s always something weird with him” (y/n) says.  She’s so reassuring and kind.  If only this was advice he was actually looking for.

With a small, defeated sigh, Toge nods his head.

And not too long after, Gojo bursts into the room, excited to have found the pair, and claiming he had a quick assignment for them.  Leaving no good time for asking someone on a date, Toge mentally cursed his sensei for his notorious bad timing. ___

~ present ~

Things weren’t getting any easier, and (y/n) was starting to think Fushiguro was onto something for being so cranky about Gojo’s nonchalant attitude, because in no way was this assignment simple.

I’m gonna give that man a piece of my mind if I make it out of this alive.

Ring daggers could only be so good of a weapon.  Right now a sword would be more practical, like Yuuta’s katana.  Or better hand to hand skills, like Maki.  Hell, being a 6’7 bear would be more of a help than what she had on hand.

And she loved her ring daggers, she trained with them relentlessly.  But one of the four she had on her was already gone, disappeared with a curse carcass that disintegrated faster than expected.  She’d have to get better used to another weapon, because this was just getting frustrating.

Another knife flew through the air with such speed she was certain it’d hit her target.

But the particular four eyed- curse’s head she’d aimed for swerved, and the dagger whizzed right past it, before clattering to the ground, far out of reach.

(y/n) grimaced.  No way some grade two curse was able to dodge a swift attack like that.

This was no grade two.

Realization dawned on her, eyes widening as she quickly glanced around her, noticing how all the other curses they’d been fighting seemed to form a circle around this one.

They were protecting it? Hive mind? On their own accord?

Her train of thought ran a million miles a minute trying to find the answer to this behavior, but as quickly as she was trying to solve this odd mystery, she heard a yelp of surprise, and the sound of Toge’s struggle destroyed her worry about anything else but him.

“Toge!” She screeched, watching him get thrown back a few feet.  His landing wasn’t all that graceful, but he pushed himself back up to his feet without too much struggle.

“Salmon!” He hollered back before even catching his breath.

He couldn’t have (y/n) looking over her shoulder for him.  There were too many of these damn things, and she needed to focus on herself, not him.

“Look!” (y/n) called to him, pointing to the odd curse that had dodged her knife.  “I think that one’s in charge or something!”

Violet eyes follow her gesture, and just as quickly as she had, he notices the strange pattern in which most of the curses surround the one.  He nods back at her, understanding what she was telling him.

Well, at least he thought he understood.  He didn’t think she’d charge after the damn thing to take it on herself.

And yet before he could blink, she was grabbing her last two daggers out of their sheaths, and breaking into a sprint towards the curse without a second longer of hesitation.

He caught himself before he could call after her to wait.  However, just as he was about to make his way over to help her, it seemed a horde of the four-eyed nuisances were crowding before him.

He allowed himself a mutter of curses under his breath before unzipping his collar to take care of them.

Meanwhile (y/n) was confidently approaching the little ringleader.  At this point, she was taking this thing down no matter what it took.

It was agile, and able to elude more of her attacks than any grade two could.  In fact, she had her assumptions that it could have been a grade one, if it were this strong and also powerful enough to gather other curses to protect it.

And after a tiring bout of slashing towards it only for it to duck and dodge, she was starting to think that it was mocking her.  And this made her agitated.

And angry.

She’d trained for many years to perfect the craft of exorcizing curses.  Sure, there were always new things to learn, but she considered herself pretty damn good at what she did, because she stuck to a few simple rules.  

And her number one rule was to stay sharp.  The better an eye is at inspecting an environment, the less likely a surprise can happen.  So emotions like fear and anger were red flags.

So she should have seen it coming.

But in an instant, the knife she had gripped in hand and plummeting towards the space between all four of the curse’s eyes, was swiped right out from her hold.

With one hand the curse had taken her wrist, halting her attack.  Then it took advantage of her shock to steal her weapon.

After that, everything seemed to blur together.

A really sharp pain in her abdomen.  

That hurt.

Warmth, then heat, pooling over her skin.  

Wet?

Blood?

Almost in slow motion, she looked down.

Her own knife.  In the hand of a curse.  Buried in her guts.

It seemed surreal, in the most horrific way possible.  In what world she thought her death would come from her own negligence- her own weapon damn it! Her anger was only set aflame.  With self preservation and fury colliding in her bones, she found herself acting without thought.

As Toge was trying to fight through the raw pain in his sore throat, he was contemplating a bit of hand to hand until he could spare a second to chug down his medicine and obliterate what was left of the curses.  He didn’t want to risk rushing it and losing what little medicine he had left.

The answer came to him before he could do anything, and right before his eyes, the curses he’d been fighting off started to disappear.

At first he was on guard, surprised, confused.  But as the area around him began to clear and he saw the curse (y/n) had been fighting with was crumpled to the ground, a knife in the middle of it’s face, it clicked.

He chugged down the rest of his medicine before jogging over to her.

It’s over.

(y/n) fought to keep her eyes open, and to keep her hand covering the wound in her abdomen.  At least the fabric of her shirt was black, so the blood wasn’t so visible.

“Mustard leaf!”

Fighting to keep her vision straight, (y/n) could barely make out the double Toge heading towards her.

Toge.

“Mustard leaf!” He called out again when she hadn’t responded, worried she’d hit her head or something.

He can’t know.

She pressed her palm harder into her stomach, biting down on her cheek to keep from groaning aloud.

As Toge approached, he was clapping, cheering for her.

He was so sweet.

“Salmon roe!”

He was grinning from ear to ear, she could just barely make it out, but it made her feel warm that he was so proud of her.

Or maybe that was all the blood spilling over her hand.

She stumbled forward towards him, and he abandoned his excitement and was reaching out to steady her instantly.

With furrowed brows he waited for her to explain, to tell him what hurt, or to tell him she’d be okay.  But she didn’t say anything.

In fact, she could barely keep eye contact with him, her gaze kept shifting around, as though she didn’t have control over it.

“Mustard leaf?” He asked, concerned, his eyes flickering between hers, hoping to catch her attention.

“I-” Her voice got caught in her throat, and she coughed to try to cover for herself, but from what she could make out from Toge’s expression, she wasn’t doing well.  “I’m f-fine, I’m okay” She forced the words out with as little a stammer as possible.

Toge wasn’t believing it.

“Bonito flakes”

His voice was harsh.  He was upset.

Normally (y/n) was comfortable voicing when she had an injury.  They both were.  They always reassured each other they were okay after missions.  Especially particularly difficult ones.  So for her to be blatantly lying irked him.

But without the ability to say anything else, all he could do was glare and grumble while he pulled out his phone to get Ijichi the ‘ready for pickup’ text.

The haze in (y/n’s) was turning to dark.  Like black clouds.

I’m going to die.

She blinked a few times, trying to focus her vision well enough to keep herself upright at least.

Am I swaying? I feel like I’m not standing upright.

That awful slow-motion feeling came back as she lowered her head to focus on her feet, just to make sure they were both planted on the ground.

Before she could even notice her feet, her eyes landed on her blood covered hand, and suddenly a wave of nausea hit her.

“T-Toge,” She stuttered out, clutching her hand tighter to her stomach, and forcing herself to look up at him.  “I-I’m sorry,”

Her voice broke into a whimper, effectively washing away any annoyance Toge had been feeling, and now he was worried immensely.  

He shook his head in confusion, silently asking her what was going on.

“I…” She trailed off, her head going light.  “I can barely keep my eyes open”

She was losing feeling in her legs completely now.

“Mustard leaf?” He asked, reaching his hands out to her shoulders, steadying the slight swaying she was starting to do.

And then she stumbled forward, falling almost completely against him.

“Mustard leaf!?” He asked a little louder, hoping she would be able to tell him what was going on.

But as he secured his arms around her, he felt something on his hand.

Something warm.

And wet.

No.

“Mustard leaf?”

That time, the question came out a lot smaller.  Quieter.

Shakily, he brought his hand out, confirming his fear when he saw the blood.

“It’s- it’s okay,” (y/n) stammered, lifting her heavy head from his shoulder.

But Toge was already looking her over for the source of the blood.

“It’s just a little scratch-”

“Bonito flakes!”

Prying her hand away from her abdomen, it was like he was living a nightmare.

Her hand was stained in red, and from the looks of the hole in her shirt, this wasn’t even a scratch.

He wants to scold her, cuss her out for hiding an injury like this from him.  He wants to comfort her, tell her she’ll be okay and he’d take care of her now and do whatever was needed to fix her up.

Even if he was able to speak, he wouldn’t have been able to.  His throat closed up and hot tears rose to his eyes so fast, anything that came out would have been a stuttered, blubbering mess.

“I didn’t-” (y/n) coughed, and he tried his best to wipe the blood from her lips, but she swatted his hand away.  “Listen,”

Her half-lidded eyes met his, and she hoped he’d just shut up so she could say what she needed to.  She didn’t know when she’d pass out, but she knew it was coming.

“I… I j-just didn’t want t-to h-hurt you,” Her words are a bit slur and she can’t fight that stutter very well but he catches on to every word.  “I’m s-sorry,”

He shakes his head.

Don’t be sorry, he means, and he hopes she understands.

“I’m so, so sorry,” (y/n) repeats, her voice growing weaker, softer.

She grows a little heavier in his hold, and carefully, he lowers them, hoping to help save her energy.  He’s torn between holding her tightly, in an iron grip where nothing could ever hurt her again- or barely touching her, she was too delicate right now, he couldn’t bear to cause her any more pain.

As he cradles her in his lap with one arm, his other hand putting as much pressure on her wound as he could manage, he’s feverishly looking around, cursing silently that Ijichi’s car hasn’t rolled up yet.

What part of ‘EMERGENCY (Y/N) GOT HURT AND NEEDS SHOKO NOW’ wasn’t understood? He should have been here seconds after that text was delivered.

Glancing back down at (y/n), the situation wasn’t looking good.

Her eyes had fallen closed, her head lolled against his arm weakly, and the pants coming from her mouth grew fainter.  His panic was worsening.

How could this happen? How could he let this happen? He was a terrible partner, and friend.  He was never going to forgive himself for this.

He patted her cheek gently, trying to stir her into consciousness for just a little longer.

(y/n) whimpered, her eyelids fluttering briefly, but she refused to open them.

If only he could say something, beg her to stay awake for just a minute longer.  Ijichi would be here soon-

“Toge,”

It was a mumble, but it was something.

He smoothed his trembling hand over her cheek, staring at her intently, and impatiently.

“You sh-should know,” She continued.

It took a tremendous effort to roll her head so she could look up at him.

If I’m going to die, I might as well suck it up and tell him I love him.

A shiver ran through her body, and Toge scrambled to get his jacket off, draping it over top of her, making sure to tuck the fabric around her shoulders so she was as comfortable as could be.

Even in her declining state of mind, she noticed a few things.

First, his collar was off.  Usually whenever he wasn’t wearing his face covering, she couldn’t help but smile and blush like a little girl with a crush.  He had the most handsome face, she simply had to admire him for his beauty.

Second, his hands were trembling incredibly hard.  She could see it as he tucked her into his coat, and she could feel it as well.  He was scared for her life.  Hell, she was too, but seeing him become this much of a wreck was starting to make this all too real for her.

And third, her pain was starting to go away.  At first she was relieved, but she’s realized now that it’s been replaced with a numbness, across her entire body.  That wasn’t a good sign.

I can’t possibly tell him how I feel, and then die in his arms.  It wouldn’t be right.

So instead, she just stared at him.  His violet eyes were so round, and filled with fear.  She wished that she had the words to actually comfort her, but she knew that there was nothing she could say that he would believe.

He shakes his head a little, his brows furrowing even deeper.  She knows that if he could speak he would be telling her to spit it out already.

“You’re beautiful,” She murmurs.

The knot in his brow softened into a more confused look, and it only made her smile.

Oh no.  She’s smiling.  This can’t be good.

“You’re the m-most beautiful person I’ve ever known,” She goes on, her murmurs turning into lovesick babbles.  “I n-never told you… I was too nervous I g-guess.  But I should have told you,”

He starts to shake his head again, but her small smile only blossoms into a toothy grin.  It would be off putting with the blood stained on her lips, but he has to admit even now, something in him just melts.

“You’re my favorite person, okay?”

It takes everything she has to keep her eyes open, to stare at him and try to convey every last feeling she has towards him.

For a moment he just stares back at her, his mouth moving a bit but no words were coming out.

And then slowly, he nods his head at her.

He wants to keep fighting, to keep smacking her until her eyes stay open, to keep shaking his head at her because he can’t scream for her to just please stay awake.

It’s dawning on him now, how quickly time is ticking, and the last thing either of them need is more panic.

So he tries to calm himself, for her sake.

But her eyes are closing again, and he can see the rise and fall in her chest is slowing, until it’s barely moving at all.

By the time the car pulls up and Ijichi is hopping out and running over to them, Toge hadn’t gotten her to open her eyes once. ___

Fuck it was bright.

(y/n) winced as she slowly blinked her eyes open, trying to get used to the blinding white shining on her.  With a groan she raised her hand to her face, rubbing her already strained eyes.

“Oh, you’re up earlier than I thought”

Dragging her palm down her face, (y/n) squinted to see Shoko smiling down at her, clipboard in hand.

“I’m not dead?”

“Not this time,” The doctor jests, smirking to herself.  “Gave us a scare though.  Especially Inumaki”

Toge.

“Where is-?”

“I’ll let him know you’re up in a minute, don’t worry.  First, can you tell me what all you remember?”

“Yeah, I got stabbed with my own knife.  Then I almost died.  And now I’m alive and embarrassed and I will never hear the end of it.  Actually… could you do me a favor-?”

“I’m not killing you.  Sorry, kid”

“Shit”

Shoko chuckled to herself.

“I guess I can check off alert and snarky,” She teases, before setting her board down.  “Any pain? Nausea?”

“Just absolute delight to be here” (y/n) teases back.

Shoko’s smiling, which is a bit of a rare sight, but (y/n’s) more familiar with it than her peers.

“As always,” Shoko hums.  “Well, let me find your boyfriend.  Try not to strain yourself before then, alright?”

“No promises” (y/n) muttered back.

With that, the doctor was strutting out of the room.  From the way the left side of her lab coat sagged a little heavier than the right, she figured she had some extra time to herself.  Ten minutes if she smoked alone, twenty five if Gojo happened to catch up with her.

Settling back into her cot, she shut her eyes and sighed.

I should have asked her to shut the lights off before she left.

She sat up again, trying to find something to put over her eyes to keep the LED’s from piercing right through her eyelids.  Unfortunately the thin cotton blanket she had wasn’t large enough to cover her head to toe, and she wasn’t ready to give up her pillow- the only comfortable thing about this dumb cot- so that left her back at square one.

It was then that she realized she was wearing an extra layer.  Puzzled, she inspected the jacket that clearly wasn’t hers.

Did Shoko give her this when she showed up?

Curiously, she dipped her hands into the pockets.  She wasn’t sure what drove her to do such a thing, but sure enough she found something.

Post-its.  A bunch of folded and crumpled post-its.

Oh, this is Toge’s jacket!

She felt her face get warm as she smiled, and piled them up in her lap.  These must have been all the notes he wrote to better communicate with people throughout his day.

But after unfolding the first one, she wasn’t so sure what these notes were.  Scribbled there in Toge’s distinct handwriting, was without a doubt a love note.

You’re so beautiful no matter what you wear or do with your hair.  It’s mostly because of your personality, but your eyes take some of the blame too.

She had to admit, she was pretty shocked.  She didn’t think Toge was the type to have a romantic side, but clearly he’s got a knack for it.

Now all that was left to figure out was who these little love notes were meant to be delivered to.

And hell, there was no other entertainment in this boring, bright room.  So why not indulge in a little snooping?

Eagerly, she uncrumpled the next one.

I’m sorry I can’t speak well to you, but I’m glad I can still laugh, because you make me laugh every time I’m with you.  And sometimes you’re funny too! :)

(y/n) snorted before rolling her eyes.  Alright, he must have had some help from Panda.  She reached for the next note.

You tell me all the time how brave I am and now here I am pouring it all out there.  I wish I could tell you myself instead of writing all these notes.

A few of the notes didn’t even have words, just doodles, but they were just as cute.  She especially loved the one of two turtles holding hands.  Well, stubs.  He drew their little stubs touching with a heart over them.

It wasn’t meant for her, but she decided she’d have to steal that one for herself.  It was just too cute.

“Tuna!”

Dropping the post-its, (y/n’s) head shot up to the doorway where her visitor was standing.  She looked like a deer caught in headlights- which she was, he’d literally just caught her reading through his private notes.

“Toge!” She squeaked, embarrassed, but there was still a smile on her face, eager to see him as always.

She can’t see it because he has his collar zipped up, but his face was red with bashfulness.

How many of those notes had she read? Did she know they were for her? Dummy! Of course she did! It was so obvious! Idiot! Why did I even keep those in there when I gave her that jacket!?

“I’m so glad you’re here” She told him, beckoning him to come into the room.

Some of his nerves were settled as he took a few steps closer.  Maybe she hadn’t put together that the notes were for her?

“Mustard leaf?” He asked, gesturing to her stomach, which she kept covered with her blanket.

“Oh, it’s fine,” (y/n) shrugged a shoulder.

After finding the notes, she’d kind of forgotten about it actually.  Surely once her pain meds wore off she’d be irritable and reliving the worst pain she’s ever felt in her whole life- but for now she didn’t care, and she’d rather focus on something more enticing.

And nothing was more enticing than love notes to a mystery person.

“Tell me about these!” She told him, excitedly holding up the few notes that she’d read.

Toge’s eyes widened for a moment, before he decidedly shook his head back and forth.

(y/n) frowned.

“Bonito flakes” Toge explained to the best of his ability, pointing again to her blanket.

“Really, it’s fine, I can’t feel a thing right now,” (y/n) said nonchalantly.  “I’d rather just be normal? Please?” She gave him her best puppy dog eyes and held the notes up to him.

Toge sighed, staring back at her, giving up on trying to voice his concerns.  When all he could voice were rice ball ingredients, it was hard to be convincing sometimes.

But even giving her the deadest eyes he could manage wasn’t working.  And he was no match for puppy dog eyes.

(It was truly a weakness- and not just (y/n).  If anyone gave him that face, odds were he was caving in on whatever ridiculous thing they were requesting.  Panda abused this knowledge frequently)

He groaned and rolled his eyes, making (y/n) grin and cheer.

“Ok so tell me! Who are these for? Do they go here??”

She shuffles to sit upright on her cot, making Toge panic momentarily, because no way should she be moving this much after she was just stabbed.  She was still healing damnit!

He reaches his hands out, shaking his head as he grabs her shoulders to keep her in place, but she swats his hands away.

“Relax, just sit” She demands, patting the open space she’s made for him.

Toge glares at her.

“Bonito flakes”

“Stop saying that and just sit,” (y/n) requests again.  “Or I’ll walk out of this room and find Panda and make him tell me who these are-”

His groan is louder this time, more annoyed, before he shoves his finger in her face.

(y/n’s) brows knit together.

“Huh?”

He rolls his eyes.

His finger points rather aggressively to the notes in her lap, before pointing at her again.

How much clearer could he be? Was he going to have to spell it out for her?

“Yeah… I found them in your pockets-”

Toge smacked his hand to his head.

Man, he loved her.  But this was a whole different level of cluelessness.

He’d have to find another way to tell her.  So he went sifting through the mess of post-its.  Surely there’d be a note in there that explained his feelings to her.

(y/n) watched him curiously, not quite sure what he was doing, but she had to admit she was a little entertained by his annoyed scrambling.  It was cute to get him worked up, and he didn’t do it often, so it was also a treat.

Finally, he produced the perfect note, and handed it to her.  (y/n) raised a brow at him before she took it.

This note wasn’t like the others.  It was a direct question, clearly meant to be used to communicate with, not just a cute message or doodle.

(y/n), I’ve liked you for a really long time, and you’re a great friend.  But I think we would be great as something more.  Would you want to go on a date with me?

Her eyes widened as she re-read the note a few times, scanning it as if it were going to say something else after ten more reads.  But sure enough, it had her name, and he was asking her out.

He was asking her out!!

“Oh my god,” She mumbled, mostly to herself but Toge heard it anyway.  “I’m an idiot,”

Glancing up at him, she caught his nodding, and smacked his arm.

“But you’re a bigger idiot!” She chastised.  “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

He shrugged his shoulders.  There were few instances where he was lucky to not have to explain himself.

Like right now, he didn’t have to sit here and tell her he was too scared of rejection to tell her how he really felt about her.  That would be humiliating.  Instead, he gets to stand there and just smile at her.

“Well, you’re in luck.  I like you too,” (y/n) replies, giving him a smile.  “I didn’t know that you felt this way,”

He shrugs his shoulders.

“So romantic,” She chuckles, rolling her eyes at him.  “So what kind of date do you have planned?”

He reaches for one of the post-its, flipping it over and grabbing one of Shoko’s pens.  (y/n) waits while he quickly scribbles on the paper.

Movie?

(y/n) grins as she reads it, nodding her head in agreement.

“How about dinner too?” She asks, her cheeks starting to tinge with pink.

Toge nods excitedly.

“Okay, perfect.  It’s a date then,” (y/n) grins back.  The elation of this moment was definitely going to last until her pain wore off.  “You know it’s funny, I was actually going to confess last night,”

Toge rose a brow, before whistling, making her giggle.

“Oh shut up.  I only didn’t because… you know.  If I had…”

Finally, Toge perches himself on the side of the cot beside her.  He unzips his collar before reaching out to take hold of her hand.  (y/n) smiles softly at the sweet gesture.  She admired him very much for the way he was able to convey exactly what he wanted to say.

“I just didn’t want to drop a bomb on you and then… die.  It didn’t seem right, and I wanted the right time to tell you, you know that I… I love you”

His eyes widened like a deer caught in headlights.  Brows raised and mouth slightly parted.  He was shocked.  (y/n’s) pink cheeks deepened to a bright red, and she could feel the heat spreading to her neck as well.

All at once, it hits Toge, and his hands sprung to action.  

You love me? He signs.

“Well, yeah,” She answers.  “I was trying not to die in front of you, doesn’t that make it kind of obvious?”

He shakes his head at her, a smile beginning to break out across his face.

He holds his hand up, sticking out his thumb, index finger, and pinky.

(y/n) may have been a bit rusty when it came to sign language, but she knew what that one meant.

She reached out, taking his hand and tugging gently, prompting him to lean closer.

Brows furrowed, Toge followed the silent command, turning his head with the expectation that she was going to say something softly in his ear.

With a hum, (y/n’s) free hand finds his cheek, directing him to face her again, before guiding him down closer so that she could plant her lips on his.

For a moment, he hesitates.  His eyes go wide and it feels like his whole body is frozen.  He wonders briefly if this is what his opponents felt when he used his cursed speech to stop them in place.

It’s like all time as he knows it comes to a halt.

And then, slowly but surely, he melts into the sensation.

Her lips, soft and sweet like the chapstick Shoko always keeps around, were warm, and familiar.  As though he’d kissed them countless times before.  His hands find their natural place at her jaw, keeping her in place so he can be sure to kiss her again and again.

The feeling of the corners of her mouth tilting upwards was sensational, and Toge finds himself smiling into the kiss as well.  The pair silently acknowledged that now was as good a time as any to finally come together.

When time starts again and works against them, forcing them to break apart for air, their smiles were ever so present.  Paired with pink cheeks and shy eyes that could barely maintain contact.

“I’m going to have to learn sign language for kiss me, huh?” (y/n) teases quietly.

Toge beams, before happily showing her the motion.  He brings his fingers to his thumb, then traced his mouth to his cheekbone.  The phrase is finished with pointing to himself.

“Well, if you insist” (y/n) giggles, before yanking on him again so she can reach him once more.

Their laughter is interrupted as their lips meet once more, and this time Toge thinks he might never come back up for air. ___

xoxo ~ jordie

[monamoe]

Banging my head against the wall with some Riordanverse canon ships (or canon ages) before explaining how I would have done them

(no hate to Rick Riordan! I love his books and his writing style, but I do have problems with some of the writing choices he made). First I’ll start with the age gap relationships.

What I hate about the age gaps:

We didn’t need 16 year old Frank with 14 year old Hazel, because those are two wildly different age groups! To put it in a highschool setting, Hazel would be in Year 8-9 while Frank would be in Year 10 more or less?? He wodukve had his driving license when she hadn’t even done her IGCSEs. When he turned 18 she’d be 16. SIXTEEN. Bruh.

We didn’t need 16 year old Walt with 13 year old Sadie. Same problems as Frazel except worse by one year. (HE’D BE 18 WHEN SHE WOULD BE 15.)

And we didn’t need the 1000+ couples with under 18 characters! Especially with some of the character’s that are thousands of years old’s mythologies! (You know what I’m talking about).

How I would have written them!:

Frank x Hazel:

I assumed Frank was 15 or 14 tbh 💀 I don’t get why he needed to be 16?? It has no plot relevance and also it’s weird considering him and Hazel get together. I love Frazel but like… what is the point? Their relationship isn’t that terrible development wise, jsut kind of bland ig (in my opinion). I’d definitely have given them a lot more development and moments together before dating. I’d also like to make a point that their friendship was already going strong and they had a close bond before dating! If I were to rewrite the books in my own taste idk if I’d even make them get together? I think I appreciate them more when they have a deep bond without a labeled relationship. They’re close and they love eachother, and they want to be committed to eachother, but they don’t want to be dating <3

I also wanted to mention before going into Walt x Sadie that both Hazel and Sadie fall into the trope thingy Rick does where younger POC girls (Hazel is African American, Sadie is mixed) are paired up with 16 year olds. And it’s just really really weird. I’m white so I won’t comment too deeply on this, but I have read a really good essay about it somewhere but I sadly can’t find it :( if I do I’ll put it here.

Walt x Sadie

When I first read TKC, my first impression of Walt was a paragraph that described his appearance (random but I HATE HATE HATE his design in one of the graphic novels. He looks so adult and it’s weird since Sadie clearly has a crush on him. I don’t like the designs for many of the graphic novels in general ngl) and his age, which I read as fourteen, since it explicitly said he was two years younger than Carter. I can’t find the paragraph now, but every other source has said that he’s 16. Bc of this, I read the books assuming he was just a year older than Sadie and I still believe it even if it’s not canon. I wouldn’t change much about their relationship except age Sadie up to 15 and Walt down to 15 as well.

Now for the 1000+ relationships:

Anubis x Sadie x Walt

For Anubis x Sadie x Walt, I already did a sort of essay about how I would have written him and his relationship to Sadie to an extent (Idk how to link posts sorry😔 look up Anubis or TKC on my page and it should appear), even if I haven’t talked about his relationship to Walt yet (bc despite not being explicit, it’s clearly obvious Walt and Anubis are also dating, it’s not a situation we’re two guys love one girl, it’s a poly relationship). I wanted to mention it bc I thought it’d be weird not to talk about him.

Calypso x Leo / Calypso x Percy

Stop. It’s one thing to make a ship similar to Leo x Calypso were they both are at the same maturity rate while also having one be immortal, it’s another to make a teen date a goddess who has a mythological history of rape and SA?? No matter if the translation or copy of the Odyssey you own makes the ‘cheating’ consensual, the implications are STILL THERE. In PJO I also find Calypso bossy (which normally wouldn’t bother me? I’m also bossy so it’s jot that deep), rude and downright vindictive. The curse she put on Annabeth that happened in Tartarus? The blame on Percy for ‘leaving her’ and the whole ‘he promised to free me from my prison’ when he LITERALLY DIDNT. Percy promised to build her a garden in his city (or something like that sorry 😭), not to free her. Just. In general this relationship makes me feel icky and I heavily dislike it.

So that’s all for now, I’m tired, gn everyone! If I missed anything or got anything wrong feel free to correct me <3

[im-gonna-explode]

I have been having many thoughts about Tamaraneans since I did their little redesign, so I decided to make a full post about it, with shitty visuals

I probably should’ve made these digitally but I didn’t want to set up my computer

Anyway, let’s begin with the canon

I’m gonna preface this with the fact I got all my information from wiki pages so I could be completely and entirely wrong

Anyway, we know Tamaraneans are aliens from the planet Tamaran, obviously. They all have golden-orange skin and solid green eyes, and in older comics they were depicted with all sorts of hair colours but recently people have only depicted them with the same red-pink hair as Starfire.

Culturally they’re very emotionally driven people who seem to put love above all else, and because of that they have a lot less rules about how one is “supposed to” love compared to humans. They’re also amazing warriors despite not having much for war or battle on their planet.

Now onto all the stuff I made up because I was bored, I’ll start with all the biology stuff I did for the redesign

According to the wikis I read Tamaraneans are supposed to be descended from an alien cat species, so I decided I wanted to highlight this fact more by giving them more cat-like features. I also felt like it’d be weird if they could only have one colour of hair, so I decided that they can have damn near every colour, but it always has a gradient to it. (And yes, I understand it’s just as weird for them to only be able to have one skin and eye colour, but I imagine they can have different hues and what not, but they’re always in the golden and green range respectively)

I also decided it’d be fun if their skin kinda sparkled, not like a twilight vampire, but when you look at them under a good light you can see it glimmers slightly, which is why their skin is compared to gold. I just added this because I thought it was fun, I had literally no other motivation.

Anyway, cultural stuff

This one is really brief because I already like how their culture is written

I mostly wanted to go into gender stuff, because I felt like it’d be interesting if they just had a completely different concept of gender, so I made their outlook on gender very neutral. Men, women and everyone else are all considered equal, and people changing genders isn’t seen as strange or terribly out of the ordinary.

I feel like they also have a whole bunch of genders and sexes beyond the normal male and female, like a bunch of types of hermaphrodite and and all sorts of literally alien concepts and pronouns, just to confuse the majority of humans. Some of them are probably similar to the ones we have on earth

I think that’s about all the thoughts I had, sorry about my handwriting, and sorry I probably didn’t write this very well

To finish this off I’ll just show you a bunch of random Tamaranean designs I made

[merlucide]

Little rant RAAA

like imma be real

I miss being a little writer on here 😭 yeah it fun having so much reach and reaction but it doesn’t have the same satisfaction??

— And I’m not complaining, I am very greatful and excited at how much attention my blog has gotten!! Like over 1.k is insane 😭😭 I still can’t grasp the fact that it’s over A T H O U S A N D P E O P L E

but when I was a little writer, I was more motivated— I worked harder, it was more fun. I would also make more posts just talking about whatever yk?

I would apologize to my like 28 followers for not posting every day lmao— but I felt like these people really liked my stuff and wanted to read my work!! Now it’s just like, not that feeling

I’m not like a writer-writer, I mainly post Headcannons or Smaus or whatever— but I used to really think and get excited to put something out and now it’s just like what I do ? If that make sense, like brushing your teeth yk?

Maybe this sounds dramatic, since this is a fanfiction blog lmao, but it’s just a little saddening to me

I really wanna have that same joy that I had when I had under 100 followers.

I think a part of it is like— a weird rivalry? lmao??

I have fanfic-writer friends on here, who are well known/popular and I love them dearly— but I think I started like getting insecure of my own work? like ‘oh, that’s like way better than what I’m putting out’ or ‘they got so much more attention than I did’

after I started getting more attention I like wanted to be known? lmao? like I admired other writers and remembered their blogs and wanted to be like them yk? Like ‘That Bllk blog’ or whatever the hell im writing about

which again, you could be like ‘girl… you write fanfics as a hobby.. it’s not that deep’ lol

This isn’t something that’s really important lmao, like it’s really not that deep just a thought you know.

I’ve been really think over the past few months about quite literally everything. I’m starting to make subtle changes in my life too, so I’m just feeling everything lmao.

I’m really good at being an optimist, but I’m even better at being a pessimist.

I will never truly be happy, I will always find something to make myself sad. Well, the mind finds negative emotions much more interesting than positive ones, so it’s not easy to stop heh. But I’m making progress, slowly, incrementally.

It’s really hard to break the same patterns, it’s so much easier pretending I’ve already achieved my goals in my head. But alas, that is just a daydream, and a coping mechanism, heh.

Sigh, I’ll get there eventually, baby steps. It’s not like I need to change now anyways, I’m okay as I am. But I’m so much ready for more. I’m ready to change and evolve, to grow and learn, to actually be the me I want to be.

Wow okay not sure how this went from fanfic writing to self growth 😭

Just a rant :>

[small-but-mighty]

Meet Mable!

I’ve been putting off telling this story because I wanted to focus on the other stories that these animals have to share. Anyways, my sister finally told me it’s an important one to share. So, meet Mable!

Mable is actually my bunny. She is a wonderful beautiful lionhead with just the right amount of “bunitude”. However, she hasn’t always had her luxurious long mane.

One day, one of the animal cruelty officers from work (the RISPCA) got word of a rabbit in rough condition posted on Craigslist. So, she went and investigated and ended up bringing the rabbit to our clinic for veterinary care. The little rabbit was in ROUGH condition. All four limbs were covered in urine scolding, and there was not an ounce of fat on the body, you could feel the bones. Just incase somebody who isn’t bunny savy is reading this, rabbits must always have a source of hay, this enables them to have the fiber required to keep their insides moving, if their digestive system were to stop, it very quickly can kill the rabbit. The little bunny brought to clinic, was on the verge of this happening. The small animal manager texted our team and said that this little bunny was coming into the shelter and that our vet was not sure she was going to make the weekend. I asked if our vet wanted me to take her, to at least pass on a home with love. What I thought was going to be a weekend just to give a little bun a home to pass, turned into the start of a long journey.

She survived the first weekend, and by then… she stole my heart. This little baby was only about three months old, and she had a fighting spirit. She was a bit shy about me, but she knew I was helping her, taking her meds like a champ, and chowing down on all the hay I could offer. I knew I couldn’t let her go. That Tuesday (it was a long weekend!) I brought her back to the clinic, it was time to start the process of finding out just how truly bad her legs were. This meant she had to be put under anesthesia. While under anesthesia the veterinarian was able to perform x-rays on her legs, which showed that the urine scolding on her legs (this was caused by her living in her own filth) was so bad, the infection went down to one of the bones. Great. We made the weekend, we woke up from anesthesia, but now we have to pray we can treat this infection. Or else she would have to become a little tripod. Now becoming a tripod would not have been the end of Mable’s story, I remember doing research about tripod rabbits, just incase! However, nobody wants to ambulate a bunny’s leg…..

So after removing all the dead skin from all four limbs, I was able to be there when Mable woke up from her anesthesia. It was no longer a mission to just survive, we were gonna heal now. For months, Mable wore cast like bandages on her legs and got antibiotics twice a day. These had to be changed twice a week by a vet. We started out with all 4 in casts, then we went to just her back legs, until it was just her one really bad leg. FINALLY, all four legs were free! The first time I ever saw this bunny binky, I almost cried! She was able to do that, because of the time, patience, talent, and dedication our team had.

She still wasn’t done yet though! There was still one more big procedure she had to make it through. Her spay! I will always advocate for spaying and neutering your bunny, but my goodness was I nervous! The little fighter has already gone through so much and she had to go through a surgery now! Of course she came through like it was nothing though.

I took Mable home on January 20th, 2023, and her official adoption day of when she was medically cleared was May 23,2023. So it was a very lengthy process of healing, my entire last semester of college actually.

Today, Mable is the most spoiled bunny! She has her own bed, so many toys and treats (including those that come in her monthly subscription box), and so many people that love her! She recently had her first yearly check up where she got a clean bill of health!

You can sometimes find Mable with me at the RISPCA, where we have told our story to kids at our humane education camp, and even to potential adopters or those who are trying to learn more about rabbits when they attend our bunny related events!

Mable is a huge part of my life and even though she is a tiny little gal, she really has shown both me and the world just how mighty she is. Next time you visit the RISPCA, look around the adoption areas and the smallie room, you may just find her picture around!

[luxaofhesperides]

Listen. I love the dcxdp crossover. It’s a lot of fun! There’s so much that can be done for this crossover, with all the characters and settings and the many plots that can spring up from them. But as much as I love writing for it and sharing my fics with the community, there’s been a significant uptick in things that are rubbing me the wrong way. Some of these things have to do with canon vs fanon, but others are more about the shifting culture of the community.

(keep in mind that I only see things on Tumblr and am not in any discords, so my experience will be different from others bc I have a more limited experience with the wider community)

(putting it all under a read more bc its long)

Let’s start off with a look at what we’re doing as a group:

Building off of completed fics on tumblr: I always thought the etiquette is to not build off of a completed work without permission. Someone had an idea and executed it, then shared it with us. It should end there. If you want to add to it, contact the author first and see if it’s something they’re fine with; some will say no, some will say yes, some will say yes but be sure to credit them for the original fic. A lot of what I’m seeing is a completed fic gets added on to in a way that completely takes it away from the original idea. Having experienced this myself (on a requested prompt from someone else, no less), I found it kind of rude. Maybe it’s just me, but a completed fic is not a prompt request or something open for building up another story around. It’s already completed. Leave the story as is and let the author know you liked it.

Expecting others to write for you: the prompts are what build this crossover fandom, in my eyes. Prompts are posted and people create something around them, either as a group by adding onto what other people are saying, or as individual fics that one person wrote. Now I’m seeing people throw out prompts that are basically fic outlines, then begging others to write something for it. Like, those prompts are already written! They have very specific details! Why not write it yourself? You’re already halfway there, you can just write the thing you want to see and post it. It’s not about being ‘good’ or ‘bad’ at writing, it’s about crafting an idea to share to the world. Why ask others to write it for you when you’ve already practically done it?

But also, you are not owed fic. This might just be general fandom burn out talking, but being a fic author who has been treated like a machine? It sucks. I love writing, but I share what I write because what I wrote made me happy and I wanted to share that with others. I’m not a content creating machine who has to pump out fic after fic for other people’s entertainment. I just want to share what I love and having people pop up in my notifs only going “write more/tag me/sequel?/etc” is tiring. I get that it’s coming from a place of love bc you liked the fic enough to want to see more, but please actually talk about what I’ve already written instead of going “update? More? MORE????”

Hostility to DC canon: I get that DC canon is a mess, but it still is a canon and has a lot of cool stuff! I’m seeing a lot of posts recently about how dpxdc people refuse to engage with the comics, and I need to let yall know that this is not a new thing. DC fans also refuse to engage with the comics (it’s mostly batfam) and it’s very easy to tell who has and who hasnt ready batfam related stuff bc the fanon is incredibly wrong about characterisation and what happened in comics. But that’s for a different post.

I’m seeing both sides of the argument (this is for fun, reading comics isn’t required, don’t like don’t read vs it’s tiring seeing people butcher my favorite characters into ocs with their name/face, I want to share my love for comics but there’s so much pushback, it shouldn’t be weird to expect people engaging with a media to have actually engaged with that media). And I think you should engage with comics! DP is a unique case in which fanon is for the most part better and more interesting than the original show (also death to the author/butch hartman), but DC comics shouldn’t be engaged with in that way. If you like the characters you see in dpxdc, you should read about them in comics! The whole point of a fandom is that you’re a fan of the original media. That’s why you’re engaging with it in this way, writing within the world and characters and canon.

I don’t know how people write for fandoms when they’re not familiar with the source material. I wanted to write dcxdp so I started rewatching DP. I’m reading comics. I want to know the characters and their stories so I can have a foundation to write from, and also to better understand the media so I can share my love for it. The refusal to engage with source material while engaging with its fandom is so strange to me.

Also dc fans who love the comics are great! In my experience, they’re very kind and willing to help you jump into comics! Don’t know where to start? Pick a character or team and follow them! Want a reading guide? We’ve got TONS. want thoughts on a specific character or comic run? Just ask!

Now to more specific points about what I’m seeing in dcxdp works:

Mischaracterized batfam: this is a group of people who are disasters and have complicated relationships with each other. They’re kind, wonderful people who bring out the best and worst in each other. Why is Batman always adopting people. Why is this a running joke with the batfam. I get it being a joke the first few times, but I’ve seen it so often and done like it’s accurate characterization that I just. I can’t. I leave that fic immediately. I can’t do it anymore. Batman is paranoid and tried very hard to keep kids away from him/away from being a vigilante. Unfortunately all the kids he got are stubborn and smart so he was doomed from the beginning.

Superman and Kon: you guys are pretty much only pulling from Young Justice Animated which I think is a terrible adaptation, but that’s my own taste. But seriously. Clark is kind. That’s an important part of his character! He’s the strongest man in the world and he’s kind. He was also dead when Kon first appeared as a experiment from CADMUS in Hawaii. They’re not father-son, but they are family and they do care for each other, once they get to know each other. Also Kon is not an angry broody boy, he’s funny! And annoying! pls read kon comics guys, i promise youll like his actual character

Chronos??? Guys. Chronos is not a god in DC canon. He is in Greek mythology, but in DC he’s a Captain Atom villain and he’s literally just a guy who got obsessed with having perfect timing. He’s themed around clocks. He has nothing to do with time travel or time gods. The Speedforce is Time, basically, and it is not human. It is an eldritch being beyond our comprehension that can eat people. If it chooses to have a human form, it’s going to choose to look like Bart. Please read Flash stuff, it’s interesting!

Lazarus Pit Madness lasts like 5 minutes in canon. Jason having it, and being affected by it for years, is a purely fanon thing from the dc side. Not going to say anything more on this because it goes into Jason Todd discourse.

Repetition: I’m sorry but I’m tired of seeing the same things over and over. I barely see anything out of the dcxdp tags thats new and fun to engage with. Everything is the same variation of “Danny helps Pit Mad Jason”, “Bruce insta-adopts Danny”, “Superman is mean to clones”, etc etc. Think of any popular dcxdp trope and that’s all you’ll see. I get why these are fun and popular, but the way it’s being engaged with now? It literally makes me exit Tumblr and put my phone down.

Not every prompt has to go down the same routes as the other prompts. Please explore more options, branch out, twist those tropes around to do something new with them. And also stop going onto other people’s fics and saying “what about [dcxdp trope]? Cant wait to see [dcxdp trope]! You should have [dcxdp] trope.” If I didn’t include it, it’s not included for a reason. There are hundreds of other fics that write specifically about those exact tropes. Read those, or write your own. (im being super bitter here but please just let me write what i want to write without trying to pull the story into another direction for a trope you like. Im writing for me, but sharing it for you. Not every fic needs those tropes in them.)

Tumblr specific things: this is less about the content and more about general posting etiquette. Please put long posts under a read more. If it’s more then three paragraphs, consider adding a read more if there is significantly MORE than three paragraphs. Tag appropriately. Content warnings and trigger warnings should be at the very top of the post and in the tags so they can be properly blocked. If you’re posting fic/prompt, please double check your spelling and fix any typos you find because posts that are filled with excessive typos are difficult to read.

There’s probably a lot more to talk about, but just getting this much out is tiring and, frankly, I don’t want to think on it any more today. If you reply/add comments, I won’t get to them in a while bc I will be writing ghostlights and yhk fic to lift my mood :)

[beauty-and-passion]

No pressure as always, but I’m curious if you saw Thomas’ Year in Review. He talks a lot about his struggles with Sanders Sides and why the creative process has taken so long (at least, he gives his own take on the situation.)

If you saw it, I’m very curious about your thoughts! Because I honestly don’t believe that this video discredits any criticism, especially your criticism, but I’m curious if any of your opinions changed after watching it regardless. And no judgement either way, I just love hearing your thoughts ^.^

My dear, it's always a pleasure to reply to your asks! It might take me some time, but in the end, the answer will always come.

Thank you very much for telling me about the video because, if it wasn't for you, I would've probably never watched it and missed out a lot. Extra kudos for that.

So I watched it. And I read your post about it too (HERE because more people need to read it): it was very well made and I agree with you wholeheartedly.

However, I also took a lot of notes while watching Mr Sanders' video and there are a lot of other things I want to say in addition to the ones you already said. So I will gladly expand my thoughts and feelings here.

(It might be longer than expected, so I'll put it under a "read more")

Accepting criticism

Thomas admitted he easily internalizes negative criticism

He said that people are allowed to write everything/to criticize and that he doesn't want others to get mad over SaSi criticism

First of all, I am proud of him for showing this self-awareness. From what I saw of him, Thomas looks like a very prideful person, so it probably took him a lot of time and courage to admit his faulty behaviour.

But in the end, he did it. He showed some of the maturity I've always wanted to see coming from him and he deserves recognition for that: good job, Thomas. I know it wasn't easy because it sucks to admit we're not good at something, but it was a great proof of adulthood coming from you.

However, I would like to point out that he doesn't internalize just negative criticism. What the ts critics noticed (and you can find several proofs in the #ts_criticism tag), is that Thomas tends to reply with a lot of passive-aggressiveness not just to people offending him, but also to simple and harmless questions like "Hey, where is the SaSi finale?". Which are not negative, not criticism and even less negative criticism.

So it's not that he just internalizes bad criticism: he internalizes every single question regarding the SaSi finale which is not a compliment towards him or a "take your time, bro". And he internalizes it as something bad, which is not great, nor fair.

With this video, he took a step in the right direction and showed some self-awareness, which is very good. But now he needs to learn how to distinguish between different kinds of criticism - as well as recognizing that asking him questions isn’t criticism. It’s just asking questions.

(I also hope that some people won’t follow his mentality of “saying anything that isn’t a compliment = criticism”, because this can lead to a dangerous, distorted vision of the world.)

And since we’re talking about criticism, I wish that by saying "please do not get angry over criticism" Thomas finally put an end to the stupid idea that “people are not allowed to criticize”.

I know some people don't like to hear this, but criticism is inherent to the nature of every single work. Everything that exists in this world is allowed to be criticized. Heck, it's exactly because these creations are criticized, that they exist. Do you know what work isn't criticized? The one people don't talk about.

And no, despite what the opposers of criticism think, when people criticize something it's not because they hate the product: it's because they care a lot about said product. It's because they saw something good in it and they're disappointed the product wasn't as good as it promised. It's because they are so invested, that every mistake frustrates them.

In the end, it's not criticism that kills a product: it's indifference. It's not talking about it anymore. When you don't care, the product is dead.

So the opponents of criticism should be happy people are talking about SaSi with such passion, throwing ideas, suggestions and calling Thomas out. It's because, despite the empty promises, they still give a fuck about this project and want to see it succeed.

Maybe, thanks to Thomas' works, more people will not ban every criticism as "bad" Because Yes. Heck, they might even read a couple of posts and find out that the criticism tag isn't made of hateful people: just of people who care like them.

And maybe this will also discourage pathetic losers like the anon @softestvirgil mentioned in their last post. An anon who is so strong and brave, to say they would hire a hitman to kill another person just because they criticize something the anon likes. Very mature, very clever and very bold, coming from a coward who doesn't even have the balls to show their face, while saying this.

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The difficulty of writing

Thomas said he got overwhelmed by the public's reaction to SaSi "in the most wonderful and intimidating way"

When Joan left, Thomas felt the overwhelming weight of the series all on himself. He couldn't see himself doing SaSi without Joan

Roleslaying was a breath of fresh air, since it was a series with no stakes

Thomas realized he was doing his best with videos that didn't require him to write

Thomas said there have been moments when he despised everything he was writing. He spent whole days on a single interaction between two characters, only to hate everything and wonder how Joan would write them/what the viewers would think.

As always, I am a prophet. What did I say in these last years?

Thomas doesn't know how to handle this series? He admitted he couldn't see himself doing it without Joan.

Thomas prefers Roleslaying and shorter, more carefree videos because they're easier and they don't require him to write? He admitted he did his best with videos that didn't require him to write.

Thomas isn't able to write the series? He had struggles and hated what he was writing.

So, what was the result, if not Thomas postponing and focusing on other projects - thus ending up with characterization errors, mistakes and things he completely forgot? Just like I said?

But even if I'm right, I am glad Thomas FINALLY talked about it. One thing is deduce what's going on, one thing is the author himself admitting it.

So yes, I really, really appreciate him doing it. Again, it was probably very hard for him to say it out loud, but he did and deserves recognition for that.

I particularly felt for him, when he said he spent days on a single interaction, only to hate everything he was writing. I empathize with him a lot because that's exactly what I felt while writing the prologue of my story, multiple times. I spent days writing the same two paragraphs, over and over, trying to find the right way to do it, the right rhythm, the right words. And I ended up deleting everything, only to start again and try again and delete everything again, over and over in a neverending loop.

I know it must've been hard for Thomas, because it is hard. Because you feel like shit. Because you ask yourself how can you not write this right, what are you doing wrong? Maybe you did everything wrong from the start, maybe the entire thing is wrong, maybe you're just too stupid to do it - and you see other stories and other writings and they're all so good and you suck so much and you feel like an even bigger loser.

And now you may ask: how can you break this loop? How can you move forward?

We will talk about Thomas' solution in a bit.

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The lack of an outline

Thomas admitted he lost connection with his characters

He said he was feeling bad for letting people down

He said he's writing the outline of the season finale by referring to notes left by Joan

He finished 3 drafts out of 4 parts. And they're still reviewed

Wow, it looks like the lack of a proper, full outline leads to characterization errors, forgetting things and taking a lot of time. Jeez, I wonder who said all of this since like, idk, forever?

As I imagined, there is still no outline at all and Thomas isn't even working on a full outline for season 3: he's working on an outline for the season 2 finale. Which means season 3 is still stuck in a limbo.

And yes, I know they're not great news, but at least they're real news. Real fucking news about the finale, not just "finished draft 3" or "worked for 8 hours" or "it will come out this year maybe yes maybe not". We finally have real news and we know how much Thomas did and what he's currently working on and how much is still left to do. So, again, he deserves recognition for finally talking about it.

Does that mean the writing is good now? Heck no, this isn't a proper way to write and my previous post still stands: the writing is still taking too long, the lack of an outline is still a problem, part 4 and the review will probably take another two years minimum and a competent writer would've helped A LOT to make the writing smoother and faster.

However, I better understand now why Thomas didn't hire one: he probably wanted to do everything by himself to not disappoint everyone and was too prideful to ask for help - considering he didn't tell anyone about his struggles either.

But what did it lead to? The outline is still missing (with all the expected consequences) and Thomas suffered for the huge weight of expectation he put on himself.

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The importance of not escaping criticism

Thomas' resolutions for this year are:

to be more open and honest about his struggles

to stay away from criticism (he doesn't even want to be tagged in it)

Those are great resolutions, especially the first one. Considering he kept everything by himself and didn't tell anyone about his struggles, being more open and honest about them is a very good decision.

And staying away from negative criticism is good too, considering that 1) it's good for mental health in general and 2) he just admitted he internalizes criticism, so staying away from it can only be helpful.

However, as said before, Thomas sees as “negative criticism" everything, including people asking him about the finale. So if he escapes from all kinds of criticism, he will also escape from harmless fans who just want an update from him.

Besides, it’s never good to escape from all kinds of criticism. Criticism is essential for writing, especially constructive criticism. Sure, you might find the 12-year-old who says "You stink and your work sucks because my headcanon is not here!", but you may also find the expert who will explain some technicalities of writing. Or just someone who can offer a deeper insight into a character. Or just an interesting idea to develop into a plot point.

Also, considering how Thomas tends to label every little critic as "negative", people who want to show their love might end up feeling "forced" to use just compliments, in hopes that Thomas will notice them/know they love SaSi. Which isn’t good either, because... well, people would be forced to censor themselves and suffocate their rightful questions just to make him happy.

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How to escape the neverending loop of hate-writing

Thomas said he wants to rediscover his joy in writing by working on more Asides/other projects to "stretch his brain"

He also expressed his love for short-form creation

Thomas' solution is a good one. Doing other things, focusing on other stuff, letting SaSi in the back to write different stories: this is all good and valid, I’m sure it will help Thomas’ mental health a lot.

However, writing small stuff with no stakes is also what Thomas wrote for most of his life. So by doing that, he basically reverts to something he’s already used to. And of course he loves it, it’s his comfort zone: it’s very understandable he feels at ease inside it.

Still, this is not a bad thing: it’s good to do it once in a while and it's even necessary for your wellbeing. But you can understand by yourself that this doesn’t help solve the problem. This just postpones the problem. Maybe it won’t come back now, maybe not today or tomorrow or during the season 2 finale. But the problem will eventually come back.

Why? Because SaSi still lacks an outline. Because the story should still move in a more mature, complex direction. Because there are still a lot of threads to develop and close. Because the characters still need mature development.

How do I think Thomas can solve the problem? Sure, detaching himself from it is good for a while, but he cannot do just that and escape into his comfort zone. He needs to face the problem and he can do it only by learning how to write.

And if it’s hard to do (because it is), then the best solution would be to hire a competent writer. Not because the writer will replace him, not at all. The writer will help Thomas to learn and understand the technicalities of writing especially for a project as big as SaSi: like how to develop an outline, how to connect all threads, how to move from a simple to a more complex plot, how to keep a continuative plot throughout several episodes without destroying the stakes. The writer will be an assistant for the writing of SaSi and a teacher from whom Thomas can learn everything he needs.

So, if Thomas really wants to give himself some grace this year as he said, I suggest he shares his writing responsibilities with someone competent and bias-free. A real writer from whom he can learn not just for SaSi, but for his future projects too. Not only this will benefit him in the long run, but it will also give him a more humble and mature approach to writing in general, by recognizing and accepting his limits and doing actual work to improve himself.

But this is just my suggestion. If he wants, Thomas can keep doing what he’s doing now, i.e. working on smaller stuff into his comfort zone and stepping out a little bit when he feels more confident.

Again, this isn’t a bad solution, but the problem is that it takes a lot of time. But, like, A LOT. You need to regain confidence from inside your comfort zone, then step out again to face a bigger problem - a problem you still don’t know how to face, because you don’t know how to write and you don’t even have an outline or a plan to tackle it. And what if you lose confidence again? Will you come back into your comfort zone and wait again to gain enough confidence to step out once more?

I know you will never read this post, Thomas, but let me tell you this: I also lost the spark with my characters several times in the past. The first time, it was because I still didn’t know how to write, so I was frustrated by the writing itself and how everything was dull. Then I lost my spark because the plot kept getting stuck and I had no idea how to improve it.

Both times, I left the project in the back and focused on other smaller stories, smaller projects and books to read.

After the first time, it took me a couple of years to get back on this project. But do you know how long it took me the second time? This year, it will be 8 years. The last time I wrote that project was 2016. And only now, after 8 years, I think I found the solution I was searching for.I could do that, because I never showed this story to anyone. It has always been my personal, secret project. But can you do the same? Can you really afford to spend 8+ years, doing everything by yourself? As I said in my previous post, unfortunately Sanders Sides has your face. And you cannot revert the biological clock forever.

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In conclusion

Do I appreciate Thomas a little more after this video? Definitely. He still didn't apologize for his lack of organization and his take on criticism is a bit questionable, but he's improving. He showed more maturity than he did in the past three years and I appreciate that. He has my respect for doing it, for admitting his mistakes and for opening up.

Does that mean he can take forever for the finale? Heck no. I still want to see the finale before the end of time and I still want to get more frequent, honest updates coming from him. And, no that doesn’t mean he has to do 20-minute-long videos every time: even just a simple, clear tweet is enough. Just to let us know how the work is going.

I also hope he will develop better communication with his team, improve the organization and, most importantly, hire a competent writer from whom he can learn more about writing in general (and regarding SaSi).

While for the fandom, I wish we would be nicer too. It doesn't make sense for us to fight over a simple series, when there are bigger problems out there. Let's enjoy our time together instead, let's criticize if we want to, let's do fanart and write fanfictions and let's fight over silly stuff only, like which ship is the best and which Orange is the best Orange. Even if the second doesn’t even need a debate, because we all know pirate!Orange is the best ;P

[nexility-sims]

𝐍𝐎. 𝟐   ❛ 𝐝𝐨𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 ❜   |   NAKAWE, EARLY MARCH 1991

❧  𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠  /  𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬  /  𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭.

❛ News about the royal family filled broadcasts throughout the day as cheerful early birds, irreverent talk show hosts, and straight journalists alike seized on recent developments. Nothing was too trivial or unremarkable. With the quiet of death and mourning over, the messy aftermath presented opportunity—for ratings, among other things.

❧ ahhh !!! ngl, i'm very proud of this, and i think that it's an improvement on the last television montage. happy to report that there will be more :^) big grateful shoutout to @madebysimblr for the two hosts i lightly edited and renamed ! also shoutout to tom noguchi’s book for the direct inspiration djdhjf

𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭 ↓

TRANSCRIPT:

morning news

[J] That bird risked everything to put out the fire! Inspiring.

[E] It’s the Morning in Nakawe promise—wholesome coverage to start your day, every day.

[E] Now, as you know, it’s been several weeks since Princess Safya’s tragic death. It looks like her family is finally getting back to normal. We got a glimpse of some beach outings this week.

[E] Safe to say Abelina has quickly stolen hearts nationwide.

[J] Everything we’ve seen suggests she’s a sweetheart.

[E] And there she is enjoying some fun in the sun with her father. I think we’re all excited to see more of this little family—especially with two new members on the way.

[J] First Reyes twins in recent memory!

[J] Princess Leonor also took to the beach in Nakawe, although she spent her time reading instead of swimming. I bet booksellers are going to see that one flying off the shelves this week.

[E] I’ll admit that I already bought my copy! That’s Ogechi Suzu’s 1987 magical realism bestseller Learning to Fly. No spoilers, but it’s about a woman who can suddenly transform into a parrot.

[J] That’s a classic story, isn’t it? What’s Suzu’s take?

[E] A Nakawe city girl has to crisscross all of Uspana to find herself. There’s love and computers. It’s a modern update.

daytime talk

[F] Okay, we’re back! We couldn’t get a Reyes on our little broadcast, so Mencia Cipac’s here to discuss where we are post-Princess Safya. Mencia was a palace correspondent for years, and she published a fabulous book on royal childhood last fall. Today’s person of interest is a big girl now, but—well, is she really?

[F] Safya’s baby. That’s how we know her. Who is she now?

[M] That’s the question. In my book, I thought I had an answer. We’re going to watch a young person invent herself in real time—all while dealing with such extraordinary events. The premature death of a parent. Losing a role that was, by all accounts, her nascent identity.

[F] In public! Publicly.

[M] That’s right. The scrutiny and attention ... We know how hard it is. Going from a little girl to a young woman is always hard. In the public eye, even under normal circumstances, it’s absurd. In our modern history, this turn of events is unprecedented.

[F] To think, we really haven’t even known who she is.

[M] We never really know, but we make great educated guesses. We’ve see her through the prism of her role, particularly this past year. That isn’t unusual for royalty, here or elsewhere. A hard worker. Our queen’s “little shadow.” That just won’t be true anymore. I mean, we know—we’ve guessed—how Queen Beatriz is.

{Audience murmurs}

[M] So, where does that leave her? It is hard to predict. I wonder if she’ll continue to work in a similar fashion—become a loyal worker for the institution like Martin, perhaps.

[F] Oh, I hope not! Can you imagine? How dull! A beautiful girl. She’s so young. She should do something interesting—for me, because I want to see it. Someone get her on the line!

{Audience laughs}

[M] The recent surveys suggest that’s how many Uspanians feel. They sympathize, but they crave newness and excitement. Our public figures let us live vicariously, don’t they? Leonor’s generation is lagging—all children, of course, all off-limits. That means she’s the lighting rod for that collective anticipation.

[F] She was at the beach here in Nakawe the other day. The gossip is some surfers out there were chatting her up. You’ve seen those boys! She deserves the attention but, oh, so do I—!

{Crowd cheers}

[M] The talk has shifted immensely, hasn’t it? We thought there would be a wedding in a year or two, and now it’s all up in the air.

[F] Who cares about that nobody, really? The whole thing was so sweet it made my teeth hurt. Give us someone new. Someones, even.

[M] To people in my profession, the coming weeks are going to be significant. Whether she’s working as we expect or occupied some other way, her public life will be different. Romance is part of that, sure.

[F] A young girl needs it. Us old ones, too. Maybe a self esteem boost will help her out of this funk. It’s depressing, frankly, how bad she looks in those photos we’ve seen lately.

{Audience murmurs}

[F] Hey! She looks great, though! The baby fat is melting away. That mourning diet did wonders, wow. She always looked like her mother—the body, too, you know. Blessing and a curse.

[M] There’s some resemblance to her father, too.

{Audience grumbles}

[F] Jail! Legal won’t let me talk, but: right, ladies?

{Audience murmuring, interspersed clapping}

[F] Anyway, she has his coloring, yes. The darker skin—which, you know, is a shame since her mother had a very pretty complexion. Brighteners? Sunscreen? Maybe we could have a segment on good products. Bring in a dermatologist or two?

{Audience applauds}

evening news

[B] Alright, last update before the hour ends.

[R] That’s right. The Office of the Crown has given a timeline and some details on the transition. First, Princess Safya’s three children will be retaining their titles—that’s “princes” and “princess.”

[B] Courtesy, most likely.

[R] There was no explanation, but our colleagues over at Palace Affairs seem to believe so. Arnaut, meanwhile, is officially the Crown Prince of Uspana, per the same memorandum released today.

[B] That’s a big deal. I mean, we are looking at the future head of state. People my age associate him with, well, velvet and gambling. He’ll lead the nation in time. In your lifetime, if not mine.

[R] Well, Bernardo, the reality is that does concern some.

[B] It remains to be seen whether that’s fair. The coming months are going to be quite the test for him.

[R] You’ll recall better than me that he was tested in the 1970s and still hasn’t recovered—according to this month’s polls, anyway.

[B] Uspanians may not want to give him a chance, but he’ll be addressing the Assembly to formally accept the role all the same.

[R] And we’ll be reporting as it happens later this week. For now, that’s it for us. UBC Nightly News with Inti Rivera starts now.

nightly news

[R] Yesterday afternoon, Crown aides joined the chief medical examiner involved in the investigation of Princess Safya’s death for a press conference. Some reporters’ questions revealed the influence of rumor on what Uspana’s public now wants to know.

[R1] My understanding is that the Crown has not accepted the investigation’s conclusions. Can you confirm?

[A1] Incorrect. The Crown is uninvolved. Dr. Siodina issued a ruling, and the family asked questions strictly as surviving loved ones.

[R2] Did intoxication play a role in what happened?

[S] It isn’t my opinion that it led to her being in the water. It did contribute to the drowning itself.

[R3] Why did she leave the yacht?

[S] That’s a question with a psychological answer rather than a forensic one, I think.

{Reporters murmur}

[R4] Did an altercation with her husband, Lord Rodrigo, occur that night that would have caused her to leave?

[S] Um .... A moment, please.

{Reporters resume murmuring}

[A2] {whispering} Officially, yes, they argued.

[S] There was a disagreement, yes.

[A2] {whispering} No violence.

[S] It was, however, entirely civil.

{Reporters, clamoring}

[R] Following what some are now calling a, quote, “unmitigated disaster,” the Crown announced that it plans to conduct its own formal but unofficial inquiry into the accident as well as the investigation itself. In a twist, sources suggest this plan could have been in the works prior to the conference. This is a developing story.