#only not really because it kind of is real

[joe-willow]

Why are people even writting with ai this is, this is like one of the most stupid thing ever. first of all, this isn't writting at all, this is just lazyness, and moreover disrespect to the art, whether We're writting à fanfiction or à book.

My philosophy teacher made me realize à lot of things about books/writting in general. My second thing is that writting is a Journey, yeah, even if you're writting some bl, romance or whatever, you will put your LIFE into that shit because it UOUR story it comes from your mind and you want it to be real to ksjmsbmsvl come to life to express yourself your idea you you your thing hour vision idk, and even if in the end you hate what you made you put in this increible efforts to make your textile sense and who knows, maybe someone will like it, or not, whatever, you made it you went through it. You did it you're done it you should be proud so I agree, people using ai to writte thing are WEAK. And for writting fanfics ?????? This is even worse. Yall using ai for this don't even know what are fanfics that's crazy

And lastly, unpopular opinion apparently, considering my classmates opinion on using ai, using ai for homework is STUPID. Like why would you do this. I understand that you can hate working for school/teachers and homework but like. Why. This is stupid. Just use your mind, you can come up with insane things yk. Just take some time I swear

And yeah some of you will tell me "oh but I had no time" YEAH FR ME TOO how many times do you think i gave homworks late ? Or not a all ? A LIT OF TIMES. yall need to assume that you didn't do your work and if you didn't have the tume, like, its ok ?????? I mean bro No need to use ai try something even if you only have one 1h left for an essay ig that giving your teacher something made by YOU even if It's hella rushes is better than using ai that will write the most boring shit ever + no sources + you just dont want to think + like oh my god yeah thinking is gonna hurt you + being able to think is literally what defines a human being

anyway, all this to say that ai SUCKS and isn't. And will never. Be a tool. Or a from of art. My ART TEACHER told me one day that I should try to use ai for my works as a tool. Do you understand to what we've cone to. What the hell is wrong with her. Does she consider art as something commercial or that must be done ? Art is you. It's none of the others business. ART IS YOU and I do not mean that you are art. And I don't think we can consider everything we create as art. You're not art. It's you will of creating something that expresses you, in any kind of way possible of what this could mean that will define your creations as art. Art is expressing. ai comes up with the most fifting things for your words, that's all. Ai can't do art. What it does is not art it's not a tool it's pure shit

If I went further, I'd say that no one is an artist (yeah even the people we consider as artists) and that at the same time evryone could possibly be an artist. Artist is not a job its not supposed to bring you money I'm losing my words and I'm really going off topic i already was off topic so much oh my god. Also random thought but art has no tools

Im maybe exaggerating a little bit. But ai sucks anyway. That's all.

no way ppl are using ai to write ao3. what happened to being a tortured writer. what happened to blood on the page. what happened to the ao3 curse. people used to get run over, have their houses burned down, break their entire spines and they still put in the work to finish a chapter. fuck you, using ai. y’all are weak

[yandere-sins]

You trying to run away from Caleb and him using his gravity manipulation Evol 😍😍

Omg, and it's not even just when you run away... You have such a good point, anon ♥

❥ Imagine finally outsmarting him and getting a chance to run. Caleb could simply put you down with a sweep of his hands, but instead, he makes your surroundings work against you. The gravel beneath your feet rolls back towards him, making you trip over yourself as you can't get away from the spot. Leaves and branches fall down on you/hitting you in the face and obscuring your sight, so you stumble, lose your direction, and run right back into his arms. He has them open for you, always. But his grip is iron-tight now that you showed him your desire to get away. Caleb can't have you try that again, you understand that, right?

❥ But, of course, after your second attempt, even he gets frustrated with you. It's child's play to slam you onto the ground, even if it hurts you. You didn't want to listen, so maybe the cuts and bruises will teach you. But you aren't the only one who learns because Caleb quickly realizes how devilishly fun it is to see you struggle. He just needs to soften his evol for a moment, so you think you can get up and run again before he breaks your spirits by applying the pressure of gravity again, bringing you down and dragging you towards him slowly. Your pain doesn't even concern him, not when he still sees you willing to fight him. You, never giving up, is like a drug that goes straight to his brain. He'll let you fight against the pull, lets you think you have a fair fighting chance as he taunts you with deliberate, slow steps in your direction, his shoes clicking menacingly on the floor. You're so cute—feisty and hopeful as you still are, and Caleb experiences the most sadistic pleasure to see your will bend and break, snap right into pieces as he grabs you by the neck and licks your bloody, swollen lips. He's like a kid licking his pancakes to keep his siblings from eating them, but the notion is the same: You're his.

❥ Caleb also uses it to disarm you in case you ever get your hands on something you really shouldn't. It's fun to see you struggle while you try to keep the weapon and yourself from being dragged towards him. And it almost drives him crazy to hear your surprised gasp when you accidentally let go of the object, and it almost does get close to hurting him. A second ago, you were all big and threatening, and suddenly, you feel bad for him, it's amusing. Next thing you know, you are on his lap, getting playfully chided for trying to get rid of him, and how you need to do better than that since you didn't even come close. If the weapon is reachable, you almost have a chance of getting to it again and trying to hurt him. Still, it's all just a game for him, and he might let himself get cut just so he can punish you properly while trying to deny how happy he is about playing with you.

❥ However, he draws the line at you trying to hurt yourself. See, it's all fun and game until your life is on the line. You are pulled into his arms with the weapon immediately slapped, ripped, or, if he has to, broken from your hand. The only one allowed to hurt you is Caleb, and he makes no laughing matter out of your attempt to blackmail him with your life. You don't know how much harm you can do to yourself while his actions are always calculated. Even when it seems like his slamming you to the floor is cruel, unless you give him a real reason (like hurting yourself), he won't actually mess you up. Caleb will even help you stabilize your wounds after he seriously hurt you, trying to disarm you, but it's all just to show you not to mess with him. Show you that his evol can do way more than throw you around and hurt your ego and will to fight. You don't get to argue with him on your security, not even for a second. Caleb simply won't entertain these kinds of threats, and it will make it harder for you to get close to dangerous items in the future. Also, he will be pouting and ignoring you for a while, you really hurt him with your actions. Maybe try apologizing. Please! :(

❥ Despite everything, Caleb does a few nice things with his evol. You might be forced to watch movies and cuddle with him, but he'll draw the blanket you like so much closer or fetch you your drink if it's out of reach. You won't have to leave the comfort he provides (albeit unwillingly). He also saved you from things falling on you by pulling them and (much preferred) you out of the way and into his hold. Sometimes, he catches food before it lands on your newly worn shirt. Yeah, he's that kind of nice (even though he likes to laugh at how upset you are when it does happen). The more you are on his good side, the more he'll do nice things for you, and his evol will be an exclusive power for you to use. He likes to tease you endlessly, and his psychotic behavior worries you sometimes, but you will learn that Caleb would do anything to keep you by his side, preferably happy and in love with him. Even if it means he'll become the weapon you can use to set the world on flames if only you play your cards right.

[the-winter-spider]

Deserve you | Drabble

Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: fluffffff

A/N: Heres the sweet one. 🫶🏻 debating on doing an angsty one lol Happy valentines day 💞

---

The first thing you notice when you wake up is warmth.

Not just the cozy kind from the blankets wrapped around you, but a warmth that settles deep in your chest, the kind that only comes from Bucky pressed up against your back, his arm draped lazily over your waist. The slow, steady rise and fall of his breath against your skin is hypnotic, anchoring you in the quiet, golden glow of early evening..

You both got back late or was it considered early from a stake out, not that it mattered.

Outside, the world is still and heavy with fresh snow, the soft hush of it settling against the windowsill. The setting sun filtering through the curtains casts everything in a muted glow, turning your shared space into something dreamlike, something sacred.

You shift slightly, and before you can get too far, a strong arm tightens around you, pulling you flush against his chest.

“Mmm, don’t move,” Bucky mumbles into your shoulder, his voice thick with sleep, gravelly in a way that makes something in your stomach flip.

A soft laugh escapes your lips as you lace your fingers through his, feeling the contrast of warmth and cool metal against your skin. “You say that every time.”

“‘Cause it’s true,” he grumbles. His lips brush against the nape of your neck, a lazy, featherlight kiss that lingers longer than necessary. His smile is slow and content against your skin.

It’s these moments that make your heart ache in the best way, the way he clings to you in the early hours, the sleepy, half-mumbled words that slip past his lips, the way he holds you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“You’re warm,” he murmurs, lips grazing the shell of your ear.

“You’re clingy,” you tease, though you don’t move away. You never do.

His grip tightens just slightly, as if in silent agreement. “’S’only ‘cause I love you.”

You feel those words settle inside you, low and deep, like they belong there. Like they were always meant to. No matter how many times he says it, it still sends a rush of warmth through your chest, still feels like something you’ll never get tired of hearing.

You roll over, finally facing him, and your fingers reach up to smooth the dark strands of hair away from his forehead. He looks utterly at peace like this, eyes still heavy-lidded with sleep, but there’s something else there too. Something softer. Something real.

“And I love you Bucky Barnes.”

“Can't believe that, never can.” His lips twitch into the laziest smile, the kind that makes your stomach flip, the kind he only ever gives you. His fingers trace slow, absentminded patterns along your spine, grounding himself in you, in this.

“Stay in bed with me,” he whispers, barely brushing his lips against yours, stealing the words from your mouth before you can say them first.

You pretend to hesitate, to consider it but you both know the answer is already yes.

Because there’s nowhere else you’d rather be than here, wrapped up in him.

And so, you stay.

His fingers trace gentle, meandering lines across your bare shoulder, his touch so impossibly light that it makes your skin hum. He’s watching you again, really watching you. Like he’s memorizing every detail, like he’s trying to commit you to memory just in case this moment vanishes.

There’s something unspoken in his gaze, something heavy beneath the softness.

Then, barely above a whisper “I never thought I could have this.”

Your breath catches.

The words slip out like a confession, like they’ve been sitting on his tongue for a long time, waiting for the right moment to break free. His fingers still against your skin, as if speaking them aloud makes them real.

“Bucky…”

His hand finds yours beneath the covers, his fingers lacing with yours like he’s afraid to let go. A sharp inhale, the kind that makes his chest rise and fall just a little too quickly.

“I spent so long thinking…” He swallows, eyes flickering downward, like he can’t quite bring himself to look at you when he says it. “Thinking I wasn’t meant for this.”

The words are careful, like they’re fragile, like he’s still afraid they might shatter in his hands.

“I always wanted this but after everything I knew, I felt like I wasn’t supposed to have this.” His voice is quiet but firm, raw in a way that makes your heart twist. “The lifetime with Hydra, the things I did… even after Steve got me out, I still felt like—” He exhales sharply through his nose, jaw tightening. “Like I didn’t deserve anything other than what I’d already been given.”

You shake your head instinctively, already about to argue, but before you can, he squeezes your hand.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice rough around the edges. “Let me finish.”

There’s no frustration, no sharpness, just quiet determination. He needs to get this out.

“You changed that for me.” His voice wavers just slightly, his fingers coming up to cradle your face, thumb sweeping along your cheekbone with a tenderness that nearly undoes you. “You make me feel like I deserve to be here. That I deserve more than just surviving. That I actually deserve you. That I deserve something even after everything that I—he did.”

His voice cracks, just a little.

And then, softer

“But I would endure all of that again in any lifetime if it meant I got to have this with you.”

The air in your lungs disappears.

A single tear slips down his cheek before he can stop it, and for a moment, he looks almost embarrassed like he’s not used to being this vulnerable, this open. But you reach up before he can turn away, brushing the tear away with your thumb, letting your fingers linger on the rough stubble of his jaw.

“Because you do deserve it, Bucky,” you whisper.

Your voice is steady, but the emotion behind it is anything but.

“You deserve all of this. To be happy. To be loved. To wake up in the morning and not feel like you have to fight to exist.” Your fingers tighten in his hair as you hold him closer. “You deserve to be here. With me.”

His throat bobs as he swallows hard, his blue eyes impossibly bright. But he doesn’t look away.

He won’t look away.

“I love you so much,” he breathes, voice barely above a whisper.

A tear slips free, rolling slowly down the bridge of his nose, and you don’t stop yourself from catching it with your lips as you press the softest, most reverent kiss to his cheek.

“I love you too.”

And then you kiss him.

Slow. Deep.

Like you’re trying to kiss away every dark thought, every lingering doubt, every cruel whisper that ever told him he was unworthy of love.

Bucky sighs into it, pulling you impossibly closer, like he wants to breathe you in, like he wants to carve this moment into eternity.

When you finally break apart, his nose nudges against yours, his lips brushing over your cheek, down to your jaw. His breath is warm against your skin as he murmurs, “I know we have that double date with Sam, but… just stay a little longer.”

You smile, pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

A small pause. A soft, content sigh.

Then, in that same sleepy, gravelly voice…

“Oh, by the way….Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetheart.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head, pressing another kiss to his lips, just because you can.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Bucky.”

[kashverse]

𝒴our first encounter with the 呪術廻戦 men 

⪩⪨ ✶ implied f!reader but can be read otherwise (use of "pretty" in choso's version), strangers to lovers, fluff, featuring ♡ canon! gojo, canon! geto, single dad! toji, modern au! choso, canon! sukuna in a modern au, corporate! nanami ✿ ⪩⪨ tried a new formatting style..! ib my dear @norikuna (∩˃o˂∩)♡

gojo doesn’t see you coming. not because he’s oblivious—though, sure, that’s part of it—but because he’s too busy making himself miserable, listening to some poor bastard on the phone cry about their ex. it’s barely noon, the sun’s out, people are living their lives, and this guy’s talking about how he let “the one” slip through his fingers. “bro, just get another one,” gojo had said, dead-eyed, waiting for the crosswalk light to change. the response was more crying. he sighed, hanging up.

and then he smacked straight into you.

not a polite bump, not even a nudge—full-on body collision, your forehead meeting his chin with a sharp crack. the impact was enough to send you both stumbling, but while gojo’s built like a brick wall, you had all the misfortune of being knocked back a few steps. “ow—what the fuck?!” your voice came first, and then, through the dizzying pain, you saw him. tall, white-haired, stupidly good-looking in an insufferable way, dressed like he was on some model’s off-day. sunglasses slid down the bridge of his nose, and even through the slight daze, you could see the sharp glint of his blue eyes peering down at you.

“ah, my bad—”

“your bad?” your voice rose, disbelieving. the pain hadn’t even settled yet, but your temper had. “you nearly took my head off!”

gojo blinked. “well, technically, if i took your head off, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” he pointed out. “unless you’re a talking head, which would be—"

“are you serious?” you cut him off, hands flying up in exasperation. “you’re just standing in the middle of the damn sidewalk—”

“crosswalk,” he corrected.

“—like a fucking lamppost,” you barreled on, ignoring him. “and then you hit me. no, actually, you collided with me like a fucking train, and now you’re just standing there?”

you looked ready to kill him. gojo thought you looked radiant. people don’t really yell at him. they get nervous, flustered, awkward. maybe they complain a little, but they don’t yell. not like this—not with this kind of raw, unfiltered rage that was directed solely at him.

and he was loving it.

“ohhh, you’re mad mad,” he said, grinning.

“no shit?” you spat, rubbing your forehead. “you’re huge! why do you walk like you don’t know how to control your own size?”

“i’m huge? that’s a compliment,” he mused. “also, you ran into me.”

“i did not—"

“you did, but it’s okay,” he waved off. “i forgive you.”

your mouth dropped open. your jaw clenched so hard you swore you heard it click. “i don’t need your forgiveness,” you snapped. “i need you to watch where the hell you’re going!” gojo just smiled. “i can do that,” he said. “but only if you tell me your name first.”

you squinted at him. “why?”

“so i know what to say in my apology,” he said smoothly. “y’know, something heartfelt, real personal. ‘i’m so sorry, dear stranger, for running into you with my big, strong, muscular body—’”

your scowl deepened. “forget it,” you turned to leave, shaking your head.

gojo grabbed your wrist. lightly, like he was afraid you’d shake him off (which you probably would). “wait,” he said, less teasing this time, more curious.

you stopped, staring at him warily. “what?”

he grinned. “you’re fun.”

you yanked your arm out of his grip. “you’re annoying.”

but you weren’t yelling anymore. and maybe, just maybe, that was enough for now.

toji doesn't believe in love—at least, not in the way people like to romanticize it. to him, love has always been transactional. people want things: security, pleasure, a warm body to cling to at night. he provides, they take. simple.

commitment? fuck no. he’s been there, done that, and all it got him was a headache and a kid who looks at him like he’s a walking disappointment. not that he blames megumi—he knows exactly the kind of man he is. relationships, from what he's seen, are just another job. another obligation. more shit to deal with when he's already stretched thin making sure megumi doesn't starve or turn into a little menace. and he's already got enough on his plate. 

raising megumi is work. the kid is sharp, stubborn, and way too perceptive for his own good. keeping up with him is exhausting. fulfilling someone else’s expectations on top of that? hell no.

people ask if he’s lonely. he laughs. lonely? he’s got freedom. no nagging, no obligations, no answering to anyone but himself and, on the worst days, a grumpy eight-year-old who somehow thinks he’s smarter than him. love, in his experience, is just a distraction. and toji fushiguro doesn’t do distractions.

and toji swears he only looked away for a second.

he was just checking the damn price tag on some overpriced brand of instant noodles, and when he looked back, megumi was gone. poof. like a magic trick, except it wasn’t a trick, and the rising panic in his chest was very, very real. “shit,” he muttered, scanning the aisles. nothing. just a bunch of old ladies and college kids looking for cheap meals. no messy black hair, no tiny scowl. he ran a hand through his hair, trying to keep calm. he didn’t want to make a scene. people lost their kids all the time, right? it wasn’t a big deal. he just had to—

and then he saw him.

megumi was at the end of the next aisle, small hands clenched at his sides, his mouth pressed in a thin, stubborn line, like he wasn’t scared, even though he definitely was. and right next to him, crouched down to his level, was you. “you’re really good at this,” you said. megumi blinked up at you. “huh?”

“the whole ‘not panicking’ thing,” you smiled at him. “most kids freak out when they lose their parents. you’re staying calm. that’s cool.” megumi looked away, like he wasn’t sure if that was actually a compliment or not. “i don’t wanna cause trouble,” he muttered.

“aw, but that’s what parents are for,” you teased. “causing them trouble.” megumi almost smiled. almost. toji, still frozen in place, narrowed his eyes. who the hell were you?

“c’mon, let’s go find your dad,” you said, standing up and holding out a hand. megumi didn’t take it, but he followed you anyway, his short legs working hard to keep up with your pace. and toji? well. he wasn’t sure why, but instead of stepping forward, he let you find him.

he let you do the whole thing, watching as you walked with megumi, asking him questions—where he last saw his dad, what his name was, what he looked like.

“he’s really tall,” megumi said. you hummed. “tall, huh? that helps.”

“and he’s got a scar on his mouth,” he added.

“even better. anyone who looks scary is easier to spot.”

megumi frowned a little. “he’s not scary.” you smiled, ruffling his hair. “i bet he isn’t.”

toji snorted under his breath.

by the time you turned the corner and finally spotted him, megumi exhaled in relief. toji pretended not to notice how fast he ran up to him, grabbing the fabric of his shirt like he wasn’t just saying how calm he was. you, on the other hand, stopped a few steps away, hands on your hips. “you must be the scary, not-scary dad,” you said.

toji raised an eyebrow. “and you’re just a random saint, huh?” you shrugged. “not a saint. just someone who doesn’t like seeing kids upset.”

he looked at you, really looked at you. you didn’t seem put out by any of this, like helping some stranger’s kid wasn’t an inconvenience, but just another part of your day. like it was normal. toji let out a breath, then tilted his head down at megumi. “you good, kid?”

megumi nodded, though he still wasn’t letting go of toji’s shirt. toji sighed, glancing back at you. “guess i owe you, huh?”

you waved him off. “don’t worry about it. just keep an eye on him next time.”

toji huffed a laugh. “easier said than done.”

you grinned, giving megumi one last look before turning to leave. and toji? well. maybe being responsible for two people wouldn’t be so bad after all.

nanami never thought much about being single. it wasn’t a matter of pride or principle—just reality. his job was time-consuming, his patience was thin, and the thought of entertaining someone else’s needs after a long workday felt exhausting. he wasn’t lonely, just… fine. indifferent.

until he got sick of his office food.

“this is inedible,” he said flatly, staring at the sad excuse of a meal on his plate. his colleague, barely looking up from his own tray, mumbled, “it’s fine.”

nanami’s eye twitched. it was not fine. rubbery chicken, dry rice, and a soup that tasted more like dishwater than anything edible. this was not a meal—it was a punishment.

so, he made a change.

he found a small business that delivered homemade meals, something personal but convenient. it promised variety, quality ingredients, and, most importantly, flavor.

what he didn’t expect were the notes.

the first one came tucked under the neatly packed meal.

“hope today isn’t too exhausting! eat well!”

nanami stared at it for longer than he should have. then, at the food—real food. properly cooked, properly seasoned, steaming with warmth that no canteen meal could ever replicate. he didn’t think about it much. a kind gesture, that was all. but the notes kept coming.

“long meetings? i packed extra today.”

“rainy day! hope this brings some warmth.”

“rough week? your food will always be good at least.”

and then—

“your order is always so precise. you must be someone who likes routine.”

nanami paused mid-bite. he did like routine. he thrived on it. and yet, this—this unexpected kindness, these little messages—was beginning to throw him off in a way he couldn’t explain. weeks passed, meals came, and nanami found himself looking forward to them—not just for the food, but for the words that came with it. one afternoon, after another insufferable meeting, he opened his meal to find:

“do you ever take breaks? hope you’re not working too hard.”

he let out a breath, something between a sigh and a laugh. he was working too hard. but how did you—someone he’d never met—seem to know that better than the people around him? finally, curiosity got the better of him. he grabbed a pen and, for the first time, wrote back.

“who are you?”

the next day, his meal came with a note, just like always.

“just someone who wants you to eat well. but i wouldn’t mind knowing who you are too.”

and for the first time in a long time, nanami thought—maybe being single wasn’t so fine after all.

geto doesn’t believe in love. not in the way people romanticize it, anyway. he’s known desire—used it, wielded it like a tool, a means to an end. a well-timed smile, a hand grazing a wrist, a whispered promise—all of it was just another step in expanding his cause. people were easy to sway when you made them feel special. and being single? it wasn’t something he mourned. it was efficient. no attachments, no complications, no wasted energy. everything he did, every conversation, every encounter—it all served a purpose.

until you.

“you’ve been talking for a while,” you said, tilting your head at him. geto smiled. “am i boring you?”

“not at all. just wondering if you’re going to get to the point.”

he chuckled, swirling his drink. clever. impatient. interesting.

“what do you think my point is?”

you leaned back, thoughtful. “well, you’re charming, you have that practiced ease of someone who’s very used to getting what they want, and yet…” you narrowed your eyes. “you haven’t tried to get anything from me yet.”

his smile twitched. perceptive too. “maybe i’m just enjoying the conversation.”

“hmm.” you didn’t look convinced. “i doubt you talk to people without a reason.”

he laughed, shaking his head. “you wound me. am i not allowed to simply appreciate good company?”

you smirked. “do you?”

and that was the problem, wasn’t it? he did.

he was supposed to be recruiting you. that was why he approached you in the first place—he had assessed, observed, picked you out for your potential. another piece in his grander vision. but now? now, he was talking to you about books, about philosophy, about things that had nothing to do with his cause.

he liked your sharp tongue, your quick comebacks, the way you saw through people but humored them anyway. and he was enjoying this. more than he should.

“you’re thinking too hard,” you noted.

“am i?”

“yeah. for someone who flirts so easily, you seem oddly distracted.”

he chuckled, shaking his head. you had no idea. for the first time in a long time, geto suguru had forgotten his purpose. and strangely enough, he didn’t mind.

choso doesn’t really get love. it’s not that he doesn’t feel it—he does, deeply, messily, all-consuming in the way only someone who has lived too long without it can. it’s just that he doesn’t understand how it’s supposed to work. his friends talk about relationships like they’re puzzles, like you’re supposed to fit into someone else’s life piece by piece, no gaps, no edges sticking out. but choso? he keeps forcing the wrong pieces together. he’s had his heart broken by so many situationships, and he doesn’t even know what that word means. all he knows is that people like him enough to stay for a while, but not enough to stay forever. and when someone ghosts him? it’s over.

“why would they do that?” he asks yuuji, completely distraught. “i thought we were getting along.” yuuji winces. “yeah, but… sometimes people just disappear, man. it’s not your fault.”

“but why not just say they don’t like me?”

“because people suck.”

choso frowns. love is confusing. people are confusing. nothing makes sense.

until he meets you.

more specifically, until you send a pug flying in his direction. one second, he’s minding his own business, sipping a coffee, staring blankly at nothing. the next—

“watch out!”

and then—THUD.

a very round, very squishy pug collides with his chest, knocking the air out of him. he blinks. looks down. the pug is fine. choso, however, is shaken.

“oh my god, i’m so sorry,” you pant, running up to him, looking horrified. “he’s got the speed of a missile and the weight distribution of a sack of potatoes. are you okay?”

choso is still holding the pug. he has not processed a single thing except that you’re talking to him, and you’re really pretty. you snap your fingers in front of his face.

“hello? earth to guy who just got body slammed by my dog?”

he swallows. “i—i’m okay.”

you sigh in relief. “good. i don’t think my insurance covers ‘pug-related assaults.’”

he stares. then—

he laughs.

it’s an awkward, slightly delayed laugh, but it’s real. it bubbles out of him, because suddenly, everything is just… simple. you’re still talking, apologizing, trying to pry your dog from his grip, and he realizes—love doesn’t have to be this big, complicated thing. it can be a stranger, a runaway pug, and a stupidly perfect moment where he thinks, 'oh. this is it.'

sukuna has never cared for love. love is mortal, fleeting, an indulgence for the weak. he has lived for centuries without it, conquered, destroyed, thrived—all on his own. why bother with attachment? why waste time on something that promises nothing but vulnerability? he’s always been perfectly fine like this.

until the night he meets you at the bar.

he doesn’t even mean to notice you at first—just another human in a crowded room, laughing, talking, lighting up the space with an ease he’s never possessed. 

and then he hears you speak. your voice is smooth, effortless, like you’re meant to be heard. every sentence flows into the next, words never fumbling, never uncertain. you make people laugh, pull them in, keep them hanging on to every syllable. sukuna watches, listens, enthralled, before someone leans in and calls you by name—your full name. followed by—

“aren’t you that talk show host?”

and it clicks. you are. he’s seen your face before, flickering on a television screen, a passing glimpse at a life so far removed from his own.

and now he’s irritated. because you talk so easily with everyone but him. and that won’t do.

so he tries. for the first time in centuries, he tries to talk to someone—like a normal person, like it’s something he’s done before, like it’s as easy as you make it look.

but it’s not. it’s a disaster.

he waits until the crowd around you has thinned, takes the seat next to you, and—

“so.” he clears his throat. “you talk to people for a living.”

you turn, blinking, mildly amused. “i do.”

he nods, confident. good start. then nothing. his mind goes blank. shit.

you raise a brow, waiting. sukuna glares at his drink like it’s betrayed him. “how do you do it?”

you tilt your head. “do what?” he gestures vaguely. “talk. keep people engaged.”

you blink. “are you asking me how to hold a conversation?”

his jaw tenses. “no.”

you laugh. he scowls.

he tries again. “what makes a good interview?”

“oh, that’s easy,” you hum. “you have to be genuinely interested in the other person.”

he deadpans.

you smirk. “which means you have to actually listen to what they’re saying.”

“i listen,” he grumbles.

“really?” you lean in. “then what were we just talking about?”

silence. your smirk widens. “you weren’t listening.”

he groans, dragging a hand down his face. this is hell.

but he keeps trying. keeps failing, keeps making an idiot of himself, keeps suffering through every one of your knowing smiles—because for the first time in his miserable, ancient existence, he actually wants to learn.

he wants to talk to you.

and maybe, just maybe, he wants you to talk to him, too.

[obsessedwithceleste]

S is for Espresso (and also soulmates)

Mattheo Riddle x reader

Summary: modern! coffee shop au 🤝🏽 soulmate au

word count: 2k

©️ obsessedwithceleste. all works posted here belong to me and should not be reposted or copied in any way or form.

"Matt I swear to god, if you keep slaughtering the spellings of customer's names when you write on the cups, I'm taking you off register!" Theo shouts from the hand-out counter. "How did you manage to find a way to fit a 'U' into 'Madison'?"

"Don't threaten me with a good time! And you can fit a ‘U’ into any word if you spell it wrong enough," Mattheo shouts back, before plastering a smile across his face and gesturing for the next customer to approach the counter. "What can I get for you today?"

The only reason Mattheo even found himself behind the counter of the campus coffee shop was because he had succumbed to the peer pressure of Theodore and Enzo, who had already been working there for months before they were able to drag Mattheo down with them. Sure the extra cash was a nice bonus, but this definitely was not Mattheo’s idea of a good time.

On a completely separate and unrelated note, maybe Mattheo was also hoping to possibly meet his soulmate at this blasted shop, but he would never admit that.

If Mattheo were to roll up the sleeves of his very intentional, long sleeve shirt, the eloquent phrase “I’ll have a vanilla latte with as much espresso as you’re legally allowed to give me” would be seen scrawled elegantly across his forearm.

Everyone had it. Not that exact line of course, but everyone had the first sentence their soulmate would say to them tattooed somewhere on their body. Mattheo was no rocket scientist, but he figured the odds were high enough that with a line like his, he would probably be meeting his soulmate in a coffee shop. So here he found himself.

As the days went on however, he was beginning to lose hope. Mattheo was no stranger to those awkward interactions where he would welcome a customer into the shop and see their face light up. “Is it you?” They’d ask. And he’d awkwardly laugh and try to explain that no, he was waiting for someone to order a vanilla latte. Or sometimes he’d just sigh and throw Enz onto register instead.

“Chipper up Matty, you haven’t seen the real fun yet. Next week is finals week, and you do not want to be the one to stand between a student and their daily caffeine hit. The morning crowd’ll keep you entertained just you wait,” Enzo says, breaking Mattheo from his thoughts.

“Don’t remind me. I haven’t been to class in days. Don’t even know when ole Snape’s final is.” Mattheo groans, turning to face his friends.

“Thursday you dolt. Maybe if you actually came to class once in awhile you’d know a thing or two,” Theo replies, resigned to the fact that he would most likely be studying for the both of them next week.

“Aw c’mon Theo, that’s no fun is it? Sides, we all know the only reason you show up to that class anyway is cause Daphne’s in it.” Mattheo responds cheekily.

Daphne Greengrass was Theo’s soulmate. Their first interaction had been the perfect little meet-cute really. The kind you’d see in one of those cheesy romance movies. Mattheo would know, he was there when they met. He and Theodore had been running late to class (not his fault of course) and Theo had stumbled right into the girl, knocking her books to the ground. It was disgustingly cliche in his opinion, the way the words had tumbled from their mouths, and the way they were both so stunned it was as if time had stopped. But his friend couldn’t seem to take his eyes off the girl.

Just as Theo was about to retort with some self redeeming nonsense, the little bell above the door lets out a ring, announcing the presence of yet another customer. Turning, Mattheo’s eyes snap to the door and the pretty figure entering the shop, feeling a pounding start in his chest.

“I got it,” Enzo says, turning to face the register. “You wanna take over the machine Matt?”

Wordlessly (for once), as if in a haze, Mattheo finds himself standing in front of the espresso machine, pouring out the drink like a man possessed. By the time he realizes what he’s doing, the vanilla latte is already in Theo’s hands and being passed over the counter.

It was going to be a long two weeks. Finals week and the week leading up to it had a special way of sucking the soul out of students, and you unfortunately were one of those victims.

You weren't even really much of a coffee drinker, the bitter taste always got to you and you weren't exactly in the financial position to be blowing money on a daily cup of coffee. But these late nights were not doing you any favors, and Daphne had been raving about the campus coffee shop. Her soulmate worked there, so she was a bit biased you supposed, but hey, caffeine was caffeine and you were in no position to be picky.

Of course there was the other reason you tended to be a bit weary of coffee shops in general; the curly script running along your collarbone. "Oh great, more of this espresso shit." Not exactly the most romantic words to hear from your soulmate. It's not even like you were avoiding meeting them or anything, look at Daphne, she seemed perfectly in love. You just didn't feel the need to rush it was all.

A little bell rings out above the door as you enter the shop and you’re immediately hit with the strong scent of ground coffee and the eyes of three boys turning to stare at you from behind the counter.

“I got it,” you hear one of the boys sigh as you make your way up to the counter, eyes scanning the extensive menu hanging on the wall behind them.

“Uh, can I just get a vanilla latte? Medium. With like 3 extra shots of espresso?” You ask.

“For sure,” the boy replies, punching numbers into the register idly.

You hand over some crumpled bills before wandering off to wait for your drink. As you glance around the place, your eyes fall on the handsome boy running the espresso machine. You desperately wanted to rake your fingers through those wild curls.

Freezing, you shake the thought from your head. What on earth? Before you can chastise yourself, Theo appears with your drink in hand.

“Oh, hey y/n,” He greets, placing your drink on the counter in front of you.

“Hey! Thanks a bunch,” you reply before scurrying off.

You had no idea where that thought had come from, but you decide to head back to the coffee shop the next day, and the day after that. You couldn’t place why, it just felt like a magnet kept pulling you back to that place. Maybe they were putting crack in their coffee or something. It was growing on you.

Almost a week into your daily coffee shop visits, you were beginning to grow a bit frustrated, though you couldn't exactly pin point why. Or maybe you could. It had been almost a week and you still hadn't spoken a word to the boy who had grabbed your attention that first day you had stopped in. He was particularly elusive it seemed. Not that you didn't like Theo of course, or the other boy, Lorenzo, but there was something almost captivating about Mattheo. At least you assumed that was his name after hearing Theo shout it at him on numerous occasions. He seemed funny though, if his constant bickering with Theo was anything to go by, and his warm eyes were always gleaming with mischief.

You let out a sigh as once again, you collect your drink without uttering a word to the boy. Perhaps it just wasn't meant to be.

Mattheo was actually going insane. The rather attractive stranger that he had now fully convinced himself was in fact his soulmate had been in the shop every day now for the past week. They were his soulmate. He was certain of it. Or at least he would be if he were able to get a word in edgewise. But it was always something. He was either slammed at the drink making counter, stuck in the drive-thru window, or cleaning up the spilled drink some asshole had left at their table.

And now here he was. Six in the morning and silently stewing about yet another missed opportunity from the day before while Enzo is yapping on about some finals assignment that was due tonight. Mattheo lets out a loud yawn from the register.

"Sorry am I boring you?" Enzo asks dryly, giving Mattheo a light knock on the head.

"No, no, please, keep talking, I only yawn when I'm particularly fascinated," Matt replies, trying to stifle another yawn. It escapes anyway. He wasn't trying very hard.

Thankfully, a wave of customers walks in just then, saving him from Enzo's whining. It's almost methodic the way he works his way through the line of customers, charming them, taking orders, and scribbling names on cups. He'd gotten quite good at it if he did say so himself. And he did.

"God dammit Matt! What is this even supposed to say?" Theo shouts from the espresso machine, thrusting a cup in Mattheo's direction and breaking him from his rhythm.

With a sigh, he turns, squints his eyes, and leans forward.

"It says extra espresso. Obviously."

"In what world?" Theo asks. "This clearly starts with an S."

"I don't know man, squint and read the letters you think you see and quit your complaining," Mattheo retorts.

"Unbelievable. Illiterate arse," he hears Theo mutter as he goes back to aggressively making drinks.

He decides to leave it for now, opting to just turn and greet the next customer. Instead he's met with warm eyes and a poor attempt to hide a smile.

“I’ll have a vanilla latte with as much espresso as you’re legally allowed to give me” you say, a small laugh escaping you.

"Oh great, more of this espresso shit," Mattheo groans before he even has the chance to think. "wait-" He blinks once. Then again. It's you. And you said the thing. And then he said. Shit.

"Well you do work at a coffee shop," you say with a smile, trying not to laugh too much as you watch the boy in front of you visibly malfunction.

"And that's tattooed on you. Permanently," Mattheo states, still shell shocked.

"Yes it is," you reply, still smiling.

"Hey Matt, what's the hold up?" Enzo shouts from the pass out counter.

You see Theo lean back from the espresso machine to see what all the commotion is about.

"Oh hey y/n! Usual vanilla latte, shit ton of espresso with an E?" he asks, looking pointedly at Mattheo.

"Yup! That's what they ordered. That is the drink my soulmate ordered," Mattheo blurts out rather loudly.

Theo drops the carton of milk he was holding and you flinch as it hits the floor with a splat.

"So, see you after your shift?" You ask, feeling it was probably best to move this along, especially as there was a line growing behind you.

"You can have him now, he's annoying," Theo calls out.

"No they can't, we're busy," Enzo interjects.

"I'm off at noon," Mattheo says, finally snapping out of it.

"Perfect, see you at noon then," you say with a smile before heading over to the pick-up counter where Enzo already has your drink waiting.

"Wait, don't you want my-"

"It's already on their cup," Enzo says, interrupting his friend. "Now get to it, that line isn't gonna clear itself."

"Bye y/n," Theo calls as you wave to the three of them on your way out.

It’s still a bit chilly out and the cool morning air hits you as soon as the shop door swings shut behind you, but you can’t help the warm feeling growing inside you.

You really did love coffee you think to yourself, grinning as you turn your cup to see a series of numbers scribbled on the back.

[hitomisuzuya]

zombie apocalypse au. scaramouche x fem!reader. smut. cunnilingus. fingering. feral!softdom!scara.

i would like to give a big, big thanks to @pxndxzdx for letting me use this idea to help my writers block and having a lovely conversation with me yesterday. i hope i did okay 😅

life is a bitch and then you die. millions of people discovered that first hand all over the world when the fabled zombie apocalypse hit. and it made scaramouche wonder if people thought it was such a cool thing to talk, and fantasize about now.

reality has a big hand to bitch slap someone in the face with. although, he couldn't exactly say the zombie apocalypse didn't give him a chance to work out some long simmering frustration with humanity.

a few months after the world blew itself to hell, he discovered you in an abandoned mall looking for supplies. he'd seen you around school, having a few mutual friends between you.

scaramouche fucking swore it was love at first sight seeing you bashing a zombie's head in repeatedly with a baseball bat, yelling at it about how you just wanted to find supplies in peace. he took you back to his hidey-hole, a very efficient shelter with pretty much all the works that are now considered rare, food, hot running water, medicine, and electricity.

it really would've been a shame to him if the world cruelly swallowed up someone delicate like you. the zombie apocalypse seemed to have an affinity for bringing capability out in people they didn't know they had.

scaramouche could barely handle himself right now. having just gotten out of the shower, the scent of your body wash and shampoo fresh on the air, standing in front of him wrapped in a towel. "sorry, my head was in the clouds and i kind of forget to bring clothes to change into with me. let me just grab them real quick and-" you said shyly, hastily looking through the drawer.

"no, you can just change in here. it's fine," scaramouche cut you off, very reluctantly turning his head away. the blush on his cheeks is infuriating to him. the curves of your body being teased to him by a towel that only covered about less than half your thighs. the peek of your chest over the top. needless to say, he had to turn the rest of his body away from you to.

"are you sure? i mean, i can just go back and change real quick," you said and fuck you are so cute when you fret shyly like that.

"i said it's fine," he scoffs, he didn't want certainly walking back out into the hallway were other people would undoubtedly leer at you. you are his precious treasure damn it, not their's.

"just hurry up because i am getting hard," he mumbles, shifting restlessly on the bed a little.

"huh?" he mumbled so quietly you could barely hear him. "look, i know i am not much to look at but i didn't think i was that bad."

scaramouche stiffens and grits his teeth at your response. he couldn't believe the drivel that just came out of your pretty mouth. did you have any idea how much his eyes linger on you? how often he'd been awake at night, fighting the urge to stroke his cock while he thought about you? how much his cock aches to be buried to the hilt inside you?

a delicate girl like you deserves to be bred.

"i said hurry up because seeing you standing there wrapped in a towel is making me hard. fucking hell," scaramouche snaps, turning to look at you. "please, get dressed before i lose my self control."

that should say a lot.

maybe life wasn't up to bitch slapping him that much now because with that, he had you on your back on his bed, the towel discarded on the floor, and his head between your thighs. if he has to die anytime soon, he could now die a happy man having gotten to taste that pretty pussy of yours.

he, as well as his cock are on cloud nine.

his tongue parts your folds as a shiver of anticipation goes to straight to his cock. he instantly muffles a groan into your pussy, licking long, agonizingly slow stripes. "my pretty, do you know how fucking long i have wanted to do this?"

"y-you have?" you said shakily, blushing at the sight of him slowly lapping at your pussy. you writhe on the bed a little as his pierced tongue sweeps up to your clit. the consistent wagging and swirling of the ball of his piercing making your clit throb unbearably. a strangled moan tears from your throat as your hips rock up into his mouth.

he chuckles feeling you shiver as his thumbs skim across your inner thighs. "so sensitive, so responsive," he hums approvingly, scooping your abused clit into his mouth to suck on.

your hands clutch at the sheets before putting them on the back of his head. pressing his mouth down on your pussy, eagerly chasing the delicious friction from his tongue piercing. you open your mouth to form words, however instead his ears are met with moans and little whimpers that sound way too sweet.

"you sound so fucking cute, kitten," scaramouche releases your clit, prodding his tongue into your dripping hole just in time to feel it clench at his praise. "be a good girl while i devour you," god he wants to reach down and fist his cock, but he couldn't bear to let go of your thighs.

his tongue is fast overwhelming your senses, rubbing and licking on sensitive parts you didn't even know you had. tears well into your eyes as you grind your pussy on his mouth, shameless moans fueling his fire. "i..i have always been in love you!" you cry out, whimpering as the ball of his tongue piercing bullies your clit.

scaramouche got harder hearing your words. "adorable. i am tongue fucking you so good that you confessing your love for me. you are all mine now, dollface," he moans, drunk on the taste of you. "fuck you are gonna cum so hard i can taste it."

you gasp in pleasure as he pushes two fingers inside of you, desperate to taste you cumming. he flicks his elegant fingers into your sweet spot in a way that makes you see stares, focusing his tongue on your clit as he scissors your walls apart.

his fingers are absolutely soaked, squelching wetly in and out of your pussy. hooking into your sweet spot with calculated accuracy. whining, you tug on his hair as he coils the knot of your orgasm up tight. his tongue lapping at your pussy like a starved dog.

"oh god, please, scara! make me cum!" you cry out, your legs shaking as you grind on his mouth, your pussy eager to suck his fingers in.

"don't fucking need to tell me twice," he groans, drinking in your fucked out state. he adds a third finger, sending your body to quake with pleasure as he further stretches you apart. "fuck yourself on my mouth pretty, i welcome it," his eyes roll into the back of his head as your pussy clenches hard on his fingers.

pleasure burst white behind your eyes, your orgasm practically being ripped out of you. you shake as your pussy gushes on his fingers, flooding his tongue with your taste while you cum hard. "don't.. don't stop, please," you plead so sweetly as he nurses his tongue on your clit through your orgasm.

scaramouche couldn't help it. his cock emptied in his pants, your desperate cry for him leaving him hard again. "sh, sh, it's okay," he cooes, stroking your hips, "I'll take care of you, relax," he wasn't going to stop until the sun came up.

[marysfics]

Home Was a Place You Couldn't Let Her See | Part 1

She was the sun in your storm.

Angst, Fluff

A note before you begin: This story explores themes of toxic family dynamics and their impact. It's a multi-chapter fic, and I'll aim to post new chapters every Saturday. I appreciate you taking this journey with me.

The first time you saw Alexia Putellas, she was a vision in motion. Effortlessly juggling a football with the tip of her cleats, golden-brown hair tied back in a messy ponytail, she commanded attention without even trying.

You weren’t sure why you noticed her in the first place—maybe it was the sheer confidence radiating from her, the easy laughter that bubbled out when she almost lost control of the ball. But from that moment, something about her drew you in.

You, on the other hand, were the kind of girl who faded into the background. You kept your head down, navigating life with the quiet precision of someone trying to become invisible. Your home life demanded it—any misstep, any attention, could have consequences far worse than being ignored. But Alexia? She radiated light, warmth, something you couldn’t quite name but desperately craved.

It started with small, stolen glances. You sat two rows behind her in Spanish class, watching as she drummed her fingers absentmindedly against the desk while the teacher droned on. Then, one day, she caught you staring. A smirk played on her lips.

“Like what you see?” she teased, her voice soft enough that only you could hear.

Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you quickly looked away, a nervous chuckle escaping you. “Not really,” you mumbled, though your smile betrayed you.

She laughed, tapping her pen against her notebook. “Liar.”

Your first real conversation happened at lunch. You usually sat alone, picking at whatever meager meal you managed to bring from home. That day, Alexia slid into the seat across from you, setting her tray down with a grin.

“You’re always so quiet,” she observed, resting her chin in her hand. “Why is that?”

You shrugged, offering a noncommittal response. “I don’t have much to say.”

She studied you for a moment before tilting her head, her gaze piercing. “Or maybe you just haven’t found the right person to say it to.”

Something about her words resonated deep within you, a place you rarely allowed anyone to touch. You wanted to believe it was that simple. That you could just talk, be honest, without fear of repercussions. But honesty had never been kind to you.

Still, you found yourself gravitating towards her. It became a routine—Alexia waiting for you after class, walking with you through the halls, making a point to sit next to you whenever she could. She was persistent, in the way only someone with an unwavering heart could be, and slowly, gently, she chipped away at the walls you had so carefully constructed.

One afternoon, as you both sat under a sprawling oak tree after school, she nudged your shoulder. “Tell me something about you that no one knows.”

You hesitated, your gaze fixed on the intricate patterns of the bark. “Why?”

She smiled, a warm, genuine smile that made your heart skip a beat. “Because I want to know you.”

You glanced at her, then looked down at the grass, plucking at the blades. “I hate thunderstorms,” you admitted quietly, the words barely a whisper.

She raised an eyebrow, surprised. “Really? I love them.”

You shook your head, a shadow passing over your face. “Not me. They make me feel… trapped.”

A flicker of understanding crossed her features, but she didn’t pry. Instead, she reached for your hand, her fingers intertwining with yours. “Okay,” she said simply. “Next time there’s a storm, I’ll be there. You won’t be alone.”

Your heart swelled in a way it never had before. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

The first time she held your hand during one of her games, you were surprised by the jolt of electricity that shot through you. You had never really cared for football, but she had insisted you come. When she scored, her eyes immediately found yours in the crowd, a triumphant gleam in them. After the match, when she jogged over to you, sweat glistening on her forehead, she grabbed your hand, squeezing it tightly. “You’re my good luck charm now.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I didn’t do anything.”

She grinned, that infectious grin that made your stomach flutter. “Still, you should come to all my games. Just in case.”

But there were things you never told her. You never let her walk you home. You avoided the topic of your family with careful precision, steering conversations elsewhere whenever they got too close. You could feel her curiosity, her worry, but you couldn’t risk her knowing the truth. If she knew, she might try to fix it. And no one could fix what was broken inside your house.

Still, being with Alexia was an escape, a reprieve, even if only for a little while. When she kissed you for the first time under the fading light of a sunset, her fingers tangled in your hair, you thought maybe—just maybe—you had found something worth fighting for.

But secrets have a way of surfacing. And love, no matter how strong, can only withstand so many walls before it begins to crack.

[gangstalkerbarbie]

People in general are for some reason widely encouraged to reduce other people to monoliths that they then need to have some strong feeling about, and subsequently surprised when this leads to interpersonal conflict with people who feel aggrieved. Long post, sorry, here's a cut.

There are hyperobjects in existence which are composed of the actions and views of millions of people individually but fuck us all in concert, like capitalism or the construction of race. And then there are the people grouped in them, and like, are you seriously imagining you're doing something about any ism at large by harassing any individual?

I'm a Ukrainian Jew of an obscure little mix of particular ethnicities considered indigenous to Ukraine by the UN, all of which have seen some horrors in living memory that were only sort of related to also being Jewish.

When I came to America everyone except for white people decided I was white. This has materially impacted my wellbeing from a "the establishment cares about me any amount and my daily life is faintly normal" perspective in oh, just about no way at all. A really weird amount of people here have really weird feelings about The Polack, The Russian Spy, The Ukrainian Whore and all the rest (the average American racist who does not live online is still unable to distinguish them and disdains them all equally). But it's isolating, because there's no one other than people in the former USSR diaspora to relate to about it. I survived some fuck shit just to experience this, let me tell you. I wouldn't rather go do all that again, but seriously, all that for this?

I have zero experiences in common with Anglo-Saxons or any of the people they've let into the club — in fact the club has done things like detain and interrogate me at borders on the assumption I was traveling to prostitute myself (emphasis on why that's bad for me to do and also a crime, not on how it's human trafficking, also YES in case you are not aware it has dominated my life since I was a young teen and need it confirmed, the war, though not the part the west decided to care about, was on at the time).

The club and people in club proximity abuse me in the workplace because Slavs are to them intrinsically abuseable and I have no community to protect me (leaving aside my personal thoughts about my identity, this is how I am perceived here).

People here just generally treat me in a manner that enables me to relate to the experience of WOC and alienates me from white women. The really fun kicker is that neither group as I encounter it in meatspace wants me because I'm an exotic Eastern menace to all of them, but whatever, I'm straight, I can make American friends online. I'm sure it's different in other states and I was just unlucky.

I can't imagine what people get out of directing ethnic-beef catharsis at me, but I hope it helps, because it's kind of fucking shitty to do, you know? So coming from here I can sympathise with guys and also with real white people, who actually do belong to some category comprising a hyperobject whose particular systemic manifestation violates people's human rights, but have never or think they've never personally done anything. I actually have never personally done anything and neither have any of my ancestors, and people feel oppressed by me for no reason to do with me personally too. It probably feels kind of weird knowing that your great grandpappy actually was a segregationist and no one will ever give you any benefit of any doubt about it. Something about Puritan guilt culture?

Tbf though, me, I'm constantly annoyed by receiving only one of the benefits (white police ignore me if there's other people to harass, and I'm not la migra's first priority, which is also true of for example many Arabs and at least used to be true of Chinese people, in case you need a familiar benchmark for where I'm at) and all of the flak from everyone else about everything.

Material realities aside, it takes a lot to be normal about this for me, so like yeah ok I'm willing to accept that men or white people or whoever find it confronting that some people might exist who they think go around thinking accusatory thoughts about them. I don't fault them for their guilt complex. I have an irrational, probably indelible "holy shit fuck all of you and your dumbfuck invasive imperialist caste system, project it on my ancient and anciently diverse specific regional culture which is in your framework actively being colonised right now one more time I fucking dare you" complex about literally everyone in the Anglospheric race meta, which I have to actively restrain to have a public life and be able to make friends; everybody's got their brain roaches. Mine is that nowhere near everyone is ever actually doing that, but I've Pavloved myself, and this is my bitter melon.

And does it kind of blow to be put in a position where /I/ have to check my anger at being abused and therapise the objectively more powerful person trying to hurt me, yeah, no shit. I'm going to have to commend the last person's mom because if anyone in any setting where I have any rights at all (not a citizen, very few of them) yells at me, it's over for them and I'm not negotiating that, someone else can educate that person. I'm defending myself thanks. I was born desperate and value nothing, try me.

But not everyone who's in some American way privileged over me and has some dumb ideas about me is constantly trying to hurt me — sometimes people are just angry and tired and ignorant, and bell hooks is right.

Sometimes, if you're not in danger in a situation (you make that call, idk anything about you), it's worth remembering that the systems that create abusers also abuse the entire demographic the abusers come from. And you can't dismantle the master's house with the master's tools. If you could, braver and smarter people than us would have succeeded already, and we wouldn't have to have, like, revolutions about it, like the October Revolution, or the Haitian, or the Cuban.

Racism and patriarchy both make the people they ostensibly uplift emotionally kind of stunted in relation to the people they enable them to hold power over, and incline them to scream and wave that power at the nearest convenient target when remotely threatened by anything. All my homies who've ever tried to assist a bewildered but entitled Russian or American tourist, for example, understand this intimately. We've all served a Karen.

It's a cage-fighting-dog-eat-learned-helplessness-experiment-dog world out there. You kind of learn to treat the ones you can tolerate like children, by which I don't mean dehumanise them, I mean just ... be gentle when you can, assume that you're the one with emotional maturity and experience of the world here (you are, the system requires that you be the only one in this dialectic to develop either). 90% of the time they're lashing out because they feel small and tortured, and with men in many places in general they've been taught to replace most emotions with anger. Do what you want with that information, but it helps just to know it.

Because who do your sons learn about men's world from? Grown men, regardless of what you want, that's just how it works. If there are no men that do not merely believe but actively know that compassion is something everyone deserves, the boys will grow up to reject it as girl shit or female manipulation or whatever it is now, and that's how we got where we are with the American men situation, where I saw meat chocolates being sold for Valentine's day the other day that were like, military sasquatch-themed. (The fever dream nature of American children's everything is a topic for another post.)

No one I saw bought them because they're dumb, but think about what this means: men here both reject love as false when it appears and hypothetically expect sincere love to be provided, and that in a way that isn't emasculating according to farcical rules their women don't even think to keep up with, dictated to them by the online manosphere, in the logic of an abuser. That logic is reproduced and shown to children and teenagers on the scale of however many people shop at that Walmart.

What dude blew up at his girl for getting him heart chocolates and who thought the solution was not divorce immediately but heart-shaped sasquatch jerky? When the next guy beats someone up over that, are they going to replace the hearts with little tanks? Where are any cultural representations of healthy, humanising, respectful love between men and women?

There's no help for those chuds, I don't think, they're already gone. And I would never date one, but even just to prevent someone you know from metastasizing into that, I think it's worth it to put in the emotional labour of checking in on guys in your life, if you have any. Keep it to the ones you like or can't avoid, don't worry about random dicks unless you have bandwidth that day and want to. You're one person, random dicks are their mums' responsibility in the end, it's hard out here for a bitch and that's already an impact on life for future generations of children.

When I say this I'm really mostly saying it, for your safety, about little and teenage boys, who are still malleable and less likely to be able to hurt you. Kudos if you can do this for shitty adult male strangers, but realistically I reject the focus on what we can do for them over any attempt to get them to think about what they should quit doing to us, I'm sorry if that's bad intersectional feminism, I'm human though. I have this same take regarding race relations if you needed to know I'm consistent: be constructive if you can, disengage if you can't, it's not your job to educate anyone in the sense that you have the right to leave any situation arbitrarily whenever, but at the same time it is somebody's sometime, because the government literally deliberately hoards and obscures knowledge of reality from these overclasses.

Kids, however, the future of any society? Them punks can't read, it's like, a whole national literacy crisis. Where are they going to even learn about what to read, let alone find it, if there are all these men shooting up schools and politicians screwing with the curriculum? As a general rule I go out of my way for all children and I think so should you. They're not going to learn to be responsible when they're bigger and stronger than other people unless when they're little and weak, adults are unconditionally responsible with them.

Cultural change starts with the children and their caregivers and relies on public opinion, so in whatever small ways are possible I think we should try to be good influences on the next generation.

If you can't be fucked to engage with strange men, which is honestly completely understandable, I don't cultivate them either, then model kindness to children and the old people raising them. That will help more than playing therapist to people who don't think you're people, anyway, though you'll know which men you can help because they know you also have a soul when you see them, and I think it can't hurt to be kind.

part of the reason i love how bell hooks talks about masculinity is that she shows real compassion towards men suffering from the effects of toxic masculinity. she was conscious of how we need to unlearn the ways we talk about men + masculinity just as much as we need to unlearn the same for women + femininity. so many times ill see someone talking about toxic masculinity like (hyperbolizing here but only slightly) "these FUCKING STUPID BABY BITCHES won't MAN UP and go to a therapist!!!" and like. i get the anger. but you see feminists recreating patriarchal manhood by only promoting good behaviors through patriarchal frameworks. any use of the term "real men" is bad because it reifies the idea that manhood is a special title you must earn, and it is something possible to fail and fake. & as important as it is to promote sexual equality + the pleasure of non-cis-men, lots of people are essentially still working with the idea that men need sexual prowess to have worth but just shifting it slightly so there is more emphasis on women's pleasure. but I want cis men to think about their partners' pleasure because they care about their partners, not because they need to check a box in order to keep their man card. and don't get me started on small dick jokes– and the absolutely pitiful excuse people will use that "well, I don't believe it, but misogynistic men get upset when I say it, so it's okay!"

basically bell hooks is so fucking right. in order to create loving men we need to love men, simply for being alive, whether or not they are performing. as much as we need to actively unlearn misogyny (and we do), it's equally vital we unlearn patriarchal ways of seeing manhood. we can't just assume that taking a feminist perspective automatically means there is no work to be done there.

[marvelstoriesepic]

Like a Phoenix (9)

Pairing: Mercenary!Bucky x Princess!Reader

Series Summary: An attack on your palace thrusts your only hope for survival into the hands of a mercenary who is forced to protect you, all due to a vow he made many years before. Though, those are circumstances neither of you have chosen.

Word Count: 6.7k

Warnings: mentions of dead parents, betrayal; arrogance and ignorance of mankind; sexism; talk of arranged marriage

Author’s Note: Next part for y'all. Hope you enjoy! ♡

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

Lying in a bed feels different now.

The mattress underneath you is impossibly soft. It sinks under your weight as if meant to cradle you into dreams like a cloud. The cool silken sheets glide over your skin in a way meant to be soothing but it merely leaves your skin itchy.

The blankets are thick and warm, layered with care for a comfort that borders on indulgence. Lavender lingers faintly on the fabric, intentional yet in one breath so very subtle, crafted solely to lull royalty into ease.

It’s everything a princess should have - a sanctuary of opulence, security, and rest.

But you hate it.

You loathe the softness. Hate that it yields and molds itself to your body instead of standing against it, as if the wilderness that grew within your bones on the journey needs to be tamed now. The sheets feel like chains because they suffocate you with their plushness, weighted with all the memories of who you used to be.

And the warmth is all wrong.

Bucky’s fires were wild, flickering, unpredictable, crackling under a starlit sky. Their heat was honest and real, earned with careful tending and cold nights that made you appreciate the blaze all the more.

The warmth in your new chambers now feels artificial, orchestrated by servants who stoked it before you could even realize you’re cold.

It is insufferable.

You roll onto your back, fixedly gazing at the canopied ceiling above you. It is decorated with golden-threaded patterns spiraling and weaving into meaningless flourishes.

Your chambers back at the palace had looked so much the same.

The walls were thick with privilege and the air perfumed by fresh-cut lilies brought in by servants each morning. You remember sprawling across your bed without a care in the world, lulled by the soft rustle of silk curtains drawn against the daylight. You lived encased in velvet luxury. One of your biggest burdens once was which gown to wear to court or what pleasantries to exchange with noble suitors you never cared for.

This castle, such a reflection of the life you abandoned weeks ago - a life of pompous splendor and ignorance.

How did that life ever fit you?

You think of the palace halls, the wide ceilings. The footsteps of knights and guards walking around and shadowing your steps. The way you never questioned where the food on your golden plates came from or why your wardrobe was endless. Servants slinked in and out of your days, assisting you, and you took that for granted and never really saw them too clearly.

But now, after the forest, after Bucky, after everything - you cannot unsee it.

You’ve walked through a town where women bartered over bread with smiles despite knowing it might be their only meal for the day. Where men bore calloused hands from labor that ensured someone else’s comfort - your comfort

They had so little, yet there was joy in the way they lived. Real joy, the kind that doesn’t come from silken sheets or golden chandeliers but from togetherness and resilience.

Shame threads through you, sliding through your veins so smoothly but making your muscles twitch.

Bucky would hate this bed.

The thought is so unexpected, your breath stutters. But you linger on it.

He would have scoffed at the unnecessary extravagance, muttering something gruff about practicality while tossing down a rough fabric over hard earth without complaint. You recall how he would brush the twigs and leaves aside that got stuck on his clothes over the night.

The forest was harsh, but it was real. You earned every night’s sleep there, even if it was fitful and cold. The ache in your muscles was proof that you had lived through the day, not simply existed within a cocoon of simplicity.

This bed is a lie.

It is trying to lull you back into a world where comfort was abundant and hardship was for other people - the townsfolk whose existence has been so distant to you.

You had seen the hollow-eyed hunger of some and the contentment of others in this kind of life. Children ran barefoot through those dusty streets, with laughter bright and untrained, unbound by the rigid decorum that had ruled your own childhood.

They hadn’t cared about courtly manners - not showing too much teeth, not letting your laugh carry - or straight postures.

They cared about playing with one another, chasing each other through the streets, petting the dogs of others, and feeling the warmth of the community.

It has shaken you.

And those truths are crushing you lying here in this bed that cradles your body but not your spirit.

Your father’s lies. The lies that had propped up your kingdom. His image of a realm prosperous and just, all but shattered by the reality of its struggling people. And you were blind to it all.

Bucky’s past as a soldier in that same kingdom's army, forced to serve under a king who cared more for appearances than for the lives beneath his rule. The scars Bucky bears have been engraved by your father - a debt paid in blood and pain.

You spent your life with the preparations to rule one day. And that made sense. Because you are the damn princess.

But you no longer feel like it.

How are you supposed to step back into that role, knowing what you know now? How can you sit on a throne draped in opulence when the people beyond this castle scrape by with so little?

You press your palms against your eyes. The warm air stumbles in your throat.

You no longer are a princess surrounded by the finest things this country has to offer. You are someone who has walked through hardship, who has seen the fractures of your kingdom and felt the twinge of guilt for not knowing sooner.

You have tasted the freedom of the wild and the wailing ache of loss.

Nothing in this world, not even the smoothest silks nor the softest pillow, will make you forget what you have seen and learned.

Harshly, you toss the covers aside and sit up. The warmth of the bed will never be able to comfort you - it hasn’t the whole night, and it probably won’t ever again.

Your feet swing over the side, feet brushing against the lush rug beneath you.

The bath you were practically forced to take the evening before has been warm. Too warm. Scalding against skin that grew accustomed to the cool bite of stream water and hurried scrubs with rough cloths and soap under moonlight.

The strong smell of lavender and rose petals overwhelmed your senses. The maids who attended to you poured oils into the water, softly explaining how it would restore your softness and soothe away the dirt from your travels.

You sunk into it because you were expected to. But it worked too well. The water had softened your skin but it also scrubbed away something else. The grime of the journey, the smoke from countless fires, and the roughness of the forest floor were stripped from your skin. But instead of renewed you felt hollowed out.

Clean, yes. But in a painful way. As if you had been peeled open and laid bare, filed down to fit into this polished, perfect world you no longer feel you belong to.

The cloying oils only stayed sticking to your skin.

And the maids insisted on brushing your hair out until it gleamed like mahogany.

Now, golden morning light trickles through tall windows, brushing tiny swirls across your untouched breakfast tray.

You keep sitting on the edge of the bed, fingers digging into the silken nightgown piled across your knees, heart filled with foreboding.

Despite the warmth of the bed and the comfort it should provide, rest has evaded you entirely. Your thoughts were too loud. Too much. Circling endlessly in a maze without exists.

There is a knock at the doors and then they come.

The three maids from yesterday evening enter in hushed formation with polite smiles on their faces. Their steps are light. They bow slightly, greeting you with carefully measured tones. Like they know nothing else but say those words.

You do not greet them back.

The maids must see the dark shadows under your eyes, the pallor of your skin, but their smiles never waver.

They only descend upon you with gentle hands, guiding you toward the vanity without a word about your state. They move as though choreographed.

It makes you want to scream.

You stare into the mirror, catching sight of your reflection. A stranger looks back at you. A girl with dull and sunken eyes, with likes on her forehead and lips pressed to a frown.

Your maids see a princess in need of restoration, a figurehead who must be embellished until she is flawlessly shining.

But all you see is a fraud.

Nausea curls in your stomach as they begin to brush and tame your hair, pinning it into place, fingers deft but impersonal. One smooths a fine powder over your face and another sorts out a gown for you.

The way they move without complaint, without hesitation, their entire existence seemingly dedicated to making you presentable makes you wring your hands in your lap in unease.

They smile politely, but those smiles never really touch their eyes. They are so composed and respectful. Standing there and moving so practiced, smoothing creams onto your face and fastening delicate pins into your hair, all while you feel like you are going to lose it.

You stare at them. They are not people here. Not in the way that matters. You think about their will, their hopes, their dreams - all stuffed out by duty, extinguished in favor of caring for others. For you.

The gown a brunette girl has selected is extravagant. Layers of silk and brocade in hues of deep indigo and gold shimmering under the morning light. They lace you into it tightly, the bodice cinching your ribs until your breath comes shallow.

You forgot how restricting these dresses were, how they demanded perfect posture and composure. You miss your blue dress. It’s still ruined and dirty, but god, do you want to step into it.

You grip the edge of the vanity as they finish their work, your nails pressing into the glossy wood. You glance down at your hands - clean, soft, and manicured now. The dirt under your nails, the callouses that had begun to form from days of travel, are gone. Erased.

But you refuse to forget what you learned there. It hums beneath your skin.

Another brunette maid steps back, folding her hands neatly in front of her. You believe her name is Lady Maximoff.

“You look lovely, your Highness,” she says, voice gentle and deferential.

Lovely.

The word is sour as you swallow it down.

You do not feel lovely. You feel like the only thing left of you is the husk. Like the one of a fruit. Dusty and bitter. And inside is a nasty wound of something rampant that can’t break free with all the excessive embellishments you are dressed in.

They have prepared you for something. But no one has told you what awaits you now that you are here. For what you have been dressed up like this.

You had been sent here immediately upon your arrival, ordered to get cleaned up and ensure that no one saw you in your disheveled, dirty state.

God forbid anyone witness you as a human being.

The princess must be immaculate. Flawless. A symbol. A shining representation of what you only ever felt like in the forest - a real woman.

You have been scrubbed, and dressed to meet expectations you no longer want to fulfill.

The room is filled with the rustle of silk as they continue to fuss around you. Your hair just pinned so, gown cinched to perfection, shoes soft against the floor but lined with elegance. You only listen halfway to their murmurs - until their conversation breaks through your restive thoughts.

“He will fall for you in an instant,” a maid with dark blond waves says with a wistful sigh, pausing as she smooths the delicate sleeves of your gown.

“Truly,” the first brunette agrees, her lips curving into a small, knowing smile. “He will not stand a chance.”

You blink, caught off guard by their words. A spark of confusion vibrates through you. He? Who is he?

Before you can voice your question, Lady Maximoff speaks up, her voice softer than the others but not less certain. “Indeed, my lady.” Her tone is dipped in honeyed courtesy. “And who wouldn’t? You are radiant, your Highness. He will see it plainly.”

He.

Your mind stumbles over the pronoun. You don’t know who they are speaking of but the implication deeply unnerves you. The warmth in their voices feels misplaced, like praise bestowed too early upon a battle yet to be fought.

“Who are you talking about?”

The room falls into a sudden, stifling silence.

The maids freeze, hands hovering mid-air. They exchange wide-eyed glances.

Lady Maximoff flushes, color blooming high on her cheeks. The other two avert their eyes, their hands growing fidgety as they return to fussing over folds of fabric that need no further adjustment.

“I- I misspoke, your Highness,” the first brunette stammers, her voice unsure. She grows a little pale in the bright light.

The blonde fumbles with a silk ribbon, suddenly engrossed in tying it into a bow.

The sudden shift in their demeanor - the slight panic in the air, the flustered silence - tightens something deep within your stomach.

Your pulse quickens. The unease that hasn’t left you since your arrival sends a shiver crawling along your spine, dragging it out so painstakingly slowly.

“Who is he?” you press, firmer this time. “Who are you speaking of?”

But the maids refuse to meet your eyes. They avoid them with such determination - or perhaps fear - a prickling tension grips your throat.

Possibilities race through your mind, none of them comforting. They know something you don’t, and it plagues your nerves like a hushed murmur you can’t quite understand.

You force your voice softer, but the edge of demand remains. “Please. Tell me.”

But the three girls are already moving, gathering up their tools and fabric swatches briskly.

“Forgive us, your Highness,” Lady Maximoff voices, but her tone is marked by her nervousness. “We have lingered too long in idle talk.”

Their refusal to answer only makes the implications of their words so much for dreadful. Who is he? And why would he care for your appearance, your supposed radiance?

Is this some courtly nonsense you’ve been removed from for too long? Or something worse - a scheme in the dark shapes of politics and power, hidden even from you?

“The time presses,” the blond girl rushes, briefly meeting your eyes. The brunette reaches for the door handle, her knuckles pale against the wood.

The other two guide you gently but firmly forward, herding you like a lamb to some unknown fate. They stay silent now, their gazes fixed elsewhere, as though avoiding your eyes will erase the guilt of their loose tongues.

The maids only curtsy hastily, stepping back, their duty done. Lips pressed into polite, impenetrable smiles. They leave you standing there, alone with your frightful premonition.

They know something you don’t. Something you are not meant to know yet. And that ignorance feels dangerous.

Whatever they know, it concerns you.

And it isn’t good.

At least, not for you.

****

Each step you take echoes through the ornate corridors. Their paths are winding and bright and gleaming under the soft glow of scones and you feel like squeezing your eyes shut to escape the sight.

But you could not get rid of the smell of wax and polished wood, including the faint metallic tang of dread that keeps your shoulders stiff and your hands clammy.

Two guards flank you, their boots heavy against the floor and their faces so utterly impassive.

You’ve asked them where you are being led, demanded to know who awaits you. But each question was met with cold silence. They neither acknowledge you nor spare you a glance, despite your rank.

And with a shiver that creeps along your spine, you come to the conclusion that they aren’t ignoring you out of insolence but out of duty - because they were instructed not to answer.

Your fists clench at your side, heart pounding erratically.

Your nerves coil tighter with each step. The soft rustle of your gown feels constricting and oppressive against your skin. You want nothing more than to claw it off and return to the freedom of simple tunics and sturdy boots that had carried you through the forest. But that was snatched away the moment you crossed through the castle gates and were swept back into this world of titles, propriety, and veiled threats.

Anxiety clutches onto your chest, making you take in a harsh breath through the tight corset.

You pass through a towering archway flanked by more guards who straighten at your approach.

Chandeliers gleam overhead, casting fractured light across a grand hall teeming with courtiers, nobles, and officials. Conversation dulls to a hush as all eyes turn to you.

This is not just about courtly pleasantries or some ceremonial welcome. You are being presented.

Your skin prickles at their assessing gazes. They are so mixed. Some full of curiosity, pity, and sympathy, others filled with suspicion, contempt, disregard, and a few handful of inscrutable expressions.

You detest them all the same.

At the far end of the hall stands a dais, draped in rich velvet, where a throne rises. Seated beside it is a man who must be the king of this domain, his bearing regal but rigid. An elder advisor beside him whispers something into his ear. His expression is stony.

There is a figure standing before the dais, sharp eyes staring you down. He is tall and lean-muscled in formal attire. There is a certain air of arrogance surrounding this man.

His face is handsome in a polished way, his strong nose crooked slightly, dark and thick brows lining his forehead. But there is a detachment in his eyes that has you swallow hard. He watches you intensely, weighing your worth.

And something hits you then. A metaphorical punch to the gut. A thought in your mind. Maybe he is the man those maids have spoken of.

You keep your expression composed but your skin is boiling in panic. It’s so hot and ferocious, but you grip it with trembling fingers and shove it down where it can’t break free yet.

A herald steps forward. His voice booms through the hall. He sounds ceremonious and impersonal, stripping you bare with each syllable. “Her Royal Highness, the princess of the Western Realm, presented before His Majesty and the Court.”

Your title feels foreign in your ears and you keep yourself from grimacing. Those words do not belong to you. At least, not anymore. They are relics of a life fractured by survival and grief, paraded for spectacle.

The man who has been watching you so intently descends the dais gracefully and moves towards you. He stops at a respectful distance. His face is striking indeed. Sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, and eyes that glint with intent. And you don’t like any of it.

He bows slightly, but there is no warmth in that gesture. It’s for mere formality.

“Your Highness,” he greets, his voice smooth but devoid of true feeling.

You bring yourself to curtsy, though your legs tremble beneath you. “My Lord,” you manage. But it sounds detached.

He does not take his eyes off you. Studying you keenly. “You must be wondering why you’ve been summoned.”

“I would appreciate some clarity, my Lord,” you reply, keeping your tone measured.

“This arrangement was decreed long ago, in the event of” - his lips curl faintly - “unforeseen circumstances.”

Your skin crawls at the way he says it. Your blood turns to ice. “What arrangement?”

“Our marriage.”

Your next inhale fractures, broken by shock. Every nerve in your body stiffens with resistance.

“I was not informed of this arrangement,” you grit out but manage to sound calmer than you feel.

“There was no need for you to be informed,” he replies evenly and you just feel like throwing a dagger at him. “The matter was decided long ago.”

Before you can answer, the king's voice sounds out. “This union was ordained by the late king, your father, as a safeguard for the realm. We honor his wisdom today.”

Your breath leaves your lungs in a harsh exhale. So it is true. Your father had orchestrated this. Even in his death, his will reached out to bind you to a fate you had no say in.

This man standing before you is not a person but a sentence. The embodiment of your father’s final decree.

Even in death, you are bound to the legacy he built. A legacy of lies and cover-ups and manipulation.

Your mother could not possibly have known about this arrangement. She fought for you in her own ways. They were quiet at times but fierce. Always seeking to preserve the humanity that the crown sought to crush.

Beside the king, the elder advisor nods solemnly. “It was a measure of great prudence, your Highness. One that ensures stability in these uncertain times.”

Prudence. Stability. Cold words to mask the truth. That you are a pawn moved across a board without giving you the decency of knowledge.

Again, your life is being bartered like a mere commodity. You’ve come to expect it but not this way. This is so much worse than anything you conjured up in your head.

Desperation settles in your chest. “This was my fathers doing?” You don’t even know why you ask. Why you let it confirm to yourself another godforsaken time, but you don’t know what to do.

“His foresight ensured the survival of the realm. You should take pride in fulfilling his legacy.” The tone of the king is hard.

You almost scoff.

Your chest burns with the urge to let out your rage. But there is that familiar chokehold keeping you silent. The one forged in your childhood.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch sight of a few nobles exchanging glances.

The court is a stage and you are the unwilling actor thrust into the spotlight.

How come you are shoved back into this duty so quickly without a single blink after all that had happened?

You crave the shelter of the woods, the trees around you that would hide you from the rest of the world. The taste of freedom you barely begun to savor. Bucky as the only companion you need. Bucky as the only man you need.

But you’re back and instantly choked by your crown.

You cannot let this be your end - a fate dictated by a man who is no longer even alive.

“Your Highness?” the man in front of you prompts, tone measuredly polite but firm.

You lift your chin and gaze to the king, forcing steel into your voice. “I wish to speak with the Lord privately, your Majesty,” you declare, ignoring the murmurs rippling through the hall.

The king's brows furrow, but he inclines his head curtly. “Very well. Lord Ward, see to it.”

So that is his name. Lord Ward. The name of the man your father had chosen for you without your consent.

He extends his arm toward a side passage. “This way, your Highness.”

Briefly glancing back at the court where eyes still linger on you, you follow Lord Ward.

Guards follow you at a distance.

****

The castle gardens aren’t as extensive as the palace gardens had been.

But they are verdant under a sky tinted by the light of the sun.

Vines tangle up trellises, and roses bloom in bursts of crimson and gold.

Neatly pruned hedges line the paths.

A shallow breeze tugs at your skirts. The air is filled with floral sweetness.

The forest smelled of damp earth, pine, and wildflowers. This place is pristine, but it feels so lifeless. So unreal. So fake.

Just like the man walking beside you - your apparent betrothed.

He let you choose the path to the castle grounds, but he does not offer his hand, not incline his head with true respect.

He seems to try and mark his authority with every brisk stride, making it seem that this entire charade is an inconvenience he means to see through as swiftly as possible.

You refrain from rolling your eyes.

His name is not unfamiliar to you. Grant Ward, Lord Commander of the Northern Territories. You know of his self-importance and immodesty in council chambers, the firm clutch he maintains on treaties and taxation.

He is not the kind of man you take to feed the ducks by the pond.

You have not imagined your father would bargain your future to him. Although you might as well have guessed it after the things you found out about the man.

Lord Ward gestures toward a secluded alcove where a marble bench waits, its surface cold and white. “Sit, your Highness.” There is stiffness in his voice. A command.

You ignore it and the bench altogether. “I prefer to stand.”

His brow twitches, but he keeps his dissatisfaction composed. “As you wish.”

He turns his head slightly and allows his gaze to sweep over you. He is scrutinizing you as if you are a document in need of review.

“I suppose you find this arrangement disagreeable.” His voice is controlled. There is a low hum of amusement in his tone. But it’s nothing like Bucky’s has been. It’s darker.

You keep your expression a wall, though your shoulders draw tighter. “You suppose correctly, my lord.”

He huffs out a laugh, though the sound lacks warmth. As does his thin smile. “Honest. I can appreciate that.”

You don’t care if he does.

But you know better than to say that out loud.

The path bends toward a fountain, water glistening in the light.

This moment feels sterile. The rustling leaves around you seem louder than they should be.

You don’t care to fill the silence. So he does. But you'd rather he doesn’t.

“You have lived a sheltered life, I imagine,” he continues with a silky voice, but it is underlined with something colder, something displeased. “I will have to assume you grew over beyond such frippery, have you?”

You clench your jaw. Your spine stiffens. Your pulse races in anger and indignation.

“Do not believe me to fall into whatever role this arrangement demands of me.”

Lord Ward's expression hardens. He narrows his eyes ever so slightly at you. “Your duty is to your husband. To your kingdom. To your people.”

Your breath grows sharper; each inhale slicing through your ribs, fueling the heat that builds behind your sternum.

“And yet, I see none of my people here,” you counter.

He steps closer to you, the space between you shrinking until the scent of leather and fabric mingles with the floral air. His voice drops lower.

“I was under the impression you were a pliable princess, content to do as you were told.”

A flush rises to your skin, painting your neck and cheeks in a fever of fury. However, the hurt that weaves in cannot be tempered as easily. But you manage to mask it, keeping your voice strong.

“Then you were misinformed.”

His eyes gleam with something fierce. You have to crane your neck to meet his gaze, but don’t take it away.

Did your father truly believe this man could safeguard the realm? Or had this been about control - ensuring that even in death, his hand guides your future?

You know your father did not trust you to lead, to forge your own path. He handed you over just like that, a sacrifice for the sake of strategy.

Lord Ward tightens his jaw, and for a moment, you think he might bite back with something venomous. But he only lets out a sharp and measured breath.

“You will learn. I am here to mold you into what this kingdom needs.”

You don’t wait a second with your answer. “This kingdom needs compassion. Hope. Something to believe in and hold onto.”

You will not be molded into anything. You will not be the pawn of a chessboard, for Lord Ward to move you into place. You will not be moved so easily. No, not anymore.

You can no longer be the girl who has once accepted her role without question.

Long hands wrap around your wrist with a force that makes your breath hitch. His grasp sends a jostle of shock through you.

He only stares at you unapologetically at your attempt to wrench yourself free. Your heart thunders. “Unhand me now,” you demand, tugging at his grasp.

He doesn’t stop staring at you. He doesn’t stop gripping you. “Let me go!” you repeat, but it comes out weaker. Fear starts to rise like bile in your throat.

Lord Ward does not relent. If anything, his fingers tighten. The fine leather of his gloves punctures your skin.

A rather cunning sneer curls the corners of his mouth. “I’ve been patient with you, but I will not tolerate-”

“Get the fuck off her!”

You startle in shock at the voice that sounds out. Or rather the unflinching command. It is spoken by a voice you never thought, but kept on hoping you would hear again. It hangs in midair, and your mouth drops open as Bucky Barnes steps out from beneath an archway.

His rigid posture coils with energy, and he takes a step forward with the grace of a predator. There is murder in his eyes. But he is not looking at you. His threatening eyes are fixed on Lord Ward.

The grip on your arm slackens just slightly as Lord Ward turns incredulously. His confident expression dissolves into disbelief.

You manage to wrench your arm free at his distraction, cradling the aching limb. But you can’t focus on the pain. All you can focus on is him in all his intense and lethal glory standing mere feet away. You blink, and he is still there.

“Barnes?” Lord Ward’s voice shifts. “You are not meant to be here. This is no place for you.” He sounds angered, but there is uncertainty in his tone.

“Ah, I think I'm quite right where I am, Ward,” Bucky drawls, but his voice is chilling.

“As far as I am aware, you are a dead man, Barnes.”

Bucky’s lips twitch into something that is not quite a smile. “Close enough. Now, if you don’t take a step away from her, you are gonna be dead.”

You can only stand there, rooted to the spot, feelings somewhere between utter perplexity and wild relief.

Ward’s eyes narrow, and he does take a step from you, only to move toward Bucky. “You forget your place, soldat-”

Bucky cuts him off, voice deadly calm. “You don‘t wanna test me right now, Ward,” he warns. His tone drops to a guttural rumble. “I’ll assure you that.”

The tension in the air is thick enough to choke you.

“You think you can threaten me?-”

“Oh, I think I can do more than that.” Bucky’s voice is so cold, a shiver whacks through you.

You don’t know if your shock droned out some more parts of their conversation, but Lord Ward then strides away, the gravel path choking down his agitated gate. His back is stiff with rage, shoulders up.

Bucky doesn’t spare him another glance. His attention is on you now. His jaw is taut, a muscle feathering near his temple.

“Are you okay?” Concern leads his tone, still followed by the tension that has rattled Lord Ward's composure.

You glance down at your wrist, the faint imprint of Ward’s grip marring your skin. Your skin pulses. “I am alright,” you assure, though your voice lacks any heat, still trying to comprehend what just occurred.

Bucky’s brows are tightly knit together. His gaze sharpens on the reddening marks against your skin. His stoicism gives way to a simmering outrage that makes the air in your lungs falter on its way out.

“Bucky, what are you- you shouldn’t be here,” you press in an urgent whisper, as if that would make this tall man invisible.

“Well, too bad that I am,” he replies flatly.

“You don’t understand,” you urge, anxiousness creeping into your tone. “Lord Ward now knows that you are here. He will report it. You will get in-”

“Trouble?” Bucky scoffs, arching a brow. His tone softens, but his voice stays entirely unfazed. “Been in trouble before, doll. This ain’t any different.”

You want to shake him. Actually, you want to hug and kiss him and never let him move out of your sight, but throttling the man right now seems more rational. Demanding that he care for his own safety as much as he does for yours.

“They will come-”

“Let ‘em.”

You open your mouth to argue further, but then Bucky gently takes your hand in his, calloused fingers brushing against the tender skin of your wrist. His touch is careful and precise.

“C’mon,” he says softly, guiding you toward the stone fountain nestled beneath a canopy of ivy. Water trickles over the stone.

He leads you to the edge, his warm hand in yours. He kneels first, tugging you down with him. With his hand cradling yours, he dibs your wrist into the cool water.

The water is icy, but it feels soothing on your flushed skin, numbing the ache.

You watch the water bead on your wrist and drip into the basin below.

For a moment, neither of you speaks, the only sound the water splashing against stone.

“How do you know Lord Ward?” you ask quietly, not knowing if he will answer.

Bucky lets out a tired breath. But he answers after a beat. “Your father.” His voice is clipped but not unkind. “Ward was one of his men. Same as me.”

Your stomach turns. “He was a soldier?”

“Not exactly.” Bucky’s voice turns bitter. “He handled logistics, let’s say. Wasn’t on the frontlines, but he was real good at managin’ supply lines and keepin’ nobles happy.”

So basically, he is just a man representing everything you despise about court politics.

You let his words and his honesty sink in, looking down at where his hand is intertwined with yours, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin as though to erase the bruises Ward has left.

He touches you so carefully, so tenderly. But it is not just the sensation of his touch that stirs you. It’s the sight of him. He just kneels there beside you like he walked right out of a dream you had not dared to hope for.

You felt so lost the whole night, felt so empty, as if you were unraveling completely. And now, somehow, he’s just fixed that by simply being here.

Relief is a heavy feeling. It’s nearly dizzying, clutching you so intensely.

You take a breath and look at him properly. The parts of him you seared to your memory are still there. Brilliant and powerful. The sharp jawline marked by stubble. The wild mess of dark hair that always looks like it has been tousled by the wind. Those eyes, blue as forget-me-nots, blue as a winter morning, and just as cold when he chooses them to be. Those plump lips pressed into a faintly stubborn frown even when he isn’t trying to look fierce.

Those parts of him are unchanged. But there are new things too. Things you didn’t vividly remember.

There is a faint scar at his temple, pale and thin that you don’t remember noticing before. There is a new tension lingering around his eyes, shadows hollowing them out. His shoulders seem strained, poised in a way that makes you feel like he prepared for something that was rather mental than physical. The fine lines that bracket his mouth. The faint scent of cedar on his clothes.

It is strange noticing these small things now, all the details that paint the canvas of him. The things you would not have known without taking the time to look. The things you would not have known if your goodbye was forever. You shudder.

God, you missed him.

It should not feel this monumental. This significant. You said goodbye not even a day ago. But your chest has been tight since the moment you had to walk away, as seeing him again is the breath you weren’t able to let out.

Your fingertips buzz with a joy you know you should probably not feel to this extent, but it only makes the sting of your wrist fade into irrelevance. He’s here. He is really, truly here.

And he risked himself for you by being here. It makes your heart clench painfully.

You study the curve of his brow, the scar beneath his jaw that catches light when he tilts his head slightly to get a better look at the bruising on your wrist.

There is always something new to notice about Bucky Barnes, it seems. Always another layer hidden underneath that stoic exterior.

“I thought you would be over the mountains by now,” you say, the words slipping out in a voice barely above a whisper, almost too vehement despite their softness. There is a tiny glimpse of frustration manifesting in your chest. Not for him. It is born from your own swirling confusion, from the hit of emotions that bombarded you the moment you saw him standing there.

Bucky’s eyes lift to yours. And just like that, the air shifts. His eyes soften with something warmer. The blue of his eyes just turned a shade richer.

A twinkle returns to his expression. “Definitely woulda moved faster without you, darlin',” he drawls. His mouth tilts into something that almost resembles a grin. A tease.

But before you can retort, he lets out a small huffed laugh and shakes his head, almost in amusing disbelief. “Couldn’t, though,” he adds, quieter, voice dipping lower with meaning.

Your lips part at his admission.

You guessed that he mistrusted the world you were forced to reenter. It was in the way he hesitated, in his stoic silence, when he let you go at the gate.

But you did not believe him to stay.

Because that’s what he did. He stayed near the castle, and he didn’t stay out of duty.

You know because he tells you with his eyes.

They are so unflinchingly vulnerable, it leaves you totally shocked.

He stayed because he didn’t want to leave you alone here. Because the thought of walking away while you were locked inside this castle of rules and regulations hadn’t sat right with him. But there seems to have been something selfish, too. It wasn’t just the concern that kept him nearby. He didn’t seem to have trusted himself to walk away from you, either.

Your thoughts are uncontrollable. Thoughts of what it means that he has chosen to stay near the castle all night, forgoing the freedom of the road and the safety of distance just to be here. For you.

His gaze doesn’t waver.

And there is a longing in his eyes you sure is there to end you.

It’s too heavy for you, making you light-headed and your knees wobbly. The feeling of being too close to the edge of something cavernous and uncharted.

Like his eyes.

You don’t know if you are foolish for wanting him here - or foolish for wishing you didn’t need him at all.

There is something terrifying in knowing that if he had left and you weren’t to see him again, it would have shattered something inside you. But even more terrifying might be knowing that he didn’t.

Because you are afraid that you won’t let him go another time that easily. So, where does that leave you now?

“Some people think that the truth can be hidden with a little cover-up and decoration. But as time goes by, what is true is revealed, and what is fake fades away.”

- Ismail Haniyeh

Taglist: @cjand10 @unaxv @bellamoret @singsosworld @mrsnikstan @melsunshine @hawkinsavclub1983 @homiesexual-or-homosexual @vvs-dlxodyd @winterassassin1804

[l0s3rd0wnt0wn]

I LOVE your writing SO MUCH!

It’s been scratching at my head all day, I don’t know if you have done this but how would batfam be if they saw you had a strange fixation on otome games? Or weird random topics like being a history nerd about irrelevant topics (i watch history youtube channels like oversimplified)! Love ur writing once again!

OMG, thank you! (This is a small Valentine's gift.)

Weird neglected black!reader loves dating sims of all kinds; it's like fine dining to them. A group of boys falling in love with you and only you, thinking you're beautiful, smart, amazing, and cool, or a bunch of girls fighting for your attention—reader just can't help it. They'll spend real-life money on in-game currency just to get a spicy scene with the male lead or to pick an action that costs 17 diamonds! But you know what? It's worth it! You'll do it for your anime boyfriends. Whenever reader is about to play one of these games, they lock their room like they're about to do something evil, but instead, they're just swooning over their love interests. It's kind of ironic, but reader really likes yandere relationships. The idea of someone being in love with them so deeply sends reader over the moon with joy, even though they know it's toxic and unhealthy; they just can't help but love it. But when Bruce and the others find out, it ruins everything for you. Bruce figures out you've been spending a lot of money on his game and finds out where you're sending the money to. He cuts you off for a month or so, telling you that this kind of stuff is unhealthy and that the people are fictional, but that was the point! No real boy would run after you in the rain just to give you an umbrella. No real boy would bake you food and give it to you, pretending like he had leftovers when he cooked it himself. No real boy would do that! But this makes the Batfam realize something; you're so lonely and desperate for affection that you play dating sims. Even that's not the case now; your schedule is full, which means you won't have enough time to play your game because everyone wants to cuddle, bake, play, and have fun with you. The next thing you know, you can't find any of your saved files or saved games—they're gone (thanks to Tim and Barbara). But now you can hang out with the family! Those pixels have nothing on them, and these psychos will do whatever it takes to make you forget about your game if it means spending more time with them.

[fayelero]

ⓘ 01. MY KIND OF WOMAN !

⤷ FLUFF ﹫ kirishima eijiro x fem!reader ﹫ oneshot

⚠︎ pure fluff, friends to lovers, clumsy kirishima .ᐟ.ᐟ

kirishima paced back and forth in bakugo’s dorm room, running a hand through his already messy red hair. his mind was racing, his heart pounding like he had just finished an intense sparring session, but for once, it wasn’t because of training. it was because of you.

and now, here he was, seeking advice from bakugo, of all people—who currently sat slouched in his desk chair, arms crossed, an unimpressed scowl on his face.

“oi, quit pacing, shitty hair, you’re giving me a headache.” bakugo grumbled, kicking at kirishima’s leg as he passed by for the fifth time.

kirishima stopped in his tracks, rubbing the back of his neck with an awkward chuckle. “ah, sorry, man. i just—this is kinda important, y’know?”

bakugo raised a brow, clearly not convinced. “tch. if it’s so important, why the hell are you asking me?”

kirishima took a deep breath and sat down on the edge of bakugo’s bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “because, dude, you’re… brutally honest. and i need that right now.”

bakugo scoffed. “damn right.”

kirishima exhaled heavily. “okay, so, it’s about her—”

bakugo groaned loudly. “of course it is.”

“—and i think i’m in love with her, man.”

that caught bakugo’s attention, if only slightly. his red eyes flicked to kirishima’s face, scanning for any sign of hesitation. there was none.

“yeah? no shit. took you long enough to figure that out.”

kirishima blinked. “wait, you knew?”

bakugo rolled his eyes. “dumbass. it’s obvious. you follow her around like a lost puppy, always hypin’ her up, always lookin’ at her like she’s the damn sun or somethin’. it’s pathetic.”

kirishima let out a defeated groan, flopping backward onto bakugo’s bed. “ugh, i knew it. i knew i was bein’ obvious. no wonder she doesn’t see me that way.”

bakugo made a face. “or maybe she’s just as dumb as you are.”

kirishima sat up again, eyes wide with hope. “wait—you think she might like me back?”

bakugo shrugged. “dunno. don’t care. that’s your problem.”

kirishima sighed, rubbing his temples. “alright, well… that’s not even the main thing. the real problem is—how the hell do i tell her? how do i tell her that she’s the most badass, kind, and incredible person i’ve ever met without soundin’ like a total idiot?”

bakugo narrowed his eyes. “…that’s what you’re stuck on?”

kirishima blinked. “huh?”

“you’re actin’ like confessin’ is some kinda battle strategy. just spit it out.”

kirishima exhaled sharply. “i can’t! she’s my kind of woman, y’know? she’s strong, she’s passionate, she never backs down from a fight. she’s got this fire in her that makes me wanna be better. and she’s gorgeous, dude, like—way outta my league. and somehow, she still treats me like i’m someone worth standing next to.”

bakugo stared at him for a long moment before shaking his head. “god, you’re such a sap.”

kirishima groaned. “i know! that’s the problem!”

bakugo pinched the bridge of his nose. “then stop overthinkin’ it. you already know what to do.”

kirishima furrowed his brows. “i do?”

“tch. you don’t gotta be some smooth-talking dumbass. just be you. tell her what you just told me—minus the whining.”

kirishima hesitated, then slowly grinned. “…y’know what? you’re right. i do know what to do.”

bakugo rolled his eyes. “obviously. now get the hell out of my room.”

kirishima laughed as he stood up. “alright, alright. thanks, man. you’re a way better listener than you let on.”

“shut up before i kill you.”

kirishima grinned as he left, heart racing—but this time, it wasn’t from nerves. it was from excitement. because now?

now he was really gonna tell you.

kirishima had faced a lot of scary things in his life. villains. grueling training sessions. bakugo in a bad mood. but somehow, none of those compared to the sheer terror he felt as he made his way through the dorms, heart hammering in his chest like it was trying to break free.

he was really gonna do it. he was gonna confess.

at least, that was the plan.

unfortunately, nervous energy had turned him into a full-blown disaster.

his first mistake was misjudging the distance between the common room couch and the coffee table. he tried to casually step over it, but his foot caught on the edge, and he nearly face-planted.

“shit—”

“dude, you good?” kaminari blinked from his spot on the couch, holding a controller mid-game.

“yeah! yeah, totally good!” kirishima laughed awkwardly, straightening up as if that hadn’t just happened. his cheeks burned as he quickly power-walked toward the exit before he embarrassed himself even more.

his second mistake? the door.

it was a push door. he pulled.

it didn’t budge. he frowned, yanked again. nothing.

“uh…”

sero, who had just entered the common room, raised an eyebrow. “you good, man?”

“i—yeah, i—” kirishima realized his mistake mid-sentence, quickly pushing it open instead. “see? totally fine.”

sero didn’t look convinced. “riiight…”

kirishima groaned under his breath as he finally made it outside, inhaling the crisp evening air. okay. deep breaths. he could do this.

then he saw you.

sitting on a bench near the garden, bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun, you were completely absorbed in your book. the wind played with your hair, making it dance around your face, but you hardly noticed, eyes scanning the pages with quiet focus. your fingers gently turned the page, movements delicate and unhurried, as if the rest of the world didn’t exist.

and just like that, kirishima’s brain short-circuited.

how the hell am i supposed to just walk up to her and drop a confession like that?!

his palms were sweating. his heart was racing. his legs? not cooperating at all.

but he had already come this far—backing out now would make him a coward.

so he forced himself to move, trying to act normal.

which, apparently, was not in the cards for him today.

the first thing he did was stub his toe on the edge of the pavement. he stumbled forward, barely catching himself before eating dirt.

then, as he tried to casually walk it off, he overcompensated, swinging his arms too much, like some weird overenthusiastic jogger.

you looked up just in time to see him approaching. his usually confident stride was replaced with something stiff and unnatural, like he was trying way too hard to look casual. you blinked at him, confused for a moment—then, a small, amused smile tugged at your lips.

“eijirou?” you called softly, tilting your head.

kirishima froze.

oh god, even just hearing you say his name in that soft, gentle tone made his heart do an entire gymnastics routine.

“uh—hey! hi! h-hey there!” he winced immediately. hey there?! who even says that?!

you chuckled, closing your book. “you okay?”

“me? totally fine! just… out here! enjoying the fresh air! like you! haha… yeah.”

he was dying.

you smiled again, patient as ever. “it’s nice, isn’t it?”

“yeah! nice! super nice. like… really, really nice.”

kirishima, for the love of god, shut up.

you hummed softly, shifting on the bench to make room beside you. “do you want to sit?”

oh. oh, that was dangerous.

but there was no way he could refuse, so he quickly nodded, plopping down next to you—too quickly. the force of it made the bench shake slightly, and he almost lost his balance again.

you let out another soft giggle. “you seem kinda jumpy today.”

“i—I do?”

you nodded, eyes twinkling with quiet amusement. “mhm.”

kirishima swallowed hard, gripping his knees to stop his hands from shaking. this is it. just say it. just tell her.

he looked at you, really looked at you—the way your eyes softened when you smiled, the way you always seemed so patient with him, the way your presence alone made him feel like he was home.

his throat tightened.

“i, uh—”

your gaze remained gentle, waiting.

kirishima’s heart was pounding. he could feel the words right there on the tip of his tongue—i like you. no, i love you. you’re my kind of woman. you always have been.

but suddenly, his fear kicked in full force.

what if you didn’t feel the same? what if he ruined this? what if this easy, natural friendship between you shattered because he couldn’t keep his damn feelings to himself?

so instead of saying what he wanted to say, he panicked.

“—i, uh, i was just wondering what book you’re reading!”

a pause.

you blinked.

then, you smiled. “oh, it’s just a romance novel.”

kirishima laughed, but it was a little too loud, a little too forced. “aha—yeah, romance, that’s cool! that’s, uh, really cool.”

you gave him a knowing look, but you didn’t push. instead, you simply opened the book and started talking about the story, your voice calm and soothing.

kirishima barely heard a word. his own thoughts were too loud.

damn it. i chickened out.

but as you kept talking, smiling so softly, so effortlessly, kirishima felt some of his tension ease. maybe he hadn’t confessed tonight.

but at least he was here, with you.

and maybe, just maybe, he’d find the courage next time.

kirishima barely processed a word you were saying.

he was nodding along, making the occasional hum of agreement, but in reality? his brain was still spiraling from the fact that he had completely chickened out. again.

you had given him the perfect chance, sitting beside him, smiling at him, soft and patient as ever. and what had he done? asked about your book. like an idiot.

but even now, as the two of you fell into easy conversation about other things—the day’s training session, how kaminari had nearly set off the fire alarm again, how aizawa looked two seconds away from quitting—kirishima still felt like his chest was too tight.

because you were right there.

the sun had nearly set, casting the sky in hues of pink and orange, and the soft glow of the dorm lights made your features even gentler. your voice, your laughter, the way you turned to look at him with that natural warmth—it was killing him.

and the longer he sat there, the worse it got.

his heart felt too full, his hands clenched into fists on his lap. the words were bubbling up again, just like before, but he was determined not to let them slip out.

so, of course, they did.

“man, i love you.”

the words left his lips so naturally, so effortlessly, that for a split second, he didn’t even realize what he had said.

then, he did.

and his whole world stopped.

you stopped talking mid-sentence. your eyes went wide, lips slightly parted in surprise.

kirishima’s heart nearly gave out.

“—wait, no—” he shot up from the bench so fast that he nearly tripped over his own feet. his arms flailed, his hands waving in a panicked frenzy. “i-i mean—not like that! i mean—I do! but not—I mean, yes, but—oh god, i wasn’t supposed to say that!”

you just stared at him, stunned.

kirishima’s face was on fire.

his words kept tumbling out in a messy, frantic rush. “i—I didn’t mean to say it like that! i was gonna say it eventually—no, wait, i mean—I wasn’t not gonna say it, but not right now! i had a plan! a good one! and now i ruined it—”

you blinked. then, slowly, your lips curved into a soft, amused smile.

kirishima’s heart stuttered.

“i’m an idiot,” he groaned, running both hands down his face. “i—I swear, i was gonna do this properly, not just—blurt it out like that—”

you let out a quiet laugh.

kirishima froze.

he peeked at you through his fingers, confused. “w-what?”

you didn’t answer right away. instead, you stood up, stepping closer, until you were right in front of him. the sudden lack of space made his breath hitch, but before he could freak out further—

you leaned up on your toes, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek.

kirishima went completely still.

every thought in his brain short-circuited.

then, just as he felt his soul leave his body, you pulled back, still smiling that gentle, beautiful smile of yours.

“i love you too, eijirou.”

kirishima forgot how to function.

“you—you what—” his voice cracked mid-sentence.

you laughed, reaching out to take one of his hands in yours. your fingers were warm, soft, delicate against his own calloused ones, and it made his entire body light up.

“i love you,” you repeated, softer this time, looking up at him with eyes full of warmth. “i have for a while.”

kirishima genuinely thought he might pass out.

his mouth opened. then closed. then opened again. his brain was running at a thousand miles an hour, desperately trying to process what was happening.

you… loved him?

him?

his face was burning, his heart was pounding, his entire body felt like it was buzzing. he was so sure that he’d ruined everything. that you’d look at him with pity or let him down gently.

but instead, you had kissed his cheek. held his hand. told him you loved him.

and suddenly, every single ounce of nervousness and panic melted away.

because this was you.

the girl who always cheered for him. the girl who always listened to him ramble. the girl who had been by his side through everything.

the girl he had loved for so damn long.

a slow, disbelieving grin spread across his face.

“holy shit,” he breathed. “you—you love me?”

you giggled. “yes, eiji.”

a breathless laugh escaped him, and suddenly, he didn’t know what to do with himself. he ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head, his heart soaring. “oh my god—I—wow—I cannot believe i just accidentally confessed—”

“would you have ever done it on purpose?” you teased lightly.

kirishima let out a sheepish chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “…probably not.”

you squeezed his hand. “then i’m glad you did.”

his stomach flipped.

for a moment, he just looked at you, the realization settling in fully.

you loved him back.

you had always been his kind of woman. and now? now you were his.

he exhaled deeply, then, without thinking, squeezed your hand and tugged you just a little closer.

“so, uh… does this mean i get to kiss you now?” he asked, grinning despite the heat still burning his cheeks.

you laughed, rolling your eyes fondly. “yes, you dork.”

and with that, kirishima finally—finally—closed the distance.

the end.

[beatlblog]

#i'm crying this is so funny#we love terry (via @sour-milk-sea)

#harrisong: the sun is so beautiful. has anyone ever noticed this (via @tweeterwilbury)

#men are so strange and delusional.....#just tweet im sad that i wasn't able to suck john lennon's dick and log out#it's quicker (via @mylonghairedladyy)

#there's a reason that their post-beatles work is like... imagine for john and freaking... magneto and titanium man for paul... (via @skyriderwednesday)

#arnie pipe is a normal type with an average job but his prospects never will be great#(lyrics say arnie pupe but you cannot tell me that's true. it's pipe) (via @leapinarmadillo)

#hey Ringo just makes cute songs okay (via @milesaerach)

#idk how to admit this but i really like McCartney's solo work because its exactly like this all the time forever#except sometimes there's something so good it could be in the sounstrack of tarzan out of nowhere#and then we go back to insanity (via @dubiousdisco)

#George song: messing around on a sitar#Ringo song: bad (via @baking-bisexual-bitch)

#transition from happiness is a warm gun to martha my dear (via @guttermeat)

#lennon's song ends with a declaration of wanting to kill his wife#mccartney's song ends with terry the plumber killing his wife (via @lumeninfusco)

#george song: n/a (not allowed on the album) (via @thisisdefinitelyausername)

#weed vs coke (via @barryallenisbisexual)

#but that was pre-psychedelic Beatles (via @elglin)

#john if he wrote fixing a hole#paul if he wrote working class hero (via @the-bluebird-you-need)

#(they're both saying the same thing) (via @ensign-babey)

#george: i get one song per album#ringo: ringo (via @hebrideanmoon)

#I see them both as two little guys hitting pots and pans#but in different ways (via @tenitchyfingers)

#lol welcome to 1971 (via @cirumlocutoryconlanger)

#also the difference between alex kapranos and nick mccarthy#alex = john#nick = paul#more at ten. (via @dandy-lad)

#stop I saw this as I was literally listening to the beatles and texting my sister about how insane their range was#the range in question lmaooo (via @fortressofbooks)

#and both songs are about being gay#so yeah (via @aint-that-kind-of-blog-bruv)

#WHERE'S GEORGE (via @local-vamp)

#both could be a springsteen song (via @melody1971)

written while gazing t the photos of john + elvis on his dressing room wall

#almost accurate#add *pipe clanking sounds* (via @gojisaurus)

#i thought it said 'helovespipesshelovespipes' at first and i was like#wow so true...he would change up the pronounce like that. which could mean nothing (via @igixri)

#monkberry moon delight my BELOVED#his three songs are: 1) the Pipe Man. 2) i love my wife. 3) i miss my soulmate john (via @rubyrubyrubytuesday)

The way the lyrics talk to eachother somehow is so more funny to me (via @starfayy)

#and both songs would be mclennon coded (via @flowersintheram)

#why philosophize when you can narrate (via @alienoriana)

#but it's not homoerotic he swears (via @unchaineddaisychain)

#mccartney's song has a key signature change but lennon's song has a time signature change (via @britneyshakespeare)

#theylovepipedream#音楽 (via @radio-4-is-static)

#is this a fixing a hole reference or a pipes of peace reference#only real ones know pipes of peace (via @whoscruffylooking)

#ok but they’d be in the same song A Day in the Life style#and it’d slap!!!!! (via @tesho-travels)

hate hate hate it

#and theyre both the same song (via @onlylivingboything)

#average beatles on shuffle experience (via @veryhopefulromantic)

#im choosing to understand this (via @hell-nurse)

#I can hear this#he loves pipe she loves pipe#can it be one song tho#I think it’d fuck (via @bugsinnmybrain)

#McCartney said shut up and go to therapy Johnny (via @imoldbutimstillintothat)

#need one of those tumblr musicians to make audio for this post (via @mousefluff)

#the best Beatles text posts are the ones you can hear by reading them (via @thatdogjokes)

#the realest shit#my mom always says John & Paul needed each other for balance bc paul is too whimsical & John is too angsty lol (via @theinconstantmoon)

#pauls whimsey he loves to write songs that would work in a childrens tv show (via @lostcryptids)

#a day in the life verses (via @thefoolsprocession)

and that's why i hate it

#uh oh the pipe is leaking#terry is gonna be weak (via @masterboa)

fifth beatle song: its ok to leave a dog in a hot car (hot car) its ok to leave a dog in a hot car (ooh oooh oh) (via @trashfartofficial)

#this is not accurate at all#lennon lyrics aren't like that there is nothing beatlesque about it#his lyrics are cryptic in a completely different way that's more cartoonish and sarcastic#or if he is serious its not black sabbath shit like this its more just preachy and kinda annoying#mccartney on the other hand... yeah that's about right (via @possessesnightshift)

#and the source of the leak is an issue with the pipes that terry the plumber can fix and it all comes full circle#or something. idk i’m not a beatles fan (via @driftwooddestiel)

no this is accurate

#where would prog be without those “helovespipeshelovespipeshelovespipes” changes (via @despairdoodlesreal)

#PRECISO (via @affogonellamarmellata)#its the same song#they worked on it together (via @airlocksandaviaries)

john was just a huge edgelord but paul knew how to be whimsical and fun (via @herecomesthemod)

#get you a man who can piss off all his band mates with 'faggy bullshit' (quote a la Harrison) AND write Blackbird (via @transwolvie)

#ay no puedo (via @longlivetai)

#meanwhile ringo singing about ocean life (via @penthesileas)

[goldfades]

first dates, proposals and injuries | DONCIC

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine | FREE PALESTINE!

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 3.5k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | a summary of their timeline!

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | majority fluff! mentions of injuries, but nothing else:)

FIRST DATE ┈ AUGUST, 2019

The argument starts before you even sit down, before the waitress can take your drink order, before Luka can flash that signature, lopsided grin that’s already been getting under your skin in ways you are absolutely not ready to admit.

It starts because of course it does. Because you’re you, and he’s him, and whatever cosmic force put the two of you at the same restaurant table in late 2019 had to have known what it was doing.

“You’re insane if you think Jokic is better than LeBron,” you say, resting your forearms on the table as you glare at him across the candlelit setting. “Like, actually unhinged. Are we watching the same league?”

Luka scoffs, leaning back in his chair like he has all the time in the world to deal with your slander. He drags a hand down his face like you’re exhausting him, like he wasn’t the one who brought up basketball in the first place. “You’re just a LeBron fan because you grew up watching him dominate,” he says, shaking his head. “You don’t appreciate real basketball.”

You gasp, placing a dramatic hand over your chest. “Excuse me?”

Luka leans in, eyes alight with that sharp, competitive glint you’ve only ever seen when he’s talking about basketball. “And Jokic sees it five steps ahead. Maybe ten.” He shrugs, easy and infuriating. “Longevity, dominance, IQ. It’s not even close, pčelica.”

You jab a finger at his chest. “Not even close? Luka, Lebron is redefining the center position! You—”

“I what?” He smirks, tilting his head. “I actually play against both of them?”

Your jaw drops. He did not just pull that card.

Luka laughs at your expression, all warm and boyish, like he’s already celebrating the win. The sound would be cute if you weren’t two seconds from throwing your napkin at his head. “That’s wild,” you mutter. “You really just—”

“I really just,” he teases, mimicking your tone. Then, softer, “But I like this. I like you like this.”

The words settle between you like a shift in gravity. You pause, blinking at him, and suddenly it’s not about LeBron or Jokić anymore. It’s about the way he’s looking at you—like he’s discovered his new favorite thing in the world, and it’s you, sitting here, all fired up over basketball takes.

You narrow your eyes at him, but there’s no real malice there. You don’t know it yet—not in this moment, with your heart pounding and your competitive streak flaring up like a supernova—but this is the moment Luka Dončić falls for you. Hard. It’s not the way you clean up so well off the court, though he’s definitely been trying not to stare. It’s not even the way you tilt your head when you challenge him, eyes sharp, lips pursed, like you live for the fight.

No, it’s the way you don’t back down. It’s the way you push right back, toe-to-toe with him, chaos-to-chaos, meeting his fire with your own.

Luka exhales, running a hand down his face like he can’t believe it. Then he grins, slow and sure. “Yeah,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “I’m gonna marry you one day.”

Your breath catches.

And just like that, the argument is forgotten.

--

The early days—before the flashing cameras, the headlines dissecting your every move, and the courtside dramatics that would come to define you two—were sweet. A kind of sweetness neither of you had expected, like finding extra syrup at the bottom of your plate when you thought the pancakes were already perfect.

It was late 2019, the golden stretch of your first season in New York, and Luka was deep into another MVP-caliber run in Dallas. But in between the road games and the time zones, you found each other in moments so soft they barely made a sound—late-night FaceTime calls where he’d prop his phone up while brushing his teeth, lazy Sunday mornings tangled in each other’s hoodies, the quiet thrill of knowing you had something before the world even knew to look.

And then there was Slovenia.

He took you home that first offseason, back to the red rooftops and winding streets of Ljubljana, where the pace of life slowed down and the world shrank to just you, him, and the people who made him who he was. You weren’t prepared for how much it would mean—not just to Luka, but to you.

His mother, Mirjam, was warm and whip-smart, teasing Luka in a way that made your heart squeeze. His grandmother fussed over you in rapid Slovenian, hands on your cheeks, nodding approvingly when Luka translated: She says you eat well, that’s good. You’ll need it to keep up with me.

(You had bumped him with your hip for that one, and his grandmother had cackled like she’d just won a bet.)

You met his childhood friends, walked the streets where he first dribbled a ball, saw the court where he learned to play. And one night, wrapped in a blanket on his childhood home’s balcony, you told him about your own messy road to the WNBA—about the nights you doubted yourself, the injuries, the sacrifices. Luka had listened, eyes steady on you like he was memorizing every word.

“You’re the best player I’ve ever known,” he’d said after a long pause, voice quiet but sure. “Don’t let anyone tell you different. Not coaches, not media. Not even me if I ever say something stupid.”

You’d laughed, then kissed him slow—because for all the trash talk, for all the arguments over LeBron and Jokić, Luka Dončić saw you. And maybe that was when you knew.

Maybe that was when you both did.

The injury came out of nowhere. One wrong step—just one—and your entire world shifted beneath you.

It happened during a game in early 2020, a regular-season matchup that should’ve been just that: regular. You’d driven hard to the basket, planted your foot, and felt something go horribly, sickeningly wrong. The pain was instant, a searing-hot bolt that shot up your leg and dropped you to the hardwood before you even realized what happened.

The arena noise blurred into a dull roar. Your ears were ringing, hands gripping at your knee as trainers rushed in. You swore you could hear your own heartbeat, frantic and uneven.

But the worst part? The moment they helped you up, and you knew.

You weren’t the type to cry. You’d played through sprains, bruises, busted lips—you prided yourself on being the one who never let the pain show. But as they helped you off the court, as you saw your teammates’ faces tight with concern, something inside you cracked.

And when the MRI confirmed what you feared—when the doctors started talking about “recovery timelines” and “patience” and “one step at a time”—you broke.

The moment Luka found out, he was on the next flight to New York. No hesitation, no I’ll see you soon. Just a single text before takeoff: I’m coming. Don’t argue.

You hadn’t planned on crying. You really hadn’t. But when Luka walked through your apartment door, still in the sweats he left Dallas in, eyes scanning you like he wasn’t sure if he should hold you or let you be—you lost it.

Tears welled up fast, thick and hot, and before you could fight them back, Luka was there. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you in like he could physically hold you together. You gripped his hoodie, buried your face into his chest, and sobbed.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” you choked out. “Luka, I don’t know if I—”

“Yes, you can,” he murmured, voice firm, steady. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his hold tightening. “You will. And I’ll be here the whole time.”

You wanted to believe him. But right then, all you could do was shake your head, because the fear was so much louder than his reassurance.

“This was supposed to be my year,” you whispered, voice breaking. “I worked so—” A sharp inhale. “I worked so fucking hard for this, Luka.”

“I know.” His hand found the back of your neck, grounding. “I know you did, pčelica.”

You hated this. Hated how weak you felt. Hated that he had to see you like this—messy and hurting, nothing like the fierce, unstoppable player he fell for.

But Luka didn’t flinch. He just held you tighter, letting you cry, letting you be this version of yourself without shame.

And later, when the tears finally slowed and your breathing evened out, he pulled back just enough to look at you.

“You’re not alone in this,” he said, brushing damp strands of hair from your face. “I need you to hear me. You are not alone.”

You searched his face, and for the first time since the injury, the panic in your chest loosened just a little.

Luka wasn’t going anywhere.

--

The world found out about you two before you were even ready to say it out loud yourselves.

At first, it was just whispers—background noise on social media, the occasional courtside shot of you at Mavericks games, still in your knee brace but animated as ever. Then came the clips. The way you’d leap up after a Luka step-back three, how you’d mouth off at opposing teams like you were the one running the offense, the sideline moments where Luka would glance over at you mid-game and smirk like he had a secret no one else knew.

And, of course, the video.

You hadn’t even realized you were being filmed that night. It was a tight game, a chippy one, and Luka was already one technical deep when he started laying into the refs. You, standing courtside, were simultaneously barking at a six-foot-four forward who’d said something slick—doesn’t even matter what. The footage was grainy, but the energy was unmistakable: two people, completely separate yet perfectly in sync, talking mad shit in stereo.

The caption read, simply: Soulmates. It went viral within hours.

That season, the one you spent on the sidelines in Dallas, was supposed to be the hardest of your career. And in a lot of ways, it was. You weren’t built to sit still. Watching your team fight without you, stuck in street clothes while your knee slowly, painfully healed, made your skin itch. But Luka never let you fall too deep into your own head.

He’d drag you to Mavs practices, challenging you to free-throw contests on one leg (you still won most of them). He’d let you dissect film with him, lying on the couch with your knee propped up while you both debated pick-and-roll coverage. And on the bad days—the days where you felt like a ghost of the player you used to be—he didn’t try to fix it. He’d just pull you close, let you be angry, and remind you that you weren’t alone in this.

You were still you. And you weren’t going anywhere.

Neither was he.

--

Luka had known for a long time. Longer than he probably should have, if you asked anyone else.

Two months into dating—before the headlines, before the injury, before the world knew your name alongside his—he bought the ring.

It had been impulsive, maybe, but not reckless. Luka wasn’t a reckless person, not when it mattered. He just knew. Knew in the same way he knew when to release a step-back three, when to fire a no-look pass. It was instinct, muscle memory, like he’d been waiting for you his whole life without realizing it.

So, he bought the ring. Kept it tucked away, first in a drawer, then in a safe, then in his travel bag because he didn’t like the idea of being too far from it. He never rushed it. He just waited—waited for the right time, for the right moment.

And then, one night in late 2022, standing in the kitchen of your shared home after one of your WNBA games, he realized the moment was already here.

It wasn’t some grand, orchestrated thing. No cameras, no big speeches, no dramatic buildup. Just you, standing at the stove, stirring something in a pan while Luka leaned against the counter, rambling about the game.

“You should’ve seen the way they were doubling you,” he said, his accent thickening the more excited he got. “It was ridiculous. Like, bro, do you not know she wants you to do that? And that steal in the fourth—”

“Luka,” you interrupted, amused. “Are you gonna help, or just talk my ear off?”

He grinned, completely unfazed. “I am helping. I’m being moral support.”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t really mind. You liked this—him, talking basketball while you cooked, the way he was just there in your space like he belonged.

And that’s when it hit him.

This was it.

This was everything.

His chest got tight, his hands a little clammy. He didn’t plan this. Didn’t have a speech prepared. But the ring was in the drawer down the hall, and he wasn’t waiting any longer.

The food was done, plated and set on the counter, when he stepped behind you and tapped your shoulder.

You turned, brows furrowed. “What?”

And then your breath caught.

Because Luka was on his knee, looking up at you with something raw and sure and devastatingly real in his expression.

He hadn’t rehearsed anything, so he did what he always did when he was nervous—he talked.

“I, uh—I bought this forever ago,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “Like… way too early. Probably crazy early. But I knew. I knew when we spent that whole night arguing about LeBron and Jokić. I knew when my grandma said you eat well and that meant you’d keep up with me.” A breath, a small, breathless laugh. “I knew when you got hurt, and all I wanted to do was be where you were.”

Your hands flew to your mouth, eyes burning.

Luka swallowed hard, thumb fidgeting against the box. “I don’t need headlines, or cameras, or some big fancy thing. I just need you. That’s it. That’s all it’s ever been.”

The world knew everything about you two. But this? This moment?

This was just for you.

Luka took a steadying breath. “So, pčelica,” he murmured, voice thick with emotion. “Will you marry me?”

Your whole body locked up.

For once in your life, words failed you.

Your heart was pounding—actually pounding, like you’d just hit a game-winner at the buzzer. The kitchen, the food, the entire damn world faded, and all you could see was Luka, on one knee, looking at you like he had never been more sure of anything in his life.

You weren’t a crier. You never had been. But your throat was tight, and your eyes were stinging, and you knew—you knew—if you so much as blinked too hard, you’d lose it.

Luka was still talking, still rambling because he was nervous.

“I mean, obviously you don’t have to say yes right away,” he rushed out. “Like, I don’t want to pressure you or anything. I know it’s a big thing, a lifetime thing, and we can—”

“Luka.”

He stopped.

You dropped your hands from your mouth, inhaled deeply, and let yourself really see him.

His shoulders were tense, his free hand fidgeting against the ring box. He was always so damn confident—on the court, in life—but this? This was the most vulnerable you had ever seen him.

You let out a shaky exhale, your lips curling into something between a smile and a disbelieving laugh. “You’re a dumbass.”

Luka blinked. “What?”

You grabbed his face.

Your hands framed his cheeks, fingers pressing into the stubble that had grown in after a few days without shaving. His skin was warm, a little flushed, his breath uneven under your touch. His lips parted slightly, his eyes wide, and then—then—you kissed him.

You kissed him hard, like he’d just won something, like he was the only thing that mattered in the world. And maybe, right then, he was.

Luka made a startled sound in the back of his throat before sinking into it, his hands gripping your waist like he needed to ground himself. You could feel his heart hammering against your chest, or maybe that was yours, or maybe it didn’t even matter because you were saying yes—yes—in every way except words.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead rested against his, and you whispered, “You really thought I’d say no?”

Luka let out a shaky laugh. “I mean, I hoped you wouldn’t.”

“You knew I wouldn’t.”

His smile was soft, teasing, and so damn him. “Yeah. I did.”

You huffed, blinking away the tears that threatened to spill. “Then put the damn ring on me already.”

Luka’s whole face lit up, the pure, boyish joy in his expression nearly knocking the breath out of you. He fumbled with the box, hands a little unsteady as he pulled out the ring—the one he’d carried around for years, waiting for this moment.

And when he slid it onto your finger—when it settled there, snug and perfect like it had always belonged—you felt it deep in your bones.

This was it.

This had always been it.

Luka surged up, wrapping his arms around you so tightly he lifted you off the floor. You let out a startled laugh, gripping onto him as he buried his face into your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

“I love you,” he mumbled, voice muffled. “Like, so much.”

Your chest ached with it—with all of it.

“I love you too, Luka.” You carded your fingers through his hair, held him a little tighter. “Now put me down before you drop me and I end up in another knee brace.”

Luka snorted but obeyed, setting you back on your feet. You barely had time to steady yourself before he was kissing you again—softer this time, slower, like he wanted to make the moment last forever.

And maybe, in a way, it would.

The wedding planning process was pure organized chaos—which, honestly, was the only way it could’ve gone.

You got engaged in July, right in the middle of your WNBA season, and by the time the reality of it settled in, you and Luka had exactly two months before he had to report for training camp in October. There was no drawn-out, year-long engagement, no excessive deliberation over venues or flower arrangements.

You both looked at each other one night, sprawled out on the couch after a road trip, and Luka simply said, “Let’s do it before my season starts.”

And that was that.

There were no second thoughts, no overcomplications—just a joint agreement that you didn’t want to wait. You wanted to be married, simple as that.

The next few weeks were a blur.

Luka, in true Luka fashion, was entirely too chill about it all. “We just need a place, right?” he’d say while you were knee-deep in vendor emails, half-listening as he tossed a basketball up and down from the couch. “A place, some food, and someone to say the thing. Easy.”

You’d nearly thrown your laptop at him.

(But, to be fair, he did step up when it counted—securing a stunning venue with just a few calls, thanks to the fact that everyone in Dallas would do anything for Luka Dončić. Still, you made him suffer through at least one flower-sample meeting as payback.)

The guest list was intimate—family, close friends, teammates. No press, no media spectacle. Just the people who truly mattered.

The wedding date was locked in for late September, just weeks before Luka had to report for camp. It was fast, hectic, and the kind of timeline that would make any wedding planner cry, but it was yours.

And that was all that mattered.

For all the chaos leading up to it, the wedding itself was… perfect.

Not in a scripted, fairytale kind of way—no, there were little mishaps, tiny stumbles that made it yours. Luka nearly forgot his shoes at the hotel. Your niece spilled juice on her flower girl dress ten minutes before the ceremony. Someone (probably one of Luka’s teammates) started a drinking game at the reception that got way out of hand.

But none of that mattered.

What mattered was the way Luka looked at you when you walked down the aisle, like he was seeing you for the first time and falling in love all over again.

What mattered was the way his hands shook slightly when he held yours, how his thumb traced absent-minded circles into your skin because even under the brightest lights, you were the thing that kept him steady.

What mattered was the vows—spoken low, just for each other, though you were sure the raw emotion in Luka’s voice could be felt by everyone in the room.

What mattered was the I do, the way he kissed you like he was never letting go, the way your wedding bands felt right—like they’d belonged there all along.

The rest of the night was a blur of laughter, music, and too many shots. Luka spun you around the dance floor, his grin wide and unfiltered as he pulled you close, his forehead pressed against yours.

“You’re stuck with me now,” he murmured against your lips, voice teasing but eyes so damn soft.

You smirked, looping your arms around his neck. “I’ve been stuck with you, Dončić.”

And really, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

[provendermalkin]

conservatives: because guns are just tools, they should always be abundantly available with few or no restrictions of any kind concerning their procurement or use. some people using guns wrongly doesn't justify amending laws or even talking about it

also conservatives: my own parents divorcing messily means all parents everywhere should be forced to remain together no matter how bad it gets or what happens to them or their children by remaining with someone violent/dangerous/addicted/abusive. since my parents used the tool of divorce wrong, nobody should ever be allowed to. divorce is simply too dangerous a tool to trust anyone with

like can you guys at least be consistent about what you believe re: tools and whether they're evil or just misused

bonus content, let's really unpack what "divorce is evil" means in practice rather than as a slogan:

"no exceptions" conservatives: I don't believe in any exceptions, there is no such thing as marital rape or abuse and even if there was it should be either tolerated or celebrated; after all, women physically belong to their husbands and MUST wordlessly, joyfully submit no matter how violent and immoral he is, to atone for the sin of being born that way. If he wants to rape or beat her to death, that's his right before God, she probably even deserved it. Men who are battered by their wives are pussy-whipped cowards who should be mocked and suicide baited. And men who are raped "probably had a great time heh heh heh". Oh, only if it's straight rape from their wife or another woman, though, if you get raped by a f*ggot you should just kill yourself. Statistically I'm christian and I think Jesus would probably be pleased with this behavior

"limited divorce" conservatives: even if I do believe in "some" divorce, I think they should have to prove it to a criminal-court standard ("beyond the shadow of a doubt") by documenting their own abuse in the middle of it and somehow hiding and then successfully smuggling away the evidence in an era where you can gps track another human being. This doesn't strike me as cruel and unreasonable at all.

"limited divorce" conservatives part 2: If I believe in marital rape-- and most conservatives who make exceptions for abuse still don't-- then I think married women and men who have been raped by their spouse should have to rush as fast as possible immediately after the act to have a cop scrape their partner's semen/fluids out/off of their bodies while they're in a vulnerable state. The officers involved are statistically likely to mock them or discard the rape test afterwards but that just discourages liars, when a real victim gets raped again they can just come back, what's a few more, let's not be hasty to break up a sacred union over one rape after all! Then, after all that, they should beg their case to a stranger who has the right to decide whether or not they're allowed to run away. If the judge is a buddy of the defendant or the plaintiff just isn't very good at talking or the judge hurts their own wife/husband and likes that kind of thing or the plaintiff is too afraid to speak up and the defendant wins the case... then oh well, that's good actually, they should just "work it out" (aka one partner is violated or harmed until they become incapable of resisting and the "problems stop" because they suffocate their own soul. jesus would also want this probably). The fact that a failed attempt to obtain a divorce against someone who IS abusive will guarantee the retaliatory torture, rape or even murder of a person is an acceptable risk to make sure the illusion of harmony is maintained.

You can have no-fault divorce, or you can have that. There is no way to require "proof" or a "good enough" reason to get away from another human being that will not leave many, many people to slip through the cracks. If you place the burden of criminal proof on the victim to obtain, compile and provide, and they are entirely responsible for saving themselves, and even then no matter what they do-- even if they bring multiple videos of their partner violently raping or beating them on camera, this happens literally every single day in courts around the world-- strangers can still say "yes, they did that to you, but that shouldn't count and you are legally required to continue suffering through this for the rest of your life" then, well, you get what we USED to have: murder and suicide. If you give someone no other avenue to escape their pain, that's all that remains.

As nicely as I possibly can: If you don't believe any of that horrifying shit then it sounds like your problem is with the way your parents, specifically, used the tool of divorce. In that case, your parents choosing to behave that way is why you ended up so hurt. Do you honestly think you would have been happier and safer if the people you are describing were forced to spend the rest of their lives together, or that "knowing divorce exists" is why they were fighting? Or do you think maybe they would have been unwell and harmful no matter where they lived or what excuse they used, and you just wish you hadn't been hurt so bad, and this is the most accessible solution you can think of to a massive, awful problem that you shouldn't have had to face alone?

i love divorce i love when people realize that they aren't a good fit for each other and get divorced about it. more people should get divorced

[cripplecharacters]

Is there any list of stuff you wanted to see more in autistic representation? I'm autistic and I'm quite "stereotype material": white savant male good at STEM and who's not aroace but don't want a partner, and it bugs me that it's always like that, so I wanted to know what other people would like to see when I try writing autistic people.

Hi!

Honestly, I just want more autistic characters in general. There are hardly any!

Here are some things that I have never seen represented:

characters with mid-high support needs, both related and unrelated to autism

characters who use AAC [link to post about high/low/no tech aac] and who struggle to communicate

characters with cerebral palsy, tourette's, intellectual disability, or any other common comorbid condition that's not ADHD

characters who don't live with their parents

characters who don't infodump or know a lot of facts about their special interests, just that their interests are the things they engage with

characters whose special interests aren't "useful" to their life

characters with "unusual" sensory needs (for example i always see characters who hate loud noises and bright lights, but i know many autistic people in real life who are not bothered by those or actively seek them out)

characters misdiagnosed in childhood with ODD or another common misdiagnosis, or neglected as a "difficult kid" even if they have higher support needs

characters who use gait trainers, adaptive strollers, or manual tilt in space chairs

characters who have a supportive community or know multiple other autistic people

adult characters in day programs

queer characters, especially ones whose sexuality or gender is difficult to separate from their autism

characters who have harmful stims and not only when they're upset

characters who are not big. (this might seem weird but there are a surprising number of tall/large/imposing autistic characters, especially those with higher support needs; that's not what every autistic person looks like!)

So Many More!! If every autistic writer made a character who was just like them, each one would have at least one autistic trait that has not been represented before.

Mod Rock

Hello!

To be honest, just characters that don't generalize autism. On one hand you have "representation" that's all "all autistics are boys, 12 or under, who like trains and barely speak" and on the other you have "hi, I'm a very low/no support needs autistic who is very socially acceptable and lol like imagine liking trains instead of having Real and Cool special interests like me" (sometimes it's overdone to the point the character quite literally doesn't have any autistic traits). Too much autistic representation made to combat a specific stereotype just ends up shitting on the people who do in fact exist. Some people say that "ahh all autistic rep is those damn boys with they trains!!" but I don't think anyone would say that this kind of representation is actually good or thoughtful - not because of the train or the boy, but because these characters are barely treated as humans most of the time.

We need more complex representation of all parts of the spectrum, from successful savants in STEM to "obviously disabled" autistics who are intellectually disabled, have huge mobility delays, and stim at all times, to "everyday" people who just have their special interest, don't get social cues, and are kinda awkward.

I'll take a "stereotypical" character that's actually explored and developed properly over a cardboard that's there to be a "subversion of autistic stereotypes" any day.

mod Sasza

Hi,

I largely agree with the mods above. Mostly I want autistic characters treated like people and not plot devices.

But I wanted to say specifically: I want autistic characters of color. I am basically begging to see more autistic characters who are not just white people. We exist too, and really I barely see characters who have autism and aren't white.

Also, I want to see autistic characters with romantic and/or sexual partners. I feel like autistic characters are often desexualized or infantilized in a way that has them only rarely having a partner.

And I also want to see autistic characters whose special interest[s] isn't "useful" to their life, it's just there. Just part of their life. Like, it isn't their job. I feel like that's often a default.

Like Sasza said, we really need more complex and thoughtful representation of the spectrum. I don't need 'subversion' of autistic stereotypes, not particularly.

The subversion itself would be an autistic character being more than a plot device and portrayed with thought and care to the things that make their life difficult, the ways their autism affects the way they interact with others and the world, the things that make the person unique and themselves, and not just focusing on one of those aspects and ignoring everything else.

Hope this helps,

mod sparrow

[knitmeatardis]

Making Up for Lost Time

I can't believe I am actually posting this, but you all have given me such lovely Hotch x reader fics, I felt the need to add my own contribution. I do not usually write this kind of thing, usually slash all the way, but here we are. For my favorite Hotch smut dealer @aureatelys

Words: ~6.9K; Rating: 18+; Aaron Hotchner x fem bau!librarian!reader

Warnings: safe p in v sex, oral sex (f receiving), canon typical violence, reader is being stalked and threatened, smut, no use of y/n

There’s a certain anonymity involved in being the research librarian for the BAU. No one really takes notice of you, and you assume no one even knows your name, while you get to watch and observe everyone and get to know them from afar. Spencer and Derek, messing with each other like brothers. Emily, so assured and beautiful, confident in everything she does, especially the way she moves. JJ, open and warm despite the daily horrors she deals with. Rossi, the pater familia of the whole crew. Garcia is the only one you have any real rapport with, but she spends so much time in her cave that you rarely see her.

The only one you can’t get a read on is Hotch. In fact, you only know he goes by Hotch because that’s how you hear the rest of the team refer to him. You know he has a son and his ex-wife was killed. You know he’s often the first one here and the last one to leave. But his stern expression never really seems to change. He’s always polite to you, nodding his thanks when you bring the files he needs, but rarely speaks. 

So it is all a bit of a shock when JJ stops me in the hallway. “Hey,” she greets you, but her face is pinched, worried. “We need you in the conference room.”

“Me?” you blanch, frozen to the spot.

“Yes. You. Right now,” JJ says, taking files out of your arms and walking quickly toward the conference room. 

You follow in her wake, feeling like a bug under a microscope when you enter behind JJ and everyone’s eyes turn to look at you. It may be the first time most of them have ever really seen you. 

Hotch stands behind a chair and looks at you. He pats it. “Sit, please.” 

His voice is gentle, soft, almost apologetic. He offers his hand to you to guide me into a chair. His touch makes a strange flutter go through your body but with the way everyone is acting, it’s too hard to focus on it. 

“What’s going on?” 

“I’m sorry, but I need you to confirm,” Hotch says, looking at the screen and pressing a button, “that these pictures are of you.” 

The screen fills with pictures of you outside your apartment, outside the grocery store, on the Metro on the way to work, and most alarmingly, through the curtains into your bedroom while you were undressing. Your blood runs cold. You clear your throat. “Yes. Those – those are all of me. What’s – I’ve never seen anyone…”

“These photos were sent to the bureau,” Hotch explains. “To me, specifically. It’s obviously a threat of some kind, but it isn’t clear exactly what’s going on.”

“Who else knows you work here?” Rossi asks. 

“I mean, lots of people know I work for the FBI. It’s on all of my forms and employment records. Friends and family. But only my immediate family knows I work with the BAU. I don’t discuss it with anyone. Not anyone.”  You can feel your heart racing and your stomach churns. “I think I’m going to be sick.” 

You can feel Emily following you as you run for the ladies’ room. She’s waiting near the sink with a wet paper towel as you finish vomiting. You’re shaking violently and it feels like your legs are going to go out from under you.

“We’re not going to let anything happen to you,” she reassures you, pressing the towel to your forehead. “Do you think you can come back to the conference room and listen to the plan?” 

You nod and follow Emily back to the conference room. Everyone else has cleared out, leaving just Hotch and you and the pictures up on the screen. You can’t help the way your eyes are drawn to them. Emily puts her hand on your shoulder for a moment and then leaves us alone. Hotch reaches over and turns off the television. 

“I know this is distressing –” 

“Why you?” you ask suddenly. “We’re not close. I’m not a regular member of the team. You’re only nominally my boss. I mean, technically I report to you but I spend more of my time reporting to the other librarians. We barely speak.”

Hotch’s brow draws together as he looks at you. “That’s a good question. We think that whoever this is has cast me in the role of protector and he has chosen you as the object of his delusion. He wants to draw me out for a confrontation.”

“So, what’s the plan?” 

“We’re going to give him what he wants,” Hotch says, putting his hand over yours.

….

The next several hours are a blur. The team stash you in Garcia’s lair, deep inside the bureau and away from any windows. Garcia arms you with several of her comfort tokens to keep you safe. As soon as the team is ready, you’re shuffled down to the garage and into the back of an SUV. Hotch sits next to you while Morgan drives, Prentiss next to him.

“Once we get surveillance on your apartment set up,” Hotch says to you, “I’ll take the first watch. He’s going to want to see me protecting you.”

“I understand.” Of course he’s watching you. That’s what the photographs were all about. Making sure you knew that he could see you but you couldn’t see him. “And if there’s anything I need, I should call you.” 

“Right,” Hotch says. He’s gone over all of the protocols with you several times, but he seems to understand that you repeating them is your way of dealing with your anxiety. “Agent Morgan will be walking the perimeter as well.” 

You nod, looking out the window at the scenery without really seeing it. When you get to your apartment, Hotch keeps his arm tight around you as Morgan and Prentiss lead and take up the rear, respectively. Despite the circumstances, something about the way he’s holding you makes a little thrill go down your spine. 

The three of them are efficient, almost brutally so. You want to laugh and cry at how comfortable they are with setting up this kind of surveillance. They barely even have to talk while they’re doing it. Still, it’s getting dark by the time they’re done. 

“I can only imagine how invasive this feels,” Hotch says, his voice gentle as he sits next to you on the sofa. “As much as possible tonight, go about your normal routine. In the morning, one of us will pick you up for work.” 

“Normal routine,” you huff. “At the moment, I can barely think of what that is.” 

“Well. I know when I get home, I like to take off my tie, maybe fix myself a drink.” Hotch gives you a small smile. “Just close your eyes a second. Think about what you’d be doing if none of us were here.” 

Obediently, you close your eyes and take a deep breath. “The first thing I do is change into my pajamas and fix myself something for dinner, I guess. I’m pretty domesticated and boring.” 

“There’s nothing boring about having a normal life,” Hotch says. “We’ll leave you to it. And I’ll be just outside.”

“Thank you, Agent Hotchner.”

“C’mon,” he says, tilting his head and giving you a smirk. “It’s Hotch.” 

“Hotch,” you say with a small smile. 

….

You try not to think about the microphones and cameras around the apartment as you go through the motions of eating something and watching television. You work on some craft projects, not really paying attention to any of it. You keep listening for someone outside or trying to come into the apartment. Finally you give up and get into bed, but all you can do is toss and turn. 

You contemplate picking up the phone and talking to Hotch, but you don’t want to distract him. On the other hand, he did say to reach out if you needed anything. And all you really want to do is sleep. You cave in, too exhausted to care about seeming weak or needy. You pick up the phone and call him.

“Hey. You alright?” Hotch answers immediately.

“I’m fine.” You huff. “I just can’t sleep. I keep listening for someone to come in.” 

“That’s not going to happen. I’m here,” he says, his voice calm and certain. It feels warm. “Would it help if we talked?” 

“Agent Morgan can’t hear us, can he?” 

“No, he can’t hear us. Tell me what’s going on.”

You laugh humorlessly. “Oh, you know. I’m just staring up at my ceiling thinking about some random guy out there who wants to maybe kill me or kill you or both, so not much really. What’s going on with you?” 

Hotch chuckles. “Fair enough,” he says. “I’m just sitting outside a nice woman’s apartment trying to make sure that no one hurts her. So not a lot going on here, either.” 

That startles a real laugh out of you. “So yeah, boring.” 

“All totally normal.” Hotch smiles to himself. “Tell me something about you,” he says. “How long have you been at the FBI?” 

“You already know the answer to that,” you say. “You hired me.” 

“So? Tell me again.” 

“I’ve been a librarian at the Bureau for about five years,” you say. “After I got my masters in library science from Georgetown. I never thought that a librarian would be needed for something like the BAU, but once I started working with the unit, I loved it.” 

Hotch leans back in his seat, looking at my apartment, imagining you laying in bed on the phone. “That’s not something I hear very often.”

“I imagine there’s a lot of burnout,” you say. “And if I was an agent, I’m not sure I could hack it. But when you all come home and you’ve saved someone or brought someone to justice, I get to feel like a little tiny part of that. It’s not a bad feeling.” 

“I probably don’t say it enough, but we value your help. We couldn’t research everything we need to on our own.”

“Of course not. You need to get your boots on the ground. I know that,” you say. You pause, worrying at your lower lip. “Before today, though, I couldn’t be sure any of you even knew my name.” 

There’s a long silence on the other end of the phone. “I know your name. I’ve always known it.” He clears his throat. “We’ve always known it.” 

“Thanks, Hotch,” you say softly. 

“You’re welcome,” he says, just as soft. “How are you feeling now? A little less anxious?”

“A little, yes. Thank you, Hotch.” You smile into the darkness. “Your voice is very soothing. And, forget I said that because that’s just embarrassing.” 

“No, it’s fine.” Hotch isn’t able to keep the smile out of his voice. “I’m glad I can help. Do you think you can sleep now?” 

“I think I’m ready to try again,” you say to him. “Seriously, thank you. For everything.”

He clears his throat again. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow might be a long day.” 

….

You’re groggy and grumpy and still in your pajamas when Hotch calls you from outside your front door. You check the peephole like he instructed and then let him in. 

“Good morning,” he says softly, holding out a cup of coffee to stall any protests. 

All you can do is grunt and accept the cup, taking a long sip. It’s perfect. Exactly the way you take it. You look at Hotch, lifting an eyebrow but saying nothing. “Give me five minutes to fix my hair and put clothes on,” you say to him, turning away back toward your bedroom.

“You have at least ten,” he says, looking around your front room. You try to imagine what he’s seeing and the conclusions he’s drawing as he looks over your family photos, nerdy collectibles, books, and stuffed animals. You brush your hair and throw on some lipstick, thanking your past self for having your closet organized in such a way that makes it easy to pick something out and put it on. 

You emerge from the bedroom, put together and ready to go. “Told you I only needed five,” you say, pushing your hair off my face. 

There’s a moment when he looks at you that something surprised and interested crosses his face, but he quickly masks it with his patented professional stoicism. “Let’s go, then,” he says, holding an arm out to usher you ahead of him as he opens the door. Hotch escorts you down to street level. There’s an agent you don’t know driving as Hotch helps you into the backseat.

“I’m going to start expecting this kind of treatment all the time now,” you say lightly to him as he joins you. 

Hotch smirks at you, lifting an eyebrow. He doesn’t say anything, just settles into the seat next to you. This drive is less anxious than the one the previous day, even though you’re still mostly looking out the window. Hotch is a solid, calming presence next to you. 

“You’re so gentle,” you say out of nowhere, immediately blushing. “Sorry. I was just – I’ve seen you during briefings and with the team and you’re direct. Concise. I wasn’t expecting you to be so warm with me. Encouraging and solicitous.” You shake your head. 

Hotch nods in acknowledgement. “Not everyone gets to see that side of me. It’s usually when bad things happen.” He glances at you. “I’m working on it.” 

“Well, just know that I appreciate it,” you tell him, putting your hand lightly on top of his. There’s a small tinge of red across his cheeks, but he slips his hand out from under yours quickly enough that you think you might have imagined it. The rest of the ride passes in comfortable silence. 

When you get to Quantico and up to the 6th floor, Hotch walks you to your office. “While you’re in the building, you can move around freely. But if you have to go outside for anything, get one of us and we’ll walk you.” 

You take a steadying breath and nod. “I will. Thank you.”

He puts a soft hand on your elbow. “This isn’t going to be forever. We’ll find him. I promise.” 

“I believe you,” you say, offering him whatever kind of smile you can manage. He nods at you and drops his hand, heading away as you go into my office. Without his hand on your arm, you feel suddenly cold, but you try to shake it off and concentrate on your work. You can already see that the messages light on your phone is blinking. 

Trying to recapture some sense of normalcy, you sit at your desk and check your email, looking to see if there’s anything urgent that needs attending to. Then you start with your voicemail. The first ten messages are normal, mundane, then there’s the last one. All it contains is a long exhale and then a low laugh before he says, “I see you have your knight in shining armor giving you rides, walking you into the building. That’s good. It’ll be all the easier to kill you both.”

Your blood runs cold, but you manage to hit save on the voicemail system. Your fingers are numb when you pick up the phone and call Hotch’s extension. It feels like seconds between when you hang up and when he’s there in your office. Penelope has already pulled the voicemail off the servers and saved it to her own system, but he wants to hear it for himself. It’s somehow more disturbing the second time through. When you look up at Hotch, his lips are pressed into a hard, thin line. 

“Does he sound familiar to you?” he asks you. 

“No. But I talk to a lot of people when I’m processing requests. Everyone starts to sound the same after a bit.” 

“He sounds familiar to me.” He frowns and crosses his arms. “As soon as I find out more, I’ll tell you,” Hotch promises, looking you in the eyes before he leaves. 

You feel like you’re at loose ends, not at all sure what to do with yourself. You start to work on requests and email, but your attention keeps drifting away. Every time your phone rings you think it’s going to be him again, taunting you. Eventually you turn off the ringer and turn to stare into space, until Hotch returns.

“Anything?” you ask, looking up at him. 

He shakes his head. “No. I’m sorry. Penelope is working on it.” Hotch takes a deep breath. “Are you okay back here? I could find a desk for you in the bullpen.”

“I’m fine. I can’t really concentrate, so not much is getting done. But I’m alright.” You try to give him a reassuring smile. “I’ll be fine.” 

“I’ll make sure someone picks up the slack for you,” he says. 

“Hotch, isn’t it safer if I stay at home?” You look at him with wide eyes. “I was hoping that work would be a distraction, but that doesn’t seem to be working out so much.”

“Now that we have confirmation that the threat is to both of us, it’s better to keep you close.” He twitches an eyebrow. “I’ll get Garcia to set you up with some games on your computer.”

You chuckle and duck your head. “Thank you. I’m going to owe you so hard after all of this.”

“You don’t owe me anything. This is what we do for our own.” Hotch lingers in the doorway for a moment and then leaves. 

….

Nothing happens the rest of the day except that you have a new obsession with video games thanks to Penelope. Hotch again rides with you to your apartment, promising to take the first watch again. 

“Hotch, you should go home. I know you have a son. You don’t have to spend another night watching over me when you can go be with him.”

“Jack is on a trip with his aunt and cousins,” he says, ducking his head. “Which is good because since this unsub wants to kill me, too, I’d have to stay away from him anyway.” Hotch looks back at you. “I’d rather stay where I can get to you if I have to.” 

There’s something in his voice, something beyond his professional concern, but it’s too quick to identify. “Okay. Good night, then. If I can’t sleep…”

“Just call me.” He smiles softly. “I’ll be here.” 

Once again you try to go about my evening routine and after you try to go to sleep. When once again you can’t, you talk to Hotch. This time you’re on the phone for almost half an hour before you start yawning and he tells me to go to bed. 

The morning is a repeat of the previous day except there’s no creepy voicemail today. Feeling a little more like you’re on solid ground, you start working. The requests have piled up, despite the help you’re getting from other librarians, so you dig in. Once you generate a list of materials to pull, you head to the archives. 

The stacks are comforting and quiet as they surround you. The smell of paper files is familiar and strangely soothing. You start working through your list, putting files in carts and organizing them per request. You don’t even hear the footsteps as someone comes up behind you. 

“Good morning.”

You jump and whirl, barely biting back a scream. “Jesus! Sean! You scared the shit out of me.” You laugh a little, pushing your hair off your face. “Sorry. Just a little on edge today.” 

Sean looks you over. “That’s what happens when your white knight leaves you alone to fend for yourself.”

That’s when you see the gun. Your eyes go wide, but before you can ask any questions, he pulls you to him, your back pressing against him, the barrel of the gun pressed into your side. 

“Shh, shh, your part in this little drama is almost over. Don’t worry. I’ll kill you quickly. Come on. We have to go see your knight.” 

Sean walks you through the hallways, managing to keep the gun concealed. No one really looks at you, too absorbed in their own tasks to notice. When he pushes you into the bullpen, no one even looks up. 

“They don’t even see you. They don’t care,” he murmurs in your ear. “And it’s a tragedy. So I am going to make sure that they never, ever forget you. Go on. Get their attention.” 

“A-Agent Hotchner!” you call out. Everyone’s heads turn and in an instant he appears at the top of the stairs outside his office. Before you can even take the next breath, the guns of all the agents in the room are pointed in your direction, including Hotch’s.

“Oh, well done,” Sean says to you. He keeps you in front of him, using you as a shield and making sure no one can get behind him. “What are you going to do now, Agent Hotshot!” he says, looking at Hotch. “Huh? You, always in the spotlight, always getting attention! Think you can get me from there, Hotshot? The sniper expert.” Sean sneers at him.

Hotch stares at him for a long moment. “Lower your weapons,” he says, not raising his voice but adding a hard steel. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the rest of the team slowly lower their weapons. His gun doesn’t even waver. “Yes, I can kill you from here.”

You can’t take your eyes off of Hotch, the relaxed but poised stance, his sharp eyes focused on you and the tip of his weapon steady, trained on you.

“Can you do it before I put a bullet in her?” Sean says, ramming the barrel into your ribs and making you whimper. 

“Before, no. Within a heartbeat after, absolutely. But it’s not really what you want. You want to be recognized, you want me to see you,” he says. “Well, Sean. I see you. Now what?” 

“So you know my name. Am I supposed to be impressed? You walk around here like you’re the king of the castle and we’re just peasants under your feet. You have her, right here in front of you every day and you never see her worth,” Sean says, looking at you. 

His arm is so tight around you that you can barely breathe and you’re suddenly afraid that you’ll pass out. “What are you talking about?” you manage.

“You. You’re amazing and they don’t even consider you part of the team. You do everything for them, and they never see you. Not the way that I do. Not the way you should be loved and adored every minute of every day.” Sean’s eyes are adoring for a moment but then they turn hard again. “So I’m going to take you away from them. I’m going to take you away forever, so they will know what it means to live without you like I do. And then I’m going to kill him for every slight you had to take because of him, every late night and exhausting pace and overloaded work. I’m going to punish him for all of it.” 

“Sean, Sean,” you plead, tears streaming down your cheeks. “You don’t need to do that. Agent Hotchner, he’s been amazing. He’s taken such good care of me, and he always has. He’s never treated me badly or ever raised his voice. When I’m working late, he’s right here, working, too.”

“It doesn’t matter!” Sean yells. “He doesn’t see you when it matters! He doesn’t stand up for you! He doesn’t care! And I’m going to prove it.” 

Sean’s grip loosens and he pushes you so that you’re facing him, his gun raised. You scream as strong hands tug you down and away and a shot rings out. You hit the floor hard and you’re immediately covered by the body of whoever pulled you down, protecting you. There’s a terrible silence for a long moment, the sound of your breathing loud in your own ears. Slowly, the body over you – Derek, you realize – starts to move. 

“Hey, sweet heart,” he says, looking down at you as he gets up and then offers a hand down. “How you doing? Are you hurt?” 

“No, I’m alright,” you say, breathless. You keep your eyes on Derek. “Is – is he…?”

“Yeah, yeah he is. I’m sorry,” Derek says, voice gentle. He turns you away and puts his arm around you. 

You hear Hotch’s feet on the stairs as he comes down to the bullpen.

“Put her in my office, Morgan,” he says, still strong but quieter now. “Please.” 

You feel more than see Derek nod and then your feet are moving. He leads you the long way around, through the round table room and along the catwalk around to Hotch’s office, all the while shielding you from the scene below. He closes the door and helps you over to the couch, quickly closing the blinds. “Is there anything I can do for you?” he says, crouching down in front of you.

You haven’t stopped crying, your eyes sting, your ribs and chest hurt from the way Sean had grabbed you and squeezed. You sniffle and wipe at your eyes, letting out a wry, slightly hysterical laugh. “I could use a shot of tequila,” you say, sniffling again. 

“How about some water instead?” Derek says, putting a hand on your knee. 

“Water. Yeah. Water is good.” 

“Good. You just sit here and breathe and I’ll be right back,” he says, standing. You can hear activity outside when he opens the door, but when he closes it again, it is perfectly quiet. You sit on Hotch’s couch, wondering how long it will take your hands to stop shaking.

….

When you wake up, still on Hotch’s couch, you realize that someone has come and put a blanket on you. You’re not sure when you fell asleep, but it was sometime after Derek brought you water. You glance out of the window and realize it must be mid to late afternoon now. You sit up, groggy and confused after the adrenaline crash. You’re only sitting up for a few minutes before Hotch comes in. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks, turning one of his chairs around to face you on the couch. 

“Exhausted.” You rub your face. “I can’t believe Sean did all this.”

Hotch takes a deep breath. “We found more photos of you on his computer. It seems he’s been obsessing over you for some time.”

“I had no idea. He rarely speaks – spoke – to me. I’d smile at him in the stacks or if I saw him in the hallway, but not much else. Why did he fixate on you? And what was all of that about you not considering me part of the team?” 

He opens the file folder he’d brought in with him and hands you some folded paper. You recognize it immediately as the internal FBI newsletter. Inside there’s a profile about Hotch after he broke the record for Quantico’s long-distance sniper accuracy. The article has a picture of the BAU team, naming everyone. The photo was taken in the bullpen, and in the background, there is a blurry picture of you pushing your cart and delivering files to the desks. “He had this pinned up in his office,” Hotch says. “We think this is where it all started.”

You start to laugh and it sounds hysterical to your own ears. “How do you deal with this kind of thing every day? The bizarre thinking and the leaps… that something as small as this could precipitate everything we just went through for the last 48 hours.” You shake your head. “I want to go home.” 

Hotch nods. “I’ll drive you.” 

“No, come on. You’ve done enough,” you say softly, reaching out and touching his knee. “I can make it home on my own.”

“I should take all the surveillance down. And you’re exhausted. This is going to hit you. Hard. You shouldn’t be alone.” 

“Arguing isn’t going to get me anywhere is it?” you ask, smirking. 

“No, it isn’t.” 

You nod and stand. Your legs are still shaky though and you stumble a little. Hotch’s hands are right there to steady you, his breath ghosting over your skin as he holds you. “You’re alright,” he murmurs. 

“Thank you,” you reply, matching his tone. 

He walks you to your office so I can gather your things and then down to the garage. Instead of an FBI SUV, you get into his personal vehicle, you sitting up front with him while he drives. The ride is quiet still, but not the scared, tense silence from the other drives. When you get to your apartment, he escorts you inside, his hand on the small of you back instead of the protective circle from earlier. His body is firm and warm next to yours, and even though the danger is over, you still feel safer with him there.

He goes about collecting the cameras and microphones and putting them in cases as you toe off your shoes and head into your kitchen to look for something to eat. You are still staring into the fridge when Hotch pokes his head in. “I got everything, so…”

“Are you hungry?” you ask, looking up at him. “I’m starving and my fridge is in pathetic shape. I could order something.” 

“That’s not –”

“Just – it’s the least I can do, Hotch. And you said I shouldn’t be alone,” you say, cocking your hip.

Hotch smirks and crosses his arms. “Arguing isn’t going to get me anywhere, right?” 

“Exactly. So. You like thai?” 

Laughing softly, Hotch takes off his suit jacket and drapes it over a chair in your small dining room. “I do. Very much.”

“Good,” you say, pulling your phone out of your pocket and starting a delivery order. You hand it to him when you’re done. “Get whatever you want. I’m going to change.”

When you come out of the bedroom in your pajamas, a tank top and knee-length short pants, Hotch is in your kitchen opening a bottle of wine. He turns his head when he hears me approach. You notice that his tie is off, too, and his sleeves are rolled up to show his forearms. Your mouth waters for a moment. 

“I hope you don’t mind. I thought some wine might be helpful.”

“You know your way around a kitchen,” you say, approving. “Thank you.” You accept the glass from him after he pours and go sit on your couch. You drink in comfortable silence for a couple of moments, just sitting there examining his profile. “I meant what I said, by the way,” you say into the quiet. “About you taking great care of me. I appreciate everything you’ve done.” 

“Like I said, we look out for our own,” he says, turning his head and looking at you. His face is soft and affectionate before he lowers his gaze back to his hands. “He was wrong, you know, about me not seeing you, not knowing your worth. When I saw him there with you, that gun pressed into your side…” He shakes his head. “The idea of living without you in my life really scared me.” He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, looking suddenly shy.

“Hotch… what are you saying?” Your hands tighten around your glass. It’s no secret that Hotch is attractive, and the way you’ve gotten to know him over the last couple of days has been alluring. 

“I’m saying that I have been trying to maintain my professionalism,” he says, “around you. For some time now.” He licks his lips. “I know a lot about you. How you take your coffee. That you like the burritos from the place 10 blocks away even though there’s a place just around the corner. I know you have a sweet tooth. You get stressed out when there’s a chance of snow in the forecast.”

You laugh at that one. “You have been watching closely.” 

“It is sort of my job.” He gives you a small smile. Then he puts his hand palm up on the couch between you, offering it to you to take. “But I’ll admit that I had additional motivation where you were concerned.”

“Hotch…”

“Aaron. We’re off the clock. You should call me Aaron.” 

You slip you hand into his. “Aaron. Why didn’t you say anything?” 

“I’m your boss. And I didn’t want the risk of something going bad between us and losing you. You are part of the team. We need you.” 

“Still, I wish you’d said something. We could have been doing this the whole time,” you say, leaning in and pressing your lips to his. The kiss is soft, almost chaste, but his free hand comes up to caress your jaw.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks, thumb tracing your jaw line. 

“No,” you say looking him in the eyes. “I’m worried about transference and hero worship and all those kinds of things, but at the moment all I know is that your hand is warm and I want you to touch me.” 

Aaron takes the glass out of your hand and puts it on the coffee table before tugging you closer and over into his lap. He cups your jaw in both hands and pulls you into another kiss. This one is hotter, wetter, his tongue sliding between your lips and exploring your mouth. 

You moan softly, pressing against him as he moves his mouth to your jaw and the side of your neck. You tilt your head back, encouraging him as his hands grip your waist hard. You can feel him as he starts to harden in his dress pants, and you can’t help rubbing your hips into him. “Fuck, Aaron,” you murmur, running your hands all over his chest. His hands slip under your shirt, caressing the small of your back. “Bedroom. Please, Aaron. I need to feel you.” 

“What about dinner?” 

“It can wait,” you murmur, running your fingers into his hair and claiming his lips again.

Aaron helps you onto your feet, then stands and scoops you into his arms. He carries you into your bedroom and lays you across the mattress, covering you with his body. He kisses you over and over, his hands slipping under your shirt and caressing your breast over your sports bra. You hook your leg over his hip, arching up into him.

“Aaron…” you moan. “God, you feel so good.” 

“You’re incredible,” he murmurs, his already deep voice dropping into something even darker. “So stupid… wasted time. When I could have been –”

“Hey,” you say, putting your hand on his cheek. Then a wicked smile curls your lips. “You’ll find a way to make it up to me,” you tease.

Aaron actually laughs, his whole face relaxing. “Challenge accepted,” he says, licking his lips. His hands are deft and efficient as he removes your pajamas, and together you work on his dress shirt and the belt of his dress pants. You can’t help giggling as you get tangled up in a flurry of limbs and discarded clothing, but finally you’re able to press skin to skin, his mouth fastened on your neck and collarbone.

“God, Aaron…” you arch against him, your breasts dragging through his chest hair. “I need you.”

Pulling back, Aaron smirks at you but also tenderly pushes hair off your face. “I’m right here,” he murmurs. He shifts his kisses to the base of your throat and then over the curve of one breast, sucking your nipple between his teeth and making you gasp. His mouth travels down your body, his tongue seeking out any place that seems enticing to him. When he reaches my ribs, he runs his thumb over the skin and you wince, realizing that you must already be bruised badly. Aaron presses a soft kiss to the spot before he moves on. 

Gently, he pushes your thighs open, and you groan as the cool air hits your hot skin. You arch as his tongue dips inside your folds, grazing your clit. He wraps his arms around your thighs, your knees bent over his shoulders as he licks and sucks on you. His chin and the stubble across his jaw rubs at the sensitive skin. His tongue teases at your entrance and then up to your clit. You reach back and wrap your fingers into the pillow as pleasure races along your spine. You’re breathless and panting, waves and waves of intense need and want running through you. 

“Oh, god… god, Aaron. I’m – I’m gonna…”

Aaron sucks hard on your clit in response, slipping two fingers deep inside you. You arch and cry out as my orgasm swamps you. He licks and caresses you through it, helping you come down. Your heart is racing and you’re blinking fast to try to get your vision back online as he crawls back over you, licking his fingers and wiping his mouth. You grab his face in both hands and draw him to you for a kiss. Your tastes are mixed in his mouth and all you can do is moan. You can feel how hard he is, his tip teasing at your skin. 

“I need you to fuck me,” you murmur, still holding his face and looking into his eyes. 

“Do you –”

“In the nightstand,” you say, gesturing at the drawer. 

Aaron lifts his eyebrow and smirks but says nothing as he shifts to reach over to the nightstand. He locates the condoms easily, and kneels up to show you as he rips the packet open. You can hear him sliding it on, his mouth dropping open as he wraps his hand around himself. “Fuck, what you’ve done to me,” he groans as he drags you closer and pushes inside you. 

You gasp as he fills me up, the tip of his cock rubbing in exactly the right places. One hand is braced on your headboard while the other tenderly caresses your skin as he starts to move. Ecstasy settles across his stern features and you pant and moan together. He makes the most delightful soft sounds as he works inside you, his eyes screwed shut in pleasure. Your pleasure is spiralling up again, the coil tightening in your spine, but you push it down. You want to come with him, you want to crash through the barrier at the same time. 

“Close… fuck, I’m so close,” he groans.

You run your fingers into his hair, tugging gently. “Yes. Yes, god. Aaron. Let me feel you.” 

Aaron’s hips fall out of rhythm as he chases his pleasure. He groans, low and long, as he shudders through his orgasm. The feel of him twitching inside you sends you over the edge. You grind your hips against him as you come, your head thrown back in pleasure. 

“Fuck… are you okay? Did I hurt you?” Aaron asks, braced above you. He pushes hair off your face, his eyes laced with concern. 

“Right now, I am feeling zero pain,” you say, giggling as you look up at him. “I am riding the high of two spectacular orgasms. Jesus.” You caress his face and lean up so you can kiss him again. 

Aaron drags his fingers along your jaw as you kiss. He slips out of you and rolls onto his back before efficiently removing and disposing of the condom. When he returns to the bed, he gathers you into his arms, caressing the curve of your shoulder and pressing a kiss to your temple. 

“You’re so incredible,” you murmur, your hand caressing his pecs and abs. “You make me feel so amazing.” 

“You’re amazing,” Aaron counters. He runs his fingers through your hair and caresses the nape of your neck with his thumb. “I didn’t think sexy librarian was one of my types but then I met you.” 

You laugh, pressing a kiss to his chest. “Isn’t sexy librarian everyone’s type?” you ask, teasing. You tilt your face up and grin when you get another kiss. “So. Does this make us officially a thing?” 

When you look up, Aaron is blushing delightfully as he smiles. “I wouldn’t begin to presume…”

You laugh again, shaking your head. “If you think I’m letting you go easily after all of this, you have another thing coming,” you say. “We’ll figure it all out. But I’m not giving up the chance to maybe have something great.”

Aaron nods, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “Neither am I.” 

Your breathing settles and evens out and you can feel yourself starting to drift when both of your stomachs rumble loudly. You giggle. “Our food is probably downstairs in the lobby,” you say. 

“I’ll get it,” he says, sliding out from under you. “We’ll need the fuel for later.” 

“Later?” you ask, lifting your eyebrows and biting your lip. 

“I’m not nearly done making up for lost time with you, yet,” he says, grinning.