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neonnoir-ao3 · 4 years ago

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Some Words of Comfort.

Recently, I’ve seen a lot of people (especially those who have read spoilers/are actively searching for leaked content) lament about their future reactions to the deaths of our beloved characters in-game.

We all knew this was inevitable, and that them living was not an option for the plot of the game, but the time has finally come to face it head-on.

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I understand that someone outside this community might be like “it’s just a game”, but I know it’s way more than that to many: the concept of a female villain that, to many, can be seen as sympathizable and even endearing, is a bit of a new concept— especially on such a large scale as this instance.

In addition, Lady Dimitrescu and her daughters have become a bit of a comfort item for some (with an emphasis on sapphics/wlw, from what I’ve seen personally) in the form of a large, protective, and caring hypothetical partner, or even just a maternal character one can appreciate simply because of her love for her children. Regardless, most of us are here due to some desire for comfort.

Take my own story with this community, for example:

(tws for death, covid, suicide, and general medical emergencies)

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Frankly, 2020 and the beginning of 2021 have ruined me. I lost two men who were the only two positive father figures I’ve ever had. The last of the two tested positive for covid and deteriorated within days, to the point where less than a week after testing positive, my family was making the choice to pull the plug. This all occurred days before Christmas and my birthday. On the first day of the spring semester, having not had the time to properly mourn my grandfather, my mother is in the ER for multiple days with an internal infection that doctors said likely would have turned septic if she had waited to come in any longer. This led to three surgeries throughout the next few months. (Oh, and one of my relatives quite literally dropped dead on that first day of class, too). I am also estranged from one of my parents, and they have been trying to contact my family: they have multiple untreated mental illnesses (severe NPD, bipolar, and more) and they are extremely aggressive in that state of mind and they are agitated extremely easily. That only brings more stress, along with resurfacing trauma and related emotions. Every moment of every day has been a struggle. So much so that I failed half of my classes voluntarily simply because I couldn't do them anymore.

To be perfectly honest with you, I didn’t expect to be here right now. I expected that the pain of simply moving forward would have finally overridden my fears of death and that I would have already ended my suffering by now.

Then, in late January, I saw something trending on Twitter. About a new female villain in an upcoming horror game. And it went from there.

As cheesy as it sounds, this fandom and its content seriously saved my life. In the darkest of days, I’ve come to this tag for comfort. The oddest way I found said comfort was through those who were attracted to Alcina aesthetically. I have extremely long-term trauma related to being bullied and being the victim of a hybrid catfishing/'Oreo Game' on early social media by peers in middle school to the point where I do not think of myself as being able to be loved, let alone being worthy of it. Finding this community not only provided a great form of escapism (and opened a door into a fantasy world where I could imagine my own person vampire milf gf), but also gained a little bit of self-esteem (as many of you know, I share a lot of visual qualities with Alcina. -yes, I'm still kinda freaked out about it-) via seeing people where features/attributes like mine were actively praised and desired rather than insulted and pushed away like they have been until now.

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(okay sorry that kinda turned into a trauma dump but I needed to emphasize the fact that this community has seriously helped me during a really dark point in my life, and I know I can't be the only one with that sort of experience)

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What I’m trying to get across here is that, like many others, this community and its content have been comforting and therapeutic, and it really is more than just a game to us. It’s entertaining and even a form of escapism in these extremely trying times. We all have some degree of PTSD from surviving a literal mass plague— and this is something we're using as a method of coping. a distraction. a coping mechanism.

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With that being said, here are some ways to hopefully assist in lessening the emotional stress:

(please note that I am not a mental health professional and these may not be healthy coping mechanisms for everyone.)

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Understand that it’s just a game.

I know, this sounds completely counterintuitive, but it’s more or less about keeping your level of immersion down. Personally, I can’t do scary shit in general: I have to listen to music on low volume while watching dark ARG vids at night or when I’m alone because I get too into it, and then my paranoia kicks in. Sometimes just pausing for a moment and grounding yourself/reminding yourself that this is a video game: a jumble of code and 3D rendering that doesn’t have to affect your views/headcanons if you don’t want it to. Did your favorite character just get slaughtered? Nope, that 3D rendering of them just got un-alived, that’s all.

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Ignorance is Bliss/We are the Captain Now

Simple: Capcom can’t even pronounce Dimitrescu right, or even acknowledge the way it’s correctly said in Romanian culture itself. How can you trust them to give you a perfect canon? That’s the thing: with that logic, you can’t. What they say is true means little (if anything, for that matter) to your headcanons and preexisting ideas of the Dimitrescus. In short: fuck ‘em.

I’m currently seeking a double major in pop culture, and one of the cool things I’ve learned so far is affirmational vs transformational fandom. Affirmational is where official canon is seen as the law of the land, and followed to a T. Transformational is seen as much more inviting for audiences, allowing them to bend canon as they wish to fit their own creations. This fandom is obviously transformational, so take that game canon, rip it up, and get back to whatever you were doing.

Capcom’s canon is not the end-all, be-all. Far from it, actually.

Want to still acknowledge canon? Godmod your way out of it.

Character A died? It’d be a shame if they emerged from the rubble they 'died in' a few hours later, very beaten but alive nonetheless... how awful would it be if they sulked away, nursed their wounds, and continued to live... (/s)

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Ignore it completely.

Remember: give it time. Once the game drops, there w be a wave of grief, but eventually, we as a community will recover, and get back to business as usual. Think about it like the in any way. Stay with the version in your head that makes you happy.

Get Creative!

If you're into creating fanart, writing fics, or even just posting a list of headcanons, take some advice from the late Carrie Fisher: "Take your broken heart, and make it into art". Make the fluff oneshot of your dreams! Draw the fanart you've been wanting to! dump lighthearted headcanons into the tags! Not only will it cheer you up, but sharing it with the community will spread the love!

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I know a lot of people are struggling with this emotionally (especially with the pandemic making entertainment like this even more important sources of escapism and coping mechanisms) and I hope that, at the very least, I was able to help comfort one person who reads this.

Remember: give it time. Once the game drops, there will be a wave of grief, but eventually, we as a community will recover, and get back to business as usual. Think about it like the flowers that bloom after major wildfires: after a period of loss, some beautiful can still come of it.

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💙

#tall vampire lady #lady alcina #lady dimitrescu #daniela dimitrescu #castle dimitrescu #alcina dimitrescu #dimitrescu daughters #dimitrescu family #dimitrescu sisters #cassandra dimitrescu #countess dimitrescu #house dimitrescu #resident evil #re: village #resident evil village #resident evil: village

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karezzasstuff · 3 years ago

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From the project of interviewing Stanley S. Bass about his experiences with Karezza techniques, The Life Science Publishing created the 2008 book Energy-Karezza. Here Dr. Bass tells the story of how, in his 30’s, he was on his way to become a celibate yogi through Brahmacharya, when he learned about reaching the same spiritual goal via Karezza & Tantra. He decided to try Karezza instead.

Even though his personal goal was spiritual, Dr. Bass soon discovered that women loved Karezza, and couldn’t get enough. When he started teaching the improved Energy-Karezza method to couples with marital problems, the results were astounding. Usually, within weeks, the couple had fallen in love again. Problematic marriages healed, becoming more and more harmonious and stronger with time.

Over time, over 50+ years, he not only gained experience concerning every aspect of Karezza/Tantra, but also – thanks to his energy-understanding, being an orthopathic doctor – developed an improved, more powerful & easy-to-learn, version. Traditional “Karezza/Tantra” can be difficult for men, but “Energy-Karezza/Tantra” is easy, and also gives more pleasure & prolongation..

INTRODUCING OTHERS TO KAREZZA

youtube

Karezza is about one thing, the man has to control himself. It is so easy. I got so good at this control that I soon was able to go almost a whole year with no accidents. With very heavy sex - three times a week, four hours each session. It didn't take long to get to a high level of proficiency.

In a few months I was very good at it already.

It is very simple, it is natural. It is not difficult. Prove it for yourself, don't take my word for it. Try it out. The first time I heard about it, it was strange to me, so I tried it. It didn't take me long to get good at it. It was easier than I thought. In fact, I taught Karezza to a lot of friends, and everyone had success.

If one of them asked me, "how do I know if it will work?", I gave him a simple method of trying it. I usually said, "why don't you first try:

1. Don't have an orgasm quickly, but wait until the woman is finished, until she has had her enjoyment. Practice holding back for half an hour, for an hour, for several hours, if you can.

2. Then you'll see that your own orgasms are better; they are more enjoyable.

3. Also try having an orgasm only every other time you have sex.

Skipping one time. Every other time, try without orgasm. See how you feel."

With my sex students, those were my instructions, to begin with. These instructions summarize basic traditional Karezza. But these simple instructions could still be difficult for some men. They lost control (ejaculated) early, and were never able to do Karezza for a full hour.

Therefore, to make it easier, I gave my students some Energy-Karezza secrets. I asked them to improve their diet, and to avoid alcohol and all drugs. I told them not to eat before sex, because a man can not control himself after he has eaten. Why? Because then too much blood goes to the stomach.

Also, I gave very detailed instructions on the best movements in sex. I told them to move slowly, and explained how to move, so they wouldn't get too excited, e.g. sideways, in semicircles, avoiding the in-out moves.

For the premature ejaculators, I told them to give up salt, and to not use anything spicy hot, avoid hot peppers, stay away from spices, because this throws them out of control. And then I told them to use certain motions, slow motions, that makes it easy to control oneself. That's all.

Then the women will get the pleasure, because the men are controlling themselves.

For some men the pleasure was so overwhelming that they were still unable to control themselves very long, more than perhaps 45 minutes, even if their diet was good and they had high vitality. In these cases I think the solution is just doing it over and over. Sometimes men, just like women, may need saturation with lots of high-pleasure peak orgasms, before they can start with serious self-control and higher-pleasure valley orgasms. It may take months, but in the end they will get there.

I myself was never overly concerned with the clitoris or the G-spot, because the Karezza was so enjoyable and I was so good at it that a woman couldn't hold out long. If they wanted to have an orgasm, they could have it quick. Women enjoyed it.

The women were very happy. After beginning Karezza, it became unnecessary to calculate all this stuff. I never had to actually figure it out.

All I did was to function naturally, the way I felt like, without thinking about it. And it was right, for every woman. If one gets too mechanical about it, one becomes a dud. Then it is not real. Real sex has nothing to do with the brain, it has to do with feelings, true feelings and movement.

That's all. The brain is not needed.

From page 45 the Technique to Paradise.

🍎🐍🏖️

YAB YUM

What are you experiencing?

~ by yab yum

Be patient. At first you can't experience the orgasmic part of this process. Some get it on their first try and for some it can take years. Keep practicing with the exercise your teacher gives you. Even if you don't experience the orgasm, just the breath and energy circling alone is of great value. It will clear blocks so that eventually the orgasm can pass through you. Blocks can be experienced in many ways – crying, gagging, getting frustrated, resurfacing old memories. Just keep breathing. Visualize letting go of the "old" on the exhale, ringing out the "new" on the inhale. Energy levels will most likely rise and fall, like mercury in a thermometer. Tell your partner where it slipped. Your partner will encourage you to tap into your sexual center when energy is slipping. One of the main keys to learning this technique is KNOWING that it is possible.

(When asked if she had an orgasm, Sara responded 🙂

It was uninterrupted, uninterrupted… This was definitely something else, which I have never experienced so fully.

(Sara was then asked if there were any psychological changes.)

Oh yes, sure. From the point of view of spiritual practice it is always full of insight, a kind of insight that comes after, about how I am in ecstasy in my usual state, because it is obvious that the ecstasy is inherent in the body (level), of my being… and also of course this would affect my meditation. I am much more relaxed and receptive physically, emotionally and psychologically when I sit down to meditate…. I don't know what this has to do with anything, but meditation becomes very sexual, very physical, playing with all these hormones. Very often in my meditation there is a stage like deepening where it goes through something like lovemaking in a hormonal sense. I feel the heat and change of energy and so forth, and then it just cools down. That is when deep meditation begins.

It is absolutely blissful in ecstasy because the bliss is something I feel in the body. The ecstasy is something where the body is no longer. Energy goes up. His community. It is love. The transcendent, the energy feeling, transcends even the light that I'm talking about in meditation, and just went into the light.

One tree merges with another tree, the earth merges with the trees, the trees merge with the sky, the sky merges with the unknown...you merge with me, I merge with you...everything merges...differences lost, melting and merging as waves into other waves…an enormous unity vibrating, alive, without limits, without definitions, without distinction…the sage melting into the sinner, the sinner flowing together in the sage…becoming good becoming bad, becoming bad…the night turning into the day, day turning into night… life melts into death, death plunges into life again – then everything has become one.

This has changed my experience with sexuality forever… It has blown up things like this what you have about sex, the good feeling you get from sexual experience or trying to get. It broke that because it was so obviously about submission. It wasn't about me trying to do something. It was about not doing something, but rather receiving or allowing it, rather than doing and creating and making.

This is the most profound healing practice I have ever encountered. It has awakened me to realize that my body is often shut off from the bliss and ecstasy it might be experiencing. Through this practice I have come to learn that emotional pain occurs when orgasmic energy does not flow freely through my body and that there is an infinite flow of orgasmic energy available to me. It has taken me years to gradually release the tension and pain in my body and I still have areas of tension to unblock. The sensations can be different each time depending on my condition, sometimes there is a pulsating vibration and sometimes it feels like some kind of electrical current circulating through my genitals throughout my body. There may be tears of joy. My mind can be perfectly clear and it can seem like everything I feared has been resolved. When a certain area of tension is unblocked and the orgasmic energy circulates, there is always an amazing sense of oneness with the life being awakened.

Mel 40 Auckland

My teacher knew how to touch – and where to make contact �� He knew places to touch that I didn't know about – and soon I was on my way to another place in another universe. I was in a trance of breathing and sweat and pleasure that so long and so dead do had gone – that I traveled through light and sound. I never knew that such an experience could be had without actually making love. When I finally climaxed and climaxed and climaxed, I couldn't believe I was having a sexual climax in the presence of someone other than my husband. I felt both excitement and a little embarrassment. Looking back at this moment, I would never have thought that having an orgasm for another man would actually be the "beginning" of this whole journey in Tantra

Emma S 35

Auckland

And this is the joy of Cosmic Spiritual Orgasm, because you disappear for a moment. That moment is very small, but its impact is immense. For a moment you are no longer the ego, you do not think in terms of 'I', for a moment you dissolve into the oneness of the all, you become one with the whole, you pulsate with the whole. You are no longer an individual… you are no longer limited to your body. You have no limitations, for a moment you are unlimited, infinite.

That is the meaning of Cosmic Spiritual Orgasm – that your frozen energy melts, becoming one with this universe, with the trees and the stars, and the woman and the man, and the rocks – for a single moment, of course. But in THAT moment you have a kind of consciousness that is religious, that is sacred, that is one with all things. – OSHO

Unbelievable! Some are very strong and some are wonderfully subtle. In general, the more time you spend building up the energy, the more powerful the sensations. You experience “electricity” throughout your body, hands, feet and lips tingle, and there is a sense of letting go and receiving at the same time. You will feel high, euphoric and light-headed. It feels very different from a clitoral orgasm (but it can happen at the same time as a clitoral orgasm). You see a seed sprout, flowers appear on a tree somewhere, the birds are singing – the whole phenomenon is sexual. It is life manifesting in many ways. When the bird sings, it is a sexual call, an invitation. When the flower attracts butterflies and bees, it is an invitation, because the bees and butterflies bear the seeds of reproduction. Everything seems to be divided into these two polarities. And life is a rhythm between these two opposites. Repulsion and attraction, coming closer and getting far… these are the rhythms.

#awakening #tantra #unconditionallove #karezza #nirvana #moksha #yabyum #freedom #liberty #hypocrisy #john lennon #the beatles #Youtube

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btswritingcafe · 3 years ago

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THE DAILY GRIND | SPECIALS.

welcome to btswritingcafe’s monthly special highlighting our members by diving into their world of fanfiction. we want to discuss your passions and interests as you work through a fic, showing our readers the behind the scenes grind.

our hope is for all of you to take the time to read what each writer faces when it comes to tackling a new fic. we hope that you can see their excitement as they share. please know that every writer is always excited to share what they do for each story. thank you all for the support!

meet the writer featured for this weeks issue. make sure to read below the cut to see all the amazing responses from indigo!

♡ — @playmetheclassics | indigo

all too well | knj

You thought you met the man of your dreams, he was everything that you ever wanted, but what happens when that dream falls apart, and what happens when that man is no longer the one you recognise, but you want to love him against all odds because you believe things can be better.

• pairing: namjoon x female reader

• genre: 18+, angst, fluff, smut, professor au

• word count: 21k

read here

♡ — what inspired you to write this fic?

So this fic is part of a more extensive series called “The story of Us,” I love song fics because I feel like they help a lot to set the mood, and you can give your take on the song. Now on to “All Too Well,” this is one of my most favourite songs from Taylor Swift, and the 10-minute version is perfect. It perfectly fits my relationship with my ex. It was a relationship that ended badly, and I felt like I never got closure, but writing this fic was beyond cathartic because I felt like I could finally breathe because of the things I could never say to him. I could finally say in a fic, and even if I never got that closure, I got it for my character, and I lived vicariously through that. Writing that story was beyond healing to me.

♡ — how long does it usually take you to write a fic?

Oh god, this depends. Sometimes I can write something as long as All Too Well (21k), which may take a couple of weeks. I pulled an all-nighter to finish it. I think it depends when it’s a purely original story. I can take between 5 months to a year to write it, as I go through pretty bad episodes of writer’s block. However, when the fics like All Too Well are based on my real-life experiences, it’s a lot easier to write, slightly painful reliving everything, but it was easier to write this.

♡ — what was your favorite scene to write and why?

I think the ending scene, because like I said, I got to give my character closure, closure I never got. I can honestly say this too. When I wrote the last sentence, I felt like I could breathe. I felt like I was able to close a chapter of my life that was like an open wound, and when I finished writing this fic, I was able to heal from that wound, and it’ll heal over time.

♡ — what excites you about writing in general?

I love exploring ideas that sometimes I struggle to verbalise and explore new worlds, but every time I write, I discover something new about myself. I never thought I’d ever write fics, just because I am painfully lazy, but I like that I get excited about this whole new world that I can create, and I’m a visual writer, so when I write, I feel like I can see every scene unfold in front of me.

♡ — what do you usually write first in a fic (from the beginning, major events you have in mind, dialogue…etc).

Oh god, I go straight to the document and start typing. Very rarely will I plan. I just go with the flow.

♡ — did you listen to any music while writing this fic?

Yes, All Too Well, the 10-minute version was on repeat. I also have a playlist called Feels, which has my “go-to crying songs” on it, which I have lovingly dubbed sad whore playlist.

♡ — is there anything you find particularly difficult when it comes to writing?

Yeah, exploring specific ideas, like introducing a new thing or plot, will not explore it and struggle because I get lazy. I’ll fail to understand the importance of exploring specific themes or topics.

♡ — what helps you to get out of writers block?

Nothing, honestly. Aside from taking time away from writing to recharge and coming back to it when I feel more ready, and in the meantime, I work on my fic recs to show love to all the fantastic content creators on this platform.

♡ — what do you believe is your strengths as a writer?

I think maybe dialogue? I write a lot of my dialogue, and it is based on reality, so it’s pretty genuine, but I also believe smut at times. I’m not sure what my strengths are precisely, but I guess I feel like I grow with each story I write, so that’s all I can ask for.

♡ — what do you want people to specifically notice in this fic?

To see the pain, to see the hurt, and then to see that there’s growth. I want people to notice that I could find growth in my darkest times, and I hope that that’s something everyone can do to pull themselves out of their darkness.

on behalf of the cafe admins, we are so thankful for all you do! you work word and it shows brightly in your writing!

#monthly;specials #daily;grind #network post

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thebigpalooka · 4 years ago

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you’re not my dad (redemption arc)

I was gonna tack this onto @humanityinahandbag‘s post but I’m not good with computers so I’m just posting this on its own, but to be clear, this is a follow-up to her amazing wonderful-awful half-drabble right here because I recognize my complicity in this crime. However, when I offered to ruin her day, I was VERY CLEAR that when I lay my hand on something, everything turns out okay in the end.

So, for my own personal little version, read on.

Funny how, in spite of it all, it never occurred to him to do anything but go up to his room. How after everything he’d shouted, he obeyed without a word because if he opened his mouth again now -

“I can’t believe you’re making such a big deal out of this, you’re always telling me what to do all the time!”

“Yeah, well, that’s my job, dude!”

“No it’s not!”

“Uh, it kind of *is*, and you better make it *your* job to start listening.”

“You’re not -”

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to remember that part. He’d never seen Tom look like that, didn’t know what it meant, exactly, only that it was bad. And Tom was an adult; he shouldn’t have been able to make him look that way, had wielded a power he didn’t even know he had, and it felt just as damaging as the last time he’d exploded.

He moved to sit on the bed, then on the floor, then finally ended up in the beanbag, curled almost into an actual ball. He couldn’t visualize, in that moment, all those trips it had taken to bring his things up here from the woods, couldn’t see Maddie smoothing out the comforter they’d picked out, couldn’t see Tom balanced on the ladder as he tacked up christmas lights. He only remembered that the bean bag was his, so he didn’t have to feel guilty there.

He felt guilty anyway; it oozed up from the inside and pooled in his gut when he heard footsteps on the attic stairs.

When both of them topped the steps, he knew it was real, real bad. He clenched his fists, and as they eased to sit down on the floor in front of him, he sat up straight, panic spilling his thoughts out into words as fast as they formed.

“Look, I’m sorry, okay? I’m really sorry. I don’t know why I said it, but it didn’t mean anything, so I’m sorry. And we can forget about it, right? I can follow the rules, and we don’t have to talk about it, okay?”

“Sonic….”

“I just don’t see why it has to be a big deal!” He darted a look up at them before focusing on picking at a piece of duct tape he’d stuck over a tear in the bean bag. “People say dumb things all the time, and I won’t do it again, so -”

“Bud, this is serious,” Tom interrupted again, a little more firmly.

He squeezed his eyes shut. “...I know, but - look, I’ll make it my job to start listening, just like you said, so - so -”

“Hey.” A warm hand landed on his shoulder and his eyes flashed open, bright electric blue. Terrified.

Tom looked scared too.

“Honey, calm down.” Maddie’s voice seemed close and distant all at once. “Take a breath. Slowly, okay?” She smiled faintly. “I know that’s kind of not your thing, but….” They waited until he snorted an awkward breath and huffed it out again. “There you go.”

“Sonic, I’m not talking about what you said when you were mad. I’m talking about what you said in the garage.”

His reeling thoughts locked up. The garage? The garage? What had he said in the garage? Then he remembered, and he felt hot and icy all over.

Are you gonna make…

Please just…

Don’t make me go, okay?

They waited a second before Tom spoke again. “Is that….” His voice was husky. He cleared his throat. “...is that something you’ve been thinking about? About us send - sending you away?” His voice cracked again and he winced. Maybe all three of them did, hearing it out loud.

“No,” Sonic lied. Didn’t know why. “...I mean, sometimes, maybe. I dunno.” A shrug, like it was the most natural thing in the world. It was, right?

Tom and Maddie exchanged a look. God, god, god, they’d thought about it too. He clenched his fists again, and they trembled with the strain of sitting still. He could’ve been up and out the skylight and into the woods in a second flat. Heck, he could grab a few things on the way out.

“How long have you been worrying about that?” Maddie asked. Her voice was so gentle that he had to swallow back the lump in his throat before he did something embarrassing, like cry. He shrugged.

“I’m - pft, I’m not worried about it.” Another lie. He smiled a smile that felt as tight as a strained rubber band. “I’m just… I’m….” He clunked his shoes together. The words came out like a fast train. “....I like it here and it’s really cool, and I’m really glad you guys let me live here, so I wanna be a good - you know.”

But he didn’t know.

Tom ran a hand over his hair, letting out a long breath. Maddie rubbed his arm and Sonic felt vaguely jealous.

“I’m sorry.” A muscle tightened in Tom’s jaw. “...I’m really sorry, buddy.”

Sonic stared. “...For what?” he almost whispered.

Here it comes.

“I sh….” He stopped. Maddie’s hand had paused on his arm; she moved it to stroke his shoulder. He cleared his throat again and for a second, Sonic had the sudden and bizarre sensation like Tom was gonna cry, himself. Until that moment, it had never occurred to him such a thing was even possible. When he spoke again, his voice sounded almost normal, but the awareness remained. “...I should’ve made sure you never had to worry about that. I messed up. And I hope you can forgive me.”

For once, he was speechless. Tom shifted forward, settling a hand on each shoulder. The touch made his chest tighten again. “Sonic. No matter what happens, no matter how mad somebody gets or what anybody says, nobody is ever - ever gonna send you away.”

“This is your home, sweetheart.” Maddie squinted, reading his gaze to make sure he was listening. “It’s our home. All of us.” She found one of his hands, resting limply against his knee, and squeezed it in her own.

“We may not understand all of it yet, exactly. But we’re a family.” Tom lifted his brows, paused to let the word fill up the silence. “Ozzie and me and Maddie and you.”

“Oh.”

He felt dizzy. Lightheaded. He felt like he was gonna puke. He felt too embarrassed to go on living. He felt like a stone statue and he felt like he was going to fly apart into a million pieces. It felt like a gazillion pounds of lead had just poured out of his shoes. Like his head was gonna pop off on a spring like a jack-in-the-box.

“...Y-yeah, I know that,” he lied once more, slowly this time. “I know that. We’re … we’re like a family.”

“We’re not like a family. This is our family.” Maddie swung his hand back and forth a little. “Sometimes a family is - you know - a pretzel lady, a donut lord and a blue blur. Right?”

“Makes sense to me.” Tom studied him. “...Make sense to you?”

The hand that wasn’t closed in Maddie’s was closed in Tom’s. He didn’t remember when that had happened, but he was clasping it so tight that he could feel his knuckles straining against his glove.

“Yeah. Of course. Sure.” It wasn’t a lie this time. He still felt like crying, though. He shifted away and they let him do it, releasing his hands. He tucked them around his legs again. “That’s cool. I’m - yeah. I mean that’s awesome. Of course we’re - we’re a family. That’s - you guys are - I mean, we’re the best family.”

“Good. We think so too. So that means we’re sticking together. Even if we have arguments or something crazy happens.”

“Crazy? In this family? Pfft. Not likely.” Tom grinned. Sonic knew it was his benefit, and smiled back, or came the closest he could when his stomach was still turning flip-flops. Maddie smiled too.

“We’re a team. No matter what.”

“Yeah. Okay. Cool.” He looked at his shoes. “...Thanks, you guys.”

There was an awkward pause.

Maddie understood before either of the boys did. She let out a breath. “Well. I better go check on Ozzie - I bet he’s gonna want outside. Then we can decide what we wanna make for dinner, okay?”

“Y-yeah, sure. Sounds great.” Sonic froze as she bent and kissed his forehead. Made him feel warm and squirmy all over, but he was glad. She brushed her fingers against his ear with a smile and then rose to retreat quickly down the stairs. Even then, Sonic didn’t quite know if she’d understood how hard it was to talk in front of just one person, let alone two, but as Tom rose, looking faintly confused, and began to follow her, Sonic managed to work up enough nerve. He jumped to his feet.

“H-hey, donut lord... about… about that other thing I said….”

Tom stopped. Sonic waited for him to say something, but he didn’t. He swallowed. “...I really am sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

Tom nodded. “It’s okay. Everybody says things they don’t mean when they get mad,” he murmured.

Sonic squirmed. “Yeah, I know, but - I … I really...really didn’t mean it. Um.” He squeezed a pop out of one knuckle. “It’s just that, if it wasn’t for you, I’d be puking up mushrooms full time by now and … a-and besides that, you’re pretty much the coolest person I know, and I have an extremely developed instinct for coolness, it’s kind of like a sixth sense, really-”

Tom’s face twisted with amusement and emotion at odds with one another. “Sonic....”

Sonic shook his head, letting his hands talk in a bigger and bigger arc. “A-and it doesn’t really matter what it is, because we know what it is, don’t we? It’s just our thing, our cool guy thing, that’s all, but I just don’t wanna let you down. Okay? Look, all I’m saying is, you’re my favorite person. And not in a weird way, it’s totally, totally cool -”

“Sonic.” Tom dropped to one knee so that they were eye-to-eye. His smile was humiliating. And great. “...I feel the same way. I love you, bud.”

Strong arms drew him in and hugged him. For a second, he was scared he’d blow up the whole house. But that didn’t happen, and so instead, he shut his eyes tight and stretched his arms as far as they’d go and held on tight. And he mumbled it back, whispered it into Tom’s shirt because he couldn’t say it any louder, but they were so close, it was perfectly, perfectly clear.

#sonic 2020 #sonic the hedgehog #sonic wachowski #tom wachowski #maddie wachowski #fanfic #my fic #my writing #humanityinahandbag #lol instant intense dissatisfaction with my own writing upon post but it was ever thus

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rigelmejo · 4 years ago

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some comprehensible input links

language learning forums can be so toxic sometimes...

so many people love to push that “one method” is phenomenal and works when others just WON’T, meanwhile another will say the opposite. And then its like... where is the room to acknowledge maybe parts of each method have merit for different individuals, since they might help or click in different ways.

just today i saw someone arguing about stephen krashen’s language theories and how they’re all disproven bullshit that are completely unusable. I don’t know a huge amount about his theories. But I do know the emphasis he brought up on “providing students comprehensible input and lessons to learn from” is a concept that also is in stuff like the modern Teach Languages Through Storytelling lessons and Comprehensible Input Lessons. Which if you’ve ever used them? They’re Amazing. They are lessons where teachers purposefully use the target language as much as possible, and use visuals to help make what they say as comprehensible as possible to students so they can learn. This is how when I volunteered, we were supposed to tutor ESL speakers - because we could not reliably teach with english translation since their english levels varied, and we did not have speakers of every learners native language present to help teach them. Our program coordinator showed an example of how to do it by teaching us some Thai, his native language, in this method. And it was extremely easy to follow and understand. Textbooks/grammar guides/flashcards certainly will help speed up the process - aka allow students to use Graded Reader books, learner podcasts, then target language native materials like shows and novels to learn quicker. But lessons in the target language as soon as possible, emphazising getting students to comprehend, is valuable. Just as its valuable later on when students can handle more complex lessons in the target language.

Examples of teachers teaching through comprehensible input (I am thrilled to notice there’s a lot more than last time I looked these sorts of channels up):

Hit Chinese: https://youtu.be/xG3w2i1OBfc

Unconventional Chinese with Keren: https://youtu.be/9N-nNvnAYTs

French Comprehensible Input: https://youtu.be/c2SUQVjklVA

Alice Ayel (french): https://youtu.be/DcuVNAnsWZM

Dreaming Spanish (a fantastic example): https://youtu.be/ObO1CGY_NHI

Comprehensible Russian: https://youtu.be/gHCvEKxeXvk

Comprehensible Japanese: https://youtu.be/gHCvEKxeXvk

Japanese Immersion with Asami: https://youtu.be/pr_yRUVQQt0

Learn Korean in Korean*: https://youtu.be/zUulbCruiMs

I just found the Learn Korean in Korean channel a few weeks ago, notable in that he also teaches hangul before the other lessons. I think he maybe uses too few pictures to make it as easy on students. But having said that, I know zero korean whatsoever and am watching his Lesson 1 and finding it completely easy to follow. So I’d say yes his teaching style probably falls under “engage student in the target language and make it comprehensible so they can learn it.” I’m really impressed with his channel tbh because it teaches totally in Korean so any language learner from any native language could use it.

Just found Japanese Immersion with Asami today while looking up “japanese comprehensible input” and its an amazing example of how these kinds of lessons work. In a classroom setting (or with a tutor), generally the idea is to provide learners with lots of comprehensible input of the language they’re learning and perhaps some help to keep things comprehensible (in a classroom that would be word definitions on the board maybe for reference, or in these examples subtitles to aid learners for reference - although first priority a teacher is aiming to use pictures/gestures/visuals to make as much as possible comprehensible).

Examples of textbooks that teach through comprehensible input (these were made before Krashen, so i merely bring up Krashen because Today’s Language Forum Arguement was ‘all krashen’s ideas are bullshit ALL of them even comprehensible input ideas so you shouldn’t even bother using even a little of something related to his ideas):

French: https://archive.org/details/jensen-arthur-le-francais-par-la-methode-nature

Italian: https://archive.org/details/LitalianoSecondoIlMetodoNatura

Latin: lingva latina per se illustrata

English: https://archive.org/details/english-by-the-nature-method

(I’ve personally used that textbook for french and absolutely loved its teaching style, it works Really Well for me).

Graded readers, if they teach new vocabulary in context, may also fall into this section (depending on learner’s starting level compared to a graded reader).

my only point here is just. i hate seeing valuable learning methods completely thrown away, just because someone’s decided to equate one person’s specific method as bad - to decide every single thing related to it must be useless. In this particular case - before Krashen was old enough to have any theories, Arthur Jensen was making some of those books listed above! (Back then it was called ‘the nature method’ - although plenty of books using the term ‘the nature method’ do not teach as comprehensibly as what I’ve listed above, there’s definitely a range from ‘these are just vocab lists’ to ‘these are actually slowly teaching me new words in context’ lol). and all those youtube channels for comprehensible input? There are learners who do find them useful! I’ve found them useful!

oh man just today... sometimes people will be like “you MUST use flashcards to learn a language” and hello no you absolutely don’t have to i never did with French. Some people say “you MUST use textbooks” and yet there’s examples of people who did fine without them, vice versa people say “you must NOT use textbooks if you want to sound natural’ or whatever which? Me using grammar guides has always been immensely useful for me personally - though again some people found success with Much more textbook use, and with none. So can we please accept different methods work for different people?! And beyond that - maybe some Pieces of methods are useful to someone EVEN if the ‘whole thing’ isn’t.

Mass Immersion Method/Refold - its not ‘all’ for me. I’m never ever going to sentence mine. I rarely use flashcards and I never plant to MAKE any myself lol. Have I still found some useful pieces of Refold that have benefited me? YES I have. (Notably the parts about ‘comprehensible input’ since we’re on the topic). What I took from what little i have heard from Krashen - in particular a lecture he gave on improving reading ability in students - is reading for pleasure, exposing yourself to a lot of material even if its not perfectly at your level, will help you improve. Students who learned word lists, and students encouraged to extensively read, both made vocabulary and reading level improvements. Which - we’ve been in elementary school and had ‘free reading time’ to help us learn to read better! By reading something we liked for a period of time! Besides just the books assigned in class the teacher had us do vocab lists for! Well, in my french studies I very much saw that apply to my own second language learning too - sometimes I looked up words as I read, and learned words that way. Sometimes I simply read french for pleasure and just guessed at unknown words I Could guess at and moved past others - and also improved my reading ability and picked up some new words. Both ways helped my french improve, my reading improve, my vocab improve. And so that is what I took from it - that there is some merit in engaging with something you can understand Somewhat at least. That if you have some comprehension of a material, you may be able to learn Some More from it whether you just learn from context OR conciously look up everything unfamiliar. (And I do think looking things up speeds up the process sometimes). My point though is like... we’re really gonna throw out some good pieces because we don’t like one person who’s managed to touch on them? When so many before and after, their own levels of correct and useless parts, have found some usefulness in some parts?

I just do not get language forum drama lol... the issue is. These people were arguing because they find krashen ‘useless’ then all comprehensible input study is ‘useless’. Ok then. But pushing to all learners to use only a textbook, and avoid engaging with actual language (even when it may be comprehensible and therefore useful to them like the links above, for some learners), then they may slow their progress if it doesn’t suit them well. And it always depends on the individual, everyone’s a bit different.

#reference #resources #comprehensible input #rant #half of this is a rant at how all or ntohing some learner forums can be feel free to ignore it #i just. so many ppl shoot themselves in the foot #cause theyd rather shit on other things and say their own plan is perfect #than consider maybe. people have different unique needs/ways of doing things #ive never found a method that 100% worked for me?#but i found lots of Pieces of mutliplte ones that did!

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themusicplayedherlife · 4 years ago

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To Love is the Greatest Gift

1. The Return

pairing: obi wan kenobi x f!reader (past!din djarn x f!reader) characters: f!reader, anakin amidala-skywalker, padmé amidala-skywalker, mentiones of din djarin, obi wan kenobi, others word count: 2.6k+ warnings: angst, fluff, mentions of rent: the musical (death, second chances) uh... I think that’s it? summary: au!it’s never been the right timing for you and obi wan kenobi; maybe this time will be different. a/n: i started working on this story so long ago it’s ridiculous, but I suddenly had a surge of motivation to continue this story after some tragic family news. this was also very much inspired by @martlands and their amazing obi wan stories, made me want to write my own and here it is

all || next

“You broke up?”

One would think that the immediate reaction to someone asking if you broke up with your significant other would be to cry or begin to ask them what could have possibly gone wrong. But that’s not the reaction you give.

The reaction you give is just a shrug and a strong pop, as you spoon more gelato onto the little spoon his twins love collecting. “Yep.”

“After only three weeks of dating?” Anakin doesn’t know why he’s surprised, but he is. This is probably the shortest living relationship you’ve ever had. “Why?”

“Why not?” you answer easily, nonchalantly and you know it frustrates him. “It wasn’t working out, so we decided to call it quits.”

Not even a month ago, you had been genuinely excited about finally getting out there and meeting someone new, and even more excited when you were telling him all about this person you met while out with some old friends. You had said, word for word, “he might be the perfect contender!”

Where did all that excitement go?

You sigh, finally looking up at him and away from your white chocolate gelato that's just to die for. “Ani, it’s fine. It just didn’t work out. It happens.”

He grimaces. “What happened between you and Din—“

You bristle at the mention of your ex, narrowing your eyes and his widen in defense. You know what Anakin and Padmé think of him and it’s not entirely pleasant (particularly from Anakin’s part). It’s completely unfair. Din is lovely, sure a little socially awkward, but lovely nonetheless. “Has nothing to do with why Gar and I ended things.”

“But—“

“Nothing,” you reiterate with a bit more force and he sighs, lifting his hands in defeat while holding his own cup of gelato.

“Okay. Okay, I’m sorry.” And then, like a light switching, he turns playful. “Was it his name that turned you off—Gar?”

You resist the urge to groan and roll your eyes. “Oh maker, you are annoying!”

You huff as you make the trek back to the trolley that’ll take you both up to the observatory. The rest of your conversation is forgotten as he navigates it towards continuing to tease you and the latest exhibit you had helped set up.

The Coruscant Observatory is one of the most popular attractions in the city aside from the Exotic Animal Sanctuary (where most zoologist work to help rehabilitate wild animals before reintroducing them back into the wild, only housing the ones that have been assessed to not be able to function in the wild on their own—which are unfortunately many).

Your place of work is known for its large, ground telescope; its monthly constellation exhibits; the multiple planetarium theater rooms that house lectures, activities, star projections, etc.; and its Astronomer Q&A program where visitors can ask astronomers questions and even get a tour of the space station.

However, most of your days are spent in your office, planning for the next exhibit or actually executing them with your team; meanwhile, Anakin spends them in tech, sometimes maintaining the telescope, other times helping with IT issues, but mostly making sure the theater rooms worked perfectly for their 4D immersion.

(You like to joke that out of the two of you, he has it easiest; sometimes he’ll run by your office to get to another part of the building while you’re doing something and you’ll yell out, “slacker” and he’ll respond with, “you just work too much”.)

“Are Padmé and the twins stopping by today?”

“Not today, maybe tomorrow,” he says as you both step out of the trolley along with a few tourists. “I think today they decided to stay for some school thing.”

“Shouldn’t you know what that school thing is?” you chide him out of jest.

He scowls, there’s hardly any heat in it and it makes you grin. “It’s a music performance that the CN Theater is putting on.”

“Ah, and we all know how much musicals bores you.”

“I just don’t understand them,” he murmurs defensively as you climb the few steps leading to the entrance. The two of you smiling and greeting Rex at his security post and bypassing the ticket gate with your IDs.

“You mean you don’t have any taste,” you tease.

“It’s weird! I mean, most of them are all about tragedies and betrayals. What happened to the good ol’ romance and happy endings?”

“Not all of them are tragedies, Casanova.”

The main rotunda lobby is full of people milling about, looking at maps or the foucault pendulum in the middle of the room. Low chatter fills the room, shoes clicking and clacking against the marble flooring.

“Name one.”

Spotting the trash can and recycle bin, Anakin holds his hand out for your disposable cup and spoon and throws them away in their proper bin.

“Rent.” There are probably better examples, but you had been listening to the original cast album the night before and have all the songs still stuck in your head.

“Don’t two characters die?”

“Angel and Mimi.” You nod. “But Mimi is brought back to life by Angel, and is given a second chance at life.”

“She may have been brought back to life, but that doesn’t take away from the fact she died.”

“I’m not arguing with you on that, I’m just saying the ending was hopeful—not necessarily a happy ending, but it left you thinking—maybe things can get better.”

“And that’s not what I’m looking for. I’m looking for—“

“What you and Padmé have?” you ask him as you both reach the door of your office.

He pauses, mouth opening and closing before finally rubbing the back of his head sheepishly and saying, “Yeah.”

You smile, genuine and happy for your childhood friend. Who would’ve thought that years ago when you introduced them, they’d be here years later—married and with twins. You and Anakin sure as hell didn’t. For most of your childhood, you both believed you’d live out your life on Tatooine, hang with the same friends you’ve known since your pre-kinder days and eventually get married to each other—much to the dismay of your parents—because of benefits or whatever, until your parents decided they wanted to send you off to a private school in one of the major cities, derailing your and Anakin’s plan (for the better, if you’re being honest).

“You’re still coming over for dinner, right?”

“Yeah,” you answer, unlocking your office door with your key. “I have a meeting that might go over the expected time, but I should be able to make it on time.”

“Just let us know,” he says, rapping his knuckles against the door frame. “But you better be there! We have some planning to do!”

You roll your eyes and wave him away, promising he and his family will definitely see you at five. With a hearty chuckle he salutes you and leaves the door slightly ajar, just like you usually do. It’s your “you can come in to ask me questions, but knock first, please” visual telling.

With a soft exhale, you drop yourself into your creaking office chair, eyes landing on the first picture on your right—a younger you, only 18, fresh out of your uniform smiling wildly with a large bouquet of flowers that you can still distinctly remember the smell of.

“I am in love!” Padmé exclaimed, squealing in absolute delight at the flowers put in your hand.

Blue eyes crinkled with amusement, staring down at you. “Are you?” His voice was low, teasing and almost smug. He had obviously heard the gasp that escaped your lips when he presented you the colorful bouquet created with your favorite flowers that his father grew in their little garden.

“Irrevocably,” you answered, not able to hide your smile as you gently held it against your chest and smiled up at him. “They’re beautiful, Obi. Thank you.”

Obi Wan’s arm is wrapped around your shoulder, caught in the action of a booming laughter. He was always laughing in pictures. There isn’t a single picture you have of him that he isn't smiling.

Your finger gently trails over his smiling face. Maker, you miss him.

Is he still traveling? Or has he finally settled down again? Will he show up and spring some unexpected news on you again? Stars, you hope not. Shit didn’t go as planned last time and it probably wouldn’t again.

Your hand falls limply and you swivel in your seat, looking out the large glass window overlooking the majority of the city and sigh softly—an exhale of wary hope and sadness.

A bird soars by your window, it’s wings flapping effortlessly, diving before flying higher and away.

He’s not coming back. You know this. Coruscant just isn’t the same anymore. Not when he feels this city has taken everything from him.

One more year visiting Gui Gon without him.

The meeting runs longer than it usually would, just like you had expected. Checking the time, you let out a curse and quickly throw your belongings into your car.

Without wasting time, as soon as you switch on your engine, you place your phone on the dock and say, “Hey C-3PO, call Padmé.”

“Calling Padmé,” your phone’s AI answers through the speakers of your car.

“Are you outside?” Is how she greets you. There are loud noises in the background, children squabbling about something or another, and Anakin’s weary voice trying to rally them.

You snort, pulling out of the undergroundparking lot. “Not yet, barely got out of my meeting and am on my way.”

“Please hurry, the twins really want to see you and are dying from hunger,” she says, amusement in her voice and not at all trying to hurry you. “They might start eating Anakin soon.”

“Hey, don’t bite that!” He yells from a distance.

“Hurry, please!” you hear over the phone—Luke. “I miss you,” he says, closer now. Which you immediately reply saying you miss him too, almost cutting off the next voice.

“And I’m hungry!” Leia’s voice follows his, practically yelling into the phone.

You laugh fondly, just imagining the childish glee on their faces at your scandalized gasps and your exaggerated “me too” answers.

“Leia, no yelling,” Padmé scolds her, gentle and kind. “Softer, please.”

“Sorry,” she says. “I’m hungry,” she repeats, softer, almost a whisper.

“Give me twenty minutes and I’ll be there,” you promise. “If not, you have my permission to start eating your dad.”

Leia and Luke break into a fit of laughter, yelling something away from the phone to Anakin, who once again lets out a loud, “Hey!”

Padmé chuckles, moving away from the voices of the children tackling their father and their play fighting. “Take your time, we’re not in any hurry to start eating. The kids had a hearty lunch and a snack after school.”

“What about you and Anakin?”

“We’re fine, don’t worry. Just get here safely and we’ll see you soon.”

You end the call with one last reassurance from her and let out a loud sigh when your car comes to a stop behind a long line of glaring red lights—traffic. You hate traffic.

You might be surrounded by blinding lights and different models of vehicles, but it leaves you alone with your thoughts, the low hum of your engine and music from your stereo drowned out by the chattering in your head.

It’s never just one thing that you think about. It can go from one thing to another, to all of them trying to climb over eachother and be the most present: your friends; your family; the dog next door; Din and Baby; cinnamon apple cookies; the beach house in Naboo; sneaking out of the prep dormitories at 2am with Padmé keeping an eye out and Obi Wan holding his arms out for you; rose gardens and peach tea; freckles on blushing skin; drunken singing in a small living room; 21st birthdays crying in a bathroom stall; that stupid movie quote about choosing life; death; but sometimes (most occurring) it’s Obi Wan that weaves into every thought.

He’s a constant plague in your mind, has been since the first time he left Coruscant in search of himself.

Sometimes they’re pleasant thoughts, memories kept in a nostalgic trunk that you occasionally like to sift through. Other times, they’re not so pleasant; those are the ones you constantly struggle with, try to push into the recesses of your mind and keep them under lock and key. But for some stupid, strange reason, your mind only ever remembers the bad, even when there are better things to dwell on.

“I just—I just don’t understand why you have to leave—Obi. Obi!” you practically yelled, watching him move around his room, grabbing and throwing things he pulled out into his duffel bag. “Listen to me!”

He didn’t stop, not until you reached for his duffel bag and plucked it out from his hands. He stared at you, his duffel bag carelessly thrown to the floor with his clothes spilling out.

Your breathing was labored, a sick feeling swimming in your stomach, words stuck in your throat now that he wasn’t hiding his beautiful blue eyes from you—his devastatingly heartbroken eyes. “I have to,” he finally said, breaking the silence. “I need to leave. This house—this city, it's suffocating me. I can’t—I can’t stay here anymore.”

“Obi… Obi, please.” You can’t leave me. You can’t! Please! Please, Obi.

“I need to do this for me, darling. I’m sorry.”

You should’ve fought harder that night, should’ve convinced him to stay, but instead you helped him pack again with tears obstructing your view and sobs escaping your lips. Maybe if you had, you wouldn’t have lost him.

No, your breath stutters as you lean back into your car seat, there was nothing you could’ve done. Either times. He had made up his mind long before that night.

A car honks their horn to your left and you jump, eyes focusing once more on the red lights of the car in front of you. You wipe at your face harshly and straighten your spine.

That was years ago, little one. Shake it off.

Sighing softly, you look up at the street name and make a turn onto the Skywalker residence street, your shoulders relaxing when their two story home comes into view.

Shake it off.

Parking isn't easy to find in their neighborhood, not when it’s so close to the observatory and some of the most visited parks in the area, but you manage to find one just two cars away from their house.

Gathering your things, you lock the door behind you and quickly make your way down the sidewalk, phone in your hand and typing out a message that you’re here.

It’s while you’re hitting send that you don’t notice the body in front of you, staring up at the house with an almost wary expression on his face, or how his eyes widen when they see you. It’s not until you collide into his body, soft with a fleece cardigan, that you notice him. Embarrassment begins to boil in your blood as you quickly apologize to him, berating yourself for not being more aware of your surroundings.

“Kriff, I’m so sorry—“ you start, but the apology catches in your throat when you look up.

“Hello, there.” Blue eyes, so soft and kind, like the ones you once used to dream of stare back at you—so unlike the pair of eyes you saw years ago. “It’s been a long time, darling.”

You can’t shake him off.

#obi wan x reader #obi wan kenobi x reader #obi-wan x reader #obi-wan kenobi x reader #obi-wan kenobi imagine #obi wan kenobi imagine #reader insert #ben kenobi #star wars imagine #au #f!reader

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scuttling · 3 years ago

Text

First Dates

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairing: Aaron Hotchner/Latina OFC Sophie Cortes Word Count: 6,151 Tags: SFW, First dates, Making out, Phone calls, Running, Yoga, Fluff Summary: After California, Aaron and Sophie go on three perfectly imperfect dates. Collection: Sophie Cortes timeline, 1 year-1 year 3 Months at the BAU (See Masterlist for reading order) Link to A03 or read below! “Jet sweet jet,” Prentiss says as they board the plane after California, and Aaron seconds it; the good thing is it’s only Friday afternoon, so at least they get a head start to the weekend, barring another emergency case—not that he doesn’t have piles of work to do, as usual, but it pleases him to think he might get the chance to see Sophie at some point, in an unofficial capacity.

“You know, 14 is when we start to make our own musical choices. Our cognitive development evolves at that age and we start to form our own cultural identity,” he hears Reid say as he sinks down into his seat, headphones hanging around his neck. He and Sophie must be having a conversation about music, because she nods easily.

“That makes sense, actually,” she says, taking the chair across from him. “I remember being obsessed with Bon Jovi around that age, and I was definitely making decisions with my pants.”

Well that’s an interesting piece of information for her to divulge. Reid blushes a little, and pulls on his headphones. Sophie pops in one earbud, looks up at Aaron, smiles, then looks down at her phone and starts typing.

SC: What?

AH: What, what? he replies.

SC: You’re staring.

AH: Maybe I just think you’re worth staring at.

He feels cheesy for saying it, but she grins.

SC: Sure, okay.

SC: Are you going to do work?

AH: You know me.

SC: That’s a yes.

SC: In case I don’t get to talk to you… will you call me tonight?

AH: Absolutely.

She tucks away her phone, succumbs to her—podcast, he guesses by the slight look of concentration on her face—and he works on his paperwork in relative silence, with the ghost of a smile on his face.

“So what are you up to? What do you do when you get home from traveling?” he asks over the phone that night, after they’ve made a little small talk.

“Well, I put a record on—it’s low, so you probably can’t hear it. Bob Dylan.” She’s right, he can’t hear it, but knowing what she chose makes him smile.

“Bob Dylan, Bon Jovi… Your taste in music isn’t what I would have expected.”

“I’ve always been a little behind the times when it comes to music. I like to be able to rely on my faithful favorites.” She pauses, taking a drink maybe, and he can hear kitchen sounds in the background. “I took a nice, hot bath, opened a bottle of wine. I usually make some kind of comfort food, if I have time to stop at the market.” It’s only 8, so that, along with the kitchen sounds, has him betting she’s whipping something up for herself.

“Mmm, what’s on the menu?”

“It’s a dish my papa always used to make when we were sick. It doesn’t sound great—fagioli su pane tostato, which means beans on toast. It’s white beans cooked in this olive oil broth and then served on sourdough toast rubbed with garlic. It tastes so much better than it sounds.”

“It sounds good when you say it in Italian. Maybe we could make it together, some night.” He hopes he’s not imagining the smile in her voice when she replies.

“I’d like that a lot. So what do you do to unwind after traveling?”

“I have a beer, take a long, hot shower—I have a great shower. Sometimes I freeze meals and I’ll warm something up if I feel like it, but tonight it’s Indian takeout.” He takes a sip of said beer, sprawls out further on the couch.

“Oh, what did you get? Indian food is great, I love chana masala on a comfort food day.”

“Ah, I got butter chicken and samosas. My usual; very unoriginal.”

“Can’t go wrong with a samosa though, yum. What else do you like to do to relax? No offense, but you always seem just as stressed on Mondays as you do on Fridays.” He chuckles at that, can see how that would be true.

“Well I have work to do tonight, but on our free weekends I go for a run in the park instead of my neighborhood, or very rarely, I get to play golf.”

“Hmm, you play golf?” Her tone of voice is low, but light, and he struggles to figure out her intent behind that.

“I can’t tell if you’re teasing me…”

“Not teasing, I’m intrigued. I’ve never been golfing or even watched golf before. Mostly I’m trying to visualize you in the little golf outfit, though.” He’s grinning his face off, he’s sure, but he can’t help it; it feels good to flirt with her, to be flirted with by her, openly now. “I run too, or I like kickboxing, Pilates. I don’t always have time to get to the gym anymore, so I do home workouts when I can. Yoga every day.” So, he knows she does yoga, is always packing her yoga blanket when they travel for cases, but left to sit and imagine it for a moment… how she looked on vacation, tiny outfit, bendy body...

“Talk about something to visualize,” he adds, very boldly, he thinks, and she hums down the line. He hopes his flirting affects her the way hers affects him.

“Yeah, we were doing so good there for a minute and now I can’t think of anything but you in a polo and khakis. Must be the wine.”

“Is that something you find sexy? A polo and khakis? That’s practically church attire.”

“Where you’re concerned, there’s not much I don’t find sexy.” He chuckles, runs his hand through his hair—he knows he looks alright, isn’t un attractive or anything, but sexy? She might be overselling it a little bit. “I should probably rein that in. Sorry.”

“No, it’s… I like that you feel that way.” He wants to say, ‘if you find me even one tenth as sexy as I find you, it would be a miracle’, but his self-esteem isn’t quite that low. And his doorbell rings. “My delivery is here, muting you for a second.”

“Should I let you go?” she asks when he returns. He can hear the sound of her spoon clinking against her bowl, assumes she’s getting ready to eat, too.

“No. I mean, if you don’t mind, I’d like to listen to you talk some more.”

“Okay. What do you want to hear about?”

“I’d like to hear more about your band in Chicago. Did you write music?”

“One of the guys in my band wrote the music, I just sang it; didn’t have much to say.”

“I find that hard to believe,” he says honestly, because she is always thoughtful and insightful, so smart.

“Well the Sophie you know now is much more open, if you can imagine that. I used to be very closed off. The team helps; hard to be closed off when you’re around someone 24/7.”

“I’m glad you feel that the BAU has been good for you; you’ve been very good for us. And you said you sing at your friend’s bar sometimes? I might have to crash one of these nights so I can see you in action.” She laughs, a little self conscious.

“It's really nothing. Just a good way to blow off some steam. So how about you? Are you musically inclined or anything?”

“I can play the guitar.” Her spoon clinks against her bowl in the background again, and she swallows a bite.

“Hold on. You play guitar? This is important information.” He chuckles.

“How so?”

“Because it’s hot.”

“Maybe I should amend that: I could play the guitar. I haven’t in probably… five years? So I may be completely horrible.”

“Nope, doesn’t matter. If you still own a guitar, you can keep the hotness.”

They both eat, chatting in between bites, and they’ve been on the phone for two hours when she starts yawning. He suddenly has a brilliant idea.

“Do you want to meet up and go for a run tomorrow morning?”

“Yeah, I would really like that,” she says, sounding a little more awake. “Is it a date? Or just two people hanging out that want to see each other naked?” He laughs out loud.

“You want to see me naked? I thought you wanted to see me in khakis.”

“Yes, I want to see you naked; I thought that much was clear when I tried undressing you the other day. I want to see both.”

“It’s a date, then. If you want it to be. I was still working on a plan...”

“No plan necessary. I’m easy to please: I just want to see you, in running clothes or golf clothes or no clothes.”

“I’ll text you the address. Meet me there at 7?”

“It’s a date.” The next morning, he is sitting in his car at the park, and he looks up from his phone to see Sophie walking toward him, impossibly beautiful for 7 AM. Her hair is pulled back in a thick, wavy ponytail, face clear of makeup and looking radiant, softly smiling, and he swears his heart skips a beat.

Isn’t it a little too soon for beat skipping? This is only their first date, after all.

“Good morning,” she says, leaning in his window. She looks around the parking lot, which is fairly secluded at this time of the morning. “How are you?”

“A little tired, but good,” he replies and her smile grows brighter. “You?”

“I’m good. Probably shouldn’t have kept you up so late talking. You need your beauty sleep.” She reaches out to brush a hand over the hair at his temple, and he closes his eyes for a moment, content.

“Well you obviously don’t. How do you look like that at 7 AM?”

“This?” she asks, gesturing to her face and body, as if he needed a reason to look. She is fit and perky in black leggings and a University of Chicago t-shirt, and he mentally hopes that she’s not faster than him, or her ass is going to be very distracting. “Just rolled out of bed and came down. Nothing special about this.”

“I beg to differ.” She leans back in, arms crossed casually, smiles again.

“Well you’re sweet. Hey, have you ever run into someone from work here?” He scans the lot as if her question caused one of their coworkers to materialize out of thin air, then realizes he’s being silly.

“No, I haven’t so far. Why do you ask?” Ducking her head, she looks a little shy, though the corners of her lips are turned up.

“I was just wondering if I’ll get to kiss you today.”

There goes his heart, skipping beats again.

He leans forward, a hand on her cheek, and presses his mouth to hers, slow and soft. He’d almost forgotten how nice it is to kiss someone who likes you—the shared breath, the soft smack of lips, the reluctance to break the kiss—and he touches her chin as they separate. When she opens her eyes, they look dreamy, and he preens a little at causing that reaction.

“Okay, yeah. That’s nice.” He huffs a laugh and she steps away from the car, giving him space to exit. “Ready to run?”

“Was kind of hoping to kiss some more,” he teases, but he climbs out of the car and locks up.

They keep pace together well, chatting easily about their plans for the day, and Sophie points out every dog they pass, which is so endearing his face almost hurts from smiling.

“What is it?” she asks as he shakes his head, laughs, when they pass a corgi puppy that is, admittedly, adorable.

“You’re cute, that’s all. It’s nice to see joy on your face when our lives are usually surrounded by darkness.”

“Thanks. It’s nice to see it on yours, too.” She reaches out to touch his cheek, and he presses against it.

As far as dates go, this one is off to a beautiful start.

“That was fun. I enjoyed spending the morning with you,” she says as they walk back to their cars. He is a little winded, and she isn’t. It’s not entirely fair.

“I agree, it was fun. It’s nice to have a running partner.”

“Is that all I am?” she asks with an innocent expression, and he shakes his head.

“Absolutely not.” He leans in for a quick, sweet kiss that feels as natural as the slower, more passionate kisses they’ve shared, and they both pull back smiling. “Are you hungry?”

“We just ran 4 miles, I’m starving. What do you have in mind?”

“There’s a very casual diner around the corner that makes great breakfast; I’m sure they won’t mind all your sweat,” he teases, gesturing to her shirt. He’s sweatier by far, which makes it so funny, and she laughs.

“Rude, but I’m in. Lead the way.”

The diner is a favorite of his, somewhere he goes every Saturday he runs in the park. He’s a very habit-driven person, and it wouldn’t feel right to leave without stopping by; that he gets to bring Sophie is just the icing on the cake.

“Do you usually get the same thing when you come here, or are you adventurous?” she asks, looking over the menu.

“I am not adventurous. I get a western omelette with mushrooms, potatoes on the side, almost religiously.” She smiles at him over the menu, and he wonders if she likes that quality, or if he’s one wrong comment away from being seen as an old man and not ‘boyfriend material’. He wonders if he’ll ever stop feeling self conscious about his age, where she’s concerned.

“When I find something I like I am also not adventurous. I stick with what I know.”

“Hi there. You have a friend today, Mr. Hotchner.” He smiles at the voice of his favorite waitress, though he wishes she wouldn’t have made him sound like he’s friendless any other time. She stands between his chair and Sophie’s, grinning.

“Yes Julia, this is Miss Cortes.” Sophie reaches out her hand with a warm smile.

“Sophie, if you like. Nice to meet you, Julia. This guy comes here a lot, huh?”

“Oh yes, he’s one of my favorite regulars: Kind, patient, and easy to please.”

“Great qualities in a man,” Sophie jokes, and he’s never heard Julia laugh so hard. She tends to have that effect on people, he thinks. “I feel special, then, being invited to your spot,” she says, looking over at him with a raised eyebrow.

“I'm fairly certain you’re the first person he’s ever brought, so you must be special, hon.” Julia gives her a wink, and he’d be embarrassed but… she’s right. And he didn’t invite her here lightly. Sharing this place means something to him. “So I know your fella wants the western with mushrooms, potatoes on the side, OJ with his coffee. How about you, sweetie?”

“Oh, um,” Sophie begins, and it looks like she’s blushing at the whole ‘fella’ thing. It’s too cute. “Mixed grill please, with cheddar, and I’ll have orange juice too. Thank you.”

When Julia walks away, Sophie crosses her arms on the table, looks at him.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. I’m just… enjoying myself. Being with you.” She reaches out a hand, and he takes it, smiling softly. They don’t move until Julia comes back with their plates and they need to make room.

“This has been the most fun date I’ve ever been on. I don’t want it to end,” she says as they walk back to the parking lot, bellies full of food.

“But?”

“But I know inviting you back to my place wouldn’t be a great idea yet. Well, it would be a great idea, but I know that taking it slow is important. And I can’t promise I wouldn’t get handsy again.”

“Taking it slow is important,” he agrees, and he leans down to kiss her, warm, lingering, “but maybe we could get handsy after our second date.”

“Mmm. I’m content with just kissing if you keep kissing me like that. Touching will just be a bonus.” They kiss more, easy, casual kisses that make them both smile. “So you want to go on another date with me?” she asks as they approach her car.

“Absolutely. I really like you.” He takes her hands in his, squeezes them. “Like you said before, I think it was something I’ve been trying not to feel for a while.”

“I think there’s a lot you try not to feel. I’m glad you’re willing to give me a chance.” They kiss again, and it feels like goodbye. “Are you sure you can’t go to the farmers’ market with me?” He’d love to, but he has to do some extra work to make up for last night and this morning.

“Yeah, I wish I could. Next week, for sure.”

“Okay, that sounds good. I’ll let you go—for the record, I don’t want to,” she says, and she takes a step back, so their arms are stretched further.

“Neither do I. I’ll call you later,” he promises, and he drops her hands, walks away.

When he looks back, she’s looking at him too, soft, and she waves goodbye.

He’s officially a goner.

“Did you have a good time at the farmers’ market?” he asks later, when they speak on the phone that evening.

“Oh yeah, great haul. I just hope I get to eat it all before we inevitably get called to leave town. I should freeze stuff like you. There was music, too, and so many dogs. How was your day?”

“It was good, productive.” She chuckles softly.

“Sounds like a blast.”

“I had my fun with you, this morning. And now.”

“Aw. That makes me happy. I had fun too. And I love talking on the phone with you. It’s my favorite part of the day.” He can hear the water running in the background. “What are you doing now?”

“Are you sure you want to hear? It’s very sexy.” She hums, thoughtful.

“Then yes, absolutely I want to hear.”

“I’m folding laundry.”

“I know you said that as a joke, but I can find a way to make it arousing. It’s a gift I have, apparently, where you’re concerned.” It’s his turn to hum down the line.

“Really? Tell me more.”

“Hmm. Well, I’m thinking of your arms flexing as you fold. Thick, careful fingers. The look on your face when you concentrate. Then, of course, it’s your clothes, so I’ll think of you putting them on… taking them off. See? Laundry is now sexy. It’s a talent.”

“That is impressive. What are you doing?”

“I’m prepping my fruit and veggies for the week. I got some flowers, so I’ll put them in a vase. Then maybe watch a movie.”

“Okay, that just sounds sweet.”

“Well I am sweet, Mr. Hotchner,” she says innocently, and he grins.

“Of course you are. What movie?”

“I think Bringing Up Baby. It always makes me laugh.”

“That’s Cary Grant, right?”

“Yes, I love Cary Grant—so tall, dark, handsome… I guess I have a type.”

They discuss movies some more, their favorite classics, her favorite actors. The night is winding down, though, and he has more work to do.

“Are you going to run tomorrow?” he asks when it’s clear the conversation will be ending soon.

“I think you wore me out today, so probably just some yoga in the park. You could come with me; have you ever done yoga?”

“No, but I’d be happy to try. What time?”

“Let’s say 8? I’ll send you the address to the park I like, and then I can treat you to breakfast at my spot.”

“Oh, so it’s a date, then,” he says, leading, and she laughs softly.

“Yes, it’s a date. I have a mat you can use, so just bring yourself and some water and I’ll take care of the rest.” “So this is called Cat Pose - just think Halloween cartoon cat,” Sophie explains the following morning, from her hands and knees, rounding her back so she looks just like the image she mentioned. “When you alternate with Cow Pose, it’s the best stretch, like waking up late on a Sunday morning and stretching in the sun coming through the curtains.”

It’s a great thought, makes him imagine Sophie sprawled across his bed, brown skin, dark hair, soft lips, smooth legs…

“Aaron?” He blinks at the sound of his name, turns to face her, and she’s smiling softly. “Thought I lost you for a sec. Next is Downward Facing Dog, so straighten your knees and send your butt up to the sky.” He watches as she does it, legs looking long and lean and strong, and he tries to replicate it as best as he can. “You’re doing really good for a beginner. This pose in particular usually sucks for a while.” She comes out of her pose, stands in front of him and presses her hands to his back. “Flat back, if you can, or bend your knees a little; I’m not trying to get sexy, I swear.” He laughs indulgently, and she steps back onto her mat with a grin.

They shift into some standing poses after a moment, Sophie checking in on him with a soft expression, and he is feeling it in his muscles by the time they drop into Plank.

“Almost done. Is it harder than you thought?” she asks, looking absolutely effortless as she supports herself on her hands, and he has to huff a laugh.

“It is, actually,” he admits, his arms quaking a bit. “People who do yoga have my utmost respect.” She lifts one arm, wraps it around her back, and she’s got to be just showing off now. She’s barely sweating.

“Yeah it takes more strength than people usually think. It’s not just all about being bendy and zen. Lower down slowly, no belly flop. Then turn onto your back, arms and legs out—this is the best part.” She closes her eyes, sighs deeply, and he can see how this would be her favorite. His entire body is sore, and before today he would have considered himself in good shape.

They rest and breathe, and when she finally sits up for a swig of water, he does the same. “You thought I wore you out yesterday? I won’t have trouble sleeping for a week,” he teases, and she bites her lip, smiles.

“Good. Maybe I can talk you into this more often. It’s fun.” He nods, panting a little from guzzling his water.

“Fun for you to make an old man suffer, that is.” She swats at his arm, and she stands, offering him a hand and helping him to his feet; they roll up the mats, take them back to her car, and head down the block to her café of choice.

It’s definitely a little more upscale than his diner, but still comfortable—they aren’t out of place in their activewear, and the woman seating them greets Sophie by name.

“So they can absolutely make you a western omelette,” Sophie says when they open their menus, “but if you trust me, I can make a suggestion.”

“I’ll take your suggestion. Let’s see how well you know me,” he offers as a challenge, and she smiles, something adorable that scrunches her nose.

“Oh, it’s a deal. You’ll love your breakfast so much you’ll weep, Aaron, I promise you.” She scans the menu again, and by the time the server comes around to take their orders, she confidently names dishes he didn’t even bother to look at. He wants to be surprised.

She gets a breakfast quesadilla for herself, which he steals a bite of, and the dish she ordered for him is a mess of potatoes and ham and eggs and cheese and veggies that he polishes off so quickly it’s almost embarrassing.

Then there are carrot cake pancakes to share, so sweet they’re almost dessert, and when she offers him the last piece she presents it on her fork, looks him over seriously when he leans in and takes the bite. It’s been all fun and easy laughter all morning, but he’s suddenly warm in a way that has nothing to do with the exercise and everything to do with the company, and he thinks she feels it too.

She pays, tips very well, and they hold hands when they walk back to the park; she leans in, presses her nose to his shoulder, and sighs when they’re about halfway there.

“I could get used to this,” she murmurs, and he looks down into her warm brown eyes and nods his agreement.

“So could I. Maybe we could make it a thing,” he offers, and her returning smile is brilliant.

“Yeah, I would like that.” They get to her car, and he crowds her up against it, kisses her deeply; she licks her bottom lip when they pull apart, and it’s gorgeous, feels a little indulgent for the park.

“As much as I’ve enjoyed our dates this weekend, I would like to take you somewhere in the evening, this week, if we can.” He knows it’s old fashioned, but he wants her to know he’s serious about them, and he feels like drinks or dinner set the tone he’s looking for. She nods her head.

“Sure, okay. Just tell me when and where and I’ll be there.” They kiss again, a little sweeter, this time, since there are families present, and when he steps away from her, she looks a little dazed. “Just remember, you promised me handsy, and if you keep kissing me like that, I’m going to deliver.” He smirks a bit.

“Message received.” His next kiss is just a light, barely there brush of lips, and she smiles when it breaks. “Call me later, if you want. I’ll just be doing work.”

“Okay. Thanks for doing yoga with me,” she murmurs, and he touches her chin.

“Thanks for breakfast. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow,” she repeats, and she turns around to open her car door, forgets that it’s locked. She bows her head like she’s embarrassed, but he can only laugh. She is so god damn adorable. They see each other again on Tuesday night.

AH: Done kind of early today. Was thinking about going to get a drink.

SC: A drink sounds nice. Do you want company?

AH: When it’s you? Always.

AH: Can we go to your friend's bar?

SC: Of course. There’s open mic tonight, if that’s what you’re getting at.

AH: That’s what I’m getting at.

SC: 717 Carson St, 7:30? - it looks shady, but it’s not, I promise.

AH: A glowing review.

SC: 😋

“You look so good,” is the first thing out of her mouth when he approaches her table, and it makes him laugh, duck his head. She is always so quick to dish out compliments, and while he’s not used to thinking of himself as attractive, hasn’t had a reason to in a while, it does make him feel good.

“Uh, thank you,” he says, trying not to be awkward about it. “You look beautiful, as always.” She does, too, so gorgeous in a tight white sweater and tighter back jeans—she’s too gorgeous for him by far, but he’s certainly not complaining.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, and she stretches up on her toes to kiss him softly on the mouth; he thinks the chances of anyone they know coming to this shady looking bar called Lloyd’s, unprompted, are pretty slim to none, so he encourages her kisses. “Mmm. Do you want to come up to the bar with me? My friend Ben is working, I wanted to introduce you to him.”

“Sure, of course.” She takes his hand, and they each order a beer, and he is introduced to Ben, the bartender, Monty, the guitar player, and Racquel, the manager, all of whom are very kind and appear pleased to meet him; apparently, Sophie has mentioned him once or twice. It’s so endearing.

They sit down, talk a little, order another round of beers, and when it’s Sophie’s turn to sing, she sighs lightly, shoots him a shy smile.

“Alright, here goes nothing,” she says, pressing her lips to his, and she heads up to the stage.

“Give it up for Lloyd’s favorite rock balladeer, Sophie Cortes!” That seems, to Aaron, much more official than just blowing off some steam, and he’s prepared to find out that she severely underestimated her talent; what he’s not prepared for, however, is how incredibly beautiful she looks and sounds when she sings a slow, romantic Bon Jovi song, earning applause from a group of regulars who are clearly familiar with her singing.

She waves at them, blushing a little, and when she comes back to him, he pulls her close for a tender kiss.

“You are amazing. What are you doing at the FBI? You should be selling out stadiums, or something.” She laughs.

“I don’t know about that, Aaron, but thank you. It’s something I love to do, but it’s not a career.” They sit, but he scoots his chair closer to her than before. “You know how it is when you’re a kid; people tell you you can be anything you want to be when you grow up, and then you grow up, and things change. But I’ll always have Lloyd’s, so… it works.” He takes her face in his hands and kisses her again; her fingers brush over the back of this head, and she hums against his lips.

“Can’t believe I’m dating someone who’s practically famous,” he teases when they separate, and she rolls her eyes, blushes.

“Enough, or I’ll make Monty give you his guitar so we can see what you can do.”

“Okay, point taken,” he says, holding up his hands in surrender, and they laugh and talk for a while, until they both remember it’s a work night and they need to head out.

“Where did you park? I’ll walk you to your car,” he says, hand on her back, and she gestures down the street.

“I’m only two blocks away, I walked.” She must see surprise and discomfort in his eyes, because she takes his other hand. “If anyone tries to mess with me, you know they’ll regret it. I'll be fine.”

“I know, but still. I’d feel better if you let me drive you.”

“Well, I’ll never turn you down,” she says sweetly, pulling him down for a kiss, and he gets her into the car, closes the door for her. In a couple of minutes, they are parked in front of her large brown stone building, and they both unbuckle their seat belts, turn to face each other.

“I like Lloyd’s,” he tells her while they sit companionably; it’s clear neither is ready for the night to end. “Everyone is so nice; it definitely feels like a place you’d go.

“Thank you, I think,” she says with a playful smile. He smiles too, feeling great after such a good date, and he leans over for a kiss. Sophie lengthens it, brushing fingers through his hair, and her eyes have that dreamy quality again when they break apart. “Mmm. Can I come over there?” She sets a hand gently on his thigh, and he nods, pushes back his seat to give her more room.

She settles comfortably in his lap, hands on his shoulders, and he brings her to him for a long, steamy kiss. They make out for several minutes, get handsy, as she mentioned before, before she pulls back with a soft sigh. “Can I tell you something?” she asks, pressing her forehead against his.

“Anything. Always.”

“I’ve thought about this—making out in your car—quite a few times. The first time was the night we went out for my birthday.”

“I really enjoyed myself that night.”

“Me too. I was so happy you came out, and stayed out. And when I told you I loved you, there was so much left unsaid… I hoped you knew.” He smooths his hand over her cheek, his thumb over her bottom lip, and she shivers. “Then you took me home, and you helped me with my shoes, and when you kissed me on my head, I thought: maybe, just maybe, he feels the same way I do. And then we never mentioned it, and nothing ever happened, so I thought maybe I was imagining everything.”

“You weren’t imagining anything. I felt it too.”

“Good,” she murmurs, taking his face in her hands, and they kiss hot, slow. “I think you’re so incredible.”

“I think you’re incredible, too.” He smooths his hands up her back, pressing her closer, and she rolls her hips slowly against him, earning a groan. “Sophie,” he sighs, clutching her. She feels so good, smells so good, it’s almost intoxicating.

“I know,” she breathes, and she looks up at him, eyes serious, chest heaving. “Do you want to come up with me?” He is about to answer with an emphatic yes when someone knocks hard on the window; Sophie starts, bumps her head, and he rubs it with his hand, rolls down the window.

It’s a police officer, because of course it is, and they both wince. He is young, a little cocky, Aaron can tell just by looking at him. Great.

“Good evening. I’d ask what you folks are doing out here, but I think it’s a bit obvious,” he drawls, looking slowly over Sophie’s body where she sits in his lap. “Hiding from your wife, or…?”

“No, sir, we are not,” she answers, clearly a little perturbed but keeping her cool. “We were just about to go inside.”

“That’s good; we like to discourage lewd behavior on our streets, which I’m sure you can understand.” Aaron bristles at that himself.

“Lewd behavior? With all due respect, we were only kissing, and we were about to go inside, like she said. Are you going to attempt to cite us for this?” The officer looks them over thoughtfully, takes out his flashlight.

“Let’s start with some identification.” Sophie sighs, makes to climb off his lap, but he stops her with a hand on her hip.

The situation is uncomfortable enough, but if she vacates his lap… it will only become more awkward for everyone. She presses her lips together like she’s trying not to laugh, slides her driver’s license out of her pocket and hands it to the officer.

“Can she get in the glove box for mine?” he asks, trying to remain respectful even though he instantly hates this man. He nods, and Sophie reaches over, opens the glove box, and pulls out his FBI credentials. She flips it open in front of his flashlight, and he blanches, steps back.

“Oh, I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t—I wasn’t.” He looks up, nervous. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your evening, sir.”

“You were just doing your job,” Aaron says gently, despite the fact that this is just, so embarrassing. “Are we going to be cited?” To his credit, the kid looks like he’s going to wet his pants. It’s a little funny.

“No, sir, of course not. I—thank you for your cooperation. You two enjoy the rest of your night.” He all but runs back to his squad car, and when he drives away, Aaron and Sophie both burst out laughing.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry,” she says through fits of giggles, and she leans against him for a hug. “This has to be the worst date you’ve ever been on, right?” He exhales, shakes his head in amusement.

“No. I’d take what just happened a thousand times over if I could relive the rest of tonight.” Her face softens, and she presses her lips softly against his, squeezes his shoulder.

“You are some type of man,” she says when she pulls back, and she looks him over like she wants to devour him. His lap situation had subsided, but apparently not for long. “I think we should probably just call it a night, don’t you?” she asks gently. “I’m thinking we should take that unmistakable sign for what it is.” He nods, because even though the prospect of going upstairs is a very sweet one, the decision may have been a little premature.

“I agree; but just know, more than anything, that I don’t want this evening to end.”

“I know, me neither. But we do have work in the morning; you can call me tomorrow night, though, if you want. I would really like that.”

“It’s a date,” he teases, and they kiss softly a couple of times before she slides back into the passenger’s seat, heads out the door.

He exhales deeply when she’s out of his sight.

#aaron hotchner/original female character #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic

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angst-fairygodmother · 4 years ago

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Work of Art (Diego Hargreeves x Reader, Kinktober

A/N: Rather than try and finish 2 more fics this week, as would be necessary to finish the original Kinktober list I posted, I played a little shuffle, and combined the two remaining ones, tossed some stuff, added new stuff. Because frankly I’m running out of steam[iness], though really, this is further than I ever expected to get on this project. Anyway...the final fic. Hope you enjoy. Word Count: 2440 Kinktober Prompts: bondage, knife-play, marking Rating: E(xplicit) Content Warnings: dom/sub (dom reader), bondage, knife-play, marking kink, pain kink, begging, teasing, praise kink, oral (both male and female receiving), biting, blood, overstimulation Cross-posted to AO3 here.

“Stop squirming so much,” you laughed, dropping the soft cotton rope to start over. “You’d think I was torturing you or something.”

“You’re sitting there, dressed like that, looking that gorgeous, and not letting me touch you,” Diego pointed out. “Find me the part that isn’t torture.”

You rolled your eyes, finally securing the last knot to keep Diego exactly where you wanted him, despite his continued wriggling.

“Unless you want actual torture, stop complaining.”

“Actual torture? You couldn’t if you tried.”

You raised a challenging eyebrow and smirked. He swallowed, instantly regretting his words.

“Well then, you wouldn’t mind if I just…” you walked over to the bedroom door, pausing dramatically in the doorway to look back at him. “Left you there then?”

“Wait, no, Y/N,” he called after you, voice straining with ill-concealed desperation. “Please. I promise I’ll behave.”

You waited a few beats longer, until you heard his faint whine, pleading for you, before you returned to the bedroom, satisfied that he knew your threat was serious. When you returned, he gave you his best penitent expression, which was admittedly, just a little bit ruined by the way his eyes trailed hungrily over your figure in the lacy, nearly see-through negligee you wore when he thought you wouldn’t notice.

“I could do whatever I want to you like this,” you observe off-handedly, still standing near the end of the bed, studying his bound form.

He wasn’t completely immobile, though you had originally tried to convince him to let you trap him in that way. But he was tied enough that he wouldn’t be going anywhere or able to pull his usual stunts to try to take control. And he looked so pretty: stretched out on the bed, hands bound above him with just enough slack to be able to twist and grab the thin wrought-iron rails supporting him, another thin set of ropes wrapped around his waist and secured to the underside of the bed. If you were being honest, it was a bit like the damsel tied to a railroad track in an old silent movie, but it was a look that worked for him, especially the way the blue ropes stood out against his skin.

“And you’d like that wouldn’t you,” you purred, taking a few steps closer. “You like to act tough but really, you’re just craving to be used and controlled. Isn’t that right baby?”

His cock twitched at your words and you couldn’t help but smirk, enjoying the visual evidence of your effect on him. He nodded in answer to your question, even as he strained against his binds. You stopped, waiting expectantly for him to use his words. It had taken a long time to convince him to let his guard down and be vulnerable like this, and you wanted to be sure that he was both capable and willing to bring it to a stop if he needed to.

“Yes,” he finally panted. “Please, use me, do whatever you want to me. Please, Y/N.”

“You look so good like this, like a work of art. What would you do if I decided I wanted to just sit here,” you plopped yourself down on a stool in the corner and folded one leg over your knee, leaning forward so you could still see his face. “And admire the art?”

He shook his head. “No, please, please touch me, hurt me, fuck me. Do anything, just please, do something.”

“You’re so right.” You stood again, sauntering to the edge of the bed and staring down into his face, gently running your nails down the side of his face, swiping them across his lips, drawing back harshly enough that they caught when he tried to suck a thumb into his mouth.

“My pretty boy.” He shivered bodily, as much as the ropes would allow, at your words, throwing his head back against the pillow.

“Do you like that? Being called pretty or being called mine.”

His face flushed and you repressed a giggle.

“Both,” he admitted shyly.

“Do you want me to keep doing it?”

“Please?”

“Of course, my pretty boy, all mine, all laid out and gorgeous for me.” A dangerous glint crossed your eyes as he tried to buck upward, a bead of pre-cum welling from your words alone.

“Maybe, I should make sure everyone knows that you’re mine. Make it clear that they can look,” you ran your fingertips down his sternum, “but they can’t touch. Would you like that?”

You suspected that by the end of the night, he would grow tired of your prompting. And yet, if he paid attention, he would see that through this, he had more control than he ever did otherwise.

“Yes, Y/N. Claim me.” There was a hint of frustration and desperation in his voice, and you decided not to push him any further before giving in.

Slowly, making sure his eyes were trained on you the whole time, not that he had dared to look away for a second so far, you straddled him, just above where the ropes crossed his mid-section, moving at a pace that made tectonic plates look like speedboats.

Settling comfortably, you leaned down, pressing your body against his, only the gauzy layer of your dress separating you. You let your breath ghost over him, teasing at the sensitive spots behind his ear and beneath his jaw. And then, sure that he wouldn’t be expecting it, you dipped your head lower and bit down harshly on the soft spot where throat met clavicle. Diego cried out, thrashing under you but unable to move, and just as importantly, not seeming like he was actually trying to get away from you. You felt the slightest hint of blood welling up and laved your tongue over the spot, soothing the worst of the sting but maintaining enough pressure to draw the blood toward the surface, ensuring a heavy, dark spot would be left behind.

“Mm,” you purred, pulling back to look at his face once more, the blissed out look on his face sending a jolt to your core. “You mark up so well for me Diego, but I don’t know if that little spot’s going to be enough.”

He gulped nervously. “Will you leave another?”

“I had a better idea, if you trust me…” you forced him to meet your gaze.

“Absolutely.” It was the firmest his voice had been since you began.

Hesitantly, you reached over to the nightstand, picking up one of the tiny precision blades that he used sometimes, though never in this way obviously. Palming it, you held it up for him to see. His eyes widened.

“I promise, I won’t hurt you, not really,” you explained, dropping any act or pretense. “Lightest touch only. Just enough to leave a mark that will heal over without a trace. Or I can put this away. It’s up to you.”

His eyes flickered back and forth from the knife to your face.

“Do it,” he said, voice gruff with desire. The muscles of your cunt clenched and fluttered at the sound, but you tried to ignore the feelings and focus on him. “...please?”

You kissed him passionately, trying to pour into it all of the thousand feelings coursing through you: how badly you wanted him, how much you loved him, how grateful you were that he trusted you like this.

You rocked backwards, letting your ass brush teasingly against his straining erection as you inspected your canvas.

“Now, my pretty boy,” you taunted, “where shall I make my mark. There are so many options…”

You trailed the flat of the little blade along the column of his throat, watching his Adam’s apple bob, dangerously close to the point. You traced outward, first over one side of his collarbone and then the other and then down over the taut muscles of his chest. He hissed as you turned the blade so that the needle-sharp point was against his flesh as you traced circles around his nipples with just enough pressure to create a sting. Finally, you stopped, poised just above his heart.

“Shall I write my name right here?” you asked, “label your heart and lay my claim to it.”

“It’s yours,” he countered, “already yours.”

“Well then, let’s make it official.”

You turned the blade again so that the full edge was pressed his exposed skin, biting your lip as you watched the little specks of red well up in the shape of your initials, tracing over them once, twice, thrice. He moaned louder with each pass, high and needy and threatening to overwhelm you, but he held himself perfectly still, one wrong move potentially spelling his end. You admired the endurance and discipline it required almost as much as you admired the patterns of pain you were tracing around the letters now, little hearts and swirling shapes. You followed behind the knife with open-mouthed kisses, as you wanted him to experience the sting and ache at the same time as you wanted to draw them away and spare him any suffering.

“Please,” he breathed. “Please, haven’t I been good?”

You looked up, a little startled at the question.

“Of course you’ve been good. You’ve been so good. Perfect, obedient, beautiful. You’ve been all those things Diego,” you assured him.

“Then please, I can’t take anymore. Please stop teasing me, no more games.”

You frowned. It wasn’t the safeword you had agreed to, but maybe…

“Please, don’t I deserve a reward?”

Oh.

“Of course you do baby. Do you want to cum now?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“No?” you startled.

“No. I don’t want to cum yet. Not until I taste you. I know you’re wet, I know you. I want that sweet little pussy all over my face.”

“Well who am I to refuse you whatever your heart desires?” You said, eyes sparkling with mirth before you rose up on your hands and knees, crawling over him until you were poised, hovering just out of reach of his tongue, which was already darting out to run across his lips.

His hands strained at the ropes, and you knew that if his hands were free, something you could have given him with a few flicks of the little knife if you wanted to, they would be gripping your hips with bruising strength and holding you down while he pleasured you. You closed your eyes, letting the image dance across your eyelids while you sank down.

Diego’s tongue flicked through your folds, tasting your gathered wetness. The groan that followed vibrated up through you, and it took all of your willpower, and the sharp bite of your nails into the palm of one hand, the other braced on the headboard, parallel to Diego’s own arms, not to break from that sensation alone. He sucked hard on your sensitive clit and you keened, grinding down on his face just as he moved his attention, tongue diving into you. You continued to move, hips bucking in rhythm with the thrust and flick of the wet muscle inside you, his name falling from your lips like a prayer and then in a primal scream as he flicked and sucked at your clit again, alternating back and forth faster than you could keep track of. He answered each sound you made with one of his own, groans and moans and hums mixing with his clever mouth to drive you over the edge, and then again without warning as he refused to let up.

“Oh fuck!” you cried out, “Fuck, Diego, yes! You make me feel so good baby!”

As a third orgasm tore through you, you pulled from him, trembling in the aftershocks as you tried to catch your breath.

“That was so good baby,” you panted. “You always know how to make me feel so good. But now it’s your turn.”

You slowly slunk down the bed, trailing kisses and little nips along his skin until you reached your destination. Looking up to check on him, and because you knew how much he loved the sight of you making eye-contact as you sucked him off, you wrapped your lips around his dick and slowly lowered your mouth onto it, taking him as deep as you could until he bumped at the back of your throat and tears stung at the corners of your eyes. Curling your hand around the base of him, the other bracing yourself against his thigh, you set an unstable pattern, working him rapidly, twisting your fingers and bobbing your head up and down only to suddenly slow, so that you were all but still, holding him in your mouth and the length of his cock with your tongue and then resuming your motions, trying to keep him on his toes. He bucked his hips as far as the ropes would allow him, trying to match your patterns with thrusts of his own, and crying out your name over and over.

“Oh, Y/N,” he moaned. “I’m so close. I’m so fucking close.”

You squeezed gently on the base of his cock at the same you hollowed out your cheeks, taking him as deep as you could and he came with a feral growl, his cum filling your mouth, hot and salty and you swallowed down as much of it as you could, fighting the urge to gag.

Slowly, you slid him out of your mouth and stood. Your own fluids were rapidly cooling on the insides of your thighs as you made your way shakily to the bathroom for some warm cloths to clean you both up.

As you returned to Diego’s side, you noticed the way he shivered and sweat. Concerned, you quickly slit the ropes, freeing him to curl in on himself.

“Diego, baby?” you asked softly, stroking the damp fabric over his skin soothingly. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” he said slowly, sounding hoarse and slightly out of breath. “That was just a lot…”

“Too much?”

“No. No,” he shook his head, reaching around to grab one of your hands in his. “It was perfect, I’m just…I’ll be fine.”

You bit your lip, not sure if you believed him and concerned that you’d gone too far, all in the name of showing him how amazing he was.

“How can I help?” you asked, wanting to follow his lead and speed his recovery.

“Just, hold me, please.”

“Let me finish cleaning us both up, and then I can definitely do that,” you said with a smile, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. “I love you, Diego.”

“I love you too, Y/N.”

#Kinktober: Sinful Sundays #Diego Hargreeves x reader #Diego Hargreeves Kinktober #Kinktober 2020 #smut #I hate this title but I'm tired and I can't come up with a better one #it still counts as Sinful Sunday if not every timezone has hit Monday yet #right on the dot also still counts

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parablesoftheone · 4 years ago

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Ginko and Adashino: a study in Daoist perspectivism

Huizi said, “I am not you, to be sure, so I don’t know what it is to be you. But by the same token, since you are certainly not a fish, my point about your inability to know the happiness of fish stands intact.”

Zhuangzi said, “Let’s go back to the starting point. You said, ‘Whence do you know the happiness of fish?’ Since your question was premised on your knowing that I know it, I must have known it from here, up above the Hao River.”

—Zhuangzi: Essential Writings, pg. 76

It would be criminally neglectful to talk extensively about Mushishi without discussing Ginko and Adashino’s friendship. Apart from Ginko himself, Adashino is the most frequently recurring character in the stories, and he and Ginko obviously share a connection that goes well beyond trading in mushi-related goods.

In contrast to Ginko’s other significant relationship, this one is not with someone who shares his degree of centeredness. Adashino’s focus is markedly external, his habits of life and outlook very much out of line with the teachings of Lao Tzu. Most obviously, he stockpiles a wealth of mushi-related treasures and is always on the lookout for more, while Ginko’s possessions are pretty much what he has in his backpack. The storing up of wealth and possessions, the Dao De Jing warns, can only bring grief: "Amass a store of gold and jade,” it says in verse #9, “and no one can protect it.” And indeed, Adashino’s storehouse is invaded with dire consequences no later than the tenth episode of the first season. His insatiable desire for interesting items persists nonetheless, leaving him open to a level of emotional excitability Ginko never displays even at his most distressed.

(Still, a man’s gotta protect his property...)

This is hardly the only particular in which Adashino and Ginko are decidedly unalike. S2 E8 "Wind Raiser” especially develops their differences. When Adashino takes credit for Ginko’s cure, Ginko completely ignores it; when Adashino speculates about what the young man Ginko advises will do, Ginko responds with a laconic, “Who knows?” These simple interchanges point toward their fundamental contrast: Ginko’s mindset is Daoist, and Adashino’s is (mostly) not. In accord with multiple verses of the Dao De Jing (#2, #10, #30...), Ginko doesn’t care a damn about who gets credit for his work; neither does he care to speculate about future events, preferring to “move with the present” (Dao De Jing #14). His focus is centered; Adashino's is outward.

Given these divergent values and the fact that Ginko reguarly cheats Adashino—of which Adashino is well aware—an observer might wonder why these two have anything to do with each other, much less why they’re such good friends.

But their bond makes perfect sense through a Daoist eye.

Daoist perspectivism

To the Daoist mind, contrasts and differences are part of how the world functions—and this includes differences from the Daoist mind. Zhuangzi not only teaches followers of the dao to not disdain non-Daoist values but hold “perfectly to the differing allotments of things” (Zhuangzi: Essential Writings, pgs. 70–71); his own closest friend Huizi is a man with whom he trades debates and criticisms throughout the Zhuangzi (pgs. 8, 38, 112...). This worldview doesn’t seek the exclusion of others—the Daoist idea of “oneness” means that opposing views and forces are inherently one, without being made to unite or agree.

Along with this embracing of contrasts comes a firm belief in perspectivism: that anything that can be affirmed from one perspective can be negated from another and vice versa, and that each person and creature’s nature and experiences determine what is right from her/his/its own perspective. "The embrace of the same viewpoint,” says the Zhuangzi, “comes simply from being in the same position” (pg. 101).

Just as Ginko understands that the natures of the mushi are rightful parts of the world whether they’re valued by humans or not, he also understands the validity of differing human viewpoints. Though he scolds Adashino for the trouble his collection causes, he doesn’t consider him lesser or unworthy of friendship because of it, or because of any other contrasts between them. Through all the disparity in their values, they share a connection—and in true Daoist fashion, their differences are likely what brought them together in the first place. Ginko gathers mushi-related items, and Adashino wants them. Ginko has no desire to collect things or haul them around, so he’s happy to sell... if not always honestly.

Which raises the next point about their relationship: Ginko’s shady business ethics.

Perspectivism applies here too. As Zhuangzi tells us, “whatever might be [from some perspective] strange, grotesque, uncanny, or deceptive” (pg. 13) can be affirmed as right from another view, and this certainly applies to Ginko and Adashino’s exchanges. To an outsider, they’re questionable as all get out—but it’s not an outsider’s view that matters. Both Ginko and Adashino freely choose to associate with each other on their current terms, because that choice makes sense to them. Adashino knows from the start that Ginko isn’t always on the level—from his first appearance in S1 E5 “The Traveling Swamp,” he’s questioning Ginko’s story about the green sake cup. And as Ginko points out, Adashino is under no obligation to buy from him—he chooses to, knowing the odds, and continues to choose to. And we can see in “Wind Raiser” that Adashino values even the more questionable items Ginko’s sold him; he’s held on to all of it, even the stuff he's probably guessed is junk.

Whether this arrangement makes sense or seems right to an outsider is irrelevant. Ginko and Adashino accept each other as they are, and the only ones who need to validate those choices are themselves.

So, for all their differences, do Ginko and Adashino have anything in common?

In fact, they do—and one significant value they share is the very perspectivism that shapes their relationship. We can see as much in “The Traveling Swamp,” when Adashino asks Ginko why he’s so determined to save Io from becoming a mushi.

“If the girl said she wanted desperately to live,” he says, “I’d understand. But she wanted to become part of the swamp, right? That might be her happiness... Sometimes that’s the way it is in this world, though it sounds cruel...”

Adashino’s statement points to the path along which he and Ginko connect: No less than Ginko, Adashino is open to another’s perspective, even one that he acknowledges sounds terrible. He fully understands that “rightness” for one person is not the same as “rightness” for another.

Ginko’s reply underscores that he shares this value. In S1 E1 “The Green Throne,” he made a human a mushi because it was her choice—despite his own assessment that becoming a mushi is a terrible fate for a human. He seeks to prevent the same from happening to Io, not because he doesn’t value her choice, but because his observation of her has convinced him that she doesn’t understand what she’s giving up—that she’s making her choice without full knowledge.

Interestingly, in this sense, Ginko and Adashino’s exchange is reminiscent of one between Zhuangzi and Huizi. Crossing over a river with his friend, Zhuangzi comments on the happiness of the fish below. Huizi protests and asks, "Whence do you know the happiness of fish?” In his frequently smartass fashion, Zhuangzi replies that he knows it from the position where they stand, above the river, watching the fish (pg. 76).

Not simply a play on words, this exchange is an illustration of Daoist perspectivism. Zhuangzi’s point is that, while we truly can’t know the perspectives of anyone other than ourselves, we must proceed from our own—including our observations of what may or may not make others happy. Not able to consult Io on the matter, Ginko has to proceed from his own observations, which lead him to believe she still cherishes human feelings.

Like Zhuangzi and Huizi, Ginko and Adashino both know that perspective is individual, and they respect the choices others make from their own. Adashino respects that Io may, after all, want to become a mushi, and Ginko respects that, in his assessment, she probably doesn’t—just as, in Renzu’s case, he respects that she does.

By this same principle, they respect each other’s natures, Ginko accepting that Adashino is an outward-focused, obsessive collector of things, and Adashino accepting that Ginko will occasionally chastise him or sell him a bad coat.

On these multiple levels, their relationship is one of Daoist perspectivism. And in the same way that Ginko can guess what Io’s happiness might be, we can “know” from observing them that Ginko and Adashino value their relationship just as it is—with no need for any foundational “rightness” other than their own choices.

With all that said, there is another kind of rightness to their friendship. In their contrasts to each other, Ginko and Adashino fit together. This is even signaled visually: Adashino's light-reflecting monocle signifies the yang within his yin, just as the tokoyami in Ginko's opposite eye is the yin within his yang. Like Ginko and Tanyuu, Ginko and Adashino form a Taiji, interlinked and corresponding through their similarities and their differences alike.

#mushishi #ginko #adashino #the traveling swamp #wind raiser #lao tzu #zhuangzi #spoilers

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mor-beck-more-problems · 3 years ago

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Souls of Mischief || Morgan & Caoimhe

TIMING: the recent past

LOCATION: UMWC

PARTIES: @evebrennan & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: Two adjuncts square up against the new dean. Is it really a UMWC faculty meeting if everything goes according to plan?

CONTAINS: N/A

Since the dean of the arts and sciences college had gotten his face eaten and the volmugger dean who unofficially replaced him had been sliced and diced, the faculty meeting had to be postponed until summer. With all the deaths and disappearances from the last year, the faculty was able to squeeze comfortably into one of the small lecture halls from the early days of the school, pre AC. They were twenty minutes in and Morgan’s nose was starting to pick up the sour smell of human sweat filling the room. As she slumped deeper into her chair, she found herself thinking that maybe the volmugger dean hadn’t been so bad after all. At least his meeting probably would have been over by now.

She turned to the woman next to her. “Do you ever wish for a fire scare or a cryptid attack during these, or is that just a me thing?”

Humans were captivating for their creativity, and Caoimhe had never encountered anything as terribly uncreative as a routine meeting. Death by powerpoints, a man droning on about grading rubrics and research coming out of New York City. Somewhere in there was a hopeful message about Summer classes and plans for the Fall, but the man’s tone never changed. She felt liable to crawl out of her own skin should it go on for much longer, shifting restlessly in her seat. Typically, in a room so full, there would always be someone to whom Caoimhe was drawn. It was true, meetings sucked the creativity out of everything.

She was halfway through a list of ways she could get out of it, varying from a simple bathroom excuse to complete university meltdown, when a voice piped up from beside her. Ah, better. “Only every meeting. We could make it happen. Any of the above. I prefer bothering them with increasingly outrageous questions until they give up and let us go, personally.” She wondered how long it would take to get him going. If she could get him to give up before the PowerPoint was done. “Ten bucks says if we team up, we could be out of here before he can bring up the next slide.”

Morgan quirked her eyes with interest. Generally, the most she got out of someone was a little indulgent smile (so funny, Morgan; you and your little quips) or a grimace of agreement, because solidarity was the only thing that made these meetings bearable. No one really talked back, much less turned around and offered something back. Morgan scooted closer to the woman.

“Are you serious? Because I can’t tell if you’re serious, and if you’re not serious, I’m going to be really embarrassed when I ask that guy to explain why he chose the font he did for this thrilling presentation and no one jumps in to one up me.” She sat up a little straighter, tilting her head in a show of false interest at the presentation. “If we do make this work, we should give ourselves something nice. As a treat, you know?”

Oh, there was hope for the meeting yet. Caoimhe sat up, finding a grin that didn’t match the less-than-lively meeting topic in the least. She showed more interest in a matter of moments than she had for the entirety of the meeting up to that point, and she couldn’t even be bothered to care. It was so rare that anyone was willing to play along. Most meetings were spent tapping her toes against carpet, or filling quickly sketched staff lines in the margins of her notes. Some part of her felt she should pay attention, given she was new and working on a good first impression, but the meeting was unbearably boring, and there was someone present who was perfectly willing to cause some trouble.

“I don’t joke around when it comes to...joking around.” She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head around a laugh, turning back to the front. Displayed was a slide reading “2021 Changes,” and she was certain they’d been covering changes for at least thirty minutes. Freedom was imminent. “My vote is ice cream.”

Her vote was anything that wasn’t another staff meeting. She raised her hand, “Excuse me, sorry. I just couldn’t help but notice you’re using the Geometric theme by Slides. It’s an excellent choice, very clean. May I ask why Geometric instead of, say, Plum, or Spearmint?”

It took the New Dean several seconds to realize someone else was talking. He blinked behind his tortoiseshell glasses at Caoimhe, then at his presentation, then back again. “This...was recommended to me by my assistant.” He laughed affably. “And if you’ll observe, as we move on to the next section of the faculty code of conduct, the hexagons make for a very convenient grouping of text, so you can differentiate between the point and the rationale…” He fumbled with his clicker and brought the next slide up.

“Oh, actually, I have a question about that formatting!” Morgan called. “The color contrast you picked is interesting, but I was wondering why you deviated from black and white. And why the font? It’s not so great for those of us in the back or with visual impairments. Which, I dunno, considering our disciplines is probably a lot of us, right?”

A few women sitting nearby sniggered.

“Obviously I can’t speak for anyone else, but everything you’re saying reads like gibberish to me. And I feel like my professional enrichment is being underserved.”

Ah, the next slide. Caoimhe was only allowed a moment of defeat before her partner in crime piped up, and the Dean’s initial laughter faded into a look of disbelief. The energy in the room changed. People were shifting in their chairs, interest piqued. Caoimhe could see a few burying their heads in the crook of their elbow, or covering their laughter with a hand over their mouths. She had a feeling she was going to like UMWC. Not if every meeting derailed so easily, not if she’d always have someone so perfectly willing to try.

“Oh, my deepest apologies.” There was a pause, then, while the Dean twisted the clicker in his hands and considered his next course of action. Caoimhe could see the red creeping into his cheeks, and she might’ve felt bad for him, if she wasn’t enjoying herself so much.

“There’s actually a site to help with contrast, as well as outlines of the best fonts to use in presentations. For example, Garamond fonts look very professional, yet are still easy to read.” Caoimhe grinned, “I can send an email, even carbon copy your assistant, if you’d like.”

Morgan turned to Caoimhe as if noticing her for the first time. “Oh, my gosh! Could you? That sounds so amazing and helpful. Barbara--” She waved down a woman two rows up. “You had a student who was color-blind and dyslexic last semester, right? Did you ever figure out what the best format and coloring was for him?”

“No, that was me!” Another woman, Stephanie Shannon, called. Stephanie liked to be an authority on things. It made it easier to correct everyone else. And so, when Morgan happened to call the wrong woman, of course she had to be corrected. Stephanie launched into a long anecdote about her student and the research she did, and which websites were not at all helpful, and so on.

The New Dean tapped his microphone. “If we could turn back to business--”

“I believe Doctor Shannon is still speaking,” Morgan said, unable to hide the glee in her voice.

“Thank you, Professor Beck,” Stephanie said, genuinely touched.

Morgan leaned back in her seat and turned to Caoimhe. “So, the real question is whether we want to see if his face is going to get any redder or if we want to pretend to go to the ladies’ room and never come back.”

Chaos ensued and Caoimhe barely managed to conceal a smile behind her hand. The careful structure of the meeting falling to pieces around them was almost enough to make her stay, but it was still a meeting, and she was willing to bet Doctor Shannon had about as much to say as the Dean did. The deed was done. If she stayed in her spot another moment longer, her laughter would give her away.

A quick excuse and she was tumbling into the hallway, the sound of continued arguing cutting off abruptly as the door shut in her wake. The amount of joy she derived from the dean’s expression as she ducked out was near pathological.

“Professor Beck, was it?” Caoimhe had grown well-accustomed to starting over, to finding her footing in new environments. There was always a nook into which she could burrow herself, even if it was a box-strewn hotel room rented by the week. She preferred it when it looked like this. Like university hallways and bookshelves, drifting notes from a piano in a practice room, and sometimes people. They were always the hardest. They had interests, opinions, smiles and laughter of their own. It was easy to leave behind a bookshelf or a piano. It wasn’t always easy to leave behind people, the rare friend. Professor Beck had jumped in with the same glee Caoimhe had, and she already found herself thinking about what it would mean to leave. “I’m stealing you for every meeting. I’m sorry, it’s just the way it’s going to be.”

Morgan followed her new friend out. People seldom questioned women leaving in pairs, and she’d just earned some much needed goodwill. When the doors to the lecture room closed behind her, she finally let herself laugh, more pleased with herself than she’d been in a long time.

“Why yes,” she said, bowing dramatically. “Morgan Beck, at your service. I am great at distractions, petty theft, and driving away unwanted attention. My knowledge of literature isn’t so bad either.” She laughed again and sidled up to the other woman. “I would be honored, thrilled even, to be your partner in crime for the next meeting. But first, I definitely want to know who I have the honor of being in cahoots with, and if I can steal you for my meetings too.” It had been a while since she’d had a reason to feel happy at work. Since she’d had a real friend she could do shallow simple things with. There was no keeping the supernatural from coming to her door no matter where she went, but a moment of good, a little bubble of fun and nothing now and then, could be worth a lot.

“Oh, Morgan!” Caoimhe stood up a little straighter, grinning. “English professor Morgan? Likes the Cranberries Morgan?” She gave her own bow, “It’s Caoimhe, Music professor, new in town. Also great at distractions, and car sing alongs like you wouldn’t believe.” Suddenly, White Crest didn’t feel quite so daunting. It felt just that little bit more like somewhere she could settle, if she ever found herself in a capacity to do so. Perhaps there was something to the fog, to the way it felt disconnected in a way no other town had managed. Perhaps there was something to letting herself have friendships in the in-between.

There was muffled arguing from behind the door, and Caoimhe descended into another laugh, moving further down the hallway. There’d been some mention of a treat in reward of success, and the rapidly derailing meeting behind them was definitely a success. “Now, as much fun as that was, I’ve already enlisted you as my arm wrestling champion, how could I possibly expect even more of you?”

“Yes! That’s me! And you’re Vivaldi and Britney Spears Caoimhe?” Morgan gaped. She followed Caoimhe down the hall, shoes skittering in a cascade of delight as she avoided the oncoming faculty approaching the door. “Oh, you’re amazing! You’re like the first cool person my age here and you actually give a shit about your students and teaching and you sing in the car too? Do you also sing karaoke? I just--feel like you’re one swooping in here and making everything here a whole lot better. Let me get you something, a drink, or lunch or whatever people with sudden free-time do.” She caught up to herself, hearing the echo of her own rambling and her unchecked enthusiasm in the hall. “Or, um, a rain check. Obviously. But, you really do seem great and this place isn’t kind to great people, especially when they’re isolated. And, you know, selfishly, I really do appreciate having a partner in crime. There’s only so much mischief you can get up to when it’s you against the world.”

“Okay, okay correction.” Caoimhe matched the same excited rambling coming from Morgan. She talked with her hands. Her mother would grab them sometimes, pin them to a table and say her name sharp, but with a smile tugging at the edges of her lips. Caoimhe never did make an effort to fix it. “It’s you and me against the world now, so just jot that one down. Or...at the very least boring staff meetings. We can work up to the whole world part, but I’m dedicated.”

She tucked her thumbs into the pockets of her slacks. She liked the sound of Vivaldi and Britney Spears Caoimhe, and cool person, and lunch between classes. Of someone who seemed just as excited to wreak havoc as she was, who cared about her students, who liked karaoke, and oh. That one wouldn’t be the best idea, but the rest! Caoimhe would happily get behind the rest. “Yes to karaoke sometimes, no to the rain check.” She parsed through the onslaught to address one item at a time, quick and with just as much enthusiasm as the questions had been asked. “You seem great, I don’t rain check great. But reverse it, let me get you a drink, or lunch, or something.”

Morgan couldn’t fight the way she brightened up at Caoimhe’s assurances. “Okay! Then--” Shoot. She didn’t eat out anymore. Or enjoy most food. “Coffee? I know it’s hot and terrible outside, but we can get something iced. I know where the best places in town are.” And she could actually taste a quad shot latte. “I’ll let you pay this time, but only because it contractually obligates a second outing when I get to pay. And the sky’s the limit there, because while we adjuncts might get shit for pay, I get some very generous supplemented by my unspeakably wonderful future-wife.” She slipped her hands into her own skirt pockets and elbowed Caoimhe, grinning. “I like the sound of that, though: you and me against the department and really boring faculty meetings. Today the arts college, tomorrow the school, and then who knows?”

#souls of mischief #wr caoimhe #wr chatzy #wr caoimhe chatzy

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allsassnoclass · 3 years ago

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Hello everyone! Today is the one year anniversary of my favorite fic I’ve written (so far), Puzzle Pieces! I thought I’d give a full length director’s commentary to commemorate the occasion.

Spoilers for the fic below!

The idea for this fic stemmed from a few things. I’ve always been fascinated with the idea of a soulmate au where colors appear on your skin when you first touch your soulmate(s). I think I initially encountered this in a newsies fic that I’ve since lost track of that was heavily focused on platonic soulmates. I liked this convention because the possibilities for multiple soulmates are endless and I like the idea of colorful splotches on people. I also think that identifying soulmates via touch rather than the first sentence they say or some sort of other identifier gives a lot of opportunity for relationships to grow and develop before they know that they’re soulmates. I am always a little bothered when soulmate aus have people fall right into a relationship and kissing and intense emotions right away when the two people don’t know anything about each other. This seemed like a way to combat that a little, but I’ll speak more on that later.

The Beginnings

The first record I have of this fic is a message I sent to Helen on May 8, 2020. The fic was very much only in the idea stages then, as I took over three more months to write it and wrote Too Close to See during that time. A google doc for the fic wasn’t started until July 20, 2020, and it was titled “soulmate colors au.” My method for writing is going in order these days, and for this particular fic there wasn’t a specific scene that I started with in mind. I really was just going or it and making it up as I went, chugging along and seeing what happened.

The Colors

A pretty significant part of this fic is the colors. When I figured out that colors would appear on people when they touched, I knew that figuring out who had what color would be very important. Initially I was going to have each pairing have their own color (so for example cashton would both leave blue on each other but malum would both leave green on each other) but I quickly decided that I didn’t like that and that each individual should have a color that they leave, instead. I sent a message to Bella asking what colors she thought the boys would be, but I can’t find that message anymore and know that while it was similar it wasn’t quite right. Here’s some reasoning behind each of the boys’ colors:

Michael: I went with red not just because of the iconic red hair, but because it’s a pretty loud and brash color. Michael (especially when he was younger) doesn’t really filter things, wears a decent amount of his personality on his sleeve, and first reaction that said red to me

Calum: Calum has always been forest green. This is partially influenced by the empahty hoodie, even though it’s a bit brighter than the green in my mind for him here, but I also think green is a very dependable, stable color. (I used that color symbolism in one of my fall out boy fics years ago lol) It reminds me of pine trees, and I think Calum can give off that same sense of reliability in weathering the seasons. It’s a quieter color but can really pop next to another one. It also worked out nicely that Calum and Michael’s colors were compliments

Luke: Luke gets gold because he is a sunshine boy! Luke actually was the person I had the most trouble with, because I was flipping between gold, a lighter blue, or pink. Pink ultimately was too close to red to make me be able to visualize what the marks looked like on each boy to my satisfaction. It just looked ugly and clashing. I went with gold because there is a lot of outward brightness in Luke. He’s the kind of person where if he’s happy everyone else gets a bit happier, and gold also seemed fitting for the eventual shift into a rockstar and the amount of talent he has

Ashton: Ashton gets purple, but a deeper purple. Dynamic but still relatively stable, has a lot of depth. Purple is a secret color, but it’s still beautiful and it draws people in. When I visualize it it ends up being a really dark shade, but in reality he’s probably more of a royal purple than a plum purple. I feel bizarrely passionate about his color specifically. I don’t know why that is.

The colors didn’t have any sort of influence on the fic, but they were deliberately chosen.

The World of the Fic: Chosen Soulmates

So here’s the thing. I feel very strongly about love being a conscious decision that people make over and over. It takes work. It takes a deliberate commitment.

Soulmate aus kind of negate that.

So, how do you fix this? Well, I did that by having these marks not necessarily indicate soulmates. The way that the marks are described in the fic is that they indicate how easy it should be to love someone and how compatible two people are. It doesn’t automatically mean that you’ll adore them forever and never leave their side. You still need to put in the work. (Luke shows this early on when Michael asks if he loves Calum and he says “I don’t think I know him well enough for that yet. I know I will, because the colors say it should be easy and I want to, but not like you do.” He has made the decision to work toward loving Calum, but he knows that just having the colors doesn’t immediately make them love each other.) In that way, it almost isn’t a soulmate au, at least not in the traditional way. Things aren’t inevitable. There is still an element of choice.

This was also shown with Ashton. I don’t remember when I made the decision to give Ashton a Tragic Background with his dad, but I know it was relatively early because by the time I wrote his introduction I knew that would happen. I wanted to give a bit more of a reason for his hesitation to let them touch him, which I was already including because Ashton has always been the least touchy of the band, and I saw this as another opportunity to show that necessity of choice. It’s sweeter to me for the boys to choose each other rather than to just be stuck with each other, and if Ashton hadn’t actually been a soulmate of theirs then I wanted there to be the assurance that they could still love him just as much, because all love is chosen.

In the end, having a broken soulbond in Ashton’s past was a good way to accomplish all of that. It’s heartbreaking to not be chosen despite the fact that it should be easy, but once Ashton accepts that Michael, Calum, and Luke are vehemently choosing him with or without the soulmark, it makes his acceptance of their love very sweet to me. He’s saying that he trusts them to put in the work to love him. The scene where he talks to Michael in the car and the scene where he accepts their touches and soulmarks are probably my two favorite scenes in the fic.

The World of the Fic: Touch

In a world where the first skin-on-skin contact can indicate whether it’ll be extremely easy for you to love someone, how common would touch be? Would we greet people with handshakes still? Would gloves be more common fashion accessories? Would touching someone be a Big Deal?

Hence, the First Touch was born!

I figured that, with touch possibly being a lot more significant in this world, people would be a lot more careful about whether they make skin-on-skin contact. Kids would be taught that it’s impolite to try to touch someone, to a more extreme degree than they are now. Handshakes simply are not a greeting anymore. Instead, sometimes the first contact people make is considered a big deal, seeing as it can indicate whether two people are soulmates or not.

I figured that Luke especially would enjoy important first touches, because he’s a sentimental sweetie. Of course, his first touch with Michael ended up being special simply because it was with each other :)

This also let me really lean into Ashton being touch-adverse. Now on top of not liking touch, he also has another reason to avoid it, which makes every cuddle moment after the first touch even better, because he’s definitely touch starved. The band cuddles him so much once they share the colors.

The World of the Fic: Platonic Soulmates

Guys. GUYS. I love platonic soulmates. I love them a lot. I feel very passionately about them. Romantic love is not the pinnacle of human love, and as someone who cannot at this point see myself with a romantic partner I really wanted to ensure that platonic soulmates were a thing. Given that information, it’s a no-brainer that I included them in this fic. Part of the appeal of this type of soulmate au was that it gave opportunity for more than one soulmate and more than one type of soulmate. As such, platonic, familial, and romantic soulmates could all be indicated by the colors. I also really liked that there wasn’t any sort of differentiation between the types of soulmates. One type of love isn’t hailed over the others. It’s an even playing field here.

That was one of the things that immediately drew me to this type of prompt, actually. I wanted to write a fic about Michael parsing through his emotions and figuring out what he feels for Calum. The difference between platonic and romantic love has always been very interesting to me, because I find that the line can be pretty blurry personally. The best way to do that was to give him a set of soulmates who he cares about equally but in different ways.

The following excerpt really is the theme of the story to me: “Calum is an old, comfortable sweater, but Luke is like a favorite pair of shoes. They both fit him perfectly. He feels more at home when either of them are around, and although the love he has for Calum is different, he thinks he could love Luke just as much.” Each of us love everyone we meet a little differently, because everyone is a different person, but different doesn’t mean unequal.

While the fic is about Michael figuring himself out, it’s equally a love story between all four of them. The moments where Michael finds out he’s soulmates with Luke and Ashton were just as important to me as the moment he and Calum get together, and I really wanted to be sure that each relationship had it’s time in the limelight. That’s ultimately why the idea of puzzle pieces became a theme (that I added on editing). I like the idea of all of them coming together to create something bigger than themselves. They fit. They click. They are better for it. The first time someone referred to this as an ot4 fic it threw me off, because only malum is romantic in it, but I really like that classification for it, because it is.

Asexual Representation (Accidentally)

I didn’t know I was writing Michael as ace until about 4 days before I posted the fic.

Looking back, that’s a little bit ridiculous, because I was brainstorming this fic for three and a half months and actively writing it for two before I realized. I believe there was a conversation in the discord about ace rep in fics (Bella and I think Heath were part of it, I can’t remember any other participants), and I thought to myself “hey I’m ace and like ace rep, Michael in the soulmate colors au could probably be ace.” Lo and behold, he already was. All I had to do was add a few sentences and finish the fic (I hadn’t written the scenes in England yet).

My asexuality definitely influenced the way I had been writing Michael’s confusion over his feelings for Calum. Part of the reason I myself see the line between platonic and romantic as so blurry is because I’m ace and so much of romantic love in media is tied in with sexual attraction. When you don’t feel sexual attraction, that can get confusing, especially since most strong feelings of love are depicted to be romantic.

While Michael and I had very, very different paths to figuring out our sexualities, I drew on my own experiences of ace-ness to write him. This was a bit more apparent in the sequel scene Bedroom Activities, but it ended up becoming a core of the story. I genuinely don’t know how I didn’t realize that’s what I was writing.

As an ace person, ace rep means a lot to me, given how little of it is in popular media. I’m glad I explored it so early on in my 5sos fic career, and I’m proud of this one.

Miscellaneous Things

The process of writing this story was, as I stated before, pretty linear. I went from the start to the end without a lot of planning. I specifically had no clue what was happening at the Hot Chelle Rae afterparty until it was happening. The kiss came out of no where. However, I want to point out that initially I thought this fic would be 8k. It is now my third longest fic ever written. I have never learned to correctly estimate how long a fic I’m writing will be.

I have a few various favorite lines, but one repeated theme I love is Michael craving Calum’s touch. I say he’s touch-starved for him twice, once relatively early on and once at the end, and I love that Calum’s touch has been a constant for Michael. They had their first touch accidentally and became best friends immediately in the way that little kids do, so Michael has always had him as a constant, tactile presence in his life. That’s why losing him to Luke scared him so much and why then gaining Luke and Ashton as soulmates is so good for him.

I really like referring to Michael, Luke, and Calum as a triangle. I first did it in this fic, but it’s now my tag for the three of them. Idk I just like how equally distributed a triangle is, all sides touching, no one left out.

Branching off of this, one of my favorite lines is when Ashton and Michael do their first touch: “The dark purple reminds him of spilling grape juice on his clothes as a kid, and when he collapses into Ashton he feels like they could have known each other at that age, too.” There is something so charming about meeting someone later and feeling like you’ve known them your whole life, and that was significant here because Michael has known Calum and Luke since they were younger (although Luke did come in the picture when they were tweens/young teens instead of kids). I wanted to be sure that although Michael, Calum, and Luke are the triangle, Ashton is an equal part of their soulmate group. He doesn’t have the same history, but that doesn’t matter because it feels like he does.

Luke’s obsession with soulmate statistics is a convenient plot device and partially a result of his mom being a math teacher. Above all things, it’s a manifestation of his desire to be loved. The guy just wants to be loved!!! and he wants others to be loved, too!!!

This is by far my favorite fic that I’ve written. It’s not perfect (there are for sure two lines that I would change, and I think I could’ve done things differently with the very slight OCD I gave Michael that manifested in his hand washing), but I love it dearly. It’s the type of fic that I would’ve loved to read, and the response to it has been wonderful. Thank you to everyone who has read it and special shout out to everyone who has made it to the end of this very long director’s notes <3

#my writing #puzzle pieces #soulmate colors au #director's cut #y'all i love this fic i just really do idk what to say #i could've talked a little about the possibilities of a sequal #since i do have some ideas for one #but i don't have drive to write it right now #and idk if adding on would take away from the original #it wouldn't be michael's story anymore. i feel like puzzle pieces told that rather well #it would be ashton's story this time #anyway that's neither here nor there i have many other projects first

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atinybitofau · 5 years ago

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Y U N H O ⇛ the reason why

“A CUP OF COFFEE”

a new series involving every day objects that either force you two together or force you two apart.

• “I’m so sorry! Oh god, I’m so sorry!”

• Yunho curses to himself.

• asks himself how could his day get any worse?

• fom his longtime girlfriend dumping him.

• to getting his car towed.

• with a hot cup of coffee getting spilled all over his work suit.

• “I-it’s fine.” He seethes wiping at his shirt. “I can just buy a new one.”

• you push your glasses up the bride of your nose in haste before stuttering, “N-no! Wait here. There’s a shop next door. Let me just buy you a new one. Hold on.”

• he just sighs to himself.

• cause he’s too nice of a guy to get angry.

• too stressed.

• stress.

• what a good word to describe what he feels right now.

• you stumble back in the cafe and hand him a large black bag.

• “There’s a nice button up and a matching suit jacket to go with it!” you smile to yourself thinking,

• you’re too nice.

• you obviously are too stressed out and not to mention too broke for this.

• for starters, being late to work because someone got towed in front of your car this morning.

• because now you had to buy a new cup of coffee.

• or how else are you going to make up being late to your new boss on the first day?

• “Thanks.” he doesn’t even look at you while he changed his suit jacket.

• but he has to admit, you have good taste for someone who just spilled your drink all over his already perfectly good suit.

• “How much was it?” he whips out his thick wallet making your eyes go wide. “I’ll pay.”

• “Please dont!” you curl into his eyes making him stop a little. “I don’t mind. It’s my fault so I should be responsible.”

• he’s not gonna lie and say you aren’t pretty enough for him to let it slide.

• for him to think he’s seen you before.

• maybe on social media?

• definitely on his computer.

• “Well thank you. I’m sorry but I’m gonna be late for work.” he pats your head as you shrink under his tall superior gaze. “I hope you have a good day, miss.”

• “Y-you too, sir!”

• you pout to yourself.

• cause what were you doing again?

• oh yeah.

• cursing under your breath because—

• s t r e s s.

• “Mr. Jeong. Your new secretary is here to meet you. And she brings coffee.”

• he glares at the way his flamboyant assistant struts off with a smirk,

• curses San for being a piece of shit sometimes.

• “Just bring her in, you dumbass.”

• “Be nice, Yunho. She’s trying her best. And also only late because she bought you a nice cup of coffee so shape up.”

• he rolls his eyes at him.

• sighing as San points a threatening finger looking over his shoulder and out the door.

• “Miss y/n? Mr. Jeong is ready for you.”

• you scramble in.

• hoping a hot americano is exactly what he needs right now.

• but you two definitely don’t expect to see each other a second time.

• especially not on the same day?

• “Coffee girl?”

• “Mr. tall, broad and handsome?”

• “Excuse me?”

• your ears perk up not even shameful about your impression of him coming out in word vomit.

• “A new suit and a cup of coffee.” you hand it over with ease. “A little much coming from your new secretary, huh, Mr. Jeong?”

• he smiles.

• smiles at you and thinks,

• s t r e s s.

• and how it flew right out the window as soon as you walked in.

• “It’s nice to finally meet you, y/n. I look forward to working with you.”

• “And with you as well, Mr. Jeong.”

• you two definitely get on on the right foot.

• always spending more time with each other than work.

• him showing up at your place at 2 in the morning to discuss business?

• more like, needs your cup of coffees to soothe his stresses.

• “—And his proposal? Don’t even get me started.” Yunho complains as he watches you over the counter. “He’s ridiculous if he truly believes that I would accept an offer like that. Half assed and completely against my company’s slogan.”

• you chuckle sliding him over his designated hot mug, hands folded over your chest. “Yunho, you can’t just say no to every man who offers. His was by far the most charitable. Despite his lack of conservative interests.”

• “He’s trying to get the better hand.” Yunho choked on his drink to defend. “You get buttered up too easily.”

• “Says the guy who’d say yes to any woman.”

• he glares back making you softly giggle. “You’ll be the death of me, y/n. One day. I swear to you.”

• you let him drink while you tiredly lean on the palm of your hand. “I hope that’s not soon. You obviously need me more that I need you.”

• his eyes trail after you.

• the way you strut almost as peeving as San’s.

•except...

• except he finds you attractive and far more suitable in his interests than his temperamental boy assistant.

• “Where are you going?” his eyes snap back to yours when you whip around.

• yours timely blinking. “To sleep. I hope you realize it’s 2 in the morning and we have a meeting with Park enterprises at 7 later. Unlike you, a cup of my coffee not doing my stresses justice.”

• he almost growls.

• grunts at how much he wants you.

• is more tempted now that he’s done with his coffee.

• and that he’s got you all to himself in the walls of your apartment.

• “Want to join me?”

• fuck yes he does.

• and that he does.

• waits till you’re in bed before stripping out of his suit jacket.

• “Was the couch not of your interest, Mr. Jeong?”

• you were blatantly teasing.

• it’s no lie that you caught Yunho staring at you and your ass more times than he asks for coffee every morning.

• and it’s definitely not conservative the way he shows up at your door this late at night.

• you open up your arms to let him in,

• buried into his tall and warm figure.

• before he’s saying, “I’m far more interested being here than on the comfort of your couch.”

• you two fall asleep like that.

• arms and legs intertwined.

• you sometimes forget he’s your boss.

• but that’s okay.

• he’s like the cup of coffee you need to make your stress temporarily go away.

• “Who’s that?” you peer over San’s computer when you walk into Yunho’s office for some briefing. “You didn’t tell me he’d be having company.”

• the word company doesn’t fall off your lips like your words usually flawlessly do.

• no.

• the word company sounds like a vice right now.

• San noting that before answering, “That’s because I didn’t know he’d be having company. Wicked witch of the west decided to show up unannounced. And basically ready to start begging on her knees for her ex boyfriend back.”

• your heart feels torn.

• s t r e s s.

• a six letter word that usually describes what you feel well.

• but not right now.

• “His ex?”

• “Mhm.” San hums. “You better go get your man, y/n. Or ex on legs over there might never give you a chance.”

• you prick at your cheeks with your tongue.

• not shy when you walk into his office.

• hand and clipboard cocked on your hip. “Was I interrupting?”

• Yunho jumps at your voice.

• how it soothes him even in the worse situations.

• blinking in horror as his tall drink of coffee was not near as good enough this morning.

• “Y-y/n. I was just..”

• “Not going over the briefing maybe?” you look at the rich model at his side. “I’m sorry, but I’ve made an appointment with Mr. Jeong so you’re gonna have to wait in line.”

• “And who are you?”

• he doesn’t know how you do it.

• how even though you weren’t at all, a tall and gorgeous model like his ideal types,

• how you fit his criteria and slogan more than any woman ever did.

• “I’m his secretary. Someone he needs more than he wants.” you bark back making sure you’re made clear and crystal. “Now if you’ll please excuse us, your visual isn’t needed in his meeting today. You can wait till this afternoon for his time. Or maybe late tonight when he might be free.”

• he knows it’s a bullet you take.

• how you are clearly angry that another woman was threatening your place.

• that you were definitely not offering a cup of coffee for him later when you obviously need it more.

• “Y/n, I can explain.”

• you hold your hand up at him and open your notebook. “Don’t. Let’s just get this over with so I can go home.”

• and substitute your normal hot caffeine intake for something a little stronger.

• Yunho’s over his head.

• sitting in his car at your complex’s parking lot hoping you’d let him in.

• tapping his hand on his hot artificial cup of coffee at 2 am for staying up this late.

• “Go home.” you say through your phone as you watch the surveillance tapes in your room. “Yunho, I mean it. You can’t camp there forever.”

• “As long as this cup takes me to finish, believe me I will.”

• “Yunho..”

• “She means nothing to me.” he insists feverishly, desperately. “Y/n, your couch is more interesting to me than her face is. Come on, don’t do this.”

• you prick your hands with your fingernails.

• knowing well this stubborn guy was too nice for his own good.

• too nice to let you go.

• “Y/n. Please.” he begs again and you watch him with welling eyes through a tv screen. “Please let me in. Please let me explain.”

• “Two minutes. I’m giving you two minutes.”

• you hang up and count the seconds.

• the amount of time that passes that you think you desperately need the caffeine.

• that without it, time is stressful.

• takes too long.

• “I love you.”

• that didn’t.

• no Yunho’s confession did not.

• “I love you and I don’t know how else to put this.” he rubs at his temples, shirt half ajar. “It’s starting to stress me out. I don’t know how to tell you I love you without losing what we have. What if I’d never be able to come here at 2 am every night? What if you stop making me coffee every morning, hm?”

• you push your glasses up the bridge of your nose,

• saying things that really do make you sound like you’re too nice.

• “I’m not what she is.” you repeat. “Yunho, I’m far from that. I know what you like and I’m the half assed version of what you want.”

• “You said it yourself you’re what I need.”

• your jaw clenches, “One minute.”

• “I love you and I’m not gonna leave here without you.”

• “This is my house, Yunho.”

• “And I stand by my case.” he repeats getting closer. breath getting closer. “I’m not leaving here. With or without you.”

• he kisses you.

• and he tastes like thick brewed coffee.

• hot and caffeinated.

• you sigh against him letting the stress dissipate over.

• letting him shake you awake till you can’t stand up on your own.

• “I love you.” you mumble. “But a cup of coffee and a new suit was all I can give when I was your secretary. What would me being your girlfriend require? What I had to offer already being too much for me, Yunho.”

• he curves into your height,

• the height difference not much of a bother.

• doesn’t stress him out.

• kisses you while you sit on your kitchen counter so it doesn’t.

• “Just give me you and that’s more than enough.”

@atinybitofau

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whatstheproblembaby · 4 years ago

Text

Fic: Remember Me

Shelagh is a little confused when she wakes up at Nonnatus House, but everything will be all right when Patrick comes for her, won't it?

PG, ~2170 words, hurt/comfort out the ASS.

Read here on AO3!

She didn’t want to, but Shelagh eventually succumbed to the force of her waking mind. Rolling over, she stretched out an arm toward where Patrick should be, looking forward to a quick morning cuddle before they had to get up and tend to their children and patients.

Instead, her arm flopped over the edge of the bed, her fingers clipping the nightstand.

“Wha-” she grunted, vocal cords not quite awake yet. “Patrick?”

Shelagh blinked, and took in-

“Nonnatus?”

She sat up and fished her glasses off the nightstand, thinking that clearing her vision might also help clear her mind. She thought she had fallen asleep in her own bed last night, but she did have to stay over at Nonnatus sometimes if Patrick had a late, last minute call and couldn’t drive her home from the surgery. Perhaps she had just gotten mixed up.

Less explainable, though, was the resistance she met when she tried to slide her glasses over her ears.

“Who gave me a cap?” Shelagh asked as though someone was there to answer her. She patted her hands over her head, feeling the still-familiar white fabric in confusion, then looked down to take in the rest of her attire. “And a nightgown?”

She appreciated the kindness, since sleeping in either her day dress or her nurse’s uniform would have left her wrinkled and uncomfortable, but the fit of the pajamas was perplexing. The nightgown was visually identical to the ones the sisters wore, which made sense. They each had two, so any one of them could have lent her their spare. All of the sisters were slightly taller than she was, though - so how could she feel her feet poking past the hem to press against the sheets? The skirt wasn’t rucked up any higher than it should be.

Shelagh decided not to question it and turned on the lamp before standing up and padding over to the wardrobe. It would be too informal to take breakfast in her borrowed pajamas regardless of how they fit, not to mention the awkwardness she would feel at being garbed like a religious sister once more, even if no one else would think much of it.

“Most of them weren’t even here when I was Sister Bernadette,” she muttered. Shelagh didn’t make a regular habit of talking to herself aloud, but she suddenly wanted the comfort of an expected voice, even if it was just her own. “They wouldn’t know it was...inappropriate. Still, I’d rather be in my own dress and ready to get on with the day when Patrick arrives for me.”

She pulled open the wardrobe door and had to blink several times. In a daze, she shut the doors, counted to five silently, and reopened them.

The contents were the same.

“Habits?” Shelagh said, her accent thickening somewhat in shock. “Why ever-”

A light rap on her door interrupted her question. “Sister? Are you coming to Lauds?”

“I think you have the wrong room,” Shelagh said as she made her way over to let Sister Hilda in. “I’m always happy to attend Lauds with you, of course, but I’m no longer a religious sister. Oh, were you aware that I was once-”

“No longer?” Sister Hilda cut in, a bemused smile on her face. “Sister, are you feeling quite the thing?”

“I don’t understand why you keep calling me Sister. I renounced my vows ages ago.” Shelagh suddenly felt dizzy. Between the wardrobe full of someone else’s clothes and Sister Hilda’s insistence on using the wrong title...it was overwhelming so early in the morning.

Sister Hilda took Shelagh firmly by the upper arms and guided her so they were sitting side by side on the bed. “Sis- pardon.” She cleared her throat when Shelagh glared at her attempt to use the title yet again. “You are scaring me. Are you sure that headache you had at supper last night has gone away?”

“I’m perfectly fine,” Shelagh said, agitated. “And I did not have a headache at supper last night, which I ate, by the way, with my own husband and children!”

“With your - that’s quite enough,” Sister Hilda said. She pushed herself forcefully off the bed before chivvying Shelagh just as emphatically back into lying down. “I’m calling Doctor. I don’t know if you’re feverish or somehow sustained a head injury after Compline, but you are not in your right mind, Sister Bernadette. You will stay here until the doctor can have a look at you. Sister Frances can lead Lauds.”

Shelagh wasn’t sure which part of that speech she wanted to rebut first, but she finally spluttered out “Wh-what about Sister Julienne?” just before Sister Hilda exited the room.

“Mother Julienne is visiting the Hope Clinic in South Africa, as you well know!” The door closed decisively behind Sister Hilda.

“Mother Julienne?” Shelagh echoed. “Oh, what in the world is going on?”

While she was of the mind to flout Sister Hilda’s orders on principle, Shelagh thought she may as well wait there. One way or another, she would get to see Patrick, and she couldn’t exactly wait in the entrance hall in her nightie.

“Wouldn’t that be a shock, though?” she said, a mischievous smile growing on her face as she imagined the look on Patrick’s. She chuckled softly as the door opened again.

“Well, I’m glad you’re laughing, Sister,” Patrick said as he bustled in with Sister Hilda hot on his heels. “One of us should be in a good mood this morning.”

“Oh, Patrick, not you, too!” Shelagh said, shaking her head at his incorrect title for her. “Did Sister Hilda not tell you it was me she’s worried about?”

“You see?” Sister Hilda said, gesturing at her. “Something’s wrong.”

“Clearly,” Patrick said. Shelagh frowned as he hooked his stethoscope over his neck and dug a thermometer out of his bag. “You were right to call me.”

“Really, Patrick, that’s enough,” Shelagh said, moving to swing herself out of bed. “The children will be late for school if we mess about with this sad attempt at a comedy show any longer.”

“Sister, it’s incredibly unprofessional for you to keep calling me by my first name,” Patrick said, catching Shelagh by the arm to keep her in place. As he popped the thermometer into her mouth, he sat next to her on the bed and continued, “And honestly, I was unaware you even knew my first name. Is it in Mother Julienne’s old files somewhere?”

Shelagh’s mouth gaped, the thermometer falling into her lap. “Wh - of course I know your first name. You’re my husband, in case you’ve forgotten!”

Sister Hilda stepped forward, aghast. “Sister! I realize you likely don’t know what you’re saying, but that is beyond the pale! Dr. Turner would never behave so inappropriately toward a woman of God.”

“It’s all right, Sister, I’m not offended,” Patrick said as he pressed a hand clinically to Shelagh’s forehead. She wanted to reach up and cling on, reassure herself, but the lack of affection in Patrick’s eyes stopped her cold. “She’s not feverish. You’re sure she didn’t hit her head yesterday?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Where are the children?” Shelagh interjected. She tried to keep the panic she was feeling out of her voice - Sister Hilda and Patrick didn’t need any more reasons to think she was mentally unwell. “May? Angela? Teddy? Did you leave them with Timothy?”

Patrick recoiled as though she had slapped him. It was Sister Hilda who responded, very softly.

“Dr. Turner’s son died of polio in 1958. You were still in the sanatorium, Sister - do you remember? I can ask Nurse Franklin for more details if it would help.”

“I...I….” The gravity of what Sister Hilda was saying struck her, and Shelagh couldn’t find words, couldn’t find air. She started crying, gentle tears quickly giving way to great, painful heaves that almost drowned out the sound of Patrick instructing Sister Hilda to call an ambulance and the Linchmere over her head. “No, please...Patrick! Don’t - I’m not-”

Her vision started fluttering, and everything went black.

__________________________

Patrick climbed the dark stairs slowly, exhausted after assisting with a long but ultimately rewarding delivery of a new mother of twins. He loosened his tie as he quietly entered his room, not wanting to wake-

“Shelagh!”

His wife was thrashing and sobbing on her side of the bed, her breath coming in frantic gasps between soft cries of “No - Patrick, no!”

“Shelagh, my love, I’m right here,” Patrick said, crossing the room in an instant to drop down beside her on the mattress and start rubbing her back. “I’m right here, wake up.”

“Patrick?” Shelagh’s fitful movements eased ever so slightly, her head tilting toward the sound of his voice.

“Open your eyes, darling, I’m here,” Patrick coaxed. He gently encouraged her to turn onto her other side, facing him, and as she rolled, her eyes opened.

The look of relief and fear that mingled on her face as she came back to consciousness caused him physical pain in his chest.

“Oh...oh, Patrick,” she said, tears welling in her eyes as she sat up. “Tell me you know who I am.”

“What? Shelagh, you’re my wife, of course I know who you are,” he replied, confused.

She threw herself into his arms almost before he had finished his sentence. “Thank God. Thank God.”

Patrick reached out quickly to turn on the bedside lamp before settling against the headboard and pulling Shelagh firmly into his lap. He ran a hand up and down her back soothingly, waiting until her tears calmed enough that she should be able to speak.

“Tell me what happened.”

“It was - oh, it was the worst nightmare,” Shelagh said. She made to slide out of his lap, but he tightened his grip, only allowing her to shift so she was sitting sideways rather than facing him. He handed her the hankie from his trouser pocket so she could wipe her eyes as she continued, “I woke up and I was at Nonnatus House, which was just unusual, but then Sister Hilda started insisting that I was still a sister, and Sister Julienne was actually Mother Julienne and away in South Africa, and you...you….”

She broke off to blow her nose.

“You came to examine me after Sister Hilda called...and you didn’t believe me either. You were going to call the Linchmere. But even worse than that….our children. Timothy.”

“No one believed you about them, either,” Patrick guessed, pressing a kiss to the side of Shelagh’s head when her flinch informed him he was right. “But Tim?”

“In my dream, he didn’t survive polio. Oh, Patrick,” Shelagh sobbed out, tucking her head into the juncture of Patrick’s neck and shoulder.

“Shhh....shhhh, darling,” Patrick said. He removed her headscarf so he could stroke her hair, her back, as the collar of his shirt got progressively wetter. “It was terrible, but it was only a dream. Timothy and the little ones are here. I’m here, and I know you, and I love you.”

After a few long moments, he felt Shelagh’s cries ease, and the vise around his own heart loosened too.

“I’m sorry,” she said, emerging from his neck. “I don’t mean to carry on over a dream.”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” Patrick said fiercely. “Your emotions aren’t any less real because they came from a nightmare. What you can do for me, though, is get up and rinse your face. I’ll make everything comfortable for when you’re done.”

Shelagh looked a little reticent as she stood, but she did make her way to the lavatory to wash up. Patrick scrambled to get into his pajamas, turn down the bed, and get the pillows fluffed and rearranged before she returned.

“That does feel better,” she admitted as she reappeared. “Thank you, dearest.”

“All in a day’s work,” Patrick teased gently, lounging on his back. His smile grew as one bloomed hesitantly on her face. “Now come here.”

Shelagh snagged her headscarf from where he’d left it on her pillow and tied it on before crawling into bed and snuggling close. Patrick anchored one arm firmly around her back and brought the other up to stroke the arm she had draped over his chest.

“This is already better than how I fell asleep before,” Shelagh said, voice muzzy.

“As it should be.” Patrick tilted Shelagh’s head up just long enough to kiss her softly, smiling against her mouth at her sleepily inept attempts to kiss him back. “Rest, love. There will be no more nightmares tonight.”

Shelagh’s head fell lightly against his shoulder, and Patrick dipped his to rest it on her crown. He had relied on the sound of Shelagh’s heartbeat and the warmth of her body to sleep when his memories of Northfield and the war had overwhelmed him, and he could only hope the same would be true for her now.

In the morning, she informed him that it was.

#call the midwife #call the midwife fic #turnadette #turnadette fic #jen does words #g: hurt/comfort #let's not talk about how much id i released here mkay

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wokeuptired · 4 years ago

Photo

every perfect summer

Finn is steady on her own two feet but Niall is a hurricane, determined to bring to the surface what she’s long buried. If only he weren’t so beautiful at sunset, she might be able to resist.

written for @majorharry ‘s 20k fic celebration

prompt #29: “stop looking at me like that.”

niall/ofc, 6.2k

Summer in California is hot and sticky, the kind of sticky that makes you feel silly showering, because as soon as you walk outside, you’ll be sweaty all over again. Even with the fan on full blast, Finn’s thighs are sticking to the leather of the couch she took from her mom’s house when she moved out. She’s read the same page a hundred times, over and over again. The heat makes it hard to think.

The heat makes it hard to breathe.

And mostly, the heat makes it hard to write.

Finn’s about to put the book down when she hears footsteps on the stairs outside. Her apartment complex is a series of buildings each containing a dozen apartments. Finn shares the landing of her staircase with the apartment next door, but it’s the wrong time of day for Cindy and Ralph to be returning home, which means—

“Your new downstairs neighbor is hot,” Jocelyn announces as the apartment door slams shut behind her, the gust of warm air ruffling the pages of Finn’s book. She looks up to roll her eyes.

“You think every guy is hot.”

Jocelyn dumps her shopping on the kitchen table and scoffs. “I do not. Just the hot ones.”

“Aren’t you engaged?” Finn glances down at the big shiny ring on Jocelyn’s finger to emphasize her point. Even though Jocelyn moved out six months ago, when her boyfriend popped the question, sometimes it feels like she never left. Right now is one of those times. “What’s Marcus think about all this looking you do?”

“What he doesn’t know won’t kill him.” Jocelyn punctuates her statement with a saucy flip of her hair and begins unloading her bags onto the small kitchen counter. She holds up a carton of ice cream. “Should I bother putting this away, or do you want to dive in right now?”

Finn holds her hand out for the rocky road. “You know me so well.”

“You’re welcome.” As Finn digs into the tub of ice cream, Jocelyn begins putting things away in the fridge. “You know,” she says into the veggie drawer, “I’m not kidding about your new neighbor. He’s got this angelic frat boy look to him. Have you met him yet?”

“Yeah,” Finn says. “Last week. He offered to carry a package upstairs for me. Very polite, and totally not my type.”

“Exactly.” Jocelyn sits on the couch with another spoon and slides the ice cream out of Finn’s grasp. “As your older sister, it’s my job to advise you on everything. Starting with your interest in men, which is, to be frank, utter shit.”

Finn opens her mouth to object, but she can’t find fault with Jocelyn’s statement. Her last boyfriend wouldn’t come to any work events with her but insisted she attend all of his art shows. He had an ego the size of the Milky Way to make up for his abysmal lack of talent.

“You need to stop dating those neurotic, artsy types,” Jocelyn continues, “and date a man who can, like, actually kill a spider.”

“I’m perfectly capable of killing my own spiders.” As long as they’re small and not moving, but Finn doesn’t feel the need to share that caveat.

“So am I,” Jocelyn says. “Do you want wine?” She doesn’t wait for Finn to answer before she gets up and goes straight for the cupboard that holds the long-stem glasses. “Anyway, that’s not my point. You need to stop dating boys who look good on paper and start dating men who are good. In real life.”

Finn closes her book so that it doesn’t have to listen to this conversation. She accepts the wine glass from Jocelyn’s outstretched hand and swirls around the liquid within. It doesn’t go with the ice cream, but she’s 25 years old, so that doesn’t matter.

Jocelyn scowls at the closed book. “Virginia Woolf again, Finn? Are you ever going to read anything written in this century?”

Finn rolls her eyes. If there’s one thing her sister excels at, it’s being unsatisfied with all aspects of Finn’s life. “Are you here just to criticize me? Or are we watching ‘The Bachelor’?”

Jocelyn grins, spoon still in her mouth. “Oh, we’re watching ‘The Bachelor.’”

-----

The thing about “The Bachelor,” Finn decides that night as she’s brushing her teeth, is that, for the women involved, the ones competing for the bachelor’s heart, there are no consequences.

Oh, small consequences, sure. Your decision might make somebody else cry, or your heart might be slightly bruised, but at the end of it all, you’ve got thousands of new Instagram followers and you’re famous in your small town and everybody wants to date you, even though you chose, of your own free will, to engage in the skeptical that is a dating game show.

But there are no big consequences, no bad consequences. A few months later and the next season’s airing, and everything you did, every dumb thing you said, every kiss you exchanged—it’s all forgotten.

Maybe that’s the way to go, Finn thinks.

Maybe next year, she ought to audition. She develops the pitch in her head: 25 year old ghostwriter of bestselling romance novels; lives alone in Los Angeles; has been considering, for an entire year, the adoption of a cat; has never been in love.

It’s that last part that would sway them, she thinks. The producers would imagine her doe-eyed and innocent, maybe a bit naive. She’d be pitted against the season’s villain, the girl with dark hair (a visual contrast to Finn’s blond bob) who would stop at nothing to win her man.

“How can she write romance novels when she has never known love?” audiences across America would wonder.

Perhaps the bachelor himself would even inquire. Finn would smile shyly, bat her impossibly long eyelashes up at him, and say something coy like, “You could tutor me.”

Jocelyn would love that. She lives for the drama, for what the editors create in post-production. She doesn’t care that it’s fake.

And every week Finn watches and wonders how she can keep selling love in her books when this show proves, without a doubt, that it doesn’t exist.

-----

The new downstairs neighbor works out in the mornings on his patio. Finn hears his music the next morning, drifting in through her open sliding door, around 8:30 AM. It’s not early enough for her to be justifiably annoyed at him, but she’s annoyed nonetheless, because she’s just sat down at her laptop with the intention of writing something today.

Something. Anything. Words on the page, that’s all she needs.

Instead, she sighs, closing her laptop and crossing the room to the balcony. She slides the door open further, pushes the screen out of the way, and goes outside. When she and Jocelyn first moved in, the balcony was a huge appeal. “Outdoor space!” they’d squealed when they first saw the apartment listed online. But now Finn’s been here for two and a half years, and the balcony is just another space for dust to collect.

It’s directly over Downstairs Neighbor’s patio. Finn looks down through the wooden slats and tries to catch a glimpse at him. She can hear Jocelyn’s voice in her head: He’s hot, right? I told you he was hot!

In truth, though, Finn can’t see much through the small gaps between the planks. She can’t tell if he’s lifting weights or doing jumping jacks or playing a very enthusiastic game of cat’s cradle. He’s definitely grunting, though.

Finn shakes her head, trying not to focus on the noises he’s making, and crosses the balcony. She leans her arms on the railing and looks out over the beauty of Los Angeles. Beauty referring, of course, to the parking lot. Finn can see her car, about thirty feet away, parked beneath an evil tree that drops red berries. It really needs to be washed.

Maybe she should take it today. Maybe today will be the first day in a month that she’s gotten dressed in pants that have a zipper and a button, and she’ll go to the carwash and—

Feeling something crawling on her arm, Finn looks down, and oh, shit, it’s a spider. Not a little spider, not a daddy long legs, but one of those ones that’s big enough where you can see its body. It looks like one of those spiders a little kid draws around Halloween.

Oh, shit. Finn lifts her arm, waving it wildly, trying to shake the spider loose before it bites her and turns her into Spider Woman, and that’s when she throws her mug of coffee into the air.

“Oh, shit,” she says out loud. Time seems to slow as she watches her mug descend, coffee flying everywhere as the cup turns a full 360 degrees before landing with a crack on the concrete below.

“What the fuck?” It’s Downstairs Neighbor.

“Oh, shit,” Finn says again. Which, no doubt, Downstairs Neighbor heard. Oh, shit. That one’s in her head, at least.

She hears a grunt as he, she imagines, lowers his weight to the ground, then the snick of his sliding glass door, then the sound of his front door opening, and then, oh, shit, there he is, standing on the ground, looking at her broken coffee cup.

Oh, shit, Finn thinks again as she drops to her knees, hiding herself from view.

Apparently unsuccessfully, as not thirty seconds later, she hears, “I can see you, ya know.”

Finn rises slowly to her feet and looks down. It’s hard not to admit that Jocelyn was right as she looks down at him, messy hair and blue eyes and muscles visible through his sweaty t-shirt.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi.” His eyes twinkle, and she knows he’s trying not to laugh at her. “This yours?”

“Yeah. Sorry I interrupted you.”

He laughs then, a light, musical sound that she can feel in her toes. Oh, shit. That’s not good. Finn’s characters feel laughter in their toes, but she certainly doesn’t. Feeling someone’s laughter in her toes is not a real thing, she’s always thought, except, apparently, it is.

“What happened?” he asks.

“There was a spider.”

“A spider.”

Finn nods, cheeks burning. “It was a big spider.”

“You gonna come clean it up?”

Finn nods again. “In a minute.”

“Okay.” He grins up at her and she blushes back.

Finn turns around and goes inside, sliding the door shut behind her, and waits, listening for the sounds of Downstairs neighbor reentering his own apartment, shutting the door, locking it. When a minute has passed without any of that, Finn realizes that he must be waiting for her.

Oh, shit. Finn doesn’t have to be Jocelyn to know that this is not the ideal situation in which one wants to interact with Hot Downstairs Neighbor. But it seems like she doesn’t have a choice, so she slips on the flip flops she keeps by the door and goes downstairs.

He’s still there, standing in the sunshine, squinting when he smiles. “There you are,” he says.

“Here I am.” Finn looks down, surveying the damage. The mug has split into several large chunks, and maybe if Finn were better at diy-ing she’d be able to fix it, but as things stand now, it’s destined for the garbage. “Damn, I really liked that mug.”

“I’ll buy you a new one,” Downstairs Neighbor says, which is such a strange thing to say that Finn startles, turning to stare at him.

“Thanks?” she says.

“You’re welcome.” He smiles, holding out his hand. “I’m Niall.”

Finn accepts the handshake. “I’m Finn.”

His hand is warm and a bit clammy, a bit like California in the summer, and her stomach goes topsy-turvy. She yanks her hand back.

“Nice to meet you,” Niall says. “I guess you’re the neighbor who watches ‘The Bachelor’?”

Jesus Christ, Finn thinks, dropping to a squat. She gathers up the pieces of her destroyed mug and doesn’t answer him. How nosy of him, asking her that. But then, she was the one listening to him work out this morning.

“My sister likes it,” she says. “I’m just along for the ride.”

“Hey, there’s no shame in liking ‘The Bachelor,’” Niall says, dropping down beside her. They reach for the last piece at the same time, hands brushing. Finn draws hers back, trying to ignore the tingling in her fingertips. “Here.”

Finn accepts the final shard. “Thanks,” she says. “And I don’t like ‘The Bachelor.’ I think it’s silly.”

Niall smiles at her again, all teeth and sunshine. “What’s silly about love?”

Finn blinks at him, trying to decide if he’s an idiot or just bad at small talk. Maybe both. “That show is not about love,” she says. “Have you ever seen it?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “But I’ve heard it through the ceiling.”

Jesus Christ, Finn thinks again. What a neighbor. She can’t wait to tell Jocelyn about this, to prove to her that Downstairs Neighbor may be hot, but his positive qualities end there. He’s intrusive and nosy and way, way too good looking.

“You can get back to your workout,” she says, standing up straight. He follows, forcing her to look up to meet his eyes. “Sorry for bothering you.”

“Not a bother,” he says. “It was nice to meet you, Finn.”

“Yep,” she says, offering him a half smile before she turns tail and dashes up the stairs, back to her safe, quiet, Downstairs Neighbor-free apartment. Back to her laptop, and the manuscript due in three months that she hasn’t managed to crack yet. Back to being hot and sweaty inside her apartment, instead of outside.

“Have a good day!” he calls after her. She doesn’t return the greeting.

-----

The next morning, a knock on the door wakes Finn up from a dream, the kind of dream that you know as soon as you wake was a good one, but it’s too late, you’ve forgotten it, and you won’t be able to get it back.

“No,” she mutters, turning over in bed, burrowing into the pillow. “I’m sleeping.” But then the knock sounds again. “Damnit.”

Finn climbs out of bed and reaches for her phone on the nightstand. 8:27 AM on a Wednesday. An acceptable hour for someone to be knocking on the door, she supposes. Except she was up till 1 o’clock trying to make her messy notes into something resembling an outline that could someday (someday soon, she hopes) be a book.

The morning person disturbing her sleep knocks again, eliminating the possibility that it’s just UPS dropping off a package. Finn drops her phone on the bed and makes her way down the hall to the living room, where sunlight blares in so sharply it makes her squint.

“Gah,” she says to herself as she pulls open the door. And then, “Oh, it’s you.”

“It’s me,” Hot Downstairs Neighbor—Niall, Finn corrects herself—says. “UPS dropped off this package at my door, but I think it’s yours.”

Finn looks down at the envelope he’s holding out, but the label is blurry. Oh, shit, her glasses. “If you say so,” she says. “I’d have to grab my glasses to know for sure.”

Niall smiles at her, she thinks, but the details of his face are a bit blurry. “I can wait,” he says. “We should make sure it’s yours.”

Finn frowns at him for a second—He can read, can’t he? Shouldn’t he know if it’s her name on the label?—before deciding that it’s too early for an argument. “Fine, whatever,” she says, turning around and leaving him in the doorway.

That’s where she expects him to stay, but when she returns to the door a minute later with her glasses perched on her nose, he’s inside her apartment, poking around the bookshelves on either side of her television. The package he brought over has been discarded on the coffee table.

Finn ignores him for a second as she picks it up. Yep, it’s definitely hers. It’s a proof of her latest Isobel novel, if she had to guess. But she’s not going to open it now, not with Niall here.

Niall, who is currently nosing around her living room, looking much too closely at things she’d rather he not see.

“What are these?” Niall steps closer to the bookshelf, his eyes scanning the spines. “You read romance novels?”

“Not exactly,” Finn says. Which lie should she tell this time? She has a few prepared: “they’re my sister’s” or “my roommate forgot them when she moved out.” Said roommate is said sister, but for the sake of the lie, that wouldn’t matter. But then the truth slips out. “I write them.”

“You write them?” Niall repeats. He pulls one of the books out, Summer’s Dalliance, about two yoga instructors who find love during a training retreat in the Maldives. “You’re Isobel Soleil?”

Finn can tell from the way Niall says Isobel Soleil that he’s heard of her. Who hasn’t heard of her, these days? Her books are in grocery stores and airport shops and on bestseller lists and there’s a series in development with HBO.

As a ghostwriter, Finn isn’t involved, but she knows the show will help move sales, which means bigger checks, which means maybe, eventually, she can write something she actually cares about.

“Not exactly.” Finn takes the book out of his hand and returns it to its place on the shelf. It’s not as if she’s proud of it. That’s not why she has it out. It’s just a placeholder until she publishes a book she’s actually proud of. “Isobel Soleil isn’t a person. She’s a brand. Her books are written by half a dozen different people. How do you think she can pump them out so quickly?”

“How quickly?”

“Three or four a year.”

“And you wrote all of these?” Niall’s finger runs along the spines. “How many are there? Ten?”

“Eight,” Finn corrects. Eight cheesy, embarrassing, don’t-let-your-mother-see-you-reading-that novels. “But they’re formulaic and simplistic. They’re not… they’re not good.”

Niall shrugs. “They’re not high literature, you mean. Someone reads them, though, right? And the people who read them enjoy them. So who cares if they’re not high literature, Finn?”

Finn swallows the sudden lump in her throat. How has Niall managed to get to the quick of things so, well, quick? “I care, I guess. This isn’t what I imagined I’d be doing when I was little, telling people I wanted to be a writer when I grew up.”

“So write something else,” Niall says.

Finn sighs. She wishes it were that easy. If only she could break out of the mold she’s put herself in and write something else, something that’s not about two people falling in love. If only she could write something she actually believed in.

But she has a contract and a deadline and an agent and an editor on her back, and no choice but to finish this Isobel Soleil novel.

“Maybe next summer,” she says.

Niall considers her, nods. “Speaking of this summer,” he says slowly, like he’s thinking about what he’s going to say as he’s saying it, “I have free tickets to LACMA, and I just moved to town so I don’t know a ton of people. Want to go with me?”

Say yes or no more ice cream, Jocelyn’s voice says in the back of Finn’s mind.

“Sure,” she says. “But you know my secret”—she gestures to the bookshelves—“so now you have to tell me one of yours. So I know you’re not a serial killer or something.”

He smiles at her and, damn, he’s good looking. “I’m a lawyer,” he says. “My new job doesn’t start till August, so I’m working remotely with my old firm until then.”

“That’s not a secret.” Not a secret at all, but a great career for a hero in a romance novel. Finn makes a mental note.

“Okay,” Niall says. He crosses his arms over his chest and leans back, lifting one hand to his chin, a classic thinking pose. “How about this? I’m not from here.”

Finn shakes her head. She’d already guessed that from his accent, a soft, lilting Irish one that makes everything he says sound like a poem. “Not a secret either. You get one more try.”

“One more try!” he says with mock shock. “I’ll make this good, then.”

He thinks and Finn waits, and in the thirty seconds it takes him to come up with a good secret, she wonders what the hell she’s doing, flirting with Hot Downstairs Neighbor in her living room while dressed in her pajamas. Oh, shit, she’s not wearing a bra, is she?

Finn crosses her arms over her chest and considers backing out of this conversation entirely by making something up that will put Niall off and convince him that she’s the worst possible LACMA companion.

But then he says, “I can’t swim,” and that is distracting enough to make her forget everything else.

“You can’t swim?” she asks. “What the hell are you doing in southern California?”

Niall shrugs. His smile makes her insides go wonky. “Maybe you can teach me.” Then he holds out his phone. “Here, give me your number. I’ll text you and we can make plans.”

She obliges, all the while wondering what exactly she’s gotten herself into.

-----

LACMA day comes much quicker than Finn anticipates. When she and Niall first made the plans a week ago, Saturday seemed like ages away. There was so much she was going to do between now and then: repot all of her plants, make bread from scratch, work on her manuscript. But instead, she putters around her apartment, typing words here and there, ignoring how bad they are, and not baking bread.

It’s a waste of a week, and not just because Niall is there, in the back of her mind, the whole time.

Jocelyn’s excited, of course, for LACMA day, and insists on coming over the night before to help Finn select her outfit. Finn keeps reminding her that it’s summer in Los Angeles, so it’s a thousand degrees out and she will melt no matter what she wears, but Jocelyn doesn’t care.

Which is how Finn ends up knocking on Niall’s door on LACMA day dressed in a romper that’s giving her a wedgie, a purse she never carries slung over her shoulder. Jocelyn even forced her to wear lip gloss.

“Lip gloss makes you a different person,” Jocelyn said last night on her way out. “I left you three options. Please wear one.”

“I don’t take advice from the Sweet Valley Twins anymore,” Finn had retorted as she shut the door in Jocelyn’s face.

But she’s wearing the lip gloss anyway. Her hair has already gotten stuck in it three times, and all she’s done is climb down the stairs.

She knocks again, half hoping Niall hasn’t changed his mind and half hoping that he has. If he has, she can go back upstairs, put her pajamas on again, and continue to stare at her blank Word document. But then he opens the door.

“Good morning!” His smile is so bright it makes her squint. “Coffee?”

He holds out a travel mug to her, waiting for her to take it.

“Good morning,” she says after she takes a sip. The coffee is exactly the right temperature and perfectly sweet, which is almost enough to make her smile. “This is good coffee.”

“It’s from Ecuador,” Niall says. He steps out onto the welcome mat and closes the apartment door behind him. “Hold this for me?”

Finn holds his travel mug as he locks the door and turns the knob a couple of times to make sure it’s secure. Then he turns around, his smile lighting up his face.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Ready,” she says, though she’s pretty sure she isn’t.

She learns, over the next few hours, that Niall’s energy is nonstop. He talks constantly during their drive to the museum, talks as they park the car, talks as they ride the elevator to the top floor and begin making their way through the galleries. He tells her where he’s from and where he went to school and what his favorite sports teams are.

And she finds herself talking too. She tells him about her sister and where she went to school and how she got started writing Isobel Soleil novels, and the entire time, she’s taking mental notes about him, about the way he holds doors for her and grins down at her and laughs even when her jokes are barely funny.

This is how the heroes in her novels behave. They are handsome and well-meaning and have substantial life goals. They are polite and conscientious and make the heroines feel brave and important and valued. And that’s how Finn finds herself feeling: like if she had something to say, Niall would listen to it.

After the museum, they stop for lunch at a restaurant Finn found on Yelp as they were leaving the parking structure. It’s small and bright inside, but as Niall pulls out Finn’s chair for her, it occurs to her, for the first time, that this might actually be a date.

Jocelyn had said as much last night, but Finn had ignored her, as she does with most things Jocelyn says. But now, seated across from Niall, with nowhere to look but at him, reality dawns, and it’s blinding.

But, she decides, she won’t address it, and she carries on with the meal as if they are recent acquaintances and neighbors, which is, she reminds herself, exactly what they are.

-----

After LACMA day, Niall texts Finn about the movie he’s watching, and she imagines she can hear it through the floor. Later that evening, he texts her good night, and then, the next day, he texts her good morning. The next weekend, they go to Venice Beach together, and they see a movie in a classic theater downtown the following Tuesday. That night, he comes over for dinner, and they cook together, finding their way around each other in Finn’s small kitchen.

And all of a sudden, this summer is different, hot and sticky like all the others, but different because this summer has Niall.

Niall on the couch, bare feet up on the coffee table, listing all the reasons that golf is superior to all other sports.

Niall in the passenger’s seat of her car, singing along to the radio even when he doesn’t know the words, the sun setting behind him, lighting him up as if it’s saying, “Look, he’s beautiful.”

And he is beautiful. Niall in her thoughts, Niall on the back of her eyelids when she blinks, Niall in her dreams. Niall, beautiful.

And Niall in her manuscript, try as she might to keep him out. In sticking with the proposal she made to her editor back in the spring, she’s writing about a doctor and an artist who meet when they’re sharing a wall in a duplex summer rental on the coast of Oregon. By midsummer, she’s written thirty thousand words, enough to reassure her editor that she’s still writing, that things are fine, and, upon rereading, she realizes that the doctor has become Niall.

The doctor, so sure of himself, driven and determined and sexier than any other hero she’s ever written. He is confident and has beautiful eyes and magic fingers, and the heroine, the artist, is head over heels in love with him before she’s even thought to like him.

And the artist. Finn is the artist, the confused, prideful creative soul who doesn’t want love, is afraid of it, just wants to be left alone. But now she has the lawyer, the beautiful, handsome, intelligent, lovely lawyer who makes her want to stop hiding. He makes her want to feel things. He makes her want to reach out for him, to push her fears aside and let her have what she wants.

July brings that realization and an unseasonal thunderstorm that forces Finn to bring out a bucket and email her landlord about that leak in the roof from December that still hasn’t been fixed. That’s a momentary distraction, at least, from thoughts of Niall, thoughts of Niall that are plaguing her every moment. Awake, asleep, Niall. Always Niall.

It’s thundering overhead when there’s a knock at her door. She opens it, and there he is, like she’s conjured him.

“I brought wine,” he says, holding out the bottle.

“Come in,” she says. She thinks of how much has changed since she sat on her couch a month ago, drinking wine with Jocelyn. She wishes, for a moment, that she could go back. But then she looks at Niall again.

And she doesn’t want to look away, like the artist doesn’t want to look away from the doctor. When you find something this perfect, why would you ever look away? Why would you let it go?

Finn knows from experience, though, that sometimes you don’t get to choose when people leave. Sometimes they leave you, aching and cold and alone. Sometimes it’s not up to you.

“Come in,” she says again. She grabs two wine glasses from the kitchen and joins Niall in the living room, where they sit on the couch, thighs pressed together, and he picks a movie for them to watch.

She isn’t paying attention, though, as she downs two glasses of wine and wonders if Niall will kiss her tonight. She’d like him to, she decides, just as much as she doesn’t want him to. It’s like the Schroedinger’s cat of kisses—if they never kiss, she will never know the kiss, but she will also never know what happens after it. She will never know if they go further, if they stop abruptly, if he breaks her heart and leaves her in pieces, smashed on the concrete like her broken coffee mug.

But she will also never know if it will be beautiful, like the loves of the characters in her novels, characters who risk their hearts when they don’t know what the outcome will be. The difference between Finn and Niall and the artist and the doctor, though, is that Finn can control the artist and the doctor. She can decide their ending, she can choose the words for the last page.

And maybe, with Niall, she doesn’t want a last page.

Two hours later, Finn is wine-drunk and sitting on the floor, her back pressed against the couch. Niall is next to her, the table pushed away from them to accommodate his long legs. She leans her head on his shoulder, thinking, in the way only a wine-addled mind will allow, that she’d like to keep this night forever, seal it into a locket and wear it around her neck.

“Tell me again why you don’t like your books,” Niall says. He has her newest proof in front of him on the table. It’s littered with post-it notes, changes Finn would’ve made to it had she had more time. But it’s too late now, and it will print as is.

“They’re not good,” Finn says, her go-to explanation. “I can do better.”

Niall shakes his head. “But they are good. I read Sunshine in Your Mouth, and it’s good. You’re a good writer, Finn.”

“Oh, no.” Finn ducks, covering her face with her arms. “You read it? I can’t believe you read it.”

“Yeah, I did.” Niall tugs her arm away from her face. “Stop hiding from me.”

Oh, if only he knew how apt that statement was, then maybe he wouldn’t say it. Finn puts her arms down and refills her wine glass. She knows she shouldn’t drink any more, but maybe if she does, she’ll stop thinking about how blue Niall’s eyes are and how soft his fingers feel against her arm.

“Tell me the truth,” Niall says, thumbing the post-its in her proof copy. “Why don’t you like being Isobel Soleil?”

“Because I’m not her. I’m not like her. I just don’t believe in love,” Finn tries to explain. “It’s like—”

Niall laughs. “Love’s not like the tooth fairy, Finn. You don’t have to have felt it to know it’s real.”

Finn looks at him, at his soft cheeks and his pink lips and his messy hair. In another life, in another version of this world, maybe she and Niall have known each other forever, since they were kids. And maybe Finn loves Niall. Maybe she always has. Maybe they fit. Maybe it’s the easiest thing this other Finn’s ever felt.

But the Finn that lives in this world, the one sitting on the floor of her apartment with her knees pulled to her chest and a half-empty wine glass in her hand—this Finn doesn’t feel things easily. Feelings are heavy and feelings hold you back and feelings stick around long after the people who brought them on are gone.

“My parents,” Finn says, “they got divorced when I was five.”

“Finn, you don’t have to—”

“It’s fine,” Finn says. The wine is talking now. The wine and the smell of Niall’s shampoo and the plunk plunk plunk of rain hitting the bucket on the kitchen floor. “My dad was sleeping with his secretary. Such a cliche, right? And it took my mom years to leave him. Years. He was sleeping with his secretary while my mom was pregnant with me. She kept thinking he’d stop, that he’d finally realize that he loved her, that he loved his family. She kept waiting, until she couldn’t anymore.”

Finn feels Niall’s fingers brush against hers where they rest on the rug. “That’s why you don’t believe in love?”

“No.” Finn closes her eyes, her head tilting back against the sofa cushion. “That’s why I don’t let myself feel it.”

“Finn.”

She doesn’t answer as Niall moves closer. Eyes closed, she can feel him entering her personal space, can feel the heat of his hand as he takes her wine glass, hears the clink of glass on wood as he puts it on the table. Feels his fingers on her cheek as he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Finn. Look at me.”

So she does, opens her eyes and meets his, and it’s too much, it’s all too much, the way he’s looking at her like he can see her feelings, can read them as if they were written across her forehead.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

He smiles. “Like what?”

“Like you like me.” The words are out before she can stop them, slipping from her lips like a sigh.

“Finn.” He’s closer now, impossibly close, his hand on her cheek. “Finn, I more than like you.”

“I—” Finn starts, but she doesn’t know what to say.

She doesn’t know what this feeling is, the one taking over her chest and spreading to her stomach and traveling up her throat all the way to her eyeballs. It’s a headache and nausea at the same time, plus a sense of doom in her stomach, maybe the unconscious realization that this can’t last forever.

Because feelings never do. Niall likes her now, likes her a lot, likes her enough to maybe kiss her against her dirty car in the parking lot fifty feet from their building. But that won’t last. He’ll like her for a bit and then he’ll like her less and less until nothing remains but the memory of the fire that used to burn, a bit of leftover smoke drifting skyward.

And that’s when it will hurt.

This will hurt, Finn thinks, but she jumps anyway.

“Then kiss me,” she says.

So he does, and in his kiss, for as long as it lasts, she lets herself feel everything: lets herself feel the sticky heat of summer and the sticky heat of a love so big it sucks you under, leaves you breathless, makes you hold on tight.

She slides her hand into his hair and thinks, I will hold on tight.

When it’s over, Niall pulls back, leans his forehead on hers. He’s breathing heavy when he says, “I’ve been wanting to do that for ages.”

“I want to do it again,” Finn says. She slides her fingers under the collar of his shirt.

Niall’s hand tightens on her waist. “Is that the wine talking?”

Finn shakes her head. “No,” she says. “It’s me. And I more than like you, too.”

Niall grins, bright and beautiful. “Good,” he says. “You’re my perfect summer.”

He leans in to kiss her again, and Finn decides, in that split second before their lips meet, that even if all she gets with Niall is a summer, it will be beautiful and it will be perfect, the stuff of novels. The stuff of her novels.

But, something in her gut tells her, Niall will be around for more than a summer.

He does live right downstairs, after all.

#1dff #niall horan fanfiction #majorharry20k #look I wrote something!#this is my dream summer if there was no pandemic lol sad

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