#the first month alone was just blocking out all the pages for this fight and the aftermath

[runawaycatwalker]

Part 24. Misaligned Approaches (Oni-Chan 2.0, part A)

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Bonus: The bread lesson Rolland teaches Adrien immediately before this page takes place that I had to cut to save space.

Description below the cut

Alya sits on Marinette’s chaise lounge looking at her phone.  Marinette looks upwards, clenching her fists in vindication.

Alya: Preliminary results about Catwalker are in.  Verdict: Pretty skeevy.

Marinette: I knew it!  Tell me everything!

Alya scrolls through the messages on her phone.

Alya: My informant doesn't have any concrete evidence yet and most of this is just vibes, but...

Alya: Catwalker did specifically mention you by name.

Marinette: What??

Alya: When confronting my informant, Catwalker got defensive and asked if 'someone Marinette knows' sent them.

Marinette places her hand on Alya’s shoulder, looking shaken.  Alya looks up at her with a look of uneasiness.

Marinette: Does that mean he knows you're Rena?

Alya: Or he might be on the verge of discovering your identity.  Either way, I'm certainly not comfortable working alongside him anymore.

From behind, we see Marinette hold a hand up to the sky and clench her other hand in a fist in resolution.

Marinette: Because of Mayura we can't just fire him, but we can contain him.  We'll rely on the rest of the team for all battles and restrict his interactions with everyone.  If he steps out of line, all bets are off and we treat him like he's another akuma.  And we keep investigating.  I just know that he's up to something terrible right now and we've got to put a stop to it!

Rolland shuts a book between his hands entitled Pain.  Adrien holds up a hand and offers a wishful grin.  Behind them is the cabinet of things in Rolland’s living room, including the Lost flyer of Adrien, which is draped over a box.

Rolland: So: Shall we bake?

Adrien: I sure wouldn't mind if you showed me how to make baguettes...

Rolland: Bahaha!  Baguettes!  You are in no way ready to bake baguettes!  No, we start with something far more traditional: the boule!

Rolland holds up a finger.

Rolland: But first: you must wash your hands.

Adrien: Of course!

Rolland: And take off that ring.

Adrien: Wh—what's wrong with my ring?

Rolland grab’s Adrien’s hand and points at the indentations in his ring.

Rolland: Just look at it!  Flour is going to collect in all of those crevices!  It is much simpler to just take off your ring while baking.

Adrien looks at his miraculous in thought.  Behind him is the sink with the handle of a knife poking out of it.

Adrien (internally): I shouldn't take any chances of being caught without wearing my miraculous.  But maybe if I don't stop wearing it...?

Adrien kneels on the ground and uses a knife to cut through the front rubber part of his shoe.

Rolland: What are you doing?

Adrien: Making a hole in my shoe! If I can't wear my ring on my finger... I can still have easy access by slipping it on my toe instead!

Adrien turns his knife aside and uses his other hand to slip his miraculous through the new hole in his shoe.  Rolland’s hand reaches down from above dangerously close to the knife.

Rolland: You are using one of my knives to cut through rubber?!

Adrien: I'll clean it after I'm done, don't worry.

Rolland: That is not the point!

The knife’s edge cuts the back of Rolland’s hand.

Rolland: Give that b—Aaack!

Adrien touches his hands to the bottom of his face.  One hand is still holding the knife, which now has a small spot of blood near the tip.

Adrien: I'm so sorry!  I didn't mean to—!  Please don't fire me!

Rolland: Oh, hush.  It's barely a scratch!

Adrien: I'll get the first aid kit!  Where's the first aid kit?  Do you have a first aid kit?

Rolland: I'll handle that without you.

Rolland waves his hand grumpily.

Rolland: You just worry about washing up my knife!  Without cutting anything that is not food this time!

Adrien: Y-yes, sir!

Rolland slams the doors between the kitchen and living room shut, so that Adrien is alone in the kitchen and Rolland is alone with his collectibles.

Rolland (internally): Don't lose your temper, Rolland.  Baldy's still a child.  He's probably never been in a kitchen before.  Whoever raised him had no idea how it's done.  Teaching him that is your job now.

Rolland digs through the box on his cabinet, one hand picking up the Lost flyer to move it out of the way.  As he does so, Oni-Chan teleports behind him with her sword pointed over his shoulder.

Rolland (internally): Now where did I put those banda—?

Oni-Chan: Where are you keeping Adrien Agreste?

Oni-Chan grabs Rolland’s shirt and holds her sword above his head threateningly.  Rolland is still holding onto the flyer and looks panicked.

Rolland: Aahhh!

Oni-Chan: Tell me where Adrien is before I strike you right where you stand!

Rolland: You mean the missing angel boy?  I don't know!  What does a Chinese monster want with him?

Oni-Chan swings her sword.

Oni-Chan: I'm not a monster!

Rolland has now become frozen in place, covered in splotches of white, red, and black.  Oni-Chan stands behind him, looking back over her shoulder.

Oni-Chan: If anyone else stands in my way, they're getting petrified too.  And for the record, I'm Japanese.

Oni-Chan kicks down the doors into the kitchen.  No one is there, only a slight movement of the window drapes in the background.

Oni-Chan: Hi-yaaah!  Shadowmoth!  He's not here!

Shadowmoth (over akuma connection): The old man must have seen Adrien somewhere.

Oni-Chan: The only sign of Adrien anywhere is on the flyer that man was looking at!  Wait...

Oni-Chan, a butterfly light mask in front of her face showing her communication with Shadowmoth, grabs the Lost flyer and slices through Adrien’s face with her sword.

Oni-Chan: I was promised the ability to track the last person who saw Adrien, but these powers sent me to someone who was just looking at an Adrien picture!

Oni-Chan throws up her hand in frustration.  There is also a closeup of Shadowmoth (also with the butterfly light mask) from his lair, holding out a hand negotiatingly.

Oni-Chan: Do you have any idea how many people are looking at pictures of Adrien?

Shadowmoth: Millions every day.  ...I presume.

Oni-Chan: I will not sift through millions of people merely because you gave me unusable powers!

Shadowmoth: Would you rather I take your powers away and leave you without any leads at all?

Oni-Chan: No!  No, I'll keep my akuma.  But I'm not going to try to get Ladybug and Catwalker's miraculouses for you until after I find Adrien.  You want me to help you?  You help me first.

Shadowmoth: I could create a sentimonster to destroy all instances of Adrien's image until you find the real one.

Oni-Chan: Then do that!

Shadowmoth: I'll need time to prepare the amok.

Oni-Chan starts to teleport away, her expression resolute.

Oni-Chan: Well, I'm not wasting my time waiting.  Have your sentimonster summon me when it's ready.

Cut to Adrien and Plagg outside Rolland’s residence, watching as the light of Oni-Chan’s teleport flashes through the window curtains.  Adrien still has the knife and replaces his miraculous back on his ring finger.

Adrien: Do you think Oni-Chan really came here because Rolland saw me on Marinette's flyer?

Plagg: Probably not.  Akuma powers usually work however the akuma expects them to and Rolland was the last person to see you.

Adrien: But her expectations just changed.  So maybe people seeing pictures of Adrien will be tracked by her powers now?

Plagg: Even if you do turn out to be that lucky, you're still better off being Catwalker instead of Adrien.

Adrien: Right.  Plagg, claws out!

--

Bonus Scene:

Rolland holds up a hand invitingly.

Rolland: Baldy, you have returned from your morning walk!  Now we can begin your lessons in flour!

Adrien: Yeah, okay.

Rolland: What do you mean 'okay'?  I thought you wanted to be my apprentice?

Adrien pulls off his beanie, looking discouraged.

Adrien: Sorry, I just saw a friend and he... Never mind.  It's nothing.

Rolland: Nothing?

Adrien: Bread is the most important thing, right?  Teach me everything I need to know.  I'm... ready.

Rolland: You are not quite ready yet.  First...

Cut to Adrien taking a bite of bread, happily going ‘nom! nom! nom!’.

Rolland: ...You must eat!

Adrien: Ooh!

Rolland: It's from yesterday, but it is better than nothing!  We French know the value of bread, for we remember the days when we did not have it!

Rolland holds up the book Pain : pour les enfants! and reads to Adrien as he finishes his bread.

Rolland: This is today's lesson: how wheat shortage caused the Revolution!  Wheat gives us flour, flour gives us bread, and bread is life!  And when the wheat harvests failed, we survived by eating whatever awful bread from bran we could afford—if we could even afford that!

Rolland points to a picture of Marie Antoinette holding a purple rose in the book, which has the caption “Qu'ils mangent de la brioche”.

Rolland: But who wasn't starving?  The nobility!  They still ate fancy Viennese breads made with refined white flour!  And while France suffered, Marie Antoinette had the gall to tell us ‘Let them eat cake!’

Adrien holds up a correcting finger.

Adrien: Isn't that quote apocryphal?

Rolland: What?

Adrien: No one ever verified that it was Marie Antoinette who said that.  And even if she did, she would have been just a kid at the time.

Rolland: Bah!  That’s not important!

Rolland holds up the book in front of his face.  On one page, a pie chart with 75% blé (wheat) and 25% seigle (rye).  On the other page is a guillotine surrounded by bread and centering the French flag, below which is the caption “Pain d'égalité”.

Rolland: The point is that the people of France revolted because of this, because of bread!  And once we got rid of those pesky nobles, France could have one bread: the bread of equality!  It would be made from all our grains, from wheat to rye, and everyone would eat it!

Adrien: Sounds much simpler.

Rolland: Very simple!  But it wasn't to be.  People still want their fancy flour.

Rolland holds up his wooden peel in one hand and his metal peel in the other in a pose reminiscent of the painting Liberty Leading the People.

Rolland: But once there was no more shortage of wheat, the government decreed that bakers must follow strict rules.  You want to make a baguette?  It must be the right size and made with the right ingredients!  You run a boulangerie?  You must make your bread on-site!  And you must never close shop without warning!  We do this so no one will suffer the pains of being forced to eat terrible bread—or no bread—ever again!  Because here in France, that is how it is done!  So: shall we bake?

Below are the same images as above, only without text:

[mrs-weasley-reid]

JUST SAY WHEN

Spencer Reid x writer!reader

Synopsis: You always choose Spencer Reid, but is it the right choice? Word Count: 3500+ WARNING: ANGST. not proofread!!! A/N: oh, here we go again... the angst plot in my head. this one feels disorganized. like my writing is all over. i've had this one in my drafts for over a month. but today i have the courage to hit post. honestly have mixed feelings about this. it's a new type of reader I'm dabbling in so i really am anxious about this. tell me what you think!

 “You should’ve seen him when he first saw me.”

THE PURCHASE.

 Vast lavender field soaked in chamomile tea. Dusty sunset through the window pane. Overwhelming aroma of old books. One figure tiptoes to the eighth shelf. Arm stretched to reach an old copy of The Scarlet Letter.

 Whenever Spencer is asked what he felt at that moment, he thinks, “Like I saw an angel freshly descended from heaven.”

 “Shit—” Gasps by the said angel.

 A book and body drop on the carpeted floor.

 Spencer runs to your aid. A failed attempt to prevent the seething pain you momentarily felt. First of many.

 “Are you okay?” He asks, kneeling next to you. Spencer reflexively offers his hand.

 You chuckle, taking his hand, and you feel him tense. “Don’t worry, I’ve had it worse.” You retract your limb to focus the pads of your hands on dusting yourself, squatting down to pick up the book.

 Spencer nods unknowingly despite the confusion and the knots in his eyebrows. He glances at the book, “That’s a great book.”

 Following his gaze, you hoist it up with a grin. “Very,” You emphasize. “I’ve read this, like, ten— thirteen times?” You brag excitedly, sparkling eyes as you meet his big brown sight.

 “Eighty-four.”

 You hum, raising your brows. 

 “I’ve read it eighty-four times.” Spencer shyly smiles, tight lips in a curved line. His hands grip the strap of his leather satchel. Socializing has always been his worst skill, let alone talking to someone as beautiful as you. He can’t help but feel his tongue twist itself into knots he can’t untie.

 You blink—slowly and adorably innocent. “What?” You chirp. It’s not every day you meet someone who’s read a book more times than you. Plus, the boy in front of you is quite the charmer, and you’re distracted by the glow of hazels in his eyes. 

 Spencer nibbles on his lips, and a faint reddish glow creeps all over the land of his skin. “I— uh, I have to go. Bye.” He shuffles as if his body can’t figure out where to direct itself and ends up malfunctioning in the process. In the end, he walks past you, rushing to another aisle.

 It takes you roughly twenty seconds to process that he’s no longer in front of you, twisting your body to his trail. “Eighty-four?!” You exclaim, baffled. 

 Your feet chase after him. “Wait!” You try to match his pace, almost jogging to catch up. “How is that even possible?” You get past him, completely blocking his way. “You just love this book so much that you read it on a loop, or what?” 

 “It really isn’t that big of a deal…” He mumbles, eyes glitching from one title to another, to towers of spines except you. A book with such a beautiful cover, his hands itch to reach and flip every page into memory.

 You place your hands on your hips, furrowing your brows. “Tell me how you read it eighty-four times. I won’t leave you alone until you do. And I swear I’m the most annoying person you’ll ever meet, so it might be in your best interest to get rid of me quickly before you go insane.” You shrug like it’s a normal thing to say to a stranger.

 Curiosity brims from your eyes, like a big doe's eyes begging a prey to bite her limb for the sake of adventure. And like a pirate tempted by a siren, Spencer takes the bait.

 “My mom loves the book, so I read it to her all the time.” He admits, a hand behind his neck. It’s the start of a long explanation. You don’t dare stop him. Your eyes are fully fixed on his moving lips. He can feel it. And he fights not to meet yours because he just might explode.

 Right then and there, you know the small contact from his hand completely stole your heart. And his words hold you into a willing prisoner because you saw him first from afar. Because you specifically chose the book in your hand despite having two copies of it to avoid first contact. Because you didn’t want him to know how long you’ve been staring. 

 Spencer gets abruptly cut off by a patron bumping into him. You fight every willpower in your chest to keep yourself from making a scene in a mall’s bookstore, shifting your attention to him.

 “Want to talk more about it over coffee?” 

 “I was mesmerized. The beauty of his mind was so intricate I couldn’t stop myself from falling even if I tried. I wanted him to own me. And it happened just as I wanted. I just didn’t know it’d be torture… Reaching his hand out was his fatal mistake. Taking his hand was my demise.”

THE FIRST CHIP.

 Disheveled. Broken. Sharp.

 Big brown eyes dull in the dead of the night. Spencer stands before you with indifference.

 He’s changed.

 But the grip on the neck of his satchel tells you your Spencer is still there behind the walls he put up. The first of many false hopes you convince yourself to believe.

 Five months. You’ve been dating Spencer Reid for only five months. And you’re in love with every fiber of his being. Only five months, and you know you’d love him for the longest run. 

 When people ask why you love him, you say, “Because I know he’ll never hurt me.”

 Then it happens.

 Tobias Hankel. 

 You loathe the name the moment you hear it. Accidentally burn yourself in the middle of making dinner when you receive a call from Penelope Garcia that Spencer’s been kidnapped by a serial killer. 

 In the moment, you panic. Almost causing a huge fire in your apartment building as you babble over the phone, asking Penelope where the hell your boyfriend is being held as if the word kidnapped meant a mark on a map.

 Then, you worry. You beg Penelope to let you in on the progress of his search. You pace in your living room. You read every true crime book on your shelf. You pray on each page that an answer will dawn on you and that you’ll have something of use to locate Spencer, as if you knew everything when, in reality, all you knew was that he’s held captive by some sick villain in your story. 

 You felt like every sidekick in a hero’s movie. Useless.

 When Penelope tells you that he’s on his way home, you’re never too tired or sleep-deprived to drive to his place. You waited hours outside his doorstep. You ignore the shivery breeze all over your skin, as you’d forgotten to change into something more weather-appropriate. You don’t worry about the unattended kitchen, the food you are excited to make. 

 You only think about one thing: be the first person Spencer sees when he comes home. 

 He arrives in the sixth hour, close to dawn. There's a gauze on his temple. His eyes are glued to the wooden floor.

 It’s a strength not to cry out from the sight. Worry courses throughout your body. But the relief that he’s made it home safe cancels the anxiety out of your head. All you want is to cradle him, wrap him in your arms to remind him of home, of safety, of being loved.

 You take Spencer into a tight hug. “I was so worried.” You whisper in his chest, breathing in his wake. He’s safe. Everything should be okay. “I’m glad you’re safe. I care about you so much.”

 Only for him to say, “You should go home. It’s late.”

 “I’m not gonna leave you by yourself.” You shake your head, pulling away to stare at his empty face. Your palm cups his cheek, and it’s cold. He doesn’t lean against it. He simply winces like your touch is dangerous.

 “I’m too tired to entertain a guest.”

 You.

 A guest.

 There’s a small sting inside your chest that you ignore don’t notice. Your heart feels similar to a teacup with a chip on its rims. Delicately painful to the touch. 

 You swallow the thick air in the middle of your throat, nodding as you bite the tears from the back of your eyes. “Alright, my love…” You softly enunciate, not wanting to sob at the sight of Spencer avoiding your image.

 The spark in him that you love so much is nowhere to be found. Only hatred and something you can’t figure out swim behind his irises. He doesn’t even reach for your hand. Doesn’t hum in delight like he always does when your skin caresses him.

 A prominent chip marks your being. As if you had been dropped from two floors down. 

 You shove the thought away. 

 You tell yourself that Spencer needs his space. Tell yourself that he needs time to process, to heal. You tell yourself it’s okay because Spencer’s had a long week. You tell yourself it’s not about you.

 You leave a kiss on his cheek, “Rest well. Call me if you need anything.” You walk down the stairs with a weight you don’t discern. 

 Spencer doesn’t say he will.

 And he didn’t.

 “It takes a while before I realize the chip he caused. And even then, I said, what is love if I never get hurt? What is love if there’s no struggle? Besides, there are moments when the chip didn’t hurt. Minimum effort filled the aching void. Simplest gestures blinded me. Sweetest words impaired my hearing. I wasn’t hypnotized or caught in a spell. It’s plain and simple. He had a hold on me. I chose not to break free.”

THE VOICES IN HIS HEAD.

 “Oh, here we go again.”

 You feel yourself physically shrink.

 Spencer rolls his eyes, pushing one hand into the depths of his right eye socket. Heavy sighs drool off his lips. The pounding in his head makes his vision blurry. And you’re convinced some type of voice tells him you’re no one important in his life. 

 You had asked him if he’d like to take a break from his files. After he’d said no, you carefully made a point that he hadn’t eaten anything the whole day. Then, you’re back to the now, where Spencer snaps at the mere mention of taking his fingers off the thin edges of the case. 

 A year into loving him. A year into being his solace—his words that now seem to be a lie—and you feel your entire body tense with every twitch and narrow of his eyes. 

 “Can’t you just leave me alone?” 

 Your chest tightens. A tug hitches your breath. A strong pressure sits over your lungs, deflating every air out without any chance of inflating back. 

 Since that night, Spencer changed. And you don't blame him. Completely understanding the stake of his trauma. Motivated to make his days better, to make him feel better. 

 The first month since that evening, Spencer didn’t text or call. He didn’t answer yours either. He isolated himself, and you’d heard from JJ that they even had a hard time talking to him. 

 So, you thought you weren't alone. That you weren't the problem. Because if everybody else can't reach him, then Spencer must want his solitude.

 You climb on your shelf. You patiently wait for him to want you again. You let it happen. Let him consume you despite the ache that gnaws in the back of your mind.

 And when he comes knocking on your door. You swing it so fast, eager to have him back in your arms. You lock the tingly feeling inside a vault. Because Spencer said he loves you that day.

 “I’m trying to do my job. It’s a difficult job, unlike yours, where you just scribble on paper or tap on your annoying keyboard and be done for the day.” 

 It cracks. Every fiber of your being cracks. The colorful memories are stricken with connected lines, slowly turning into a depressing gray. 

 You crack internally. A glass hit with force enough to break but not enough to shatter apart. Your skin holds up every broken part like a puzzle piece. 

 He’s just mad. He doesn’t mean it. You chant inside your head. You don’t know who you’re lying to.

 Spencer said he loves your writing. Love every word lined by your weaving hand. Love the stories formed from mundane moments and late nights. Love the emotions that brim within spaces and punctuation marks. 

 And you wonder if you should've kept not believing it. If you should've stayed appreciative but never convinced.

 “There are people’s lives at stake. I’m saving people’s lives, not filling their free time by reading your made-up stories.” 

 A target made to be maimed. Spencer aims at the center with precision. And you’re stricken with every shot.

 Your feet step back on their own. A subconscious pull for safety. Heart beats in fear, in ache. 

 “I’m sorry.”

 It dies in your throat. Your body shakes in so much pain you don't mind the way your heart and lungs shrink. Afraid that tears may fall, willing them to stay in place—in the back of your eyes where Spencer won't find them. 

 His migraines worsen. You tell yourself. 

 He’s still in pain. You remind yourself.

 His job is more important. You convince yourself. 

 Excuses after excuses. You make it a habit. Make excuses for him to distract the piercing agony.

 “W-why don’t I give you some space? Refill your cup?” You offer a smile like it’s a job you must carry successfully.

 Spencer gulps, hands in his pockets. “That would be great. Thanks.” He replies, getting back on his seat as if he hadn’t just cut through you like a sharp ax splitting a small trunk in half.

 You flinch when he shuts the door as soon as you step out of the room. Each piece vibrates in place, waiting for the last hit.

 “Litany of reasons come after that. I woke up each day with yet another excuse. A shameful attempt to sell what was rotten. Until I took a bite of it myself, and I tasted the sickening truth.”

THE DESTROYED SAND CASTLE.

 It's deafening. 

 The sound of you shattering into a thousand pieces. Sharp edges cut through every fabric of what you thought was true, what you thought was real. 

 “I love her.”

 But you're not her.

 You’re not the great Dr. Maeve Donovan. The woman who kept his migraines at bay, if not anything, cured them. The smart, beautiful, successful woman who rang every local pay phone in his vicinity. The woman that occupied his waking days. Days he went through next to you.

 Dr. Maeve Donovan. Spencer’s great love.

 And he’s never seen her in person until her last breath. But her voice is enough to steal him away from you. Enough for the color in Spencer’s skin to light back up after years of your failed attempts. Enough for Spencer to fall in love with her. Enough to stay in love with her despite her being gone in the wind. Despite you sleeping next to him every single night.

 She was enough. The idea of her is enough.

 “I love her.”

 Love. Present tense. Spencer loves her. 

 You don’t remember the last time he’d ever said those words to you. Don’t remember the genuine emotions that radiate along those words. Don’t remember the last time you’ve ever felt loved by him.

 “Hey…” 

 You walk past Penelope. You don't realize it until she catches your arm, distracted by the fatal explosion inside your chest. You can see the way your world crumbles like a sand castle kicked by the meanest bully.

 “Sweetie, what’s wrong? Did you not find Reid? Is he not in Hotch’s office?” Her eyes soften at the sight of your tears flowing like a steady river. “He’s safe, I promise. Just a little graze, you’ll see.” She tries to console you, rubbing the side of your arm.

 Just a little graze.

 Spencer has been carving little grazes on you for years, and the final blow causes your entire life to shatter in fine dust—close to nonexistence. 

 “Do you mind telling Spencer that there was an emergency, so I had to go?” Your voice breaks with each syllable, fighting the sobs from spilling out. It’s numbingly painful. Every part of you is sore and aching. 

 Penelope furrows her brows, “Sure, but is everything okay? What emergency?” She pries, no bad intentions, simply a sign of her kindness.

 You take a rough gulp. “I…” You look into her eyes, begging for her not to ask further. 

 She nods, giving you a soft squeeze on your arm and a warm smile. That's when you knew that she knew exactly the source of your nonstop tears. Maybe no longer than you did because you can see the anger in her eyes. At least she's on your side. And it's enough for you. “Call me if you need anything, love,” Penelope says, pulling you into a bone-crushing hug. “I’m always here for you. I’m always ready to be on your side.” She adds against your neck.

 And you're heading towards the elevator without a second thought.

 You hear your name as the doors close, lifting your head to find Spencer coming out of the bullpen. Penelope is true to her words, blocking him from reaching where you stand. His voice makes your insides churn. The sound of your name rolling off his tongue is sickening.

 Your body collapses on the floor. The sobs finally echo within the tight space. The tears endlessly flow in raging torrents between floors. You wrap your arms around your torso, holding yourself together.

 But it's way too late.

 Every piece of you has already shattered into messy pieces. Spread out in broken parts, unfit even if you tried to glue yourself back together. 

 Spencer has destroyed the castle you've built. The castle you made just for him. 

 You wonder if it's all for show. If Spencer chose to keep you just to avoid his boredom when Maeve’s unreachable. If he only tolerated you to fill her physical absence.

 But you should’ve known that it was a matter of time. His kisses were merely ghosts. His touch was stinging cold. His words were hallow. 

 The signs were clear in plain sight.

 Spencer stopped loving you a long time ago.

 "It's my fault." You say out loud, as if thinking it isn't painful enough.

 You made a choice. Each day, you choose to make up new reasons why Spencer is distant. You convince yourself that you aren't hurt by his cold glances. You tell yourself that it’s not torture if you love him.

 The elevator dings to the last floor.

 “Remnants of myself dried up inside that box.”

 Tongue runs over the softness of your lips as the final lines of your book approach with the same heart-wrenching ache. For the audience, at least.

 You flip the page, lifting your gaze. You scan the mass of teary eyes and silent sobs.

 There, you find two familiar faces. Penelope sniffs next to Rossi, who’s smiling proudly. The sweet blonde became your secret ray of sunshine. And the Italian mentored your way to a New York Times bestseller.

 "In that tight space. In the center of those four moving walls. I wished so much that he'd only said when. When everything felt too much. When I was unwanted. When he stopped loving me. I would've understood. Because I always did."

 What you don’t expect is the third familiar figure. It stands in the farthest back. A shadow if you don’t know any better. You take a deep breath.

 The next words are etched in your brain. The first words you’ve ever written in the making of the book under your palm. The words that still ring in your ears.

 “I must say, it’s not that I never learned. I learned so much that within the cracks of my broken self, I filled them with empty promises. Promises I never kept. Promises I broke because I believed I’d be fixed in a couple of days. I believed that the space between pieces of me would mend if I made the choice to stay.”

 His hair is unkempt. His eyes are as brown as the healthiest earth. His build is leaner. His face is worn out by horrors you don't dare imagine.

 Flashes of his pleas, his tears, his knocks on your door. You remember them like they were just yesterday. The pain that left a prominent indentation on your heart.

 Tattoos of pain adorn his face. Has he been there the entire time? Do you really care if he was?

 You lock eyes with Spencer, pausing for a moment. You let the past seep in. You unlock the vault of your broken pieces. Let them sing in agony. Let him hear the melody of your suffering.

 And then it stops. They vanish through the air of peace. The relief of moving on.

 You smile at him. The one that started everything.

 “It’s important to know that I always had a choice. And with that is the acceptance that each time I chose wrong.”

reid masterlist | masterlist

[latenightdaydreams]

Omg girl please do part three for the trucker!!!

Love your writing

Here it isssss!!!! Thank you!🥹

Trucker!König x Stranded!Reader Part3 (fem)

MDNI🔞

Part 1, Part 2, Part4, Part5

Master List

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Hello again🥰 Like parts one and two, three requires a strong trigger warning. I love you all and hope you're having a good day. Stay safe and take care of yourselves🩷

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>cw: fem/afab, non-con, oral, breeding, drugging, p in v

2.3k word count

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It’s been two months that you’ve been with König, 10 weeks to be exact. You’ve gotten into the routine of gas station breaks and over nights at the motel. You’ve learned to not fight him after a few bad incidents. He lets you wash yourself now, but he has to watch. He’s traded zip ties for soft handcuffs while you sleep. When you do bathroom breaks, he lets you go into the woman’s side alone, without the cuffs and during the day time. A small taste of freedom.

You sit on the bed in the back of his truck's cab, arms bound and looped through the metal on the bed so you can’t move. König stopped at a gas station to fill up. You sit and look at all of the people walking past. If only they knew you were here. If only they could help.

König buys you a honey bun, turkey sandwich, water, and a soda. He has become soft on you, in his own twisted way. He enjoys treating you, and he’s learned that you have a sweet tooth. He pays at the register and smiles at the young woman. For once he doesn’t look at someone like her in a predatory way, he has you. You fill the hunger.

König walks to the side and opens your soda. He pours two crushed up sleeping pills into the bottle, knowing that you’ll probably drink this first. He has a drop off coming up and he refuses to take any chances of you escaping.

He walks back to the truck and you perk up. He smiles down at you and holds up the bag of goodies.

“I got treats for you Maus.” König sits in the driver’s seat and takes things out of the bag before standing to take your hands away from the bar so you could eat, still handcuffed though.

“Thank you…” You say in a weak voice.

“When you’re done with that, I have a soda and honeybun for you.” He sits and begins to open his own food and eat.

You smile, food has become your only form of comfort throughout all of this. Just sweet things. It’s almost like you get to be back home for those few moments while you’re eating. The better you behave, the more treats König buys.

You both sit in silence as you eat. He hands you the soda to take drinks from. You thank him as you finish your sandwich.

“Ready for your honey bun?”

“Yes, please.” You look to his blue eyes as he smiles at your submission.

You continue to drink your soda as you eat. You zone out and look out the window, starting to feel tired. You yawn, shaking your head to try and wake yourself up. Looking back at König, you’re blinking slowly. Realizing you were drugged you begin to panic.

“Why?” Your eyelids have become insanely heavy and it’s hard to focus.

“Just for a stop, Maus. I just don’t want you to run away. You’ll be safe.” His voice was oddly soothing.

“I- I wouldn’t.” You begin to struggle to stay awake, your speech slurred and body heavy. You simply can’t fight the pills.

König approaches you and grabs the almost empty soda bottle out of your hand and the half-eaten honey bun; he wraps it up to save it for you. He gently lays you back on the bed and covers your body under the blanket. He hides your hands under so no one could possibly see that you’re handcuffed.

After his drop off, König sits in the driver’s seat using his phone; the truck is blocked off and locked for sleep. He’s moving money from his subscription page, where he has been posting your videos, to his bank account. He looks over at you occasionally, admiring how adorable you look asleep.

He is planning on taking a long break and bringing you to his house. He wants to show you your new home, your new life. Plus, he’s always wanted to settle down and have a family. You seem like you’d be a perfect mom. At the very least you’d make beautiful babies for him.

Standing, he approaches you and speaks softly, “Y/n, you awake?” He shakes your leg slightly. He’s just making sure the sleeping pills are still working. 

Grabbing his phone out of his pocket, he drops his pants to the floor. His erection springs from his boxers. He kneels next to the bed and pulls your sweat pants down and looks at your stubbly pussy, brushing his fingers over the texture before pulling your bottoms off all the way.

Spreading your legs apart, he gently kisses down your soft thighs. Kissing over the bitemarks he left from the last time he was down here. Deciding to not record this, he wants to make it a more intimate moment. He is starting to fall in love with you, and sex isn’t just for profit anymore.

He continues to kiss your soft thighs; it’s been two days since you’ve showered so your pussy smells divine. As he gets closer, he takes deep breaths through his nose to completely breathe you in. Finally, his lips meet your sweet warmth. He kisses gently up and down before pressing his face in, burying his nose deep into your lips.

“So süß…” He mutters to himself.

He pulls back and rubs his fingers up and down your pussy, listening to the mushy wet sound. Slipping two fingers into your cunt, he moves back to your pussy and begins to lick your clit gently. He knows you’re asleep, but he still wants to pleasure you. His other hand on his cock, stroking it quickly. He’s been waiting all day to feel you.

Once your pussy becomes creamy wet, he pulls his fingers out and licks them. Your natural musk all over his face. Grabbing your panties, he wipes his face off on them and keeps them in his hand. He pulls his pants off his ankles and moves on top of you. Moving your left leg with his hand to give himself space to rest his body on top of you. The space is very small for a normal sized person, for someone 6 '10, it’s almost impossible; but he finds a way.

Sliding his cock inside of you easily, he’s learned the right ways to touch your body and to make you relax enough to take him without struggle. He whimpers pathetically as he feels your wet cunt wrap around him. He rests his full weight on you and wraps one of his arms around you tightly, burying his head into the crook of your neck and bringing his hand holding your panties up so he can continue to breathe you in.

“I’m going to cum Maus.”

As his hips begin to thrust quickly, he moans out your name. His body enveloping yours completely, moving his head from your panties to kiss your neck. Moaning into you as his pace picks up. His balls slapping against your ass hard as he squeezes you tightly in his arms. He lets out a loud moan, shoving your panties into his mouth to muffle the sound as he cums deep inside of you.

Panting hard, he continues to just rest there; not wanting to let go of you. He pulls your panties from his mouth and kisses your cheek softly. Lifting his body off of you, he pulls out, savoring the little pop sound your cunt always makes. König looks down at his cum leaking out of you and uses a finger to shove it back in. He dresses you again and then himself. Putting his phone away, he gets ready to go to sleep.

When you wake up König is already driving again. Your head feels groggy from the pills he snuck into your drink. You look out the window and have to squint because of the sun shining brightly through the windows.

Hearing you stir, König looks over his shoulder and smiles at you. “Guten Morgen, meine Liebe.”

“My head hurts,” you say in a sleepy voice that makes his heart warm. “And I have to pee.”

König chuckles and nods his head, “We will be stopping soon. You can get out and use the bathroom. We can also get you a treat, whatever you want.”

“Thank you…”

“So, I’ve been thinking, maybe it’s time we take a break from the road and I take you home.”

The thought of being taken to his home makes your stomach drop. Everyday on the road you see small chances of possibly running away, an odd sense of freedom when you go to the rest stop. What if you never leave the house again? That would be your final stop.

“And maybe it’s time we think about children, I’ve always wanted a big family.”

His voice shatters your internal thoughts as you look up at him with panic. Technically, you’ve been having unprotected sex already, but he never cums in you, so you think. The thought of having his children, let alone this mans, makes you feel terrified and sick to your very core. Death would be kinder than being his breeding slave. You don’t respond, just zoning out and it catches König’s attention.

“Something wrong Maus?”

“N-no,” you think quickly on your toes, “I guess I just never saw myself having kids.”

“No? You’d be a wonderful mother. You’d make beautiful children, especially with my sperm.”

That just grosses you out.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be a good father.”

How can you be when you’ve kidnapped and assaulted their would be mother? You think to yourself trying to suppress the new waves of anxiety this talk is giving you. You decide to try and change topics.

“I’m sorry to be whiny, but I really have to pee.”

“Ja, ja, okay.” König drives on just a little while longer before turning off into the first rest stop he sees. He parks the semi before standing and approaching you. He grabs your shoes for you and kneels down looking at your beautiful face. His Maus.

“Remember the rules. Eyes down, don’t talk to anybody, in and out. Then we can pick out a treat and head back home.”

Home. Hell.

“I remember.” You nod your head as he helps you put your shoes on.

He reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out the key to your cuffs. He unlocks you and the scars from the zip ties are still visible. He combs your hair back with a small purple comb to make sure you look presentable. There are always odd people here, so not many questions get asked anyway.

You finally step out of the truck, König’s fingers intertwined with yours as you walk. The hot sun on your skin makes you feel so alive, like you’re real. König stands there for a while and lets you take in its warmth before he tugs your arm for you to follow him.

You both walk inside and an older woman greets you both. König responds, but you keep your head down like you were told. He walks you to the bathroom and whispers in your ears.

“Remember, in and out. Quick.”

You nod in understanding and step into the restroom. Freedom. You rush into a stall and begin to pee hard, letting out a sigh of relief as you relax your shoulders and slump forward. You linger for a while before you wipe, any little small thing that you can do to extend your time alone you do.

Stepping out to wash your hands, you hear the door open and see an old lady with a cane walk in. She smiles at you kindly and you smile back before she goes into a stall. You want to ask for help, but she’s so old you’re scared she wouldn’t understand.

You dry your hands as the bathroom door opens again and as it lingers open, you can hear so many voices talking. You wonder what’s going on as you leave the bathroom.

Opening the door, you’re surrounded by a sea of older people waiting to go in. They just got off a bus for a rest break. You look over at König and see him a little bit away from you as the rude older people push their way past him. His eyes on you like a hawk. You stand there for a while, between the door to freedom, and going back to König. You could ask for help here, but what if he really kills all these innocent people?

König is currently cut off by at least 5 people, meaning he would have to go around then to hurry to you. You saw buildings on your way here, so you could possibly just run until you reach safety. Run and lose him so you can safely call for help.

This feels like it’s been an hour of thinking when really only five seconds pass. Looking at König still, you turn and run. The fastest you’ve ever ran in your life, catching the attention of everyone, not just König.

Running out of the door and heading towards the road, you just let your fight or flight carry you away.

König’s heart sinks as he sees you do that; you’ve been so well behaved he almost can’t believe you’d do this to him. With no care, he barrels through the line of people and goes out the door after you. Everyone at the stop is confused as they watch two people run in what looks like a chase.

König’s massive body is running after you at full speed, trying to catch up to you quickly before anyone can call for help or you can reach safety.

“MAUS!” He shouts after you.

You can hear his booming voice as you run, you don’t stop. You know if you do, he will catch you. There is no telling what an angry König would do. Tears begin to stream down your face as you run, your heart beat pounding in your ears. A little voice telling you to just keep going, don’t stop.

Part 4

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Tag: @nachofriess

[paullicino]

Six Years - On PTSD and Choosing Life

Content warning: This essay very frankly discusses mental health, trauma, gaslighting and suicide. It also links to discussions of abuse and sexual assault.

If you are experiencing thoughts of suicide, know that you are not alone and help is available to you or anyone who might need it, such as the Samaritans, the Suicide Prevention Hotline, or this list of other crisis hotlines and this list of international support resources.

This was reposted from my Patreon.

There are blue skies today. The sun bounces off the mirrored windows of a skyscraper downtown. It cuts straight across my balcony and shines onto my wall. A few blocks away, the staff of my favourite café will share their latest gossip with me, as they always like to do, and maybe later tonight I will make good food and play games with friends until unwise times in the morning. Isn’t life full of wonderful things?

You can find them everywhere. And I certainly do. Sometimes I’ve found them in the intimate, up-close details of a famous oil painting, between the notes of a new song heard by chance, even in the rustling at the bottom of a dumpster, which becomes chittering and then fur and a tail and then direct eye contact with a tiny criminal whose only felony was hunger. I’ve found them amongst perfectly crafted sentences that capture thoughts and feelings and hold them forever on the page, in the silence of the impossibly wild mountain wilderness a thousand miles from home, in the first moments that I’ve taken someone’s hand and watched the gaudy lights of some forgettable venue play across the lines and the shapes of their face.

That’s so many wonderful things to live for. And I can get overdramatically passionate about the tiniest, silliest little details.

I’ve been trying to write this for a long time. I had three significant dreams during that period. In the most recent, I had moved into a dark and barren basement, with most of my possessions still in boxes. Some old friends from long ago came knocking. They pressed their faces against the small windows and tried to force the ageing door. “Where did you go?” they kept asking, their voices entering through every crack. “What happened?”

Six years ago this month I destroyed my suicide note. I burned it on a rainy August night and watched it curl into a tiny, helpless twisting of ashes and charred plastic that no longer had any power or purpose. The note was inside of a ziploc bag, a choice I’d made to ensure its integrity and survival against any of the several different plans I’d made to end my life, and this had melted into black strands of hair-like debris that reached up to nothing. One or two of my handwritten words remained half legible in this mess and tried to reach beyond the flames, to share their intent with the world, but they would never again mean anything to anyone.

I made videos of the burning and took a few pictures, a sort of ritual of recording, then I told a close friend what I’d just done, and then, for a very long time, I set the image as the wallpaper on my phone. It would be an ever-present reminder to me of my choice to stay alive. It was supposed to help me feel strong, though the truth is that I rarely did. It was the worst, most harrowing and most damaging period of my life and with help, honesty, insight, therapy, time and invaluable connection with others who have either seen the same things that I have or had comparable experiences, I managed to fumble and fight my way through it all. But I will never be the same. Six years is a long time and I am still profoundly affected by so much. I am still trying to understand things. I am still trying to figure myself out, to make sense of my identity, my situation, my experiences. To work out where I went and what happened. And I am still trying to move on.

These words are something about that ongoing experience, that work in progress, and about the dual significance of a span of six years. It is not so much about causes or causers, but instead about consequences and changes, and that’s for three reasons.

The first is because what happens after and as a result of trauma is so enduring and significant, perhaps even the most significant consideration of all, and it’s how we find ourselves discussing things like spans of six years or, for some people, far longer. I want to try to explain some of that sort of intensity and that sort of timescale.

The second is because it’s my hope that this is the most helpful way for me to talk about all this, the most illustrative to other people, the most constructive. I could have chosen many approaches, some which I believe might have been more harmful and destructive, and I don’t generally want to be a punitive or destructive person. Ultimately I think this is the most positive and productive approach.

The third is because I’m still not ready to unpack many things, as so much is still ongoing. I am not at the end of this, not out of the woods, and I think I need to know that I’ve reached the end of whatever journey I’m on before I can return to the start.

There is, allegedly, a power in choosing how your own story is told. So I’m choosing to tell it this way and, I hope, with the awareness that any exercise of power requires consideration and responsibility.

Six years is a long time, and while I’ve been trying to write and rewrite this thing for months, those months still pale in comparison to more than half a decade. A lot has changed in six years, and yet I also wish some things weren’t still the same, that I would have been able to make more progress, that I would have been able to create more distance.

Because, while I am six years from that burning note, from that summer rain, in my memory and my mind it doesn’t work like that. I still find myself beside that moment in time, like I could open the door to the next room and once again be right there.

---

Writing this has been very difficult. Writing is supposed to be one of the things that I am best at, and in the past words used to spill out of me so regularly that I wrote a tri-weekly diary, but I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that my relationship to writing has changed. It’s not just that this is a difficult topic. It’s that words don’t come as easily or as fluidly as they once did, making it much easier, all too appealing, to simply not push myself. To avoid things entirely.

But I wanted to write this, in part, because it would be another act of not giving up. I wanted to show myself what I could do, what I still can do, and that, even if I’m changed, I’m still stubborn enough to fumble and fight my way through.

---

I want you to imagine a house. It can be any kind of house, that part isn’t important. What is important is that the house is your home and you have lived there for a very, very long time. It is comfortable. It is safe. It is so intimately familiar that it is a part of your identity. Perhaps you grew up there, or you raised a family there, or you retired there. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that it’s your home and that everyone knows you live there.

Next, imagine that you have a terrible day. The worst day. And at the end of this terrible, terrible day, on a bleak and dusky evening, you expect at least to be able to come back to your house, your home. You take the same route back to the same address, where you see the same building stood before you and open the same front door, ready for the comfort of a place you’ve made your own.

You enter this space that you’ve known for so long and you notice something is wrong. The first clue is something small, perhaps a lamp missing from its usual spot, or you collide with furniture moved somewhere unexpected. You feel for a light switch that is now on a different wall. You stumble on the stairs as you make your way to a bed that is hard and unwelcoming. In the morning, the light from the window is not only a different shape, but cast in the opposite direction.

The changes stop being so subtle. After you notice that a carpet is suddenly faded and pale, you open a closet to find it is twice as deep. Some of your possessions are missing. The spare room no longer has a skylight. The kitchen is a different colour, with different appliances, with no back door, half the size it once was because the walls have been moved. There are new rooms whose arrival and contents are both equally inexplicable. Your most cozy corner is now cold and uncomfortable. You must relearn the entire layout, from bathroom to basement, because moving around the way you once would only causes you to stub your toes, to trip, even to fall.

Your friends don’t understand why you no longer enjoy going back to your house, your home. They don’t understand why you screamed at the different closet, why the sunlight on the wall makes you nervous. Being in your own home now hurts and scares you. How can you possibly relax here? But this is still your same house, at your same address, the one that everybody knows. You can’t argue that it isn’t. And if you invite a friend inside, after ranting about everything that is different, they ask “Why did you change all this? It’s so much worse.”

What can you even say in return? “I didn’t”? That shit’s insane.

But that is how it feels, like I live in a house that isn’t my home. Sometimes I don’t recognise myself. Sometimes, on the worst days, I don’t know who I am any more.

“Where did you go?” ask the voices, entering through every crack. “What happened?”

---

Last summer, a man came roaring down my street in his flawless luxury emerald convertible. I remember him well. He had dark sunglasses and a tan suit jacket and a hairstyle slick with oil, like he was being a parody of a rich man from an eighties film. He surged through the stop sign right in front of me and I let him know what I thought of his public display of privilege and indifference.

“Go a little faster, you cunt,” I yelled. “Maybe you can hit a kid.”

He swivelled his head, looked back over his shoulder and stared straight at me.

He also slowed down.

It was then that I realised the volume I must have used to project myself, over the noise of his engine and toward a driver already continuing down the street, meant a few of my neighbours had likely heard me too.

I’m not sure I cared.

I used to be a more modest and deferential person, and often that is still the case. But often it is not. I have less patience. I have less fear. And I have less trust.

The fear thing is great. Last autumn I walked across a narrow, quivering suspension bridge with no care for the drop below. Later, I found another far narrower, far smaller one and, all by myself, alone in the woods sixteen kilometres up a trail, I jumped up and down on the thing until it shook and swung.

I used to be terrified of heights.

My sense of fear isn’t gone. But it’s both so much more manageable and also, quite often, a thrill. It’s taken me a while to realise that I increasingly seek out things that are exciting, risky or extremely stimulating. I am frank with strangers. I am quick to make decisions. I am keen to try new things.

It doesn’t sound so bad, does it? That’s because it isn’t. Not all change is bad and not every consequence of my experience has been negative. Slowly, gradually, I am learning to appreciate a few of the changes, to lean into them. While one part of me feels sad that I’m less trusting than I used to be, another part of me sees this as more practical. I’m far quicker to drop something or someone like a rock the moment I sense things that I don’t like, and my sense for such things is certainly sharper than it used to be. Am I always right? I don’t know about that. Perhaps some people have been casualties of an overabundance of caution. Or paranoia.

That might just be the new cost of doing business.

---

It was some time in early 2020, while talking with my GP and taking some evaluations, that we began to look at my behaviour more closely. A year before, I’d talked extensively with a therapist about anxiety and about a growing sense of discomfort and distrust. I had far less patience, particularly for those who pushed boundaries, violated or were exploitative, often regardless of whether these things even involved or affected me. Anything that felt uncomfortably familiar, whether it was something I saw in a film, caught on the news or heard about on social media, could ruin my day. I would become jumpy, irritable, scared, or simply unable to do much beyond lie down and try everything I could to banish the feeling that my chest was being crushed. This might take hours. One evening, an ex found me curled up on the floor, ashamed of my own sadness. On another evening, a routine trip to see an exciting film turned into a sleepless night of panic and distress.

I began taking tests and found myself either dismissing the results or retaking them over and over in an attempt to get different answers. The outcomes kept telling me I had the symptoms of PTSD. This was far too dramatic a result and there had already been enough drama in my life already. I myself was too much drama.

Anyway, I thought, having the symptoms isn’t the same as having.

Sometimes I think about how, during some of my most difficult moments, the toughest weeks and months that I didn’t really know how I was going to get through, I made a lot of haphazard decisions motivated by panic and fear and ignorance, by doing my best to improvise and cope and adapt. Some things worked out. Some things did not. Probably the deciding factor there was luck and I’m not really sure I can look back with any wisdom or insight.

I didn’t always know what to do, what to say, who to trust, or how much to trust, how to respond to new information and changing situations, or what in holy hell might ever work out. My response to all of this was to keep secrets or to be cagey, to avoid places and people, to suddenly and liberally cut others off through a mix of ghosting, avoidance and outright blocking, or to occasionally have three-day long anxiety spikes in which I remained highly activated, oversensitive and endlessly insecure. During one of these, someone teasingly pushed me to take part in something that I didn’t want to, something that wasn’t even a big deal, and I was so close to breaking down that I had to almost run from my friends and find a quiet place to catch my breath, all the emotions in my body somehow pinched into a single point somewhere in my gut. During another, a laptop accidentally nudged half an inch sent me into panic mode, manifesting a feeling like a blade of ice slicing straight through my pulmonary artery.

These sorts of responses and behaviours would happen even in spite of all the various combinations of therapy and medication and support I was cycling my way through. I don’t feel proud of how I handled many of these things. I would love to be able to say that I handle them so much better now, with the aid of wisdom and insight. Perhaps sometimes I do.

Sometimes I have simply made terrible decisions and, looking back, I am still not sure how I might have ever done any different. I am lucky that the vast, vast majority of those decisions didn’t fuck things up further.

---

It’s a magnificent day as I write this. The world is jade and azure and gold. The sky is exquisitely, flawlessly blue. Every leaf is rich with the gloss of summer. The sun is setting into the sparkling sea beside a succession of fading distant mountain ridges, each hazier than the last, the furthest so indistinct it looks almost like mist, a ghost of an idea two thousand metres tall. Container ships the size of city blocks sleep in the bay, their hulls traced and wrinkled with rust from a lifetime of global migration. As the growing shadows of slowly swaying trees reach their way toward me, the last light of the day glides over the ground, over the grass and even over my body itself, like spilled wine gushing from a glass. It colours everything the sweet shade of nostalgia. The air is gently warm and the grass is soft beneath me.

I love days like this. They are one of the reasons why I moved here, why I put so much time and effort and energy into relocating halfway around the world. Into building the life that I wanted, piece by piece.

And I love so many of those pieces. I love my little apartment, with the balcony that I always wanted, with its ragtag assortment of secondhand furniture collected one item at a time, with its shelves tucked in here or squeezed in there, never quite tidy enough to look presentable. I love my walkable neighbourhood, with its shops and cafés and cats that follow me from block to block, or critters that peer out from between bushes in the rustling dusk. I love how low cloud creeps in to cover the tips of the skyscrapers downtown, or how the jagged outline of mountains shape the horizon in almost every direction. I love trying to make things, especially with other people, and the reward of being creative, of being silly or being funny. I love all the things I’ve learned to cook, or the ways I can warm myself up on a cold day, or the late nights I can so often indulge, with no care for what might come tomorrow.

I have so much to be grateful for and so much to be proud of. So much here. So much now.

Pretty soon, the sunset will transform the whole sky into a gradient of colour. Someone somewhere will be playing guitar on the beach, and maybe they’ll be good. Stars will appear in the sky, above the familiar urban zodiac traced out by the city lights of apartment buildings. If I stay up late again, the dawn sky will turn the royal blue of an emperor’s cloak. And then all of this will happen again.

I have so much to be grateful for. So much to appreciate.

---

A few weeks ago I had my first nightmare in some time. They still happen. The specifics matter less than the broad themes. Deception. Gaslighting. Manipulation. Boundary violation. All of it in plain sight, yet still unseen, making me feel like I’m helpless, like I’m crazy, like I have no hope of ever being believed.

I thought about it all day. The situations, the faces and the fears. This is the way it’s always been and once one of these nightmares visits you, it stays for a while. It’s like a small stain, an odour that gets into your clothes, the stink of cigarettes after a party the evening before.

Can you wash out a stain? Sometimes. With the right substances, with the correct regimen. And with some aggressive, persistent scrubbing.

One summer night years ago an ex woke me up because I had been thrashing about in my sleep. I had worried her by rolling around and muttering like a madman. Was I having a nightmare, she asked, and it wasn’t just that I was, but that I had them all the time. Every week, at least, each leaving that same gross feeling of violation and abuse. The anxiety medication that I had been prescribed was helping me sleep more, but it also seemed to make my dreams more vivid and profound. It was either that or barely being able to sleep at all, woken by the slightest of noises, up before the crack of dawn because some unresolved tension in my body overpowered all tiredness and fatigue. Even with medication, the smallest of things could still turn me into a nervous wreck, and one night I cried cross-legged on my bed as I explained to my ex not just that I had interpreted a few of her utterly inconsequential actions as a sign she wanted to leave me, but also that I might always be like this. Forever.

The nightmares began a few months after I burned my note. It was right after I opened up to another friend about what was going on in my life, and their response was to tell me about something else that had happened, the full story of an event from another six years before, from distant 2012.

It’s not my tale to tell, but six years is a long time to not know the full story of something. A long time to be deceived, to find out you’ve been lied to by someone you trust and that your ignorance has affected many decisions that you’ve made. Again, I am lucky that the vast, vast majority of those decisions didn’t fuck things up further. But some did.

Six years. It hit me then how long it can take for people to feel able to talk about something, as well as continue to be affected by it. How far the ripples travel and who they touch. And now, here I am, with my own six years.

That discovery was one of several experiences that transformed me into that person having three-day long anxiety spikes, remaining highly activated, oversensitive and endlessly insecure. That person thrashing about in his sleep. That person yelling “You cunt,” down his street.

---

I’ve written before about my physical health and my relationship to my body. I was anxious about things being wrong with it long before I had thorough examinations and validating diagnoses, but as part of those treatments I wrote about, a trio of doctors warned me about how stress was worsening every condition and symptom I experienced. Stress was ruining my health. I was having so many migraines that my GP sent me for an MRI that revealed how those migraines were changing the white matter in my brain.

I would have to do something about this.

Those doctors would help me do something about this, as would other professionals, and their help was invaluable. This would be impossible to tackle alone.

Sometimes I think about people I’ve heard say such things as “It’s not your responsibility to fix someone else,” and, while I don’t disagree, doesn’t such a phrase also imply it’s surely somebody’s responsibility, in this society that we all share, built from things that help us support one another?

Otherwise we’d be suggesting that people fix themselves.

Sometimes I think about people I’ve heard tell others, or themselves, or sometimes the world via the spontaneous and sneeze-like broadcasts of social media “It’s on you to fix your shit,” and I wonder if that’s where that sentence should terminate, if that’s exactly how it should be phrased, if those are really the words that everyone, or anyone, needs to hear.

Because sometimes I also think of another clumsy analogy I once put together. It’s a scenario in which I describe a pedestrian struck by a car, perhaps one driven by a rich cunt with dark sunglasses and a tan suit jacket, perhaps even one that has mounted the curb or surged into a crossing. The pedestrian is knocked down, maybe immobile from the pain and injury that comes from a broken pelvis or fractured leg. An ambulance is summoned, a customised vehicle equipped to transport them to a hospital. In that hospital, that specialised medical facility, a team of trained experts will use skills and equipment to triage and manage, to analyse the pedestrian’s injuries, to provide relief and to chart a course toward recovery. There will be x-rays, there will be drugs, there may well be physiotherapy. I doubt at any point that the person lying in the street would be told, by someone coming upon the scene, “It’s on you to fix your shit.”

No. Not any more than they’d be expected to walk to the hospital, to interpret their x-rays or to prescribe their own medication. Indeed, if they attempted any of these things themselves I wouldn’t be surprised if someone along the way communicated to them some more polite version of “What the holy fucking fuck do you think you’re doing?” and “You’re in no state to do this yourself, let alone know what you need,” and “Fucking hell. You’re at your most vulnerable right now. Fuuuck.”

Hopefully.

Once, many years ago, I knew someone who broke their pelvis. It takes months to recover, maybe a year or more for a limp to fully disappear. And it requires all kinds of help and oversight. It worked out. Doctors and medical professionals can be remarkable.

I have read a lot of books and papers over the last six years. I have listened to a lot of podcasts and interviews. I have been recommended a lot of material by therapists, by friends, by fellow PTSD sufferers. One well-known trauma expert I was pointed toward is Canadian psychologist Dr. Gabor Maté. And he says this:

”Everybody is born needing help.”

He means that it’s a fundamental element of the human experience.

---

Sometimes I go running and sometimes I go to the gym. The reasons I do this are complex, ranging from wanting to be healthier, to wanting to feel better about my body and how it behaves, to feeling like I am making progress with something. That last one is particularly important, because I’m doing something where I’m objectively able to recognise change.

When I run, an app tells me how far I ran and how long it took. I can’t disagree with the app, because it’s entirely objective, and so when I have a bad day, feel terrible and wonder what the point of anything is, the app still shows me that I achieved a reasonable or even an improved time.

It wasn’t always like this. I was bad at these things. I run better than I used to. I perform better at the gym than I used to. I have the metrics to prove it, and while I’m not a particularly dedicated or regular person with my exercise, I still keep at it and I still see improvements.

Whatever it is I’m doing, these apps and their statistics all offer me the same, very simple analysis:

“You’re doing better.”

I motivate myself to run, to go to the gym, to go on twenty-five kilometre hikes over difficult terrain, but I don’t do these things without some kind of help that comes from either expert resources, advice or training.

I don’t exist in a vacuum. None of us do.

---

Help is important because it offers things like perspective and expertise and informed advice. And don’t all of those things sound so extremely important?

How about we imagine that our immobilised pedestrian wasn’t collected by an ambulance. Let’s imagine instead that the driver of the car that hit them stepped out of their vehicle, shook their head, put their hands on their hips and said “Look what you’ve done.”

And then “It’s okay, I know what’s best for you,” before carrying the inert person into their car and driving away. Perhaps even unseen. No witnesses.

If such a thing happened, in this society that we all share, with that person at their most vulnerable, who is responsible then? Who is responsible for what happens next? Who is responsible when that pedestrian, forever limping, says things like “It was my fault, I shouldn’t have been walking there,” or “I should have been looking out,” or “I should have been more visible,” and so on?

A lot of accidents and injuries and collisions and whatnot can be traumatic, scary, confusing. “How do I make sense of this?” asks that person, whether carried away alone in a car, or surrounded by doctors in the emergency room, or anywhere else they may happen to find themselves. “How do I deal with this?” And who might be around them at that moment to help answer such things?

And what will they say?

Perhaps you know someone who was, metaphorically, struck by such a car, before being then carried away by a driver with all sorts of ideas about what’s best, and who later blamed themselves for everything that happened. I don’t know.

I do know how important it was to receive the right help from the right people.

---

It’s hard to know exactly what to do. You may respond to your trauma with a desire for revenge, retribution or restoration. You may not have the insight or the time or the means to do anything much at all. There is the ideal of what could or should happen when harm has been caused, but there is also the uncomfortable reality of how such things actually play out, of how long justice can take, of who is granted credibility, of how complex social dynamics can quickly become, of how awkwardly and uncomfortably people can react when they discover something they would rather not have, or that they have been misled, or so much more. We’ve all seen such things play out secondhand and firsthand.

I have had six years to consider the most helpful way to respond, the most constructive, the most positive and productive. I am still considering. I don’t have much in the way of answers or advice there.

Sometimes I think about the anonymous Broken Teapot essay, with all it has to say about the complexity of dealing with abuse dynamics, of harm happening within a group or community, about social consequences. It was written over a decade ago now, but it remains a very relevant piece of writing that brings up all sorts of considerations around responsibility, about trying to come to terms with trauma and abuse, and about how people might try to use systems or processes to try to solve things in unhelpful ways or even for their own ends.

People can have a lot of opinions about how to handle trauma, how to respond to abuse and how to leap into some sort of process of justice or accountability or reparation or even plain old revenge. So many opinions.

It’s exhausting.

Back in 2020 I tried to write something about all these complications and considerations that I was going to title The Calculus of Abuse. Like much else, it rots in my drafts folder.

Sometimes I think about how many of the ways that we push people to address both their trauma and the things or people that have caused their trauma only makes things worse. I am sceptical about the practicality, value and effectiveness of processes of justice, reparation and accountability. I think a lot of people believe that they will fix things, that they will be fair, that they will spotlight situations and systems and people that cause harm. That, in this cold and unflinching exposure, justice will be done and books will be closed on long and difficult stories.

And I think that’s because we see this happen now and then. Sometimes it happens very publicly. It seems to at least occasionally all work out.

Sometimes I think about friends who were excluded from social circles because they spoke up about something creepy or problematic, because it mattered less what actions or behaviour someone had demonstrated, even what could be proven, and much more who was more popular, or that the status quo be maintained, or that applecarts not be upset. I think about how different people share or don’t share their traumas and their experiences, what they include and what they leave out. I think about people who weren’t believed, people who were misrepresented, people who were shut down. I think about people who spent so long trying to get a handle on their trauma that any thing or person they might want to stand up to already had so much time to prepare, to seed the ground, to dig in, to get a head start. And I even think about the capacity people have to improve, to feel regret, to move forward as better humans. It’s a potential that I hope exists in us all and the writer Kai Cheng Thom seems to agree, saying that even those who cause harm themselves need help to “exit harmful behaviour patterns.”

Sometimes I think about what a friend of mine said about abusive people just being "regular people with very limited tools." And that’s not so different from a child. Doesn’t that make you feel sad?

I think about all of these things because how could you not? How could you not worry about how taking action to address a terrible thing would, in fact, only make that terrible thing even worse?

There is a paper by the American psychiatrist Judith Lewis Herman called Justice From the Victim’s Perspective that touches on how many processes and pushes toward addressing abuse and trauma can be retraumatising, without any guarantee they will lead to a meaningful outcome or significant change. It touches on how legal processes and systems can be manipulated to further harm and harass those seeking redress, or how disparities of power and status and money can immediately put the damaged and disadvantaged people who try this on the back foot. It touches on difficulties presented by such things as burden of proof, especially combined with the challenge of a memory minced by traumatic events. How does someone demonstrate and prove trauma, or gaslighting, or manipulation, or anything else?

It also talks about how not everybody seeks such things as justice, restitution, revenge, or not always in the ways that we think, and for a multitude of reasons. These can vary from worrying they won’t be believed or that the process will serve them, to wanting to move on, to the idea that it may be pointless, as some “offenders are empathetically disabled… not capable of a meaningful apology, so they can never provide anything to victims that would be useful.”

Both this and the Broken Teapot essay also feature people examining how they themselves have handled abuse and trauma. I think this is probably the most difficult part of many years of therapy, reading and reflection. Sure, it sucks to have been harmed by an event, a situation, a person or a system, but at some point you also start asking yourself difficult questions like “How do I avoid something like this again?” and “Did I do anything that made this worse?” and “Was I codependent, did I enable someone or did I perpetuate something with my reactions or my responses?”

“Abuse dynamics aren’t so simple,” says the Broken Teapot essay, at one small but very important moment, not long after “I was not solely ‘a victim’. Is anyone?” And, after all those years of therapy, reading and reflection, I’ve come to believe that abusive people and systems gain at least some of their power from how you interact with and respond to them. If we were, all of us, perhaps better informed, we might understand, avoid or escape so many difficult things so much sooner.

And while both the Broken Teapot essay and Justice From the Victim’s Perspective talk a lot about sexual assault, their considerations and their examinations of consequence are more broadly applicable. This reflects how I find myself relating to so many stories of trauma and abuse, regardless of what the specifics of any incidents might be. It’s because I recognise the same things in the subsequent developments, reactions and outcomes, much like I might recognise the same chord pattern in different songs. I see people trying to understand their own changing behaviours, trying to articulate why they won’t do a particular thing or go to a particular place any more, trying to both explain and understand how their body or their health has been affected. The specifics don’t need to be the same for so many of the consequences to be. And I recognise and am much more attuned to recognising those consequences.

Both these pieces of writing are also very good at illustrating one of the most important things that you can learn about trauma, and that is, whatever happens or whatever choices you make, things can never be put back in the box.

Trauma is never erased.

---

Here’s what I think is another of the most important things we can learn about trauma, which is that people are generally very bad at dealing with it and are even worse at dealing with it if they are unsupported. And even if they have all the support in the world, they are probably still going to make bad choices, self-sabotage, lose perspective and do things they regret.

They will probably be foolish, be confused and be likely to make choices that could hurt other people. They may not have great insight or work against their own best interests. That doesn’t mean that they get a free pass. It doesn’t mean we are obliged to simply accept these behaviours. But I think these are realistic expectations that we should have.

In his pioneering book The Body Keeps the Score, the psychiatrist Bessel van der Kolk writes that many trauma responses are “irrational and largely outside people's control,” coming from people who are “rarely in touch with the origins of their alienation.” An awful lot of the book is about helping such people to find ways past this, rather than disregarding them or pushing them away, even though this will be difficult. I don’t remember anything in the book that comes close to “It’s on you to fix your shit.”

---

While one part of me wishes many things had not happened, feeling both weaker and sadder, another part of me acknowledges that I have gained new skills and strengths. And one of the best things about what I’ve gained is that all this doesn’t just help me, but can also be applied to help others.

That’s a good thing.

I’m a tiny bit wiser than I used to be. A lot of reading and talking to experts and digesting all sorts of media leaves its mark. It’s not just that I know a little more about myself and my experiences, it’s that I can now better recognise parallels to those experiences in other people’s situations, behaviours and pasts. I anticipate slightly better, seeing problems further ahead, and I have a stronger sense of what I need to drop or to avoid.

I’m doing better.

---

I don’t have much that I can write here in terms of the specifics of therapy. I would describe a lot of the process of unpacking and analysing the causes of my PTSD as being extremely painful, like trying to both tidy up and then reassemble broken glass with your bare hands. The things that brought about your PTSD are shameful and harrowing. Their analysis can also be, through a process that can variously be sad, scary, frustrating, educational, validating and empowering. It takes a long time and requires expert assistance, which means the help you need can be a somewhat scarce resource and very, very expensive.

You pay for your trauma for a very long time.

---

I discovered one of the most beautiful sounds in the world some time after 2016, some unknown amount of time after I moved into this apartment of mine, with its balcony and its skyscraper views. I don’t remember now when I first heard it, but it’s been years now and I still adore it whenever it happens. It’s small and subtle and can happen at almost any time of night or day. It’s a sound that makes me think of safety and independence, of making my own space and then occupying it. Of security and stability.

I really, really appreciate security and stability. Much as I increasingly seek out change and crave new experiences or opportunities, these things feel so much better if I can enjoy them with the understanding that I have some sort of foundation under me. Something solid. No matter how small or how far away. Some place of safety.

The sound happens when it’s raining. Whatever metal it is that rings my balcony is hollow, so that when rainfall strikes it, it responds with a kind of subtle but sonorous singing. This ringing isn’t the specific sound I’m talking about, though. That sound is slightly different, something that rises above this other background arrangement.

When a particularly large drop of water hits my balcony railing, it gives a flat, gentle ping of appreciation. The background patter of the other raindrops will continue and then, again, after some irregular interval, presumably as water has collected from the balcony above into a particularly large drop, the ping will sound again.

I heard it one morning this spring, months ago now, right after I woke up and not long after I had started writing all this. I lay there in bed on a day the colour of slate and cigarette smoke and I thought about how the world is made up of so many beautiful, tiny things. Ping, goes one of them, and maybe nobody else on the planet notices or cares. But I try to remind myself of this and how my life is full of so many other probably stupid little things that I like, that I love. Don’t lose these things, I try to tell myself. Don’t forget about them and don’t forget to notice them when they happen. You gave yourself so many more of them when you chose to stay alive.

You get a lot of time to think on days the colour of slate and cigarette smoke.

---

You’ll notice I say “sometimes I think about” a lot here, when reflecting on less positive things, and you might consider this a writing device or a cheap hook or some other writer’s cheat. It partly is, but it’s also a truth. I do think about these things, and so many other things, very often. I think about one or another of them almost all of the time. I find it very hard not to think, to turn my brain off, and the unfortunate truth is that it reminds me about things to do with my trauma almost every day. It has done so for six years now and, as we’ve already established, six years is a long time.

Evenings can be the most difficult time. While I’ve always had a flippant attitude toward sleep schedules, I never used to have trouble going to bed. Some nights my brain will never switch off. My memory is overflowing. It doesn’t matter if I’m tired, it makes no difference if I’m exhausted. The rules around sleep are different now and I think I’m still trying to relearn them.

One therapist described the traumatised mind as like an overflowing wastepaper basket full of difficult memories that are constantly falling out. Any new addition can cause one or many of them to spill and scatter. Time and therapy can help to more properly sort them and make space for other, new things.

What a good analogy.

Occasionally, there might be a suggestion of ADHD sent my way. I can understand why things would look that way and a lot has been said by people more experienced than I about how ADHD and PTSD can seem similar. I think if ADHD had ever been the case some mental health professional or other member of the medical community that I’ve dealt with would have spotted this by now. But no. I’m distracted by some memory or flashback. I’m avoidant, or I’m in need of some thrill or stimulation. I might be full of nervous energy or unusually, intensely focused on something because it feels so good to be thinking about something I enjoy.

And sometimes things are bounding out of that wastepaper basket like clowns out of a clown car. I can feel like I've lost a lot of control over my mind and it's all I can do to rein it in. Some days I have coping strategies and some days I'm sick of it and wish I didn't need to have to cope.

And so I keep myself busy with the stimulation and the novelty that I crave. With people. With events. With runs, with the gym and with twenty-five kilometre hikes. Whatever it takes, whenever I can. It’s not ideal. I’m still figuring out what I need. I don’t always get the balance right. Sometimes unexpected things make me very emotional, either very sad or very frustrated, and I rarely know in advance what might do that. Sometimes I sleep less than four hours a night. Sometimes I want to be alone. Sometimes I desperately need company. I probably seem very strange.

But, let’s not forget, in the past I would lose whole days. For hours, my chest would feel like it was being crushed. I might be found curled up on the floor, ashamed of my own sadness. The nightmares would come every week. So things have clearly, obviously, demonstrably improved.

I’m doing better.

---

I still suck at writing. I don’t know how to fix that yet. I still very regularly feel like there is a gulf between me and so many other people, even my friends. I still have outsize reactions to irrelevant, immaterial things. I still lack confidence in my own personal calibration. "Many traumatised people find themselves chronically out of sync with the people around them,” writes Bessel van der Kolk. Yeah.

Toward the end of its six season existence there is an episode of BoJack Horseman where an actor reacts angrily to some improvisation and unexpected physical contact that happens during filming. Her colleagues are confused as to why she does this, and perhaps she doesn’t understand herself, but we the audience know that this a response to a physical assault by the titular character some time before. She never finds out, but this leads to her missing out on perhaps the biggest opportunity of her life, after a director discreetly describes her as erratic.

There is no further development with this plotline, no resolution to be had. Nobody finds out why she is like this, nor wants to, nor sets things on a new, better course. I try to remind myself that this sort of thing can be happening all the time, to try and grant people some grace and compassion, but also I try to remind myself that this is me. I have my versions of this behaviour. Maybe fewer than I used to, but still. I can be erratic and I have to face the consequences of that, as well as minimise it as much as I can.

I recently stopped buying fresh fruit from my local store because they would repeatedly put mouldy, furry produce on display. The last time I discovered this, I was holding up a box of ostensibly shiny, blood-red strawberries to once again discover the mass of fuzz hidden underneath. Food is expensive enough as it is, I thought, and it doesn’t also need to be garbage. Too late, the look on the face of the customer standing next to me clued me in to how vocal I’d been with my three-word expression of disgust and displeasure.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

---

You’ve read a little about my first dream, about old friends. You’ve read a little about my second dream, the nightmare. Here comes my third, from earlier this summer.

I dreamt that I was trying to get home again. I was confused about where I was, trying to remember a route through unfamiliar Vancouver alleys. It was evening, not yet dark, but the time between when you lose the long shadows cast by the last of the sunlight and begin to wear the rich, jewelled canvas of the stars. None of  the people I stopped and spoke to knew the streets I named. None of the alleyways I walked down took me in familiar directions.

I never found my way home, but I never stopped trying. Perhaps this does indeed mean I haven’t reached the end of whatever journey I’m on, that I can’t yet return to the start. I think it’s both practical and pragmatic for me to accept that the next six years might still present me with many challenges. That I will have bad, directionless days. That sometimes I’m going to fuck up and fall short.

I woke up to another bright, warm summer’s day, far later than I meant to, and I made myself a fine cup of coffee and a rich breakfast that I would be foolish not to enjoy.

Sometimes I think about suicide. Those thoughts haven’t left me yet and I’m not sure they ever will. Sometimes they arrive strong and loud and insistent, from out of nowhere and with all the power of a thunderbolt in a storm. Sometimes I want to be a shining example of how to conquer PTSD and sometimes I'm so sad I can’t get out of bed and sometimes I am just pissed off and angry. Each day is still different. But tomorrow I will wake up and perhaps I will think to myself “There are blue skies today,” or perhaps I will hear ping, or perhaps I won’t need anything at all to feel great. And perhaps there will be some undeniable sign in the day’s events, in my behaviour, even in the world around me, that demonstrates to me how much I’ve improved.

Each day is still different and today the glib part of my personality says “I sure hope you’ve improved, it’s been six years! That’s six years of painful PTSD examination, therapy, medication, reading, research, specialist appointments, many thousands of dollars spent and a god damn MRI of your weird and messed up brain.” And am I being disrespectfully flippant of my own experiences when I add that having an MRI of my brain was, at least, kind of cool?

Because another part of my personality wants to remind me I’m wiser, braver and maybe even a little more able to help others, people who I will remind myself can’t be expected to fix their own shit alone. People who shouldn’t be pushed aside, in this society that we all share.

And I don’t regret calling that cunt a cunt.

It’s been six years and each day is still different and this morning, when I pause to ask myself how I’m doing, I find I have the most simple of answers.

It’s three words.

“I’m doing better.”

[giggly-squiggily]

Helloooooooooo! Can I request lee!Itadori and ler!Gojo? Perhaps poor poor yuuuji is having a bad day and Gojo just has to cheer him up cuz he is his dear dear student??

Thank youuuuu^^ (Your fics are AWESOME btw)

Oo, I love this!!! I haven't written enough JJK here on my blog! I've gotcha covered, anon! :D (Thank you so much! I appreciate it!)

It was a strange day when the team’s sunshine was down and out.

Yuji Itadori- a walking ball of energetic sunshine- was uncharacteristically quiet. He didn���t talk much, only answering questions with simple replies, and his few rare smiles were ghostly and heavy.

“Did something happen?” Gojo asked as the day went on, growing increasingly worried for his student. He figured he woke up on the wrong side of the bed and would bounce back after breakfast, but he only seemed to wilt further as the day went on.

“I don’t know- I tried everything I could think of to get him happy again, but nothing worked.” Nobara shook her head in defeat, folding her arms in thought. “Maybe he got bad news?”

“Not likely- it would have to go through me before it goes to him.” Gojo hummed. “Got his heart broken?”

“Hasn’t been on any recent dates. Anniversary of his grandfather’s death?”

“Nope- that was a few months ago.” Gojo tilted his head, tapping his chin. “Did he get into a fight with Megumi?”

“Who’d I fight?” Said boy asked as he walked up. After a quick briefing, he was just as confused. “Maybe he’s just having a bad day. We all get those once and awhile.”

“Yeah but…it’s weird, seeing him so down.” Nobara tightened her arms around herself, brows furrowing. “If I knew what was wrong, I could fix it.”

“I don’t think there’s a straw doll technique that could.” Megumi shrugged, earning a light glare from the girl. Gojo on the other hand looked suddenly thoughtful.

“Maybe not a curse technique, but…” He grinned. “I think I know what to do.”

~~~

Yuji was laying in his bed when Gojo appeared, halfheartedly reading a volume of Chainsaw Man. His headphones were in, soft music blocking out the world around him. To anyone else, it’d be a clear sign he wanted to be left alone.

For Gojo however, it was an invitation to strike.

Putting his skills to work, he placed himself on Yuji’s bed, hovering over the younger sorcerer with an easy grin. Then he leaned in so his nose was hovering over the manga, waiting for Yuji to notice him.

The younger boy let out a low sigh as he went to turn the page, eyes flicking upward at Gojo. Silence. Then-

“AH!” Yuji squawked, manga tumbling out of hand and headphones flying off his ears as he scooted back on the bed, staring at his teacher. “G-Gojo sensei! What- how- when-”

“Who, where, why?” Gojo finished, closing the discarded manga and tossing it on the nearby table. “That’s what I’d like to know. First of all: How are you?”

“I uh…” Yuji’s shock faded some, that sad look from earlier returning. “I’m fine. Just…”

“Moping in your room, reading manga and pretending the world doesn’t exist?” Gojo asked, pushing Yuji down by his shoulder. “Relatable, but we can’t have that now, can we?”

“G-Gojo-sensei? What are you-” Yuji began, lips flattening and eyes widening when a finger wiggled into his armpit. He squeezed his arm tightly against his torso, trying to block out the invasive finger. “N-No! No do-don’t!”

“Oh? Why not?” Gojo teased, motivated by the wobbly smile on Yuji’s lips. He added a second finger, a third, and before long he had pushed his entire hand into Yuji’s armpit, clawing gently and earning even more struggles from the other. “Is someone ticklish?”

“Yo-You alreahahdy know thahahhat!” Yuji tried to argue, giggles pushing past his lips as he squirmed. This was NOT how he planned on spending the rest of his “Mope hours”! “Goohohohohjo, wahahahhait!”

“No way- you’re still sad! I won’t stop until you’re happy again!” Gojo shot his other hand into Yuji’s pit, earning an arch and a squeal. With that, he was laughing, twisting about on the bed as he tried getting away from Gojo’s tickly fingers. “Come on, let me see you smiling!”

“Nohoohohohoho! I wahahhahant to mohohohohohope!” He cried, cheeks pink and eyes squeezed shut with mirth. “Lehehehhehet me behehehehehehehhee!”

Gojo’s response was to drop a hand to his belly, drilling into the center and making Yuji shriek. He went to shove his hand away, but that only opened his armpits up further for more tickling. ‘Coohohohohohohome ohohohohohon, this ihihihiihihisn’t fahhahahahhahair!”

“All is fair in a tickle war!” Gojo chimed, stretching his fingers back further so he could prod the back of Yuji’s ribs, earning a snort. “Gonna tell me what’s wrong?”

“AHEHAHHAHAHA! FIIHIHIHINE, FIIHHIIHIHNE!”

“Promise?”

“YEEHEHHEHEHS!”

“Reeaaallly promise?’

“GOHOHOOHOHJO!”

“....You sure?”

“I PROHOOHOMIHIHIHISE NOW STAHHAHAHAP!” Yuji cried, gasping for air when the tickling came to an end. “Ehehehehe..hehehehhe…yohohohoohu’re ehehhehevil!”

“Mmhmm! The evilest sensei you’ve ever had!” Gojo skittered his fingers over Yuji’s belly before climbing off him, flopping at the end of the bed with a grin. “So, what’s going on, sunshine?”

“Ehehe!” Yuji spasmed, giggling. With a wave, he sat up , crossing his legs as he caught his breath. “Heh…I’m fine, really.” At Gojo’s raised brow, Yuji pushed on. “No, for real. I just…I had a rough night.”

“Nightmare?” Gojo asked, watching Yuji nod. “Wanna talk about it?”

“....No, not really.” Yuji shook his head, looking up with a small but genuine smile. “I’m feeling better- I don’t want to go back to that right now.”

“Fair enough.” Gojo nodded, reaching out and patting Yuji’s leg. “If you ever need to talk though- you know where I am.”

“Thanks, Gojo.” Yuji’s smile grew, as did Gojo’s.

“Anytime. Hey- let’s go get food with the gang. My treat.” Gojo stood, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “I heard there’s this new place that opened up; they sell gyoza. Hungry?”

Almost on cue, Yuji’s stomach growled, making them laugh. “Yeah, sounds good.”

Thanks for reading!

[theyellowhedgehog]

Cass and Tim

Side piece of Ripple Effect AU. Deep dive into the relationship between Tim and Cass.

What make Fanon Cass great is that, she's tiny cinnamon roll but can kill you. Lots of fanfic also write her as a representation for a sign language user. Then, I might made you mad. Look, I'm just borrowing the skin of the characters, okay? And I'm trying to teach myself to make a plot driven character development. Yes, the origin stories are changed. Thus, it is a Reverse Robin + parallel universe.

Who is Cassandra Cain in the Ripple Effect AU?

R.E Au only reverse the age of the robins. Since Cass is no Robin she will remain as her original age. However! Instead of becoming Batgirl, she instead became a mercenary. At the age of 14 she realised what her father has been training her into. So, I made her hard nut to crack. She confronted her father head on, of course young Cass cannot win against David Cain. After escaping her near death, she left to find her mother. Shiva wasn't at all different from David. Cass stayed in hope to be near someone of family. She trained under her mother for 2 months. When Shiva started to see her daughter as competition, she tried to trick Cass into drinking poison but Cass found out so she left again.

All Cass knew in her life is killing. There was no good or bad in killing. So she took on kill quests and became a well-known-no-named mercenary.

She arrived to Gotham when she accept to hunt down Tim Drake for her client.

Can Cass speak?

Cass hasn't learn any language under David, and when she escaped to her mother, Shiva didn't bother to teach her either. So as Cass travelled, she ended up in a Russia gang. They were the first one to teach Cass speech. So, you can imagine Cassandra with a thick russian accent when she speak english.😏

From there on learning language is easy for her. The russian gang also become her first real family. And under them she became a mercenary.

Will Cass succeed in killing Tim?

Of course not. I can't let the story end like that. This AU is mainly focus on Damian and Tim so.

But let me describe how she approached Tim.

This is after Tim had successfully became the Grandmaster. Naturally, he will has many enemies. One of the Court of Owl members actually hired Cass because he wanted to become the Grandmaster.

Cass became a mercenary at 17, got to Gotham at 22. Tim is 25 then.

To approach Tim, Cass actually disguised herself as a bodyguard. And surprisingly she built a really solid portfolio that she pass the screening and got the job.

The day she got the job, there were set back she could've never imagined. As soon as Gotham Magazine saw Tim Drake had hired a female bodyguard, the press had a field day -with the next day front page being :

"TIM DRAKE ROLLING IN THE SHEET WITH HIS NEW FEMALE BODYGUARD???"

"CEO X BODYGUARD ROMANCE???"

The news became so sensational that it even reach the ear of David Cain. (Of course, hearing about his daughter rolling in the sheet with some random boy, he got mad.) I'm just joking, he got furious about the betrayal and that he finally found her and set out to Gotham to kill her.

So before Cassandra had any chance to act out her plan, David Cain crash through the window of Tim's floor. (He's in a new apartment, not the Drake manor) Hooray for Tim! He survive the unknown assassination due to Papa Cain.

Cass was losing the fight against a rage filed David Cain. But girl, did she put up one hell of a fight. The fight has come to an end when David has successfully pin down Cass crushing her airway. But like all supervillain, he had a monologue prepared.

Tim took the chance sneak behind David to knock him out with a steel barstool. David Cain actually manage to block against the stool but that was all Cass needed to lunge a knife into his guts and kick him away.

After stabbing her father to death multiple times, she thanked Tim. Saying that she would not kill him and would leave him alone. Tim suggested a better idea of hiring her as a real bodyguard and paying her more than her previous client.

Cass accepted, not because of the money but because of her life saving debt she's indebted to Tim.

After David Cain died, Cassandra became the new Orphan.

Will Cassandra ever become Batgirl and join the Batfam?

No, Cass won't become Batgirl. Barbara isn't crippled yet. Her relationship into becoming family with the Waynes has the same chance as Tim. But let me make it clear, even if she join the batfam, she would be Tim's person and not one of the Wayne.

Yellowhedgehog, are you trying to set up Tim and Cass as a pair?😬

Not in this AU, no. But I bet they would make one hell of a power couple.😁

News Headline :

"CEO TIM DRAKE GOT PRINCESS CARRY OUT OF A HOSTAGE SITUATION BY HIS BODYGUARD IN SHINY ARMOR, CASSANDRA CAIN!"

"CEO x BODYGUARD ROMANCE IS ALIVE AND THE SHIP IS SAILING!!"

[foxybananaaaz]

3k Words

If you have not yet read any of the other parts, please click the Title Page to go to the start.

Lucien Week Day Six :: Romance.

From past to present, do you see Lucien with a romantic partner? @lucienweekofficial

Let's start this part, a little... different.

Elain Archeron had been spending far too much time on her own over the past few months. Save for dinners, or when she would go visit with Lucien in the Day Court, which was more often than anyone at home knew, or would like, had they known.

She was constantly treated as a child, as though she could not hold her own, could not decide things, and needed help.

With Lucien, she felt free. She felt as though she could take on the world. She got the feeling he would let her take his life if situations got so dire. With Lucien, things were simple but also incredibly complicated.

Was the reason her feelings were changing, because of the bond, or were they changing all on their own? They were friends, and while she saw how he would wish for more, she also saw him fight those wishes, those thoughts, the urges the bond made him feel, want. Lucien fought against his instincts, to make her comfortable.

The thread that tied them did not glow, but her heart did feel as though it skipped a beat, while her stomach had the fluttering feeling she had only felt at the beginning of her courtship with Greyson.

Elain was finding that she was finalising her decision she had been considering for a few weeks now. One that would not be taken well, or even easily amongst her sisters, or their family. But it was a decision she was making on her own.

She remembered something Lucien had said a what felt like forever ago, "My Lady, whenever you wish for me to visit, all you need to do is give a little tug, and I will be right there by your side before you know it." And so, without hesitation, without thinking about it, without realizing that it was the middle of the night, and before she really could stop herself at all, Elain took hold of that thread, and gave it a gentle, but firm tug.

She had made up her mind. Her only concern was if there would be a rejection.

*** *** ***

Lucien was on his bed, unable to sleep. He was trying to block out the sound of his mother and Helion reuniting. Again. Every night. For the fifth week in a row. He knew Helion had a reputation, that as much was common knowledge. But his mother?

Clearly, she'd have had to, having seven sons, but still. He didn't want to think about it, let alone be forced to listen to it.

When he felt the first one, he groaned, thinking the reuniting pair was now affecting the house itself. Until he felt it again, and he could not mistake what it was. Nearly crying in relief when he realized what it was.

Finally having an excuse to leave, Lucien wrote a quick note, not knowing how long he would be, and left the house and made it out the gate before winnowing away.

He landed at the edge of the property, and started to make his way up the walk, already seeing Elain waiting there for him, a dazzling smile on his face, causing Lucien to stumble a step. His stumble only caused Elain to giggle into her hand, which he heard clearly. An entirely new sound, one he had to fight to stay standing, and finish his way to her.

When Lucien finally reached his mate, his friend, he was shocked how she pulled him in for a hug right away. Elain usually avoided contact, not wanting to set the bond off more than necessary. Yet here she was, being the one to initiate the contact with a hug. Lucien wouldn't complain, but he sure was confused as he hugged her back.

When Elain did pull back, she kept a hand on his arm with a smile. Lucien just stood there, at a loss for words, dumbstruck. But he had to restrain himself. The two of them were friends. He could not give into these instincts that were so hard to control that the mating bond put forth.

Elain spoke then, mentioning how she did not belong here, at the Night Court. How she needed to get out. She paused there as if she hoped Lucien would pick up on the hint.

The only thing Lucien did pick up on, though, was how Elain mentioned she didn't belong in the Night Court. Which was what caused him to leave.

Lucien quickly explained to Elain that she should not exile herself from her family, that it was not worth losing her family over. Though he grew confused as he saw Elain shake her head.

Lucien listened closely as Elain repeated herself, saying how she did not belong here and did not fit in to the Night Court. There was a certain emphasis on the word night, a small amount, but it was there.

That's when it clicked with Lucien, and his eyes widened. The metal eye looked his mate over as if to make sure there were no spells or glamour on her. When none was found, Lucien spoke.

"You want ... to come to the Day Court?" Lucien asked, as if he were clarifying, to make sure he understood correctly.

Elain simply nodded and informed him that her sisters would not react kindly. That the High Lord would react with anger. They would fight to keep her here because it was a big decision, and they should discuss it amongst themselves, leaving Elain out of it.

Luciens anger rose. He had suspicions that she did not get choices or a say here, but to have it confirmed with what she had just said. To know that his mate was stuck, without the chance to even make a decision on some of the simplest things, infuriated not just the instincts the mate bond gave him, but also who he was to his core, after witnessing his mother trapped his whole life.

To know Feyre also would allow this after she escaped Tamlin for doing the same thing to her. She knew what having very little to no choice was like. How could she do this or allow this to happen to her own sister?

Lucien forced himself to calm down enough to not frighten or concern his mate. "My Lady, if you feel like you need to move, if you wish to go somewhere else, you are going to. I will make sure of that. Go to the Day Court ... go onto my patio," Lucien added, remembering the reuniting that was going on. "I'll go in to pack for you."

Elain simply shook her head, explaining how there was no need to, that she had been bringing over all her important items over the past few weeks, tucking them in a box she had brought, and put in Luciens cupboards. "I've known for a while that I don't belong here. I've known for a while that I want to live with you and your parents in the Day Court. If you all would allow it."

Elain then took Luciens' hand, and the moment their hands touched, the two were back in Luciens' room. It was like no winnowing he had ever felt before.

Elain then pulled Lucien behind her as she walked towards an area of Helions' house that he hadn't been to before.

"Would you dance with me?" Elain had asked Lucien as they reached a room, and she opened the doors to what looked like a ballroom. "I'm not as good as Nesta, I didn't get all the lessons, but I can dance party dances, and it's been so long, I do miss it." Elain finished as she stepped inside, bringing Lucien along as she was still holding his hand.

Lucien stood there, unknowing how he could deny her request, but he couldn't deny it even if he wished to. Elain looked so eager, and her request was such a simple one. How couldn't he agree? How could someone deny her when she was looking at them, with such hopeful excitement in her beautiful eyes, the colour of a young fawns coat.

So he agreed, though he was nowhere near dressed appropriately for any form of dancing. But no one would be watching, so it shouldn't matter too much.

Elain finally let go of Luciens' hand, which was immediately cold and feeling empty, so she could go turn on some music quietly before running back over, finishing with a curtsey.

Unable to stop the smile of pure joy that spread across his face, Lucien returned Elains curtsey with a deep bow, and when he straightened up, he saw Elain smiling widely as well. Though he could have sworn her cheeks were slightly more coloured than a few seconds before.

And so, the two began dancing, losing themselves to the music.

It wasn't until they finished their seventh dance, pressed together, that they had to stop. The two of them were tired, having both been up all night, and just danced through seven songs.

They may have finished dancing, yet neither of them moved to separate from the other. Both smiling and breathing hard, looking to the other, as though they had not had fun like that in their whole lives.

Still, neither of them moving. The two continued to look the other in the eyes. Their smiles slowly faded, but their gazes grew more intense.

"Lucien, I-" Elain began softly, quietly.

"Well, I am genuinely sorry because I can't tell you enough how much I truly hate to break this up, but we have company"

Lucien and Elain both jumped apart as if the other burned them, turning towards the door, the intruder, the voice that wasn't supposed to be there.

Lucien saw his mother standing there with Helion, along with-

Elain grabbed Luciens hand. Her hand was shaking ever so slightly, and this was the only indicator of her fear. Lucien squeezed her hand gently, offering her comfort the same way she was showing him her fear.

Lucien recognized her fear as he saw Rhysand, Feyre, and the Viper.

"Rhysand and Feyre claim that we have taken a high status member of their Court." Helion spoke with a dismissive air to his tone, as if he could tell which way this would go. But Lucien knew the tone would turn dangerous if the conversation turned to even the smallest amount of violence on his lands.

"We did not take her. We freed her. Just as Rhysand freed Feyre when he had his cousin retrieve her from the Spring Court, while Tamlin and I were away." Lucien responded, with a disinterested tone himself.

"Freed? And you would compare the two situations?" Rhysand asked in disbelief.

"Elain?" Feyre had called out to her sister.

When Elain did not speak, Lucien continued. "Yes, freed. Elain told me that she was not free to make her own decisions. That everything she does has to go through the groups approval. It is similar to what Feyre went through after we came out of the mountain. Tamlin refused to let her do what she wanted and would constantly make decisions for her." Lucien explained, seeing realization dawn in Feyres eyes as she remembered what Lucien was talking about.

"I also grew up, watching my whole life, as a female had her choices and freedom removed from her. The whole Court loved her, but they didn't see the pain she was in." Lucien spoke, looking towards his mother. "No one saw the amount pain she was in. Even those who loved her the most."

Lucien then looked back to their guests. "So no, We didn't take her. From our standpoint, and from what she has told us, we freed her."

"She is a high-ranking member of my court." Rhysand responded, not backing down.

"She is my mate." Lucien returned, looking down at Elain. He knew this would be the winning card. He went into this, not wanting to use it, but he was left with no choice.

"She's our sister." The viper spat, fury in her eyes.

Lucien looked towards Nesta and then Feyre. Feyre at least seemed to understand what Lucien meant. "There seems to be a key difference between the fae and human lands you are unaware of yet." Lucien spoke, his tone taking a more apologetic tone as he looked down at Elain. He knew she wouldn't like this next part, even if he worded it the least offensive way he could.

"Being my mate, there is a certain ... claim that I have that even you, as her sister, do not have." He gently squeezed Elains hand, trying to let her know that they were only words to him. Only words to get her to stay, it it was what she truly wanted.

"Even Feyre, as Tamlins Fiancé, as she was not yet married to him when Rhysand announced that he and Feyre were mates, Tamlin could react, sure. But if he tried to take her back, it would have caused a war." Lucien explained. "Mates are rare and are treasured when they do occur."

"Elain?" Feyre tried again. And finally, Elain spoke up.

"I have been planning to come here for the past few weeks. I do not fit in in the Night Court. I asked Lucien to bring me here, if it would be alright if I came here. I was planning to ask Helion in the morning." Elain explained, her hand shaking more, yet her posture and her voice did not betray her. "This is my choice." Elain finished before walking off, dragging Lucien behind her, refusing to let him go.

Lucien heard Helion behind them, sounding as if he were ending the discussion. "Well, you heard her. It is her choice to be here. I'm not going to strip her of her choice. And Lucien is right. She is his mate. You can't exactly change that. Now, unless you plan on visiting socially, forgive me as I ask you to-" and Lucien couldn't hear the rest of what Helion said, as he and Elain were too far away.

"Elain, about what I said, at the end there, please understand I didn't mean it. I'd never lay cl-" Lucien started until he was interrupted.

Lucien was interrupted by Elain grabbing the back of his head, and pulling it down to reach as she kissed him.

Frozen, for just about a second and a half, Lucien finally pulled himself together and moved to place his hands on either side of Elains face and return her kiss.

After he started to kiss her back, Elain let the back of his head go, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and rose up on her toes so Lucien wasn't bending down so low.

The small thread that tied the two of them together glowed golden and bright. It pulsed, it sang, it thrived, and it came alive. Their very souls started dancing together just like they had been an hour before. Gravity ceased to exist as it felt like they were floating a foot off the ground. They weren't only brightly golden on the inside, as the sunrise was aimed directly at them, painting their bodies golden as well.

The kiss lasted less than a minute, but it felt like it lasted a glorious eternity. Lucien didn't want to pull back, but he needed to. Being caught off guard, he didn't have the breath to continue any longer.

So Lucien pulled back and looked towards Elain, the most beautiful creature he had ever seen in his life. How had he gotten so lucky to end up with her as his mate?

"I hope you know that that will make it impossible to fight off the instincts and stay just friends." Lucien spoke first, looking into his mates eyes, with nothing but adoration and awe.

Smiling, Elain reached up, giving Lucien another quick kiss before responding herself. "Did you not get the hint? I don't want to stay just friends." Elains smile only widened before hugging Lucien.

Elains hug felt like home.

Lucien felt, well, he felt his heart swell. He felt wanted in a different way from all those months ago when Helion had told him that he would never be exiled from the Day Court. The two were friends, but that statement from Elain felt like more.

Lucien, as a rule, rarely let himself hope. Because his hopes were always crushed right in front of him. But he hoped for the Day Court and Helion, and he hasn't been let down yet. Could he allow himself to hope for this?

In the back of his mind, he could hear the words pulsing.

Mate. Mate. Mate.

To read the next part, press its title, In The Afternoon

This is not Inner Circle hate. It is taking canon information about Elain from Silver Flames(Nesta and Cassians thoughts on how the Night Court doesn't suit her, and Nesta, Azriel and Rhysand making decisions on Elains behalf), and ... slightly tweaking it to fit the narrative here.

[constant-mason24]

Video Killed the Radio Star (Chapter Ten)

Riddler x f!Reader

Prev chapt | first chapt | Next chapt

“It’s an absolute pleasure to be able to speak with you on the show, Ms. Guthrie.” (Y/n) flashed a grin that was mostly fake. She sat in her usual desk chair, with her guest sitting in a more plush wingchair. It had been brought in just for her, as this was the first guest interview the station had hosted in a while.

“The pleasure is all mine, I’m honored to be invited to come and speak about the reparations from that attack.” The woman dramatically placed a hand on her cheek, as if cameras were rolling to broadcast her reaction. 

Now, (Y/n) had long since gotten over her childish dislike of the color pink. Still, she couldn’t lie: Gloria Guthrie wore an absolutely disgusting amount of the color. When she walked in and started speaking to Ryan, Amelia had even leaned over and whispered something about Dolores Umbridge not being invited to the party. Now (Y/n) couldn’t get the joke out of her head, desperately fighting off a Freudian slip so as not to offend her. 

“Yes, so to summarize for you, our dear listeners,” she spoke to the audience. “You likely remember the chemical attack launched on Gotham City’s west end last November. Our special guest today, miss Gloria Guthrie, has been assisting the labs conducting research on the plant toxins Poison Ivy used. Her generous financial donations have helped further study to create an antidote for the criminal’s various harmful substances.”

“Oh, it was such a terrifying attack!” Guthrie spoke as if she were a high school theater student reading lines in an audition. “I remember the roads being blocked off by those giant, twisted, thorned vines!”

“It was a vicious attack on the city streets. Of course, for us Gothamites, that’s just another Tuesday.” (Y/n) joked.

“That’s exactly why I wanted to donate to the research.” Guthrie’s overdramatic acting did not cease. “I hope that those hard-working scientists can create an antidote strong and plentiful enough to null any future attacks from Poison Ivy!”

“I sincerely hope for that as well. One less villain causing mayhem through the city would be a miracle for Gotham.” She nods. “Which leads me to my next point. You’ve donated to the cause against plant-based chemical warfare, but I have yet to see you aid in any other financial crusades against Gotham’s villains.”

“What?” Guthrie raises a brow in offense. “I offer money up for the good of the city and all you can ask is why I haven’t done so sooner? Forgive me, that sounds quite ungrateful!”

“You misunderstand!” (Y/n) began backpedaling, worried this interview would come to a forceful close before her grand finale. “I just want to ask you why you chose this particular cause. You could have chosen to offer your money in aid against any other criminal in Gotham, and I don’t think I’m alone when I say there are far greater threats here than Poison ivy. She is certainly strong and strong-willed, but wouldn’t you rather help to take down someone like the Joker instead?”

“Well, I have a more… personal reason to want an antidote for the plant toxins.” The woman in pink leaned back in her chair, looking more solemn than before. “It’s not the easiest topic for me to discuss, but my nephew was hit in the attack.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.” (Y/n) frowned.

“He was comatose for nearly a month, and once he was awake, he couldn’t walk or speak. That toxin has given him a lot of trouble, both mentally and physically. He’s been staying with me since the incident, and his nightmares are just awful. I can’t tell you how many times a night I wake up to his screaming.”

(Y/n) feels her heart breaking for this woman, despite her obnoxious nature. She seemed so genuinely upset by her nephew’s ailment. Taking a deep breath, she looks down at the page of keynotes in her hands. The bottom edge of the paper was folded upwards, covering the elegant green writing of the final bullet point.

“I’m genuinely so sorry to hear that. From what I’ve heard of the attack, the results have been deadly for many victims. I hope that he can recover soon.”

“So do I. That’s why I want to help S.T.A.R. labs in their search for answers. Poison Ivy may have been locked up for that assault on our city, but her victims are still suffering.”

Nodding, (Y/n) fidgets her finger over the folded edge of the paper, contemplating whether to peel it back or wait a little longer. 

“I’m sorry if this seems a little rude,” Guthrie speaks again, drawing (Y/n)’s attention up to her with raised brows. “But I’m not feeling all too well. I’m glad to have shed some light on the situation and why I’m here, but I’d like to go home if that’s okay.”

“Of course, Miss Guthrie,” she nods. “I’m sorry to have upset you. If I could just close on one last question before you go?”

This was it. Now or never. (Y/n) may have royally screwed up her chance to fulfill the Riddler’s quest by upsetting this woman accidentally. If she didn’t agree to this last question, (Y/n) was through. 

“I guess one last question is fair.” Gloria nodded. “What would that be?”

(Y/n) took another breath, moving to flip down the folded edge of the paper. As her eyes quickly glanced over the sentence, she held back a gasp. Not exactly subtle, but she supposed that was the point.

“Alone from my parliament, talons withdrawn. Strengthened by dusk but feeble by dawn.” She reads from the page, only looking up when she finished reciting the note. Gloria Guthrie was staring back at her, eyes narrow and angry. This must have hit its intended target then. 

“That isn’t exactly a question.” She says, her tone of voice failing to convey the anger on her face. 

“You’re right. My apologies. I forgot to ask the ‘Who am I?’ part.” A lie, there was no ‘Who am I?’ written on the page. (Y/n) had put some thought into getting to this point: the part of the show where she could poise the riddle to the woman as instructed. She had put no thought into how to back herself out of that corner afterward. 

“I don’t understand why you’re asking me a riddle, Miss (L/n), but the answer is an Owl. Now I’ll be saying my goodbyes.”

Amelia stepped in, to switch the station over to a song, walking Gloria Guthrie- who kept glaring at (Y/n) the entire time- out of the station. That must have been why the Riddler asked her to do this. Not only had she made it clear the Riddler was seeking Guthrie's attention, but now she was irreversibly tied to the Riddler in the Court of Owl’s eyes. Whatever the Riddler got into with them, she was sure to be dragged into it too.

What the fuck had she done?

[subpar-ghoulfriend]

Let’s have a baby

yandere!EraserMicx PREGNANT!Reader 

A terrible mix up leading to an accidental pregnancy? Or something more intentional? Either way now you were pregnant with (none other than the beloved power couple heroes) Eraserhead and Present Mic’s child. Time to discuss how co parenting is going to work. 

TW: pregnancy, artificial insemination, yandere elements, mentions of stalking, alludes to potential custody battle

You had been avoiding the two men for the past week, which was challenging seeing as they managed to find your phone number, address, and place of work. Any time you blocked their calls they got a new number. Two Pro Heroes versus a twenty something civilian, it was only a matter of time until you were cornered.

Now the couple stood between you and your apartment. You had a long shift at your job as a pet groomer and just wanted to get some rest.

Present Mic was the first to speak. "Hey lil momma, we heard you had work today so we brought you some dinner. We thought we could talk over a nice meal."

You had no response. You were tired, both physically and emotionally. You had been put through the ringer ever since meeting them at your doctors office. It was a total Jane the Virgin situation. You went in for an assessment about some supposed ovarian cysts and unknowing left artificially inseminated. There was a supposed mix up, a digital glitch that somehow merged your chart with the surrogates - apparently your names were super similar. Two weeks later you were called back into the doctor's office and informed of what took place. And now you were in this living nightmare.

And the two heroes had nothing to do with the error. There was totally a surrogate. They hadn't paid off your provider. And why would they? You had never met them - although given their patrols they may have seen you once or twice...

They were tearful when they were informed of the mix up, they had been waiting patiently through the whole process and now everything was thrown in chaos. They offered to compensate you for your service which sent you into a blind rage. They just assumed you would carry a child, a child with half of your DNA, and then give YOUR baby away. Rationally you understood that they had planned to be be the only parents to the child, but that was with a professional surrogate who understood the process, who didn't want the child in their life, just happy to help out a loving couple. But that wasn't you, you grew up wanting to be a mom, and now they would take that from you.

What if they tried to legally take sole custody of the baby? Surely they had some pull in the judicial system. Besides, they were a solid couple with money, while you were alone with no family and working two jobs. The thought made you sick to your stomach.

You were shaking as you tried to push past them. Maybe they would just disappear if you ignored them, a girl could dream. But instead they tagged along inside. Albeit you weren’t fighting them on it, you knew this had to happen eventually.

Aizawa easily found the cluttered dining table in your small apartment. You flinched when the loud one tried to help you shrug off your backpack. Taking a seat on the couch you waited for them to start berating you.

"Come sit at the table, dinner is getting cold," Eraser spoke for the first time.

"I'll eat later, I'm not hungry."

"You may not be, but the baby needs to eat."

You glared, how dare they insinuate you didn't know what your child needed. If your body was hungry, you ate. If you were full the baby was full too.

But, you complied, not wanting to argue, "Fine, but I ate a snack not too long ago."

As you ate, Mic kept you company, picking at some left overs, they clearly ate before their visit. Aizawa was rummaging through your place but you managed to hold your tongue until he began throwing things out of your fridge.

"What are you doing?" You hissed, getting up out of your seat.

"Mic and I will bring you groceries tomorrow. The food you have is barely safe for an adult, let alone a fetus."

"Are you kidding me? It's not like I'm chugging alcohol and living off Twinkies. Hey! I just bought those turkey slices. How is turkey bad?" You whined.

To make sure you wouldn't dig the food out trash he dumped it out of his container.

"Zashi, don't let me forget to empty the trash on our way out. Do you know how much salt is in deli meat? And there's no way you can drink any of this while you're pregnant." He gestures to the cans of soda.

As the frustration built you had to fight back tears. They couldn't come in to your home and start throwing out your things.

"Some of us don't make ridiculous money, I'm buying what I can afford and the doctor never had any problem with my health." You hissed.

Hizashi felt the tension thickening, "Hey hey hey, it's okay. Sho and I will go get you some good stuff. We just gotta watch out for you and baby."

And that was the end of your resolve, you stomped past the Hero and locked yourself in your bedroom. Finally tears began to drip down your cheeks.

Back in your kitchen Mic was chiding his boyfriend for being so tough on you.

"So I should just back down while she stuffs herself with junk food?"

Mic gave him a shrug, showing him a bottle on your counter, "At lest she's taking her prenatal vitamins?"

Grabbing the keys to your apartment Aizawa instructed Mic to wait with you while he got you better groceries. He would make copies of your keys on his was back.

You prayed they would leave soon. You were laying in your bed having cried yourself out. Barely into your second month of pregnancy. You still had to endure this for at least seven more months, but most likely much longer.

Next thing you knew you were opening your eyes and the clock read seven AM. By now your uninvited guests must be gone. Nervously you sat up, praying that you'd skip the morning sickness just once this week. You had always had a weak stomach and even the doctor was surprised you were already experiencing the symptom. Unfortunately the minute your feet touched the floor you knew what was coming. You sprinted to the restroom, not even checking to see if the duo had left.

God this was terrible, you didn't just hate throwing up, you were terrified of it. What if you started and never stopped? But it did come to an end. You wiped the water from your eyes and took a moment before standing from the floor. You screamed when a hand slid under your arm, helping you up. Another set of feet rushed to the bathroom.

" What's wrong?" Hizashi huffed as he skid to a stop.

You pulled arm free from Aizawa's grasp. "What are you two still doing here?"

You turned in the faucet to rinse your mouth. Trying to calm your stress, the nausea was trying to return.

Undeterred the scruff pulled your hair into a bun before rubbing your back. You debated returning to bed but that wouldn't get them out of your apartment. You told them you need to sit down, both of them nodding, still wearing their concerned expressions. They got you a glass of water before joining you on the couch. Stubborn men, you sat at the end of the couch so they couldn't both sit, but Mic decided to perch himself on the armrest.

He started petting your hair, "You feelin better little listener?" You nodded in response.

"I got you more food, let us know if your hungry."

You sighed in defeat, "I'm barely two months pregnant, I can fend for myself. What did you all want to talk about?"

You anxiously placed a hand on your stomach. Both men felt their hearts flutter recognizing your maternal instincts kicking in.

Aizawa let Mic begin, he was the more gentle of the two.

"Well, we figured we got off to a rough start. You got put in a tough situation. We shouldn't have assumed you didn't want a child so we're not mad at how you stormed out. But either way we expect to be in our baby's life. The two of us talked it over and we don't want to fight you if you want to be in their life too. So if you wanna be the mommy we're cool with it."

You could blame your reaction on your hormones for your response but you didn't, "Geez thank you so much for allowing me to be in MY child's life."

Aizawa placed a hand on the back of your neck, giving you a gentle massage. "Okay then, the three of us are gonna have a baby. That means you have to stop ignoring us. We can raise the baby together, without involving anyone else. But if we have to, we can always go the legal route for the baby's best interest." 

He knew it was a low blow, but the couple needed you to stop fighting them. Your eyes snapped to his and you shook your head in protest.

"Okay then we're all the same page," Aizawa reassured you.

Mic cheered, "Now we can focus on the fun stuff."

"Hun," Eraserhead caught his attention. "There's still a few more important things to figure out. We don't want you going back to that doctor. They're incompetent. We scheduled you an appointment with another's clinic for next week. Okay?"

You couldn't find your voice after how easily he threatened to take your baby. So you just nodded. Half listening.

"Good. We also went ahead and programmed our numbers into your phone. We need to be able to check in with you."

"Okay, but I can't use my phone at one of my jobs."

"About that lil momma," Mic started. "You work a lot, which is totally bad ass, but we don't think you leave enough time to rest and take care of yourself."

You tried to protest but Aizawa cut you off, "You also shouldn't be working around so many animals. Even though we love animals, they can be unpredictable and one dog can trigger all the rest into a frenzy."

You were dumbfounded, "I've never heard of anything like that happening. One of my coworkers was pregnant last year, she worked until her maternity leave. Plus I need to be able to pay my bills. And don't offer to compensate me again."

"Why do you have to view it as compensation? We just want to take care of the mother of our child. Just think about it. Mic and I have to go take care of some business but we'll be back later this week."

---

Back at their home Hizashi was dramatically splayed on their bed.

"Babe why are you pouting?" Aizawa asked.

"Why can't we just bring her home already?"

Aizawa sympathized with his better half, but they needed to be methodical. He reminded Hizashi that they didn't need to cause her even more stress, especially so early into the pregnancy. If they played their cards right they would have their happy little family soon enough.

If they could ease you in to the relationship everything would be easier in the long run. They had been managing just fine until now, they could wait a few more months.

He joined Hizashi on the couch. Mic was comforting himself the way he usually did when he felt like this. He was scrolling through the countless photos they had collected since their chance encounter with you over a year ago. 

[themand0lorian]

Will You?

Summary: Several office proposals bring previously unspoken feelings to the surface.

Pairing: Marcus Pike x GN!Reader (no Y/N)

Rating: PG-13 (Swearing, suggestive content)

Words: ~4000 (Read on AO3)

Tags: friends to lovers, so many proposals, food and alcohol mentions (reader is drunk at one point), reader thinks they're forever alone, math (?), really just fluff

Notes: Three people got engaged this week at work and I am taking it like a completely normal, emotionally healthy person

“I saved you the last slice.” A piece of vanilla cake with rainbow sprinkles slides into your view. You only avert your eyes from the screen of your laptop when the pillows of icing are completely blocking the text of the page—your gaze follows the multicolored sprinkles to the dull paper plate, then to the thick, lightly tanned hands supporting it in front of your screen, up a pressed dress-shirt-covered arm and finally resting on the smiling face of your coworker, Marcus Pike. “Noticed you didn’t come to Katherine’s thing in the break room.”

“It’s the third engagement party in two weeks, Marcus,” you sigh, taking the plate from him and placing it on your desk. “That means 21% of the last two weeks was spent on engagement parties. I don’t think I missed anything.”

“Don’t you want to hear how he did it?” He teases, settling his hips against your desk and crossing his arms.

“Well, Jay asked Cameron when they reached the peak of the mountain on their hike. Cory asked Laura at her mom’s 60th birthday party. So…Greg asked Katherine…via jumbotron?” You guess sarcastically. Marcus laughs so fully it brings a small smile to your face, and you fight your chuckle with a bite of the cake he brought you.

“Close. Flash mob,” he clarifies seriously, and your eyes go wide. He holds your gaze a few moments before speaking again. “Kidding.” You finally erupt into loud laughter, Marcus breaking his serious face to laugh along with you. You and Marcus were coworkers, confidants, friends—arguably, he was your best friend, and you think you’re his if the amount of time you spend together is anything to go by. He always seemed to know how to push your buttons just enough to lighten your mood. You both relish in the humor before you compose yourself and speak again.

“Alright, wise guy. How’d he do it?”

“Nuh-uh, if you wanted to know, you should’ve come to the party,” he chides.

“Marcus, I—” You stop yourself from saying too much, mood quickly turning from joy to discomfort. “I just couldn’t do another one.” Marcus seems to sense your hesitance, choosing not to push any farther.

“Still up for drinks tonight?” You nod, and Marcus smiles brightly, turning to walk back to his desk before yelling over his shoulder. “It was on the beach at sunset.” You narrow your eyes at his back.

“Of course it was.”

“How’d you propose?” You ask as you down another beer in rapid succession. You’re going a little hard for a Monday night, but the wedding bells chirping around the office were grating your nerves all day—you neglect to tell Marcus about the two shots you downed before his arrival, though you think he may have some idea based on the blunt line of questioning you’re subjecting him to immediately after arriving.

“The first or second time?” He chuckles.

“Either.”

“With Lisa, it was at our favorite restaurant on our five-year anniversary. Did the whole thing—mood lighting, soft music, favorite foods. Got down on one knee when they brought out dessert and her ring was stuck into it.”

“What if she accidentally ate it?” You cover your mouth as soon as you say it, realizing just how drunk you’ve gotten already—you had skipped lunch and left the engagement cake unfinished at your desk, no-doubt contributing to your current state, and the question slipped out.

“I honestly never thought about that,” he laughs.

“And with Teresa?” He shakes his head light-heartedly, taking another drink of his beer.

“After hours, in the middle of the office. Like three months after I started dating her.”

“And how did she take that?” you ask incredulously.

“Clearly not well,” he chuckles, and you laugh too. You’re happy you’re at a point that you can talk about them without it feeling awkward, but it still pangs your heart to know not one, but two women left Marcus heartbroken in the past. You wish you could talk some sense into them—purely for his sake, of course. Not because you’ve been in love with the man since the day you met him, and the idea that two women had everything you ever wanted and broke it makes you want to smack each of them. You’re brought out of your dangerous line of thinking when Marcus orders food when the waitress stops by, but you only order another beer, hopping to quell your lingering feelings. “How do you want to be proposed to?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug, trying to play it off and likely failing in your inebriated state. “Nothing too public. The restaurant would freak me out and I would definitely eat the ring on accident,” you joke, eyeing the plate of French fries that arrives for Marcus before stealing a few. Marcus readily pushes the plate toward you, but you shake your head.

“Yeah, especially if it was in chocolate lava cake,” he retorts, and you throw a fry at him.

“Can’t say I’d want the office one either, though, Casanova. Sounds like you kind of—blurted it out.”

“Oh I absolutely did. Just standing there right by the elevators,” he confirms, tossing a fry into his mouth, and you both chuckle. Marcus continues to eat as you pick at his fries, his single drink replaced by water.

“So I don’t know, I guess as long as it had meaning to both of us, that’s all I’d care about. But let’s be real here, that’s never going to happen.”

“Why do you say that?” he asks honestly.

“You’re kidding,” you scoff, but he shakes his head. “I haven’t even been on a date in five years, Marcus. Five! And there’s no way someone—” you pause a minute, but the alcohol is making your brain mushy, and continue without filter. “Someone would never want to be stuck with me for the rest of their lives. Too much,” you slur, gesturing to yourself. He furrows his brow as you flag the waitress for another drink. She makes eye contact with Marcus who gives a small shake of his head and she returns with water. “It’s a great dream. Someone loving me so much they get down on one knee, profess their love and want to spend the rest of their lives with me, but in reality, I’ll probably have like 17 cats. And I’ll name them all after you,” you coo jokingly, but Marcus can tell there’s some fear hidden under your words. “Marcus #2, Marcus #3, Marcus #4…”

“Maybe it’s time to head home?” he asks chuckling, standing to leave some bills on the table before rounding it to your side.

“NO! I wanna stay,” you pout, before continuing. “I’m just sayin’. Too much baggage. Too hard to deal with. No—no one will ever get down on their knees for me.” He snickers, and you swat at him, chastising his dirty mind before your mouth moves faster than your brain. “Even—even you, Marcus. You’ll get married and leave me one day too,” you hiccup, mouth spouting your deepest fears. “Just me and Marcus #34…”

“Hey, look at me,” he says seriously, so you do, making fierce eye contact, though your gaze is hazy with alcohol. “You will always have me. Always.”

“Okay, Marcus #1,” you retort, but fight when he tries to pull you to your feet. You want another drink, another hour here at this table with him, another engagement cake with your names on it. You want to wax poetic about the crease between his eyebrows, about his soft voice and how your whole body tingles when he whispers a sarcastic comment into your ear during meetings. But even in your plastered state, some self-preserving part of your brain stops you; there’s no way he feels the same way, and losing him as a friend would be a fate worse than death—a fate you’ll only accept when he eventually finds the third love of his life. He sighs, resigned, when you don’t move and begin to pout, only cementing further your own idea that you’re “too much,” but you miss the way his eyes flicker mischievously when he seems to make a plan.

You watch with wide eyes as Marcus lowers himself to one knee, reaching out to gather both your hands in his. You worry you might vomit, might faint, might astral project straight out of the shitty dive bar, holding your breath as he speaks. This is everything you could have possibly wanted, like he read the secret diary of your mind without your permission, and some small part—some naïve, hopeless part—believes for a second it could be real.

“Sweetheart, will you—” it feels like time has stopped, your heart might jump out of your dropped jaw “—let me drive your drunk ass home already?” When his words settle in your mind, you exhale sharply, pulling your hands from his to give him a half-hearted slap at his bicep as he stands.

“Marcus!” You scoff.

“So is that a yes?”

He finds you the next day groaning with your head down on your desk. When he calls your name, you barely grunt a response, until out of your periphery, you see him slide down to one knee, presenting a to-go cup of coffee in his hands like a ring box. The image makes your hungover brain swirl more, and you fight to ignore him, completely mortified.

“Sweetheart, will you please—accept this coffee?”

“If I wasn’t so hungover I would kill you, Marcus,” you grunt, grabbing the coffee from his hands and resting your head back on the desk. He chuckles, standing and brushing his slacks down and walks over to his desk like nothing happened. You groan again into your desk, though now, your hangover feels like the least of your problems.

Marcus continues his mock-proposals all day; when you’re in the break room refilling your mug and he gets down on one knee to ask for sugar, you finally crack.

“Why are you doing this, Marcus?” You sigh.

“I like my coffee sweet—"

“Not the sugar. This,” you gesture broadly at his kneeling form. “Are you mocking me?” He drops his still outstretched hands, using the one grasping yours to pull himself back to standing before responding.

“No, of course not,” he reassures. “I don’t know how much you remember of last night, but you told me that, and I quote, ‘no one will ever get down on their knees for me.’” You snicker a bit at the innuendo, but he presses on. “I just want to show you that—they will. The right one, they will.” You look at him with a mixture of longing and sadness in your eyes—longing for what, he isn’t quite sure—finally passing him the sugar in pregnant silence. He puts some in his coffee and begins to walk out, but not before smirking over his shoulder. “Whether it’s to propose or for that other thing.”

“Marcus!” you throw back, watching his chuckling form retreat to his desk before taking a large swig of coffee, hoping the bitter taste replaces the painful yearning he left in his wake.

Aaron, the crime scene tech, is engaged by the next month; another vanilla cake, another small office party. You choose to attend this time.

“Did you know that 57% of our team has gotten engaged in the last month?” Marcus asks, settling next to you with his slice of cake. “There are seven of us—Jay, Katherine, Cory and Aaron make it 57%. That means there’s only three more of these to go to.” You can tell he’s trying to ease your pain, but you don’t take the bait.

“Well I don’t think Ethel is looking for love right now, Marcus,” you tease, looking at the office manager who had to be pushing 80. “And the other two are me, and you. And you’ve been engaged before, and probably had a party just like this back in Texas. So, I am now the 14% of our team left to join the Lonely-Hearts Club.”

“Did you do that in your head?” He chuckles, and you roll your eyes.

“I’m a data analyst Marcus. I literally do math all day.”

“What was the likelihood Aaron would be next?”

“Well, technically one-in-four, but since you and I are single and, as I said, Ethel isn’t exactly on the prowl, I would argue 100%.” Marcus hums contemplatively, standing to throw out his empty plate and taking yours along with it. You follow him out of the break room while the others continue to chat, but Marcus stops at your desk, rapping his knuckles on the fake wood.

“What are you doing after work?” When you shrug, he promptly gets down on one knee, and you frantically look around for any peeping coworkers, but everyone is still involved in Aaron’s party. “Sweetheart, will you—come with me after work? I need some help moving a bookcase in my apartment.” You roll your eyes as he gives a crooked smile, turning back to your desk.

“Fine. But only if you promise to keep the proposals to big things from now on. No more offers of coffee or requests for manual labor.”

“Deal.”

“Hang on, I can’t find my keys.” You scoff as you loiter around Marcus’ desk, watching him reorder his bag in search of the item.

“Are they in your desk?”

“That was one time,” he insists, and you laugh as he continues to look for them. Eventually, he opens a drawer in his desk in desperation, and perched on top of his files are the set of keys. He grabs them without comment, leading you out of the office.

“First impressions last a lifetime, Marcus, and that was the first time I met you,” you joke.

“Yes, and you immediately statistics-ed me.” Marcus calls for the elevator as you speak.

“Had to make my own first impression,” you joke, and he laughs too, leading you out of the elevator and to his car.

Marcus drives the familiar route to his apartment, but your brow furrows when he stops to parallel park next to a park a few blocks from his place—it’s a place you frequented when you first started becoming friends, going on jogs in the morning or grabbing ice cream in the summer months. When you look over to him in confusion, he’s already looking at you expectantly.

“This doesn’t look like a bookcase.”

“Sweetheart, will you let me show you something?” he asks gently, and you’re almost taken aback by the softness he displays. Marcus was always a dichotomy to you; soft yet strong, fiercely loyal yet unable to find something that lasts, but something else—something foreign, something electric—hangs in the air between you, and you can only nod.

You’ve composed yourself more once out of the car, taking a deep breath of the early autumn air as Marcus walks by your side.

“Thanks for not proposing you show me something,” you joke.

“Didn’t have room in the car,” he smirks.

“Good thing, you would have crashed,” you smile, and he gives you a look you can’t quite place. You both walk in quiet contemplation, taking in the sounds of the park—there’s a pond with an artificial fountain tinkling next to a footpath lined on both sides with shady oak trees. It’s just early enough in the season that the leaves have started to change, but a significant amount of green remains as kids run and yell on the nearby playground. At the center of the walkway is the largest tree you’ve ever seen; willowy and golden, its leaves hang heavily along the branches, practically touching the ground, and sway as the wind blows through the skinny leaves. When you approach it, you pause a moment to take in the sheer size of it, thinking of all the generations who have walked past this same tree, of all the kids who have climbed its branches and made memories of the golden willow they can think back on.

“C’mon,” Marcus urges, walking off the path, and you follow, watching as he parts a few of the wispy branches and leads you by the small of your back under the canopy. Once inside, the space seems to open up again into an ochre dome; completely protected from the outside by the rustling leaves, but you’re able to stand and move around the thick trunk under cover. The whole sight takes your breath away.

“Did you know that 15 million trees are cut down each year?” He speaks softly, breaking your reverence for the beauty of this little private oasis to notice he’s still at your side. “This tree is around 120 years old. That means the chances of surviving this long are about one in a billion.” His math is off, and you fight the urge to tell him that’s not how statistics work, but you bite your tongue, waiting for him to continue—when he doesn’t, you step in.

“Marcus, its beautiful—but is this really what you wanted to show me?” You watch as he moves impossibly closer to you before dropping to one knee; instinctively, you start to back away, but he grabs your hand to pin you in place.

“I thought I said only for big things!”

“Just—listen to me first. Before you say anything.” Marcus takes a deep breath, gathering himself. Somehow, it feels different—the air under the large willow electrified with something you can’t quite place, your hand in his igniting what little hope you have left. Marcus speaks before you can suck in another breath. “Sweetheart, I brought you here because—because I think you are one in a billion. Will you—go out on a date with me?”

“You want to go on a date? With me?” You ask confusedly, trying to pull your hand away but he keeps his grip firm.

“I’ve wanted to go on a date with you since the first time I saw you,” he responds honestly.

“Marcus, if this is just because of what I said about proposals—”

“It’s not, I promise,” he insists. “I—I’ve been in love with you for so long. After all the things that happened in Texas, I—I couldn’t put myself out there again. But—I’ve loved you since you told me the statistical likelihood of losing my keys in my desk.”

“That was your second day of work, Marcus,” you whisper, finally starting to grip his hand back. He only nods, and you use your grip to pull him up to standing, until you’re face to face. “I—You have no idea how happy I am to hear you say that,” you exhale. “I’ve been in love with you since you lost your keys in your desk.” With that, he gives you a soft, relieved smile, removing his hands from yours to grasp your face. He crashes his lips to yours, and you respond eagerly, mouths intertwining until you’re both left breathless, foreheads pressed together.

“So, is that a yes?”

“Of course it’s a yes!” you whack his side, but he blocks it quickly, pulling you back to him for another kiss as the sun dances in patterns over you both.

“Good. My knees can’t do many more of those,” he laments sarcastically, and you roll your eyes.

“You ridiculous man,” you scoff, relishing in his love under the wisps of willow branches and the promise of something new.

It took a year for your own cake to come to fruition.

Aaron and his fiancé eloped. Cameron and Jay got married at a nice vineyard outside the city; Katherine and Greg at the beach. Cory and Laura had a backyard wedding planned for next year.

Marcus was your date to all of them.

The past year had felt like everything had changed, but somehow stayed the same—the dichotomy of Marcus Pike. You were still best friends, still coworkers who whispered under their breath at meetings, still jogged through that park that held the large willow, watching as it lost its leaves and regained them.

Marcus continued his proposal game—a request for date night, a proposal to move in together when your lease is up. His definition of ‘important’ loosened over time, but you couldn’t say you minded. Marcus had always been willing to get on his knees for you. In all senses.

So sweet, so doting, so Marcus, you decided, after one year together, it was time to turn the tables. So you made a plan; you hid a velvet box in your work bag. You asked him to come to your apartment to pick up the last of the boxes that were making his way to his place—you drove. On the way, you pull over outside that same little park; the leaves just turning auburn, the slight chill in the air—Marcus looked over at you from the passenger side.

“Thought we could make a pit stop,” You shrug, and you and Marcus leave the car—you don’t think he suspects anything, as you frequent the park whenever you need a minute to unwind. You walk leisurely along the footpath, pointing at ducks and rollerbladers, talking about anything and everything. Dusk is just starting to settle in, and you lead Marcus to the tree—your tree—pushing the branches aside for him.

The golden canopy had become something of a mainstay for you both, visiting throughout the seasons. You had trudged through snow to rest against the trunk on New Year’s Eve, had laid under the budding leaves when life became too much, had used the shade it provided from the hot summer sun to eat ice cream and talk. Still, though—the sight of your own little oasis, illuminated by the setting sun as the rustling leaves created patterns on the ground, it took your breath away. You took a moment—to steel your nerves, or just to enjoy the splendor, you won’t say—rounding the thick trunk one time before coming back to Marcus.

You stop short when you find Marcus down on one knee, a velvet box unopened in his hand. For a second, you think he found the box in your bag, but then he speaks.

“Sweetheart, I know this may seem sudden, but I promise you, I’ve been planning this for the last year.” With that, he opens the box to reveal a beautiful ring, glistening under the golden hour light. “I would get on my knees for you every hour of every day. I love you so much, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. You said I could only propose for important things, so—will you marry me?”

“Marcus, I—what?” Tears are gathering at his sweet words, but your confusion must be evident on your face, as he shifts uncomfortably.

“N--No pressure, sweetheart, I just—”

“No, you idiot!” You drop down to one knee as well, revealing your own velveteen box. “I brought you here to propose to you! I had this whole thing planned, about how you were always proposing to me so it was my turn!” You chuckle, tears finally falling. Marcus releases a watery laugh too, brushing your tear with his thumb.

“What are the chances that we’d both try to propose at the same time?”

“One in a billion, Marcus Pike.” With that he smiles, pulling you too him with ferocity for a deep and passionate kiss, and finally, your suspicions are confirmed—he’s the right one.

So you had your cake; scrawled across the top was “Congratulations Mr. and Mrs. Pike,” like a childhood diary entry come true. Your coworkers reveled in your story, asked for pictures, let you both show off your rings. As the din dies down, Ethel approaches you slowly, smiling at Marcus’ hand wrapped warmly around your waist before speaking.

“You know, Agent Pike—you got any single friends?”

TAGS: @ophelialoveshandsomemen @ksd24670 @rosiefridayrogersunday @evelynseventyr @ajeff855 @thewintersoldierswife @knowledgefulbutterfly​ @amneris21 @sarahjkl82-blog @hellovanessax @darling-din @rebel-fanfare​ @tobealostwanderer​ @randomness501​ @farfromjustordinary​ @outlawedmando​ @agirllovespancakes​ @pedrostories​ @solemnlyswearss​ @mandocrasis​ @raspberrymama​ @pjkimrn​ @fangirl-of-randomness​ @aquilacorvinal​ @a-court-of-feysand-and-elorcan​

[clefairymuke]

eloquent | six

pairing: levi x reader

word count: 3510

tw: swearing, past death of a character's mother, i think that's all for this one

themes: modern au, college (grad school) au, enemies to lovers, slow burn (smut is immediate but feelings aren’t), professor levi, authority kink, extremely smutty, i should be ashamed, teasing & edging, pining so hard it's embarrassing, dom levi/sub reader

tags: @number-0-iz @propertyoftoru @commanderawkward | reply to be added!!

note: this is a couple of hours late but hopefully some of the reveals in this chapter make up for it lol

LEVI

George R. R. Martin said once: “Some writers enjoy writing, I am told. Not me. I enjoy having written.”

As for Levi, he loathes it with every fiber of his being — it makes him too vulnerable. He much prefers that satisfying feeling of closing a long-opened document at the end of an impossible night, all directions his mind had split into converging into one discernible path and paving the way towards something exciting. He loves steeping a cup of tea while reading over a weeks’ worth of work written in a night. He is not a fan, however, of the blinking line currently mocking him from the computer screen.

He is particularly fond of linguistics, though, so he’ll be the first to tell you that cursor sounds so close to curse for a reason. It’s a daunting thing, watching it tick the time away while deadlines keep approaching. Only the most disciplined people can be the most successful writers — luckily, discipline is all he knows. His slender fingers glide across the keys, no particular rhyme or reason to the letters he pecks as he tries to fight through the block. Recording each little movement of his steadily chugging train of thought, Levi allows his mind to wander.

As much as he likes ignoring his personal assistant, Hange, he can’t avoid them much longer. Though he holds them still, his eyes beg to flick up to the time and date. He already knows: it’s near midnight the day before his deadline. Once he finishes his pages, he still has much left to do — he’s preparing to meet with you, after all. Tomorrow morning is September 7, the first day of the new semester, and he will finally have his hands on the work of his protegé. His fingers twitch to switch tabs, but he halts them before they disobey him. You can wait. You must, and everything must, until he emails this document to Hange and thus unlocks the shackle on his leg.

Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink.

“Fuck it,” he mutters under his breath, surrendering himself to curiosity. He clicks over to his file on you, which has been sitting open for quite a while. Scrolling through the unimportant, he settles the mouse on the link to your submission excerpt for the hundredth time. He can’t help it — it’s inspired. He devours it again with the same hungry, critical eyes he uses for his own work alone. And that’s what led him to choose you. Months before, an email arrived in his inbox from a potential student and fan. Of course, Levi does not handle his own emails — he doesn’t like writing them. The social contract of a professional email requires too many exclamation points for his personal comfort. Still, Hange read your letter and reported to his office without a second thought.

He hates people that send him their work. He’s never cared much at all for anyone but the Greats, so catching his assistant’s eye was quite the feat.

“She reminds me of you, even though it’s nothing like what you do. I can’t put my finger on it, but her stylistic choices are just full of you. Not copying, and probably not even purposeful, but as someone who’s read everything you’ve put out more than the average reader, I can tell she’s a big fan of yours.”

Levi read your excerpt, expectations as low to the ground as always, and came out pleasantly surprised. Of course, it isn’t perfect. Everyone has their origin story — even Charles Dickens had to first learn to read.

He recalls his own origin story, shooting his eyes up to the sky as he thinks about his mother. Using her initial for his pen name and dedicating every novel in her memory seems too scarce, at times. He can remember sitting idly, pen and composition book in hand, writing the night away until Mom finally returned. She was always so tired when she got home.

He shakes her out of his head, straightening, and dives back into your excerpt. There’s no time for mourning. Putting even more notes in the margins than he already has, this time he is noting the things he especially appreciates. He relishes in it — it’s so rare that he enjoys something this much. Levi is aware that he’s an asshole, as most assholes typically are; however, he doesn’t try to be that way. Every year since his birth, unfortunately, he has grown more and more convinced that he is one of the lucky few on the planet to not be born absolutely fucking braindead. And that isn’t his fault.

As he reads again and again, he can’t help but wonder which parts of it come from you. When you mention music, is that what you like to listen to? Does Laura love apples and caramel, or is that you? Are you really this terrified of love? Is your sleep always sound and full of dreams like Jasper?

These are the kind of thoughts that led him here. When Levi first read the excerpt with Hange sitting excitedly nearby, he sent them out of his office, pulled out a pen, and went to work. Later that day, he spoke with the dean and requested to be assigned as your advisor. Unbeknownst to you, Dr. Ackerman hates advising. He is no stranger to special treatment due to his fame — in fact, he rather expects it — thus, he’s never had to take a student on. He doesn’t advertise this fact. Mail doubles every fall, brimming with desperate and untalented authors begging him to mentor them, or at least send a bit of criticism off-the-books; they have no clue that his name isn’t even in the assignment pool to begin with. You’re the only one.

He ponders if he should tell you that, but decides it might be a bit too much of a boost to your confidence. You’d never write anything better if you knew that L.K. Ackerman liked it now. What’s the point? And plus, starting back at the top of page one once again, he knows that one day you could be a Great.

-

The sun is worryingly high when Levi finally punches the send button with indescribable fury, before spinning his chair 180º and launching out of it like a man on a mission. That mission, of course, is a relaxing cup of tea, a shower, and at least a half hour of peace before the exhausting day he has ahead of him.

“Hange!” he shouts, trying to reach every corner of the echochamber that is his home. “Morning tea!” He shuts his bathroom door behind him as he goes in, settling in front of the tall mirror on the wall and starting at the buttons on his shirt. A beep sounds from the shower.

“This intercom system was expensive, you know,” his assistant’s voice sounds through the ugly fucking speaker on the shower wall. “It doesn’t hurt to use it, Levi.” Levi rolls his eyes in the mirror, tossing his trousers on the floor and heading for the shower. He doesn’t feel that he’s being unreasonable; what kind of person has speakers in every room? It looks absolutely abysmal. Hange had also replaced his old showerhead with a flat rainfall faucet on the ceiling — he enjoys that one. The intercom was simply a tasteless choice.

He switches the handle to hot and steps in before pressing the button next to the speaker. “I told you I didn’t want it. When it got here, I told you to make them leave. After they installed it, I told you that you’re fired unless you get it the fuck out of here and fix my walls. You’re fired,” he tells them stubbornly before leaning back into the near-scalding water. After the first five times he fired them, Hange stopped leaving — which pissed Levi off quite a bit, at first, for whatever reason. Admittedly, he did call them within 24 hours each time demanding that they pick up his dry cleaning or favorite tea and a gift for themselves on the way to prepare his breakfast and press his suit. After a decade of nearly living together, it’s no more than a joke; he can’t imagine an offense that would cause him to genuinely dismiss Hange. Levi doesn’t even know where he gets his drycleaning done.

As he’s lathering shampoo into his hair, the beep on the intercom sounds once again. “What kind of tea are you in the mood for?” they ask, ignoring Levi’s hatred of the intercom yet again. They did the same thing with the stupid fucking pool table. (Of course, Levi learned to play pool once Hange ignored his complaints long enough; it turned out to be fun, but he’d never admit that to the public.) He reaches for the button.

“Something relaxing. I just finished my pages for the night. I’m seeing the girl from after that shitty writing contest in New York last week. What was her name?” All he could remember was how nauseous reading her work made him feel, and that she was very eager to give him her phone number afterwards without even mentioning writing whatsoever.

“Emily.”

“That’s right. I’ll be seeing her today. Then I’m meeting the brat for the first time this morning.” Levi isn’t anxious to meet you — of course not. He just isn’t used to being an advisor. At least, that’s the only explanation he has for his obsessive preparation. “Press my brown jacket. I’ll have jasmine and mint tea. Thank you.” He steps out of the shower and onto the mat, drying his skin before wrapping a towel around his waist.

“I’m on it, Captain.”

-

Levi smooths out his hair in the reflection of his blank computer monitor as the New York girl — Emma? — pulls her cardigan over her shirt in an effort to hide the missing buttons. Oops. He sighs as he looks down at his watch — 11:17. Hange is going to be angry. And more importantly, you were going to be angry, if you’re even still waiting. Personally, he would’ve gone home by now. But he has a feeling you’re persistent. Regardless, after seeing how much of a mess the girl is in, you won’t have too high of an opinion of him anyway. He takes his jacket from its place in a chair in the corner and drapes it over his arm, going toward the door and preparing himself to be incredibly disappointed.

He opens the door, and as he expected, Levi doesn’t see you. God damn it. Vision tunneling on the wretched woman the university had unfortunately stationed in his building, Levi trudges across the empty waiting room. “Tell me I’m done for the day, Cheryl.” If he’s lucky, you left your cell phone number with the witch. He’d hate for Hange to be the one to communicate with you after this stunt; still, he doesn’t know his email password.

“Sorry, boss,” she starts, her voice thick with a Boston accent. “That little bird over there is waiting on you.” She sighs and rolls her eyes before pointing to the wall directly adjacent to the door. He’d just missed you. Now it looks even worse. Perfect.

His mind pauses for a second when he looks at you, and he cocks his head to one side in thought; he knows you. “Oh?” Levi starts towards you, and it clicks. The two of you have met a few times before, between signings and keynote speaker gigs forced on him by his publicist. You’ve talked to him about your passion on a few occasions. He decides to keep the realization to himself. He doesn’t want you to come into this reserved. “What do you need?”

“I had an advising appointment scheduled with you for 10:30 A.M., Dr. Ackerman. Sorry if it’s any inconvenience,” you answer, clearly irritated. He doesn’t appreciate passive aggression in the slightest, but he supposes you could be interesting if you’re a challenge. Unfortunately, Levi has never reacted well to bad attitudes. His temper is rather uncontrollable.

“Am I supposed to already know your name or something?”

-

“I don’t care to read all of this shit when I have the author in front of me. I prefer organic responses anyway,” Levi jokes, marveling at the work put into organizing it all. It would take him hours to get through this. He couldn’t wait. “Is this the piece you sent in an excerpt of? I remember your application.” Despite how he feels about your work, he’s trying not to seem too interested. That’s how he learned. Praise breeds stagnation.

He watches as you start to fidget, biting down hard on your lip and scratching at your thumb with the nail of your pointer finger. He doesn’t get it; he was never so insecure about his work, even before he was published. No one needed to tell Levi he wrote well. He’s always known. “Uh, no, sir, I unfortunately abandoned that project a while ago. But this one is much more —”

Wait, what is she saying? he thinks, reeling. Abandoned? She was admitted based on that project. Is she stupid? After a second of deliberating with himself like this, he decides that you must simply be naive. Or very, very brave — either way, it’s unusually entertaining. He laughs. “I’m sorry,” he begins, not sure what kind of tone to take. On one hand, it’s not like you’ve done this before, and based on the way you’re tapping your fingers, you’re already mortified; on the other, you should know that you can’t do things like that in the future. Hange tells him that he needs to work on not looking so furious all the time, but he doesn’t mind it. The people he tolerates are willing to tolerate him back, anyway. “I guess we’ll have to reschedule. Pull that project back out and bring me some good pages. I chose you for that piece. I’ll be the one to let you know if you should abandon it,” he says. Levi wants to tell you how disappointed he is not to be able to discuss it with you, but you don’t look very happy with him right now. It’s unfortunate — you’re a very beautiful girl without the scowl. If you intend to act like a brat every single time you don’t get your way, Levi fears that this is going to be a very unfortunate relationship. Cluing you in that he chose you should’ve been enough to perk you up. He narrows his eyes and goes to the door before it can escalate further. At this point, you’ve pissed him off a bit. He watches as you get up stiffly and leave without so much as a professional, “Thanks for your time.” Who raised you? he thinks, annoyed.

Still, Levi can’t be terrible to you; he wants to mentor you. You have to at least think he’s decent. “It was nice to meet you,” he says as you pass him by, and it’s the truth. A temper would be a challenge, but the longer he watches you walk away, the more he thinks about his own. Hange has gotten used to it, and Erwin. Maybe he can do the same for you — maybe. If you make concessions as well. He remembers that he doesn’t have your cell phone number. “Come back at the same time on Thursday with something I want to read,” he calls after you.

“Yes, sir,” you squeak out, weeping more than prevalent in the sound of your voice, and Levi freezes in his tracks.

He fears he may have vastly misread that entire situation.

-

When he sees you next, you’re late, and you look terrible. You’re clearly coming off of a very long night, and judging by the state of your hair, it was not one spent studying. And the circles under your eyes are making it clear that you didn’t spend it sleeping, either. Do you really disregard him this much? For fuck’s sake, he makes Hange press a suit for him before your meetings. It’s disrespectful.

“Don’t drink the night before your meetings with me. And comb your hair next time,” he says, trying to reprimand you without escalating the situation. He opens the folder and pulls out the freshly printed paper inside, ready to devour it like he had with the first handful of pomegranate seeds. He’s come to “adore” it, per Hange’s phone call with Levi’s publicist. He snorted at that one. Anyone interested in a tabloid-style article about an author enjoying the work of another author is no better than someone who is illiterate, in his opinion. In fact, they’re much worse. The illiterate ones aren’t at fault.

He sees your mouth drop open as if you’re surprised. “I overslept, sir. I stayed up working on the piece from my application,” you say, and Levi quickly notices that you aren’t a very good liar at all. He laughs. That’s extremely convenient for him; it will likely be rather tortuous for you, though. Hopefully after a while you’ll drop the attitude and he can be constructive.

“We’ll see,” Levi says, genuinely hopeful as he reads through the pages. They’re well-written, of course. The style is unique and pleasing and consistent. However, to his extreme disappointment, it’s something very different from the tale he’s been reading for weeks on end. All of the personality is gone. The best themes have been diminished to practically nothing. The dialogue is weak. He frowns, realizing that the piece is practically unrecognizable. You bullshitted this. What would his advisor have done in this situation?

Oh, I know. Without missing a beat, Levi puts it in the shredder. It says it all, no questions asked, and hurts people’s feelings a little. One size fits all. He refuses to tolerate a lack of effort. If you aren’t connected emotionally, you’ll never write anything worth more than the $5 bin at Wal-Mart; and that’s being generous. Maybe a local newspaper.

To his surprise and slight amusement, you don’t appreciate this at all. That’s understandable. Levi wanted to throw the desk the first time his advisor did it to him. Still, he doesn’t tolerate disrespect. “What the hell is wrong with you?” He wasn’t expecting you to raise your voice. You’ve been so timid before. Admittedly, he wasn’t trying to intimidate you then. Hange told him at breakfast that morning that he’s “abrasive.” He thinks Hange’s an imbecile. “That’s my best work! I put my heart into that!” you shout, and Levi furrows his brow. If you really believe that, you’re delusional. And you need a serious wake up call.

All he can do is laugh. Why are you trying so hard to fail? He knows what good work of yours looks like. This isn’t even close. Still, he wonders if you’re really being honest. “If that’s the best you’ve done, it’s concerning, but I can work with it. If that’s the best you can do, I would just start over in undergrad. This isn’t the project from before. Their chemistry and tension as enemies has no substance. You killed the betrayal theme, and the sex scene physically lowered my libido. So, is that the best you can do, or not?” he asks, looking into your eyes. He’s started to really enjoy looking at them as of late — you are very pretty, after all. He wants to set his hand on top of yours or something friendly of the sort. Those types of gestures help people understand tough love; plus, you look more sad than angry all the sudden.

“I can do better,” you stammer out, and Levi almost smiles. Still, he stays stern. He can’t kill your motivation. This one might just work.

“Good. Write it again — but well. 6:15 A.M. on Tuesday. If you’re late again, I will email the department chair. You’re dismissed.” He gets up from his place at the desk and promptly goes to the door, showing you your way out. A bit dramatic, but that makes it more fun.

“6:15?” you say, suddenly whining like a child. Levi looks at his fingernails. He isn’t entertaining tantrums. “Are you going to actually give me any real critiques?”

“I will critique you when you bring me something worth critiquing. Get out, and drive safely,” he says flatly. For the sake of his health, Levi prays this attitude has dissipated by next week. He would need Cheryl to bring him some chamomile tea in a moment.

He watches as you storm through the door as if you’d had the last word, trying to regulate your breathing and rush out to report his crimes to your closest girlfriends. His eyes go wide when he hears a dry laugh come out of your mouth. He fights back a rarely-appearing smile. For a second, he looks you up and down unabashedly, before spinning his chair around and shaking the idea out of his head.

You’re very intriguing. He needs more.

last chapter | next chapter

note: i bet you didn't think levi would be the one doing the embarrassing pining now did you

[inksandpensblog]

Hello inks^-^

erm... dunno how to say it correctly but...

(AvA related) a few months ago, you posted an character analyse that you and your friend made for RGBY.

I wanted to thank you for this, that helped me a lot when I started to make my comics (even tho i put my own twist on the sticks' interpretation/personality so that doesnt follow 100% your analyse oops -u-') and i still use your analyse even now.

ANYWAY, i am very grateful for you sharing your ideas ^-^ Thank you.

but i was curious to know if you also had an analyse for Orange/The Second Coming character. I am curious ouo''

I am wishing you a very good day -u-'

(i love your fanfics by the way, i cant read them all in one go unfortunately, but I love how your interpretation is completely different to mine. Thats so interesting! I love it >w<)

-tulipsempai

Hi Tulip! I’m happy to share, and thank you for waiting so patiently!

One thing I always think of when it comes to Orange is actually something that’s more prevalent in his earlier videos than in his more recent ones: he seems to not…know the pc landscape as intuitively as Chosen One and Dark Lord did (Victim never left the animation program so I can’t really use him to contrast. Though interestingly, Victim and Orange do seem to share an intuitive understanding of the animation program). When Orange breaks RYGB out to play around, he acts like everything is as new for him as it is for them, even though he has a few more seconds (heh) of experience over them. In the early Minecraft videos (The Building Contest), he has to steal the letters from words that are already on the page to get the search result he wants, but by the current arc (Lush Caves) he’s apparently learned how to type it somehow, like Dark Lord does in Showdown.

Keeping that first point in mind, I’ve also noticed that in AvA4, Orange fought Alan in a way that none of the three sticks before him had, and I don’t just mean the “talking.” He’s the only stick whose actions would have consequences for Alan that concerned more than just the integrity of his computer. Impersonating Alan on Facebook and trying to call 911 from Alan’s phone are things that have consequences in the world completely beyond the pc, so I find it interesting that Orange even knew to try things like that when he wasn’t even ten minutes into sentience.

On multiple occasions (AvA4, AvLoL, AvPokemon, AvArcade) Orange is shown forgiving his opponents rather quickly. Once differences have been resolved, he doesn’t seem to hold grudges, and is even willing to initiate, and usually pursue, a friendship in the same instant. His anger doesn’t last long. At the same time, said anger tends to grow pretty rapidly once it starts. Orange goes from 0 to 100 real quick once he’s been upset (AvA4, PvP, AvPokemon, Note Block Battle, Lush Caves, The Ultimate Weapon). My friend Kitty had this to say about Orange’s unique flavor of anger:

@k1ttyadventurer: It feels like Red's anger is more erratic and impulsive (while keeping in mind that fighting is not always his go-to response when angry).

(Actually, it's not Orange's go-to response either. Funnily enough, it may very well be Green's go-to response, though. Green is less impulsive, but it feels like that would be his answer most of the time when angry.)

(Okay, tangent over-)

Meanwhile, if Orange is angry enough to take action, it's very focused. He singles out his target(s) with complete tunnel vision, it feels.

Oh, note that this only happens when he's alone against an enemy.

This is likely the reason why (as I've noticed) Orange performs better in combat when alone.

And even when it’s not real anger, he can still be a little petty when he isn’t getting his way (PvP, Redstone Academy, Texture Pack, Note Block Battle, Parkour), as long as he’s unaware of any danger that would make him feel too wary to be petty. On that note, my friend Jules had this to say:

@skala: It seems to me that he takes on a protective role when he's with the color gang in a new environment, but when he's on his own, or with the others on Alan's pc, the more mischievous aspects of his personality shine through.

I’ve also noticed that Orange is the most habitually domestic of the stickfigures. Many of his free-time activities are some form of simple relaxation (AvYT before the buffering started, Skyblock, The Piglin War, Lush Caves, Animation vs Trash), and he has by far the most basic-looking room in the Minecraft house (yeah Red’s room is tiny and sparsely decorated but he also built a decent-sized rooftop garden for his pets; Orange just has a single orange tulip, one in-game painting, and a fireplace we’ve never seen lit).

Lastly, my friend Kitty handed me an interesting observation on how Orange fights:

@k1ttyadventurer: When he fights the witch alone, he does really well, no mistakes.

When he fights the witch alongside the others, obviously they don't beat her, but more importantly for us, he trips up a few times, even with the others making up for his trip ups.

(Also, just look at him fighting the evil bunny. For some reason, I can't imagine him going that wild and relentless around his friends, and I'm not sure why exactly.)

That’s all I have on Orange for now! Good day (or night, whichever it is for you when you read this) to you!

(I’m so glad you like my fics ^_^ I honestly find the differences between our interpretations super intriguing. Especially with Victim)

[genshingarbage]

Could I request any boys of your choice where they’ve had an exhausting day and their s/o says they should take a nap on their lap? Thank you!

Cute boi hours again? Yes <3 Sleepy time awe! I am gonna pick a very select few that i think this works well with, so i hope you're okay with the hand picked few ;) - Mod Diluc

Rest My Love.

|| Head Cannons ||

Kazuha/Diluc/Xiao/Kaeya

Kazuha

He was beat, exhausted and aching, every muscle in his body ached like something fierce. But, who ever said the life of a lone wandering samurai was gonna be a breeze? Yea, that's right- no one. Because it sure as hell wasn't. He was use to feeling this way yet somehow it still made him just as grouchy as the first time.

He walked into the small building that was titled as your homestead and yawned; stretching his arms out he heard a few odd bones pop from the pressure, it relieved some of his tension but not nearly enough for it to be actually satisfying. With a huff he removed some of his more heavy going clothing, including his shoes, till he was more loose and relaxed.

He shuffled slowly into the house, trying not to wake you. You were his lover and so him coming to your home was somewhat normal now, but he often was away for large periods of time, and he never liked to disturb you. Specially when you're busy. Which you were, you had your nose deep between the pages of a gripping story written so entrancing like from a book. So much for his first theory that you'd be asleep at this time, huh?

He tried to creep past you as you read, but you wasn't born yesterday. So with a roll of your eyes and a soft exhale from your nose you spoke out. "Kazuha. Welcome home hun." You didn't even bother to turn your head around to him, you knew fully well he was frozen in his steps now, eyes wide like a doe caught in headlights. He blinked a few times before sorting himself back to his normal standing position and chuckling awkwardly, a breif rub to the back of his neck ensued.

"Ah, yea, I'm uh- yea. I'm home, thanks Y/N. I really didn't wanna disturb you there." He spoke softly and with great regret; like he'd just committed an awful crime. You simply closed the book after having bent the tip of the page you were on, as to know where to start off when you return to it, and placed the item down on the small table infront of your sofa. "Kazuha, it's fine... I was only reading a book." You chuckled gently.

"I know, but... it felt wrong to interupt you so abruptly specially when you seemed so into it-" you'd twisted your torso ever so slightly so your eyes could lay on his now, your heart almost broke, he looked absolutely shattered- like all life was drained from him. Just what had this crazy man gotten up to in his absence? "Kazuha- oh my goodness. Look at you! You're about to pass out."

He smiled politely and waved his hand side to side as if dusting your worry back into the wind. "Nah, I'm a lil tired that's all. I'm gonna have a lie down, I'll be right as rain after." He went to go back to making his way to the exit of your living room, that is until you called out ever so gently. "Or well, I wouldn't mind if you rested your head on my lap." A faint blush flushed your cheeks. He turned to face you yet again. Blinking several times over again.

"Really?" He tilted his head almost like a curious puppy, he has no idea how cute he is sometimes. "I mean, sure why not? You've not been home for over a month. I do get lonely ya know, the company would feel nice, and your presence is always warm and welcoming." You smiled sweetly at him and he returned the expression with full earnest. Nodding softly he made his way to the sofa, where you rested, and now reshuffled and organised yourself to get into a more comfy position.

It wasn't long before he was laying on his side with his head nestled into your lap, breathing softly as your hand gently rested adorn his head of hair. "Mmh. You're right, this beats sleeping alone any day." He hummed sleepily to you, by the way his voice was giving out you could tell he was close to succumbing to his slumber already. With a gentle smile still planted across your lips you hushed him softly.

"Shh, rest now. My Kazuha." You began to hum a quaint little lullaby that had him snoring in under three minutes. This man, he works himself so hard, but still, it's one of the reasons you love him so much, the fact he's hard working and never gives in. And you have the comfort in your mind of knowing whenever he gets this tired again, he'll have you here to be by his peaceful sleeping side everytime. Now and forever.

Diluc

The sky was a beautiful orange and red tone, the colours mixed so beautifully, with the white fluffy clouds scattered around too, it looked like a stunning evening. You were sat alone at the dinner table again, your chin resting on your opened palm, your eyelids half shut to block the rays of the last bit of presence from the sun.

The candles had long since burned out and the beautiful sweet honeyed roast you'd prepare with such delicacy and tender care was going cold. Diluc was suppose to be home over thirty-five minutes ago, he promised he'd make it in time for whatever dinner the maids threw together tonight, he wasn't aware you'd taken it upon yourself to lovingly prepare tonight's meal for him.

You couldn't be mad at the man; or hold a grudge for that matter, you knew what type of person he was, you knew he wasn't one for sticking to plans and promises, he simply couldn't be with the work he has, not to mention his little sun down hobby that you became privy too after several years with the crimson haired gentleman. If there was one thing you were grateful for, it was the fact you knew without doubt he truly did love you. And in a way that was enough for you.

It was sundown now and your dinner had long been since tidied up by the maids, with a somewhat solemn look to your face you'd decided to go to bed early that night. Knowing Diluc, he wouldn't be home for hours to come anyway. Your eyes were just starting ache and your eyelids were starting to feel heavy for you now. Breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth softly you let your body sink further into the warm embracing sheets.

Click.

Your eyes slowly opened back up when you heard the all too familiar noise of your bedroom door opening, narrowing your eyes slightly to help adjust to the dim glow of the room, the small aid of illumination being provided solely by your nightstand candle. It wasn't hard to make out who it was however, since his deep red hair practically danced from the slight glow of the flicking flame.

"Diluc." It came out more like a whisper which you never intended for it too, but you were so gripped by tiredness now it was hard to sound more awake at the given circumstances. "Sorry for waking you my dear, wasn't my intention." You hummed softly in response and then watched as best as you could as he removed his attire and shoes, stripping down to just his boxers.

Gripping the band that kept his hair up was the last part, with a tug his hair flew down and waved apart, you kept a watchful eye on him. As it was when his hair was down that he was always at his most tired and vulnerable mental state now. "The maids told me Y/N." He still sounded strict, or at least he was trying his best too. But his voice wavered in every sense of the word.

The bed dipped beside you as his weight was added to the mattress now, a small groan escaping his lips. You knew what he meant, it wasn't a surprise the maids told him you'd prepared the dinner today, you'd just wish they'd not sometimes, to avoid adding more stress to the man's poor ordeals. "It's fine, it was just a small attempt. I'm not exactly the best cook to begin wit-"

The poorly sounding wince from him cut you off, the failed attempt to stifle it and keep it under wraps didn't go unnoticed. You narrowed your eyes at the man beside you in bed now, and then you saw. He was littered with cuts and bruises, they surely must hurt, why didn't he say anything? Scratch that. He never tells you anyway, thinking its better that way. Silly man.

With a gentle huff you shook your head, shuffling your weight and sitting up ever so slightly, your back pressing against the several puffed pillows under you. "Enough of that. Come here darling." It was your turn to sound strict however, and for once he didn't fight back. Your heart tugged at you slightly as you felt the weight shifting around beside you and then were suddenly graced with the feeling of his head nuzzling into your lap.

You took it upon yourself to softly begin to caress his head, letting your hand stroke and massage the man's hair and scalp. The groans and sighs that left him were evidence enough he was in a blissful state right now, your sweet Diluc. Always putting his life on the line to protect those less fortunate than him, when will he learn? That his life matters just as much. Sigh.

You heard a soft mutter from him, something along the lines of 'sorry' and 'dinner'. But he was already taken by the nights calming embrace to be formulating anything coherent now, so you closed your eyes with another soft shake of your head and continued to massage his head. Till both you and your hand laid still, silent, asleep. Whatever he'd done tonight, whatever reason he'd missed dinner, it didn't matter. As long as he loved you it was enough. It always has been, it always will be.

Xiao

The stars twinkled softly an slowly, looking so entrancing from down below, the dark blue sky washing above you with the dazzling twinkles looking like small fire flies dancing around. You stood there, your knee bent slightly as your weight was supported by the banister of the top balcony to Wangshu Inn. Any minute now, you thought to yourself calmly.

And is if on que a sudden and harsh breeze blew past you, followed up with a loud thud. You turned your head ever so slightly, seeing the young looking yaksha lifting back up from his crouch landing position. "Welcome home honey." you said somewhat stone like, to which you got a simple sounding 'Tsk' as response, as he chucked his spear lazily behind him, to which it dissolved away instantly.

You rolled your eyes to the quiet scoff that greeted you back, shaking your head slowly, your eyes went back to focus on the landscape below you from the viewpoint of the balcony. It was so peaceful and beautiful. "How has your day been?" You decided to question him further, all while remaining your focus elsewhere.

"Fine." he responded in short. This type of reply was normal to you now, he wasn't the talkative type, despite having been the first to say to you he loved you. "Well, that's good then." you said back in your normal sweet tone now. You could tell from that tone in his voice he was exhausted, he didn't have to say or do anything, you could just tell.

Thinking it was best to leave now and give him his privacy you turned away from the balcony and began to walk to the exit. "I will let you rest my love, see you soo-"

"Wait."

His voice was louder than its ever been round you, the faint flush on his cheeks was evidence enough he never intended for it to come out so loudly from his own mouth. "Xiao?" you turned back round, seeing him stood there looking like a somewhat lost lamb, it was damn cute.

"S...stay with me, ... please."

His voice, so soft, so sweet, so gentle. You felt your heart crack slightly, your poor adeptus, he must've been rushed off his feet tonight. The dark bags forming under his eyes said all you needed to hear.

Chewing your bottom lip softly you breathed in and then walked over to him slowly. "Xiao..." you whispered his name lovingly, his eyes met with yours and for a brief moment the air left your lungs, the sight of his exhausted face so close to you, actively seeking comfort within you, it was enough to melt the coldest of icebergs.

Letting your hand slip into his with a gentle squeeze, a small smile on your lips you led him down the stairs of the Inn, into your bedroom, a tidy and quaint little sleeping quarter. He needed to rest, he is pushing himself too much, and if you do not take action, he never will.

Climbing onto the bed once you'd abandoned your shoes on the carpet you looked up at him, laying in a relaxing position. The red on his cheeks only flushed deeper and darker, and you couldn't help but laugh softly. Such a lewd mind, oh my, you never expected him to get the wrong idea over a situation like this.

"Xiao- no... not that." you chuckled at his confused expression, he was so alien to the concept of just touch in general now, that to him he sees it so black and white, being close means being intimate, otherwise why get close? So it was up to you to show him the ways of being human again.

You let your hand softly pet and stroke your lap and he raised his brow, but seeing the sudden light in his eyes spark showed you he caught on to what you really were aiming for. So he hesitantly dipped onto the bed next to you, he was tense and his movements were awkward, but he eventually shuffled his head and body to lay down with his head nestled softly into your lap.

"Is this... okay?" he muttered it nervously, like he was scared the slightest movement would shatter everything around him. You looked down at him and gently kissed your fingers, pressing them against his lips in response. "Shh, rest my love, you need it." Just to further add to what you were saying you let your hand gently rub the outer ridge of his ear.

The blush eventually left his cheeks, the tensed muscles finally went lax and his breathing grew heavier and more unguarded, with a pleased hum from your lips you closed your eyes too and began to succumb to the sweet calling of slumber too.

As long as he has you, you will always be there to help[ him, he may be an adeptus, a yaksha, but you? He is just as human as you or anyone else. Wrath filled or not. He is and always will be your sweet little adeptus. Your perfect lover. Your Xiao.

Kaeya

Another late night and you sat cuddled up on the sofa scanning through several paintings, more specifically paintings that you had done over the course of several months. It was a hobby of yours, but with the aid of Albedo giving you tips and throwing you pointers here and there you'd become surprisingly good at it; who would've guessed you'd secretly be an artist in hiding? Not you that's for sure.

It was fun enough to help tide over the unsettling impatience that always started to bubble under your skin at least, specially on nights like this, where Kaeya, your boyfriend, who also happened to be the Calvary Captain for the Knights of Favonius was out at an ungodly late time, dealing with a suspicion of criminal activities, within the borders of Mondstadt.

He never broke his promises to you thus far, of which were he will always return safely home to you, but it never did fully destroy the raging thunder of worry that often seized your mind on a daily, who could blame you? The man was always in such dangerous predicaments. Who knew if this morning, or any morning for that matter, where you kissed him goodbye, would be the last time you ever would see his face when you waved him off?

It isn't his fault you know this, but you do wish that sometimes he would be cut slack, just a little, so you could for once not have to distract yourself with idle glances of your paintings while waiting for his return. If only every now and then Jean, The Acting Grand Master would just let him have a day off-

Click.

You jumped slightly upon hearing the noise of your front door not open, but actually close. Turning your head you saw Kaeya stood there, arms covering his chest in a crossed way, a raised brow prominent as he glared down at you. "How long have you been worrying?" His voice sounded so flat and monotone, almost a hint of exhaustion. Was he growing tired of your over worried nature?

"I... uh. uhm..." You were at a loss for words, how long had you been worrying exactly? Two, three hours now? You were unsure of the answer yourself. He shook his head and sighed out slowly, it was long and drawn out; he must be so tired from his work today, seeing you up at this hour acting like a child probably doesn't help his situation in the least.

You looked down sadly, feeling ashamed and guilty of yourself because you do this oh so often to him, he always prays your in bed, safely tucked up and lost in your own dreams before he gets home, but you never are, you're always awake and worried, your face far from the peaceful look he often daydreams you having.

"It doesn't matter anymore my little petal." He hums softly as he walks around the sofa to get within arms reach, crouching onto his own weight to scoop you up, your mind in shock you let the paintings slip from your grip and pool around the seat you were just in and the floor underneath you. "Whe- Kaeya?"

"Shh, it is time to head to the bedroom." He spoke so matter factually, which left you eyes wide and beet red, to which he glanced down and a smug chuckle slipped from him. "For sleep Y/N." You relaxed instantly, a sigh escaping you. "Unless of course, you want the other thing?" You squirmed, embarrassed beyond belief, he loved to teased you. "Quit it Kaeya!" You pouted at him, to which he just chuckled at lightly, planting a soft kiss on your head.

Once in the bedroom he drops you so you fall and sink into the softness of your mattress and covers, to which he joins you quickly after. Now both in bed he simply huffs as he turns and crawls around before you feel his head find its preferred resting place; your lap. You smile and gently chuckle. "May i?" He asks just a tad bit too late for permission.

"You're already laying there Kaeya, bit late for the formalities now." You roll your eyes and turn to blow the candle out, leaving you both in darkness and silence, just your soft and gentle breathing in unison as you stroke and massage his head, to which he groans gently in delight too. He is so sweet when he sleeps on your lap like this, you feel closer to him now than you ever normally do, unless you involve the factor of intimacy sexually.

Its calming and sweet, and it helps you remember that he will always keep his promise to you,

He will always come home safely.

[julemmaes]

The One Good Thing

Rowaelin Month, Day Two

A/N: again, I'm gonna fail all my exams because of this stupid app, I'm sure. Also, I miss the off campus boys so much I kinda made Fenrys one of them and I love the idea of the tog men as hockey players so yeah, enjoy;)

Word count: 2,581

Aelin would have killed for a second of silence.

She daydreamed of that almost noisy quiet that makes you feel every deepest thought hidden in your brain that exists only at 3 a.m., when every soul is resting and cars can't drive around the campus. And there are no children screaming at the top of their lungs or parties going on all night long.

That was what she had been promised, the flyers she'd been handed during the open days, when she had come to visit the college.

That was how it was supposed to be.

Aelin had tried so many times to ask her upstairs flatmate to hold his Twitch live streams strictly in the afternoons or mornings when she wouldn't be home, but when Fenrys Moonbeam had first opened the door to his place, the girl had known immediately that she wouldn't be able to change his mind even by paying him.

Especially since his live streams were followed by such a large audience that Aelin couldn't even begin to understand how he had managed to build an empire so big in just under a month. Surely it had something to do with the long blond hair, different from her own but just as beautiful, and the arms covered in tattoos so colourful they blind you. They had their own charm. Add to the pile the fact that he was the goalie on the hockey team, and he was the perfect mix for the guy to marry.

From what their common friends had told her, he was already earning enough to afford an off-campus home, but that he liked the comfort the college dorm gave.

A comfort that Aelin, after three years in those filthy rooms and shared bathrooms, had yet to find.

When yet another howl of celebration at yet another victory that everyone expected pierced through his floor and her ceiling, nearly drilling her eardrums, Aelin gritted her teeth so hard that for a moment she feared they might shatter.

She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath and trying to whisper, "Shut," failed miserably to keep her tone under control and shrieked the second word, "up!"

A booming laugh rang out upstairs and a millisecond later a message lit up her phone screen.

From Lys: Girl, maybe you should take a chill pill, I heard you on the live stream. Are you still studying?

She tossed the phone to the side, pulling her hair up and pinning it back with a pencil.

"Fuck off." she muttered under her breath.

Lysandra was one of the few in their group of friends who never missed a Fenrys broadcast. Whether it was at eleven at night or five in the morning, she was always one of the first to join in.

Aelin often wondered if she was just doing it because Fenrys was helping her sponsor her YouTube channel, but then she remembered that Lysandra would do the same for all her friends.

She got out of bed, taking all her books and notes in her arms, pen in her mouth and holding her phone between her pinky and ring fingers. She threw open the door to her room and found herself facing a wall of muscle, slamming into her roommate's chest.

Rowan's hands snapped forward and kept her from falling backwards and when Aelin looked up at his face, she almost lost her balance again.

His face was sleepy, only one eye open as he suppressed a yawn. The imprint of the pillowcase on his cheek just another sign that he had already been sleeping.

"Are you okay?" he asked her in a hoarse voice, stepping back and letting her through, "I heard you screaming. I was coming to check on you."

Aelin grimaced, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."

He shook his head, moving a hand in mid-air, "Don't worry about it." then his gaze snapped to the ceiling as another laugh from Fenrys cut through the thin material dividing their quarters. He frowned, lowering his gaze back to her, and it was at that moment that he noticed the books in her arms.

If possible, his frown deepened even more.

He closed his eyes, gently grabbing her wrist and leaning against the wall behind him, pulling her towards him.

Aelin let herself be tugged, arranging the books so that they didn't poke at either her or him in that uncomfortable hug, but she positioned her head against his chest, letting his fingers expertly massage the nape of her neck.

"Baby." he sighed into her hair. Her toes curled.

It had only been a few weeks since they had decided to start dating, a few weeks since Rowan had confessed to having feelings for her. They had exchanged a few kisses in secret from their friends, wanting to enjoy that first phase of their very fresh relationship in privacy. They hadn't done anything too steamy yet, and Aelin had more than agreed with his decision to take it slow, but one thing Rowan hadn't held back in the slightest from the first second she'd agreed to go out with him had been the pet names he'd given her whenever they were in the safety of their dorms.

Baby was definitely her favourite.

His hands slid lower, down her back, and she looked up, resting her chin on his chest and fixing her eyes in his. His gaze softened, still clouded with sleep. "You shouldn't be studying at this hour."

Aelin grunted, smacking her forehead against his chest, "But I have a test tomorrow."

Rowan sighed again, pushing her away and taking the books from her arms. "Precisely why you should be sleeping." He walked towards the common room, speaking softly and hoping Lorcan wouldn't hear them. They both knew their roommate suspected something, but he didn't have enough worries in the world for him to actually give a shit about their possible relationship, and they also knew he would never say anything to anyone. Maybe to Elide, but neither of them would bet on it. "I left you alone tonight because you needed to rest, not stay up until morning melting your brain."

She followed him like a lost dog, dragging her feet on the ground, finally feeling that visceral fatigue get the better of her.

"I can't leave the study half done."

Rowan dropped the books on the table, turning around just in time to block her before she bumped into him again and slipped the pencil out of her mass of hair, letting it fall around her shoulders.

"You're not leaving the study half done," he told her as he rubbed her arms to keep her warm, "you've spent the last five weeks studying this stuff and I'm sure you know it like the abc. You need a break." he told her.

Aelin looked up at him from under her lashes, a little annoyed that that was true, but completely distracted by the lines his fingers were drawing on her arms. She took a deep breath through her nose, puffing out her chest and thrusting out her breasts, catching the attentive gaze of her almost-boyfriend for a nanosecond.

He smiled wearily at her, "Are you sleeping in my bed tonight?"

Aelin just nodded and took both of his hands, pulling him down onto her. Rowan squinted his eyes and placed his lips on hers in a quick, chaste kiss. She hummed in satisfaction as his hands slid under her bottom and wrapped around her thighs, pulling her up. She tied her legs around his hips and rested her head on his shoulder as Rowan made his way into their tiny flat.

He lowered her onto the bed, pulling the blankets out from under her body and laying down beside her before covering them both. Aelin moved as close to him as she could, pressing her back against his chest and her butt against his crotch, tangling their legs together.

Rowan's arm wrapped around her waist as the other slipped under her head and his hand found hers under the pillow.

The second they were settled, every bit of their bodies touching, Rowan left a soft kiss on her shoulder, pulling her even tighter against him.

She smiled weakly, in a drawling tone, "Thank you."

He hummed against her skin, "That's what I'm here for."

"Don't let me die around finals time?" she asked in a teasing tone.

Rowan chuckled softly, making her back shake, "Exactly."

Aelin tried to turn towards him, wanting to trace the pale freckles that were starting to sprout on his nose now that the days were getting longer and the sun kissed his cheek every afternoon, but his arms blocked her.

"No, it's not fair for you to be the big spoon every night. I'm fucking sick of it, I want to hold you today." he muttered, the chains of sleep already dragging him towards that blissful unconsciousness.

She huffed, stopping struggling against his grip, relaxing and feeling her muscles scream with pleasure after being tense for hours on end while she studied.

She hadn't realised she'd stayed up so long, but she was terrified of failing this last exam. If she failed it she would have to wait months before she could retake it and the idea of it was getting her down more than perhaps it should have.

She started thinking about the various questions the professors might ask her the next day, repeating the answers in her mind, closing her eyes as she thought.

"Baby," Rowan grumbled, "you're talking out loud."

She hadn't realised she was biting the cuticles around her nails until his hand came to rest on her arm, pulling her hand away from her mouth. He took a deep breath, helping her turn to face him.

When she looked up at him from under her lashes, she saw the way he was fighting sleep. And she felt terribly guilty. If she was having trouble sleeping the day before an exam, that didn't mean he had to stay awake for her too.

She was about to speak, tell him to close his eyes again and let her go into the living room so she could finish going over the last few pages and then return to his room, but he put his hand on her cheek and in a soft voice asked, "What's bothering you?"

She bit the inside of her cheek, shaking her head, "Nothing."

He tried to hold back a yawn again, but couldn't this time and Aelin's guilt grew immensely inside her. "If you tell me right now what's wrong, I could help you fix it sooner. And we could get at least three hours of sleep before we have to go to class." he pointed out in an exhausted tone.

She blinked once, twice, searching for the right words.

"It's Fen. If he'd stop playing so late every night-"

Rowan quickly cut her off, closing his eyes, almost as if he could no longer physically stay awake. "Ace, Fenrys never really bothered you. You've always managed to study and ignore it. What is it that's bothering you?"

Aelin let go of a shaky breath, "It's nothing, really. We'll talk about it tomorrow."

He only opened one eye, watching her carefully as she hid her face against his chest and wrapped her thin arms around his torso.

His hand began to slowly massage her back, "If we don't talk about this now I'll be up all night worrying."

She huffed, knowing full well how true those words were. For the love of the other, she began to ramble on about the real reason she hadn't been able to focus on the textbooks.

"I don't want to tell anyone we're together yet," she confessed under her breath.

Rowan opened both eyes then, fixing them on her and giving a small nod with his chin to keep her going.

"It's not that I don't want to tell the others," she said, referring to their closest friends, "but the second they find out, the news will become public knowledge and there are some people I really don't want to let that information get to."

He nodded, understanding perfectly who she was talking about.

"We don't have to tell anyone," he kissed her forehead, continuing to talk in that position, his lips brushing against her skin with every word he spoke, "it'll be our little secret for some time more, until we figure out how to get all the puck bunnies off our backs."

Aelin smiled, lifting her chin and kissing him.

Being the captain of the hockey team, Rowan didn't exactly go unnoticed on campus. Not many people approached him during the day, especially when Lorcan was at his side, knowing full well that they would receive nothing but a rude invitation to leave, but their friend couldn't spend his life attached to Rowan's hip, and the few times the two of them had gone out alone it had happened that a horde of fans had overwhelmed them. After those afternoons, Aelin had found herself the victim of not so nice threats from unknown numbers, as had happened to Lysandra when she had first started dating Aedion.

With Manon's help they had managed to track down the senders and Rowan had been unpleasantly surprised to discover that it was one of the girls he always partied with after the games. A girl he'd always considered a friend.

Rowan had taken all the blame, feeling responsible for those attacks on Aelin and it had taken months to convince him that he had no part in the insanity of others.

They'd started limiting the dates they went on as a pair, even when they were just friends, to prevent similar things from happening again, but Aelin felt trapped.

And she knew it was the same for Rowan.

She wished she could get a place off campus, where she could retreat with him, away from the prying eyes of the world, but it didn't seem right to bring up the topic of 'let's move in together' after not even three months of dating.

Rowan rested a hand on her cheek, moving a strand of hair behind her ear, "It'll be fine. And if anyone finds out and the threats come back, we'll do something about it."

She nodded, not entirely convinced and not at all reassured.

He knew instantly, "Aelin, whatever happens, I don't care what others think. I've waited years to finally have you. I've been on the sidelines all this time, watching you go on date after date with everyone and never with me-"

"You never asked," she mumbled in annoyance.

Rowan continued as if she hadn't spoken, "I would have preferred not to be the talk of the town all the time, but I'm not going to let public opinion take away the one good thing in my life."

She opened her mouth wide, "What about hockey?"

He shrugged, looking at her, "Hockey is just a sport."

"If Lorcan could hear you right now..." she shook her head.

"But Lorcan's not here. And you won't tell him," he made her silently promise.

They exchanged another brief kiss, before they carried on talking about all the worries she had and every word that came out of his lips acted as a sedative for her fears, killing one at a time, until she fell asleep in his arms, lulled by his soft breathing on her neck.

tog tag list (if you wanna be added or removed just dm me or send me an ask)

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[nerdyfangirl67]

Are You Going to Kiss Me or Not - Criminal Minds Reader Insert

Pairing: Hotch x fem!reader

Word count: 1660

Warnings: mild language, slightly steamy kiss scene

Reader is done waiting around for one Aaron Hotchner to decide whether or not he is interested.

A/N: This came to me one day on my way to work, after listening to the Thompson Square song “Are You Gonna Kiss Me or Not”. Since this fic is inspired by the song, it will be related, in some ways, to the song’s lyrics. I admit, it did get away from me and I’m not entirely sure how much I like the middle part. I hope y’all enjoy it regardless! Next up is a POTO work, so stay tuned for that :)

The words start to blur across the page as you try to read the document, again, for the third time. And just like before, a couple of sentences in your attention wanders from the page to the large window of Aaron’s office. Your eyes immediately find him where he is hunched over his desk, his hand moving furiously as he burns through the stack of paperwork taking up his desktop. You were glad you were the last one in the bullpen and no one was there to witness your hopelessly longing stares you had been sending Aaron’s way. 

“Screw it.” You murmur, pushing away from your desk before striding towards Aaron’s office. You knock hard twice and wait for him to call you in. Once he does, you push open the wooden door and take a few steps into the office. You watch as Aaron finishes scrawling out something on the paper in front of him before he lifts his head. 

“Y/L/N?” He asks in surprise. “What are you still doing here?”

You shrug your shoulders, not really sure yourself why you had stayed hours after leaving time to ‘work’ on paperwork. Deep down though, you knew it was because you hadn’t wanted to leave Aaron to another long night of paperwork. “I could ask you the same thing.” You quip back, causing an almost unnoticeable lift in one of his eyebrows as he gives you a look.

The room is quiet for a moment, the two of you staring into each other’s eyes. You’re saying more with your eyes than you had ever said out loud to him, showing him how you truly felt. His brown eyes were filled with something akin to longing and you had to fight the urge to take his face in your hands and kiss him. You break eye contact as you make your way to one of the chairs in his office. 

“I was thinking of calling it a night and thought maybe you might want to do the same.” You pause before quickly adding, “Or maybe you’d want to get a drink together.” You hope that despite the hour, he would feel as desperate to spend time with you as you were to spend time with him. 

“I don’t think that is such a good idea.” He answers, his eyes only meeting yours briefly before he looks out the window overlooking the bullpen. 

“Some other time then.” You say, feeling a rush of disappointment as he turned down your offer. 

His eyes meet yours now as he says, “I don’t think that any time would be good.” 

“Oh, well whenever you want to get a drink with a friend, just let me know.” You say, somewhat dejectedly, not sure why he was being so standoff-ish. “You’re a good friend.” You add quietly.

“I think you and I both know that that isn’t what this is.” He responds. “And I think that you and I also know that whatever this is, it can’t happen.” You open your mouth to argue otherwise, despite the fact that what he was saying was true, but he cuts you off.

“Good night Agent Y/L/N.” His voice has a biting edge to it as he returns to his paperwork, effectively ending the conversation. His apparent rejection has your heart seizing in your chest and your throat tightening against the rising sob in your chest. You turn and run out of his office, only stopping in the bullpen to grab your jacket and purse, not wanting Aaron to see you cry, especially when it was over him.

The drive home passes in a blur as you try to keep the falling tears from blocking your vision. You somehow make it back to your apartment without getting into an accident. You tiredly unlock your apartment, dropping your purse and jacket by the door before locking it back up. You don’t even have it in you to get ready for bed, instead opting to just take off your shoes and crawl into bed. You don’t get much sleep that night, the stress and anxiety of possibly having ruined your relationship with Aaron weighing down on you. When your alarm goes off the next morning, you know that there is no way you were going to be able to make it through work, let alone face Aaron after what happened last night. You send Penelope a quick text saying you weren’t feeling well and would be staying home. 

Later that evening, after a day of feeling sorry for yourself, you are lying on the couch, listening to some random podcast that has been playing on the radio, when a knock sounds on your apartment door. You let out a heavy sigh as you get up, not really excited by the idea that someone was at your door at this time of night. You open the door, ready to tell off whoever it was, but all words leave your mouth when you see that one Aaron Hotchner was standing in your doorway.

His eyes meet yours briefly before they scan over your body, looking for anything out of the ordinary. He wordlessly steps past you to the inside of your apartment, his hand catching yours as he passes you, a finger straying to caress your wrist. You slowly close the door, fighting back the tears that were threatening to fall and the emotions that were rising to the surface before turning your attention to him. You watch him, watching you, for a long time, taking in the smallest details of his appearance; his dark hair, slightly disheveled, his white dress shirt without his characteristic tie and the top few buttons undone, and a tired expression on his face. 

You couldn’t take the silence any longer. “Aaron Hotchner, are you going to kiss me or not?” You burst out, hands on your hips as you focus your gaze on him. He didn’t say anything as he continues to stare at you, his dark brown eyes boring into yours. His silence infuriates you further and causes you to throw your hands up in the air in exasperation. 

“Damnit Aaron.” It wasn’t often that you used solely his first name, only doing so when a situation caused you to be enraged or terrified, and you felt a little of both at the moment. You were so upset at his apparent disinterest in what you were saying, what you were asking of him. And you were terrified that it meant he didn’t feel the same for you. 

“I like you a lot. In fact ... I might actually be in love with you.” It came spilling out, everything that you had been keeping to yourself for months and you couldn’t stop yourself once you’d started. “I’ve felt this way for a while, a long while. And I think you know, or at least a part of you does.” You pause, wondering if maybe you had been reading too much into the longing looks and the lingering ‘accidental’ touches, but you decide since you had gone this far, you wouldn’t back out now. 

“Aaron, I’m not going to wait around forever for you to decide.” You soften your voice, pausing for a long moment to let what you said sink in, before you ask him again. “So, are you going to kiss me or not?” He is moving before you even finish talking, reaching you in only a matter of steps. His large, rough hands come to rest on either side of your face, cupping your face in a gentle manner that contrasted heavily to the urgency in his movements. He brings your face up to his, bending until he is able to reach your lips. 

The kiss is soft, almost tentative, as if Aaron isn’t quite sure of what he was doing himself, as if he was going to pull away at any moment. You kiss him back fervently, worried that he was going to back away. You find yourself getting lost in the feeling of his hands on your face and his body brushing up against yours, the euphoria you feel over finally getting to kiss him flooding through your body. 

You are the one to finally pull back, your need for air overcoming your want to kiss him. He rests his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours as the two of you catch your breath. “That was...” You murmur, a languid smile growing on your face. You catch a glimpse of the mischievous spark in his eyes as he mumbles out an incoherent reply, right before he seizes your lips with his. 

Where the first kiss had been safe and reserved, this one was passionate and frenzied. In the heat of the moment, Aaron backs you up against the wall of the living room in your apartment and his hands are everywhere; on your face, your hips, in your hair, sliding down your back. He breaks off the kiss before resting his forehead against yours. 

“I’ve waited years to do that.” He whispers, his voice rough with need. “And it was better than I ever could have imagined.” His soft brown eyes, twinkling with emotion, meet yours. 

“You better get used to it, Hotchner.” You say, a surge of confidence washing over you. “Because I’m definitely going to do that again.” You press a light kiss on his lips before wrapping your arms around his waist in a tight hug. His strong arms bring you infinitesimally closer, one of his hands coming to tuck your head in against his chest. “Good.” He murmurs his warm breath fanning across your neck. “I look forward to it.”

His words cause a smile to grow on your face as you relish in, finally, being able to feel his arms around you. You were certainly glad you finally decided to ask Aaron Hotchner if he was going to kiss you because it clearly paid off.

[nuttynutcycle]

I just discovered your blog, and I'm in LOVE with your writing! I'm completely obsessed with Familiar, so if it's not to much to ask, could you write a continuation? Thank you so much, your snippets and prompts are greatly appreciated!!

Familiar - Pt 2

First part here

On a scale of one to ten, this was either a -2 or a 12 on the good idea scale. Hero double-checked the address Villain had sent her before looking back at the tiny house. The paint was peeling, steps were rotting and that roof was definitely of the leaking sort. Somehow, she had expected Villain to live on the rich side of town.

When he had invited her over to work on their assignment, her thoughts had been torn between screaming trap and find some evidence. The second side won. If there wasn’t anything in there to prove who Villain really was… Well, she’d have to find another way of getting proof to show the authorities. She knocked and noted the cracked windows to her side. After a few seconds, Villain opened the door.

“Hey, I’m glad you could make it. Come on in.” He led her down the musty hall towards a suspiciously normal bedroom. “Thanks again for making the trek all the way over here. My mom hasn’t been doing too well recently, and I’m trying not to leave her alone for too long.”

“Of course, I get it.” Hero let her eyes trail over the spartan room. The only furniture was a bed and two chairs beside a fold-up table covered with books and scribblers. Funny, the number of times Villain escaped from her with stolen cash made her think he’d at least have better furniture. Or a safe to put the money in. Maybe it was hiding in the closet? Although in this neighbourhood, keeping money lying around might not be the brightest idea. “It’s good that you’re taking care of her.”

He nodded, avoiding her gaze and moving his stuff from the table to the floor. “Hopefully, this next surgery will be the one that works.”

“Yeah, it’s tough watching people you love go through painful things. My sister has a heart problem right now, and it’s terrifying to watch her energy come and go.” Shut up! Stop telling him personal things. “Yeah.” She finished lamely.

Their gazes locked in understanding. Hero was the first to break away. “Ready to start the pain?”

They worked on the assignment in silence for a while. Honestly, there was probably a special punishment designed for whoever invented assignments over ten pages long. This just wasn’t fair. Hero sat back, running a hand through her hair. “I think this is karma's way of punishing me for not reading the textbook.”

His lips quirked. “There’s a textbook for this class? That would’ve been helpful to know at the start of the semester.”

“Want to know how tired I was at the beginning of the semester? I can’t even remember choosing my classes,” she pulled a hand down her face. “I think I just closed my eyes and pointed at the screen.”

“You could have been in differential calculus. Or worse, accounting.”

“Or Phys Ed. Did you know our university has a course devoted to badminton?”

Villain laughed. “What a racket. To think, I could have spent time swinging my arm around and gotten credit for it.”

“But then you’d be missing out on the glories of this assignment.”

“And a friend.”

Oh nope. Big nope. Wait, Hero reconsidered. Were they friends?  They did chat after class and had studied a few times together, but that didn’t mean- wait. Huh. Time to deflect with awkward humour and process these feelings later. “I thought you saw me as a role model, but that’s cool too. I’ll just have to find a new lackey.”

“And here I thought you were friends with me for my brilliance and good looks.”

She felt her cheeks begin to burn. “Yep, it’s all for your looks. If you seduce our professor, then we don’t have to do this assignment anymore.”

Villain rubbed his chin. “I’ve never seduced a professor before. Would I have to wear a sweater vest?”

“And a tweed jacket. It’s the only way.” Her fingers twitched, and she was suddenly very aware of him. The light hitting his hair, the way his lips curled when he was amused… Bad, very bad. This is your official ABORT MISSION alert. Find some evidence on the dangerous criminal and get out of there. She cleared her throat. “I’m parched. Could I get some water?”

Villain nodded, standing and leaving the room. Hero leapt out of the chair the moment the door shut behind him.  Her eyes latched on the only place one could hide anything in the sparse room - the closet. She yanked it open, feeling her heart speed up at the sound of Villain opening a cupboard in the kitchen and turning on the tap.

The closet was small and impressively dull. Clothes and boxes littered the tiny  shelves, with no signs of the files or weapons she was looking for. A flap of a familiar fabric dangling from one of the top boxes caught her eye. Bingo. Hero gingerly reached to feel the consistency, making sure she wasn’t wrong before bringing the authorities in, and accidentally bumped an elbow against the side of the closet. The box plummeted from its precarious placement and met the ground with a thump. No! She scrambled to pick up the box and the spilled-out uniform when a movement behind made her pause.

Villain stood in the doorway, hand clenched around a glass of water. His eyes darted to the clothes on the ground. “What are you doing?” he asked quietly.

Hero’s throat went dry. She tightened her grip on the clothes and tried to look surprised. “S-something fell in your closet, so I opened it to check what it was.”

“Huh,” Villain said. “That’s unfortunate.”

He knelt, gently taking his outfit from her hands and placing it back in the box. “You weren’t supposed to see this.”

“Clearly.”  Hero swallowed and prepared to run if he attacked. Worst case scenario, she had beat him before and could do it again. Theoretically. “I didn’t mean to-“

“I know.” A familiar calculation crept across his face, making her hands shake. Villain sat across from her and blocked the only exit, placing the cup of water between them. She felt trapped against the closet.

“You know, if this had happened a month ago, I would have killed you without a second thought,” he said mildly. “Guess you’re lucky.”

A horrifying reminder that she was not dealing with her awkward classmate anymore. “What are you going to do instead?”

Villain shrugged, seeming far too calm for the situation. “I don’t know yet. Talk, I guess?”

“I won’t tell anyone.” Hero said, lying through her teeth.

“Unfortunately, I’m too old to believe the promises of others so easily.” He trailed his fingers through the thin carpet, tracing patterns through the material. “Even yours. The stakes are just too high.”

“What’s even worth all the stealing and destruction?” she asked quietly. “Why do you do it? “

The  fingers paused. “It started out as one job. My mom needed treatment, and we didn’t have the money to pay for it. Then one treatment turned into two.” He shook his head. “Before I knew it, I was on the city’s most-wanted list.”

Her shoulders tensed. “Will you stop when the treatments are finished?”

“There have been other benefits to criminal activity.” Villain ducked his head, cheeks turning pink. “Lots of amazing people to meet. I haven’t decided yet.”

She leaned against the wall beside the closet, feeling safer with something solid against her back. “I don’t know if meeting people through crime is worth a lifetime in jail.”

He gave a bitter laugh. “You’d be surprised.”

Hero picked up the forgotten water sitting between them and drank, if nothing else than for the excuse to avoid responding.

His fingers trailed larger patterns in the carpet. “I never wanted you to find out- this is one of the first friendships I’ve made since I started university. I don’t want to lose that. And I don’t want you getting hurt, but this does put me in a tight position. I won’t let you inform the authorities.”

Hero pressed her back further against the wall.

Villain took one look at her wide eyes and softened his tone. “Just don’t tell. If I get one inkling that you’re about to turn me in, then..." he sighed. "Please don’t make me choose between you and my mom.”

He would know it was her. Hero didn’t think she could after this. Or fight him, knowing it was for his mom’s medical bills. She pursed her lips, making a highly regrettable split-second decision. “Alright. But only on one condition: you stop once her treatments are done.”

He twitched. “I told you, I haven’t decided yet-”

“I’m making the decision for you.” She tried to sound more confident than she felt. "Deals are much easier to trust than promises.”

“No. I’d miss-” Villain stopped, clenching his jaw. “I can’t let certain people from that life go yet.”

Something clicked. The girl he liked was from his criminal life… Oh gosh, Hero probably knew her. The brunette villain from the southside? The redheaded weapons supplier? Stop getting distracted.

“I trust you. Give it up as soon as you can.” The words slipped out before she could stop them. “For me.” That was even worse. Was it possible to die from a foot in your mouth?

Villain relaxed his shoulders. “Yeah. It’s a deal.” He stuck out a hand and Hero grasped it, shaking firmly and ignoring the sinking feeling in her chest. So like, a 5 on the good idea scale.

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