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ssa-dado · 2 months ago

Text

6 - Synthesis

Aaron Hotchner x bau!fem!reader

Genre: angst, fluff, slow burn

Summary: After an intense case, you and Hotch struggle with unresolved tensions from a previous argument. On the train back, Hotch overhears Peter comforting you about a recent tragedy, realizing he’s been blind to your pain. Later, Hotch unexpectedly shows up at your apartment, opening up and apologizing for his emotional distance, leading to a heartfelt moment of mutual vulnerability. That evening, you attend Peter’s welcome-back party, feeling lighter and reconnecting with the team. That's when Peter makes an unusual bet with you.

Warnings: death, grief, emotional abuse, domestic violence, family dysfunction.

Word Count: 7.6k

Dado's Corner: Phi posting two chapters in less than 12 hours? More likely than you think. I was supposed to wait until tomorrow, but I just couldn’t help myself. Thank you all so much for the love and support you’ve shown for the series so far! Each of you holds a special place in my cold little heart. Please don’t hate me after this - it hurts me, too - but hey, there’s some interrogation room Aaron to sweeten things up. I’m particularly proud of this cute, lovely chapter. It doesn’t make me want to jump out the window. Not even a little bit. Embrace the pain.

previous part ; masterlist

Gideon smiled knowingly, his eyes shifting between you and Hotch. “Thesis, antithesis, and synthesis,” he mused, almost as if he were speaking to himself but loud enough for you to hear. “Funny how life always seems to come back to that, doesn’t it?”

●

The observation room was dimly lit, casting long, uneven shadows over you and Peter as you stood behind the two-way mirror, your heartbeat seemed to echo in the quiet, barely audible over the hum of the fluorescent light. You watched Hotch on the other side, preparing to interrogate the suspect, he appeared calm as usual, wearing his mask of stoicism proudly on his face, but you could tell the tension was palpable.

The room beyond the glass was stark, the suspect sat at the metal table gleaming under the harsh light with a smug expression, arms casually draped over the back of his chair, utterly unbothered. Te view was borderline infuriating.

The hair on your arms stood up, not just from the cold, but from the overwhelming sense of helplessness that had settled over the case. You couldn’t shake the nagging thought that you were grasping at straws, the weight of the local police’s blunders pressing heavily on your chest. They had fumbled, and badly. Critical evidence had slipped through their fingers, lost or contaminated in the chaos. You didn’t even want to hear the whole story—you were too furious, your senses shutting down as the same detective who had once doubted your work stumbled through a pathetic apology. All you had now was Hotch. No physical proof, no solid evidence to tie this man to the crimes you knew he’d committed.

Your gaze flicked back to the suspect, his arrogance nauseating. He knew the game, knew the system, and worse, he knew how to manipulate it to his advantage. There was a clock ticking in your mind, every second precious, the sense of urgency suffocating. If Hotch couldn’t break him - if he couldn’t find a way past the layers of lies and smug indifference - you’d lose him. You couldn’t afford that, not now.

Peter’s jaw clenched as he observed the scene, his frustration evident. “This was a mistake,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “We warned them not to bring him in without something solid. Now we’re stuck trying to clean up their mess.”

You nodded, your mind still reeling from the argument with Hotch the night before, as if all of this mess wasn’t already enough for your nerves to handle. The tension between you two had lingered, unresolved and heavy, adding another layer to your frustration. You tried to shake it off, but it clung to you, making it even harder to focus. “Yeah, and now Hotch has to pull off a miracle,” you said, your voice tinged with both a tinge of annoyance and worry. “He’s got one shot to get this right.”

Peter turned his attention back to the interrogation room, his eyes narrowing as Hotch sat across from the suspect. “If anyone can do it, it’s him. I’ve seen Hotch work multiple times, and somehow he even looks sharper, more intense.”

Inside the room, Hotch began his interrogation with a measured calm, his eyes locked on the suspect, who lounged back in his chair, exuding a quiet confidence. Hotch started with the basics, the routine questions meant to establish rapport, but the suspect was playing his own game, answering with a smug smile and evasive nonchalance.

Hotch leaned back, crossing his arms as he observed the suspect’s every move, every twitch. “You’ve been careful,” Hotch said, his voice steady but probing. “I’ll give you that. You’ve covered your tracks well. But you slipped up, everyone makes mistakes, especially when they think they’re untouchable.”

The suspect smirked, feigning boredom. “You’re wasting your breath, Agent Hotchner. You and I both know you have nothing on me - no evidence, no witnesses. You’re grasping at straws.”

Hotch’s gaze remained unflinching, but you could see the subtle shift in his demeanor, the way he leaned in just slightly, narrowing the space between the two of them. “You’re right, we don’t have physical evidence, but we do have you, and that’s enough. Because here’s the thing - you’re not as smart as you think you are. You’ve made this personal, and personal is messy.”

The suspect chuckled, tapping his fingers lightly on the table as if this were a game to him. “Oh, please. I’ve seen every tactic in the book, and I’ve got an answer for all of them. You can’t intimidate me, Hotchner. I know my rights. You’ve got nothing.”

Hotch’s expression remained stoic, but there was a flash of determination in his eyes. “You think this is about intimidation? You’re missing the point. This isn’t about fear, it’s about you and the mistakes you’ve made. You’ve left a trail, little hints of who you really are. You think you’ve hidden them, but they’re there, buried in the details.”

The suspect’s confident facade faltered for just a second, but he quickly recovered, scoffing. “You’re reaching. This isn’t some TV show where the bad guy breaks down in a dramatic confession. I’m not saying a damn thing without my lawyer.”

Hotch’s demeanor shifted, a cold, calculating edge creeping into his voice. “Your lawyer? You think your lawyer’s going to save you? They’ll do their job, make sure you’re comfortable, make sure you feel safe. But at the end of the day, they’re not in here with you, they’re not the ones facing the consequences of your actions - you are. And you’ve got no one to blame but yourself.”

From the other side of the glass, you watched Hotch methodically chip away at the suspect’s arrogance. Each line of questioning was a carefully placed strike, designed to weaken his resolve, but the suspect wasn’t giving in easily. He deflected, twisted Hotch’s words, and tried to turn the conversation back on him.

“You think you’re so righteous, don’t you?” the suspect sneered, leaning forward with a glint of disdain in his eyes. “Sitting there, acting like you’ve got the moral high ground. You don’t know me, Agent Hotchner. You don’t know a damn thing about what I’ve been through, the people I’ve dealt with - you think you’re better than me?”

Hotch didn’t flinch even if the last words reminded him of the argument he had with you down at the lobby. “No, I don’t think I’m better than you, but I do know who you are. You’re the guy who blames everyone else when things go wrong, the guy who hides behind his intellect because he’s too scared to admit he’s just another coward trying to prove he’s not afraid. But guess what? That act doesn’t work on me.”

The suspect’s composure slipped, his anger flaring as Hotch hit a nerve. “You don’t get to judge me! You sit there like you’re some kind of saint, but you’re just as flawed as the rest of us. You have no right—”

Hotch cut him off sharply, his voice cold and unyielding. “You’re right. I’m not perfect. I’ve made my mistakes, and I own them. But I’m not the one hiding behind excuses, you are. You’re the one who thinks he can play God, decide who deserves to live or die based on your twisted sense of justice. But here’s the thing: you’re not in control, not anymore.”

From the observation room, you felt your chest tighten. Hotch was relentless, pushing the suspect further than you’d ever seen him push anyone before. It was as if he’d tapped into something raw and unforgiving, something that drove him to keep going, to tear down every last defense the suspect had.

Peter glanced at you, his brow furrowing. “I’ve never seen him go this hard. It’s like he’s on a mission.”

You nodded, the tension from last night’s argument still simmering inside you. You knew why Hotch was pushing himself like this: because of you, because of the unresolved words between you, and because he needed to prove something, maybe even to himself. “He’s not going to stop until he gets what he wants.”

Inside the room, the suspect’s attitude was crumbling. Hotch leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper, laced with a quiet menace. “You think you’re untouchable, that you’ve covered all your bases. But I’ve spent years in courtrooms taking down men just like you, men who thought they were too smart to get caught. I know every trick, every lie, every pathetic attempt to weasel your way out of the truth.”

The suspect’s face tightened, his hands clenching into fists as he tried to maintain control. But Hotch was unrelenting, his gaze piercing through every layer of the man’s defenses. “You don’t want to admit it, but you’re scared, I can see it in your eyes. You’re terrified that the truth is going to come out, that all your carefully crafted lies are going to fall apart right in front of you - so, here’s your last chance. Tell me the truth. Tell me why you did it.”

There was a beat of silence, a heavy pause as the suspect’s composure finally shattered. His shoulders slumped, his defiance giving way to resignation. He looked up at Hotch, defeated and angry, his voice breaking as he finally confessed, each word a bitter surrender. “Fine. Fine, you want the truth? I did it. I killed them. But you have no idea why. You don’t know what it’s like to be powerless.”

“No you’re right, I don’t.” Hotch sat back, a flicker of triumph in his eyes, though his expression remained guarded: he had what he needed. The confession was out, raw and unfiltered, pulled from the depths of the suspect’s desperation.

Peter let out a low whistle, still reeling from what he’d witnessed. “That was... intense. I’ve never seen Hotch like that, he’s kind of intimidating.”

You nodded in agreement, your gaze still fixed on Hotch as he calmly gathered his notes, preparing to leave the room. You could see the toll it had taken on him, the emotional weight he carried even as he walked out victorious, and as much as you wanted to celebrate the success, the confrontation from the night before still lingered, leaving you with the unsettling realization that this fight wasn’t just with the suspect - it was within Hotch himself.

When Hotch stepped out of the interrogation room, the tension in his posture seemed to ease, but only slightly. His face was set in its usual mask of calm control, yet there was a heaviness in his eyes, a flicker of something raw that he couldn’t quite hide. Peter clapped him on the back, a mix of admiration and relief in his expression. “Hell of a job, Hotch. You tore him apart. I’ve seen you work, but that was something else entirely.”

Hotch gave a tight nod, his jaw still clenched, but his gaze was already shifting past Peter, landing on you. His eyes were searching, almost like he was trying to gauge your reaction, seeking some unspoken acknowledgment from you. “Thanks,” he said, his voice measured but tinged with exhaustion. “It had to be done.”

You stood there with your arms crossed, leaning against the wall, trying to maintain a composed exterior, but inside, you were anything but calm. Watching Hotch in that room, ruthlessly tearing down the suspect’s defenses, stirred something deep within you. It was impressive, yes, but also unsettling. You had never seen him so relentless, so driven - and you knew exactly what was fueling his determination.

As Hotch’s gaze lingered on you, there was a silent understanding between you, a shared acknowledgment of the emotional battlefield you both were navigating. The words from your argument the night before still echoed in your mind, sharp and unresolved, like an open wound that hadn’t had the chance to heal. The case had forced you both to set your personal issues aside, but now, in the aftermath, they were still there, hovering between you like a shadow neither of you could ignore.

Peter glanced between the two of you, sensing the charged atmosphere but choosing not to comment. He knew better than to pry, but even he could tell that whatever was going on between you and Hotch went deeper than the usual tension of a difficult case. “We got what we needed,” Peter said, trying to break the silence. “That’s what matters. Now we can finally put this bastard away.”

Hotch nodded, but his eyes never left yours, and in that moment, it felt like the rest of the room had faded away. It was just the two of you, caught in a silent standoff where neither of you knew how to take the next step. You wanted to say something, anything that would bridge the gap that had formed between you, but the words caught in your throat, tangled with the emotions you’d been trying so hard to keep in check.

The triumph of the confession felt hollow against the weight of what was still left unsaid. You and Hotch had always been able to read each other, but now, standing on opposite sides of this unspoken rift, it was as if the connection you’d relied on had fractured. There was so much you wanted to ask him: why he’d pushed so hard, why he seemed so desperate to prove something today, and why he couldn’t let his guard down, even for a moment. But instead, you just nodded, swallowing back the questions that burned at the back of your throat. “You did what you had to do,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady, though it wavered slightly. “Good work, Hotch.”

Hotch’s gaze softened for a brief second, a flicker of regret or maybe gratitude crossing his features, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. “Thanks,” he replied, his voice lower, more personal than before. “We all did.”Peter’s presence was a reminder that you weren’t alone, but it didn’t ease the tension that thrummed between you and Hotch. As Hotch turned to leave, the weight of your argument still hung heavy, unresolved, and painful. You watched him go, the distance between you feeling wider than ever, despite being just a few feet apart.

And as you stood there, with Peter by your side and the echo of Hotch’s footsteps fading down the corridor, you realized that the hardest part of this case wasn’t just about catching a killer, it was about facing the fractures in your own relationships, the ones that no amount of profiling or interrogation could ever fix.

The rhythmic clatter of the train wheels against the tracks was a dull, constant noise that filled the otherwise quiet cabin. You sat alone, your head down and your pen moving steadily across the paper as you filled out your case report. It was a task you’d thrown yourself into, your way of avoiding the one thing you weren’t ready to confront: Hotch.

Hotch sat a few rows behind you, his back to you, mirroring your actions as he worked on his own report with a similar intensity. It was almost poetic how the two of you were so much alike: both of you throwing yourselves into your work to avoid the harder truths, and neither willing to make the first move toward reconciliation.

As you focused on your writing, you heard footsteps approach. You didn’t need to look up to know it was Peter; you’d recognized the casual confidence in his stride from a mile away. He slid into the seat beside you without asking, his presence a familiar and oddly comforting interruption.

Peter glanced at your half-filled report, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You never could sit still, could you?” he said, his voice soft but laced with a hint of fondness. “Always working, always thinking.”

You tried to muster a smile, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Just trying to get this done before we get back,” you said, your tone evasive. You knew why he’d come over, and you weren’t sure you were ready for the conversation you’d been avoiding since you’d seen him again.

Peter watched you for a moment, his expression shifting from casual to serious. He took a deep breath, glancing at the report before returning his gaze to you. “Y/N,” he began, his voice quieter now, “I’ve been wanting to tell you this since I got back, but I didn’t want to bring it up while we were in the middle of the case.”

You stiffened, knowing exactly what he was going to say but hoping he wouldn’t.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for your dad’s funeral,” Peter said, his voice heavy with regret. “I wanted to be, but I was stuck overseas. I hate that I wasn’t there.”

You clenched your jaw, staring down at the paper in front of you, your pen hovering uselessly above the page. The memories of that day flooded backstanding at the grave, the heavy weight of loss pressing down on your chest, and the overwhelming feeling of being completely and utterly alone. You’d been surrounded by people, but none of them had truly understood, none of them had been him.

“It’s fine, Pete,” you said, though your voice was shaky. “You were doing your job. Besides, it’s not like it would’ve changed anything.”

Peter shook his head, frustration flickering in his eyes. “No, it’s not okay. You were always there for me, even when we were just kids trying to figure out what the hell we were doing with our lives. And I couldn’t even show up when you needed me the most.”

Peter studied you, his eyes searching yours. He could see the cracks you were trying so desperately to hide, the way you were holding yourself together with sheer willpower. “I should have been there,” he insisted gently. “I know how much you went through with him… I remember everything you told me about him.”

A knot formed in your throat as you thought back to your childhood, your father’s relentless work ethic, his unyielding drive for perfection. He had been your hero in so many ways, but he’d also been your downfall. You’d inherited his toxic trait of overworking yourself, the constant need to be better, to be more. It was how you’d coped with the chaos at home, the screaming matches between your parents that had been your daily soundtrack. Your mother, exasperated and exhausted, would often switch languages mid-argument to keep you in the dark, to protect you - or maybe just to exclude you - from the mess they had created.

“I was just a kid, you know?” you said quietly, your voice tinged with bitterness. “All I wanted was to understand why they were always fighting. I started learning every language my mom switched to, Italian, Spanish, anything that would give me a clue, but instead of finding answers, I just… found more reasons to stay away.”

Peter’s eyes softened, a flicker of pain crossing his features as he listened. “You drowned yourself in books, in knowledge, just to escape,” he said, his voice low. “I remember you telling me that once, how you’d sit in those lecture halls at the university, absorbing everything because it was better than being home.”

Your childhood had been filled their voices rising in heated exchanges that always seemed to end in silence, your father retreating to his study to bury himself in more work, and your mother seeking solace in her books. To escape the turbulence at home, you’d thrown yourself into your studies with a fervor that bordered on obsession. You’d devoured literature, philosophy, psychology, anything that could distract you from the reality of your parents’ failing marriage, to gain a semblance of control in a world that often felt chaotic and out of reach.

You had become fluent in the languages they used to hide their pain from you, and in doing so, you became fluent in the art of distancing yourself from your own emotions. The habit of overworking, of pouring yourself into every task with unrelenting focus, was something you had learned from your father, a toxic legacy that you couldn’t quite shake, even now. It had been the source of countless arguments with your mother, who had begged you not to follow in his footsteps, to find balance, to live a life that wasn’t dictated by the demands of work. But it was easier said than done, and as the years went on, you found yourself mirroring his habits more than you cared to admit.

You nodded, swallowing hard against the emotion that threatened to choke you. “I kept pushing myself, kept chasing after something I couldn’t even name. My dad… he always told me that hard work was the only thing that mattered, he never slowed down, never stopped, and neither did I. Even when their marriage fell apart… even when he got sick. I just… I couldn’t stop.”

You hesitated, your eyes welling up with tears that you refused to let fall. “I didn’t even cry at his funeral, I just stood there, feeling nothing. And I haven’t been to visit his grave since.”

Peter gently reached out, guiding your head to rest on his shoulder, tightly hugging you. “It’s okay not to be okay, Y/N,” he murmured. “You don’t have to carry this all on your own. The least I can do is be the shoulder you can lean on.” Peter squeezed your shoulder gently, his eyes filled with compassion. “Your dad was tough, but he loved you, Y/N. And you don’t have to prove anything to him, not anymore. You’re allowed to grieve, to feel lost, to not have all the answers.”

You nodded, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill. “I know. But sometimes it’s hard to remember that.”

Hotch sat just behind you, his back facing yours, he had intended to keep to himself, to give you the space you needed, but the quiet murmurs of your conversation had carried over. He couldn’t help but overhear Peter’s words, and as he listened, a wave of guilt and realization washed over him.

Hotch had always prided himself on his ability to read people, to see through the masks they wore, but he hadn’t seen through yours. He hadn’t seen the pain you’d been hiding, the grief that had been eating away at you just beneath a slim surface. And suddenly, your words from the night before came crashing back: how he didn’t know you, how he’d never bothered to look beyond the professional facade you’d built.

His own mind flickered back to his childhood, the memories of his father’s anger, the violence that lurked behind every door. Hotch had spent years burying and hiding those scars, never letting anyone see how deeply they ran. He had kept it all locked away, just as you had, believing that the only way to survive was to keep moving, to never let the pain catch up.

For the first time, Hotch truly understood why you had lashed out at him. You had seen in him the very thing you feared in yourself: the relentless drive to work, to control, to avoid facing the hurt that lingered beneath. He realized now that you were so much more alike than he had ever imagined, both of you haunted by the ghosts of your pasts, both trying to outrun the pain that always seemed to catch up.

As Hotch stared out the window at the passing scenery, he felt a deep sense of remorse. He wished he had known, wished he had been able to offer you the support you so clearly needed. But all he could do now was hope that you would one day trust him enough to let him in, to share the burdens you had been carrying alone for far too long.

Peter’s voice broke the silence, pulling Hotch from his thoughts. “You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for, you know that? But it’s okay to let someone else be strong for you, too.”

You nodded, wiping away the tears that had finally escaped. “Thanks, Pete. It’s just… it’s hard.”

“I know,” Peter said softly. “But you don’t have to go through it alone.”

Hotch listened to the quiet exchange, the raw honesty between you and Peter striking a chord deep within him. He knew now that he couldn’t keep pretending that everything was fine, that the walls he had built were enough to protect him or you. As the train sped toward Quantico, Hotch made a silent promise to himself: he would do better, he would be better. For you, and for himself.

Because in the end, you both deserved more than just the comfort of solitude. You deserved to be understood, to be seen, and to finally let go of the burdens you had carried for far too long.

Peter on the other hand had always been the kind of friend who could read you like a book, even when you tried to keep the pages closed. And after this emotional confrontation he knew he didn’t have to push further. He could see the exhaustion in your eyes, the way you were holding yourself together by the thinnest thread. So, he did what he always did best, he tried to lift your spirits, if only for a moment.

He leaned back in his seat, studying your expression with a knowing smile. “You know, Y/N, you don’t have to unload everything on me right now. You’re allowed to keep some things to yourself. You don’t owe anyone your pain.” His tone was light, but there was a deep, unspoken understanding beneath it. He knew you were struggling, and he wanted you to know that it was okay to take your time.

You gave him a small, tired smile, grateful for his patience. “I know, Pete. It’s just... hard to talk about. I’ve been so focused on work, it’s easier that way. It’s all I know.”

Peter nodded, his eyes softening with empathy. “I get it. But maybe it’s time to leave work behind, just for a little while. You don’t have to think about everything right now. Start small. Maybe try coming out of your room every once in a while?” He said it with a teasing grin, nudging your shoulder playfully, hoping to coax even the smallest laugh out of you.

You couldn’t help but chuckle, shaking your head at his attempt to lighten the mood. “I know, I’ve been a bit of a hermit lately. I guess it’s easier to just shut myself away.”

Peter’s smile widened, and he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Well, lucky for you, your presence is strictly required at my welcome-back party tonight. The team’s putting it together, and you have no excuses not to come. I already told them you’d be there.”

You groaned, though there was no real annoyance behind it. “Seriously? Peter, I don’t know if I’m up for-”

He cut you off, holding up a hand. “Ah-ah, no excuses. We’ll be back by early afternoon, you’ll have plenty of time to rest, take a shower, and then you’re going to show up and have a good time, even if I have to drag you there myself.”

You rolled your eyes, but his enthusiasm was infectious. There was a warmth in his insistence, a reminder that you weren’t alone and that there was still joy to be found, even in the smallest of moments. “Fine, fine. I’ll be there. But only because you’re the most obnoxiously persistent person I know.”

Peter laughed, giving you a mock bow from his seat. “I’ll take that as a compliment. But seriously, Y/N, it’ll be good to see you outside of the office for once. We all miss you, and I promise, you’ll be glad you came.”

You nodded, feeling a small flicker of anticipation amidst the exhaustion. For the first time in a while, you allowed yourself to look forward to something that wasn’t work, something that didn’t involve endless reports or painful memories. It wasn’t a solution to all your problems, but it was a start—a chance to reconnect with the people who mattered, to take a breath and remember that there was more to life than the shadows that had been chasing you.

As you looked at Peter, his familiar smile reminding you of all the good things you’d shared over the years, you felt a small surge of hope. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be so bad after all.

The train ride back to Quantico had felt endless, but the weight of the unresolved emotions made the journey back to your apartment even more suffocating. Peter’s words lingered, tugging at wounds you hadn’t dared to touch, and Hotch’s distant presence weighed heavily on your mind. The familiar solitude of your apartment was supposed to be comforting, but tonight, it felt more like a reminder of all the things you’d been running from: your grief, your past, and the fragile, fraying connection with the person who had come to mean so much to you.

You dropped your bag onto the floor, letting it fall with a thud that echoed through the empty space. You leaned against the kitchen counter, feeling the cool surface against your palms as you tried to ground yourself. You wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. It was as if you’d locked them away, buried them beneath layers of duty and distraction.

But then there was a knock at your door, soft and tentative, almost like the person on the other side wasn’t sure they should be there. You hesitated, wiping at your eyes quickly as if to compose yourself, and moved to answer. You half-expected to find Peter, still worried about you after the train ride, or maybe even no one at all, just a mistake. But when you opened the door, it was Hotch who stood before you.

He looked different, more vulnerable and uncertain than you had ever seen him. His usually composed demeanor was frayed, and there was a rawness in his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and heavy burdens. He stood there awkwardly, clutching the doorframe as if it were the only thing keeping him upright, his face etched with a mixture of hesitation and determination.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the weight of everything unsaid hanging between you like a fragile thread, one wrong move away from snapping. Hotch looked down, swallowing hard as if searching for the right words. He wasn’t in his usual pristine suit but rather dressed in a simple shirt and jeans, his attire as out of place as the uncertainty written across his face.

“Hotch?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper, tinged with both surprise and concern. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he just looked at you, as if he was struggling to find the right words, struggling to let down the walls he had spent a lifetime building. He stepped inside, and you quietly closed the door behind him, your heart pounding as you waited for him to speak. He took a few slow steps into the living room, glancing around as if trying to ground himself in the unfamiliar space.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said, his voice strained and brittle, every word heavy with unspoken pain. “I know this isn’t… I shouldn’t have just shown up like this, but I needed to talk to you. About… about what you said last night, and today on the train. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to overhear your conversation with Peter.”

This wasn’t the composed, confident man you knew at work, this was Aaron, someone you never got to see, someone who was barely holding it together. “ You were right, Y/N. You were right about everything.”

You stood there, frozen, as his words hit you like a wave. You had never heard Hotch sound so vulnerable, so broken. He was always the strong one, the unshakable agent who never let his guard down, but tonight, he was just Aaron, and he was struggling.

“I’ve spent my whole life trying to keep things separate,” he began, his voice trembling. “I thought if I could just focus on the work, I could ignore everything else—everything that hurt, everything that felt out of my control. But I can’t keep doing that. It’s not who I am, and it’s not who I want to be anymore.”

Hotch’s hands shook as he tried to steady himself, his eyes brimming with emotions he had kept buried for so long. “My father... he was abusive. He was cruel in ways that I can’t even put into words. He’d tear me apart with his words, his fists, anything to remind me that I was never good enough. I grew up in a house that felt more like a battlefield than a home, where silence was never safe and every day was just another fight to survive.”

His voice cracked, and you could see the weight of those memories in his eyes: the fear, the shame, the endless need to be perfect because nothing less would ever be enough for a man who thrived on control. “I tried so hard to protect my mom, my brother, but I was just a kid. There were nights when I’d lie awake, praying he’d leave us alone, praying I’d be strong enough to make it stop. But it never did. And I swore that when I grew up, I’d never be like him. I’d never let anyone see that weakness.”

You listened, your own tears finally breaking free as his pain washed over you. You had never imagined Hotch’s past had been so brutal, so deeply scarred by violence and fear. He had always seemed so put together, so composed, but now, you could see just how much he had been hiding, how much he had been carrying all this time.

“I thought if I kept that part of myself locked away, I’d be able to move on. I thought… I thought if I became Hotch, the profiler, that it would erase all the things he said I’d never be. But it’s just made me more closed off, more afraid to let anyone in. And I’ve been doing it for so long, I don’t even know how to stop.”

He looked at you, his eyes glassy with unshed tears, and you could see the desperation there - the plea for understanding, for forgiveness, for something he couldn’t quite name. “I don’t know how to let people in, Y/N. I don’t know how to not be this… this guarded version of myself. But if I’m going to try, if I’m going to let anyone see me, I want it to be you. Because you were right when you said I don’t know you, but I want to. And you deserve to know me, too—the real me.”

The vulnerability in his voice shattered something inside you, and without thinking, you closed the distance between you and pulled him into a tight, desperate hug. Hotch tensed at first, unaccustomed to such unguarded intimacy, but then his arms wrapped around you, and you could feel him finally letting go. His head bowed against your shoulder, and his entire frame shook with the silent sobs he’d been holding back for too long.

You clung to him, your own tears mingling with his, and in that moment, it felt like the dam you’d both been holding back had finally broken. You were no longer the stoic agents who always had the answers, always kept it together. You were just two people, scarred and hurting, trying to find solace in the only way you knew how: by holding on to each other.

Hotch’s hand moved to the back of your head, his fingers tangling gently in your hair as he held you closer, as if you were the lifeline he had been searching for. He whispered apologies between his tears, his voice cracking with the weight of his regrets. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry… I didn’t see it. I didn’t see you.”

You shook your head, burying your face into his neck, your tears soaking through his t-shirt as you let out all the grief you’d kept buried: the loss of your father, the unresolved pain of your parents’ broken marriage, the way you had thrown yourself into work to keep from falling apart. You had been running for so long, hiding behind your accomplishments, just like him.

“No, I’m the one who’s sorry, Aaron,” you whispered through your tears, the use of his first name slipping out naturally in this moment of raw honesty. “I had no idea. I was so angry, and I—”

He shook his head, his voice soft but firm as he whispered back, “You don’t have to apologize. You were right… about all of it. I needed to hear it. I needed to face it.”

The two of you stood there for what felt like an eternity, wrapped up in each other’s pain and understanding, the weight of your shared burdens finally feeling just a little bit lighter. There were no perfect words, no easy fixes, but in that embrace, you found something neither of you had expected—comfort, solace, and the beginning of a new kind of trust.

“It’s okay,” you whispered through your tears, clutching him tighter. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

For the first time, it felt like you were truly seen, truly understood, and the relief of it was overwhelming. You didn’t have to pretend anymore, didn’t have to be strong or perfect or put together. You could just be, and he could just be, and that was enough.

Hotch pulled back slightly, your eyes finally met, both of you still teary but no longer hiding. There was a silent understanding there, a promise that from now on, things would be different. “No more walls. No more hiding.” He murmured, his voice shaky but filled with a quiet determination.

You nodded, and for the first time in a long time, you believed it. You didn’t know what the future would hold, but as you held each other in that quiet, tear-stained moment, you knew that you weren’t alone anymore. You had each other, and that was a start. It was messy, and it was painful, but it was real. And in that, you found hope - hope that maybe, together, you could begin to heal. You weren’t just partners in the professional sense anymore; you were something more—two people learning to let each other in, to lean on each other’s strength when your own wasn’t enough. And in that simple, fragile moment, you both knew that whatever came next, you wouldn’t have to face it alone, that your new friend would be right there at your side.

The evening had settled over the city, and the Irish pub next to your apartment block was buzzing with energy. For the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to feel a glimmer of lightness, excitement bubbling at the thought of spending time with Hotch, Peter, and the rest of your colleagues from the BAU. After everything that had happened, the weight of unresolved emotions had eased, if only slightly, and you found yourself looking forward to reconnecting with your team outside the pressures of the job.

Earlier that afternoon, you’d stopped by a bookstore, the small shop tucked between a row of cafes and boutique stores you often passed but rarely visited. As you browsed the shelves, your eyes fell on a book titled "Hegel for Dummies." It was a perfect, lighthearted gesture, a small symbol of your newfound friendship with Hotch, and a callback to the night you’d spent poring over Frank Lloyd Wright’s designs at the library. You thought that maybe, after his recent dive into architecture, he might take an interest in philosophy too, especially Hegel, one of your favorites. The book felt like a tiny olive branch, a way of letting him into your world a little more, just as he had let you into his the night before.

You imagined him reading it, piecing together Hegel’s ideas on thesis, antithesis, and synthesis, and maybe learning something about you in the process. And who knew? Maybe one day, if you were lucky, he’d hand you one of his favorite books, offering you another glimpse into the parts of himself he rarely showed.

When you walked into the pub, the warm light and chatter were an immediate comfort. You spotted your team at a long wooden table near the back, and to your surprise, you saw Gideon sitting there, crutches leaned against the wall, his leg injury having kept him out of the latest case. Rossi was beside him, the two of them looking as inseparable as ever, trading stories and laughs over pints of beer. It was a sight that immediately lifted your spirits.

“Look who finally made it!” Rossi called out, waving you over. “Come on, we saved you a seat.”

You grinned, making your way through the crowd. “Rossi, Gideon, you two didn’t tell me you’d be here.”

Gideon leaned back, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Well, you didn’t think we’d miss the party, did you? Besides, someone has to make sure Peter doesn’t get too full of himself.”

Peter shot you a wink, raising his glass in greeting. “They’re just here to bask in my glory, Y/N. But don’t let them fool you, they’ve been talking about you all night.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing as you took a seat between Gideon and Peter. “I’m sure they have. So, what did I miss?”

Before anyone could answer, Hotch walked in, his presence as commanding as ever, though there was a new softness in his eyes when he spotted you. You exchanged a smile, a silent acknowledgment of the night before, and of the steps you were both taking toward something new, something vulnerable.

“Hotch!” Rossi greeted, patting the empty seat beside him. “Come sit, we’re debating where Peter’s new desk should be. Since Y/N’s parked herself at his old one, we might need to reshuffle the whole bullpen.”

Hotch took his seat, glancing at you with a teasing smile. “I think she’s gotten too comfortable. I doubt she’s giving it up.”

Peter leaned in closer to you, his voice low and conspiratorial whispering into your ear “Wanna make a bet?” he asked, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “See that woman behind Hotch’s shoulder? If she doesn’t come talk to him, you get to keep your desk.”

You eyed the woman briefly, noticing her casual yet elegant demeanor, but she seemed engrossed in her own conversation. Hotch was engaged in a discussion with Rossi, showing no sign of noticing her. You were confident this would be an easy win, especially given Hotch’s typically reserved nature. “Alright,” you said, turning back to Peter. “And what do you get if you win?”

Peter’s grin widened, the playful edge in his voice unmistakable. “A date. With you.”

The unexpected proposition caught you off guard, and for a moment, you felt your cheeks warm. You glanced at him, trying to gauge if he was serious, but his expression remained light, teasing. You brushed it off with a laugh, pretending he was just messing with you. “Okay, you’re on.”

But no sooner had you accepted the bet than the woman, as if she had somehow overheard your conversation, moved toward Hotch with an expression of surprise. You watched in stunned silence as she approached, her voice soft and familiar. “Aaron? What were the odds?”

Your heart sank as Hotch’s face lit up, a rare and genuine smile crossing his features, his cheeks flushed slightly, and there was a familiarity between them that made your chest tighten. You felt Peter nudge you, his voice breaking through the shock. “Looks like you owe me a date.”

You barely registered his words, too fixated on the interaction unfolding in front of you. Hotch returned to the table with the woman by his side, her presence seeming to fill the room in a way that made you feel suddenly small and out of place. Hotch’s voice cut through the noise, introducing her with a casualness that belied the weight of the moment. “Everyone, this is Haley.”

You barely managed to hold your composure, the pieces of this unexpected puzzle falling into place as you processed Hotch’s flushed expression and the warmth in his eyes when he looked at her. This wasn’t just anyone, this was someone from his past, someone who clearly was very close and definitely had shared some sort of romantic history with him. The bitter thoughts stung more than you wanted to admit.

Before you could say anything, Gideon, ever the observant one, leaned over, catching sight of the corner of a book sticking out of your open purse. “Hegel for Dummies?” he asked with a raised eyebrow, amusement flickering in his voice as he picked it up to inspect.

You nodded, still too stunned to fully engage, your mind elsewhere. “Yeah. It’s… it’s just a little joke,” you managed, though the words felt hollow in the moment.

The words hung heavy in the air, and as you sat there, watching Hotch interact with Haley, you couldn’t help but feel the truth in them. Life was messy, a constant push and pull of opposing forces, and you were caught in the middle of it, trying to make sense of what it all meant.

#aaron hotchner #criminal minds #hotch #hotch x reader #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner x reader #criminal minds x reader

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codenamesazanka · 6 months ago

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i always loved the Geten Himura reveal and blurb of backstory because it really rounded out the world of bnha. imo. It was a relatively tiny detail, but it showed that problems were deeper and more complex than just Bad Man, because many things were interconnected, and how tragedies can occur due to those chains of intersections.

Like, the fact that the Himura were traditional wealthy landowners was significant, because it meant they were the exact sort of old-money conservative douchebags that would hate change, that would marry cousins to keep their bloodline pure, that would raise children with the expectations to sell them off in arranged marriages. And because they were an old landowning clan, they would've had influence over local village politics - so is it any surprise that villages would be awful towards heteromorphs, when the village leaders or elites were people who rather marry their cousins than 'taint' their bloodline with outsiders and possibly have a kid with a heteromorphic quirk?

It meant Rei was always prepared to not marry for love, but be married to someone rich, and stay in that marriage no matter what, for the sake of her family. I don't know how low the Himura fell, but given that they're a big landowning family, they probably weren't 'starving in the streets' poor and in need of cash for survival, but rather didn't have the money to support their previously comfortable lifestyle. Rei kept in contact with her mom, but the mom could offer no support when Enji turned abusive - whether it was because the mom was also trained to be a traditional housewife and thought this was all normal, or because the mom needed the daughter to keep up a lifestyle, it's all fucked up. And plus, the marriage broker in Chapter 301 also mentioned "Himura women" like there's bunch, and there probably were - Rei's sisters or cousins also getting married off for money, also stuck in this clan-obligation-duty-dysfunction-web.

Enji was the asshole Rei ended up marrying, and everything that happened is his fault, but there very much could've been five other wealthy assholes that her parents had lined up for her to meet. In fact, Enji could've been a particularly useful idiot for the Himura - at the time, Enji was only 21, 22 years old, only having reached the age of majority the year or two before; his father was dead, so he's the head of his household, so they don't have to worry about pesky in-laws; he was probably nouveau riche from his Hero career, so he had no idea of old clan politics; he wanted a quirk marriage, which fit perfectly with their blood purity ideology; and he wanted a kid immediately, sealing the deal. Enji's selfishness matched beautifully with Himura's own messed up issues.

And so the problem isn't just Enji, and it didn't affect just Rei, it's a whole thing. And I so always thought this reveal added so much to the landscape of HeroAcaWorld, where quirks didn't only brought new problems, but exacerbated old prejudices and inequalities, entrenching them even further into the fabric of society. And it would've been fascinating to see how Heroes would have to deal with that.

#but instead it's just one or two Bad Man #and above all an supernaturally evil baby #nalslastworkingbraincell

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beautyconsumer · 10 days ago

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Thinking about how when I was getting into the Batfam content and fandom I went through their wiki page and I remember very clearly how the person who made the article explained that the batfamily as a whole, with Barbara, Bruce, Dick and Alfred were straight up meant to be THE found family trope.

But because comics are comics and there are different writers with different visions this ended up just not happening.

I enjoy the comics a whole lot, I love the characters so very much. I like how complex the stories in this media are, how campy even if some is a mess.

But honestly I want what it was meant to be, there's Wayne Family Adventures but I want to see their relationship as a family be more explored in canon, doesn't mean I want to strip the characters from their qualities or personalities and morals that make them so unique and fleshed out.

I want them messy, as a dysfunctional family but still one, they love each other but they feel frustrated by each other too because they're so different.

Anyway, dysfunctional but loving batfamily when

#jason todd #dc comics #batman #dc #batfam #bruce wayne #dick grayson #red hood #batfamily #damian wayne #cassandra cain #duke thomas #kate kane #alfred pennyworth #talia al ghul #ra's al ghul #batgirl #robin

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always---wrong · 15 days ago

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I think I know why I like Greek Mythology so much. It's one of the only religions that I know of where all the godly beings are very obviously nuerodivergent.

The greeks knew it too. They knew they're godly deities were weird as fuck. Their godly deities who could look just like their neighbor or their doctor or someone they pass in the street.

The gods in Greek mythology are so human, especially compared to other religions at the time. It was the first one that designed its gods on humans, one of the first ones where it was okay to laugh at the funny situations the gods got themselves in. The only religion at the time where, though if you got them angry they may kill your entire family, you could interact and be friendly with them.

They were so human. They had a home, a place to live. They went to parties and had their hobbies.

On top of it all, the Olympians are the embodiment of a crazy dysfunctional family. They are a mess, from the cheating husband (and fucking weirdo) in Zeus, to the bitter and jealous wife in Hera. They have kids (mostly Zeus) some who Zeus likes and some where he could literally couldn't care less. There's scandals and messy situation ships. There are betrayals and tragedies. The gods all have their different morals and lines they won't cross and it depends on which god.

They're based on humans. They are so human. (Which is something I don't see often in religions at all and it heals some part of my religious trauma) Yet, they are also weird as fuck, in ways that I find familiar.

They each have their special little things. Things that they care about a mighty deal. Things that are specific especially to them.

Ares with his fighting and war. Hephaestus with his creations and the forge. Hera and her single-mind on Zeus and his disloyalty- that woman is relentless on those poor mistresses. Poseidon and his odd love of horses and other things. Apollo and his music.

It's almost like those things that they focus solely on is some kind of... Special interest perhaps?

It's also the way the act and react to things. They will take things that are said or done that seem small and trivial to another person and blow it up. They will get really upset and make it a whole ordeal.

Like when Athena made a flute and was laughed at cause blowing into it made her look funny so she freaking cursed the flute and it's next player with a terrible fate and threw it off the mountain for no good reason. Or when someone found that flute they played it so well that the bragged that they would even be better than Apollo so he came down, challenged them and then SKINNED them alive after he won. Like dude, calm down.

And I haven't even gotten into how Rick Riordan characterizes them cause I have never seen so many neurodivergent characters in one place then I do in those books. Like, all the campers are neurodivergent because they are demigods, heavy on the god. They got their neurodivergences from them right so it stands to reason that they are also neurodivergent.

Anywayyyyy,

Im reading a Greek mythology textbook right now so I'm going to continue this train of thought as I keep reading but so far, from what I can tell, these fuckers are soooooo nuerodivergent. Argue with a wall if you disagree

#greek mythology #greek gods #neurodiversity #zeus #apollo #athena #hera #ares #hephaestus #posiedon #rick riordan #percy jackson

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writinandcrying · 11 months ago

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TMNT ONE SHOT - Holiday Season - A Special gift

Christmas was not your favorite holiday, at least you had a mutant turtle to help out in this trying times (GN READER, Tw: dysfunctional family, arguments and bickering related to food, crying mentioned)

Fluff - makeout / first kiss with *insert turtle you like* after a shitty xmas (English isn’t my first language and I didn’t proof read this 😗✌️, pls don’t hesitante to correct me if you see something off putting, I hope you guys still like it!)

You climb up the last steps of the fire scape connecting the roof top of your building, dragging your feet as you groan one last time, it’s impressive you can hear your relatives arguing several stores bellow, you have lost count how many times people can pick on each other on their free will. You drag your hands along your face and sigh, you want nothing more but to distance yourself from that.

You didn’t get to feel much of The “Christmas spirit” everyone seem to love and cherish since you left your childhood years, and it seems that every year you learn to dislike December a little bit more. As much as The Grinch was deeply relatable for you lately, you didn’t want it to be, having a dysfunctional family in such a tender Holiday was kinda like receiving punch in the gut every day until 25th of December died out. After the first 10, the warm smiles and happy wishes over a great season seem to constantly mock your misery, leaving you bitter and resentful.

Leaning over the edge of your building, you check the many light up windows and different narratives playing along on your neighborhood, a family all gathered up taking a picture by their decorated tree on the left, you let a chuckle out by thrilled parents filming a rather young child by your right, to what it seems taking their first steps by their excitement.

it was nice seeing different kind of life’s playing along the fairy lights on the streets bellow, secretly wishing yours would be a little bit like theirs, reality seems distant as you accidentally disassociate, thinking how -your- family would be seen compared to those merry ones, your parents resentment growing against each other every minute, barking mean comments left and right to you messing apparently everything up. The perfect picture of a broken home. Awful to see, awful to be part of.

You sigh as you recall what drove you to the edge moments ago, a silly comment really, it was so small compared to the constant bickering around the whole month of December, but picking on you eating a single cookie? That you made? You spent the whole day cooking. The whole day trying to have a good Christmas, you can feel yourself fuming as you remember how much you have worked your ass off the whole month for their presents, for a good Christmas dinner, as they wouldnt even buy a single pair of sock for you. Give you a single “thank you” for all of your efforts, You tried, you really did, Despite all the odds against your favor, you still tried, when you finally decide you give yourself a taste of your hard work, your family dares to give you shit about your eating habits? No. Nuh uh.

That was the last drop. You marched to your room as you heard someone giving you shit one last time after harshly dropping the plate on the dining table. knew you would be screwed when they found out you were gone, no amount of locks would keep them at bay for longer than 2 to 3 hours. But god, you needed a time out. Yes, you would rather freeze your butt on a dirty and frozen roof top than to listen to another passive aggressive bullshit comment.

“you have been hiding here all this time?” A familiar voice fills out of the foggyness of your thoughts, your head turns around slightly, watching a well known silhouette marvelously shining through the moonlight “nobody’s seen you in days” his tone isn’t harsh or accusative, you can almost hear a incredulous chuckle out of him, he speaks lightly, curious to your whereabouts, you can also hear him landing near the regular rooftop entrance, you stare once again to the uncountable windows and buildings in front of you.

He waits for you to retaliate, reply with witty comeback, flash him an apologetic smile, anything, but silence wins you over. He knew something was up when you were this quiet, your family would be the main topic when you vanished like that, he also knew you needed space to deal with such matter, in due time, you would ask for comfort, you would seek for his presence, just like when he comes to you, yet this time it never came, you never came. The ninja turtle slowly leans over, trailing his eyes ahead as you do.

A sniff catches him off guard, he knows it shouldnt, but it does, he glances at you to finally see your glossy eyes staring ahead, a blush covering your cheeks and nose; You look adorable, sad, disappointed, frustrated, but still can’t help but to find you adorable, his hearts stings as you rapidly catch a sneaky tear roll down your cheek, turning your back at him before he can catch you in this arms.

“Didn’t want to bother.” your voice comes out more shaky than you would like, a bit hoarse due to the current season, you rub your hands together, if he questioned about your well being, you could just blame it on the cold weather,on the perfect snowflakes falling above you two.

“You could never bother” he trails along slowly, weary as if you were a scared cat, afraid that any hasty movement could make you dash “how about we go to the lair? Everyone misses you.” he gently places a hand on your back, “I miss you” he ponders, moving slowly to be by your side, your eyes don’t meet his, he wants to lean down, he wants your eyes locked on his, he wants you to trust him as much as he trusts you, he wants nothing more but to hold you close and kiss your sorrows and tears away.

he stays put instead, waiting on your call.

You instinctively turns towards him, his warmth drawing you in, you want to smile, to tell him over and over that eveything is fine, you were just busy, he doesn’t have to worry.

Instead your mouth is pressed in a tight line, you can feel your lips trembling when you try to speak, you know words will come out wobbly, and for the first time, you won’t be able to hold back tears in front of him. This is pathetic. You think, you want to be at the lair. You want to be near them, but how can you explain you can’t bare to see their love, brotherhood and companionship tonight? You can’t feel part of it? This night isn’t about you, it has never been and it will never will be, you just get used to it.

You look up; your thoughts swimming through your eyes, you open and close your mouth, how do you explain you crave affection, but can’t seem to bear it?

The turtle holds you in a swift movement, carrying you with ease, gently but still firmly holding you against his plastron in princess style, the familiar adrenaline rushes trough you as you can feel him jumping from roof top to roof top, you don’t have words to question him, astoundingly admiring him as you stare at his focused face facing the horizon ahead.

You close your eyes for a moment, learning your face over the valley of his neck and collarbone, in a blink of an eye, songs, chatter and laughter fills the air and you remember you are in New York , the most magical city to be this time of year. Yes, you had probably the crappiest month of your life, but for a moment, you let yourself drift away in bliss, focusing on sounds and passing colorful lights.

He settles both you on a empty office balcony, everything is dark inside accept for the faint lights on a very worn out tree looking back at you, you check your own reflection, your eyes are red and puffy, your hair is uneven, and there are millions of colors shining behind you.

The Rockefeller was the most iconic place all over New York during Christmas time, slowly turning around, the tree and it’s surroundings leaving you both speechless, you loved Christmas lights, it was impressive to say the least how the decorations were absolutely ethereal. ever so slowly, you both sit down and admire the virw quietly.

“You don’t have to deal with everything on your own” is the first line he graces you, you wanna laugh with that alone, look who’s talking you think over, but you can’t say it, you know he is right, he chuckles as if he could read your mind, he gently tilts your head upwards “next time, call me. Text me. Reach out, for goddess sake.” He smiles at you, you let out a huff, smiling shyly “you have so much on your plate already, I just, I didn’t-“

“You deserve so much better” he shakes his head, lips pressed in a thin line. Over many years of his life, he has thought he had too little and humans had absolutely everything on top side, it was unfair and left a sour taste over his mouth. you have shown him that kind of thought was childish, he had a family, he had people he could count on, that’s alone is a lot more than what many people have, He can’t take that fact for granted anymore.

He also knew your biggest wish was to be part of something like that, his biggest wish was to make you feel part of it, maybe even something more.

You shyly lace your pinky with one of his fingers, ducking away as you felt your face burning under his deep gaze, you were so appreciative of his family, of him, of his patience and dedication, to say you have a crush on the turtle was an understatement, everything the he did made your heart skip a beat, the way he would always seek out for you during hangouts, how he cared for your preferences and well being, you found yourself unable to look away when he was training, when he would laughs so care freely, when he gets lost on his interests and everything seems to slow down around the both of you. You rest your head gently over his shoulder, you know you can get lost in his eyes quickly, you bite your lip when you think of his, and how heavenly it would feel against yours.

“It’s alright..” that what you manage to come up with, it’s cheap and it’s empty, but you don’t know what else to say. “No it’s not.” He says it firmly, interlocking your fingers tightly to prove his point.

Sometimes, you swear he feels the same as you do, you swear you can catch a soft longing from him across the dinging table, across the dojo over self defense training, short glances that are filled with unspoken words, that the innocent touches are not so innocent anymore. but life has taught you not to hang on those wishes, not to have hope. It was hurtful to do so.

“why do you care?” you let a frustrated sigh out, you hate how you just asked that the moment the words left your mouth, you aren’t frustrated at him per say, more towards your feelings, at how clammy your hands feel around his, how fast your heart is beating, how you secretly hope he knows that you didn’t mean to let that question out, how much of a chicken you were, how you fought annoying daydreaming scenarios with him on daily basis and yet just wish he kissed you already.

“Because I do.” he makes you look at him again, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, and for the first time tonight, you look at him, you really look at him, how he is breathing fast, how dilated his pupils are when he looks at you, how his thumb drags temptingly over the bottom of your lips, letting out a shaky breath as he squeezes your hand one last time.

“because I just do.” His gaze is locked in yours, pleading, full of what you have denied yourself for years, telling eveything you have ever wanted without any words. He was yours, and you are his.

you finally tell yourself fuck it and kiss him.

It’s desperate, it’s passionate, it’s eveything you want and more, you drag your nails on the nape of his neck and draws him into your space, your chest hits is plastron as he grips your hips as he pins you down against the ground, the way you hook one of your leg on top of his shell drives out a moan out of him, making you arch your back, you nibble his bottom lip as you swear you gonna lose your mind.

You don’t know how long has passed, your grip on him is as strong as his as you lay beneath him, you makeout until you are both out of breath, until the anger and frustration has been worn out and you two slowly melt together, once fervent kisses turns into soft, gentle ones, until you are both looking at each other, smiling and giving pecks between giggles, translating eveything you have both been feeling towards each other

“Goddamn.” he draws a hearty laugh out of both you, the turtle rests is forehead against yours, sighing dreamily, giving you feather light kisses on your cheeks as you pull him closer.

“I care a lot about you too.” you drunkly smile to him, caressing his cheeks tenderly, “I sure hope so.” you hook your arms around his neck, laughing at his antics.

“I gotta tell you something tho.” you tilt your head curiously, he looks down at your lips, licking instinctively as you bite yours.

“you surprisingly taste like gingerbread cookies”

That makes you giggle once more.

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It’s 3 am and Idk how to finish so hopefully the end it’s not too abrupt *confetti sounds* 🎉 let me know if you guys liked it!

#tmnt #tmnt x reader #rottmnt #rottmnt x reader #giulia writes #tmnt headcanons #tmnt 2007 #tmnt raph #tmnt mikey #tmnt leonardo #tmnt 2003 #tmnt donatello #tmnt fandom #tmnt bayverse turtles x reader #tmnt bayverse

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sugolara · 19 days ago

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♫ My butterfly stomach

Ft. Shota, Katsuki, Hitoshi, Izuku, Shoto, Eri & gn! reader

Synopsis: Born by dysfunctional parents, Shota Aizawa takes it upon himself to adopt a litter of kids to give them the best chance life could offer them.

Or... [A family with different parents try to beat any obstacle that come their way, though they couldn't have done this without the help of their adopted father; Shota.]

Cw: language, drinking, smoking, substance abuse, death mention, a bit of angst, quirkless! au, humor, slight sexual themes nothing to graphic, gender neutral reader!, updates once a month or so

Honorable Supporting Cast: Denki Kaminari [The best friend], Kyoka Jiro [The friend], Eijiro Kirishima [The love interest], Ochaco Uraraka [The friend], Tenya Iida [The love interest], Mina Ashido [The friend], Momo Yaoyorozu [The love Interest], Hanta Sero [The love interst] & other extras that aren't important

Music of the chapter: Totally Wired — The fall

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"Oh, fuck me, we got cooking!" F/n grunted as they stepped inside the classroom. After parting ways with Hitoshi, the rest had entered the classroom together as they had the same teacher; Hizashi. Luckily for F/n, Denki, and Hanta, Hizashi was a laid back teacher and mostly used up the entire class time in just letting everyone hangout, not to mention the blonde was a family friend to the Aizawa's. Entering the classroom, almost everyone was there.

From behind, Katsuki entered and stood by F/n as he had just escaped a horde of fangirls circling Shoto, leaving him behind to deal with the mess, "Your psychotic boyfriend said to answer his texts or he's going to slash dads tires, again."

"Seriously?" Annoyingly, F/n reached into their pockets to retrieve their phone and lo and behold, a hundreds texts from Neito were popping up as every second passed, "Jeez, talk about being famous."

Next to them, Kyoka joined, removing her scarf, "Totally forgot you were dating that guy. How long has it been?"

"Way to fucking long." F/n drew out, swiping the notifications away with a bored look, but also joining in was Eijiro who gave F/n a dead look. "It's been two weeks. Two weeks since he's slashed Mr. Aizawa's tires three times and not only that, but sending me death threats. What kind of guys do you date, F/n!? That's the fourth one!"

"Wait, I thought you said someone else sent you death threats?" Hanta asked, as he recalled the day the red-head had jumped into his yard in the middle of night screaming about someone chasing him.

Denki laughed as he also remembered that day after staying at his home when his parents took off, "Was it the one that tried doing the spell on you?"

"Spell?" Katsuki looked at his best friend, "Didn't you say someone chased you down the whole way home?"

Kyoka gave a look at F/n, "Seriously, F/n?"

Sputtering, they placed their phone away, forgetting to text back Neito, "I thought he said it was someone else."

"Does that matter?" The red-head huffed, "That brings me back to my point. What kind of people do you date?"

"They're not all bad." F/n said, though not even they believed it.

Sighing, Kyoka glanced at the door as more people flowed in, "No, you just got a knack on dating people with issues and believe that you'll be the one to change them. Then when they fall in love with you and basically devote their life to you, you dump them or ignore them."

"...Wow." Hanta eyed F/n, "I'm pretty sure that's some kind of...fetish."

"It is." Katsuki rolled his eyes, "And it's fucking weird. Then you act like you have no idea what you did when they start pulling shit like slashing tires and sending death threats."

"I'm not into that, okay?" F/n rolled their eyes, crossing her arms when she saw Shoto, Izuku, Ochaco, and Mina enter. Just behind them, F/n could see Hizashi, Momo and lastly, Tenya who let their eyes stare on him, waiting for him to notice, "It's not my fault some people are crazy and decide to come to me."

Eijiro shook his head, "I'll be sending my condolences to the next person you date."

"Imagine it's you." Denki joked, laughing with Kyoka as Hizashi stood in the front of the class and clapped his hands, gathering everyone's attention as the final bell rang. "Alright class, settle down and form a line. Let's start the first day of school fresh and begin with baking a cake!"

Everyone in class groaned which made Hizashi whine, "Aw! C'mon guys, be excited! We get to bake cake! Who doesn't like cake!?"

After partnering up with people, F/n was left without a partner which was a bother. The last thing F/n wanted to do was do all the work so groaning, they took their problems to Hizashi, "Why do I get to be by myself!? Everyone else gets to be partnered up and have fun, but you're telling me I have to work by myself!? I mean look at Denki and Shoto! They get to have fun and, oh, let's not forget the last time when Denki almost burned the school! It's not fair that just because Minoru decided to be a fucking pervert I get to be singled out!"

They released a breath and patted Hizashi's shoulder, "Excuse my language, uncle."

Staring at F/n, he sighed and pointed to the back table, "Fine, go be partners with Tenya until Momo."

"Alright, four eyes!" F/n silently cheered, fixing their uniform as they made their way to the station, "Whaddup, Sexy. Where Momo at, honey?"

Sighing disappointingly, Tenya handed F/n an apron, "F/n, how many times have I told you that name is not polite."

"Honey?" F/n asked, to which he shook his head. "The other one."

"It's polite if it's true." They said, trying the aprons strings around their waist, "So, where's Momo? Don't tell me she's finally a rebel, because if so I owe Katsuki ¥3044. Damn."

"No." He stirred the batter, "She's talking with Principle Nezu about the incident with Minoru. Tsu along with other girls were called out as well. So far, it's not looking good."

"Oh." F/n hummed, sitting on a stool and looking down at the baking book, "I thought that was settled last year."

"No," He simply said, focusing back on his work while keeping an eye on them 'cause, y'know, "they wanted all the girls and since some weren't they're on the day it was supposed to be held they had to postpone it."

"How do you know so much?" A brow quirked as they watched him stir.

"Because I'm the class president—and the only sane one in here." He then nudged his head to the back table, "Go ask Shoto or Denki for half a cup of sugar."

When F/n stood up, Tenya gave them a stern look, "Half a cup."

"Jeez, acting like I can't listen." F/n mumbled, stalking off towards their brother's station. Arriving, a snicker left their lips, pointing at the cake, "Man, what the hell are you trying to do? Create a radioactive?"

"We're not done." Shoto gave them a brief glare, "And don't go acting like yours is any better when I know it looks exactly like ours."

"FYI, it is." They pointed to their table where Tenya cracked two eggs. A smirk had been plastered on their lips, "I got the best of the best."

"No fair." Denki whined, setting the flour down, "You got Stick-up-his-ass and Momo. Knowing them, they'll let you do nothing so they can pass."

F/n snickered as Shoto looked at them, "Did you need something? And it better not be here to mess with us. I'm trying to make dad proud."

"Psh." F/n waved at him, "Please, the only ones who need to make him proud are me and Katsuki. You're like an, ehh, on his list."

"Where do you land?" Denki asked, picking the shells of an egg that landed on the batter.

"Below Katsuki." They proudly admitted, however, hearing Tenya calling for them, F/n got back on task, "Anyways, I need a cup of sugar."

"You know, I was thinking of putting in strawberries. I saw Mina still had some." Ochaco hummed, looking at everyone's cake before looking back at Izuku with a smile "Oh, did I tell you? Katsuki offered to tutor me, which I found weird, but then I realized he keeps looking at this girl that hangs out in the library for lunch. So, pretty soon he might have a girlfriend!"

"Kacchan?" Izuku looked at her, unbelieving that he'd go out of his way for a library girl, "Yeah, right. She's probably just a quick bang if he's willing to put in the effort. She'll just be another name on his list."

An expressionless look was on her face, "Why do guys do that? It's degrading."

"Not all do that..." He mumbled, looking at the cake, "I don't do that."

"That's because I'm the first you've ever been with." She returned to her cake, ignoring the look Izuku gave her, "Go grab the strawberries from Mina."

A quiet sigh left him as he grudgingly made his way to the pink-hair, passing Katsuki who shook his head at Eijiro. An ashamed look was on his face, eyes glaring between the red-head and the cake, "Look at this shit. How the fuck do you manage to screw a cake when the instructions are right in front of you. What are you—Icyhot and Sparky?!"

Eijiro nervously chuckled, the batter on the spatula dripped onto the floor, "Uh...you can't blame me when the font is small and there's no pictures—and to be fair, I did warn you. Why do you think my dad does the cooking?"

"The fuck does your dad have to do with this!?" The blonde exasperatedly looked at him.

"I don't know!" His voice quivered, "Man, I'm having a hard time and you're not making it any better!"

"Oh my fucking god."

When the timer on Hizashi's desk went off, the cakes in the oven were now ready to be decorated. The teacher passed by each station, giving occasional thumbs up at those that looked good, but when he got to Denki's and Shoto's, his face well, "Well, what's going on here?"

Denki frowned down at the monstrosity, "I don't know. We followed the instructions. It kind of looks...sad."

Hizashi hummed, crossing his left arm over his chest while the other arm was placed on his chin. He glanced at the book, deciding it was best to not mention they were following a completely different recipe, "It's a little more than sad, Denki."

"Wait, maybe we're just looking at it wrong." Shoto said. He and Denki then tilted their heads to get a better look, ignoring the face Hizashi gave them.

Finally, lunch arrived and with the hall crowded the group took their time in getting to the cafeteria. With the overworked workers, there would be plenty of food.

"Momo never came back." Tenya worryingly said, his hands clutching the straps of his bag, "It had to be serious if they're having her miss a few classes."

"I'm sure she's fine." F/n fished out their phone, disregarding Neito's thousand messages, "They took Tsu and she came back looking happy...but it's kind of hard to tell with her...face."

"That is true." He mumbled and while he tried to believe Momo was indeed fine, he couldn't. It's not that he had a crush on her, she was his friend—everyone's friend, "We'll probably see her next class."

F/n nodded as Hanta came right next to them, "You guys talking about Momo? Tsu told Mina that she went home early."

"Why?" Tenya asked.

"Dunno." He shrugged, "We're thinking of going to her place after school to check on her. You guys coming?"

They both immediately agreed, worried about how bad the issue was. Arriving at the cafeteria, Hanta went off to save them a table while the others retrieved their lunch.

"Where's Katsuki?" F/n asked, looking at Kyoka.

She shrugged, looking at the Menu above them, "Ask Izuku. I saw him with Katsuki and Ochaco when we got out of class."

"Ochaco's helping him hook up with this library student." Denki scratched his cheek, eyes on the menu, "You guys got money? My folks left nothing again."

"I got you." I love you, Kyoka.

Moving forward and after grabbing their lunch, F/n was suddenly stopped and their heart almost leaped out of their chest when Neito jump scared them. They placed a hand on their chest, "You need to wear a fucking bell, dude. Could've gotten a heartache."

"I'm breaking up with you." He crossed his arms.

"W-What?" There were people around them, but neither of them cared, even when they shockingly looked their way. "Why?"

"Because you're an asshole." He looked up and down at them, "And that says something when it comes from me."

"Well, you can't call me an asshole when I didn't even do anything." F/n said, thinking back to when they behaved like one, "What did I do?"

"Exactly! What did you do?!" He threw his arms in the air before counting his fingers with a glare, "You don't answer my calls, you can't even both bother to text me and apparently you can't even hang out with me?! I'm you're fucking boyfriend, F/n! This whole time the relationship has been one-sided!"

"You only counted three..." F/n mumbled, though it went deaf to his ears.

"And don't even think I don't know how you look at Mei." He threantingly said, "You're a dog. Don't come back to me when no one will love you."

Before F/n could utter a word, his glare was changed into a smile and he shoved past them, "Anyways, good luck in life you're going to need it."

Unsure of how to react, they continued to watch their now ex-boyfriend with an unreadable expression. They should have felt hurt by the insults, but to be fair, Neito was right. With the blonde leaving the cafeteria—and the hot ginger following behind—F/n returned to the group who had seen everything, "So...Neito broke up with me."

"Oh, shit." Mina worriedly eyed them, "Are you okay?"

F/n shrugged, sitting next to Hanta who masked their joy with a frown. "It was for the best, F/n. He was crazy."

"Yeah–" Hitoshi swallowed his food, unbothered by the breakup as it wouldn't and would never be the first, "I'm surprised he even did it. You're both a match made in heaven and you both did everyone a favor in dating each other."

"Dude, is that really what you say after a breakup?" Eijiro looked at him.

"That's not polite." Tenya gave F/n his juice in hopes it'd make them feel better, "Even if you're right."

"Ehh, you two will get back together." Denki chimed in, biting into his chicken as Kyoka kicked his shin.

After a while of staring off into space, trying to feel heartbroken, F/n gave up. A grin was placed on their lips, "Did you guys hear Mirio, from last year, is hosting a party this weekend?"

#katsuki bakugo x reader #izuku x reader #shoto x y/n #dadzawa #eri bnha #hanta x reader #sero x reader #mina x reader #tenya iida #tenya x reader #iida x reader #eijiro kirishima x reader #jiro x reader #hitoshi shinso x reader #shinso x reader #denki x reader #kaminari x reader #ochaco x reader #momo yaoyorozu x reader

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i-heart-hxh · 11 months ago

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hey

ik you're busy with processing all this scrapped ending stuff, but imma ask anyways. so people here and on twitter tend to say that killua and gon's relationship is codependent. how is it shown? cuz to me they're just extremely devoted to eachother, but i can't exactly see this whole codependency thing.

love your analysis btw, you're great❤️

Hi! Thank you very much for the kind words, I appreciate it! (Obviously answering this after a while, as the scrapped ending topic isn't quite as omnipresent now.)

On one hand, I do think their relationship has aspects of codependency, for reasons I'll go into below. But there's a lot going on in their relationship, and I also believe people use this term as sort of a catch-all for the various issues.

So, what is codependency?

Codependency is a dysfunctional relationship dynamic where one person assumes the role of 'the giver,' sacrificing their own needs and well-being for the sake of the other, 'the taker.' -- Psychology Today

I mean...doesn't this sound like Killua's unhealthy, self-sacrificing devotion for Gon?

Killua mostly takes on this role himself, but Gon does stoke this dynamic, assigning Killua the role of holding him back in dangerous situations and expecting him to clean up after his messes.

Killua is happy to have this role supporting Gon and takes it seriously, but as the series goes on, the burdens he deals with on Gon's behalf keep getting more and more extreme, and when Gon pushes him away even when he's doing his role (trying to keep Gon from doing something reckless and getting carried away, in the scene where Gon confronts Pitou), it breaks Killua's heart.

The issues between these two have a root cause: Both of them love each other more than they love themselves. This is the key to understanding many of the underlying issues in their relationship.

In Killua, this manifests by devotedly taking on whatever Gon wants or needs no matter what personal cost it has to him, trying desperately to be of service to him because it's the only way he knows how to express his love for him. Coming from the Zoldyck family, it makes sense acts of service are one of the only ways he believes love can be expressed meaningfully. As I said in another post, he even takes on things Gon doesn't ask him to do, and then hides how much he does for Gon and the costs it has to him, so Gon isn't even aware of how much Killua suffers on his behalf.

In Gon, this manifests by prioritizing Killua's life while recklessly disregarding his own. Remember this line?

I come back to this scene all the time because it's vital to understanding the way Gon values Killua above himself. To Gon, his life isn't worth all that much, but Killua's life is another story.

When Killua could have died if he dodged differently in the Dodgeball match, Gon loses his temper completely, to the point where he can't even answer Bisky's simple questions. I recommend reading the whole scene to see just how pissed Gon is about this, but for the sake of brevity here's the most important part:

This happens before the pivotal scene of Killua holding the ball for Gon, severely injuring his hands. There's a lot of complexity to this scene and what it means in their relationship, it honestly deserves its own post because it's difficult to summarize, but it shows us Killua being perfectly willing and happy to be gravely injured on Gon's behalf, and Gon accepting Killua's willingness to sacrifice and suffer for him. Definitely a case of codependency, if you revisit the definition above.

At the same time it's an indication of deep trust and understanding between the two: Gon knows that Killua wants to do this for him and he allows him to do this because he knows it has meaning to Killua. Killua knows that he's the only one Gon would ever entrust such a task to, and that means the world to him, even before Gon says his "It has to be Killua," line. And ultimately, even if it's a bit twisted, this act is all in service of Gon trying to avenge Killua being put at deadly risk.

When Gon is in front of Pitou and says the "This means nothing to you," line, this is intended to push Killua away, tell him it's not his fight. This battle is Gon's burden, he's willing to give up his life if it comes down to it, but Gon doesn't include Killua in his plans because, after all, Gon believes that it's okay if he dies, but not Killua. While the way Gon lashes out at Killua says more about his emotional state at the time than his intentions, his repeated pushing Killua away during his grief and rage is one of the ways he ironically shows love towards Killua--he doesn't want Killua to have to share this burden or die on his behalf, because he sees it as all his fault. Even when Killua contributed to what happened in a way (knocking Gon out in order to take him and leaving Kite behind, something Killua definitely blames himself for), Gon refuses to blame him even slightly.

But because Killua stakes his entire self-worth on how useful he can be to Gon (codependency), being pushed away by Gon and not allowed to share his burdens and his pain is just about the deepest wound Gon can inflict on Killua. It's not what Gon intends with his actions--if anything it's him trying to protect Killua in his own way--it's just the way their respective issues with self-esteem manifest, and it's unfortunate. It's why they need to split up for now, to heal and work through what happened, so they can come back together, communicate properly, and build a better dynamic the second time around.

Now, when discussing their codependency I think it's worth remembering some things: They are both young teens with issues with trauma and self-esteem, who haven't had close friendships prior to this. Many of the less healthy aspects of their friendship, like their lack of fully communicating for instance, are tendencies from the ways they were raised. They adore each other more than anything, they almost never intend to cause harm to each other, and the "roles" they take on in the relationship that end up hurting them are generally more self-imposed and coming out of their individual issues than something either of them is forcing the other to take on.

Their relationship has been transformative and deeply meaningful to both of them, and they're definitely happier together than apart. The issues between them need to be addressed and reflected on by both of them, but I truly believe this is something they'll be able to overcome ultimately.

#hxh #hunter x hunter #gon #killua #killugon #gonkillu #meta #my posts #asks #anonymous #long post #I feel like there's things I could dig into more but this is already long!

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heli0s-writes · 2 years ago

Text

You’re Toxic, I’m Slipping Under

Summary: He bristles, offended. And you try, with as much dignity as you can muster after the last two hours of being fucked blind, to not look so smug about it. “See you next week,” he hums.

A/n: To celebrate Glass Onion coming out, here’s ol’ boy Ransom because I hate him so much :) 4.1k words. Warnings: Smut; mild degradation, spitting, daddy kink; classism; Mind Games with Ransom Hour etc. etc. Please stop reading if you’re not 18+

Your whole apartment building seems to rattle when he arrives thirty minutes late. Like raucous fanfare to announce his appearance, the door slams shut, the latch clicks loudly, and then you hear his heavy footsteps pounding up the stairs.

His shoes are still on—of course they are—stomping your floorboards and dragging in dirt. You can practically see them, the usual suede loafers switched out for leather boots with the late fall chill, and probably mud-caked because he’s thankless like that.

With your attention still on your laptop, already irritated because you’ve been attempting a paper that’s only chased its tail for the last three hours, you ask, “Did you misplace your watch, Ransom?”

Turning, you show him you’re the screen reading 8:32 and blink pointedly, “Is that a yes?”

“Don’t be smart,” he snaps back. “You know I don’t like that.”

Your head’s been a mess of fog, body tense and frustrated for days, and although you’ve always prided yourself on tact and grace—patient like a saint—Ransom manages to bring out the worst. You hiss, “Take your damn shoes off, you know I don’t like that.”

You watch mutely as he does so, not without a sneer here, a shitty comment there. He takes three long steps and plops himself on your bed, hands curling into the quilt, thumbs brushing over the patchwork fabric disparagingly. He pinches a loose thread and begins to pull, tugging slowly at first, and then finding joy in unraveling a line of stitching until nearly three inches rip apart.

“I always thought you needed to replace this thing.” He twirls the string disdainfully, “It’s ugly as sin.”

He pretends he doesn’t know how you obviously love this quilt—handstitched and affectionately made, your damn initials are embroidered into the corner, after all. He’s made a game of testing your patience, gleefully punching at every button as he tries to get you to snap.

Ransom Drysdale Thrombey. You’d met him at one of the Thrombey’s family… functions. Dysfunction, you’d muttered under your breath when Walt beat his cane against the floor in a drunken tirade and Meg ran out back to wolf down a pot cookie that she was supposed to be saving for later.

She was on the cusp of a panic attack, words tumbling out like a car crash, her hand in her beret, then hair, then trembling over her maroon-painted lips.

“God, I’m so sorry— I thought we could just make a pit stop before heading out. The food’s always catered and really good— god… it’s a fucking mess.”

You waved her off because it’s not like you haven’t witnessed at least one aunt having a meltdown during holiday dinner before— family’s just like that—and tried to placate her with, “Can’t be worse than the cousin who asked if we’d be scissoring later.”

Meg’s face twisted in disgust. “Ugh, ew! Fucking Jacob! He’s a skeezy little incel— I swear he’s a moderator on one of those internet forums where they post revenge porn and upskirt vids— honestly, he was adorable two years ago. Then I guess he went through puberty and got radicalized on Youtube.”

You paused as she lit a cigarette and inhaled furiously before realizing that the two of you were thinking of two entirely different cousins.

“I meant the big one, Meg. This one went through puberty twenty years ago.”

“Ew, Ransom,” Meg frowned, “That’s even worse.”

“Ransom? What is he, a Disney villain?”

Leaves crunched behind your back and Meg looked up from flicking ash into the yard toward the sound.

“Let’s be honest, I’ve got the face of a leading man.”

Meg blew smoke at him, as if the fumes were enough to threaten his sensibilities. You figured not, he looked like a cigar smoker anyway—one of those guys who’d dedicate a whole room in their house with the humidity just right to keep them fresh. Rich people shit.

“Go away, Ransom,” she said, to clarify.

“I don’t recall addressing you, Megan.” He took a drawn-out look, lips pursing in scrutiny before lifting a brow, making a real goddamn show about it. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll bite. 400 on the dresser for an hour; you can get yourself something nice.”

You’re still not sure what it was about either your attire or attitude that allowed him to conjure up such an offer.

Maybe it was your shitty jeans and your sweater from freshman year orientation. Maybe you looked like an easy mark to tear down.

His audacity shocked out a laugh from you—a loud, abrupt guffaw that eased Meg enough for her to dip back inside to grab more from her stash. And when she was out of sight, focused on rummaging in the old clock, you responded, “Yeah, okay. I’ll bite back.”

Maybe it was an act of rebellion against your background in contrast to all this excess. The bitter aftertaste of eating bottom shelf food out of necessity for weeks at a time—those awful chicken bouillon packets and dried blocks of instant noodles your first year of college. No one paid for your schooling or housing so learning to balance an over-abundance of classes and a job because you needed to graduate early, needed to spend less money on tuition, meant that you were working yourself to death.

If Youtube radicalized Jacob, then habitually sleeping three hours a night in the campus library and skipping meals to afford textbooks while men like Ransom crashed Maserati’s for fun radicalized you.

So, sure. Game on.

He picked you up the following weekend without anyone knowing and took you somewhere expensive. It was a whirlwind of exorbitant dinners and being quietly sneered at down the straight line of his tall nose bridge. The front door to his bachelor pad shutting but not bothered with locking. Falling into the thousand-count Egyptian cotton bedsheets naked, the skylight’s beam spilling like gold-flecked champagne.

You promised yourself it meant nothing. Just an experiment of unbridled spite. If he wanted to throw money at you, hell, that’s his problem. If he wanted to fuck you, well, you’d give him the best fuck of his life— let him see that despite wealth, at the end of the day, he was flesh and blood trembling for the right stroke.

And sure, he trembled, but it was your mistake to pare it down so simply.

Ransom juggled fuck buddies much longer than you’d been fucking at all. He knew it was best with the right amount of emotion involved. Just enough to yearn. If he laid roses at your feet, kissed your knees featherlight and worked his way up to your jaw, cradled the back of your head, nosed the pulse of your wrist, your collarbones, asked for your eyes on him, and panted the lightest breath of your name at the edge of it all—now who’s fucking who over, sweetheart?

You were out of your depth. He was powerful, older, and more experienced. He touched you in ways that emulated affection—that brought fire and danger. His hands were large and callused at the juncture of his fingers. His pretty mouth was pink, wet, kissed greedy. His sharp eyes took everything in.

But, as you predicted, his moods soon volleyed in every direction as consequence of never being told no, and once the novelty of crazy hot—often angry—sex grew stale, you crashed back down to earth burned out. You ghosted.

“You’re, what…” he called through the door the week after you texted that it was both too much and not enough to carry on with, “breaking up with me? Seriously. This is a fucking joke.”

And you could have practically seen it—how his bottom lip would jut out as his incisors crossed, how his brows would sink when he got angry. He was never belligerent, only calculating.

You told him to leave, and he did, after a single loud kick to the frame, because he’s never begged for anything, and he wasn’t going to start.

The guilt came afterwards, with the bouquet of roses on the doormat, petals scattered around because he’d slammed them down after being ignored again and again, and you swept them inside to throw into a vase next to the three other vases with flowers in various degrees of wilted.

“Breaking up” prickled complicatedly in the middle of your chest, because despite the many shows of affection, you knew you weren’t exactly breaking up. You had never really been with him anyway. People aren’t… with Ransom. They’re towed along by Ransom, dragged by their hair by Ransom. Played with by Ransom until he inevitably gets bored.

It devolved into needless melodrama. Weekly episodes of a teen show with grandiose gestures of toxic relationships perceived as romance. Ransom’s habit of whisking you away, fucking you senseless, turning around to fight with you about any-goddamn-thing he pleased. Dropping off flowers and champagne. Restarting the whole process.

It wasn’t healthy—isn’t healthy, probably, according to most therapists—since he’s here, present-day, in your room, beginning to undress.

You fiddle with the sleeves at your elbows, thumbing cool satin before advancing, arms subconsciously crossed.

He’s only in his underwear now. A pair of nondescript gray boxer briefs fitted on his muscular thighs, taut as he leans back on his palms. He slowly spreads his legs, inviting you between them. His lips purse when you stand passively, knee brushing his bulge, hands resting over his shoulders. He’s warm.

One palm caresses your lower back and the other on himself, gliding up and down. His lids are half open, voice low, “You miss this?”

“No,” which is a lie. You missed it when evenings were boring, half-heartedly nodding to some boy’s drivel about campus life, mind wandering to someone who didn’t look freshly 21, didn’t date like it. Didn’t talk themselves up just to get you into bed.

At least Ransom was honest; he always said exactly what he thought, told you exactly when you were pissing him off, how he was going to teach you a lesson—where he wanted you, how he wanted you, and— a chill races up your arms.

He’s downright smug when he notices.

“No? You prefer sloppy frat boys pawing at you like virgins over me? Every time, you think they might fuck right but, well, you’re always disappointed.” He reaches beneath the short hem of the robe, splays his hand out over your thigh and very slowly feels his way up.

Your eyes shutter as he pulls you forward, gripping tightly and massaging up toward your ass. The pit of your belly is tightening, the rest trying to push down being too eager for him all over you, his broad shoulders, his strong hands, how he bends his grasp on your shoulder, fixes you in a perfect curved arch just the way he likes.

Ransom noses the robe out of his path, sinking his teeth lightly down until he scrapes a line over your breastbone, laying his face gently down like a child—like a lover.

“You know,” he begins, taunting again, “You make a… face.” He says it as he trails down beneath the swell of one breast, letting your nipple graze his cheek, before he presses a kiss to your ribcage. Hot like a brand, searing into your belly. And then he bites.

You flinch, hand going to his hair to pull him away. He throws his head back into your grasp, eyes glittering and amused. He quickly works your thighs apart, dipping two fingers between and sinking into your heat.

“There it is,” he chuckles when your eyes flutter, “Yeah... Really gets me off.”

You’re in his lap before you know it, your hold on him fallen off and now scrambling for his wide shoulders to hold yourself steady. He’s got you leaned back on his thighs, hanging off the edge of the bed and perfectly helpless, the only thing planting you even close to secure are your folded knees, your arms around his neck. He’s shushing you, one large hand on the small of your back, the other still working inside your pussy.

He says, “Calm down unless you want to fall,” but it’s goddamn hard when your heart is pounding with equal parts fear and arousal. He’s sucking on your tits, balancing you just precariously enough to thrill, fingering you all the while—like it’s nothing to him, like you’re an object he can manipulate however he pleases.

His cock is erect, flexing against the fabric over his groin, a swell of hard, aching muscle. You want to put your hand around it, feel its girth in your palm, simply hold it because you do fucking miss it. The places he can reach, the ways he spreads you, rocking in and pulling out—how he sometimes settles inside, and then does nothing but watch you squirm.

It’s undeniably gorgeous—and he is too—when you fumble it out after he lays you down and hovers over you with interest. You’re wetting your lips automatically, staring in awe at his thick shaft sprouting from soft, dark, curls, the tip of it smooth and almost purple, swollen up with blood.

“Legs up,” and the way he says it, how he just goes right out and says it, makes you groan.

Boys don’t do that. Too busy in their heads about peacocking and re-enacting the kind of porno where performers wordlessly move into new positions in sync, nothing verbal exchanged but high-pitched shrieking and nasally fuck me’s.

Ransom’s extremely verbal in bed. He easily says, “Look at me. Show me how much you want it,” and flits his eyes between your bodies.

You do, shivering, sliding two fingers along the sides of your folds, finding yourself aroused and damp, humiliated and incredibly turned on when he grins, simply content with watching. Your thighs are squeezing reflexively, abdomen crunching up trying to keep it together.

But he’s never been patient, and quickly tells you to hold your knees, rock back, make yourself small and exposed, and then he’s delving gently into your hole— thumbs taking turns, coaxing more.

Two fingers tuck in, then another two struggle next to them, and you can’t stop yourself from gasping and crying out at how he pulls apart the walls of your cunt.

The sound of it— sloppy, squelching, a light and hollow kind of noise like a tongue flicking inside an open mouth.

“Look at this pretty pussy.” He tugs a little more, and you wriggle into it, gripping your legs tighter, pulling your knees up, shins toward your burning face to hide.

He descends on your clit, tip of his tongue licking into your stretched hole, purposefully only running against the taut skin around his fingers. “You got a talent, baby,” he murmurs, buzzing. “I could fuck you the whole day, fuck you numb… but give you about half an hour and it’s good as new, tight and perfect.”

There had been marathon rounds of bouncing in his lap between being at each other’s throats, his thighs splitting yours, hands holding you up, nibbling at your ear. Then he’d turn you around, take you to the floor until you collapsed on the bearskin rug, the sweat on your neck and chest rolling into dark furs. Railed you until you were so sensitive anything would make you come; your body unsure if it was considered your own anymore.

Fuck, fight, rinse, and repeat.

“Are you—going to talk all night?” You grunt up to the ceiling, trying to steel yourself from panting or moaning and only barely making it.

“Thought you liked it when I talked.” His dark head is still between your legs, nose pressed into your skin, licking agonizingly slow with his entire tongue. It’s so warm, and gentle, and assertive. “What, you don’t like being told how good you taste?”

He keeps licking, pushing at the back of your knees when you try to switch positions, holding you in that bent up pose. He’s suckling at your clit when his fingers find their way back inside, easily hooking in three and pumping them smoothly.

“How—” he sucks hard, the shape of his full, plush lips fitted over you making a filthy wet smack, “mmm—I love the taste of your sweet pussy?”

When you come like it’s being ripped out of you, legs shaking around his head, lines of his spit dripping down your ass and onto the sheets, he lets you go with a hard slap on your sex, and you nearly wail.

“That’s my girl,” he says. “Yeah, you missed me, huh? You missed it like this, didn’t you? Tell me.”

“Unnng …” a high whine, “Ransom.”

“I know,” he mumbles, kissing up your belly, your neck, your ear.

He moves into position, entering effortlessly after all his prep work, and the shine of your juice still on his beard is fucking unholy hot. He’s grinning and panting, eyes fluttering briefly as he slides home.

“I know it’s big, baby. But you can take it, you’re gonna take it.” He’s a fraction unfocused, letting himself enjoy how you squeeze around him before he begins to punish.

Jesus, you missed this. Missed the agonizing drag of his shaft that feels like it goes on and on forever. Miss the way you get full of him, miss how it almost hurts.

His hipbones are hitting against yours, a steady fast rhythm because he’s experienced like that. Whereas some others might go faster when you’re close, Ransom stays at the pace that got you there in the first place. If anything, he pushes just a bit harder, makes you listen to the sound of his skin on yours, the choke of your breath he punches out.

You crunch yourself up smaller, toes touching the headboard now. Anything to get him further in.

“Fuck, you’re a slut,” he laughs. “Pretty little slut, god you don’t give it up like this for anyone else, do you?”

There’s not enough sense in you to argue even if you wanted to. The room is swimming, undulating, slipping further and further out of reach as the bed rocks and squeaks in protest. You’re sure you met a very handsome guy at the bar weeks ago but as soon as he started hinting that he was interested and stirred up conversation by asking your major, you left.

It just… wasn’t there. It wasn’t the same. No way in hell.

That boy wouldn’t have done this—wouldn’t be planting one foot on the bed, the other knee still down, enormous hands tight on your hips and crashing in.

You could cry, it feels so goddamn good.

Tears dribble their way out from the corner of your eyes. You turn your face enough to get a breath of fresh air, gulping it in frantically between the drive of Ransom’s cock and the half second he slides out.

You vaguely register his hand moving from your hip to your cheek, knuckles brushing upward.

“Oh,” he sighs, “pretty, pretty girl.” He slows his pace, nearly stilling. You squirm beneath him, inching away from how deep he is inside you, how intimate it feels as he kisses the hollow of your cheek and then toward your brow.

“So sweet for me,” he says, pulsing, making you whine with how he pushes against your sore walls. “Did I make a slut out of you? Huh? Make you stupid for my dick?”

“Make me come,” you say. “Make me—“

“Ask me real nice, baby. Ask daddy to make you come.”

You want to hit him. Kill him.

“No?” He whispers into the sensitive shell of your ear, “You don’t want it?”

You squeeze your eyes shut, embarrassment clawing up your face, but Ransom’s hold is tighter, sharper, and he really is— so fucking right. You want it. And he’s made you a little stupid, so yeah--

“Please make me come, daddy. I wanna come.”

The Cheshire grin that unfurls on his face is more panther than cat. “You wanna come on daddy’s big cock?”

“Yes, daddy,” you admit. “I wanna so bad.”

“Oh, that’s it, baby. You’re a good girl, aren’t you. You put on a little show just for me? Act like you don’t want it but soon as I get in you and you let me lay you out anywhere, make you say anything.”

You turn away but he’s got your fucking number— got you as a boneless, spineless mess beneath him as he begins to fuck you again, and harder, his calculating, beautiful, cruel face hanging above you like a fever dream.

“You gonna come? Gonna cry?”

He’s melting away, he’s everywhere, and the lights behind your eyelids are starting to glare and threaten to explode.

“Gonna come for daddy, huh. That’s it, baby. That’s my girl, let me feel your pussy— ah— there it is— you can’t help it, can you? Mmm, swallow daddy’s cock with your pussy.”

Your orgasm is a wreck of curses and teeth on Ransom’s shoulder when he drops down close enough to make contact. You shake and whimper, struggling to calm yourself through the aftershocks.

When you’re done, still floaty but more aware, the mess of your humming insides less tight around him, he pulls out and shuffles up until his swollen tip is at your chin.

You obey wordlessly, and afterwards, when the flex of his shaft is tell-tale, and he empties into your mouth, you hold it there, show him the mess.

“Baby,” he says, slowly making his way back down, admiring the come submerging your tongue.

Ransom licks his lips, licks the inside of his cheek, and leans back over again, his eyes liquid darkness and pleased as punch. And he drops a line of spit on top, drools it down over your teeth, into your mouth, and says, “Good girl.”

“You need a new laptop.” He’s tugging his belt until the clasp hooks into place.

“I don’t.”

“It looks old.”

“So do you.”

He bristles, offended. And you try, with as much dignity as you can muster after the last two hours of being fucked blind, to not look so smug about it.

“See you next week,” he hums.

You don’t say anything in response, only listening for the same heavy footsteps slam back downstairs—perhaps a fraction lighter—and the clunk of the door swinging shut. A long breath and you stretch slowly, letting your body regain its normal shape before he bent you into a goddamn pretzel. A few minutes pass, and then a few more, and you hear the roar of his car speed out of the parking lot.

Safe now, out of his reach, you amble back up into your computer chair to face the awful white, blank document staring back like a judgmental audience. You slide in and crack your neck, feeling the throb between your thighs yield to a less uncomfortable ache.

The problem, you’ve learned after leaving Ransom’s world, was that you had been ill-equipped to play his game. His game, and by extension, Meg’s game. All the Thrombeys and Drysdales and everyone in-between.

They belonged to a class you couldn’t really understand unless you were making a fucking killing—and graduation was just around the bend, so maybe you would, one day—but you were in the red with 45 grand of student debt and staring down the barrel of a subsequent degree because it was getting hard to make it with just a single bachelor’s in anything.

There was too much to do and not enough time to be jerked around by Ransom—not nearly enough time to feel frustrated about your situation in any sense. No, scraping by taught you to survive. You couldn’t be whisked off to the Caymans for brunch, couldn’t be fucked raw in hotel infinity pools, get lost for days meandering the Pacific on luxury yachts for the fun of it.

Your world was a little more drab, a little less rose-tinted.

So it was back to normal now, back to the grind, back to not wasting any part of your week on shitty dates, shitty sex, and coming home more frustrated than you left it. Because there was Ransom, so eager to make some kind of statement about proving you wrong that he’d be the last to know when he’s being used.

And maybe 4 out of 5 therapists would say that your coping mechanism to a normal sex drive is unhealthy—mind-fucking and regular-fucking your ex/not-ex will do that—but you wouldn’t know. You can’t afford therapy just yet.

You rub your back, patting out the tightness of overworked muscles. It doesn’t feel any worse than the cramp you’d gotten after staying up three nights in a row cramming for finals.

As if your brain has reset, your fingers begin tapping on the keys, and you realize your writer’s block’s been lifted.

#ransom drysdale #ransom thrombey #knives out #ransom x reader #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale smut #reader insert #fanfiction #ransom drysdale thrombey

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zeroclockk · 5 months ago

Text

— ⋆˙⟡ Love Your Feeling || Chapter five

- When JK meets Mom₊˚⊹♡

“Yun, you shouldn’t smoke,” he tries to discuss. “Neither should you, you look stupid,” I tell him,

Pair: jjk x femOC, college students, best friends

Word count: 4.2k

Warning: this chapter includes slight substance use⚠️

masterlist || taglist

!Friends to Lovers, Protective Brother, Secret Dating, Friends with Benefits, Angst, Mature content, Dysfunctional Family, Fluff, Smut, Mentions of Alcoholism and Abuse

——————————————————————₊˚⊹♡

Up, down. Up, down. Up… down… is the pace Jungkook’s chest goes at. It’s one of those moments where you’re mad that you woke up, so you keep your eyes closed in hopes you’ll go back to sleep.

Kinda like wanting to jump back into a dream, but it rarely ever happens unless you’re sleepy enough for it. In 1 out of maybe 10 scenarios you actually are sleepy enough, same goes for this instance.

I feel Jungkook move his arm, the tips of his fingers tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. His fingers fall to my shoulder trailing down before settling his whole hand on my upper arm.

It’s a Sunday, which usually consists of doing groceries and cleaning up the mess at home. So, if I can stretch this afternoon out as long as possible, I will.

I can already predict what awaits me at home; Beer bottles on the floor surrounding the couch, dirty dishes piling up in the sink, a load of dirty underwear and towels peeking out of the laundry basket, and probably a foul smell coming from somewhere you’re unable to locate.

Lost in thought, I eventually get sick of staying in the same position. I open my eyes with a soft groan, seeing there’s a blanket placed over us. That must mean Mingyu has seen us cuddled up on the couch, as he was probably getting his breakfast.

I slowly move my chin up to see Jungkook with his eyes closed, head slightly faltered to the side. My movement doesn’t give him any reaction, which must mean he’s fallen back asleep.

I untangle myself from his grip, careful not to wake him as I tuck him in with the blanket that was once lying over me, repeating Mingyu’s past actions of the day.

My clothes from the night before are still on his bedroom floor, crumpled up into a pile. I debate for a second if I should hop in the shower or not but I just know that if I don’t I’ll feel disgusting for the rest of the day.

Using Jungkook’s shampoo and body wash I now must smell just like him. He’s a sucker for good skincare so -with the little time I have for myself- I use his to wash my face and moisturize it.

Usually, I dry my hair with a hair dryer, it’s the best for the length of my hair. Letting it air dry takes hours and a hair dryer leaves an overall nicer finish. But since Jungkook is still sleeping, I pat my hair down with a towel and leave it at that. Too afraid that the noise will eventually wake him up.

Freshly out of the shower, dressed, moisturized skin, I’m now growing hungry. It’s a nice thank you to Jungkook if I’ll make him breakfast right? I know he likes anything containing literal flour, so that should be an easy task.

Compared to the fridge at home, this one is filled with food and ingredients. Milk and eggs in the refrigerator, flour found somewhere in one of his cabinets I decide to make him pancakes.

It checks off everything from the list; easy, tasty, great breakfast, contains flour. And I really don’t want to sound cocky, but over the years I’ve become a quite good cook. It was either, learning how to cook or living off of plain shin ramyun every single day. It’s the only ramen Yoongi would want to spend his money on, says it’s ‘without a doubt tasty, so it isn’t a waste of money’.

Unfortunately, I don’t know how to make them delicious, Japanese pancakes, like the lovely lady from the cafe does. But I do know how to make delicious crepes. Plus, they don’t require much effort.

Not even the smell of the crepes baking in the pan is enough to wake Jungkook again, which must mean he’s very tired. With his crepe now done baking, I top it with some sugar and lemon juice and place it on the counter.

Mine is now spread out on the pan, waiting to be flipped over. I walk over to the couch, placing a hand on Jungkook’s abs to shake him awake.

“Kook” a loud groan sounds from his throat, eyes sleepy trying to open them fully. “Smells good,” he says closing his eyes again and dropping the back of his head on the armrest ready to fall back to asleep.

“Yours is done already, come on,” that’s enough to get him up apparently, as before I know it he’s in the kitchen in front of his plate.

"What you wanna do today?" he asks me as he takes a bite off of his fork, humming in approval. I flip my crepe in the pan waiting for it to be done. "I need to do groceries and then clean up the apartment," I explain. he gives me a questioning look wondering why I'm the one who cleans at home.

"doesn't Yoongi do anything in the household?" I sprinkle some sugar on my crepe adding a bit of lemon juice before sitting down next to Jungkook. "Well, on rare occasions I guess,"

Jungkook disapproves, tells me that I need to protest by not cleaning anything. As if I havent thought of that. There was this one time I figured it wasn't fair for me to do all the housecleaning, which led to a huge fight between me and Yoongi. He told me he brought in the majority of the money within the household therefore it's only fair for me to do the shopping, cleaning, and cooking. even though I work as well. not as much as him since I still have school, but still I bring money into the household. more than mother ever would

"I'll help you" he then offers. Is he insane? nope, nu-uh. I tell him he's not coming home with me, to which he whines. and we eventually agree on just doing groceries together. Jungkook just has to get changed real quick and we’ll be off.

he changes into a simple white tee and blue baggy jeans, basic but stylish. he grabs his car keys and we make our way to the vehicle.

He drives us to a nearby store, one that I’ve never been to before. I don’t know what’s in the fridge at home if there’s anything really. But over the years I’ve picked up a kind of routine, buying almost the same kinds of things every single time.

Some kind of fruit, a family pack of ramen, eggs, milk, spring onions, a snack, and 2 packs of coke. It reaches just about our weekly budget and feeds us more than enough.

We walk inside of the store, trying to navigate anything that’s in my list. But the prices aren’t the ones that I’m used to, this store is far too overpriced.

I thug at his shirt, lowering my voice so none of the employees will hear me when I tell him I can’t afford it here.

“Uhm, Kook. This is far too expensive,” he looks at me as if I’m crazy, checking the prices for himself. “Where do you go then?”

I tell him it’s better to go to mine and drag him out of the store by his arm, buying nothing.

The one on my side of the city is a family-held business, I know the owners really well. The mother of the business used to be classmates with my mother, she’s always been nice enough to occasionally check up on me.

The products are far cheaper than whatever Jungkook’s store was, pointing out to him how much cheaper it actually is.

I send him off to grab me a pack of shin ramyun as I pick out some fruit, settling for a honeydew melon cause it’s probably one of my favourite fruits.

Gathering everything else and making our way to the cash register, I get greeted by the mother. She asks me how I’m doing and if my mom is okay.

I don’t want to bother her with the details by telling her she’s drunk at home so I just tell her she’s fine and been working hard, even though she doesn’t even have a job at this point.

She’s even so nice to pack the groceries up for me handing me a plastic bag whilst giving me a free bag of crisps.

However, after paying, Jungkook is still caught up in looking at the vitrine behind the counter. “One pack of cigarettes and a lighter please,” he says to her.

I’m certainly taken aback, I didn’t know he smoked. I mean I’ve seen him smoke before at parties but only rarely, never have I seen him buy a pack for himself.

I wait for us to be outside again before asking him about it, waving my mom’s friend goodbye. I load the bag of groceries onto the back seat of his car and want to sit back in the passenger seat but Jungkook just stands in front of the store.

I see him take a cigarette out of the packaging lighting it up between his lips. I stand next to him looking. At the big road that lays behind the parking lot.

“Since when do you smoke?” He raises an eyebrow at me.

“Today apparently,” he answers.

Unsatisfied with his decision, this just only asks for a new addiction. So to protest I hold out my hand, non-verbally asking him for a cigarette myself.

I hear him chuckle and he shakes his head. “No way Nayun,” he says with a big grin on his face. I try to force my hand in his pocket to just grab it but he’s stronger than me and pulls me away, telling me off.

With a big pout on my face, I decide this is unfair storming back into the store and getting another pair; a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Do I have the money for it? Not really but sure, I’ll survive, financially that is.

So now I’m standing next to him, smoking my own cigarette.

“Yun, you shouldn’t smoke,” he tries to discuss.

“Neither should you,” I look at him blowing the stupid cigarette smoke out of his lungs, it looks damn hot I’m afraid to admit.

“You look stupid,” I tell him, even though he doesn’t. Cigarettes taste like shit, I should invest in one of them stupid-looking disco vapes.

He just chuckles at my remark and stays silent until we’ve both completely smoked up the cigarette.

“C'mon, I should really get home,” I nudge at him back to the car. The drive is literally 3 minutes, I usually walk this route.

I thank him for driving me but as I slam the door shut, the car turns off and Jungkook gets out too.

“What are you doing?” I ask him with a nervous chuckle. “Helping you out?”

I told him off on helping me to clean up already but he seemed determined, though he could also just mean walking me to my door. That’s just stupid, he always just dropped me off at a bus stop so why would he walk me all the way to my door now? You can see my door from the car so it’s just stupid to do that.

“What do you mean helping me out?..” I frown at him in confusion.

“Yun I don’t care what you say, I’m helping you clean,” he says as he walks towards the stairwell. I try my best to stop him, yelling after him in protest whilst running behind him like an idiot.

Though he really stands his ground, doesn’t let my protests stop him from getting to my house. The first time he’s here, in our long seven or eight-year friendship. I decide to just give in, cause I can’t just stand outside all day.

As I open the front door, the first thing you’ll see is the bathroom door. It’s not big enough to conceal the sight of the living room next to it. You can see everything as soon as you open it; living room in front, kitchen to your left, bedroom door wide open.

Mom still hasn’t come back, as for Yoongi I wouldn’t know. Yoongi usually leaves early in the mornings and comes back home late in the evening or night, I’ve learned to stop worrying about it. most of the time he spends it with his friends, Seokjin and Namjoon, sometimes even Hoseok, doing god knows what.

Having my house on display like this is vulnerable there are absolutely no filters you can put on it. No fake smiles, no ‘it’s fine’, there are no excuses when it’s like this.

And it’s truly shocking how bad it can get in a week’s worth. The couch is empty aside from the empty take-out box, Dad’s blanket, and some beer cans.

I look at Jungkook trying to see what his reaction is, but it’s fairly normal. I can see the slightest bit of shock on his face, his forehead creased a little. But it’s quick to soften up as he notices me swinging my head around, acting as if it’s the most normal case in the world.

“Welcome home I guess,” I say nervously.

He doesn’t say anything and takes his shoes off after me following right behind me into my house. I set the bag of groceries down on the kitchen counter, unpacking it and crumbling the plastic bag to go into a bigger plastic bag that’s stored in one of our cabinets.

“Are there supposed to be shards of glass on the ground?” I look back at him to see he’s standing by the window, next to the couch where a bottle had smashed during a fight between Yoongi and Mom.

“Oh yeah no I haven’t had time to clean it yet,” I explain.

It leaves him with a bunch of questions; what happened? Why is there a smashed bottle on the ground? Did you hurt anyone? Did you get hurt? But he just leaves it be and doesn’t question it any further.

“What can I do?” He asks me. I wouldn’t want to bother him with a hard task, because he’s a guest and of course he doesn’t know where anything is here.

I look around the room to see what he can do, spotting the beer crate in the corner of the kitchen and the bottles gathered around the couch and coffee table. I think it’s the perfect job for him to do just that, not too difficult for a guest and it’ll keep him busy for a little to stop complaining.

I hand him the crate and tell him to put the bottles In there as I focus on doing the dishes.

I tell him to look good for any lost bottles until the crate is completely filled up with them and to then put them out in the hall.

Luckily there aren’t many dishes, mainly bowls and chopsticks stacked up in the sink. So when Jungkook has put the crate outside I’m already done with washing all of them.

Now there are two things left to do; taking out the garbage and doing the laundry. None of these tasks seem appropriate for Jungkook to do, I don’t want to bother him and he doesn’t want me to be bothered by doing these tasks on my own.

He pushes me onto doing the laundry, he’s gonna take care of the garbage. The laundry room is opposite the bathroom right next to my bedroom, completely closed off from the kitchen.

It takes me some time as I put some clothes in the dryer the other day and hadn’t had the time to fold them yet, so that’s included in today’s task. Taking the dirty laundry baskets out of the bathroom, my room, and Yoongi’s and turning on the washer to do a quick dark wash.

Would’ve been embarrassing to let Jungkook fold the laundry, worse, load the washer. There’s lingerie in here that I wouldn’t want him to see, no matter the fact that he’s seen parts of me that even my best girlfriends haven’t.

Since it’s only clothing of Yoongi and I, only rarely ever mom’s clothing. It doesn’t take me an awful long time to fold everything separating the clothes into two piles, one for Yoongi and one for me. Putting both of them on our beds.

The doorbell then rings, I’m not expecting anyone. Mom doesn’t ring the doorbell, neither does Yoongi. Jungkook is quick to open the door before I’m able to reach the living room, I immediately notice how neat it is. It doesn’t surprise me completely, Jungkook’s apartment is always spotless and super tidy. I have no idea how he was able to do it here in the little amount of time that I was gone.

Not a single piece of rubbish that’s lying around or a bad odour lingering somewhere, not even a speck of dust that’s able to be found at the moment.

Jungkook doesn’t take long at the door, greets the person on the other side, and receives a package from them. None of us ever order anything so it must be the wrong address, though Jungkook seems sure of it and places the box on the coffee table.

“Dinner!” He chimes, utensils already set on the coffee table.

He ordered a large box of fried chicken, one of those luxurious ones where they dress it up all nicely and stuff. I don’t think I can remember the last time we had takeout, probably at Jia’s house or something. Certainly not with my family, Yoongi will always say it’s too expensive.

“Are you insane?!” I yell at him. He’s being far too generous, cleaning up for me and ordering me dinner?

There are certainly four different flavours, sweet and spicy, extra crispy, honey butter, and soy garlic. I don’t know if we’ll be able to finish all of it.

I turn on the TV to watch something, nothing that’s on cable really catches my attention. And neither does Jungkook so I pout at him begging him a little to log into his Netflix account, it receives a little chuckle from him as he takes the remote out of my hand logging into the account.

He lets me choose whatever I want, and suddenly in the mood to rewatch Alice in Borderland. And even though he has seen it already, he attentively watches the show with his cheeks full of chicken.

We make it about 1/3 through the box before I’m already full, Jungkook’s appetite lays a little higher than mine, and continues eating a bit more than me but it doesn’t take him long to sigh at the fullness of his stomach as well.

I take a sip of my soda and hear the front door open, both Yoongi and Mom walking inside. She doesn’t look good, eye bags that are darker than my hair, hair all messy I swear there’s leaves in them. Yoongi looks tired too, in a different way than Mom though. Yoongi just looks sleepy as for Mom she looks sleep-deprived and lifeless.

Jungkook stands up from the ground immediately, bowing to greet my mother and Yoongi politely. He has never actually met my mother, he’s heard about her a hundred thousand times but never actually met her.

She tries her best to cheer up at the sight of jungkook, telling him how glad she is to finally meet him and how handsome he is. She quite literally squeezes his bicep and praises him for how strong he is. Shes acting like a fool, as if she’s a teenager again. It also doesn’t help that she doesn’t stop drinking, even if she’s already drunk.

Yoongi and Mom settle around the coffee table nibbling away on the chicken whilst Mom asks Jungkook a bunch of questions, asking about his parents and how he grew up and whatnot. Yoongi and I just stay silent, heads down.

It makes me sad seeing how much effort she’s putting into getting to know Jungkook, she never cares to ask anything about us. Whenever we leave the house for days, she doesn’t care. Whenever someone comes back injured or crying, she doesn’t bat an eye.

It just hurts knowing you’re the problem. Whenever she acts careless I’ll just brush it off as something she does, but seeing her act like this just puts a stamp on us being the problem.

It takes her a whole one-hour conversation to doze off, Yoongi drags her to the couch lying her down on it and she’s out like a light.

It’s nearly 9 pm now so Jungkook thinks it’s better to be off. Yoongi thanks him for the food and apologises for our mother’s behaviour, leaving me to walk Jungkook back to his car.

“Thank you so much for helping me out today, it means a lot,” I say as we’re standing beside his car.

“It’s no problem, it was nice to meet your mom. And of course, see where you live for once,” he adds.

“I guess I was always a little embarrassed about it but… I know I can trust you,”

He takes a step closer to me tugging me into a warm embrace.

“No need to be embarrassed about anything okay?” He says. I nod against his cheesy hugging his waist tightly saying our goodbyes.

I can’t hug him too long in case Yoongi might see and suspect things that aren’t there. He seems to be in a calm mood, I wouldn’t want to blow that up right now.

And then Jungkook drives off. It’s awfully quiet out, it’s almost dark leaving the air in an awkward grey color.

I release a big sigh before making my way back up to the apartment, where Yoongi is cleaning up the mess that was left behind at our dinner party.

“Where’d you find her?” I ask him, referencing him coming home with Mom.

“Found her on a bench somewhere near the city,” he explains. There’s no emotion behind it, the same goes for me. It doesn’t sound sad, angry, annoyed, happy or cold. Just, normal.

“I’m really sorry about what happened,” his voice changes, it sounds genuine and apologetic.

“I shouldn’t have said any of that,” he holds his head down whilst I’m trying to stay neutral before I break down in tears again.

But Yoongi doesn’t really go in on it any further, doesn’t talk about Dad or repeat anything that he shouted at me in the convenience store.

Instead, he tells me to wait as he disappears into his room, coming out with a rectangular box that’s wrapped in pink paper with a little bow in it.

“Here, I got you something,” he held it out for me to accept.

I take the package in hand unwrapping it eagerly, revealing the corner of a white box, and until it’s fully unwrapped I see he’s gifted me an iPhone. An iPhone 14 Pro Max to be exact.

I stutter in response, “What? Are you serious?”

A big grin appears on his face, proud of having such a reaction to his gift.

“This is far too expensive, are you crazy!?” I exclaim.

“I saved up, you deserved it. I smashed the other one anyways,” he acts nonchalant as if it’s nothing. I hug him tightly, still in complete unbelief.

“Thank you Yoongi,” I say as he gives me a small tight tight-lipped smile, he tells me to be careful with it and most of all enjoy it before he’s about to disappear into his room.

I remember seeing Dad yesterday and I should probably talk to him about it, it’s his dad too after all.

“Wait Yoongi,” I hesitate.

He turns around on his feet eyebrows raised a little, intently listening to whatever I have to say.

“I ran into Dad yesterday…” I can see his face drop instantly bombarding me with questions.

He’s worried, I can tell that whatever he said yesterday fades away just like that. He’s a softie deep inside.

I explained to him that I saw him in the elevator and that Jungkook saved me just in time, switching up the names cause I wouldn’t want to cause any more trouble.

“It hurts me too… I know you hate him and that you’re hurt, but I’m the person who had to live through all of it,” I sob softly.

He shushes me pulling me into a long hug, keeping me safe from anything and everything. “Be careful next time you go to Jungkook’s apartment okay, you don’t know what he’s capable of,”

“And call me if you see him, I promise I won’t lash out on you anymore,”

My tears are coming to a stop, leaving out water less and less. He asks me if he can do anything for me which I decline and then he really disappears into his room, wishing me a good night.

I feel so relieved. Things with Yoongi are good, Jungkook isn't embarrassed by me I think and I have a new freaking phone. It was time for an upgrade to be fair.

But I’ll set that up tomorrow, I’ll just watch a show and go to sleep cause I think I deserve some rest after everything that has been happening.

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