#to the point I was miserable trying to gauge if a yes was a no or a no a yes? yeah..

[obstinaterixatrix]

I recently got my first office job where I am interacting with my coworkers regularly. do you have any evil conversation skills that you think i should learn first

1. Figure out the easiest/most comfortable ways to say the whole spectrum of soft no’s to hard no’s from a scale of ‘genuine regret (invites future attempts if scheduling allows)’ to ‘polite deferral (respectful and evasive, somewhat firm)’ to ‘stone-cold shut down (professional Fuck You)’; you gotta know them all and you gotta be able to deploy them as needed. or at the very least, you gotta know how to give yourself time so you don’t automatically say ‘yes’ when you don’t want to.

2. The easiest way to make a good impression on people is to balance being useful and making others feel useful, which means offering some of the specific knowledge/insight you have and also asking for/acknowledging the knowledge/insight of others. offering/asking can be a weird balance, sometimes for some people in some contexts it comes pretty naturally, other times I find myself parsing out one (1) resource bit by bit to gauge whether someone’s actually looking for it or if it’s received in a lukewarm way. If ‘useful’ can’t really be a selling point at the moment (e.g. starting with zero experience rather than having an established knowledge base in a new environment) then you can always swap out ‘useful’ for ‘interesting’. know a charm point you have that can hook other people’s interest, know how to find and highlight other people’s charm points. If you want a mutual relationship it’s better to make an effort to share equally (for some people that means intentionally holding back, for other people that means intentionally speaking more), but if you’re just trying to coast it’s usually easiest to keep turning the conversation back on them and track topics the other person can get chatty about (pets, kids, shows, how they’re doing, etc).

hang on those are too reasonable and not evil but I’ve typed it all out so I’m not deleting. so, there’s a bunch of worksheets about ‘rules for fighting fair’ and if you ever meet a coworker you fucking hate then you wanna take those rules and do the opposite of all of them in order to have an on-purpose bad faith conversation and to make it as miserable for everyone as possible

1. If the coworker you hate is trying to talk about one specific problem, disagree with whatever their definition is and refuse to compromise

2. Bring in as many stupid tangential asides as possible so their original point gets buried

3. If you want to be legit evil, always imply or directly state that whatever they’re going through is a personal problem and a Skill Issue

4. Always find a way to vaguely disagree with your coworker. If they have a good point, say ‘Well, no, it’s actually like [basically rephrasing their point]’; you can either be subtle about this (negging) or blatant about this (The Mansplainer)

5. There’s a limit to how disrespectful anyone can be as a new employee. Find that limit and keep just short of it.

6. Always deflect and blame someone else, or if there isn’t someone to blame, have different excuses at the ready for anything that anyone might take issue with.

to some, evil communication skills is to win. but I think the most successful (insufferable) application is when the point is to make everyone as miserable as possible. I’m not trapped here with you, You’re Trapped Here With Me. also I wouldn’t actually recommend doing many of these things if you want functional working relationships. but it’s good to keep in mind if you’re ready to go nuclear! but more seriously, I do think these are important evil communication skills to learn because if you recognize someone using them against you, it gives you the chance to make strategies based on their behavior. 1. If someone is disagreeing with you any time you try to express a problem, shut down the conversation and reengage with a mediator that will be fair to you; 2. if stupid tangents keep showing up, it’s up to you to be the terrier with its teeth sunk into the mailman’s leg; etc. anyway this has gone too long and someone else should probably be giving more legit advice

[hold-him-down]

Leo Tells a Story

TW: references to whipping, references to institutionalized slavery

Notes: somewhere around the 2 year mark

✥ ✥ ✥ 

“I don’t think I’m getting out of here before midnight,” Luke grumbles from the other end of the line. Rob Bennett can practically hear the frown lines deepening as he pictures his guilt-laden younger brother considering all the possible ways to excuse himself from the late session on the senate floor.

There’s unrest, though. Last week, a new bill had been introduced allowing for broader use of corporal punishment on the private level, and when the public got ahold of it, protests immediately began. Luke had been held in emergency sessions almost every day since, but seldom had they taken him past sunset. 

“Can you do me a favor?” Luke asks now. Rob nods, although Luke won’t see it.

“You want me to stop by your place?” he asks, pizza in one hand and a stuffed animal in the other. He lobs it into Eliza’s bedroom, empty now for the next week. “You know he’s probably up to his ears in Moby Dick or something equally enthralling.” 

And he thinks it’s probably true, but still, lately his visits to Luke’s house have been a good opportunity to build something good in the shit storm that is brewing.

✥ ✥ ✥ 

Rob’s first thought when he walks into his brother’s townhouse and finds Leo laying on the floor, an obscenely fat book resting open on his chest, his eyes closed but his fingers fisted: Leo is drunk?

Rob’s second thought, immediately after: That doesn’t sound like the Leo he has come to know and love.

“Hi,” Leo says (mumbles?) then, but he doesn’t move. And then, he adds, “I don’t feel good,” and a few pieces fall into place.

With a smile of equal parts fondness and sympathy, Rob drops to a kneel beside him, plucking the book off his chest and dog-earing the page before setting it to the side. Leo squints up at him, his eyes just slightly unfocused, and rolls over with a groan. He pushes himself up onto the sofa, Rob kind-of-sort-of shadowing the movements while trying not to be too obvious.

“Did you at least take the good drugs?” Rob says, hand hovering just over Leo’s shoulder blades. He can never quite pinpoint what the right move here is, but he’s pretty sure at this point that hovering is exactly what his brother would do, so he rolls with it.

Leo folds himself in half, his head between his knees, the curve of his spine visible through his shirt. Rob nudges him, offering a sympathetic smile as Leo’s eyes meet his. “Leo?”

“I don’t know,” Leo says. “Aspirin?” he continues. His arm curls under his knees and he draws his body in tighter. And then, as if on cue, he adds, “Luke said I could. I thought it would help.”

Rob picks the discarded bill bottle from the coffee table, rotating it in his hands. “Aspirin fucks with you?” 

Leo nods, a miserable sound coming from him, but he rights himself then, staring at the bottle in Rob’s hand. “Only when I chase it with tequila.”

For a moment, Rob freezes, gauging the likelihood that Leo is fucking with him. Uncertainty colors his generally pretty casual demeanor. Would he be shocked if Leo finally said fuck it and tapped into his probably-moronic twenty-five-year-old instincts to dull the ache of what he suspected was near constant discomfort? Yes, he decides. He would be. Still–

“Leo,” Rob says, uncapping Leo’s bottle of water and tilting it toward him. He pauses. “I don’t say this to freak you out, but are you fucking with me right now?”

Leo laughs out a breath but nods into his knees, then stretches his back and rights himself, planting his feet on the floor. He takes the water and clears his throat, wincing as he does. “Sorry,” Leo says. And then, he adds, “Yes. Most drugs mess with me.”

“That doesn’t make a lot of medical sense,” Rob says as he sits, setting the bottle back down. “Was it always that way?”

Leo shakes his head. “It got worse after the… – training– started. I don’t know, they made me take a lot. Sometimes I think they were trying to make me sick. Sometimes they would bet on how sick I would get.” He sucks in a deep breath and Rob nods, trying to keep the open fury from registering on his face. “I think it started then. Some Pavlovian thing.”

“Yeah, that’ll do it,” he replies distantly. They’re silent as the news begins a broadcast of the Senate meeting. There’s no sound, but Luke’s speaking… emphatically, with a banner of updates running beneath him.

“Luke said your back’s been giving you trouble?” Rob asks minutes later, eying the way Leo holds himself now.

“My neck,” Leo corrects. “Usually it’s okay, I don’t… I must have just slept wrong.”

“You’re too young to have neck pains from sleeping wrong. Luke making you sleep on the floor again?” he asks with a smile. Leo’s eyes are still on the TV, his expression devoid of any real emotion, but there’s something there. Rob gives him a moment before he says, gentler now, “Can I take a look?”

Leo, for his part, mostly looks tired. “It just hurts sometimes,” he says, bowing his head. He puts his hands over his ears, locking his fingers around his head, and Rob recognizes the gesture for what it is: bracing himself, holding himself still, doing what he needs to do.

Rob is light in his touch, asking Leo to move when he needs to, pinpointing the pressure points. Leo’s jumpy, because Leo’s always jumpy, but there’s also an alarming amount of tension along the muscles.

Maybe he did sleep wrong. Maybe he pulled something. Maybe he carries a lot of tension generally, and it wears him down.

But for Leo Evans to willfully open that pill bottle–

“How often does it hurt?” Rob asks, guiding Leo’s chin up and gently pressing along his spine.

Leo swallows. “Not often,” he replies. “Not usually.”

As Rob releases him, Leo adds, “It’s not a big deal,” and then, he amends: “I don’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

“Okay,” Rob says lightly. “It can be a small ticket item. But–” he takes a breath “–if I only have half the story, I will feel… very sad.”

Leo lifts his head, raising his eyebrows. “You’ll feel... sad?” Leo repeats, with just a hint of, maybe teasing, behind his tone? 

“Very,” Rob says, holding his eye contact for a second longer than he needed to. Sometimes, in these moments, Rob is reminded that Leo can hold his own. That he’s not this broken person everyone thinks he is. That he doesn’t need to be handled with kid gloves the way his parents handle him, that he doesn’t need the protection Luke constantly seeks to provide. 

And then his mouth works ahead of his brain and he says, “Will you tell me why your neck hurts, as seldom as it may?” And if he planned out his words, he might phrase it as less of a demand, but it’s there, and it lingers. “I promise it’ll stay between us, if that’s what you want.”

Leo whistles out a sharp breath, and his eyes meet Rob’s, and his expression shifts. He glances at the TV, where Luke continues to absolutely dominate the senate floor, and turns it off.

“I don’t think I’m really supposed to talk about it,” he says, after a prolonged pause. 

Rob goes to the bar and pours himself a glass of scotch, offering one to Leo. Unsurprisingly, he shakes his head.

When Rob returns, he takes a slow drink, then sets it to the side. 

Every muscle in Leo’s body is tense, his fight or flight response laid out in front of them, and just as Rob considers the exact words he needs to speak to let him off the hook, Leo’s hands ball into fists at his side and he takes a deep breath. 

Leo tells Rob the story then, unexpected in its own right, about the day– one of the days, maybe– that he was tortured just for the sake of being tortured. Complete with a fucking… presentation, and doctors, and video cameras. He recounts it with a detached precision that rattles Rob, the feeling of the whip slicing into his muscles, the feeling of fingers pressing into wounds, the sleepless nights that followed and the uncertainty of when it would happen again. 

When he finishes, Rob’s holding his cup so tightly his fingers are white. He takes a breath, forcibly loosening his muscles, and swallows. He waits until he’s sure he can speak calmly to speak at all, so keenly aware that Leo’s waiting, and that Leo doesn’t do well with Big Feelings, although nothing in his immediate expression or posture gives it away. 

Leo shrugs then, not for the first time that evening. 

“So that’s why it hurts sometimes,” he says softly, his eyes glued to Rob’s fingers, his grip on that glass a preview of what will one day be his grip on the neck of whoever was in charge of that fucking site. 

He takes a breath, the new knowledge settling into him, working its way through his nervous system and penetrating the core of who he is. He thinks of all the ways he’ll get the site shut down, of all the ways he’ll get the whole fucking system shut down; he thinks of what Luke will say when he tells him, and in almost the same instant that he remembers, Leo says-

“You can’t tell him.” 

And Rob swallows, setting his empty glass on a magazine on the table. Leo’s waiting for him to speak, but he doesn’t know where to begin. The medical concerns with an experimental torture device slicing into Leo’s neck and causing what is probably irreparable damage. The mental scars that he’s always known run so deep in this boy, but maybe he still doesn’t fucking get how deep. The absolute blind rage that he can’t contain enough to even push out the simplest of words.

“It’s illegal,” is all Rob can come up with, what could be full minutes later. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Leo replies. “It doesn’t matter if it’s legal or not; I don’t think anyone cares about the legality of anything happening in those sites.” Leo’s expression is almost completely devoid of emotion, a perfect mask trained into him by some asshole in some white room somewhere, but Rob knows there’s turmoil behind them. 

“It matters, Leo. It all fucking matters. You matter. Your suffering matters. Your personhood fucking–” He doesn’t clock the aggression in his own tone, the volume of his voice, the fury behind his eyes, until he looks at Leo. He swallows back his anger. He’ll find the video. He’ll find the video, or Luke will, and things will change. They have to.

He can hear the key turning in the lock, he sees Leo’s eye land on the door behind him, and he swallows back whatever pieces of the rage that he can in time for his brother to step into the living room. 

taglist: @whump-cravings, @afabulousmrtake, @crystalquartzwhump, @maracujatangerine, @pumpkin-spice-whump, @distinctlywhumpthing, @thecyrulik, @highwaywhump, @batfacedliar-yetagain, @finder-of-rings, @dont-touch-my-soup, @skyhawkwolf, @suspicious-whumping-egg, @also-finder-of-rings, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @prodigal-zoe, @peachy-panic, @melancholy-in-the-morning, @urban-dark, @nicolepascaline, @quietly-by-myself, @pigeonwhumps, @whump-blog,  @seasaltandcopper, @angstyaches, @i-msonotcreative, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @anonintrovert, @whump-world, @squishablesunbeam, @considerablecolors, @whumpcereal, @whumperfully, 

[masterwords]

between you and me

Summary: Hotch & Morgan go out into the wilderness for a weekend survival competition. They're wet, muddy and happy. That's all. There isn't a plot here.

Pairing: Hotch/Morgan

Words: 5.3k

Warnings: a lot of swearing, dude talk, food, chronic pain (hotch), foyet & stabbing mentions

AO3: between you and me

Notes: I had this image of them being skilled and competent and really adorable in the woods, and this is what came of it. A lot harder to write than you would think - it's so much just snappy dialogue and vibes. Don't expect poetry. Also, it should go without saying but: I made this up. This is not a real thing, I just wanted to put them in the woods with low-stakes and the ability to have some fun together doing the insane type adrenaline junkie shit I know those fools would enjoy. So, I made up an incredibly silly scenario and went all in.

***

“Both of you?” Rossi asked with a smirk. Looks like a cat who just got a mouthful of canary. “How long ago did you put in?”

“They’ve been passing me up for five years, Rossi.” Morgan lamented his misery convincingly while Hotch just smiled in that gentle, confident but subdued way he had that said I win. Everything was a competition with them.

“I’m at eight. They claimed it was too hard to justify putting a Unit Chief out of commission for three days, what if I had to be recalled and there was no service? And then when they did finally select me…”

“Foyet. I remember.” Rossi almost hated using the man’s name, like it might bring him back from the dead. He was hesitant and let his eyes linger on Hotch for a moment longer than necessary, gauging his reaction. It had been two years but he wasn’t sure time really mattered when trying to heal something like that. To his credit, Hotch gave no real indication that it made any difference. He simply nodded somberly and agreed – yes, he’d been chosen, and then Foyet met him in his apartment and bled him out, stopped his heart, rendered him incapable of participating. And ever since then, they’d pulled the Unit Chief speech when he asked why he wasn’t selected but he knew – they were afraid of his physical status after the stabbing. He must finally have worn them down, or proven that he was physically capable. Or maybe they were just tired of him throwing his name in the bucket and had a pool going to see how far he could make it before he collapsed. He might be wondering that himself.

“And you still want to do it? Go spend three days in the woods miserable with no roof over your head, no bed to sleep in, no good food or hot running water?”

“Bold talk comin’ from a Marine…”

“Ever heard of the draft, smart ass?”

“Fair enough. But we’re doing it and yes, we want to do it.” Derek had no idea if Rossi was being honest about the draft situation, he’d known he was a vet but he realized he didn’t know that much about Rossi’s service. Didn’t seem like the time to ask, anyway.

“Will you be together or are they separating you?”

“No idea. We’ll find out at the debrief tonight, they’re serving dinner and giving us our assignments. I’m assuming we’ll be separate, can’t imagine why they’d keep us together. It’s gotta be like a lottery situation. God I hope I don’t get paired up with some DEA asshat.”

“It’s only branches of the FBI this round,” Hotch pointed out, leaving through the paperwork he’d been given. It was vague about most details, just dates and times and a whole lot of TBA. It made his skin prickle. “Awfully secretive.” That he muttered more to himself, but Derek heard and it got his wheels turning.

“Well, damn. And here I thought you boys might be getting a date night out of this.”

That made Hotch and Morgan both laugh. They did like things a little off the beaten path when it came to their personal lives, but that’s what you get when you put two adrenaline junkies together in close quarters – what they considered dates weren’t exactly things other couples might. They preferred a day out on their bikes in the mountain air to a movie night, and an evening at the swimming pool taking laps and sucking chlorine was better than a stuffy and expensive candlelit dinner. So to say that a weekend spent in the woods utilizing survival training skills instead of lounging around the house sounded like a date wasn’t far off base. Of course, in Rossi’s very wise opinion, he thought they could both better use their time by simply taking a nap.

As it turned out, they were partnered up. It was a department challenge, two from counter-terrorism, two from organized crime, two from BAU, two from the fugitive task force, two from political corruption and two from the cyber crimes unit. Hotch looked around at the people he knew and tried to imagine them in the woods, tried to imagine them with a better partner than his. “We’ve got this,” he whispered to Derek who simply nodded his approval. It was a competition, and the two of them were not in the habit of losing, even to people who were in far better shape than them. Derek had been battling a chest cold the week prior, though he seemed to be mostly in the clear, and Hotch had overdone it playing soccer with Jack and been dealing with some latent knee pain for the last few days. The medications they’d put him on after the stabbing struck him with only mild side effects most of the time, but the most cumbersome was the intermittent bouts of joint pain. It came and went, usually after he’d overdone it and he was very good at overdoing it. Overdoing it was kind of his specialty.

One day of training with Commander Stevens, a Navy SEAL who had the brilliant idea to put the FBI through the ringer. Just for fun, or so he implied. “Torture the pencil pushers,” was what Hotch overheard him whispering with some fellow officers. Hotch wasn’t motivated by needing to prove himself to anyone but he was certain some of these people at the tables eating pinwheel sandwiches from Costco were allowing their feathers to be ruffled by the insinuation that they weren’t tough enough. That alone would give him a competitive edge – he didn’t need to prove himself to anyone.

They had reported to Quantico at 6am for the first of it, bright eyed and coffee in hand. Derek’s cold was all but gone and Hotch felt good. Optimistic. They spent the morning in a classroom listening to the Commander lecture about survival in the Appalachians, people who walk the trail, how they get lost and how to avoid it. Survival for beginners is what Derek said later, and he prided himself on not being a beginner. The two of them had spent some time out in the Smokey Mountains, nothing close to the intensity of the next few days but they weren’t strangers to the area. After lunch they spent the afternoon brushing up on skills training, getting their equipment, learning the rules of the game.

“This remind you of those movies where bored rich guys are hunting dudes in the woods?” Derek asked as he tossed his 75lb backpack into their SUV and waited while Hotch did the same. Three days and two nights in the woods walking for upwards of thirty miles when all was said and done with a backpack that weighed as much as Jack strapped to each of their backs, that realization was the first time Hotch felt a little pang of anxiety. He could do it but he was going to pay for it.

“You and Jessica watch too much television.”

“No seriously. This is how they all start, they’re like oh you guys are the best of the best and you won this fantastic retreat or vacation or really high honor of some kind...then bam. You’re being hunted by rich dudes with fuckin’ laser guns you didn’t even know existed yet, some kind of military grade stuff you only see in movies starring Schwarzenegger.”

“Way too much television…”

Derek ran his idea by Jessica while they shared their last family dinner for a few days and she agreed wholeheartedly. Didn’t even miss a beat. “You guys be careful,” she said, clicking her tongue against her teeth. Jack looked on with wide eyes, taking in everything they said but not picking up on the sarcasm lacing every word.

“Is it dangerous?” he asked, trying to make some sense of it in the way young kids do. He still had trouble differentiating fact from fiction, cartoons from reality, and Derek and Jessica were not helping in the slightest. Jessica shot Hotch a look that said to tread lightly. He wasn’t sure if that meant lie through his teeth or be honest. Both felt wrong, and this question was her fault anyway...why should he have to be the one to answer for it? Didn’t seem quite fair.

“It can be, buddy. But I’ll be okay. I’ll be with Derek, and there are fail safes in place if we get into trouble. It’s supposed to be for fun. A learning experience and a game.”

“A game!” That seemed to please him.

“The most dangerous game…” Derek whispered and Hotch elbowed him a little too hard in the ribs.

“Exactly, Jack. A fun game. Kind of like camping and a race...capture the flag for grown ups.”

“Can we go camping soon?” Crisis averted. Jack was no longer concerned about his dads being hunted in the woods. Whatever that meant. He still wasn’t sure.

“Sure buddy.” An easy concession.

Even Hotch couldn’t help feeling a little trepidation when they were dropped into the woods by helicopter. That did feel a little too on the nose, a little too much like one of the movies Derek couldn’t stop talking about. It was meant to disorient them, and it succeeded. “Just like in SWAT,” Derek said as he checked Hotch’s pack and Hotch did the same for him. “You ready?”

“Born ready.” A bit of a stretch, they both knew. But the minute he was standing with this face turned into the wind, that adrenaline rush kicked in and he sucked in a breath of fresh air and helicopter gasoline and maybe he felt like it wasn’t such a stretch after all.

Derek descended the ladder first with Hotch right behind him. The sound of the chopper hurt Hotch’s ears until it disappeared over the treeline and they were left alone with the sounds of the woods. Without a word they each began surveying their surroundings – Hotch consulted his map while Derek walked around and got a lay of the land, checked out the views, climbed up a tree for a better view. In the end, they both decided on the same route. No argument, no issue. Off to a surprisingly easy start.

Jessica had guessed they’d be fighting over which route to take immediately and they couldn’t wait to tell her how wrong she was.

They walked and walked and walked. The air was heavy, the humidity oppressive. Hotch could feel sweat pooling at the base of his spine. Derek seemed to be handling it worse than he was – he’d already taken his long sleeves off. Hotch wouldn’t even think of it for a while yet. He’d rather have the protection from bugs. He can handle sweat.

They didn’t talk while they walked, didn’t want to waste precious energy on the first day – it’s all climbing elevation, steep hills that seem to go on and on forever but when they stopped for a moment to have a water break and a bite of food, they settled into quiet and pleasant conversation about things they saw, smelled, heard. Everything seemed to flow together seamlessly, the way Hotch would take the lead in places and Derek would slip by and take the lead in others. Instinctively knowing when one or the other needed a chance to suck wind in the back, slow down and smell the roses so to speak.

They managed almost ten miles before they decided to set up camp for the night. Everyone else had planned to stop around the 8th mile, before the big elevation change. It had sounded nice, too, when they stood at the base of the mound that rose before them, but they were both feeling up to a few extra miles and the weather held while they traveled. They watched a storm rolling in over the tree line and knew they’d rather be further ahead when it finally hit, just in case it took them longer to get going the next day. Having higher ground sounded appealing for a rain storm.

Quietly they set up their little camp, stringing a tarp between trees, getting their fire going, making sure they had what they needed before raising the rest of their packs up into the trees above, wrapped securely in tarp. They had each brought their own sleeping bag and wool blankets, just in case they were caught sleeping in a camp with others, but out here on their own they decided to pool their resources and get cozy.

It was a date night, after all. They’d slipped just enough off the path that they didn’t imagine anyone would wander by them if they slept a little later. It was safe.

The storm hit while they boiled their water to heat up their MRE packets. Out of their selections, Hotch decided they should have the biscuits and gravy with a side of chorizo breakfast tacos. Derek was appalled by his selections but when he looked at the other options he realized they didn’t sound any better. The first pang of homesick hit him then, as he crumbled freeze dried biscuits into a mylar bag and reconstituted their meal. He thought about sitting around the table with Jessica and Jack, with his family, and digging into a delicious warm meal that hadn’t been preserved before he was born. They had a good time describing the flavors of the meal, picking it apart like they were eating at a michelin star restaurant instead of out of mylar bags in the woods. Hotch decided that the biscuits and gravy weren’t half bad for space bag food, but the tacos were appalling. Derek could barely choke down either of them and refused to call them food.

It was soft at first, just the pitter-patter of fat rain drops falling through trees and plopping onto their tarp but soon it began pounding and Derek pushed in closer to Hotch as the ground absorbed the water and crept closer to them. “This is gonna suck,” he said, but he barely meant it. He was leaning against Hotch eating a cookie that was probably made when Rossi was in the Marines and mixing up a cup of powdery lemonade chock full of salty crumbly bits. “This would be better with vodka,” he said, setting the small paper cup to his lips. Hotch smiled and agreed in his sleepy way. He was halfway to lights out already.

The second day was all rain. They woke up wet and packed up their wet camp and set out in wet clothes. Derek threw his ballcap on and Hotch cinched up the hood of his rain jacket until hardly more than his nose protruded from the opening, and that was how they set out very glad they didn’t have to climb that first hill in the mud. The rest of the group was going to have some trouble with their footing. By mid-morning they both had the start of some serious blisters, Derek was freezing, and they were clinging to that small happiness that came with knowing they had given themselves a solid head start on the day. Not as far to go before they could set up camp, light a fire and try to get warm.

Hotch began limping by mid-day. Derek had just decided it was his turn to lead and slowed his pace to drop behind, let Hotch past, and that was when he first noticed. He wondered how long it had been going on behind him. He didn’t seem to care about trying to hide it.

Just a slight limp at first, becoming more and more pronounced as the silent miles wore on. Derek tried to talk him into a water break, a rest, anything. He couldn’t bear to watch it without trying to stop it.

“Derek, we’re three miles from today’s rendezvous and we’re hours ahead of schedule. We keep to the plan, we stop only we get there.”

“You’re limping.”

“And I’ll limp for three more miles.”

The way he said it so matter-of-fact grated on Derek’s nerves. It was the first time he could feel an argument bubbling up in his chest during the whole time they’d been out there. He swallowed it down and pleaded instead.

“Why don’t we just take a breather? You said it yourself, we’re hours ahead of schedule. A short water break, you can rest your leg and I can find my rain jacket.”

Hotch slowed his pace and turned to Derek, softening enough that he didn’t come across mean. The last thing he wanted to do was ruin this weekend. “Your rain jacket is tied around your waist, and if I stop now, I might not be able to get going again at this pace. I don’t want to lose momentum.”

“Come on, man. I was hoping this trip would be fun, not miserable.”

“I’m not miserable.”

“So you like limping through the woods?”

“Derek...if my ability to enjoy things was contingent on my body feeling good, I would lead a very different life than I do now. You know that my body has been different since Foyet’s attack and I think I’ve done a pretty good job of not letting it stop us from having fun. Part of that is knowing when I can push through and when I can’t. I can push through this. I can make it three miles. I believe I could make it at least five, if I’m being honest, but I’d rather not.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better…”

“It wasn’t meant to, it was just meant to let you know that I’m not stopping and I am having a good time. This is fun.”

“Yeah. Okay. What is it?”

“My knee.”

“The one you tweaked when we were out with Jack the other day?”

“The very same. Probably just the medication making an overuse issue worse. Please stop worrying and walk faster. Don’t let a guy with a bum knee out-hike you.”

They walked on, the banter predictably turning to light bickering, competitive shit talk, but always smiling. Derek figured it was easier to light up a small argument that would keep them both distracted for the last few miles than continue to try and get Hotch to stop. It was futile to try and get Hotch to do anything he didn’t want to do. That lesson had been a hard one to learn.

They came up on their check in point and were pleased to find that they were the third pair out of ten to pass through. Not bad, considering the limping slowing them down some, though Hotch had blamed it mostly on Derek. From there, all they had to do was find themselves a place to set up camp for the night and wait for everyone else to arrive. This was the only night where there were group activities in store, team building exercises that neither Hotch nor Morgan was thrilled about. They found a place a little off the beaten path, away from the crowd of people who wanted to be close to visit and talk about their experiences. They had no interest in making small talk. With the hope that those ominous clouds overhead would pass them by without dumping on them, they began to quickly assemble their camp. They were already cold and wet, their shoes were wet on the inside and Derek insisted that Hotch prop his leg up on the mound of his pack and put some ice on his knee instead of them hoisting the pack up the tree. They had two portable cold packs that wouldn’t do him much good, but there was a small creek nearby and Derek thought maybe later, if the weather held, they could go stand in it for a while. That would feel good on their aching legs and feet, sweet relief for both of them. For now, they ate some snacks and ended up falling asleep to the pitter-patter of tiny raindrops.

By evening, it was another full scale storm. No thunder and lightning, but soaking wet. No fires, which meant no hot food. Just huddling together under the blankets they had for warmth and eating the convenience food they’d stored – some nuts and dried fruits, granola, bottled water and beef jerky. Not enough to fill either of them up but they were glad for the storm and Derek hadn’t exactly been thrilled at the prospect of freeze dried beef stroganoff or chicken alfredo and peach cobbler that would just make him even more homesick for some real food. The weather had meant that the team building exercises were put on hold and they couldn’t complain about that, certainly.

Instead, they got a second date night, just like Dave had said. They tangled themselves together and shared the blankets for warmth, knowing that they had a definite advantage over anyone not involved in an explicitly forbidden (or at least frowned upon) workplace love affair. They had the kind of warmth that comes from being close, sharing body heat. Derek thought about Jerry and Mason from the fugitive team huddling like this and the thought brought him nearly to laughter.

“Hotch,” Derek whispered after a long silence, after listening to the storm rustle through the trees above them and rattle the tarp, thankful that there was no lightning. He shifted their bodies to get them off of the protruding root that was digging into his hip and curled up a little tighter. “You gonna be okay to walk fifteen miles tomorrow?”

Hotch hummed. “Yes. I’ll be fine.”

“We can tap out. Take the day and just chill. No shame in that.”

“Not a chance. Why, are you tired? Do you want to stop?”

“What? No. What…”

“It just sounds like maybe you’re using my knee as a way out.”

“I am not.”

“No?” Hotch asked, smiling as he kissed Derek in the dark, nuzzling his cold nose into Derek’s warm skin. “You sure?”

“Man. Fuck your knee. I hope it gives out on you tomorrow.”

“No you don’t.”

“I’ll leave you behind, let you get snatched by the people hunters.”

“No you won’t.”

Derek sighed. “No I won’t. I’m sorry.”

“I know. I forgive you.”

Hotch’s knee held up better than he’d anticipated through the last fifteen miles of the trek. The ache was deep and kept him awake some of the night worrying that he was being over-confident, but by morning it had loosened up some. He was limping and in considerable pain somewhere around the fifth mile but they had a good time, and that was worth plenty of discomfort in his book. By the tenth mile Derek had himself a little limp too, his blisters giving him grief. It wasn’t so much a limp, Hotch thought, as it was a painful waddle through the woods.

“My gooch is on fire,” Derek said when he noticed Hotch scrutinizing the way he was walking. “Damn rain gave me some wicked swamp ass.”

“Derek…” Hotch laughed, shaking his head.

“What? You sayin’ it’s not bothering you?”

Hotch refused to dignify that with an answer.

The last day was gloriously rain free, and where they ended had even better access to the creek than their camp the night before. So they had to trudge through thick, soupy mud and fight their way up past landslides to get to the end...it would make the creek that much better. At more than one spot, Hotch allowed Derek to help hoist him up, pull him up a hill when his knee buckled beneath him and refused to support his weight at certain angles. He couldn’t even be mad about that, not even when Derek insisted that he piggy back to the finish. (Hotch’s staunch refusal to even consider it gave him a hearty laugh, the kind that fueled the rest of his walk. Put a pep in his step, as his mother would say.)

They didn’t arrive first, that was Jerry and Mason from fugitive and Derek assumed it was the thought of snuggling the night before...they were so appalled at it, they didn’t sleep, they just got up and finished the race. Hotch and Derek managed to come in a respectable third and were pleased with it.

“You think the richies got the cyber nerds?”

“We’ll never know,” Hotch said, rolling his eyes at Derek’s question. He had been surprised that the commentary on human hunters had been dropped while they were out in the woods, maybe that was due to his knee taking up too much of Derek’s thoughts. If that was the case, he was thankful for the pain he’d endured that much more.

As soon as all of the formalities were done and everyone had separated, tired and ready for a shower, Hotch sent Jessica a text to let her know where to get them. It was his first time turning on his phone in days and he was glad to slide it back into his bag, ready to kick out of his shoes and do a quick change into shorts and t-shirts for some time in the creek. Everyone else piled out, ready to return to civilization but they wanted to stick around a while. It was the best part of the whole trip, standing in the icy water, all blisters and swollen knee and swamp ass, eating handfuls of trail mix while they waited for Jess and Jack to come pick them up.

“You boys look rough!” Jess called, walking carefully down the slope of pebbly hillside toward the water while Jack and Clooney bounded quickly. No fear. Her feet slipped out from under her more than once in the loose packed ground that had been ravaged by the storms of the last two days. Hotch and Derek just stood in the water and watched, content not to move, just to stand.

Jack and Clooney played with rocks, Jack trying to skip them over the current and Clooney trying to catch them while Jessica attacked them with a barrage of questions from her dry perch on the rocky beach. She wasn’t about to take her shoes off and get in, she knew damn well that water was cold.

“No hunters?”

“No hunters,” Hotch replied quickly. Derek shot him a disparaging look and then glanced at Jessica.

“We don’t know that. We never saw the guys from cyber crimes come out…”

Hotch groaned. “I overheard Jerry from fugitive say that the cyber guys tapped out the first night when it started raining.”

“Sure they did. You believe that? They’re someone’s dinner, buddy.”

Hotch, with a smile, decided he’d had enough of the woods and was ready to go home. He hadn’t been able to take any pain medication while they were out in the woods, not wanting to dull his senses when he needed them, but boy was he ready now to make up for lost time. Jack watched his dad limp gingerly out of the water with a look of concern, and without hesitation Jessica reached out to take his hand. She steadied him as he struggled to find adequate footing on slippery rocks.

“Bum knee?” she asked, stepping dangerously close to the water in her shoes. He made an effort to move a little faster, holding her hand but not letting her do much.

“Yeah. Bum knee.”

“Let me help you old man.” She held his hand tighter and guided him out of the water, letting him lean on her for the short walk up the hill. Derek followed close behind with Jack slung over his shoulder and Clooney nipping at his heels. He’d come back for their packs once his family was securely placed in the vehicle and ready to go. They had a long drive ahead of them.

“He says he’s fine.”

“Oh, yeah, well he definitely looks fine.”

“I am fine.” Hotch was grumbling as he fumbled with his seat belt in Jessica’s little rust bucket of a car. It wasn’t that she couldn’t afford a better car, she just didn’t want one. She loved her old Volkswagen Rabbit that required a special mechanic and wait times that were absurd for broken parts, with its rusted burnt orange paint job and bright flower decals that screamed Woodstock and Grateful Dead. Hotch barely fit in the car and he had to slide in sideways, bending his sore knees at an awkward angle to make sure Jack would fit behind him and Derek could slide in on the other side. Jessica didn’t let anyone else drive her car and she hated when Hotch was in the front seat, his long legs dangerously close to the stick shift. No way he’d fit in the back, though. “You should have brought my car,” Hotch said when she started the engine. It took two tries and at least ten minutes to let the old girl warm up enough that she wouldn’t stall out the minute Jessica tried to hit the gas.

“I hate driving that thing. It’s a grandma car.”

He had no argument there. If grandma car meant safe and secure, if that meant protected, then yeah. He did drive a grandma car. She drove a rust bucket and Derek had a motorcycle, one of them had to be responsible.

“Can we have PIZZA for dinner?!” Jack asked, thrashing around in the backseat and kneeing Hotch in the small of his back repeatedly through the thin, broken down old leather seats. Clooney’s hot breath from the back was overpowering. Hotch frowned and cranked the window down for some air.

“I want steak. A big juicy steak. One that came from a cow that was alive this century.”

“Jess, you up for playing grillmaster tonight? I don’t think I can stand that long…” Derek said, trying to stretch his legs out along the backseat, right over the top of Jack. His seat belt didn’t work anyway, and he was beat. A barbecue did sound nice though, Hotch had the right idea. A big juicy steak, some ibuprofen (and maybe something a little stronger for Hotch), some beers, and a long long nap. After a shower. He had mud in places he didn’t know mud could get.

“If I get to wear your apron and use your fancy spatula. You know the one.”

Derek grunted under his breath about that being his stuff, but he couldn’t argue. If it meant he didn’t have to do the work he’d probably agree to just about anything.

And as the sun sank over the trees, Jessica stood in Derek’s apron (that hung to her knees and looked ridiculous on a woman her size) and started getting the grill ready. She would enjoy getting the chance to be grillmaster for the night, Derek didn’t often relinquish the job. Hotch rarely took it, he preferred to lounge in the hammock, his one true indulgence. It was her turn. She set about cleaning the grill and seasoning it first, going through all the steps before slapping the big fat steaks on to sizzle while Jack and Clooney played. Hotch and Derek, freshly showered and medicated, were content to doze off in the hammock together and wait for their meal which they both promised they would wake back up for.

“If you don’t, Clooney will eat your steaks. There’s always the MREs in your pack for later. I saw one that said it was beef ravioli in meat sauce. Sounds delicious.”

“Why are you so mean?” Derek whined, his voice muffled and sleepy. His face was pressed into the back of Hotch’s head, Hotch who was already fast asleep smelling like sweet shampoo and icy hot. It hadn’t taken him any time at all once his eyes were closed. She smiled and shrugged.

“Go to sleep Derek. I’m sure the mosquitoes will wake you up before I do.”

[clairelsonao3]

Author Ask Tag Game

Thanks to @i-can-even-burn-salad @tabswrites and @mysticstarlightduck for this tag a few weeks ago, around the time I took a break from tag games. Back on the horse, though.

1) What is the main lesson of your story (e.g. kindness, diversity, anti-war), and why did you choose it?

I don't really "choose" lessons or themes. They emerge. But if Good Slaves Never Break the Rules had a lesson, it's probably about The Power of Love, not only romantic love, even though it's a romance, but love for our fellow humans and love for ourselves. And the power of choosing love over hate, despite how cruelly we may have been hurt in the past -- or how we may have hurt (or perceive that we have hurt) others.

2) What did you use as inspiration for your worldbuilding (like real-life cultures, animals, famous media, websites, etc.)?

The world of GSNBTR owes a lot to (mostly) fanfics with modern slavery AUs that I have read and enjoyed over the years. I basically took all my favorite elements from those stories, mashed them together, and threw in a few of my own unique touches. And of course, the worldbuilding has expanded from there, in many cases in much more detail than I imagined it would when I started.

3) What is your MC trying to achieve, and what are you, the writer, trying to achieve with them? Do you want to inspire others, teach forgiveness, help readers grow as a person?

My two MCs both start out with their separate goals -- her to get through university and become independent, him to find his sister -- which end up merging into one singular goal (save their loved ones and defeat the villain, essentially) by the end of the story. Learning to trust and work together is part of the journey they undergo, and with their individual strengths, they end up making an incredible team. So I guess demonstrating that is what I'm trying to achieve with them.

I want to make readers feel something. It doesn't even have to be necessarily what I feel, or what I set out to make others feel. If you feel anything -- love, fear, sadness, shock, hate, disgust -- while reading this, my work here is done.

4) How many chapters is your story going to have?

At this point (I just posted Ch. 27), I suspect not more than 40, give or take. (But take this with a grain of salt; the number has already expanded several times). We are in Act III and it's outlined in detail, with may of the scenes at least partially written, but I'm just not sure how long each chapter/scene is ultimately going to be and how and where they'll be divided. I have an idea of that, but I can't decide it ahead of time; I only know when I sit down to write and edit the chapters.

5) Is it fanfiction or original content? Where do you plan to post it?

Original (although I'm not afraid to admit there are some fannish elements/tropes to it) and I'm posting it on Ao3! It will eventually be an ebook as well. It probably won't ever migrate over to Tumblr, unfortunately, not only because of the time and energy that would require but also because the NSFW and romance elements make it much better suited for Ao3, I feel. Also, having it in one place only allows me to gauge exactly how many people have read it and engaged with it (not that that really matters, but still!)

6) When and why did you start writing?

When? As soon as I could pick up a pencil and string together letters on a page to form words. Why? Because telling stories is in my blood (literally; my dad is also a writer).

7) Do you have any words of engagement for fellow writers of Writeblr? What other writers of Tumblr do you follow?

Write what you want. It sounds simple, but I spent way too many years of my writing life writing what I thought OTHER people wanted, and it almost derailed my ability to write altogether because it made me so damn miserable.

For newer writers: If you find yourself beginning a writing question with the words "Is it okay to..." or "Can I..." just stop right there. The answer is "yes."

I follow more people than just about anyone I know and I think most of them are writers; it's in the 4 digits. So I'm going to put this question aside for now and start working on a post of my favorite Tumblr writers and stories, so for future similar questions, I'll be able to direct you to that.

This one was going around a few weeks ago and IDK who's done it so OPEN TAG!

Template under the cut

1) What is the main lesson of your story (e.g. kindness, diversity, anti-war), and why did you choose it?

2) What did you use as inspiration for your worldbuilding (like real-life cultures, animals, famous media, websites, etc.)?

3) What is your MC trying to achieve, and what are you, the writer, trying to achieve with them? Do you want to inspire others, teach forgiveness, help readers grow as a person?

4) How many chapters is your story going to have?

5) Is it fanfiction or original content? Where do you plan to post it?

6) When and why did you start writing?

7) Do you have any words of engagement for fellow writers of Writeblr? What other writers of Tumblr do you follow?

[eternally6pm]

Irresistible Force - Part 3

Warm Blood

Rating: M

Characters: Jakob, FCorrin, Xander, Silas, Camilla.

- Let down my guard tonight  |  I just don't care anymore -

SOUNDTRACK

PART 2 | PART 4

---

It was two weeks into the job, and he was towelling his hair after a shower when his pager went off for the first time.

The shriek he heard on the other end of the line when she answered his call nearly caused him to trip right over as he tried to tug on a pair of jeans while cradling his phone between his shoulder and face at the same time.

“Where are you?”

“At home – oh, god, could you come help me? Quick!”

Her voice made him want to jump out of his own skin with anxiety. “Are you able to move?”

“What? Yes! Of course I can move!”

“Go somewhere safe. Leave the apartment if you have to. Close the door. Call nine-one-one.”

“Wait, why – “ she shrieked again, and Jakob dropped the phone this time, cursing as he snatched a clean shirt from a hanger in his wardrobe and picked up the phone to hear the tail end of a babbling string of words. “- could be! Could you just come, please? Please!”

“Stay calm. I’m on my way.”

Dragging his damp hair into an elastic, he pulled on his boots, grabbed his baton, jacket, helmet and keys and all but ran out the door.

The lift in her building took an eternity to perform its function and when it finally opened on her floor, he charged straight out, key card at the ready, jabbing the pin code in before shoving the door open.

“Corrin!”

The apartment was empty.

“Jakob!”

Her bedroom door burst open and she barrelled at him so quickly, he wasn’t ready, staggering almost back out the door and dropping his helmet and baton as she threw her arms around his waist.

“What,” he spluttered, stunned into awkward inactivity as he tried to figure out what to do with his arms.

“You came!” 

She beamed, as though she honestly thought he wouldn’t. To his relief, she let go of his waist and grabbed his arm instead, pointing into the kitchen. 

“Now go kill it.”

“What?” He repeated.

“The spider! I said there was a spider – and I lost track of it, I don’t know where it is, please, just get rid of it, please.”

Jakob gaped at her. “I thought you were being attacked.”

“I was! By a spider!”

“You –“ He shut his eyes and rubbed a hand over his face, torn between laughing and groaning out loud. He settled for sighing instead. “You can’t call my pager for things like this.”

Corrin actually pouted, and he wanted to shake her, frustration, and strangely, affection assailing him all at once. 

“I’m sorry,” she apologised, looking down at her feet like a child that had been caught doing something wrong.

“It’s… it’s all right.” Something in him relented, a weight lifting from him as he settled into the realisation that she wasn’t in any imminent danger and he gently patted her shoulder with his free hand. “I suppose it’s what I do. Protect you. Even if it is… from a spider.”

She gave him a small smile and then jabbed a finger in the direction of the kitchen again. 

His arm was quickly released as he stepped into the tiled area. The first thing Jakob noticed was shattered glass on the counter below an open cupboard.

“Please do not tell me you threw a glass at it.”

“I threw a glass at it!” Her voice came from the living area and he turned to see her standing nervously behind her coffee table, a distance unnecessarily far from where he stood. “Don’t judge me!”

He couldn’t hold back a small snort of amusement.

“Are you laughing at me?”

“No.”

He peered into the cupboard and there it was, wedged in a corner just behind the door, dark grey and hairy all over with alarmingly long legs.

“Your aim is miserable.”

“I panicked, okay?”

He picked up another glass from the shelf. “Clearly.”

Carefully, he hovered the opening of the glass over the spider, trying to gauge if it would be wide enough to fit over the thing. Perhaps a bit too small.

“Do you have a –“

It jumped.

Corrin screamed, and Jakob leapt a mile, a yelp of shock escaping him as he dropped the glass and frantically brushed at his shoulder where it landed. Again, she screamed as it tumbled to the floor and started to dart away and Jakob thought fuck it, and stomped down on it as hard as he could.

For a long, long moment, neither of them spoke.

It was Corrin who broke the silence by starting to giggle.

“You… you…” she couldn’t form the words, overwhelmed with laughter as she doubled over, her arms folded over her stomach.

Jakob could only sigh, huffing a small laugh himself at the ridiculousness of the entire scene.

“Broom,” he requested and Corrin staggered towards the laundry, howling uncontrollably.

She returned with a dustpan as well, and a less hysterical edge to her voice and tried to start sweeping, but Jakob took the items from her and pointed her out of the way. 

“The sound you made!” She perched on a stool at the counter and tried to imitate him, waving her arms in a goofy, exaggerated manner and starting to laugh all over again. “I would have never expected that from you.” 

He shook his head and continued to sweep. “I suppose I’ll leave you to deal with it yourself next time, then?”

Corrin propped her chin in her hands and watched him clean, seeming remarkably content now that the threat had been eliminated. “Thank you for coming,” she said, her voice softer. “I know this isn’t part of the job description. I just… I didn’t know who else to call.”

He located the bin in the corner and dumped the spider and the shards of broken glass. “I don’t mind.” And he realised that he truly didn’t. He glanced at his watch only to find that it wasn’t there, having been left behind in the rush to get here. The digital display on Corrin’s fridge read eleven minutes past seven. “Technically, I’m still on duty.”

“Well, thank you, Jakob, for doing your duty.”

He tucked the broom back into the handle of the dustpan, a thought occurring to him. While he was here, he felt like doing something else outside of his job description.

“Have you had dinner?”

Corrin’s eyes widened in what he was starting to recognise as her playful expression. “Are you asking me out? You know that’s against the rules.”

He forced himself to refrain from smiling, even though her teasing made him want to cover his face with his hands and just grin from ear to ear.

“No, Miss Nohr, I’m asking you if you have eaten, and if not, I’d like to know what you intend to do about it.”

“No and nothing.” She folded her arms. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing,” he deadpanned, walking out of the kitchen and to the laundry to return the dustpan and broom. He felt her watch him, staring as he picked up and collapsed his baton, scooped up his helmet and headed for the door. As he pulled it open, he turned back.

“I’m joking. Get your keys, I’m going to make you dinner.”

The smile that replaced her look of dismay lit up the entire room.

---

“What is the simplest thing you know how to make?”

Corrin watched in interest as Jakob added a bunch of basil to their trolley. 

“Cup noodles,” she replied honestly. “Tea.”

Jakob cast her a sidelong glance. “Do you really want to tell an Englishman that you know how to make tea?”

“Fine,” she rolled her eyes. “Cup noodles.”

He picked up and inspected a large onion. “Well, by the time I’m done today, the simplest thing you’ll know how to make will be this.”

Corrin gave him a small, uncomfortable laugh. “You’re pretty confident for someone dealing with a person who has never cooked in her life.”

“How have you survived this long on your own without cooking?” He pulled a tray of beef mince from the cold shelf and was wheeling the trolley past the rest of the cold and frozen foods when the display reminded him of the expired eggs in her fridge.

“Do you actually eat eggs?”

She stared at him, wide-eyed. “I have eggs?”

He chose to leave them alone for today.

Down another aisle, he pointed out a jar of tomato paste for her to retrieve and then, further along, some dried pasta. She wasn’t quite tall enough and he watched fondly for a moment as she stood on the tips of her toes and attempted to nudge it down, before reaching up to grab it for her.

“Ah, thanks.” She stepped quickly out of the way and almost knocked over a row of rotini. “Sorry, sorry!” She grasped at the falling bags, scrambling to straighten the display.

It seemed that there was never a dull moment around Corrin Nohr.

The groceries amounted to two bags of items that Corrin insisted she pay for despite the fact that Jakob had been the one to suggest they go shopping.

“You shouldn’t be doing this anyway,” she pointed out.

“You make it sound like a violation of terms.”

She waved a hand, mumbling something about a bad idea.

Back at the apartment, Jakob showed her how to cut an onion.

She took to the task with enthusiasm, but frightening recklessness.

“Stop, stop –“

He quickly reached around her to take her hands.

“You’re going to lose a finger if you do that.” He gently bunched her fingertips together and moved them to rest on top of the onion. “Keep them where you can see them. Like a claw.”

Suddenly, she pulled her hands away, scattering bits of onion as she ducked under his arm and darted behind him. 

“I don’t like this, it stings!”

Concerned, he turned to check on her. “Are you all right?”

Her face was bright pink and she sniffled as her eyes watered. “Yeah… I’m sorry. Maybe I should do something else.”

He got her to boil pasta.

Corrin helped him put together the rest of the sauce, obediently following his instructions and otherwise hovering just out of the way. As he finished, he beckoned her to come closer, dipping a clean spoon into the pot.

“Always taste.” He blew on the spoon and offered it to her. “Remember that this is being added to –“

Whatever he meant to say vanished from his mind, his chain of thought snapped cleanly apart as he watched her lips close around the spoon, her tongue dart out to catch the sauce at the corner of her mouth.

“It’s a little salty.”

“Yes,” he agreed, feeling breathless.

Bad. Bad, badbad, this was a mistake.

But it was salvageable, he thought, dropping the spoon in the sink. He could let her eat, clean up quickly and just leave before –

“Would you like a glass of wine?”

No. No.

“I at least know that Merlot can be paired with a red pasta sauce. Camilla taught me that.”

She smiled proudly, and Jakob would have rather dug the damn spider back out of the glass-ridden trash and swallowed it than said no.

Corrin wandered off to retrieve the bottle, leaving him with no choice but to serve a dinner for two.

Determined to eliminate the suggestion that this was in any way enjoyable, Jakob sat quietly across from her at the dining table, carefully directing his gaze at the view, but she was like a beacon even against the brilliant city skyline, irresistibly distracting. Corrin had a talent for conversation, and two glasses of wine in, Jakob was telling her things not even his colleagues, whom he had worked with for years, knew of.

“How long have you been in security for?”

“Two… three years.” Brief answers, no detail. Don’t get too involved.

“What did you do before that?”

“I was a Lieutenant for the Royal Marines.”

“The British military!” She took a long sip of her wine, sitting up straight with attentive interest. “Why did you leave?”

It was his turn to drink deeply from his glass. “Personal reasons.”

“Okay, I won’t ask. But it must have been really personal for you to leave the country entirely.”

He let a mouthful of pasta be his excuse for avoiding a reply.

“So are your family all in England?”

For the briefest of moments, he considered being a jerk. But she was refilling his glass with a gentle smile, and it couldn’t hurt, surely, to just tell her. He had to spend so much time with her anyway, it would be better to sate her curiosity than maintain this clinical indifference.

“I have no family. My parents abandoned me when I was very young.”

“Oh,” her face fell. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. It doesn’t matter much to me.”

“Still,” she said more to herself than in reply, “it must have been lonely.”

He shrugged. “I’m used to it.”

He was drinking too fast. He felt warm when Corrin stared at him and the way the soft lights caught her hair made him a little disoriented, almost dizzy.

God, the flush of wine in her cheeks made her look so –

“I think I’ve had too much,” he muttered.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she stood, coming around the table to take him by the arm, and it didn’t make much sense, but he let her lead him to her sofa and sat down, feeling strangely comfortable as she sat next to him and turned on the television.

“Penguins,” she announced, indicating with the remote, the documentary on screen. 

They were such ridiculous animals, absolutely not made for movement on land, and he might have said so, because she laughed, and the sound went straight to his head, down into his chest where it beat like bird trying to escape.

“Hey,” she said softly, as the commercials came on, “I’m sorry if I brought up some bad memories.”

Jakob sighed. “Don’t apologise. You apologise too much.”

“Sorry,” she repeated, and giggled to herself. “But thanks for telling me. I can’t believe you were a Lieutenant. I guess that’s why you have such good posture.”

“You notice strange things.”

She nodded slowly. “I’m good at that.”

The low drone of the television was soothing, and Jakob felt his head slowly clearing the longer he sat there. It would be a while before he could comfortably take his bike, but it was getting late, and the time at which it should have been appropriate for him to leave had come and gone. With a yawn, he made to stand, and froze.

Corrin had fallen asleep, her legs tucked beneath her and her head tilted sideways against the back of the sofa, as if she had drifted off while watching him. Her cheeks were still pink, her lips parted slightly as her chest rose and fell with deep breaths and her eyelids fluttered as she felt Jakob move beside her. 

“No,” she murmured, reaching for him, her arm falling about his waist, and with a heady rush he knew was not the wine, Jakob realised with sudden, startling clarity that he was trapped.

Caught beneath her unknowing embrace, tangled in the thought of her kind eyes and gentle laugh. 

And to his absolute horror, he didn’t want to ever be set free.

[kura-soma]

This might be one of those cases of "ask culture" and "guess culture".

I'm an asker. I ask questions because I do not know an answer and if I ask if it would be okay if I do something, no is an absolutely acceptable answer. "Hey, can I come to visit you next weekend?" "No" "okay" - no hard feelings.

But I have met guessers. They only ask if they think the answer will be yes. They think forcing someone to say no/say no themselves is stressful and rude and so try to gauge the reaction without ever having to actually ask.

When askers and guessers interact without establishing boundaries and communication guidelines, someone's feelings are going to be hurt in my experience. I asked a guesser if I could come visit and she said yes, because saying no seemed impossible to her, and then we had a miserable weekend because she was already stressed and didn't actually want me to visit and I was angry because I do not want to be where I am not wanted.

In the case of the open relationship question... Part of it is reddits terminal case of brainrot and allergy to nuanced takes about anything. Another part is the tendency of most users to view everything from an america-centric point of view, even for things that happen to non-americans outside of america. And the last part is: if you ask a guesser who does not understand that he IS a guesser an honest question, he will think that you have already made up your mind and only ask out of politeness, not because no is an option.

How that conversation should have gone:

Partner 1: Hey, I've been reading about open relationships and it sounds interesting. Would that ever be something you are interested in?

Partner 2: No, I'm strictly monogamous.

Partner 1: Okay, then let's go on being in a happy monogamous relationship.

What apparently happened (in several cases, I've seen multiple reddit posts about this):

Partner 1: Hey, I've been reading about open relationships and it sounds interesting. Would that ever be something you are interested in?

Partner 2 - internally: THEY WANT MY PERMISSION TO CHEAT ON ME AND PROBABLY ALREADY HAVE SOMEONE IN MIND, I BET IT'S THAT NEW PERSON FROM THE OFFICE THEY TOLD ME ABOUT I CAN NEVER TRUST THEM AGAIN BECAUSE THEY HAVE ALREADY MADE UP THEIR MIND THAT THEY WANT AN OPEN RELATIONSHIP AND WILL NEVER BE HAPPY AGAIN MONOGAMOUSLY

Partner 2 - externally: I want a divorce.

One of the wildest ideas that bounces around the Reddit relationship advice echo chamber is the idea that merely asking your partner if they would go for an open relationship is perfectly reasonable grounds for divorce.

[reminiscingtonight]

why am I just now finding out you’re a Seahawks fan amazing stuff lol. But about the Seahawks needing a qb they’ve needed one for a bit now but this unwavering faith in Geno has cost them yet another playoff potential season. And not to just shit on Geno cause he’s had his moments where’s he’s done good but the future the Seahawks are trying to build can not be structured around him, he’s old for starters and had been a consistent benchwarmer his whole career, he is barley the present of the Seahawks team. Same with drew the second string qb todays game with wasn’t as disastrous as i thought it’d be but he’s also not starting qb material. At this rate we’ll end with atleast a top 10 pick going into this draft, with the likes of penix jr, we could make a good effort to snag him and get a great qb out of him. Bonus points cause he’s the uw qb atm and is balling out so he should stay in seattle even tho the weather can be miserable. (Sorry for the long message)

My eyes went from o.o to O.O when I opened my inbox 😂 But yes, the unfortunate side effect of being seattle born and raised means rooting for the hawks, no matter how bad they are

And yes! I totally agree, Carroll for some reason keeps giving him chances when Geno's proved time and time again he doesn't have what it takes to be a starter. We should be giving our backups chances in games (kinda like the jets did with boyle even tho boyle did reallyyyy bad) bc imo that's the only real way to gauge if someone is game ready. I fear to wonder if the reason we haven't been seeing Lock or our third qb getting chances because they're that bad, but I wholly believe that we would have lost way worse if Geno was playing today. Yes, there were a couple interceptions but Lock just looks better, more confident, and more in-sync with the players

At this rate this season is done. We're clearly not going to make the playoffs in any way shape or form. The best thing the team can do now is lose games. Sinking our rank is the only way to ensure we have a chance at drafting a good qb and rebuilding the team

[seasideretreat]

Richard the Lionheart

I was behind my little keyboard just now and I figured I'd try playing like Richard the Lionheart. Isn't he the best singer-songwriter who ever lived? Maybe not, but he is examplary of a style of music-making, that has no better exponents. The point is writing about one's own life, and making sweet concords underlie it.

I have found out it's all about attitude. You know, I am on medication, and it makes me feel miserable, because I get so restless, I have to move all the time; but some people I know were still very cheerful and quite normal, I thought, even though they had the medication; but I am not the best person at gauging whether or not someone is normal; nevertheless, they seemed all right, whereas I really suffer, I am in dire straights. But I have basically found out it is all about attitude. I can sit still in a chair, maybe look at some Reddit posts, maybe watch television, if I just say "It doesn't rock my boat" or something like that, I am just gloriously not-engaged, and that helps me, to have this power of not being engaged. An attitude is something you can always cultivate - yes, I really think this is the case, it's all about attitude; and you can learn an attitude from history, that's the point, that's how we grow powerful. But I ain't emulating Richard the Lionheart. He didn't have a very powerful attitude. I am emulating Alexander the Great. He really understood life. He had a career - in war - and he had a life, as a governor and so on; he really understood life. This is also my life you see. I want to have a career in the travel business, and I also want to govern my house well, write deep philosophical prose, and play chess in peace and tranquility.

Anyway, I had a difficult day, but it's all right now I think, still, the periods go on, and it's hard to pass The Hours. That's the last movie I saw, The Hours by Steve Daldry (whoever that is); it was a nice movie, but I wasn't really that enthusiastic to watch it, but I always like period films and you know, I could really relate to the Nicole Kidman character, Virginia Woolf you know, and I was really inspired to write my own book - you know, I really like my day's off because then I can just sit in my room and write all day if I like, but that's the thing, I don't always like that, sometimes I just want to sit in my chair and scroll around on Reddit or Tumblr or Twitter, or just browse the internet I think, and anyway it's all about attitude, and that is frankly a quite liberating idea; and we have to be sincere, we can't just pretend we're all right, that takes its toll both on us, and on our surroundings; but I still really like philosophy and I've learned so much from history, mostly that thing about playing chess, chess is just a wonderful way to pass the time, mostly because it really ties into real life problems; who knows, maybe we can even solve the climate crisis with chess, although I don't immediately see it.

Still, when I am writing I feel quite calm as well, but that's what I am saying about attitude, it's a lot like writing. Managing your attitude can say something about the situation, it can temporalize the situations, create duration as Bergson called it - and it's all about duration.

[kaptainkoalaoshiz]

I get why people dislike Jacob for what he did but let’s not bash him for what happened afterward. This wasn’t something he had planned, there was no way in hell he could have predicted there would be werewolves running amock around Camp. Was it a dick move to sabotage the car so they would be ‘trapped one more night’ and he could have ‘one more chance with Emma’? Yeah, kinda. But also, depending on what we choose (the fuel line or the rotary arm), it tells that, for the later, he would have put it back so everyone could leave and, for the first? I don’t think he expected fire. Going back to him asking Kaythlin what to do to put an engine down, it’s clear he doesn’t know much about cars. He couldn’t have imagined it would make the whole engine burst into flames. Now, getting back to him and Emma, we actually don’t know how much they talked about breaking up. Yeah, we get that there’s the whole “long-distance romance” Emma didn’t want to try and be commited to since she seems like a rather physical love/presence type of person but also we don’t know how much they talked about their break-up. We’ve seen how awkward and hopeful (and clingy, yes) Jacob was with Emma but we’ve also seen Emma push& pulling him all night long! One moment she’s like “we’re nothing” and the next she makes him think he still have a chance! Also, there couldn’t have had much time for them to talk, prior to that, with packing up camp. There are kids running around and losing stuff, there’s a to-do list of things to check to close camp for fall/winter, there’s just no time to hold a proper conversation, especially a break up conversation. Hell, she might have push&pulled him all day, we don’t know! Jacob is a hopeful romantic and has low self-esteem and Emma, while in her rights to want to stop being with him and hold him accountable for his maladvised clinginess, isn’t helping! She see him cry, call him names and then asks him to join her for skinny dipping?! While mocking him for being upset she kissed Nick? (the “you can stand here, sulking, driving yourself crazy imagining Nick’s tongue in my mouth” who the fuck say that like that?! She’s literally putting salt in the wounds!)

Listen. I like Emma, she’s the ‘confident because I have to even if it means I have to be a bitch about some things’ and I respect that. But I can’t accept how she treated Jacob and how people are absolutely jumping on the “Emma was right, Jacob is horrible (for trying to get back with her when she says no, and because he trapped them here)” bandwagon.

He’s miserable, he’s guilty he either 1)lost the rotary arm in the lake (if he goes to save Abi) or 2)burned the engine of their only vehicule. He’s not a “poor little mew mew” but dang, he doesn’t deserve the heat he gets from the fandom.

[triplexdoublex]

Bad At Love

Pairing: Pete Davidson x Reader

Warnings/tags: smut, almost getting caught, awkward situations, kink shamming if you squint

A/N: This is my first time writing Pete but I think I nailed his personality and humor, let me know what you think . This is 100% based on a dream I had exactly like this.

With over a dozen failed relationships between the two of you, you and Pete both swore you were gonna take things slow— do things the right way: get to know each other, meet each other’s parents ect., before jumping into bed together. So you have to admit you questioned his motives when he invited you over for dinner with his mom after only a few weeks of dating.

*****

“So, you really want me to meet your mom this early, or you just wanna fuck?” You question with a laugh, half- joking while in the car on the way to their Staten Island home for the first time.”

“Well.. I mean of course I wanna fuck,” Pete deadpans in his typical humor, “but no, seriously, I really want you to meet my mom, I think she’d really like you a lot,” he smiles, placing a hand on your knee as he drives. “Besides .. like, we can still wait or whatever. I dunno— I just don’t wanna fuck this up this time. I suck at relationships, I’m bad at love like Halsey,” he jokes.

You can’t help but crack a laugh at his pun. “You don’t suck at relationships,” you smack his arm playfully. “Everything happens for a reason, you just haven’t met the right one yet.”

“Yes I do— like, a lot! I very much suck at relationships” he stifles a self deprecating laugh. “but .. uh … yeah— I’m hoping maybe this time I have,” he smiles at you.

“I hope so too,” you smile back, lacing your fingers with his where they still rest on your knee.

*******

“Hey, Ma?!” Pete calls out when he enters the house with you. “Oh she left a note: ‘Ran to the store, forgot an ingredient, be back in time to make dinner. Love mom’.”

“Aww that’s sweet, you’re a mamas boy huh?”

“Yeah pretty much,” he blushes. “Guess I really didn’t have much of a choice after my dad died,” he states mater- of -factly.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, yeah.. I didn’t mean— yeah I heard about that” You apologize awkwardly, your momma's boy comment seeming insensitive now.

“Relax, I’m messing with you ” he nudges you with his elbow. “It’s fine, - I’m fine— a dead dad makes for good jokes.”

You can’t understand how he can joke about something so serious, but you know his humour is his way of coping, so you don’t question it, and opt to change the subject instead.

“So where’s your room?”

“Uhhmm.. in the basement.”

“You live in your mom's basement?” You ask, trying not to sound judgmental, but failing miserably.

“Yeah, I'm a loser—“ he pauses, gauging your reaction. “Kidding!” He continues. “I don’t usually tell people this cuz I don’t like I brag .. it’s .. I dunno it’s weird, but I actually bought this house for my mom.”

“Aww that’s sweet. I wasn’t judging anyways.”

“Sure ya weren’t.” He gives you a knowing look and a laugh.

“Ok, maybe a little.” You admit. “but this is different—adorable— even. Gotta respect a man who takes good care of his mom,” you smile. “So, you gonna show me your room or what?”

“Ooh I- uhh I thought we could hang out up here, since we’re —“ he tugs on the hem of his shirt nervously “—since we’re umm waiting or whatever” he scratches the back of his neck as he takes a seat on the couch. “less temptation, I dunno … but I mean , if you want we can go down there.”

“Oh okay, yeah that’s a good idea, makes sense.” Just as you’re about to sit down next to him you notice a hilariously adorable baby picture behind him on the wall and practically climb onto his lap trying to get a better look. “Oh my god is that you!?” You laugh pointing to a picture of a baby in the sink, taking a bath, a pile of bubbles on their head.

“Oh Jesus,” he smacks his hand over his face, embarrassed. “Yeah… yeah that’s me.”

“Aww look at all these!” You shift in his lap as you scan the rest of the pictures behind him. “You were sooo cute!” You practically squeal.

“I was, wasn’t I? I don’t know what happened just kinda got uglier as I got older” he jokes.

“You did not!” You laugh, giving his shoulder a playful shove. “You’re still a cutie.” You smile, placing a chaste kiss on his lips.

“Yeah? he blushes. “Well uhh.. you’re pretty cute yourself.” He kisses you back.

Without thinking your hands cup his face, and your lips part, deepening the kiss; an open invitation for his tongue. Your tastebuds greet it upon entrance, and it glides effortlessly against your own, slippery as silk— like if you're not careful you might just accidentally swallow it down like a piece of bubble gum.

Instinctively, Pete grips your waist and pulls you into him. His hands slide up under the back of your sweater, his fingertips sinking into your flesh like over-ripe fruit.

The second you feel him straining against his jeans, his bulge firmly pressed against your clothed clit, you know your silly waiting game is over: you’ve both lost.

Next thing you know, Pete’s lying on the couch, and you have his knees straddled, cock in hand, ready to take him into your mouth.

“Fuck! You’re huge!” You gasp in surprise.

“Y-yeah, you.. uhhh, didn’t know? I-I got the BDE and all that” Pete wisecracks through hitched breaths, making you smile as you lower your head.

With the tip of your tongue you eagerly follow along the prominent vein on the underside of his shaft like it’s a map leading to treasure, pausing only to tease around the circumference of the head before talking him into your mouth as far as you can.

“Ahh shit— so good,” Pete moans, threading his hands into your hair as you begin to set a pace, bobbing up and down his length, and hollowing your cheeks as you suck. You relax your throat, preparing to show off your best dick sucking skills, and slowly inch further down his cock until your nose is nestled firmly against the neatly trimmed dark patch of curls on his pelvis. “Oh-hh-fffuck” Pete’s voice trembles and hand tightens its grip in your hair as you purposely swallow around him, your throat pleasurably constricting along his length. “Shiiit, I think I love you!” He blurts out, causing you to stop dead in your tracks and pull him out of your mouth. It’s the first time he’s ever told you that and you're not sure if it’s dick talking or his heart, but the feeling is mutual.

“Did you really just—-“

“I’m sorry!” He huffs out of breath “but Plea-se, please don’t stop,” he begs. “Can we —“ he pauses in an attempt to steady his breathing “—talk about this later? I’m almost there.”

“You’re lucky I love you too,” you state before pressing a kiss to his lips, then dipping your head back down to finish the job when Pete interrupts you.

“Uuhh.. ummm.. is it safe to assume we’re not doing the whole umm ..waiting thing anymore?” He questions.

“ I’d say that’s a fair assumption,” you chuckle. “Why?”

“Ohh good, cuz I’d .. I’d really like to be inside you right now. You should ride me.”

“I think I can arrange that,” you smirk, stripping off your sweater and removing your panties from under your skirt, while Pete shoves his jeans and boxers further down his legs. “So much for not jumping into bed together,” you laugh, positioning yourself above him.

“I mean, technically this is a couch .. So I ..uh think we’re good,” he jokes, sitting up halfway to connect your lips.

He moans into your mouth as you slowly sink down on his length, a knee on either side of his thin frame. Careful not to hurt yourself with his size, you opt to roll your hips in waves and circles, in lieu of the standard up and and down movements, sparing your cervix the beating.

“Mmmm, You feel so good like this,” you whine breathlessly. “You like it like this?”

“Yeah— yeah keep doing the thing with your hips,” he grips them firmly; his hands going along for the ride, as you rotate them wildly in his lap. Your own hands are tucked away under the fabric of his shirt, palming his tattooed chest.

As orgasm nears, you shift your position. Sitting more upright, you arch your back and move your hands to the tops of Pete’s thighs behind you for balance. Pete takes the opportunity to do some of the work, thrusting up into you from below.

“Uhhmhmm, shit I’m so close!” He groans, sitting up and pulls you towards him by the small of your back.

“Fuck! … Me too! You huff against his lips before melting into a passionate kiss. Moans fill each others mouths as you both reach your peak in unison; your bodies colliding in a wet and audible rhythm as you ride it out together, before collapsing back down on the couch.

“FUCK— MOM!” Pete chokes out , out of breath.

“WHAT!?” You question, thinking Pete has some weird mommy kink you were not prepared for.

“My mom!” He points to the front door, the knob slowly turning. “Pretend your asleep! He grabs a large blanket off the back of the couch and covers you both, as you close your eyes.

“Aww, how sweet,” you hear his mothers voice say as she enters the house. She puts her grocery bag down and heads over toward the two of you. “Peter,” she says softly, rocking his shoulder.

“Mom?” He feins a yawn and stretches. “Sorry, we had a busy day, musta fell asleep.” Slowly and carefully Pete inches his boxers and pants back up under the shield of the blanket as he introduces you.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Davidson,” you sit up keeping the blanket up around your shoulders.

“Oh sweetheart, are you cold?… Peter you coulda turned up the heat for the poor girl! Excuse me,I’ll be right back.” His mother goes into the hallway to adjust the thermostat giving you just enough time to locate your sweater under covers and throw it on; your panties will have to wait until later, so you shove them in Pete’s pants pocket. “There ya go, should be warmer in no time” Mrs. Davidson states. “Oh what a pretty sweater!” She says, finally seeing you without the blanket. “but ooh it looks like you have a little something near the collar there. “Peter! Have you been drooling in your sleep again?” She scolds. “Let me go get a damp face cloth and clean that up for you.”

You and Pete lock eyes in a panic knowing damn well it’s not drool since you weren’t actually sleeping, and your sweater was under the covers.

Mrs. Davidson returns , a damp washcloth in hand. “Mom.. don’t .. I can ..I can do it, it’s fine,” Pete awkwardly tries to stop her.

“There ya go,” Pete’s mom ignores him, dabbing at the stain. “All set.”

*************

Dinner goes off without a hitch and you retreat to Pete’s room to let your stomachs settle before dessert.

“Well tonight was interesting.” You state being the first to talk about the elephant in the room. “But I meant what I said earlier ‘you’re lucky I love you.’” You smile, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “So did you mean it too or was that just your dick talking?”

“I absolutely meant it. It uh … just turns out my romantic timing, is not quite as good as my comedic timing,” he kisses you to hide his blushing cheeks.

“Yeah you could say that,” you laugh.

“Hey, I tried to warn you,” he cracks a humorous smile. “I’m bad at love, remember?”

[orionsangel86]

Lets talk about the Bare Minimum

Okay guys, obviously there is a huge divide here among those of us that are super positive and excited and those of you that are really doubtful the finale will give us anything remotely worthwhile. So lets break this down okay? Perhaps it can get us all on a fairly level playing field?

What is the absolute bare minimum the Supernatural Finale can give us to satisfy us?

Everyone will have different ideas of course, but if we dismiss all our wildest dreams and high expectations and consider the fact that yes, this is still Supernatural and they do tend to run on a mix of batshit crazy, profound and poetic beauty, and things seemingly falling into place so perfectly it was clearly 100% accidental (eg: The Monster at the End of this Book) then we should probably try to find a centre point. A point that we can use to gauge how the episode will fair overall.

So what is the bare minimum?

Castiel returns

This is it. This should be the bare minimum we should expect in order to make this finale meaningful.

If we are given nothing else, Cas returning should be enough for us to nod and say “okay Supernatural. You tried. You got him back. He was there for the finale. That’s the main thing.”

If Castiel isn’t back and the finale is just Sam and Dean driving around looking for generic MOTW hunts like in Season 1 in some sort of bronly wet dream, that would be a massive anticlimax and miserable way to end the series. It will be the worst ending of a show since GoT.

BUT we know Misha filmed 20. I will hear no more to the alternative. Misha filming 20 is and always has been a fundamental FACT.

So Castiel returns. Bare minimum met? Right? Of course there are caveats to that key point.

Castiel returning in flashback form only, or as a memory or dream, whilst the actual Castiel still remains in the Empty is NOT an acceptable option. If the show takes this route, this is still below the bare minimum. This would be deemed a failure in my opinion just as if the finale is just Sam and Dean being bros on the road.

What really needs to happen for the bare minimum to be met, is for Castiel to be rescued from the Empty. Whether that is by Jack, by Dean, or by himself or some other means, Castiel must return from the Empty to fix the only actual loose end not tied up in 15x19. We should also finally get the Empty being sent back to sleep, because having just binge watched episodes 12-18 all in one week, let me tell you, the amount of times it is repeated that the Empty desperately wants to go back to sleep is a LOT. From what I have been told, the Empty isn’t even mentioned in 19, so that is the only plot point actually still hanging over the series.

Of course, had Castiel not confessed his “homosexual feelings of love” for Dean in 15x18, then at this point I would have said that the bare minimum I needed was for Cas to be saved, and for Dean to give him a heartfelt hug and a look of love and to say “lets go home” off into a future where we know the story ends with Dean and Cas together in an ambiguous relationship. (Honestly, for a long time, this is the ending I thought we would get).

But Dabb and Bobo have written themselves into a very specific corner.

Castiel’s confession was not ambiguous. Because of this, the big question hanging over the final ever episode of the longest running genre show on TV, isn’t about whether the heroes will stop the big bad, it isn’t whether or not they will live or die, nope, it’s whether the lead male character will reciprocate romantic love for his “equally male” (Note - I’m talking in terms of mainstream here don’t @ me) best friend. The big question Supernatural has gone and put to its audience is “is Dean Winchester also in love with Castiel and therefore, is he also queer?”

This is an unpresedented situation that the show has put itself in.

Because of this, the bare minimum is no longer just Castiel being saved. It’s also Dean answering that question that the show has put to us.

Castiel must be saved, and the love confession must be addressed. These things are the key points going into this final episode. If either of them are glossed over in any way, the show would have fundamentally failed it’s audience, its characters, it’s cast, and everyone involved in it. Given how optimistic and happy everyone who works on the show seems to be currently, I highly doubt that is the case.

So. Castiel must be saved, and the confession must be addressed. Do we accept Dean rejecting Cas?

There is I suppose, a very slim chance that this could happen. If the Network let their own homophobia get to them (before you come @ me, no I don’t consider the CW’s many young attractive lesbian characters to let them off the hook for years of avoiding any non stereotypical queer men. IT’S TOTALLY DIFFERENT) then they may have greenlighted Cas’s queerness whilst refusing to do the same for Dean. They may consider simply saving Castiel and therefore #resurrectingyourgays as enough to satisfy the queer viewers, even though Castiel’s love was not returned. Perhaps in the final episode we will get a flashforward to years down the line and Cas has got over Dean and is living it up with another man? It’s possible right?

It would also cause utter outrage in the fanbase. Dabb and Bobo are far more savvy than fandom gives them credit for. I personally think that had the network said no to Dean reciprocating Castiel’s love, then Dabb and Bobo would have kept it ambiguous, and simply strongly implied that they end up together in an ending like the one I always thought we would get when my hopes for Destiel were at a low point.

So Dean reciprocating Castiel’s love also falls under the bare minimum requirements for the episode to be a success.

How they go about showing Dean reciprocating Cas’s feelings I don’t know. Do I absolutely need a kiss? No. It’s not a bare minimum requirement. Anything beyond Dean simply telling Cas he loves him back and Cas smiling at him is a bonus. Perhaps they could show it the way they showed Jesse and Cesar in 11x19. Through affection and care, but no actual kisses.

Whilst I personally believe we will get a kiss, it’s not a bare minimum, and if we don’t get one I will still be satisfied so long as we get all of the following:

Castiel is saved from the Empty

Dean reciprocates his love

Dean and Cas end up together (whether that be to live lives together on Earth, or both go out fighting and reunite in heaven together. Whatever the case, they must end up together)

My 3rd point here is the only other bare minimum requirement I need to not feel like they have screwed it up. I don’t care whether Dean and Cas end the show alive or dead. What I DO care is that regardless of where they end up, be it Earth, Heaven, or even Purgaytory, they are together. They must end the series together.

There are of course many other things I want. I want Cas to give up his grace (by choice) and become a human (I really wanna see him in Winchester plaid at least once!). I want to see them slow dancing like Garth and Bess did in 15x10. I want Sam to reunite with Eileen and also get a happy ending. I hope they get to keep the damn dog too. Ideally, I want a soft epilogue, because these boys are good people, and they’ve suffered enough. Whatever else may happen though, so long as those bare minimum requirements are met, I will consider the ending a resounding success.

Personally, I don’t think I’m asking for much.

[ddarker-dreams]

New Days. Yan Machi x Reader

Warnings: Yandere themes and unhealthy relationships. Note: this is based off the fantastic mafia AU from @conflatemochi​ !! please consider checking out her content for it if you are 18+, i love the dynamics a lot.

Routines are something you can work with.

Technically, you could just laze around all day, now that you no longer have to worry about rent or looming bills. Which is what you found yourself doing when you were first brought here against your will. That is, until the lack of having something meaningful to do started to wear down on your mind. It took months of carefully timed begging, promises, and gaining her trust; but you finally managed to convince Machi to let you cook.

She only relented once you agreed to cook in a public area, where bodyguards could interfere should you get any ideas. Not that you had any intentions of doing that after all the work it took to gain this privilege in the first place. Tensions run unbearably high when another member’s darling steps out of line, causing a ripple effect that intrudes on your life even if you weren’t involved. It’s the least you could do not to infringe on the other darling’s already miserable lives by lashing out.

“Well? What do you think?” You tentatively ask, clasping your hands together and holding your breath expectantly. This would be the first dinner you’ve made in many months. What you used to consider a troublesome chore in your normal life felt amazing to do after being taken care of for so long. You felt like you were slowly gaining a piece of your independence back, farfetched as the thought may be.

Machi sets the fork back onto her plate. The dish you made was a simple one, you wanted to keep things easy until you got used to cooking again. Pasta with a marinara sauce you’d been taught growing up, seasoned with fresh herbs and sauteed vegetables, all items you had requested in advance for this special night. If it weren’t for how dire the situation you were in was, you might have laughed at the sight of burly men in tuxedos and sunglasses approaching you with grocery bags.

“Hm. Not bad,” she finally speaks up, sending waves of relief over your frazzled person. It’s not so much that you want her approval — you just don’t want this opportunity to somehow get stolen from you — a fear that was in the back of your mind every time you taste-tested the sauce and made adjustments. A touch irrational, yes, but how could you not grow a little paranoid considering your unorthodox lifestyle?

You sway back and forth in place, your heart practically soaring. “So you like it?”

“What’d you expect?” Machi takes another bite, her standard rough attitude not enough to dampen your high spirits. It had been nerve-wracking to cook with bodyguards who had gun holsters visible on their person hovering just a few feet away. In the end, it looks like you were worried about nothing. This has been a major success in your books.

“I’m just a bit out of practice,” you freeze after the words tumble out and she raises an eyebrow. Rushing to defend yourself, you quickly add, “And you’ve never told me the food you like.”

“You’ve never asked.”

Ah, well, she’s got a point there. When you’re kidnapped, the last thing on your mind to ask is what kind of cuisine your captor favors. Machi’s cool demeanor is a double-edged sword. In situations like this, where the other members would get riled up over their darling mentioning their past life, it wasn’t unusual for them to blow up. She doesn’t take offense over made-up transgressions and you’re grateful for that much. Unfortunately, that also makes it more difficult for you to gauge her mood, given her almost constant poker face.

She finishes the meal you made in silence, something there’s a lot of between you two; though you’ve grown accustomed to it. You reach out to take her now empty plate, but she sends you a stare. Before you can ask what’s wrong, she stands, walking over to the sink to rinse it off herself. Playing with your fingers, you follow after her, feeling akin to a kicked puppy. Machi has to say something more, right? This is a big deal for you both, isn’t it?

Machi turns the faucet off and sets the plate down to dry.

“Here,” she reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out a pen and paper. “Write down what you need for tomorrow’s meal.”

You gratefully accept the offer, gushing out your gratitude for her benevolence.

What would your past self think of you now? Would they judge you for how you practically trip over yourself to keep Machi content and happy? Whatever the case, you can hardly bring yourself to care anymore, you’re just trying to keep yourself sane.

If this is what it takes, then so be it.

[olivia-anderson-fanfic]

Stalker X Stalker, Part 5

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Perma tag: @nathleigh

Stalker x Stalker taglist: @aespades @jayjayspixiepop @blueslushgueen @fan-written @seraphichana @nerd-nowandforever

Marinette listened in on Tim for three days.

Not actively, of course, she didn’t hang onto every word he said. She just let her consciousness drift in and out of the conversations he had while she worked on finishing up the outfit she had designed for Audrey...

And, yeah, she was getting to the point where she was willing to bet on him being an okay guy. Better than okay, even. He was just so… genuine?

The first two days he had come in sick. She knew the signs of working while sick by heart, the trudging around and the groaning and the constant banging your head on the desk when you pass out randomly, and damn she was pretty sure even she wasn’t as bad as him. He probably shouldn’t be working at all, to be honest, he was CEO and there was nothing stopping him from taking the day -- or even just a few hours -- off. But, no, from the sound of it he was drinking ungodly amounts of coffee and calling it okay.

And despite the fact that he seemed absolutely miserable, he hadn’t taken it out on anyone. She had yet to hear him be impolite to anyone, not even the people that worked under him. His secretary had made a scheduling mistake and he had not only assured her it was fine but didn’t even require her to fix it.

Even when he was talking to himself while working he never once said anything questionable. And he talked to himself a lot. It was like a podcast, honestly, just hearing him rattle off numbers and weird business terms she hadn’t learned because she was self-taught. He talked almost constantly and he should have slipped up by now, yet here she was three days later with nothing to show for it except for a whole lot of guilt.

Marinette hadn’t thought much about it on the first day, everyone had their good days from time to time. On the second day she said ‘oh, it’s a coincidence’, but on the third day she had to call it: her paranoia had been a little unfounded.

Literally the worst thing about him so far was that he didn’t seem to care much about his own health… and that wasn’t really a bad thing about him as much as it was a bad thing for him.

So, yeah, it looked like she had no real reason to listen in on him anymore.

… but…

Something about him was nagging at her. He was a nice guy and she’d like to be his friend… it was just that, sometimes, she could swear she recognized his voice.

And it wasn’t like there were a lot of people she knew in America, she knew who he probably was.

Her hand itched towards the tiny device hidden under her window seat. One click (and maybe a little researching) and she’d know for sure who the bats were. The only thing stopping her was the knowledge that, if she did know their real names, she’d accidentally call them by them once and immediately get thrown either into a cell or out of Gotham. She was a meta (kind of), she was already on thin ice. She didn’t need the paranoid idiots that were the bats being more wary of her than they already were.

So, she left it alone.

She kept the bug, though. Mostly just because she wanted to hear it directly from him rather than just guessing by his voice. After all, voices can be similar. If he were to directly talk about bat business while she was listening in, though… that would definitely be a point towards her theory, to say the least.

And, yeah, she knew it was kind of messed up. She could be listening in on some innocent guy for all she knew, but it was… morally kind of okay? The whole thing about stalking is that it makes your victim feel unsafe. If he was Red Robin then he had found the bug and hadn’t felt unsafe enough to remove it and if he was a civilian then he would never know about the bug and therefore couldn’t feel unsafe. Therefore, it wasn’t stalking, not really.

… yeah, that makes sense.

She glanced at her sketchbook and yawned. She really needed to get a new outfit idea soon. Good thing Tim said he was taking her out tomorrow --.

Shit, Tim was taking her out tomorrow.

She jumped up from her spot at the window and ran to her closet. What to wear, what to wear...

Frenchie: where are we going tomorrow

Spiderman: It’s a surprise.

Frenchie: fuck your surprises tim what do i need to wear

She heard his laugh crackle through her earpiece. Rude.

Spiderman: Casual clothes.

Frenchie: there are LEVELS of casual tim

Spiderman: Oh, so we’re breaking out the capital letters. This must be serious.

She scoffed. Of course it was serious.

Frenchie: just tell me what to wear

Spiderman: A t-shirt and jeans is fine.

Kwamis, send her strength. Like she was going to wear a t-shirt and jeans. Did he even know who he was talking to?

But at least she had a gauge on how casual she could go. She picked out a light pink button down and black shorts for herself and then, because she had a little bit of foresight, she added some black tights.

She smiled faintly and dropped back in her bed.

She couldn’t wait to see where he was going to take her.

She found out the next day. Because that’s how things work.

She raised her eyebrows. “There’s no way it’s actually called a ‘space museum’. You’ve gotta be lying.”

Tim shrugged, a grin poking at his lips. “Do you really think I’d make it up?”

“Well, considering your outfit, I’d say you aren’t the most creative of guys so maybe you did,” she teased.

Tim looked down at his outfit and pouted. He was wearing little more than a black turtleneck and pants under a white jacket. “Must you make fun of every outfit I wear?”

“Only the bad ones. Seriously, would it kill you to wear a little bit of color?”

He rolled his eyes. “At least I thought to bring a jacket. It’s thirty degrees!”

She had forgotten that Americans used Fahrenheit, sue her.

Of course, she was never going to admit to this. She stuck her tongue out at him. “Maybe I’m just not a wimp.”

He snickered. “Oh, so you’re not cold?”

“Not at all.”

“Then stop hugging that coffee cup.”

She looked down at the coffee cup that was her only source of warmth and happiness in this cruel world that had two different measuring systems (three if you counted Kelvin). She gripped it tighter. “... no.”

He rolled his eyes again and, after a beat of hesitation, shrugged his jacket off and offered it to her.

Marinette normally wouldn’t give in this easy… but she really was cold and his clothes were far thicker than hers were and she knew that her teeth would start chattering soon which would have been so embarrassing...

So she blushed faintly and slipped the jacket on. It smelled like ungodly expensive cologne. “Thanks.”

He grinned. “I’m taking your coffee as payment.”

“No --!”

~

After dropping by a cafe so Marinette didn’t kill him, Tim took her to the space museum (yes, that actually was what it was called).

He thought she would have missed the night sky. Gotham hardly ever had a clear night due to the thick smog that hung over the city like a curse. And they spent quite a lot of time outside at night, she must have been feeling a little homesick.

So, he rented out the museum for the day. Yes, the whole museum. He was rich and mildly famous and what was the point of that if he wasn’t going to use it to make the people he cared about happy? He doubted she would be able to enjoy the sights as much if people were constantly taking pictures of them and asking about their relationship.

She raised her eyebrows just slightly but otherwise didn’t acknowledge the lack of people.

They slipped through the rooms quietly in search of inspiration.

Many of the rooms were your typical museum things: exhibits showing off different space rocks and explaining stars and supernovas. They didn’t stop much here, obviously, there was little to be inspired by. The most that happened for a long while was Marinette stopping from time to time to take a picture of a nice color that she wanted to try and replicate later.

And then she had stopped to look at a spacesuit. She blinked a few times before breaking into a grin and flipping to a new page in her sketchbook. He could barely make out the name ‘Jagged’ from where he was fiddling with his camera a respectable distance away.

So, Marinette, at least, was having a productive time. Tim was… a little stressed, to be honest.

Tim was having a particularly hard time getting ‘inspired’.

It had been years since he had picked up his camera, which was certainly a problem but it wasn’t the problem.

The problem was that he had never been one to take pictures of locations or objects. Sure, there was the occasional picture of the Gotham skyline, but he had always had a tendency towards taking pictures of people. Batman and Robin working as a team to take out a bunch of thugs, Robin and Nightwing racing each other across the rooftops, Batman and Nightwing stopping for ice cream after a particularly long patrol… and now he wanted to take pictures of Marinette.

But that would be weird because a) the first day he had implied he took pictures of attractions in order to alleviate suspicion about why he just so happened to be on the same rooftop as her and b) she probably wouldn’t think they were close enough for him to take pictures of her.

He kind of wished he could just go back to the old days where his subjects didn’t know he was there and he wouldn’t have to worry about what they would think about him if he took a picture of them.

His fingers itched towards the camera hanging from his neck because she looked so cute with her tongue poking out of her mouth and her orange, yellow, and white colored pencils sticking out from between her fingers like little Wolverine claws and he loved the way his jacket looked on her and --.

“You can stop staring, I’ll be done as fast as I can.”

His brain shorted out and the only response he could come up with was a squeaky: “Sorry?”

She looked up from her work with an awkward smile. “I’m sorry it’s taking so long, I just… if I don’t do it now it’ll slip my mind. I’m working as fast as I can, though.”

He was rebooting. Give him a minute.

Ah, there it was.

Wait, she thought he was being impatient?

“Nononono take your time, it’s fine! I just...”

He trailed off before he could finish the thought because this was the second time they had hung out he couldn’t make things awkward between them already.

… but she was giving him a confused, vaguely concerned, look and he was pretty sure that if he didn’t come up with something soon it would be awkward anyways.

“IwasjustwonderingifIcouldtakeapictureofyou?” He blurted out before he could stop himself again.

She blinked once. Twice. And then a blush spread across her face.

“Oh. Uh… sure?”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he said.

“It’s fine. A little sudden but… fine,” she said with a tiny smile.

Tim couldn’t keep the smile off of his face.

Not one to be blushy for long, apparently, Marinette flashed a wink. “Should I call up my friend Adrien for modeling tips or…?”

He rolled his eyes and schooled his face back into his usual grin. “It’s fine, just keep working. I’ll figure out angles and stuff.”

She tipped her head to the side confusedly. “Don’t you need me to be still?”

He didn’t look up from messing with the settings of his camera. “Not at all. You’re probably going to be one of my easier pictures.”

“... thanks…?”

“I do mostly nighttime photography. Capturing things in motion without it blurring requires a --.” He cringed. “Sorry, um… basically, when you want to take photos of things that are moving fast, you need a lot of natural light.”

“... you can talk about it more in depth, if you want.”

He shrugged. “I’d bore you.”

“I like your voice,” she said… then she seemed to realize the implications because she cleared her throat and did her best to backtrack: “In comparison to every other American I’ve heard so far, at least. Why do your accents… sound like that?”

“Ah, yes, because everyone knows that French people have the best accents.”

“Excuse you, I have been told by many people that my accent is actually very nice.”

He grinned. “By whom? Half-drunk men on the street?”

She gasped as if offended. “I get my information from much more reliable sources... like drunk women in bathrooms, thank you very much.”

“I see. My mistake. I apologize.”

“As you should.”

He rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Don’t you have a design to make?” She looked down at her sketchbook and a silence stretched between them as she squinted at her design.

“You forgot what you were doing, didn’t you?”

She groaned and rested her head in her hands.

He took a picture of her exasperated pout.

~

Marinette ended up with two outfits.

One was for Jagged, based off of the spacesuit she had seen. She had figured that, with all the songs he wrote about being free, there was bound to be one about how he ‘finally had his own space’. It was good to be prepared.

The other was for Cassandra Wayne. Marinette hadn’t thought much about it, to be honest. She just knew that Cassandra liked the color black with designs on top of it, and that the planetarium had a nice star pattern that would work for that. It would be super expensive, what with all the gems she would need, but it wasn’t like the Waynes couldn’t afford it.

… and then she looked up to see Tim pouting.

She giggled, resting her head on her hand. “What?”

“My sister is getting a dress and I’m not.”

Oh, so he was an actual fan. Interesting.

She brushed that conversation aside in favor of teasing him: “You want a dress?”

“Yes! No? Yes? I --.” He huffed and took a seat in the chair next to her. “I have faith anything you make will look nice.”

She felt a blush rise to her face and she rolled her eyes. “Hm. Telling the person in charge of your wardrobe ‘I have full faith in you’ is a terrible idea.”

“Oh? I don’t think you, in good conscience, can make and give me anything bad.”

She squinted at him for a minute before breaking into a grin. “Wanna bet?”

He leaned back in his chair, scrutinizing her for a few moments, before smirking. “Sure, how about we put five thousand on it?”

She choked. She’d forgotten he was rich rich.

She was quick to backtrack: “Nah. With all your fashion choices so far I can’t trust you not to wear it to some Gala or whatever it is you rich people do.”

“Damn, there goes that plan.”

She grinned and looked down at her sketchbook. After a few seconds she flipped to a new page. She squinted at his outfit for a few moments before starting to doodle something.

“What’re you making now?”

“I’m making you something with some color.”

He huffed. “Excuse you, I’m a goth in a family of goths. I can’t wear color.”

“Yeah, yeah. Trust me, I know. I’d say Richard is the black sheep of the family in that aspect but he’s the one wearing color.”

He laughed a little. “So Dick is the white sheep, then?”

“Yea --.” She stopped and then squinted over at him. “Dick?”

“It’s what he insists everyone calls him.”

She looked down at her sketchbook for a moment, processing, and then shook her head. “Your brother has a degradation kink.”

Tim brought his hand to his mouth in stunned silence before pulling his phone from his pocket and definitely not informing the family group chat of his discovery.

She snickered and went to work on the outfit again. It was a simple one, because she didn’t want to go too far out of his comfort zone, but there was no way she was going to be friends with a monochromatic idiot.

She leaned over until her head rested on his shoulder. He tensed up just a little before resting his head on top of hers.

~

When she had finished he took a picture of the planetarium to keep up pretenses and they had made their leave.

… but first, they stopped by the gift shop. Because why not?

Tim could have bought everything there for Marinette -- and probably would have, if asked -- but, considering she had freaked out about five thousand dollars earlier, he figured maybe he should keep that more or less quiet.

Instead, he followed her around while idly bouncing a Saturn shaped bouncy ball. It was a terrible shape for a bouncy ball and he kind of loved it, to be honest. Not to mention the little smile Marinette made behind her hand every time the ball would try another mad dash for freedom was pretty cute.

And then they hit the t-shirt section. And her lips twitched as she reached out and picked up a bright blue shirt that said ‘May the F=MA be with you’ in white text.

“It’s awful. It’s perfect.”

He grinned. “Wow, look at you. You know one of the simplest physics formulas by heart, aren’t you smart?” He joked.

She bowed. “I know, I know.”

He held out a hand for it and she stared at him for a few seconds in confusion.

“I’ll hold it until we get to the front desk.”

She squinted at him. “I’m paying for my own shirt.”

“I can afford it,” he said with a sigh.

“So can I.”

“Either you let me pay for it or I’ll keep track of everything you buy while with me and add it to your commissions.”

“... either you let me pay for it or I’ll never make an outfit for you ever again. I know your measurements and style, Timothy, you won’t be able to get past me.”

They narrowed their eyes at each other, daring each other to call their bluffs…

And then his shoulders sagged. “Fine.”

He’d just have to use his connections to lower prices on fabrics for her. Did he mention that he was rich and mildly famous? Yeah. It was pretty cool.

~

She smiled as she leaned against the doorframe to her apartment. “Thanks for taking me out. It was fun.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and smiled back. She was determinedly ignoring the way his smile made little butterflies flutter in her stomach. She patently hated butterflies. They weren’t allowed.

“I had fun, too. Want to do it again, sometime?”

“... sure, I guess you passed my test.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Your test?”

“Oh, yeah.” She waved him off. “If you had made any creepy comments today I would have blocked you.”

He seemed a little relieved by this information, though she wasn’t quite sure why. “That’s a pretty good test to have in Gotham.”

“I know, I’m pretty smart,” she said jokingly.

He shrugged. “Yeah.”

Damn it, now she was blushing. Shit.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Do you flatter every girl you take to the space museum? Is this your strategy?”

He snickered. “Well, considering you’re the only girl I’ve taken, I’m going to have to say yes.”

She hummed. “I’m glad I’m so special to you, because that means you won’t drop me when I never give you this jacket back.”

He huffed. “You can’t just do that.”

“I can and will,” she teased. Then, because she wasn’t a completely cruel person, she reached up to her coatrack and pulled down a red scarf for him. “Here, take this so it’s more of a trade than stealing.”

“If I don’t?”

“Then you get to walk back to your house in the cold like that.”

He snorted. “What happened to not wanting to steal?”

“At least I offered!”

He rolled his eyes and leaned down so she could wrap the scarf around his neck.

She looked up at him, a blush spreading across her face, and then carefully draped it over his shoulders. “There. Now you have a splash of color.”

He smiled at her. “Ah, I see, this was all just a plot to get me to wear colors. It all makes sense now.”

“Of course.” She tugged him down more by the scarf to press a kiss to his nose. “You should wear red and black more often. They’re totally your colors.”

He smiled a little dopily. “You have no idea.”

She pushed his face away. “Weirdo. Go be cryptic somewhere else.”

“Fine, fine. See you in a few days.”

“See you then.”

~~~

Bonus Batfam group chat stuff

Timtamalam: What if Dick makes everyone call him that because he has a degradation kink?

LetMeLeaveTheChat: i fucking hate this family.

BloodSon: This is exactly the kind of lowbrow humor to be expected of you, Drake.

Timtamalam: I’m unappreciated in my time.

CAss: :0

Timtamalam: See, this is why Cass is the favorite.

YouDontSeeMe: DickJoke please respond

DickJoke: I raised each and every one of you and this is the thanks I get

LetMeLeaveTheChat: sucks to suck, dickwad.

DickJoke: That’s it when I get through all this dumb Heartless stuff I’m coming back to the manor and we’re all going to have family time

CAss: :(

ItsEggplantNotPurple: damn it

YouDontSeeMe: crap

LetMeLeaveTheChat: fuck. and an extra “fuck” on duke’s behalf.

BloodSon: Look at what you have done, Drake.

Timtamalam: Sorry guys.

[just-horrible-things]

Chewtoy AU : Still On The Floor Follows from here

Riven doesn’t eat breakfast. A cup of coffee is enough -- and the new coffee machine is already proving itself worth the price tag -- to get him through the morning routine and out the door. The crawl of the morning traffic is a daily annoyance. One thing the government job doesn’t get you out of is the tedium of commuting. 

But no amount of traffic can sour his mood today. He’s positively buzzing with energy even stuck behind the wheel behind a mile of stationary cars. He can’t wait to see how Ariadne’s newest stripes have taken. 

He struck a good balance this time he thinks -- the whip cut her enough that the marks will last, but not so deep that she’ll be crippled. Everything should still be nice and tender this morning, and she’ll be oh so miserable and pliable while she’s smarting all over.

The anticipation puts a spring in his step as he chats his way through routine security. He has a lovely conversation with Hall about the merits of the whip versus cleaner methods. Riven argues that the inherent degradation is an important part of the point and he can’t stop grinning thinking about Ariadne under the lash, kneeling for it, body going rigid as she fights back her natural reactions.

He picks up another coffee and a granola bar for later before heading down to Interrogations.

“Your girl’s still on the floor,” Short informs him in the break room. Riven sips his coffee while Short clicks on all the wrong links trying to bring up the security feed. It would definitely have been quicker to just go in there, but ah well.

When the picture finally appears, there’s no doubt about it. Ariadne hasn’t moved since he left her last night.

Maybe he didn’t gauge it quite as well as he thought. He’ll have to smoothe some ruffled feathers if she ends up in the hospital.

Still, there’s an undeniable thrill to seeing her on the floor like that, too wrecked by his handiwork to even get up. Maybe someday if he gets bored of having her around he’ll throw some treason charges at her and see if he can get her in a cell of her own so that he can really destroy her.

When he opens the door, she is at least awake enough to startle. There’s not that much of her blood on the floor, she’s probably fine. She’s had all night to rest. Riven strolls in, coffee cup in hand, and watches her face as confusion morphs into fear and resignation. Ariadne pushes herself up onto her elbows, and it’s clear how much even that small movement costs her.

“Sir,” she forces out through her pained grimace. And it’s always a good day when that’s the first word out of her mouth. “Good morning,” Riven answers, “rise and shine. I can’t help but notice you haven’t cleaned up.” She’s so exhausted he can barely make out the flicker of hatred beneath her misery. The apology isn’t instantaneous, but when it comes there’s no backchat. Just “I’m sorry, sir.” And Riven likes the taste of that.

She tries again to get up as he approaches. She makes it to her hands and knees, but he can see the tremor in her arms just from that. And she collapses just as he reaches her, just in time to practically plant her face onto his boots. There’s nothing sweeter really.

A tight “hnngh” of pain trails off into a defeated whimper. Riven crouches down to trail his fingers across her back. “Don’t --” her voice is brittle “-- sir, please.” “Easy,” he soothes her. “I’m just taking a look.” He’s split open some of last week’s marks and she has bled a bit. Not enough to be dangerous. It’s probably only pain and fatigue keeping her on the floor. Her breath stops and starts as he pokes at the welts. 

“I really worked you over, didn’t I?” “Yes, sir,” she whimpers. “I’m sorry I didn’t clean up, I’m sorry.” “You really can’t get up?” He injects a little false incredulity into his voice, but she’s past the point of flushing at the humiliation. “I’m sorry, sir.” “Guess I’ll have to help you,” he sighs. “Come on, up you get.”

She obligingly pushes herself up off the floor again so that he can get his arms under hers. “Nnh--!” she starts to protest as his grip tightens, but she thinks better of turning it into a real complaint. She just about manages to get her feet under her to support some of her own weight, but it only lasts a couple of seconds before she goes limp in Riven’s arms.

He scoops her up bridal style, so that when she comes round her head is already resting on his shoulder. She moans as he lifts her, a delightfully unguarded sound.

She looks utterly ridiculous, wearing nothing but her boots, her underwear, and her stripes. Much as he’d like to show her off, Riven probably can’t parade her around like this without raising a few eyebrows. So he can’t really take her to her room.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he tells her, once her eyes are open again. “While you wash I’ll go find you some clothes. I won’t make you wander the facility half-naked. Sound good?” “... thank you, sir …” she mumbles. Her voice is tight and faraway with pain, and he’s not sure if she really understood him, but it doesn’t matter. “Easy does it,” he reassures, “you’re going to be fine.”

He takes her to the cell block showers. There’s no hot water, but she’s in no state to complain about that. The cold will soothe the hot and angry welts and she might even think she likes it after the initial shock. But it will only lock her stiff muscles up worse. Riven will probably have to help her into her clothes and carry her to her bed, and she’ll hate every second of that.

It sounds like a pretty good way to spend a morning.

[ssson-of-sparda]

WHAT FORTUNE GAVE - Prologue (Vergil x Nero's Mother)

Summary: Turmoil has engulfed the small Island of Fortuna, shaken now more than ever by a never-ending civil war opposing the religious Order of the Sword to a group of rebels named the Guard of Sparda. As he tries to unveil his father's secret past and achieve some hidden dark purpose, Vergil crosses path with Elissa, a young lady whose thirst for vengeance and blood is as red as the dress she's wearing. He doesn't want to care and he especially doesn't want to get involved but you don't choose your fate in Fortuna. That's the story Nero is about to discover.

Tags: Romance / Angst / Fluff / Explicit Sexual Content / Explicit Language / Canon-Typical Violence / Blood and Gore / Religion / The Order of The Sword / Civil War / Rebellion / Demons / Action and Adventure / Sparda's past

Author’s note: This is one hell of an ambitious project I put myself into, but I hope you will follow me in this journey which is basically another fan fiction about Vergil and Nero's mother. Probably not the best (I've read some prreeety good ones) but one that should be (hopefully) different from what was previously posted.I worked a lot on this story, made a lot of research and used many artistic references that I catalogued at the end of each chapter for the curious ones among you. Since English is not my mother tongue, feel free to let me know if there's any grammar mistake or if some sentences don't make any sense. Anyway, enjoy your reading.

In twenty-five years, Aifric’s Alehouse hadn’t changed even just a tiny bit. Same hefty old furniture. Same mucky walls and filthy floor covered in layers of dry alcohol that stick your shoes to the wooden slats each time you take a step. Same lamentable drunkards in search of more alcohol to drown their sorrows in, their arms around women that would pretend to adore them for a night in exchange for a bit of money. And, now that Vergil dared breathe a little, same foul stench of humidity, staleness and sweat, typical of this kind of underground bars from the no-go areas of the Castle Town of Fortuna. And the music … Don’t let him think about the music.          Never thought he would come back here one day.                   His firm gloved hand grabbed the backrest of a wobbly stool that scratched the old wooden floor with an unpleasant creak as he pulled it to sit on it, revealing his presence to the brown-skinned man sipping his beer in silence next to him, his defeated pockmarked face hidden under a thick dirty white cloak that hadn’t been washed in probably years and that had lost almost all its glorious golden embroideries.     Vergil eyed at him for a second, the same way the Moor had eyed at him when, more than two decades ago, he had sit on this very same stool, his then young frame hidden under a cloak similar to his and yet less odorous, a young wanderer looking for stories and answers. Strange how things seems to move in circle.          “You’re too late. You know that?” The man’s voice was thickly and hoarse, due to the long years of alcohol abuse and contempt towards the world, towards that silver-haired ghost back from a distant past but especially towards himself. “Twenty-five fucking years too late to be more precise.” He got no answer to that reproach, not a word, just a nod and a pregnant silence that made him scoff. But his laugh, once so hearty and alive, held today nothing but melancholy and despise. “But at least she was right. You did come back.”           Vergil peeped at the man again from the corner of his icy blue eyes, longer this time, but still with that eternal impassibility he was known for, hiding his slight surprise and his judgemental thoughts he knew deep down he shouldn’t have. But the barfly next to him was nothing like the man he had met years ago. This man was just the broken shadow of the one everyone in Fortuna once called Adel the Honourable¹ , Captain of the Guard of Sparda.           “What the fuck are you doing here … Vergil?” He spat on his name, literally, not caring about what the solemn Son of Sparda would think of him, would do to him. He spat to show him his disgust, his hatred, even though he knew that a bit of saliva wasn’t enough to show the extent of his feelings. “Where is she?” Vergil asked with a calm voice that made Adel grimace (that voice was as nasally and annoying as he remembered) and finally glare at him, allowing Vergil to see how the years and the pain had marked and scared his once-handsome face. “You got some nerve to ask that now.”           “ I need to see her.”Adel firmly hit the counter with his empty glass before turning around to stare at Vergil, giving him a long disdainful look he thought he could only give himself. “Sure, I’ll bring you to her. But you might want to give me that damn sword of yours so that I shove it deep in your stone-cold heart first.” Vergil smirked. This was way too reminiscent of old foolish squabbles he once found very amusing … though quite pathetic and most of the time one-sided.       “Why don’t you use that crossbow² of yours instead?” The taunt wasn’t meant to defy him if one could read through Vergil’s phlegmatic voice. But the Moor³ interpreted it that way and yet refused to react to it, knowing how vain it would be.   “I don’t have it anymore.” Adel opened his cloak to reveal a leather sling with no weapon attached to it. “I don’t have anything anymore. And we know full well that it wouldn’t have done shit to you.”        “Trust me, Adel. I know what it’s like to lose everything.” Was it an attempt at sounding

sympathetic? Probably. After all, Vergil still felt somewhat confused by the occasional waves of humanity surging up from inside of him.        “Do you?” He laughed with bitterness, not believing him for one second. “Bullshit! And you know why? Cause you never had anything!”  If Vergil took this as a personal attack he didn’t let his body show it, but he nevertheless let out one simple sentence, a boast he knew would displease the brown-skinned man, a display of his pride and superiority he always thought he had over that mere human. “I had her.”        Quite expectedly, Adel jumped from his stool and before falling back against the bar, tried to grab Vergil by his blue collar. But it looked too pathetic and clumsy to be considered menacing or dangerous. “Fucking stop talking about her!” He pointed his finger at him in defiance while tears formed in his dull black eyes that had long lost their charming spark. “She fucking loved you! She loved you so damn much and you never cared, not a damn second. So don’t come to me with all your ceremony and shit, pretending you care now?” He sobbed loudly and wiped his eyes with his fists, a gesture that only made Vergil frown. How low had that man sunk! And how wrong he was.       “Nero needs to know.” The silver-haired man finally said, not very willing to continue this conversation due to a growing lack of patience. “He needs to know about his mother.”There was a new brief silence that could only be filled with glasses clinking, noisy hubbub and prostitutes giggles. Both men gauged each other, wondering who should talk first and what to say after the name of the boy the woman they both loved had given birth to was brought into the discussion. “So you finally know.” The Moor finally said as he crossed his arms over his broad chest. “How does it feel?” Vergil didn’t want to talk about his feelings, especially not with a man he hadn’t seen in years and that would be too eager to judge him. His feelings were his to ponder and only his.             “My feelings are none of your concern.” The brevity of Vergil’s sentences was annoying to Adel who had almost forgotten how it was to have a conversation with the stoic Son of Sparda. And when some people would call it introversion he would call it self-importance, despicable self-importance. “Do you ever think of her?”           New intended silence. But yes, there were times when Vergil did think of her because that’s what happens when someone as special as her shares even just a tiny bit of his life. He thought of her when he was at his best and when he was at his lowest. And he had been thinking of her even more lately, each time he would look at Nero or think of him, each time he would remember his journey in Fortuna. She was a part of his past he would never be able to cast away. But again, none of Adel’s business. “Look, you don’t need to talk to me about her. Just tell Nero. I bet you know how to find him.”Glad to finally leave, Vergil stood up and dusted his long dark coat he felt had been soiled by such a dirty place. But right after he turned around to walk away, his old acquaintance spoke again with disarming heartfelt honesty. “It feels like hell to me.” Vergil stopped and slightly looked back at him from the corner of his eyes, at his defeated look staring deep in his empty glass again. “Like fucking hell actually. Seeing that kid of yours growing up to be just like her but at the same time just like you right under my nose. That smug smirk he got from you on the lips he inherited from her. Everything about that child makes me want to vomit or plug my eyes out because that makes me realise all I lost, all I could have had if you had never stepped a foot in Fortuna. You took her away from me, away from everyone, and when you finally got out from my life, you dared leave behind you a living reminder of your victory over me to torture me for the rest of my miserable days.” Vergil stood still, withstanding the man’s rancour without batting an eyelash.    “The fact you considered her love a victory maybe is the reason why you

never had her.” Vergil replied and before pushing the double-leaf door of the bar, waited for an instant as if he was expecting something to come in, but Adel was stubborn and not keen on accepting defeat. “You took her away from your son!” He shouted and smiled when Vergil froze again on his way out.       “ If that’s true, go tell him that then.”

***

Nico was pissed. Nero could tell it by the way she was furiously trying to fix the neon blue sign of their van. But what could he do about it? It wasn’t his fault if a starving empusa had decided to snack on the E while Nico was parked waiting for her friend to come back from his demon ass kicking routine. “D vil May Cry” Nero read out loud with a pout. “I don’t know, Nico. Works for me.” And yet, he had a feeling being angry because of a damn light was just a pretext to let out some pent up frustration due to god knew what. “Really? Is that how you gonna treat your family heritage now?” The black-haired woman harrumphed, threatening to hit her friend with a monkey wrench. “Is that how you gonna treat my precious Minotaurus after all he did for ya? After he followed you right into that hellish ficus?”          “Qliphoth.” He corrected with a smile.          “Yeah whatever.” Nero had a brief laugh but eventually shrugged, not seeing the problem as he read the neon sign on the van again. “The E doesn’t light up anymore. So what? We still know it’s Devil May Cry.”           “When your deadbeat dad tore your arm out from its socket, didn’t I give ya a new one?”   Nero grumbled, not finding the comparison funny or admissible. “That’s not the same! You can’t compare my arm to a damn neon letter. I needed my arm!”            “And Devil May Cry needs its E! So stop complainin’ and pass me the stillson.” She ordered as she kept on adjusting the colourful wires hidden in the dented bodywork of the van. Nero sighed but handed her the tool anyway. “I thought you were tired of being my pet mechanic.”          “ I am but like I said, I can’t let you treat my baby like that.”     And then, he dared say it. “Seriously. I thought you would be busy reading those new files you found in your father’s old stuff? You didn’t say anything about what they were.” And, as Nico dropped the wrench on the hood, he immediately knew he maybe shouldn’t have asked that.           “Cause they were not interesting. Just pieces of diaries he wrote when he was young, explainin’ how he started working for the Order and why he didn’t want me or my mother in his life anymore.” Nero frowned, not believing Nico for an instant. Her sentence didn’t make any sense to him cause he was sure any child who had grown up without a parent would be even just a tiny bit interested in knowing who they were or what they did. He knew he was.             God! What he would give to know even a just of small piece of information about his mother, about who she was, how she looked like. But unfortunately for him, the only person who had all the answers to his questions was never prompt to give them, acting more like a vault than a chatterbox. “And that doesn’t interest you? Raaah come on, Nico!” He clicked his tongue.            “I’m interested in his work. Nothing else. I couldn’t care less about his adventure with that other chick which is FYI apparently one of the reason why that asshole left my mother and me.”            “ You father left your mother for someone else?” Nico glared at Nero, catching a judgment in his voice that never was there.      “ Well I least I know why my father left my mother… No, actually, I know my mum, period.” Nero hadn’t heard that kind of words in years but the burn was as painful as he remembered. How many times he had heard the kids in Fortuna disrespecting him, disrespecting his mother, claiming she was a prostitute⁴ from the ill repute places of Fortuna. How many horrors he had to listen to. And how many punches he had received, and given, because of them. “Damn! I’m sorry, Nero. I didn’t mean.” Nico declared, horrified by her unusual behaviour and by the sudden sadness Nero tried to conceal in his blue eyes.  “Forget it. I’m used to it.” He gestured her to let go and went rummaging in the toolbox for no particular reason but to occupy his mind with something else. But Nico wasn’t willing to end their conversation like that, the feeling of guilt eating at her. “I’m sure your mother was someone fantastic, Nero.” She had a soft comforting smile.

“I mean, she had to be, you know … to stand your father.”            Nero chuckled but there was still that hint of misery, that very particular misery he only felt when thinking of his mother. A mix of bitterness, void and love. “Maybe she never really had to stand him. Maybe she was … a prostitute like everybody said.” Nico frowned; refusing to believe Nero would go for such bullshit. Didn’t he know how close-minded and rumour-hungry the people in Fortuna were?    “Nah, I don’t think so.” She declared as she funnily wrinkled her nose. “No money in the world would be enough to accept to spend a night with your dad. Your mother had to veeeery nice and patient and ooooh so in love with him.” Nero spared a glance at Nico, deeply moved by her attempt at comforting him and hoping she was right. “Damn, I beg that poor woman was a saint, ‘cause Vergil might look yummy to most people’s standards but he ain’t fun.” Her lips pinched together, she had a sort of deep serious frown that wrinkled her entire forehead, a somewhat amusing grimace Nero was sure was meant to emulate his father characteristic impenetrability. She kinda nailed it but …         “ Did you just say my father looks yummy?” Nero asked, quite disgusted. A crush on Lady, that he could get, but on his father … It made him shiver and want to throw up. “Huh, to most people standards!” She repeating, clapping her hands between each syllables. “I’m not most people.” Nero’s eyes widened when he heard familiar slow and steady footsteps coming from behind the door of the garage. “I mean, do you really think I could feel even just a tiny bit attracted to ‘Power! I need more power!’?” She imitated with a cavernous voice and Nero tried not to laugh. But it wasn’t Nico’s new impersonation of Vergil that was making him want to do so. It was actually his father standing on top of the stairs, stoic and still like a marble statue staring impassibly at Nico making a fool of him. Maybe he should warn her of his presence. Yes, maybe he should.            He timidly pointed at his father standing right behind her; still unsure he wanted this scene to stop. But he couldn’t wait to see Nico’s face when she would notice Vergil. And oh god, how priceless it was.    Nico was an intrepid, loud and lovely person but when her dark eyes took a small glance of Vergil, she froze and cleared her throat, definitely uncomfortable and … yeah a tiny bit scared. “But it has its charm. You’ve got some charm. That’s undeniable.” She rectified, looking at Vergil who eventually nodded, a faint smile on his face that meant more ‘yeah right’ than ‘how funny’ in Vergil language. He didn’t find this funny at all.            “Good evening to you too, Nicoletta. Nero.” He nodded once again, casting his aura of solemnity all over the garage. “Nico. Just Nico … nevermind.” Nico mumbled in a whisper that Vergil heard but chose to ignore. Nicknames were not his thing… They had never been his thing.He went down the stairs, his hand resting on the hilt of his precious Yamato as always and looked at the van with a new frown. “You two are busy working on some repairs, perhaps.” He asked in an effort to be as familial as possible, something that wasn’t his forte at all. It made the two friends exchange a curious glance. “ Yes … I mean, no, we were done.” Nero replied, wondering what his father was doing here. After all, unexpected visits were not in Vergil’s habits.         “ No, we were not. Gotta fix that E, remember?” Nico tapped at the letter with insistence.             “ That again?” The young man sighed. “Is Dante here?” That could explain Vergil’s presence in Fortuna. But as 90% of the time – or more – the Son of Sparda evicted an answer, changing the subject – or ignoring it – with a destabilizing yet infuriating indifference.           “ Miss Goldstein is right, a E is important.” He spoke, his icy blue eyes looking towards a distant past, towards memories he held in his heart he was rediscovering more and more with each day spent with his family, with his son.         “ Thank you! See, I told you!” Nico

shouted, proud to be right.  “ What are you doing here?” Nero finally questioned, impatient to finally know the truth behind his father’s presence. “I was in Fortuna visiting an old acquaintance.” Vergil weighed his words with smoothness as he paced in the garage looking at his surroundings without no real interest in them.         “ You … got acquaintances?” The slight frown of disbelief on Nero’s face made him suddenly look so much like his father but Vergil didn’t notice, too busy staring at the extinguished E that looked so dull surrounded by such neon blue lights when it should have shone as brightly as them if not more. “Hopefully, he should visit you soon.”         “ Wait! What? Why?” Nero always saw his father as an impenetrable mystery, even when he was just V, but right now he couldn’t tolerate him being so evasive.      “To give you the answers you want.” And he couldn’t not tolerate him being a stolid piece of shit either. “About my mother?” Or a mute one. But with Vergil, silence often meant a lot. “Hey! You can’t just leave me like that!” Nero caught his father’s right arm with a violent strength, a vision that stirred a new one, an old one, one Vergil regretted. “Plus, why would you send a stranger in my house to talk to me about my mother? Why don’t you do it yourself?” God! If she knew what he had done to their son. What would she say? What would she do? “Silence. I thought so. You don’t even have the courage to tell me her name so why should I expect more from you.”    In his lifetime, only a few persons had been able to defeat Vergil, one of them being his son. So, after looking down at his boots for a second, he walked away, not keen on riling up Nero even more, not today.“Elissa.⁵” The name, left unpronounced for so many years, burnt Vergil's tongue when each blazing letter, probably angry to have been reduced to dormant embers for so long, managed to escape the barrier of his tight lips. But Vergil welcomed this fiery pain without blinking and even dared say it again, embracing the ignition once more with a soft melancholic smile. He was part demon. Fire couldn't hurt him. So why being afraid of it? “Your mother’s name was Elissa.” Plus there was no danger in saying her name, just liberation. It was a beautiful name, after all. And for a second, he felt like his young self again. “Now fix it, would you?” That E meant a lot to Vergil.

REFERENCES: ¹ Adel The Honourable: Adel is a Persian name derived from the Arabic عَدَلَ meaning "to act justly". I added the title "the Honourable" to reinforce the idea his character was made to be fair, honest and just. Adel also belongs to the House of Montefeltro, a name you will discover later. ² crossbow: I intended to give Adel a simple bow as it is the weapon of righteousness (ndlr: Robin Hood) but then I chose to give him a crossbow because I thought the addition of the word "cross" was giving a religious connotation that suited his character. The fact that he lost the weapon is of course meaningful. ³ The Moor: reference to Shakespeare's Othello. ⁴ claiming she was a prostitute: This idea of Nero's mother being a prostitute was directly taken from Devil May Cry: Deadly Fortune. In the novel, we learn that Nero was often bullied by the other kids claiming his mother was a whore. ⁵ Elissa: Elissa is the other name that was given to Dido, first queen of Carthage and lover of the demi-god Aeneas, in Virgil's Aeneid. Her name is composed of the Punic reflex of "El-" meaning "god", and "‐issa" that means "fire", hence why her name burns Vergil's lips when he says it. Her name carrying the word "fire" also echoes the red colour of her dress and her hair as well as her affiliation to the House of Minos you will read about later. In a nutshell, this girl is on fire! ;-)

[hornsandthings]

Umm hi I don’t know if you still take ACOTAR requests anymore but if you do can I request an azriel x reader where he’s in love with her and is afraid of rejection but he doesn’t know that she loves him too? 👉🏻👈🏻

hi nonnie, i’ll always accept an acotar request, hehe! did this in headcanon form, hope you don’t mind <3 it’s quite long and a little rough around the edges, but i hope you like it! ps. tumblr mucked up the formatting, some dot points don’t want to be indented. i hope it still makes sense x 

when your and azriel’s paths crossed, it was the mother at work again. after mor, azriel didn’t think he’d ever have the strength for love again. the aching and the pining had taken their toll, and the appeal of the mating bond had faded. to feel it all again, to risk his heart like that again - he couldn’t. and yet, the mother saw fit that he would. 

+++

he first met you in the palace of hoof and leaf, and it didn’t mean anything at the time; a stranger’s kindness, or if he indulged his cynicism, a hawker’s ploy. you were a commoner, a milkmaid who came to sell your products in the markets. he’d been at the neighbouring stall, waiting for the clerk to put together the only tea brew in prythian that could placate his migraines.

“sir, mr. shadowsinger, sir,” you called, “could i offer you a sample of my goat’s milk? maggie-may is very special, her milk can be just as good as a healer’s work, i swear it. try it, try it, sir.” 

azriel looked you over, glad that cassian wasn’t here to make that particular moniker stick. one brow raised in dubiety, he nodded and held out his hand - might as well, he thought, tired and getting ever more desperate for his tea. this didn’t show outwardly, of course; azriel’s face was as neutral as ever, his shadows coiling about his talons. your gaze was expectant as he tried the sample, and while it was a little too earthy for his taste, he nodded all the same. perhaps it had encouraged you too much, because then you asked: “could i perhaps persuade you to buy a pint?”

azriel had no interest at all, yet he couldn’t help but notice the detail: your fraying sleeves, the imperfect glass bottles, the beginnings of dark circles under your eyes. and yet you were smiling, you were sweet, being very generous for someone who had to presumably make a living selling fresh products. not for the first time, azriel made a purchase that only someone of the inner circle could afford, and one that didn’t really benefit him. “i’ll take several,” he said, looking at the handful of wooden caddies, mostly still filled with milk bottles. “i’ll take it all.” 

the clerk then handed azriel his brew while you stood there, wide-eyed and speechless, working through a range of emotions. at first you thought he was mocking you, but when he turned around again, fiddling with his coin pouch, you realised he was serious. “but, sir— maggie-may’s milk sure is delicious, but only in moderation— i couldn’t expect someone to buy it all—”

“as much as you’d let me, then,” he amended, being mindful not to impose or patronise. you bit your lip, trying to tally up the ultimate price, trying to gauge whether this man could even afford it. two gold, you said, trying your luck. azriel merely fingered his coins, placing the expected two and an additional three on the counter. he must’ve noticed your shock; you had frozen, after all, perhaps even stopped breathing. “since maggie-may is so special,” he drawled, earning a disbelieving laugh from you. 

that night, cerridwen, nuala, and elain were very confused at the sight of bottles and bottles of milk laying in wait on the kitchen counter in the house of wind. the note - clearly by azriel’s neat hand - read: use within five days.

+++

from then on, you always engaged azriel when you spotted him in the market. you could never forget his generous first purchase, and so while he waited for the tea master to finalise his special brew, you would entertain him with an endless supply of free samples of new products. over the years, azriel saw your business extend from milk to also include cheese and soap. he learned unnecessary things about your cattle, such as the supposed social dynamics and - mother forbid - adultery that mr. sweet pea the goat seemed prone to. over time, azriel grew comfortable enough to share some of his stories and observations, the things he’s seen in other courts. it took a while to realise you had become more than his mere acquaintance, and perhaps it was because you were outside his usual spheres of the inner circle and his spy network. to have someone outside was new, and a little jarring at times. the different experiences, the contrasting perspectives - it was refreshing, and reminded azriel how far he’d come since his miserable youth. when he was with you, the stakes weren’t so high, the conditions not so dire. you were a spot of calm, a reminder that life could be something other than the court’s defense. 

+++

one time when he visited - his tea no longer a requisite for him to make an effort to come in - you were noticeably subdued. “mr. sweet pea passed away,” you revealed, eyes wet and voice thick. something about that seized his heart, his shadows growing restless. “he was so special.” you actually said that about each of your cattle, something that azriel had started to find endearing, because he knew you really believed it.

social tact was not a strength of his - azriel knew he tended to be rigid and too formal - so he stumbled over some stilted condolences. it felt awkward and impersonal; azriel couldn’t empathise with the death of a pet, but he wanted to make it hurt less. he still remembered what the late goat had looked like the last time you had brought him in - an old thing, with a long beard and a mix of brown and black fur. strong, impressive horns, one which had a sizeable chip missing. 

so that night, he did what he could and sketched that image he had in his mind, of mr. sweet pea looking very wise and ponderous, if a little tired. azriel’s time as spymaster had bestowed him a keen eye and dexterous fingers, allowing him to make the necessary sketches to give his colleagues a clearer picture when necessary - of maps, of creatures, of profiles. they tended to be a little rough and raw, nothing particularly artistic. he thought the same of his current piece, and hesitated over whether it was good enough.

when he finally gave you the sketch the next day, you went very still. he started stumbling over some excuses, but you soon interrupted him with a shaky breath. “this is so thoughtful, azriel. thank you so much.” 

+++

azriel grew bolder, and interactions started to occur outside the markets. he’d invite you for tea, indirectly revealing one of his interests. he was a hard man to read, his expressions subtle when not stoic, but you learned. outside of professional matters, he was rarely straightforward, and tended to express his emotions in delicate, layered ways. his care for you was in the way he listened, how his attention never wavered when you were speaking with him. it was how he kept you close when you two navigated busy streets, how he lifted a wing over your head for cover when it rained, how he was content to spend time with you at your stall - sometimes for hours - despite his preference for quietude. 

+++

when work took him away, you two would exchange letters. azriel didn’t realise how dangerous a thing it was, because you quickly became a very intimate and constant part of his life. the act of writing tricked him, making it easier to truly express his thoughts - there was no pressure of navigating the immediate reaction, no incentive to keep his words short. you managed to draw so much out of him. he was mindful of each letter of yours he received, keeping them safe and tied together with an old ribbon of yours he’d saved before you could throw it away. he would never admit it, but work abroad tended to be overwhelming: while secure in his network’s quality of intelligence, being in another’s territory always meant having to deal with various variables and vulnerabilities, usually unknown. maybe your letters would have made it all a little more manageable if they didn’t elicit such longing within him. your words made him smile, yes, but they also made his heart ache. he missed you.

+++

after a lengthy assignment in the dawn court, azriel was relieved to be back in velaris. his shadows swirled and whispered around his shoulders, eager to feel your presence too. he knew they fascinated you, how playful they could be sometimes. yet, azriel couldn’t find you at your empty market stall. it was odd - you hadn’t mentioned moving in your recent letters, and he couldn’t find you in any of the other market squares either. soon his shadows grew restless, embodying the concern that was rising.

he employed his spy network to find your farm, hoping it wouldn’t be too intrusive to just show up unannounced. you had mentioned some details in passing before - it was a modest place, with a small house and a meagre hill of grass to feed a handful of goats and sheep. the door was answered by two worried faces, who took one look at azriel and grew even more distressed. “our son— it’s not our son, is it? it can’t be— he just—”

“i’m here to see your daughter,” azriel interrupted, too preoccupied to remember polite niceties. they were confused, guarded, but let him through. the hallways were narrow, his wings often knocking against the wall sconces. he listened as they explained your condition - an illness had befallen you, leaving you bedridden for days. apparently a healer had told them it’ll pass with rest and water, and with that reassurance, azriel forced himself to remember his place. right in front of your closed door, he willed his shadows away from his face, called upon his familiar impassiveness. turning around to face your parents, he amended, “may i see your daughter?” 

your room was dark, the curtains drawn. his heart raced as he heard your laboured breaths, and something pulled at him when he saw the small desk in the corner, an unfinished letter atop it. “azriel?” you whispered, voice sounding so small. “is it really you?” 

he neared, taking a cautious seat on the side of the bed. you were shivering, but the thin sheet covering you stuck to your skin with sweat. “yes, it’s me, sweetheart,” he said, the endearment slipping out before he could stop it. his throat closed up immediately after, but your vague movements suggested you didn’t even realise, and that you weren’t all there. he could see the feverish blush high on your cheeks, even in the dim light.

“you’re too big for this room,” you mused softly, making azriel smile despite his worry. indeed, he had to bend down to avoid hitting his head, and keep his wings tucked in uncomfortably tight. he took your hand in his, and even in your feverish haze, you could register the roughness of his scarred hands, but they always handled you gently. “why didn’t you tell me in your letters?” he asked, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles. your discomfort was clear in your frown, in your downturned lips. noticing the basin on the bedside table, he took the damp rag on your forehead and dipped it into the cool water, wringing away the excess before gently placing it atop your head again. 

“i… didn’t want to trouble you with… with something trivial. a few more days and… and i’ll be back to work.” a weak smile pulled at your mouth, and azriel gathered both of your hands in his again. he shook his head at your line of thinking.

“your health isn’t a trivial matter to me,” he said, leaning close and cupping your cheek. in hindsight, it was so obvious that he had been in love with you far longer than he thought. it was all so rueful, the fact that he had let it happen again. despite it all, he pressed a kiss to your hand, trying to ignore how it trembled. your smile strengthened then, tracing a finger over his brow and down the bridge of his nose. azriel took a deep breath to savour the touch, and soon you two were merely watching each other, azriel wondering what thoughts were running through your slightly added mind. your lids eventually started to droop, however, but still he stayed even when you fell asleep, taking care to change the cool rag when necessary. his shoulders slumped when his head fell into his hands, squeezing his eyes shut tight. with such a revelation, what was he to do from now on? 

+++

azriel didn’t think he could be a good lover to you - even if he so very much wanted to be. his job took up so much of time, and it required him to be secretive. azriel wouldn’t ever be able to share everything with you, for the sake of keeping you safe. even if he could, there was just something in his nature that kept him reserved and pushed others away. there were so many things he’d rather leave in the past, and so many more that he wished he hadn’t been part of. there was that, but also his loathsome scarred hands - a reminder of those darker days. no matter how gentle, his touch would always scratch and scrape. once you took notice of how neglected they were, left to dry out and sometimes even scab, you took to work to concoct a nourishing lotion. “you have to be gentle with yourself, azriel,” you had once told him, gently applying the salve to his hands. they were rough but warm against your skin. “you do so much.”

+++

and so, everything he did with you was tinged with a hint of sorrow. he couldn’t bring himself to confront you with the severity of his feelings, but he also couldn’t quite remove you from his life - you had become a friend. you eventually noticed that he started to let his touches linger: when he hugged you, he’d curl arms and wings around you, enveloping you wholly; when you were near, his shadows would stretch toward you, as if revealing a hidden desire. when you reached for his hand, he would always grip it firmly, and when you came very close for some unimportant reason, his gaze would always linger on your face, flicking so often to your lips. 

+++

one night you had invited him over to the farm, wanting to introduce him to the latest addition of your household: a baby goat, just over a week old. she was as white as snow, and kept nibbling at your hair as you held her in your arms. “what should we name her, azriel?” you had asked, too preoccupied to notice how tense he was, hands in his pockets. “i was thinking of marjorie, or maybe miss marjorie… hey, what’s wrong?” his face was unusually expressive, his shadows roiling about his talons as if in distress. putting down the goat, her legs still clumsy and gangly, you stepped closer to azriel, reaching out. he shook his head, trying to school his face but you knew him by now. your shoulders slumped, recalling his strange behaviour over the years - he was present in most ways, but avoidant in others. “i wish you’d talk to me, azriel,” you murmured, taking his hand and hoping he wouldn’t mind the dirt. “you mean so much to me.”

it all bubbled up then in that small barn, the light dim and the smell of earth pungent. you let out a rueful laugh, rubbing your eye. “i’m in love with you,” you said, very quietly at first. immediately you felt so naive to be doing this. the fact was that azriel came from a different life, one that saw him as a leader of the court, who worked with powerful and beautiful people, fae who were richer and stronger and vastly more interesting. azriel’s mere presence in your life was extraordinary enough. and yet, you had found yourself falling in love despite the impracticability of it, found yourself admiring his kindness, his quiet generosity, his strength and resilience and dry humour. you shifted, looking right into his eyes. even if your love was unrequited, he deserved to be told - if only to let him know that he indeed was loved by one more.  “i’m in love with you. i don’t— i don’t expect you to say it in return, but i can no longer keep it to myself. i love you.” 

that threw azriel. he had fantasised of course, indulged in the scenario. but now, as you waited for his response, his thoughts stuttered. what? he wanted to say, unable to believe what he actually so very desperately wanted to believe. you grew nervous as the silence lengthened, azriel’s face as stoic as ever. you shook your head, covering your mouth in regret. “i’m sorry, i— i shouldn’t have said anything—”

he gripped your shoulders tight, gaze intense and voice low. “i also love you.”

“why do you say it like it’s a bad thing?” the solemnity which had tinged your relationship for some time was subtle, but you had felt it, and it had bothered you. 

azriel’s hands came up to cup your face, and he quickly shook his head. “it’s not,” he said, he urged. “it’s not, it’s not.” and then his lips met yours, chapped and rough, kissing you slowly, thoroughly, firmly. the conviction made your heart melt, and you gripped his wrists, feeling his racing pulse and caressing it, kissing him back, standing on your toes, letting him steal your breath. “i love you so much, sweetheart,” he sighed against your lips, nose brushing against yours. you went to reply but then azriel had claimed your mouth again, one hand snaking around to your back and the other to the nape of your neck. the light shifted behind your closed eyes as his wings came down to envelope the both of you, and your fingers reached to tangle in his hair, to trace the shells of his ears.

when you two parted again, his grin was lopsided and a little wry. “i just couldn’t believe it,” he murmured, his eyes shining with emotion. why not? you wanted to ask, wondering what it was that had held him back for so long, but decided to delay it for another day. all you could do was hug him tighter, just glad for the sight of his smile and the feeling of his relief. glad for his happiness.