#well actually i do and he did think it was hot :)

[pencil-n-pen]

ALL I DO IS TRY, TRY, TRY

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post prison! spencer x genius fem! reader

masterlist

summary: all your life, you’ve been second-best. Even now that you’ve been chosen to be an agent of the BAU, you’re just a replacement for Spencer Reid. What could change now that’s he’s out?

cw: there is a bit of an age gap, i imagined reader in her early to mid 20���s, nevermind how it isn’t accurate for working at FBI. this is a criminal minds fic, so there are graphic depictions of violence, as well as implied/referenced child neglect/abuse in readers childhood, reader is somewhat a genius

tropes/tags: slowburn on readers end, Spencer is flirting from the beginning, HURT/COMFORT, angst, bit of a sick fic in one scene, bit of soft dom! spencer as a treat

a/n : this came to me in a prophecy. full disclosure i haven’t actually seen the prison arc yet so if there’s any inaccuracies shhhhhh look at the fluff

also !! this is a LOOOOONG one. strap yourselves in. grab snacks and drinks

slipped in some very slight father figure Hotch bc that’s my crack

title taken from Mirrorball by Taylor Swift

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Spencer Reid is absolutely nothing like you’d thought he’d be.

From how the team talked about him, you’d been expecting a short, slight man. Someone quiet and meek and non-threatening.

And Dr. (Agent?) Reid was quiet. But not in the don’t-notice-me way, but in the I-know-what-I’m-doing-and-don’t-need-to-say-it way. He quietly commanded attention and respect. One look at the man told you he was not somebody to fuck with.

He was also really, really, really hot.

It was unfortunate and difficult, truly, because he’s your senior agent, someone who’s got more than a few years on you in both field experience and general age. He’s a genius- insanely good at what he does and there’s no refuting that.

But most of all, he’s kind and respectful and just genuinely a good person. And also good looking. Did you mention that yet?

He clicks seamlessly into place with the team in a way you’ve never managed to do in the time you’ve been with him. And after all, why would you? You’re just the rookie transfer with a bit higher than average IQ. Nothing to brag about. Nothing like Spencer.

You were a data analyst with the FBI before your boss told you: “The BAU is looking for a temporary genius. I put your name in the ring. Hotchner must’ve been impressed with something, cause he picked you. I know you’ve completed the training courses for their team, so pack your desk. You’ve got a new assignment.”

And just like that, every single one of your dreams came true. And then promptly burst into flames and burned to ashes when you realized what exactly your position on the team was: Temporary and replacing.

It makes sense, you guess. The team grew to rely on Reid’s quick wit and intellect. And beyond that, they’re an agent short. And you fit the bill well enough: swift and intelligent. Nothing more, nothing less. It became clear during the first few weeks that no one on the team had any intention of liking or particularly getting to know you beyond a professional capacity. And you get it, you really do. You don’t name the dog you’re gonna get rid of.

With the exception of Penelope. But you don’t think she has the ability to ignore someone without a clear reason.

So you did your job and you were good at it. Held the team at arm’s length even when they warmed up to you. Kept your head down, stuck to yourself. This way, it’s easier to stop yourself from leaning into JJ and Prentiss’s jokes, or to stamp down the glow in your chest from Hotch’s approval.

All of this hard work goes sailing straight out the window and spattering on the concrete below when Reid comes back. Because all it took was one case together- one. And then you’re hopelessly in love with the guy you replaced.

And it’s all kinds of terrible, because it’s Reid. He’s not only your coworker —soon to be ex, because now that he’s back you’ll be out of a job— but he’s also so incredibly out of your league it’s not even funny. But he keeps smiling at you and including you in conversations and saying hi to you and asking your opinion on things during cases as if you would have more to add than he does.

It’s very hard to keep him at arms length. And because Reid is Reid he drags everybody else over with him and then you’re bonding with a team you have a week left with, maybe two.

Spencer Reid has weaseled his way into your life one stupid smile at a time.

—

The case is going terribly.

What started as a run-of-the-mill serial killer case in some nowhere town turned into huge investigation because Spe— Reid figured out its relation to a cold case from a neighboring town decades prior. And then, to top everything off, just so happens to be near enough to your hometown that your mom saw you on the news when JJ was giving a statement.

And now she won’t stop calling.

Prior to this, you haven’t talked to your mom in about seven months. Now? She’s calling upwards of twelve times a day.

“Mom,” You say, tucked in one of the police stations back rooms, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I’m working, I can’t just come out to see you—“

“But you’ve never visited! And your finally in town, and—“

“I’m not in town, I’m a four hour drive away from town.”

A sigh crackles through the line, her voice tinny. “You know, your brother always made time to visit family, and your younger brothers—“

“Are younger than me and more successful, yes mom, I’ve heard it all before. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m trying to catch a serial killer.”

You snap the phone shut before she can protest, effectively ending the call. You sag against the wall, sighing deep and weary. Exhaustion clings to your bones. It’s not just your mom. This case, being physically close to your hometown, everything— it’s weighing you down. You spend more time in the hotel bed tossing and turning than sleeping.

Even Em— Prentiss had shot you look when you’d came in this morning- though jury’s still out about whether or not it was an are-you-okay look or a you-better-be-good-for-the-case look. You’re hoping it’s the former.

The room you’re in is empty- the precinct that called for the team went under renovation and remodeling last year, so some of the rooms have fallen into disuse, apparently. It’s dusty, and filled with boxes and papers and weirdly, one or two condom wrappers. You wish you were surprised.

Your phone has been put strongly on silent, and you’re not expecting anyone to find you for at least twenty minutes. Of course, you don’t need twenty minutes. You just need five.

You just need to collect yourself for a moment. A few minutes to breathe, to get your mom’s words and the unpleasant memories they bring out of your head; to will the shake out of your hands and the cold creeping in your lungs.

So when the door opens, you nearly jump out of your skin.

Spencer walks in, phone clasped in one hand and a worried expression on his face.

“We’re getting ready to give the profile.”

“Oh,” You peel yourself off the wall, discreetly wiping at your face. You hadn’t noticed the frustrated tears carving lines down your face, “Sorry, I’m coming.”

He frowns as you come closer, and panic begins to beat like a drum in your chest.

“Is Hotch upset? I just had to take a call, I thought it would—“

“Slow down,” He says, raising his hands. “Hotch isn’t upset. Is something wrong?”

“No,” You say quickly, too quickly, because his frown deepens.

“You’ve been taking a lot more calls recently and you’re always upset after they’re over. Is someone bothering you?”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “My mom. We’re a four hour drive away from my hometown. She saw me on the news when JJ gave her statement.”

Something flashes in his eyes when you say your mother, but it’s gone before you can decipher it.

“You don’t want to see her.”

He says it flat-toned and blank. Like it’s a fact.

It is a fact.

“No,” You confess, “I’ve never been close with my parents. I haven’t spoken to her beyond a text in years, and I haven’t texted her in months. Then she sees me on the news and I’m back on her radar again.”

You chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. “Oh, the folly of the disappointing daughter.”

He tilts his head, questioning. “You’ve made something of yourself. You’re a special agent. That’s not nothing.”

“Yeah, well. It’s not Doctor or Lawyer or C.E.O or anything else my brothers or cousins have made of themselves, so,” You shrug. “Disappointing.”

“Well that’s stupid,” Spencer says, a small curl to his lips, “You keep all of those stupid people safe by catching serial killers.”

“You’re a doctor. Did you just call yourself stupid?”

He shrugs, mimicking your earlier action. “I’m not that kind of doctor.”

You look down to hide the smile on your face but he ducks down, catching it anyway.

“Hey,” He says, eyes catching yours, “If you want to talk, you know where to find me.”

You (hesitantly) look up to meet his gaze. “Thanks, Reid.”

His face does something weird. Contorts at the words, just for a second. Like he just bit into something sour.

And then it’s gone.

“Of course.”

—

For the rest of the case, everytime your phone rings, Spencer looks at you. You’re getting close to just throwing the damn thing off a roof, if it’ll convince him to stop looking at you like that. You don’t know what to do with it. The look he gives you tastes like worry, and you don’t know what to do about Spencer Reid worrying about you.

You never meet his gaze. You know he’s looking, but you never look back.

Finally, the case comes to an end. Actually, it goes out in a literal blaze of glory— the unsub lights his kill shed on fire.

All of it would have burned to ash if you hadn’t run into the structure and and snatched the murder weapon and the most damning pieces of evidence: the printed photographs the unsub took with the victims.

It’s a win because you saved the evidence.

It’s a loss because Hotch looks pissed while the paramedics check you over.

Well. You assume he looks pissed. You’re staring resolutely at your shoes.

Finally, the paramedic gives you the all clear —just some minor burns here and there, you got lucky— and you no longer have a human buffer and excuse to avoid talking.

The silence stretches out between you two. Eventually, you cave.

“Hotch, I’m sorry—“

He holds a hand up and you clamp your jaw shut.

“Did you not hear me give the order to stay back?”

“I just thought—“

“We are a team, agent. I need to be able to trust not only that you’re going to follow my orders but be able to work together with the team. Now, you’re not doing either of those things.”

You frown. “I do follow your orders.”

He sighs. “You didn’t today. And more importantly, you’re not acting like a member of this team. You don’t call for backup. You don’t ask for help. You do good profiling work, agent. But if you can’t work with this team then we might need to reconsider your position here.”

That… doesn’t make any sense.

Hotch catches the confusion on your face. “Something wrong, agent?”

“I just— I was under the impression that I would only be working with the team for a few more weeks…?”

Now it’s his turn to look confused. “You may have been hired at an inopportune time, and until the first year is over it is a probationary basis, but pending review, you are and always have been a permanent member of this unit.”

You blink. “Oh.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “You didn’t think you’d be staying for long.”

You shake your head, your world turned on its head.

He hums. “You should buy earplugs. Rossi snores.”

You drop your head into your hands.

“And agent?”

You look up.

“You did good work today. You have a team. Learn to use them.”

He walks away, leaving you to process this crisis-inducing information.

So. You’re not leaving the team. You’re a profiler. Forever. This is your job now.

So does that mean you weren’t replacing Spencer? So why were you hired? Anything you can do multiple people on the team can do better. Why would Hotch pick you?

You stare at the pavement, which gives you a perfect view to watch Spencer’s shoes walk into view and hear him settle next to you.

“You’re a little young to be having a mid-life crisis.”

It takes you an embarrassingly long time to respond, partly because you’re not sure what to say, but also, the length of his thigh is pressed against yours and it’s hard to think when he’s emanating warmth and you can’t stop yourself from thinking about how it would feel to touch, skin to skin.

“Well,” You croak, “I did just get some pretty big news.”

He leans back on his hands, raising an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Looking up at him was a mistake. Bathed in the glow of the ambulance and the light from the moon, you can see just how long his eyelashes are, and how his lips move when he says your name.

Oh shit.

“Sorry, what?”

His face twitches in a smile. “I asked if you were okay. You were staring.”

You flush from your neck to the tips of your ears. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. I’m fine. I was just thinking.”

“About?”

See, he always does this. Most people would end the conversation there and move on. And that’s fine. It’s normal. But Spencer asks. Like he’s interested.

You shrug. “I thought… I thought I was leaving the team in a few weeks. Turns out i’m staying.”

He starts swinging his legs on the edge of the ambulance, though where his almost brush the ground, yours swing several inches above it. “Why did you think you were leaving?”

You laugh softly. “My boss told me the position was temporary. And in my excitement of getting it I may or may not have… not read the paperwork?”

He clicks his tongue. “Oh, honey.”

The tips of your ears burn. “I was excited!”

“To get a job staring at gruesome crime photos?”

“To help people.”

“What? Data analysis not helping people enough?”

“Do I even have to answer that?”

He snorts, his body shaking against yours. “You’re a consulting analyst. That’s the big leagues.”

Now it’s your turn to huff. “Is there a big leagues for data analysis?”

He leans his head down to look at you. “Well, maybe miss smarty-pants over here made a league of her own.”

The shade of red you turn must be visible, dark and bad lighting aside. “You have an IQ of 187. Can you really call me a smarty-pants?”

He tilts his head, giving you an assessing look. You recognize it. He gives case files the same look.

A faint shudder runs down the length of your spine at that precise, clinical gaze.

It should concern you, unnerve you.

It doesn’t.

“No, I’m positive. You’re a smarty-pants.”

You look away, unable to hold the intensity of his gaze.

“Hey, no. Come on, you gotta own up to being a smarty-pants. Otherwise you ruin the effect.”

“Am I supposed to start wearing sweaters and Converse, then?”

“Well, that wouldn’t be owning the smarty-pants look.”

“Do we have to keep the smarty-pants thing going?”

“Took your mind off the burns, didn’t it?”

You blink, realizing that you haven’t noticed the dull sting of the minor burns littering your body for a few minutes now.

But that has less to do with Spencer speaking and more to do with the fact that he’s here. Touching you. If you focus really hard, you can feel the chords of muscle lining his arm.

“Uh,” You stutter, momentarily flabbergasted by the way he’s looking at you. Like it’s important to him— you not being in pain. “Yeah, yeah, I guess. Well. I feel them now.”

“Oh, shame. I guess we’ll just have to keep talking.”

You furrow your brows. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Shouldn’t you be helping finish wrapping up the case?”

He shrugs. “I’m right where I want to be.”

That’s a decidedly very loaded statement that are not going to unpack.

You’re not going to unpack to jolt of pure electricity you feel from it, either.

—

You may or may not have lied about just how sick you were, exactly.

“You know,” Rossi says after you hack a cough into your elbow for what has to be the fiftieth time in as many minutes, “That’s starting to sound less like the plague and more like desperation.”

You sniff harshly, taking a swig of cough syrup and praying this isn’t the king with codeine in it. You didn’t read the label very well. “What do you mean?”

Prentiss raises an eyebrow. “He’s saying that most people on their veritable death/bed opt to sleep comfortably in their own beds in their own homes rather than on a plane to hunt down a violent killer.”

You think if your apartment— it’s cozy, at least, but still a glaring reminder of the reason you told Hotch you were fine to come in- loneliness.

You have heated blankets and warm lighting and books and tea —boxes and boxes of tea— and all manner of things that make you happy. But no amount of things can replace, tangible human connection.

You knew the ache of spending the day in your apartment would sting worse than the cold. Fever, Whatever you have.

“I’m thinking of a word,” JJ says, mock tapping her chin thoughtfully, “Starts with work, ends with holic.”

“I am not a workaholic,” you wheeze. “I am fine.”

“Yes,” Prentiss says, raising her other eyebrow. Oh no. Not the double eyebrow raise. “Because this is exactly what the picture of health looks like.”

To avoid answering, you take another swig of cough medicine.

“Just do you know,” Spencer says, “You’re about one tiny sip of that away from overdosing. I’d cool it on the cough syrup.”

“But I’m still coughing.”

“Have you given it any time to work?”

“It’s been thirty-ish minutes since I took the first dose.”

He levels you with a look at your usage of dose. “Why don’t you wait a little longer before committing suicide via shallow breathing and seizures.”

You wave a hand. “It’s fine. I know how to take care of myself when I’m sick.”

“Is your version of taking care of yourself just continuously taking medicine until the symptoms become bearable?”

“You’re un-bearable.” You snort at your play on words, but grow quiet because when you look up, the entire team is looking at you. “What?”

“You never joke.” JJ says.

“And I think I’ve heard you laugh exactly two times, and I’m pretty sure one of them was a sneeze.” Rossi says, a look of vague disbelief on his face.

You squirm in place. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Uh, yeah it is. You’re definitely too sick to be on a case if you’re laughing.”

“Come on, it was barely a chuckle—“

Spencer looks around. “Yeah, what’s the big deal? I’ve heard her laugh before.”

JJ and Prentiss snap their heads to him in tandem. “What?”

Now he looks vaguely uncomfortable. “I just don’t get why it’s such a big deal.”

“That’s cause you showed up late to the party,” Em- Prentiss says, “You didn’t meet her when she first came. She was all genius consulting data analyst.”

“I wouldn’t call myself a genius—“

“Yeah,” JJ chimes in, “I only ever saw her smile to be polite.”

“Wait,” Prentiss says, brows pinched, “You heard her laugh and you didn’t tell us? You knew we were trying to see who would make her break first.”

“You guys were trying to make me laugh? Is that what was happening all that time? I almost called Hotch like, thirty times because I was concerned for you guy’s mental wellbeing. I thought you’d had a nervous breakdown.”

JJ snorts. “Nope. Just tried to see if the rumors were true about all data analysts being robots.”

You cough into your elbow. “You guys make it seem like I was some sort of frigid bitch.”

“Frigid, yes. Bitch, no.”

“Hey!” You retort, then wince as the volume of your own voice makes your head pound harder and makes your throat sting worse, “I wasn’t that bad. Also, I was nervous! I’m the youngest person here by like, a long shot. I wanted to be professional.”

“I for one enjoyed it,” Rossi cuts in, “It was all blunt business. Straight to the point. No beating around the bush or gossiping. A few people here could learn a thing or two.”

“See?” You gesture. “Rossi agrees with me.”

Just about everyone on the plane gives you the exact same look. Hotch especially, who’s stayed silent during the entire exchange, looks troubled.

Once you land (an ordeal that normally doesn’t bother you, but today, had you worshipping the porcelain altar) Hotch pulls you aside.

“Agent,” He says before you climb into the car that’ll take you to the police precinct, “I can’t have an agent not at peak performance on this case.”

You frown. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you’re too sick to work this case—“

“No, no, I can work, I can do it—“

“—In the field. You’re working from the station until we wrap up. Understood?”

You sigh, knowing when you’re beat. “Understood.”

He gazes at you for a second. “You might want to call out of work entirely the next time you’re sick, you know. The less time you spend resting the longer it’ll take to get better. I expect to see you taking care of yourself at the precinct.”

You blink. “Are you… dad-ing me?”

He almost smiles. “Well, I am a father. It’s bound to come out sometimes.”

The joke soothes your concerns of him being upset with you (again.) You suppose it would’ve been warranted —Hotch never gets upset without a reason— but still. He’s the only one you occasionally struggle to read.

The good news is by the time you make it to the station, your medicine has kicked in.

The bad news is when you get to the station your medicine has kicked in.

“Spencer,” You say, spinning in a spinny chair and staring at his blurry face. “Did you know that elephants have prehensile—“

“Do not finish that sentence.” He says, glancing back at the team, all in various stages of concern, disgust, amusement, and annoyance. “Did you take non-drowsy cough medicine?”

“Yes! I didn’t want to be tired.”

He scrubs a tired hand down his face, then nudges a sealed water bottle across the table to you. “Drink that.”

You wrinkle your nose. “But my throat hurts.”

“Drink it anyway.”

You snatch the water bottle, grumbling the whole time as you crack the seal and gulp down the water, not realizing how thirsty you were until this very second.

You lean your forehead on the table head still pounding from the pressure in your sinuses. You feel a prickle in the back of your neck, signifying that the team is still staring at you.

With great effort, you lift your head, tilting your chin up and trying to summon all the self confidence you don’t actually have.

“I am making a fool of myself. Please disregard my actions until I am no longer ill. This won’t happen again.”

Words are hard. Speaking is hard. With a groan, you drop your head back on your arm.

“Ah, there she is.”

“Knew that laugh had to be a fluke.”

“Cold medicine must be working.”

There are other mutterings about stubborn geniuses and workaholics and data analysis and Spencer staying at the station and—

You snap your head up. “I’m fine. I don’t need a baby-sitter. Spencer would be most useful in the field. He’s one of the best shot’s on the team.”

“And when it comes to needing a marksman I won’t hesitate to get him,” Hotch says, “But for now, I need my two geniuses to put their heads together to solve this case.”

Feeling cowed, you avoid Spencer’s gaze as the team files out of the room you’ve all set up in, instead grabbing a file from the center of the table. You really are being stupid. You should’ve stayed home, now you’re a liability, not to mention a walking biohazard. Fuck, why couldn’t you just think before you—

“I can hear you spiraling from over here.”

You lift your gaze, eyeing Spencer who hasn’t even put down the case file he’s reading.

You look back down. “I wasn’t spiraling.”

“You’re really going to lie to a profiler?”

“We’re both profilers.”

“Yeah, well, you have an obvious tell when you’re worrying about something.”

“I do not!”

You hear the quiet shuffling of papers.

A sigh leaves your lips, and you press the heels of your hands to your eyes. “I’m really sorry, Spe— Reid. I didn’t mean to drag you here with me.”

If he notices your slip up, he doesn’t give any indication of it.

“Who said anything about dragging?”

“I know you’re a germaphobe, and I’m a walking biohazard, and now you’re stuck here going over case files and, and I’m a liability right now—“

“Slow down,” He says, interrupting your slew of word vomit. His voice has dropped an octave, gaining a richer note. You should stop thinking about his voice. “I’m fine. You’re fine. The team is more worried than upset. You’re not the first person to come to work sick. And you won’t be the last.”

“They keep staring at me.”

“Because your current state and manner of behavior are disrupting their pre-conceived notions and set opinions of your character.”

You scrunch your nose. “Don’t get all clinical on me,”

You hear a small huff of laughter across the table. “I’ve come to work far worse than hopped up on cold medicine, believe me. Don’t worry about it. Just focus on working the case.”

Slowly, the itching under your skin settles, and you manage to swallow the lump in your throat. Eventually, you peel your hands away from your face and do what he says.

Hours pass by in a blur of text and you and Spencer occasionally either bouncing ideas off each other or making small breakthroughs. Spencer handles the relay of information because you can’t really go more than three full sentences without hacking up a lung. Seriously, what is cough syrup good for?

Sometime past midday, you start flagging. The words start blending and smushing together and your head gets harder and harder to hold up. You’re jolting yourself back awake every five minutes, forcing your body to just bear through the illness for the sake of productivity. You got yourself into this mess, you deal with the consequences.

You’re just… so tired. Maybe you’ll close your eyes, just for a few minutes. To get energy. And then you can get back to the case.

Just for a few minutes.

—

“She out?”

“Like a light. Powered through for a lot longer than I expected. But dextromethorphan gets us all in the end.”

A low whistle. “Poor kid. The ‘proving yourself to the team’ phase is rough.”

A hum. “I think it’s more than that.”

A beat passes.

“You got her?”

“Yeah,” Something soft and good smelling, like pine and coffee and something almost rich settles over your shoulders, “Yeah, I got her.”

—

When you wake, your neck is sore but you’re not cold, which is strange considering you remember falling asleep in a table.

Oh god you fell asleep on the table.

You jackrabbit up in place, knees knocking against the underside of the table. Hissing in pain, you tug the warm thing further around your shoulders which is—

Holy fucking shit it’s Spencer’s sweater.

Said man is nowhere to be found, and the conference/briefing room you’re in is dark. Not only did someone turn the lights off (you’re pretty sure you can guess who) but it’s dark outside. Meaning you didn’t just take a short nap.

You slept the entire day away.

Cold dread seeps into your shoulders. “Oh my god I’m so fired. Oh shit. Fuck, Hotch is going to be so pissed—“

The door opens and you stand, whirling around to face the doorway and then instantly regretting it when spots dance across your vision and your head swims.

You stumble, grabbing the edge of the chair for support and squinting at the figure in the doorway.

“Hotch?”

“Nope,” Spencer’s voice rings out in the room, “Guess again.”

You groan, sinking down into the chair. “Am I fired?”

He snorts. “Seeing as Hotch bet that you’d fall asleep before dark, I’d say no.”

“He bet against me?”

“Actually, everyone else thought you’d only last an hour. He bet for four.”

“How long did you bet for?”

He sets a mug in front of you, steaming tea wafting up and warming your face. “Three hours. You metabolize cough syrup better than I thought.”

You take the mug in your hands, warming your fingers but not actually taking a sip. “Mmm. Told you I’ve done this before.”

“I don’t think that’s the brag you think it is.”

You chuckle, which quickly turns into a cough.

“Drink your tea,” He commands softly from across the table, sleeves pushed up around his elbows and papers spread about him.

You dutifully take a sip, something restless growing calm in the back of your skull.

You eye is forearms, hoping the look-over you’re giving them is subtle. (It probably isn’t, but come on. A button down with the sleeves rolled up while you’re wearing his sweater is practically sinful.)

“Do you… want the lights turned back on? I’m awake now, so.”

He flips over a piece of paper, then scribbles something on a sticky note. “You were sleeping. And you have a headache. I can see just fine.”

“My headache isn’t that bad, really, I’m fi—“

He levels you with a look, and you sink a little lower in your chair. “Do you at least want your sweater back?”

“No. Keep it.”

“Careful, maybe I’ll just keep it forever,” You joke.

“I’d be fine with that.”

What. The. Fuck.

You stand, pushing out the chair with a loud screech. “I’m just gonna— bathroom,” You splutter, your face blazing and stomach doing a gymnastics routine, “I’m gonna use the bathroom. Bye.”

You’re screaming internally the entire way to the bathroom, and once you get there, open-mouthed silent screaming in the privacy of a stall.

Because. He said. He didn’t even look up. He just. And he. Maybe he—

No, no, no. You are not about to entertain that notion. Not again. He was just being nice. That’s all. That’s all.

Collecting yourself takes about five more minutes, and then you’re walking back to the conference/briefing room when you realize you never took the damn sweater off. He watched you scramble out of that room to the bathroom he has to know you weren’t using, with his sweater on.

This is the end for you, then. That’s it. It’s over.

You mentally slap yourself. Get it together. It’s fine. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

You re-enter the room marginally calmer than you left it. You slide into your seat, sip your tea (that he made you!) and keep working on the case.

You pretend you can’t see him smirking from across the table.

—

The case doesn’t last too long. The team catches the guy in the act of beating his next victim. Thankfully, you manage to save the poor woman before he finishes his plan, and with being caught red-handed, it’s fairly open and shut. Case closed. Which is great, because you really aren’t sure how many more nights you can suffer through trying to sleep in the hotel bed.

You have this thing, when you’re sick. You can’t sleep anywhere but the couch. Your couch. You figured (apparently foolishly) that it wouldn’t be too bad, since the crux of the issue is that you hate sleeping in your bed when you’re sick, but no. You’d spent every night of the case tossing and turning and coughing yourself out. Your lungs were tired. Your body was tired. You were tired.

Spencer raises an eyebrow at you when you board the jet. “You haven’t been near-overdosing on cough syrup again have you?”

“No,” You grouse, rubbing your face with your hand. “I’m like, not even sick anymore. I just didn’t sleep well.” For several nights in a row.

“Mmm,” He hums, non-committal.

You practically collapse into your usual seat on the jet, hunching in yourself and attempting to make yourself comfortable in the seat.

You blink your eyes open when you feel the seat jostle next to you. “Reid?”

He’s already pulling out a book. “What?”

“This isn’t your seat.”

“We don’t have assigned seats.”

“No, but you always sit over there.”

“And now I’m sitting here.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to decide if you want to argue him on the point or not. You decide against it, because arguing will draw attention to the fact that you’re sitting next to each other having this conversation at all.

You settle back into your seat. “Whatever. Hope you’re not a loud page-turner.”

“Is that even a thing?”

You shrug, eyes falling shut again.

After a few minutes, you shiver, unconsciously scooting closer to the warmth of the person next to you, your sleep-addled brain barely processing the fact that it’s Spencer you’re pressing your shoulder into.

He repositions next to you, shoulder jostling you. You grumble, dropping your head to his arm. Now much closer, your nose fills with the smooth, all encompassing smell that is Spencer.

The dull chatter that fills the plane, the warm body next to yours, and, despite your earlier complaints, the quiet, gentle page-turning lull you into an easy sleep.

—

“Are you drugging her or something? I’ve seen her sleep more this week than I have in her entire time on the team.”

“The only drugging she’s done was voluntary.”

“Her neck is going to be so sore when she wakes up.”

“Sore? Mine would be broken if I did that.”

“Ah, the joys of youth.”

A beat passes. Then another.

“She’s a bit young, don’t you think?”

“Emily don’t start—“

“Just saying, Spence. HR would get a kick out of this.”

“Not like it never happens. We’ve all walked into supply closet B at the wrong time.”

“This isn’t meaningless sex though.”

“…No.”

Silence.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

A deft hand re-adjusts your head to a more comfortable angle. “I will be.”

—

Landing jolts you into wakefulness and off Spencer’s shoulder. It’s not embarrassing. It’s not. It’s only weird if you make it weird.

When you’re all back at HQ, you pull Hotch aside.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

He nods. “In my office.”

You stalk up the stairs, aware of the eyes following your back. You step into the office, shutting the door behind you and pretending it doesn’t feel like sealing your doom.

He sits, gesturing for you to do so too, but you shake your head.

“I won’t be long. I just wanted to apologize.”

He blinks. “For?”

“I shouldn’t have come in. I was a liability, and it was unprofessional. Next time I’ll act with more discretion.”

Selfish, Your mother’s words echo in your head, your father’s words following suit: Try harder.

He laces his fingers together, resting him on his desk.

“Do you know why I chose you?”

“Because Reid was gone, and you needed a ge— someone smart.”

“Every member of my team is intelligent. That’s not why I chose you.”

He reaches down, opening a desk drawer and pulling out a newspaper clipping.

Your breath hitches when you read the words on it.

“Garcia found it,” He says, scanning the piece of paper. “‘Professor’s Assistant saves college class from school shooter’. You were sixteen.”

You look down at your shoes. “It was the scariest moment of my life. I didn’t— he came in, and I was behind the door getting paper, and he didn’t see me. He… I knew people would die if I didn’t do something. I tackled him. He shot me twice before I managed to kick the gun away. I almost bled out.”

He nods, putting the clipping down. “That’s who I chose. Not the genius. Not the consulting data analyst. Someone who wants to help people.”

He puts the clipping back in his drawer. “I’m not going to write you up for not having a healthy work-life balance. No one in this bureau does, and if they say they do, they’re lying.”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “Now I look stupid for asking to talk.”

“It’s not an imposition. You’re a member of my team. That makes your wellbeing when you’re on the job my responsibility.”

Unable to form a response to that, you manage to stutter out a thank you, and then flee from his office, collapsing into your chair at your desk with a sigh.

A mug is set in front of you. Different mug, same tea, same hand.

“I think you need to reevaluate your opinion of Hotch and what kind of person you think he is.”

You take the mug with a glare. “I was reasonably concerned.”

“You thought you were going to get written up for coming to work sick?”

“It was a logical conclusion to draw,” You pause, taking a sip of the tea, which is just as good as it was last time. Actually, it’s slightly sweeter, and it soothes your throat more. “And stop profiling me. What’d you put in this?”

“Stop being so easy to profile,” Spencer says, crossing his arms. “Honey. They didn’t have any at the station.”

It’s quiet for a few moments: him staring at you, you pretending he’s not staring and sipping your tea.

“You should go home.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re still sick. Don’t tell me you just can’t wait to write all this paperwork.”

“Maybe I am.”

“No you’re not,” He picks up your jacket from where it’s hanging off the side of your cubicle and plops it in your lap. “Go home. I’ll sick Hotch on you.”

You stand, shrugging your jacket on and pointing an accusing finger at him. “You’re a cruel man.”

“Mhm. Sure. Go home.”

You grumble all the way to the door, but quiet when you look back to see him watching you fondly. He gives you a little two finger wave, and with the sheer amount of heat that rushes to your cheeks, you have no choice but leave immediately.

Stupid genius co-workers.

—

The next week brings wellness and a lull in cases.

Unfortunately, that also means you don’t have an excuse to put off your paperwork any longer.

Spencer taps the top of it with a slender finger. “Did it get bigger since the last time I saw it?”

He’s hanging around your desk for… some reason. He came to drop off paperwork from your last case, and then stuck around for some unknown purpose.

“No,” You groan, setting your mug of coffee aside and grabbing the first paper off the stack. “Still the same pile I’m procrastinating on.”

“Good luck,” He huffs, finally turning and walking back to his own desk. It’s still in your eyeline, if you crane your neck a little.

You sigh, grabbing your earbuds from your desk, knowing you can’t put the paperwork off any longer. You’re pretty sure Records is going to start sending you death threats soon.

Making your way through the pile is slow going. It’s terrible. The only part of working with the BAU you hate is the paperwork. It’s tedious and never-ending and it always gives you a headache.

The only times you get up are to use the bathroom and get more coffee. JJ kindly tells you that you should probably leave your mug in the break room after your sixth or so trip. Spencer, somehow, appears in the room, and rattles off the symptoms of caffeine overdose.

You leave the mug there.

You continue working well after everyone else leaves. It gets dark, people go home, office lights go off, and while the pile has largely decreased in size, it’s still not finished.

You have to finish. Hotch had made an offhand comment about turning in your paperwork on time and now you have to finish it. To show him you’re not lazy.

You’ve only got a little bit of paperwork left when a hand taps you on your shoulder.

You yank your earbuds out, blinking blearily. “Wha?”

Spencer’s face swims into view. “Come on, time to go home.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Making sure you didn’t fall asleep and forget to go home. They do lock the doors at a certain point. Ask me how I know.”

Your brain is moving like sludge, and it takes you several minutes to process what he says. He continues standing in front of you, patiently waiting for you to respond.

“But… the paperwork.”

“Will be here tomorrow. Come on, up we go.”

You whine as he takes your hands, hauling you to your feet. You attempt to scrub the sleep out of your eyes while messily moving papers about so your desk doesn’t look like a copy machine threw up all over it.

He pushes your jacket into your hands and you shrug it on, grumbling all the way through the doors and out to the parking lot, Spencer in tow. He follows dutifully behind you, and everytime you look back at him to voice your complaints all he does is smile.

“It’s cold.”

“That does tend to happen in winter.”

When you get to your car, he reaches out, tugging on your wrist.

“Hey,” He says, looking down at you, eyes deep pools of some emotion you can’t identify, “Drive safe, okay? It’s icy.”

“My commute isn’t that bad. And I’m,” You break off with a huge yawn. “Not even that tired.”

“That doesn’t inspire much confidence, smarty-pants.”

“Oh, so we’re locked into the smarty-pants thing, huh?”

“Yep.” He says, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets and popping the P.

“Well then what am I supposed to call you? Robot-Reid?”

“How about Spencer?”

His words hang in the night air, mingling in the puffs of air from both of your mouths.

“…What rhymes with Spencer?”

“Sensor, denser, dispenser—“

“Dis-Spencer,” You say, smiling to yourself. “I like the sound of that one.”

“You know dis comes from—“

“The latin word dis, and the prefix is used to denote a reversal of absence of an action, expressing negation, or expressing completeness or intensification of an unpleasant or unattractive action.”

He chuckles, smiling down at his shoes. “That’s why you’re the smarty-pants.”

“Oh please. You know all of that and then some.”

He shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not.”

You both stand in the cold of the parking lot, neither willing to leave yet.

Before you can think better of it, you dart forward, throwing your arms around Spencer’s neck and mumbling “Goodnight, Dis-Spencer.”

You step away quickly, awkwardly giving him a small wave before hurrying into your car and driving away.

Smooth.

—

The next case is… really rough.

Two spree killers, working as a team. A father and a son; the son was groomed into the lower position.

Not anything you haven’t seen before. Trained for. Studied.

No amount of studying could have prepared you for the cold grip of dread that gripped your throat like a vice when you finally confronted the unsubs, and heard eerily familiar words uttered from the father:

“You’re a good for nothing son! I wouldn’t have had to do this if you weren’t such a disappointment of a child! Why couldn’t you have just been more like your siblings?”

The son was killed before anyone could intervene.

Wrapping up the case left you shaken— you’d watched with hollow eyes as the boy’s body was zipped in a body bag.

A hand landing roughly on your shoulder shoves awareness back into your body and you flinch, hard, whirling around with your shoulders raised to meet the oncoming threat.

Only it’s not a threat. It’s Hotch. And he looks concerned.

You force your body to relax. “I’m sorry, I’ll go help question the rest of the family—“

“Are you okay?”

You blink. “What?”

“Are you alright?” He asks again.

“Yeah, I’m, I’m okay. It just… reminded me of something.”

Hotch purses his lips but doesn’t say anything. He looks he’s going to say something, but then decides against it.

“Help Reid get the last of the evidence. Once you two are finished head back to the station. We’ll meet you there.”

You nod, inwardly relieved about not having to deal with the family members. You might start actually crying.

You sidle up to Spencer who’s tagging blood splatters on the carpet. He wordlessly hands you a pair of gloves. He doesn’t ask. You don’t tell.

You work side by side for the better part of two hours, occasionally conversing with the local police or helping the crime scene investigators tag evidence.

If he knows what’s bothering you, he doesn’t say. You wouldn’t have an answer anyway. You’re far too gone in your own head.

You follow Spencer to the break room back at the station, watching him quietly make two mugs of tea. He presses one into your hands with a gentle command to let it cool for a few minutes. The mug is warm in your hands. Spencer is standing next to you, a mug of his own in his hands. Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

You chant this mantra in your head while you wait for the rest of the team to come back.

Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

Spencer doesn’t ask before sitting next to you on the jet. He just does. He hands you a book, then opens his own.

You don’t read a single page. He must know. Still, he says nothing, just presses a little closer to you when he sees your hands shaking.

The team gives the two of you space when you finally land. You stumble off the jet, trip backpack slung over your shoulder, legs wobbly and breath uneven.

You’re not sure why the case upset you this much. Your parents don’t upset you this much. They just— they make the same kind of comments, and so did that father, except now his son is dead because he killed him—

“Hey,” Hotch approaches you slowly, makes sure you can see him. You hate that he feels the need to do so. “Take tomorrow off. Stay home. Recuperate.”

“I’m fi—“

“We all have tough missions and I would do the same for any agent,” He says, clasping you gently on the shoulder. “Besides. We both know you haven’t been sleeping well.”

Your lips twitch. “Isn’t there a rule against profiling each other?”

“That rule is for all of you. Not me.”

He gives your shoulder one last squeeze before departing.

You manage to haul yourself into HQ and out to the parking lot, cursing as your cold fingers fumble with your keys. Frustrated tears begin to well in your eyes and you press the heels of your hands to your face, sucking in a shuddering breath and begging it all to just stop.

Someone gently pries your hands open, pulling your keys out of your clenched grip. Your shoulders shake as you heave, gasping for cold night air that burns on the way down.

A hand finds its way to the back of your head, pressing it forward into something warm and solid. Another arm wraps around your waist, keeping you close, while the hand on your head drifts down to your neck, squeezing and rubbing intermittently.

“I’m sorry,” You cry, rubbing your face and smearing your tears across your hands, “I don’t know why, it just—“

“You don’t need a reason,” Spencer says, spreading his hand out wide so it covers the entire nape of your neck, “Sometimes it all just gets to you.”

You nod into his chest, lowering your hands from his face to wrap around his torso, clutching it like a lifeline.

“I don’t want to go home tonight,” You whisper, ashamed. “I’ll dream of it. And them. And it’ll be cold and alone—“

“Come home with me,” He says, voice a little breathless while he holds you closer, “Come home with me.”

He says the last part a little desperate.

You sniff. “Okay.”

You hesitantly pull away from the hug, but not before Spencer’s hand moves from your neck to your face, his thumb brushing away the tear tracks on your face. He drops his head down, and you feel the gentlest brush of lips against the skin in between your eyebrows.

“Let’s go home.”

He tugs you along by the hand, helping you into his little old car, tucking your bags into the backseat. He lets the radio play softly while he drives, loud enough to quiet your thoughts a bit but not so loud as to overwhelm you.

He helps you out of the car when you arrive to the apartment building, carrying one of your bags up the stairs- you’d insisted on carrying the rest of your stuff.

He unlocks the apartment door, ushering you into the warmth and comfort that is Spencer’s home.

It’s exactly like you pictured, if not tidier. A bit more modern than you’d imagined. Books are everywhere of course, but so are knick-knacks and trinkets and other little bits of things that are so decidedly Spencer. There’s even a quilt on the couch.

He sets your bag down by the door. “The shower is down that hall to the left. Use whatever products you need to. Do you have any clothes to change into?”

You chew on the inside of your lip. “In my luggage, yeah, but they need to be washed.”

“I can put them in the wash while you shower. In the meantime, you can borrow something of mine.”

You shuffle in place. “I don’t wanna impose—“

“Please let me do this for you.”

The raw, rough edge to his tone makes you pause. You nod in acquiescence.

He takes your hand in his again, tugging you into his bedroom. With one hand, he opens drawers, handing you his smallest pair of sweatpants, and a large, worn, and incredibly soft Caltech sweatshirt.

“I’ll have to cuff these,” You mumble when he hands you the sweatpants, “My legs are half the length of yours.”

“You’ll make it work, I’m sure. Now shoo. I’ll have laundry and food finished when you get out of the shower.”

The bathroom, like the rest of the house, is clean and neat, and to your relief, houses more than just a five-in-one in the shower. Spencer actually owns multiple products for you to choose from and it hits you while you’re lathering the body wash you chose because of how good it smelled that you’re in Spencer’s shower, showering with his body wash, about to put on his clothes.

You’re going to smell like him. His clothes will smell like him. Everywhere in the apartment smells like him.

You decide to blame the near permanent flush on your cheeks on the heat from the shower.

When you exit the shower, fresh and drowning in Spencer’s clothes, he’s standing at his kitchen island, putting the final touches on two bowls of soup.

You almost tear up again. “You made me soup?”

“It’s widely regarded as a comfort food for people who are ill or otherwise sad, and is most commonly made in the wintertime.”

He gives you a little jazz hand, gesturing to the soup as if saying ta-da!

You really do tear up then.

He’s in front of you in an instant, hands poised to help. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Do you not like soup? I can make something else, or we can order in, or—“

You scrub at your face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “You’re just, you’re just really sweet.”

His face softens. “Oh, honey.”

He envelops you in the second hug of the night, except this time you’re crying in earnest now. Your crying about your parents, about the nights you went to bed hungry because your Dad told that you were smart, and to figure something out, but you were too young to work any of the kitchen appliances. You’re crying about your first best friend, who ditched you the second your brother asked her out. You’re crying about all the classes and friendships you missed out on while you were in the hospital with gunshot wounds. You’re crying about how your parents didn’t visit you once. Not even when you were in the ICU.

Spencer holds you through it all, a steady rock against the battering waves crashing in your head.

After a few minutes, you wear yourself out, quieting down to sniffling, your shoulders hitching.

He pulls back, studying your face. “Are you ready to eat some soup now?”

You nod, blinking the final tears out of your eyes. “I got snot on your shirt.”

“That’s why we invented washing machines.”

He keeps up a stream of idle chatter while you eat, explaining all the different major soups in the world and where they came from. It’s a balm against your weary mind, lulls you into peace and safety.

Or maybe that’s just the effect Spencer has on you.

When you finish your food, he takes your bowl, deposits it in the sink, and then takes your hand and leads you to his bedroom.

“I don’t have a guest room, so you can take the bed,” He says, voice soft. “There’s extra blankets in the closet next to the bathroom if you get cold.”

He turns to leave, but a stab of panic slices down your chest, and your hand is reaching out and grabbing his wrist before you can stop yourself.

He pauses, turning back around. “You want me to stay?”

You take your lip between your teeth. “I don’t want to be alone.”

He studies you in the dark of the room— clad in his clothes, face puffy from crying.

The muscles in his jaw work.

“I can’t do this platonically. If we do this—“

You surge up on your toes, grabbing his face and smashing your lips together so quickly your teeth clack.

He goes rigid, then kisses your right back, hands coming up to cup your face, squeeze your neck, smooth over your shoulders.

You pull away first, looking at him through your lashes with hazy eyes. “I can’t do this platonically either.”

He traces the planes of your face with his thumb. “You have no idea how long and how much I’ve wanted to have you right here, just like this.”

“Crying and sad?”

“Dressed in my clothes, in my apartment, in my bed.”

You pause. “You know, tonight, I can’t, I’m not going to have—“

“I’m not interested in sex with you tonight,” He says, reading your mind, “I just want to get that empty look in your eyes gone.”

“Just?”

“Well,” He says, tugging you down onto the bed with him, crawling under the covers and covering you both, “There are other things. A lot of other things, Like this,”

He presses a kiss to your forehead.

“And this,”

He pulls you flush against him under the covers, tucking your head under his chin.

“But mostly this.”

He presses one last kiss to the crown of your head.

“Really?”

“Really.”

It’s quiet for a moment before his voice breaks the silence.

“After I got out, all I wanted was something soft and gentle. Having something, someone soft and lovely to hold was all I looked forward to. And then I came back and I met you, with your polite introductions and the way you care so deeply about so much and I knew. I knew who I wanted to hold.”

“Wow,” You breathe, “Yours sounds so poetic. Mine is much less so.”

“Mmm,” He hums, “And what might that be?”

You press your face against his chest and mumble so quietly you’re wondering if he can ever hear you:

“I just wanted you to choose me. I wanted to be someone’s first choice.”

He’s so quiet after that you think he must not have heard you.

You’re on the verge of sleep when you hear his whisper:

“There couldn’t be anyone else for me.”

જ⁀➴

[thewertsearch]

GT: I should preface this request with an overture of appreciation. GT: For how much your cool and brotherly friendship means to me. GT: It has just been… GT: Absolutely *bully* having a standup gent like you in my corner. GT: Just a grade a dude whos a cut above the others in class and camaraderie. GT: Phew… *gropes for fresh kerchief*.

Wow, Jake is fucking terrified of this guy - or at the very least, he seems incredibly intimidated for a guy who's ostensibly just chatting with a friend.

Unfortunately, this is exactly what I'd expect from a Bro who's not any different from his adult self. Jake's acting exactly like Dave did, back when he was forced to share an apartment with the guy.

TT: Take it easy, bromide. TT: Just about the only way I could salvage endearment from this perilous slope of horseshit would be to discover, really fucking soon mind you, it was a preamble to some floundering invitation for me to rush to your vicinity as nakedly as possible.

In other words, you wish he was hitting on you.

I really don't think he's kidding, especially since both Roxy and Jane seem to want a piece of English, too. Jake's sitting at the epicenter of at least three crushes, which is not a pleasant place to be sitting when you're fifteen.

TT: But since we've already shot that wad's eventuality on so many dry runs of flustered ambivalence that were as hilarious as they were one sided, TT: That leaves only one hope for this message to avoid spiraling toward qualification as a critical fucking defect in the hull of the Mach 10 rocket that is my precious spare time.

And here's the guy's actual personality. It's a fairly even mixture of Rose and Dave, a combination which synergizes much better than you'd expect.

He's still prone to Dave-style rambles - but unlike Dave, his streams of consciousness are every bit as eloquent as Rose's text, which some extra swear words tossed in for flavor.

It's very good, and immediately does a lot to humanize him, especially when all we've seen so far is "roof. now." and "State your business."

TT: And that hope lies in the extent to which you were practicing artful insincerity. TT: Now's your opportunity to pretend that's what you were gunning for. I suggest you seize it. GT: I… GT: Oh. Yes! But of course. GT: The ironies! GT: Good grief how i was bandying them just now. You know me dude. GT: *Blows smoke off red hot irony pistol.* GT: *NONSUGGESTIVELY!!!!!*

lmaoooo

Alright, I can't actually tell if that was a Freudian slip or not - but I kind of hope it was. If these two became a couple, the vibes would be incomprehensible.

TT: I'm guessing you're probably jonesing for uranium about now. No? GT: Ok can you please just sendificate me some more already?? Im in kind of a hurry! [...] TT: You know. I've offered to construct the rabbit for you many times before. I would craft a much deadlier model. […] GT: Damn it man ive told you this is just something i have to do myself. […] TT: Yeah, I know this is your policy. You've done a good job and you should be proud. TT: But it's my responsibility as your friend to offer one last time. TT: Just as it's my responsibility not to just fork over a bunch of uranium just because you ask me in a moment of weakness. […] GT: Why not??? TT: It's too easy.

Throughout this whole conversation, I've been trying to get a grasp on Bro's general vibe - and I think I'm starting to understand it.

When you're talking to Kid Bro, everything is a game - and he'll make damn well sure that you follow the rules.

Jake previously committed to making the bunny alone, and Bro refuses to rescind that rule, even if Jake's no longer following it himself. He strikes me as a guy who frames every interaction he has as transactional, confrontational, or instructional. He's not capable of just shooting the shit - there has to be an angle.

Mind you, I don't think there's any genuine malice in it. I think this is just how he's wired - and I really do think he's trying to help Jake develop as a person, in his own way.

The problem is, we've been down this road before...

...and nothing good lies down this road.

[octuscle]

Coworkers and Gym Bros

Everyone here thinks I'm an intern. Yes, I did my Master's at the age of 23. But I also look much younger than I am. Well, as I said, they either think I'm an intern. Or they think I'm the post boy.

On the other hand, Gregory. Or Greg, as everyone calls him. Dumb as a loaf of bread, but built like a brick wall. A booming laugh. A dazzling smile. And an ass… No one can look at it without producing a wet spot in their pants. What I wouldn't give to be a bit more like Greg. We had Morning Board. As Product Owner, I ran it. No one takes me seriously. I pass the elevator. Greg is standing in front of the door. It looks like he hasn't even pressed the button yet. I say yes, dumb as a post. I push for him and pretend I want to take the elevator too. What a chance to be close to this Hercules.

The elevator arrives and is empty. Jackpot. With a dry throat, I ask Greg where he wants to go. “Ground floor,” he grunts. “What a coincidence, me too,” I reply. Shit, I actually have a conference call coming up.

Despite the air conditioning, it smells like Greg in the elevator. It smells of Old Spice, of fresh male sweat and of pure masculinity. Greg is playing with his cell phone. He growls something along the lines of “Shit, no reception”. Then there's a rumble. And the elevator stops. Jackpot? Or hell? Shit, more like jackpot when I feel the hard-on in my pants. It gets hot and stuffy. Very quickly. And Greg is standing next to me, stoically calm, playing with his cell phone. Suddenly, out of the blue, he asks who I actually am. “Eugene, Product Owner in IT Strategy, we're in the Customer Relationship Intensification team together” ”Ah yes, I knew I knew you. This IT stuff isn't really my thing. I'm someone who prefers to work directly on the customer front. Shit, I'm out of battery!” He loosens his tie knot and unbuttons the second button on his shirt. I'm sweating like a pig. Greg starts doing squats. The elevator shakes. I turn pale. “When I'm bored, I have to move.” Greg licks his tie and undoes another button. I'm surprised his pants aren't cracking at the thighs and ass. “So, are you lifting iron too, little brother?” I just shake my head. I'd rather he stopped doing squats. “But you should!” Greg takes off his shirt and tenses his biceps. “Here, feel it!” I squeeze the rock-hard muscle. And then I don't know what's come over me. I kiss the bicep, I lick it. I run my tongue into his armpit. Greg groans. I can't help but caress his sweaty abs with my hands. My tongue can't get enough of the salty taste of his skin. My cock presses painfully against his pants. I press my crotch against his. And I can feel he's hard too.

Almost tenderly, which I wouldn't have believed him capable of, Greg unbuttons my shirt and takes it off with the tie. He opens my pants and pulls them down. “I need a hole to fill so badly right now,” he says. “And believe me, it'll do you good!” I lean against the stainless steel elevator wall, bare-chested and with my pants down. Greg spits into his hands and rubs his cock. He pulls my buttocks apart. I feel his glans against my anus. And shortly afterwards he's deep inside me. Dude, the elevator is shaking. Only now does the alarm go off. A voice asks if there's anyone in the elevator and if we're okay. Thank God no one presses the phone button. But my screams will probably still be heard throughout the building. Damn, I always thought bodybuilders were robbed of their masculinity by abusing steroids and stuff. Bullshit. I mean, Greg and I do inject from time to time. But basically nothing beats hard training and tons of protein.

I don't even realize what's going on in my head. The memories of my computer science degree are fading. I studied marketing in Minnesota. With a football scholarship. Then the classics: cruciate ligament rupture, rehab, gym, more gym, even more gym. Fuuuuuuuuuuuck! Greg cums and I can feel his cum all the way to my stomach! Dude, his balls must have been filled to the brim. I spit my load against the elevator wall. Good thing we came from the gym. We grab our towels and wipe up the mess, panting. Greg presses the phone button. “Sorry, we must have passed out in here from lack of oxygen. We're two big boys, we use a lot of it!” I laugh boomingly. And am told that help is on the way. Suddenly the air conditioning comes on again. And the elevator starts moving again.

"Yo, two Americanos with protein powder, bro?" The coffee shop dude knows the deal. "Extra large, man," I throw in. Greg and I are basically legends here, like epic pups. Not too many peeps need XXXXL shirts that are snug around the guns. But whatever, we crush it in construction gear sales. Our clients sometimes got biceps bigger than ours—no joke. If you’re a little guy, you just vanish in your cubicle, like a techie or something. But who wants that, right?"

Inspiration by @possessionofdudes

Pics by @ki-kink

[zepskies]

Aw welcome back, Wayne!! 😘 I'm so happy to hear that you've been thinking of this series. 🥰 And I'm so excited to see what you thought of Part 2...

I'm so in love with their little bonding sessions. Being stuck inside a cabin and playing games? I want that 😍

Aww it's the little moments with Dean that I would so love -- along with just being snowed in, in a cabin with him. 😏

And lol it's gotta be so awkward for true mates when they're still strangers. I absolutely adored her thought process throughout 😆

Lolll YEP exactly. 😆 Like, realistically how do you broach that conversation with someone? I'm glad you liked that attempt to inject some realism there. 🤣

Love how Dean doesn't realize he's oversharing and that his whole childhood might not have been normal 😂

ahaha Dean got so into his story he didn't realize he was giving himself away there! Bit of a rookie move, but she's his literal soulmate, so he's probably a little distracted. 🤪

And oh God, all those journal entries 😭😭😭 I know they're from the OG journal, but it just rips my heart right out again rereading it 😢 Those portray John's despair and heartbreak way better than the show did...

Girl I had never read the official journal, and it hit me in the feels in just the same way. 😭 I had that exact same thought -- that they served to humanize John and explain why he became the way he was with the boys way better than the show did.

Ooooh, let's think about it, shall we? 😏 Her dad might have totally been snatched by something supernatural. Considering their location and how it happened in her memories, it might have been a Wendigo?? 🤔

Ooh you're red-hot! ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

Dude! Goosebumps! Wendigos scare the shit outta me 🙈 It's still why The Descent is the scariest movie for me. I die from a heart attack every time 😂 🫣

ooooh my God, I haven't seen The Descent, but if it's anything like the Wendigo episode, than I don't wanna know. 😭 Legit when I was first starting to watch SPN I had to take a break after that episode -- and it was only episode 2!! 😩

No! Alex!!!! YOU KNOW THIS IS WHY I HATE SNOOPING Girl, you're killing me here... 😆😆

LOLL I love that you referenced Smoke Eater -- it's those same vibes from Part 8, isn't it? I have a little less sympathy for the reader in this situation, but she is ultimately sorry for going through his private journal/invading his privacy to the nth degree. 😅

OMGG I LOVED that gif of the little polar bear. 🥹🥹 Took me right out with the cuteness lmao. I laughed so hard at all your commentary with the reader and her lack of bear knowledge. 😝

N'aw, I know it was necessary but poor bear – wrong place, wrong time for the fella 🥺💔

Aww I know, I felt bad for writing that part. Poor Ted. 😭😭

My heart is full 😭❤️❤️❤️ (Also, I doubt he can ever stand to let her go her own way after this lmao)

Ha! You're right about that one. I just love me some protective Alpha Dean. 😏

Huh. Never eaten bear before... Never even thought about it before lol Also seems like something the Shaws would've done 😂

Me either lmao, but I've read about people who actually hunt for a living who survive off bear, caribou, bison, etc. I imagine it's a hard way to live, but omg yeah I could see Ashton making his kids learn how to shoot, but them not wanting to shoot a bear or a deer. 😭

Omg I love that ending! Dean's finally coming around, and she's putting the puzzle pieces about her dad together. I wonder what Dean will do when he hears the full story? Would he go hunt the thing? Is it even still out there??? Questions upon questions... 🤔

Aw I'm glad! Yesss it's about time with him lol. Good thing all your questions there will be answered in Part 3...

So excited for the next part!! I'm loving this story and everything you've put in it, and the dynamic between them is amazing. So well done, friend 😍🩵🩵

Aw thank you so much, my friend!! I tried to balance the slower "getting to know you" parts with some of this actiony/dramatic stuff as they slowly grow closer. 🥰💜💜

Also, don't think I forgot about the last two chapters of Polaris. I'm so looking forward to diving into those chapters soon!! 😘

Against the Wind - Part 2

Pairing: Alpha!Dean Winchester x F. Omega!Reader 

Summary: You wake up in a strange alpha’s cabin in the middle of a snowstorm, all with a busted ankle. He holds shadows in his eyes, even though his hands are gentle. There are iron shutters around his heart, even though he saved you. You might just save him in return.

AN: Thank you guys so much for all the amazing feedback on Part 1! Now, most of your theories and questions will be answered...

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: True Mates @jacklesversebingo

Song Inspo: “Against the Wind” by Bob Seger

Word Count: 3.8K

Tags/Warnings: Angst, and peril, the other kind of "hunting."

Series Masterlist || Bingo Masterlist

Part 2: Seems Like Yesterday

“I’ll raise you 25,” you say, tossing five chocolate covered pretzels into the middle pile. It’s a risky bet, considering how much you lost in the last hand. Dean regards you with an amused, if critical eye while he holds his cards.

“Ooh, you’re bluffing,” he says. You pop your brows at him, a subtle smile tugging at your lips.

“You want to test that theory? Put your money where your mouth is,” you challenge.

He tilts his head at you with a raise of his own brows.

“Cheeky omega,” he mutters. His attention returns to his cards as he deliberates on his next move.

You attempt to be nonchalant as you glance down at your cards again. It’s a shitty hand, but he doesn’t need to know that. The alpha’s won the last two hands of Texas Hold ‘Em, but you did win the first one. Though you suspect he let you win.

You want to at least even the score before he resumes his work out in the shed. He spends most of his time there during the day, or making sure the firewood is stocked. It seems like he takes any excuse not to spend too much time in your presence.

More than anything, you want to ask him if he feels what you feel—the same tug in the pit of your stomach every time he’s nearby. You just haven’t found a way to broach that with him.

Hey, I know we just met like two minutes ago, but I think we’re supposed to be together. Do you feel it too?

You nearly roll your eyes at yourself. Yeah, that’ll go over well.

So you have to be content with mornings like this and in the evenings, where he lets you put on one of his records, and you two share dinner together, maybe another round of cards. Or you’ll read a book while lounging on the chaise, and he lays out on the couch, listening to his music with his eyes closed. You like watching him like that, with a relaxed, damn near peaceful set to his face.

Too often he holds that harder, stoic expression, or that divot between his brows that makes you want to soothe two of your fingers there; or better yet, lean in and press your lips—

“It’s your move,” Dean reminds you. He’s finally played his hand, but you were too distracted to hear what he said.

“What’d you do?” you ask, surveying the piles of cards.

“Call,” he repeats, popping a few pretzels into his mouth. He washes it down with beer and more barbeque chips. Those are worth $10 in this little fantasy betting. He points a finger towards you with the same hand that holds his beer, teasing, “You got all the lights on in there? Or am I boring you?”

You glance up at him, fighting a smile. “All right, keep your pants on. Let me see…”

As the dealer, he’s already turned over the River: the last card in the hand. It’s a 10 of Clubs, which means your One Pair is actually a Two Pair. It’s still not a great hand, but it’s decent enough to maybe let you get the best of your opponent.

After you go “all in,” Dean’s lips twitch at a smile, and he humors you, going all in as well. You’re on tenterhooks when he finally reveals his hand.

“Ooh, it ain’t a cheesy ‘90s sitcom, but it’s still…a Full House,” he brags as he lays out each card in a smooth line of overlapping cards, the mix of glossy red diamonds and black spades showing the truth. He won again.

You huff in defeat, your shoulders sinking in your seat at the kitchen table. You turn over your measly hand. Sweeping the winnings toward himself (a mound of chocolate covered pretzels, a stack of barbecue chips, and a handful of Oreos), Dean chuckles and tosses you a wink.

“Ah, don’t beat yourself up, sweetheart. I’ve been hustlin’ poker for a long time. Hell, I’ve been playing this game before I even knew my times tables,” he says as he collects the cards.

“That young?” you reply. “Who taught you?”

“My dad,” he says. “Oh, believe me, I used to get my ass kicked many a’ time, but by the time I turned sixteen, I was hustlin’ grown ass men in skeevy bars out of their daily paycheck.”

“You were hanging out in bars at sixteen?” you ask incredulously. There, Dean seems to realize he’s said too much. He becomes more guarded as he puts away the deck and cleans the crumbs off the table.

“My dad was always working. You could say I didn’t really have a curfew,” he says.

“A latchkey kid, huh?” you reply, hiding the way you’re trying so hard to glean any more hints of truth between his words.

“Heh, yeah.” He gets up from the table and tosses the breakfast dishes in the sink, then travels to the front door to don his jacket and boots.

“All right, I’ll be out back,” he says.

Out back, code for out in the shed. You nod, and in a flash, he’s shutting the door behind him.

You’ve learned another small tidbit about him, one that feels more important than it seems on the surface. And yet, it only elicits more questions you doubt he’ll be willing to answer so easily. He’s more than tight-lipped about his past, only giving vague outlines and general pictures.

Even his stories—like being raised up in a family of traveling mechanics, putting Nair in Sam’s shampoo when he was a kid, or the guy’s serious fear of clowns—feel like they’re missing some key details.

You decide to take up your crutches and head for your room. There you unearth the journal from its hiding place under your pillow. This time, you turn to the very beginning. Before all the jargon about mythology (and an odd footnote about a “Turducken Slammer”), there are actual journal entries. The first one dates back to November 6, 1983. The first line already captures your attention.

I buried my wife today. Even as I write that down, I don’t believe it. Last week we were a normal family…eating dinner, going to Dean’s T-ball game, buying toys for baby Sammy. But in an instant, it all changed… When I try to think back, get it all straight in my head…I feel like I’m going crazy. Like someone ripped both my arms off, plucked my eyes out. I’m wandering around, alone and lost and I can’t do anything.

This is Dean’s father, you realize. The more that you read, with no small amount of dismay, you also realize that this man is writing about his wife, Mary.

Dean’s mom…

He writes about their house burning with all their memories inside, along with Mary. Somehow, he saw her pinned bloody to the ceiling.

Along with these pages is a clipping from a news story:

House Fire Kills Mother of Two

Lawrence, Kansas.

You’re spellbound by it all. You keep reading.

November 13, 1983

…Most of our clothes and photos are ruined, even our safe—the safe with Mary’s old diaries, the boys’ savings bonds, what little jewelry we had…all gone. How could my house, my whole life, go up like that, so fast, so hot? How could my wife just burn up and disappear?

The police don’t believe his story, about how she died before the fire, about what he saw. So he tries to convince himself that what he saw wasn’t real. Still, he can’t find rest, and he worries about his sons’ safety.

December 4, 1983

I haven’t let them out of my sight since the fire. Dean still hardly talks. I try to make small talk, or ask him if he wants to throw the baseball around. Anything to make him feel like a normal kid again. He never budges from my side—or from his brother.

Every morning when I wake up, Dean is inside the crib, arms wrapped around baby Sam. Like he’s trying to protect him from whatever is out there in the night.

Sammy cries a lot, wanting his mom. I don’t know how to stop it, and part of me doesn’t want to. It breaks my heart to think that soon he won’t remember her at all.

You don’t realize you’re crying until a droplet lands on the page. You quickly wipe it away before it becomes a stain, and you dry it all the way with your breath before you move on to the next page, sniffling. Your heart hurts, even as your guilt grows. You know now that you’re really, truly invading Dean’s privacy by reading his father’s words. You just can’t stop yourself from turning the next page.

John becomes convinced that someone, or something, started the fire that destroyed his life and took his wife away from him and his sons. He leaves his job and the remnants of that world behind, to venture deeper into the darker one. But in that darkness, he finds truth.

He visits a psychic, Missouri, who leads him back to his house and senses the echoes of an evil presence—something that shakes her to the core, and John too: the creature that killed his wife.

December 20

…She told me that it was the most powerful, awful thing she’s ever come across.

On January 1, 1984, John makes a New Year’s resolution. He determines to find the answers himself.

A shiver runs down your spine. In John’s words, your heart breaks for Dean, but you also see yourself. You try not to think about why.

You keep flipping through the rest of the journal past January. There are translations of a Latin exorcism, and like you read before, strange drawing of evil looking creatures—as well as what they are, scraps of their history, and how to kill them.

Silver bullet to the heart, can’t withstand iron, salt and burn.

You pause on a certain page, more filled with lore than the rest, and a primitive drawing in the center.

WENDIGO

Cree: Evil that devours.

Wood spirit. Eats live flesh. Lives in forests.

Perfect hunter.

Your breath stills in your lungs as a cold sweat forms across your skin. The more you read, the faster your heart beats.

The crunch of dead leaves. Your father shouting at you to run, and keep running.

The coarse shout of a bear morphs into something other. It’s a sharper, whirring sound like wind howling amidst animalistic clicking, and then bones breaking—your father’s scream cut short. You turn around with your rifle in hand, poised to shoot blindly.

Your stomach churns as bile rises into your throat. You feel sick, and wrong, and you suddenly have the urge to throw the journal against the wall.

“Omega?” calls Dean’s sharp voice. “You okay?”

You jolt badly at the sudden noise. You didn’t hear him reenter the house. He likely caught the scent of your distress. He pushes the door of your room open to find you, but he stops short in the doorway. His surprise quickly morphs into a frown when he notices what you’re holding in your lap.

You gasp, freezing where you sit, but there’s no point in trying to cover up what you’ve done. With an angry purse of his lips, he reaches over and takes the journal from your hands.

“What the hell are you doing with this?” he demands.

“I’m…I’m sorry. I just—” You swallow past the lump in your throat. “I was just curious. I wanted to know more about you. I thought it was…a normal journal.”

“So this is how you go about it, huh? Got everything you wanted, Columbo?” he says, his sarcasm cutting into you. He flips through the journal to make sure all the pages are intact before he tucks the journal under his arm. “Seriously, going into somebody’s stuff? Who the hell raised you?”

At that, you begin to bristle.

“My dad,” you snap back. Though remembering the passages you’ve lived with for the past few hours, you soften with a painful twinge of sympathy in your heart. 

“And it looks like yours raised you to be some kind of…well, what are you, a ghostbuster or something?” you ask.

His jaw locks. “Or something.” 

With an exasperated sigh at his hedging, you swing your legs around the edge of the bed and haul yourself up with your crutches so you can at least match his stance (more or less).

“Dean, please, just talk to me,” you implore, gesturing at the journal tucked under his arm. “The things I read—”

“Are none of your goddamn business!” he growls, making the omega inside you cringe. The alpha’s voice is deep and sharp, and even though he isn’t crowding you, his height and broadness are still intimidating.

“The sooner you heal up, the sooner I can ship you back to where you belong,” he says. “Back to your life, so you can stop sticking your nose into mine.” 

Your mouth actually falls open in shock. His vehement words feel almost as powerful as a physical blow, if to your soul. They make your arms tremble while holding yourself upright on your crutches. Hot tears well up in your eyes, though you try to blink them away. After a moment, you’re able to collect yourself enough to speak.

“I’m sorry for going through your stuff,” you say, in a quiet voice.

You hobble awkwardly past him out of the room. You don’t stop until you reach the front door, where your snow boots are. You manage to get them on by yourself so you can go outside and get some fresh air, not to mention some much needed distance from the alpha’s burning presence. You can still feel him trailing behind you. You hear his heavy boots.

“Where the hell are you going?” he grits out.

You hobble faster.

Dean watches you go out the door without a word in irritation, even though it triggers an alarm deep in his gut every time you leave the safety of the cabin. 

The snow depth has lightened somewhat since the storm, but it’s still not easy to navigate on your crutches. You get some distance from the cabin, mindful not to go too far. You know you’re limited, and you didn’t even take a gun with you.

Finding a solid tree to lean on, you rest there and try in vain to stifle your tears. You know you were wrong for snooping, and he had a right to be mad, but did he really have to be such a freakin’ bear? 

Fucking alphas. I swear.

You thought you were starting to connect with him, but clearly, Dean wants nothing to do with you. He wants you out of his life. 

Does he not feel the same pull you feel to him? Does he really not realize…that he’s meant to be your mate?

You take in a shaky breath through your nose. If he does, apparently he doesn’t care.

Just then, you hear the crunch of snow nearby. Twigs snapping.

Your body stiffens with a terrible memory—of that day in the woods. Your breath comes out in short puffs on the cold air, your eyes wide as you listen closely.

Hearing nothing, you allow yourself to breathe a little easier. You venture a few paces forward and to the right, but you stop shy of how it slopes downward. Some unnamed feeling tells you to look over the edge.

You lean over and cast your gaze down the slope, but all you see is snow and trees down below. With a shaky breath, you lean back and look out to the north again. Plodding along the trail, heading towards you, is a bear.

Oh shit…

You remember Dean mentioning something about a bear passing by his cabin a couple of days before the storm. Looks like he’s back to make his rounds.

His fur is dark; from this distance, you can’t tell if it’s a black bear or a grizzly. It doesn’t make much difference when all you have on your person is a can of bear spray. His gait is massive, unhurried, but he lets out a braying sound when your gaze meets his, as if acknowledging you. He stops there for a moment, assessing. Your body locks up with fear.

The bear groans again, this time sharper. You finally snap out of your reverie and force your body to move slowly backward with your crutches spearing into the snow. The cabin isn’t that far, maybe thirty or forty yards at most. Still, the bear can probably beat you.

Instead of trying to run, you stand your ground and shout at the bear, hoping he’ll back off. Your voice dies in your throat when he rears up on his hind legs, with a loud roar. Trembling, you miss a step and get knocked back into the snow on your ass, your crunches falling out at your sides. You scramble inside your jacket for anything that might help you. 

Bear spray!

You hurry to get the cap off with shaking hands, but before you can even aim, the creature’s heave paws thudding into the ground in front of you—a gunshot rings out and hits the animal in the chest. 

The bear falters, then roars in pain and anger.

Two more shots finally bring it down to an even heavier thud, not far from your feet.

In this moment, these are the things you don’t know about Dean Winchester:

For one, the scent of an omega in distress always calls to an alpha’s protective instincts. But the scent of your abject fear feels like someone tried to rip his lungs out through his stomach.

Second, when he sees you there, your wide, shiny eyes filled with the remnants of panic, yet relief at the sight of him, it takes everything within him not to drop to his knees, grab you by the hair, sink his teeth into your neck and claim you, right there in the snow. Maybe then you’d start listening to him and stop taking your life into your hands.

Instead, his lips purse as he wracks his rifle and slings the strap of it over his shoulder. He stalks toward you and scoops you up, crutches and all. He brings you back to the cabin without a word.

His jaw is once again locked with silence and strain; he doesn’t trust himself to speak until he’s brought you inside and carried you over to the chaise. He sits beside you there and takes an inventory of you with his eyes.

“You okay?” he asks at last.

You manage to meet his gaze and give a little nod.

“Okay. Don’t move,” he says shortly. He gets up and goes to the kitchen, where he grabs a foldable set of knives and a cooler from under the sink.

You watch him in silence, and you realize he’s going back to gut the bear. You didn’t know that he actually hunted out here…well, hunted to eat. He continues to gather items in silence. It gets to a point where you can’t stand it, or his curtness, any longer.

“Thank you,” you say, halting his steps. Dean glances at you over his shoulder, then continues strapping up his supplies. He huffs in response.

“We’re gonna be eatin’ good for a while,” he says without looking at you. 

His attitude both hurts you and aggravates you, so much that you refuse to take it anymore. 

“Look, Dean. I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have butted into your life,” you say. Frustrated tears well up in your eyes. Expelling a sharp sigh, you amend yourself. “I’m sorry for invading your privacy. I’m sorry about what you went through, and I’m…I’m sorry about your mom. I’m sorry for today. I’ll just…stay out of your way, and I’ll leave as soon as I can.”

Dean finally turns your way, but your lips tremble as you turn your face away from him and shut your eyes tightly against the salty burn of tears. Deep inside, his heart withers in his chest. He sighs and drops his supplies on the couch. He walks over with those heavy boots, and he sits on the edge of the chaise beside you. He hesitates for a moment, but eventually, he rests a warm, calloused hand on your arm and earns your tearful gaze. 

“I’m sorry. I, uh…shouldn’t have yelled at you,” he says. 

You sniff, quickly wiping away your embarrassing tears as they come. Your cheeks are hot with it.

“What is it you wanna know? About me,” he asks, surprising you that much more.

 Your mouth parts, but nothing comes out. It takes you some time to think, but the first thing that comes to your mind is…

“Everything in that journal,” you say, licking your dry lips. “Is it real?”

Dean holds your gaze steadily. You know the truth without him having to say it, but he does.

“I was a hunter,” he says. “Those things you read about, I found ‘em. Killed ‘em. It was my job.”

“And now?” you ask, once that large bit of information has time to set into your brain.

His lips tug at a half smile. “Consider me…mostly retired.”

You exhale softly, and you nod. It earns a furrowed look from Dean.

“You don’t seem all that freaked out by this,” he says, with a more scrutinizing gaze on you.

“Should I be?” you say, with an unsteady laugh.

He raises his brows. “In my experience, yeah.”

You chew on the inside of your lip. You don’t know if you should even put into words what you’ve been holding onto for months. Like John, no one believed you. Even your own mother had started to look at you like you needed a shrink.

“Omega?” Dean presses. His green eyes are perceptive as they take in the conflicted look on your face. “There something you wanna tell me?”

You deliberate for a moment longer. Then, you release a sigh and glance down at your hands clenching in your lap.

“A few months ago, I lost my dad,” you begin.

Dean nods. “Yeah, you said—”

“I lost him in these woods,” you say.

That quiets the alpha.

You shake your head, and you find your words as the memories that have been haunting your nights return to you.

“Like I said, we used to go hiking here every year…”

AN: Just so you know, all of the journal entries appear in the official "John's Journal" SPN merch. 😉

Next Time:

Unease prickles down your spine, though you don’t know why.

“Dad?” you whisper-yell, trying not to spook whatever animal might be out there.

A gunshot rings out, along with your dad’s voice in a shout. Your eyes widen in alarm, and you call his name louder, taking off in a run to find him.

You end up rising over a hill you hadn’t crossed before, but you see your dad below; you recognize his bright blue puffer jacket that Mom got him for his birthday. You call his name, and he looks up at you with fear in his eyes.

Not for himself, but for you.

▶️ Keep Reading: Part 3

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@tmb510 @syrma-sensei @artemys-ackles @malindacath @mrsjenniferwinchester

@jc-winchester @charmed-asylum @fromcaintodean @k-slla @jackles010378

@deanbrainrotwritings @urfav-tz @alwaystiredandconfused @mrlonelycat @deans-daydream

@deanwinchestersgirl87 @rachiem4-blog @sweettimelady @leigh70 @aylacavebear

@kmc1989 @siampie @rubyvhs @masked-lost-girl @suckitands33

@winchestergirl2 @a-lil-pr1ncess @winchester-whiskey @spnbabe67 @cheynovak

@megara0224 @yoongi-holland @illicithallways @perpetualabsurdity @deansimpala

@jessjad @impala-dreamer @k4marina @atenea585 @king-of-milf-lovers

@xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @daisychaingirl @star-yawnznn @number1whorehome

@g0ldfishd00dles @10ava01 @sixxteenbullets @tayl0rfanatic @everything-is-all-clear

[rekino2114]

Fem!kaiser and fem!ness with a cold reader

A/n:I've decided that I'm gonna do a blue lock post basically every week (or just when I feel like it) because again it's my current obsession. I wrote this because I am currently freezing to death (when am I not?) And i didn't feel like doing a request (the next bllk posts will probably be requests though) I chose kaiser and ness because i assume it's colder in Germany.

Fem!Michael kaiser

Michelle is naturally used to the cold. She has a higher body temperature and she had nothing no cover herself with when she was a child so she's used to it

She also already knows that you don't do well with the cold. She saw you shiver and freeze a lot during those cold days spent together in the streets of Berlin when you were children who only had each other (I love childhood friends to lovers kaiser and will mostly write for her with that in mind or implied)

But she still definitely teases you for being unable to withstand a bit of cold temperatures. She doesn't actually mind, though, since she thinks you look adorable bundled up in blankets

She doesn't like seeing you uncomfortable, so when she sees the temperature is getting colder and you're shivering, she asks you to cuddle and tells Ness to bring a blanket

You two just cuddle and watch whatever football match is going on, with kaiser constantly complaining about every mistakes the strikers do and saying how you two could do so much better

If there's no match currently going on, you'll just watch the highlight reel of your most recent match while she's constantly complimenting you on every action you did during the game (she expects you to do the same)

She also likes to take long warm baths with you. It's an opportunity to warm up and get even more comfortable together. You don't do much most of the time. Just wash each other and talk about whatever comes to your mind, it's one of the more relaxing and calm things you do in your relationship and it's also perfect to make yourself warm

If you have to play during a cold day or in a cold place kaiser complains to noa about it, while he looks at her like "wtf am I supposed to do about it" but then gives you some gloves specially made for the cold to help you

"Schatz, are you really that bothered by a bit of cold, I thought you'd be used to German weather by now"

"I think you of all people should know how I am with cold temperatures"

"Don't worry I know, should I ask ness to bring a blanket or two?"

"Yeah I'd like that thanks"

"Of course, anything for you, schatz."

Fem!Alexis ness

This girl is literally the definition of would do anything for you. It's genuinely concerning how fast she says yes to anything you ask her

You could literally ask her to help you hide a body, and she'd somehow already have a shovel and know a perfect spot to do it. Your happiness is literally the most important thing in the world to her, and she will do literally anything to make you happy

So the exact moment she saw you shiver even once she already went to grab 3 heated blankets, the softest pillows in all the buildings, and two cups of your favorite hot drink that she somehow made in record time

Cuddling is one of her favorite things to do with you (don't ask her which one is her favorite she genuinely couldn't decide) and the fact that it's cold means that she gets to cuddle with you basically always. Cuddling with Alexis genuinely fells like heaven she's so damn warm and comfortable it's insane. She also can adapt to whatever your cuddling preference is. If you like being the little spoon, then she's an amazing big spoon and the same goes for the opposite. She's at least top 3 best cuddlers in blue lock change my mind

If you have to go anywhere when it's cold she'll offer to go instead because she doesn't want you to get sick or even slightly uncomfortable with the cold. But if you do have to go then she comes with you, tells you to wear warm clothes and holds your hand the entire time both to warm it up and because she loves doing it

If you have to play in the cold then she tries her best to make you comfortable, including bringing hot tea in a thermos so she can give it to you to drink during break time

"Are you alright y/n? Do you need anything else?"

"N-no it's fine lexi, I already have everything I need"

"Are you sure? More tea, maybe? Are the blankets warm enough? Should I put on a movie? Or maybe a match? Do you-"

"Lexi please calm down I'm fine it's not a big deal"

"But you told me you didn't like the cold, I'm just doing anything I can to make you warm and comfortable liebling"

".....I swear every day I fall more in love with you, do you wanna cuddle? I'm sure your love will warm me right up"

"Awww thanks so much y/n, I love you so so so so so so so much, of course I'll cuddle you, the cold has nothing on me, especially if It's for you"

[revelboo]

Hi Revel! Not a request or anything but I just wanted to send in an ask telling you how much I appreciate your works! There’s such variety to choose from and I’m constantly impressed with the storylines that you craft and everything you come up with! I love how much you’ve thought about each character and it really shows in your work. For example, you’ve gone into little bits here and there about how each of your Starscreams’ are different and you are just superb at showing it! (Your take on Armada Starscream is my absolute favorite!!) It’s really inspiring honestly and makes me want to get back into fanfiction again. I can’t tell you how much I look forward to checking your blog each day and seeing what you’ve been up to! Also your blog is so accessible! I cannot imagine all the links you have to put in and kept up with but I’m so grateful for it! Ah, sorry for the rambling but I hope life treats you well. :^] <3

Here’s a silly little photo for you! He is so little <3

Thank you! I’m glad you like my nonsense and go out there and write the things you love! 💕

Bee’s just a tiny bab.

Even If It Kills Me Pt 14

Armada Starscream x Reader

• Head lifting from where you’re idly drawing on his datapad, you go still at the smell of food. Actual, hot food not chips or cookies. And Runway chirps holding up a brown paper bag. Watching the other two try to seize it from him before Starscream huffs through his vents and picks you up to set down on the floor with the mini-cons. “How did you get fast food?” You ask as Runway pushes the bag in your hands and then drapes himself against your back when you sit crosslegged on the floor and open it, the other two creeping closer and openly curious.

• Wings lifting and falling as he retrieves an energon cube for himself and smaller ones for the mini-cons and joins you on the floor, he watches you remove little wrapped packages from the bag. “The mini-cons found it,” he says and you shoot him a look. “A human set it on an outdoor table in the park and Runway snatched it,” he admits with a grimace. You don’t look angry, though as you grab a fistful of little yellow sticks and shove them in your mouth, eyes closing. Watches Sonar and Jetstorm lean over to vent curiously, recoiling when you offer them a bit. “They can’t eat that. Unless you want them purging on you later.”

• “Thank you for taking care of me,” you whisper to the mini-cons and Runway affectionately butts his helm against you before seizing one of the mini energon cubes Starscream is holding out for them. Because you’ve been wanting real food rather than the junk food Star keeps bringing you. Know he’s trying his best, keeps stealing things for you and he’s been working on something lately in a corner of his habsuite, the paneling of the wall and floor pulled up over there. Not sure what he’s up to since he gets flustered when you ask, making you think it has to do with you.

• “I’ve told you that you don’t need to thank me or them for that,” he mutters before taking a deep drink. Aware of you grinning up at him before you turn your attention back on the food, eating much quicker than you normally do to make him feel guilty. Because he’s almost certain he’s doing a terrible job caring for you and you’re just too nice to say anything to him. You seem happier at least with him. When you have your nightmares and he remembers the bruises on your face when he’d found you, the resignation, he thinks about returning to that home he’d found you at. Wanting to find whoever scared you so bad you still can’t shake the fear. Knows he’ll likely never be able to get revenge on his tormentor, but he could remove yours from the face of this world. But if he does and you ever find out, you may not look at him the same way anymore and he can’t risk that. Wants you to keep smiling for him. To be worthy of your trust.

• “I know,” you say, looking up to find him frowning at nothing like he sometimes does. That little show and tell of scars was the most he’s let his guard down and had been enough to understand that he understands you, because he’s suffered at someone else’s hands, too. That he’s been through not exactly the same thing, but something similar enough and he’d not been completely broken by it helps you keep smiling for him. He’s gruff and awkward, but he’s kind. And you want to protect him and that kindness, because it means everything to you.

Previous

[mythronic]

Wayne Family Persona TIME (Pt 1)

Brucie Wayne thinks he did it best? Nuh uh, his kids are a multitude of little shits who like to one up their father.

Richie Gray:

Hot boy supreme, instagram model, verified on all platforms, spoiled little brat. Dick’s persona revolves around posting shirtless pictures of himself on social media and posting about his lifestyle as an Olympic gymnast and 4-time champion medallist, social media heartbreaker and sexyman of Gotham type shii. He posts GRWM’s while gossiping and complaining while posting about brand deals and promoting products online.

Trust me, he’s absolutely been so absolutely flustered and embarrassed posting all those pictures cause man actually does not know what to do with himself. Golden retriever soft boy he is,,,

He makes friends with other models and influencers, (if anyone imagines Young Justice the show instead of the comics, then Garfield Logan) and would later whine about them to Wally, Donna, and Roy.

Dick: “Why do these wannabe makeup influencers think that promoting faulty product is fine as long as they apologise for when they inevitably get caught? Why??”

Wally: “Money?”

Roy: “Attention.”

Dick: “WhYYYY—“

Jayce Todd-Wayne:

Charity boy from crime alley who’s always trying to help. Jason pre-death went with his persona, genuinely putting money into improving the things that genuinely needed to be improved, like the orphanages and foster care system as well as helping work to eliminate as much homelessness as possible by reinforcing and providing camps and shelters that provide the help they need.

Post Ethiopia I imagine Jason doesn’t go to any galas or anything anymore, content with making change as Red Hood and not wanting to feel his anger flare at interacting with privileged and ungrateful millionaires.

No one in Crime Alley believed that Jayce was his actual personality, growing up on the streets in the Narrows or Crime Alley doesn’t exactly foster naïveté like that, but they understand the necessity and appreciate his help.

Jason, to Blue Hood: “Yeah. These are the good places, they can’t always provide shelter, but they’re always up to date on space, food content, all that stuff.”

Tyler: “Ooh, I heard that Jayce Wayne was the one who made that system.”

Jason: “Ug-ac— Ack- Yeah kid.”

Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne:

Business mogul and the genius heir of Wayne Enterprises as its current majority shareholder. Tim went for the fear route. His family choose to stick to the ditzy, air headed natures, Tim went with a cruel ruthlessness that can freeze over hell. Strategic, business savvy, and knows everything about everyone—socialites fear and respect him, and the people appreciate his cold and brutal, but honest and fair method of running the Neon Knights.

Tim in actuality, being a more laidback and sarcastic person, and as Cardinal, the sly, chaotic little brat who makes friends with villains and rogues for fun will never be mistaken for cold hearted Timothy Drake-Wayne.

He’s a messy little shit with a messy relationship history, the media is not surprised when he publicly dates Conner Luthor, the heir of another ruthless businessman. They fear what kind of order these two will create.

Tim: “Bern, Kon, look: ‘Breaking News: Conner Luthor caught in a scandalous kiss with mysterious blonde?’ How do you think we should twist this story, hm?”

Bernard: “Ooh- ooh! You can go to the location and take a picture with you both in that exact position and pose as a selfie, and use that selfie as a claim that the author doctored the picture.”

Kon: “That’ll be fun.”

Cassandra Wayne:

Stuck up rich kid, accomplished Dancer, protective sister. People believe that she and Tim are twins, and therefore, Cass matches his cold energy with an… ‘Entitled sister’ energy. It’s not that hard for her to fake, people at galas were disingenuous and fake, all she needs to do is silently stick her nose up at them and people made their own conclusions. She’s Tim’s other half, and together they would scare the socialites back to their corners.

Although she may be a ‘stuck up brat who mooches off of her little brother’s work, she’s a respected dancer and her media presence doesn’t affect the views on her performances. (Socialite gossip sticks to socialite gossip)

People also have learned never to piss off Cassandra Wayne, especially in the form of insulting or harassing her brothers. You will regret it.

Xanthe: “You punched a politician?”

Cass: “Insulted Tim. I did warn him.”

Xanthe: “How is your persona both so inconvenient and convenient at the same time?”

Cass: *shrug*

[vampmilf]

top 5 Bojan outfits GO!!!

EASY!!!!

5. sleepy boyfriend on the couch fit

4. the "let me play you wonderwall"

3. seize the dick day

2. the "were there no shorter shorts available at the store"

1. wearing nothing but my bedsheets ofc 🫶🏻

okay actually some of my fav outfits in no particular order actually:

this shirt was so good on him and for him, really a peak bojan look if you ask me

another CLASSIC

the fuckingggggg belgrade beerfest shirt......... why wasnt there so much more of it, its so good

lesbian shirt get behind me they dont know how to appreciate you like i do <3333

unironically this. sorry for being a simp but i think he simply looks very hot in a good tracksuit. it has to be said 🫶🏻

many more but thats the pic limit for posting on mobile sorry :((( special thanks to the stephanie dress that really gives him such a nice silhouette + that white knit sweater combo he wore on the see you soon tour in oslo it was so nice as well + the green knit top + that white shirt with the tiny dogs on it that i strangely cant find a pic of but he did wear it half open lots so its a favourite 🫶🏻

[cayleeuhithinknott]

❛ BEGGIN’ ❜

𝒊𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒉…chris loves to make you beg. asshole.

cw: SMUT, unprotected p in v, oral (m receiving), begging, freaky, dumbification, creampie

based on this from like 17 years ago LMAO

you couldn't help but feel a familiar tingle between your thighs as chris’ voice filled the room, his words dripping with that familiar mix of dominance and playful teasing. it was a game you both loved to play—well, chris more than you—but sometimes, his stubbornness could be frustratingly arousing.

“come on, angel," he said, his dark eyes sparkling with mischief. "you know the rules. y’want something, you gotta ask for it."

you pouted, knowing exactly what he was referring to. the bulge in his pants was evident, and you craved every inch of him.

but chris—that mean motherfucker—had a thing for making you beg, and today, he seemed to be in a particularly teasing mood. every time he acted like this, it was like he was just sucking the dignity out of you.

“please, chris," you whined, batting your eyelashes at him. "you know i want it. why do you have to be so mean?"

he chuckled, the sound sending shivers down your spine. chris loved to see you squirm, and your feisty attitude only fueled his desire to tease.

“mean? me? oh, i’m just making sure you learn some manners, pretty. you can't always get what you want by pouting." that’s…such bullshit! chris was, in fact, mean.

frustration and desire battled within you. you wanted to straddle him and take what was rightfully yours, but something about his dominant demeanor always made you hesitate.

chris had a way of making you submit, and you secretly loved the power he held over your body.

"fine," you huffed, crossing your arms. “i want you. happy now?"

chris’ eyes darkened at your bold words, but he maintained his playful facade. "that’s a good start, but i think you can do better. i wanna hear you beg, baby. you know how much i love it.”

unfortunately, you did know how much he loved it. and it drove you absolutely fucking insane.

you felt your cheeks flush, both from anger and arousal. chris was pushing your buttons, and you were determined to show him you could play this game too.

“i—fuck—i need you, chris," you stammered, feeling a little embarrassed but also excited by the vulnerability in your voice. "please, don't tease me anymore. i’m so wet for you." you’d finally given in and dropped any ounce of dignity you ever had to the bottom of the atlantic ocean.

he took a step closer, his tall frame towering over you. "wet, hm? well, that's a start. but i want to hear you say it like you mean it. tell me how bad you want my dick."

is he fucking serious? this man must be insane.

your heart raced as you actually processed his words. chris was demanding, but you craved his touch. you wanted him to know that you were desperate for his hard length inside you.

"...i want your dick, chris," you whispered. “really want it…”

a satisfied smirk played on his lips, and you knew you had finally hit the right note. chris loved to hear you surrender to your desires.

“that’s my good girl," he purred, reaching out to stroke your cheek gently. "but i think we should take this slow. i want to savor every moment."

fuck.

as he spoke, his fingers trailed down your neck, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. you shivered, craving his touch everywhere.

"please, chris," you begged, your voice breaking. “i can’t take it anymore—i need you now."

he chuckled low, his breath hot against you. "impatient, aren't we? but i think i’ll make you wait a little longer. you want something, you use your words, pretty. or maybe i’ll just stop right here and leave you hanging. you wouldn't want that, would you?”

your breath caught in your throat. the thought of him stopping now, after teasing you to the brink of madness, was almost unbearable. you needed release, and chris unfortunately held the key.

“no, please," you pleaded, your voice thick with need. "i’ll do anything. just don't stop. i need you, chris. please fuck me." wow! where the hell did that come from! guess you just really have your sights set…

his eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he took a step back, enjoying the power he held over you. "on your knees, baby, cmon. show me how much you want it."

complying without hesitation, you dropped to your knees, your eyes never leaving his. his strained against his pants, and you couldn't wait to set it free.

“that’s it," he encouraged, his voice husky. "now, tell me again how much you want this." you reached for his belt, your fingers trembling.

“i-i want your cock, chris. so bad—please, i—“

with a swift motion, he unbuckled his belt, and you eagerly pulled down his zipper. his thick, hard length sprang free, and you couldn't resist leaning in to lick his tip.

“oh, fuck," he groaned, his hand tangling in your hair. "that’s it, baby. take what you want, go ahead..shit..”

you wrapped your lips around the head of his cock, swirling your tongue around the sensitive tip. chris hissed, his grip tightening in your hair as you took him deeper, savoring the taste of him.

“fuck, yes," he growled, his hips thrusting gently. "suck it, pretty—c’mon.”

you moaned around his length, the vibrations driving him wild. chris was already close, and you wanted to taste his release, but of course he had other plans.

“enough, baby," he said, pulling you away gently. "i want to feel your pretty pussy—i’ve teased you enough, haven't i?"

oh, he definitely has!

you whimpered, craving his touch between your legs. "yes, please. i need you inside me…”

chris smirked, his eyes full of promise. "oh, i’ll give it to you, baby. but first, i want to hear you beg for it one more time."

seriously.

as he spoke, he trailed his fingers along your inner thighs, making you squirm with anticipation. you were putty in his hands, and the both of you knew it.

“please, chris," you begged, your voice hoarse. "fill me up—i can't take it anymore."

he leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear. "that’s what i like to hear, baby. now, let's see if you can take all of me."

with that, he positioned himself at your entrance, teasingly rubbing the head of his cock against your clit, making you gasp and arch your back.

"please, chris—" you cried out, desperate for him to fill the void he had created. and just as you thought he would deny you again, he thrust forward, stuffing you full in one smooth motion. you cried out, your body adjusting to his size as he stretched you deliciously.

"fuck, you feel so good," he grunted, his hips moving in a slow, torturous rhythm.

he pulled out almost entirely, leaving you gasping, before slamming back into you, hitting all the right spots. you clawed at his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as you tried to pull him closer.

but chris was relentless, his thrusts calculated to drive you wild. he knew exactly how to make you beg, and he wasn't going to let up anytime soon.

“mmph—chris—i—y’so big…so full—mmh!” you pathetically stammered out. chris chuckled darkly. “yeah, baby? fillin’ you up so well, hm? fuck—take this shit so well..•

as he continued to fuck into you, your body trembled on the edge of release, craving the climax he was withholding. you were putty in his hands, and you knew that this time, chris was going to make you work for it.

“pl-please, chris," you whimpered, your voice raw from pleading. "i-i can't! i need to cum—please—“

he smirked, his eyes full of mischief. "not yet, baby. i want to hear you beg some more. tell me how much you need it."

you were beyond words, your body trembling with need. you could hardly think—your mind was foggy, barely any thoughts flowing through. chris was fucking you absolutely stupid. he had pushed you to the brink, and you were desperate for release.

"...i need—ngh—it, chris," you managed to gasp. “fuck—please—so close."

with a growl, he complied, his thrusts becoming more urgent, slamming into you with abandon. you cried out, your body trembling as the pleasure built to an unbearable peak.

"that’s it, baby," he grunted, his breath hot against your neck. "cum for me. let me feel it, cmon.”

and as if his words were the final push you needed, you shattered around him, your orgasm ripping through your body as you cried out his name. “fuckkk, that’s my girl.” chris followed soon after, his release hot and intense as he filled you with his essence.

sure, chris was mean, especially with all this shit he pulled.

but, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

a/n: HI so this kinda sucked but i needed to write one of my annual singular smuts in between all of the fluff and angst ive been doing LMFAO hope you liked it anyway

tags: @sturniolo04 @admeliora94 @alexturnersgooch @strnilolover @snuffbut @frattboychris @marrykisskilled @mqttittude @purpledragon222 @aubsloveschris @slctsblogana @emely9274

dividers: @bernardsbendystraws

[pali-and-proud]

Finale Thoughts

This is a very special thank you to all the Fast Passers. Y'all did amazing, truly, because I actively read anything and everything without any attempt to shield my eyes from spoilers and I still knew nothing. This post is dedicated to you guys.

Alright guys. You know the drill. Get the hot coco and strap in.

Lets start with Deacon:

Deacon acknowledging that Chase is more likely to interact well with Buddy is actually so good to see. It's so nice to see Deacon prioritize Prunella's safety and to be more comfortable with being put in "lesser" positions, like babysitting! (Think back to sick! Chase, and look at how far Deacon's grown)

Deacon and Prunella's talk: Prunella calling out Deacon for always talking about being great instead of just being great. That's so good, genuinely--Prunella shrugging and being self-confident and Deacon finally really hearing it. He needs to just be what he wants.

Deacon's relationship with horses symbolizing his frustrations with his inability to control his life was NOT something I expected and I openly applauded. That's brilliant.

Don't be mistaken: Deacon sacrificed himself. He knew the risks of making the horse play bridge. He watched the horse fall victim to the spread of the pages. The horse was still neighing when it's legs started to turn--Deacon could have yelled, but he didn't, because he was too focused trying to make sure that Chase and Prunella, at least, could escape.

The speech Buddy gave him, which I will reference so many times, about there being a time to be the hero and a time to be the helper, is SO applicable. Deacon "is happy to help." He isn't trying to be the hero, and he isn't trying for glory, and he just wants his cousin and his friend-ish to be safe. And it's specifically when he's not trying to be the hero that he ends up being the hero, by taking control of the reigns and getting Prunella to Chase and risking his life. He follows Bronze and Prunella's advice, and listens to the speech, and listens to himself: He stops asking for permission. He steps up. He becomes the hero.

Cannot wait to see Deacon's reaction when Chase undoubtedly tells him how they escaped. I can't decide if Chase is immediately going to say "Buddy and I kissed" or if he's going to say "I figured out an escape and stop asking questions" but no matter what, Deacon's going to be squinting at his cousin and groaning.

ALSO can't wait to see how this arc impacts his relationship with his parents. Like I'm so excited. A Deacon that's more confident being able to step forward and say "No, I don't want to devote my life to something I'll actively hate. That's ridiculous." might be the end of me ngl, I love him.

Prunella!

Prunella my love

Prunella my LOVE

She has this confidence that we only see falter twice: when she struggles with the other kids, and right now. And in both situations, she didn't know what to do, and she was in over her head, and she reminded us that she's just a KID

Her arc has been the exact opposite of Deacon's, and it's so cool to watch them both experience opposite lessons in the same arc. Deacon learning how to step forward and lead while Prunella learns how to step back and follow.

Prunella hearing, constantly, about how dangerous the books are and finally SEEING the books as dangerous. Prunella finally understanding why Deacon was so strict about the books she could travel in, because most of their worst-case scenarios came true in a single swoop.

Prunella also has not met Buddy yet. She saw him, described him as the mean guy, and then perished. Truly an icon.

I am so convinced that Prunella and Buddy would be friends. Even if it starts rocky, I think they both enjoy humbling the Hollow boys too much to not grow to like the other's presence. I can't believe I have to wait for season 2 to get confirmation of this but I am going to be so smug when I am correct

Chase:

CHASE

CHASE EVERETT HOLLOW i have never in my life ever loved a character like I love Chase. I talk so much about Buddy but that is me being a wing-woman, Chase my love Chase, I love him so much

Fun fact I didn't even like Buddy until the first Cinderella story. I was so convinced I wouldn't like him, but I resigned myself to cheering for Stargoth anyway (I was part of the Canvas/Discover Squad, i had a LOT of hiss hiss Buddy) solely because if Buddy made Chase happy then sure I'll accept it, and now i adore Buddy, Punko is just that good

Every single moment of Chase in this arc stole my attention. every single panel. God I could do a dive longer and deeper than my Buddy analysis but exclusively on Chase during the finale arc. i could do it exclusively on Chase during the finale. I could do it on any singular panel.

Chase being guilty about lying to Buddy alone was heart-wrenching, but Chase literally only got more and more heartbreaking. Him constantly trying to help everyone--the keys, for example, with a resort for them to enjoy--only for things to go wrong--the resort, for example, drowning the book. He just wants to HELP

Buddy was 100% correct in calling out Chase for pinning the blame on Deacon, but what he didn't realize is Chase wasn't trying to do that. Chase truly felt terrible, and he truly wanted to apologize, and him bringing up Deacon was him being honest and factual because he did argue with Deacon about it, but he did end up listening to Deacon. And Buddy gets more frustrated because Chase is misunderstanding the problem--it isn't Chase hiding Prunella, it's Chase refusing to trust Buddy

And when you think about it. Chase absolutely has no reason to. Chase doesn't even know his name WHICH I WILL TALK ABOUT LATER bc kdjfherigh but! In Chase's eyes, yeah why would he. He's literally desperate to have Buddy prove that hes legit and good and kind and Buddy keeps shoving that away (Buddy saving Deacon's life and then pointedly not mentioning that, for example).

It's also the fact that Chase is trying so hard to stay optimistic despite such extreme levels of guilt. It's the fact that he stays clutching to that persona of optimism even after seeing paper! Deacon and Prunella, and it's only when he's staring at a bleeding Buddy that the full situation sinks in

Chase finally breaking. Oh my God you dont know how long I was waiting to see Chase splinter apart. This is a kid trying to do the impossible, and every single time something goes wrong, he feels like it's his fault. The book got destroyed? Buddy got betrayed? Admitting that he doesn't trust Buddy? Getting way less narratonin than Deacon or Prunella? He blames himself for all of it, first and foremost, and it's finally on full display

Chase even trying to send Buddy away? Pushing and pushing because he is so desperate to save someone, anyone, even though that's literally a death sentence for him. And he doesn't hesitate, either--it's practically instinct, even though Chase would never agree to leave if the roles had been reversed.

And like...augh Buddy hugging Chase, and Chase hugging him back? That was painful enough, but you add in Chase admitting that he doesn't want Buddy to leave?

This is not the post for me to point at Chase and accuse him of abandonment issues, but know that I am pointing at Chase and I am accusing him of abandonment issues. I am looking at him feeling hurt that Deacon left him in the Toffee arc, I am looking at him constantly repeating that he's not going anywhere, I am looking at him running to apologize to Buddy after spending so much time bitter about Buddy avoiding him, I am looking at his avoidance of talking about his mom in situations where "My mom is dead and this is important to me" would be really helpful, and I am thinking accusations

But anyway

Chase and his abandonment issues: literally all he wants is for someone to stay, safely and securely. His mom, Deacon, Silver, Buddy, even his dance partner. He's always at risk of losing someone, and he's about to lose everything, and all he can do is admit that he just wants Buddy to stay, because he's scared

Chase you are my sun you are my stars you are my whole solar system I will give you the world

Also, I absolutely knew the repeated comments about Chase being an idiot would get to him. Chase is SMART, guys. He's perceptive. He knows when he messes up, and he tries to look past the mistake and into how to rectify it, but that doesn't mean he isn't aware that he did something wrong. And people (Buddy) kept snapping that he was stupid, or an idiot, or ridiculous, bc Chase would make a mistake (or stick by a decision), and he would NOTICE that people thought it was ridiculous. He just didn't care, because he was either sticking with it, or trying to fix it.

And he DOES. He notices the words in the sky, realizes the solution, figures out the entire thread behind the stories (they want to be enjoyable and they want to have a good ending), and explains it all to Buddy. Chase figured it out, because he's so much smarter than everyone assumes.

Anyway Buddy hugging Chase and telling him he can stay a while longer (this is a scene burned into my heart) (more on that later) and telling him he's not stupid and that he's trying his best is SO important. This might be the first time in the entire story that someone finally sees Chase. Someone finally prioritizing Chase and putting Chase's wellbeing first and telling Chase yeah sure maybe you messed up but you're doing the impossible every single day and you're TRYING.

And for it to be Buddy? Like ignore the romance entirely--if someone who always insults you and is notoriously difficult to please tells you "No, you're not stupid. You're trying your best" while hugging you? thats the most sincere thing in the world. that's tears immediately.

Chase suggesting kissing is also askdjns because (again, ignore the romance part of it)--he always skips the kissing scenes. We know thats because he wanted to save his first kiss, and he's the one who offered. Yeah, okay, sure, it was life or death, but Chase didn't hesitate, and didn't weigh his options, and didn't even consider saying "a kiss on the forehead would probably suffice." guy went straight for "i need the mouth to mouth"

the grin. The bright eyes. the pressing fingers to his lips. He's so happy, so genuinely happy.

I truly, truly, TRULY cannot wait to see what this means for our idiots. I can't wait for someone to try to have a conversation and for someone else to not want a conversation, or for them to be so awkward with each other, or for Deacon to want to skin them both, or for WHATEVER turn this takes. And im SO happy for Chase.

Buddy:

I wrote this whole thing and it just deleted. i am furious

NOX

NOX I LOVE THAT NAME NOX NOX NOX

Punko i cant believe you were worried we wouldnt like it. nox nox nox nox nox i love that

okay first: the two theories for key Nox, as they are rn, are 1) that Nox has always been the villain key, or 2) that Nox was tricked/manipulated/experimented into becoming the villain key.

1) If he'd always been the villain key, it makes sense why he never told Chase his name. Chase would have immediately told Silver and company, who would have had to stare at Chase and ask them if he had a crush on their brother

1) if he'd always been the villain key, his distrust of Chase could be explained by him distrusting all humans. This would follow course with him also being frustrated by Deacon, which yes was partly because of jealousy but also partly because Deacon was a new key holder.

1) ALSO of course he was a nightmare about Chase with the key--he had no reason to believe Chase would treat the keys well. it's also possible that he knew Silver had a crack, and thats why he helped Chase in the first cinderella book--so that Chase could meet Silver.

2) if he BECAME the villain key, it makes sense why he never asked Chase details about his key. Why he never asked about Silver or Bronze, or if they were okay, or how they were settling, despite routinely trying to get details about other factors of Chase's life. He assumes Chase is selfish, true, but he doesn't ever accuse Chase of being cruel with them.

2) if he BECAME the villain key, the line of "Don't you want to be human again" holds a lot of power. Yes, it's possible that the keys were once people and Nox wants to go back to that, but its been CENTURIES.

2) if he was always the villain key, the line of "Don't you want to be human again" would be applicable to all the keys, bc it would assume they were all human once (obligatory Keys are People Too mention, it's an amazing ao3 fic by incomple shoo go read it). Silver, Bronze, AND Goldie never mentioned that, and Punko likely would have foreshadowed it earlier.

2) if he BECAME the villain key, it makes sense why he wasn't included in the dream Silver had! Where she dreamt about her family!

2) if he BECAME the villain key, his constant reference of Silver as "the key" or as "it" also makes sense. Earlier, like episode three or so, he mentions needing to get Silver back before the old man returns. It's Silver specifically, without mentioning trying to track down anyone else.

2) if he BECAME the villain key, his name being objectively different from the other keys makes sense. Silver, Bronze, and Goldie were all named after the metal they were made from! Violet is purple! Yes, Nox means night, and yes, Nox has a moon on his back, but if Goldie isn't called Sunny, then I would argue Nox's name should count as way more subtle than everyone else's.

anyway theres a lot of points on either aspect

I could do into the character growth of Buddy, but I'm actually going to focus on the hug. Not the kiss, even though it's nice to see the fixation on Chase's hair stays strong, but Buddy immediately recognizing a hug is needed and immediately giving him one.

Buddy love language is touch, or something

Chase says "I think we need to kiss" and there's not a single arguement from Nox's lips. He literally stares at the sky, turns slowly, and goes "Not a problem"

actually the whole "I've never been the hero. Not even in my own story" goes so strong when you remember the speech he gave Deacon about needing to act as the hero, the helper, and whatever other role when need be. Nox was given the chance to be the hero, and he took it. "I'd like to be your hero" isn't just a romantic one-liner to preface a kiss--it's Nox genuinely saying that he wants the happy ending that Chase always skips. And Chase, this time, doesn't skip it.

Nox, returning back to his space with Violet, immediately says he doesn't think he can keep doing this. But he wants to be a human, more than ever, which implies that "keep doing this" isn't just travelling into the stories, but doing something additional. Something that, we can infer, is hurting Chase.

i am wrapping this up its snowing outside and i cant feel my fingers, how do you snow people do this

if you read all of this! grab a treat <3 hope you enjoyed and love you all

[hannahssimblr]

Astrid, 

Hope you got my postcard from Phuket, and that the Bangkok one shows up, eventually. Maybe it is actually lost, like maybe I’m doing something wrong at the post office. It’s fine if they all go into the abyss. I am writing just to write, because it feels romantic or whatever. You probably hate the idea of this. I could just text you. I texted you forty-five minutes ago. Still miss you. 

We’re in Phi Phi now. Islands, very beautiful. I bet you already know about them, but I’d never heard about this place before I came here. The landscape is kind of mental, like giants made it. Weird to look at. We went out on a little boat yesterday to see the sights. Jonas jumped off and swam, and I did not. My tattoo is still healing. Stupid fucking thing. I waved over a boat of girls and told them Jonas was saying he fancied them, and then he got annoyed with me, because he wasn’t saying that, and he was embarrassed. I think he should learn to talk to women without wanting to die, and he says I think about women too much, that I’m too invested and I should think about something else. History, philosophy, whatever. Why would I when there are women like you on the earth?

At night, instead of going out and drinking, we go to bed early, in our bunks, him on the top, me below like always, and he tells me all this shit about the Suez canal, or what the Falklands war was all about, since I was stupid enough to ask a follow up question once. Then I fall asleep to escape the boredom. We get up at six and do activities, then. Lots of walking. My body hurts. 

Jonas finally tried those scorpions he was banging on about, and now he’s sick, btw. Food poisoning. I don’t really know how to take care of him, except coming back to the hostel every few hours, making sure he has water. Until he’s better, I guess I’m just wandering around on my own. Luckily, it’s nice to look at. Maybe today I’ll swim with my arm out of the water. Running out of space. Love and miss you can't wait to see you.

xxx Jude. 

I snap open the lid of a bottle of water and carry it into the hostel room. It smells bad there, but I’ve stopped saying it, because it makes Jonas look like he’s about to cry. He’s curled up on his bunk, a complexion like curdled yoghurt, as a chink of morning light spills through the blinds and over his shivering body. Mostly naked. Too hot, then too cold, then sipping water, then throwing it up. I hover in the doorway. 

“I’ve water,” I say, and he just stares. Resigned, half-dead, maybe. “Should you go to hospital or something, do you think?”

“No, I feel slightly better.”

“Oh, okay. Do you want the water, or?”

“Yes. Bring it to me.”

I approach him like a leper, not sure why, as I’m fully aware he’s not contagious, but it’s been ten days since I’ve thrown up, and I’d like to maintain my healthy aura. He regards me with bleary eyes as I back away. “It is good you are an artist and not a nurse.”

“Yeah, I don’t know. I’m not so good with illness.”

“Even though you are always ill.” A tentative sip from the bottle. “You went out this morning?”

“To the post office.”

“Another postcard to Astrid.”

“Yes.”

I can tell he wants to laugh but lacks strength, managing only a feeble wheeze. “Is she missing you as much as you are missing her?”

“No, I don’t think so. She’s much better at distance.”

“She’s an independent person.”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me what she is doing today.”

“It’s Wednesday, so probably going to reformer pilates. Then she’s supposed to meet a friend from university for lunch. After that, I don’t know. Something spontaneous and thrilling, probably.”

“And you?”

“What about me?”

He manages a watery smile. “You’ll be doing nothing again today? Missing her?”

“I was thinking I might wade into the sea, actually. Keep walking out until I disappear, wailing after Astrid like the pathetic little freak I am.”

“It’s Wednesday?”

“Yes, Wednesday.”

“I signed up for something today.”

“Well, I don’t think you’ll be going, by the cut of you.”

“No,” giving up on the water for now, he rolls onto his back, watching insects congregate around the plastic light fixture. “You could go in my place. It’s a… meditation thing.”

I pull a face. “Meditation? That thing where you sit cross-legged and go like ‘om’?” I demonstrate, but feel bad for making him laugh. Apparently a bit painful for him. 

“Yes,” he says. “Kind of. You might find value in it.”

“Is that the kind of guy you think I am? With like, dirty feet and harem pants?”

“Since I am the one who signed up, is it the kind of person you think I am?”

“Not far off.”

“Well, meditation has many benefits. It’s not just for the dirty-feet-squad. It’s good for people who suffer with various mental health concerns, and people who have racing thoughts they cannot stop and such things. Maybe it will inspire you to stop thinking about women’s breasts.”

I scoff. “Why would I do a thing like that?”

“So you can think of more productive things that will inform you, and grow your mind rather than rotting it away.”

“Like the Falklands war, for instance.”

“Yes, like the Falklands war,” he says, suddenly animated. “Thank you for saying that. Or the targeting of Libyan migrant workers on suspicion of being mercenaries by—”

I take a brisk and decisive step out of the room. “Well! Glad you’re feeling better, Jonas. See you later. Keep drinking that water, et cetera.” I swing the door shut and amble away, down the hostel hallway and back to the beach, rearing for another day of nothing, bored senseless by the edge of a lonely ocean.

Beginning // Prev // Next

[adhdo5]

An incomplete list of things LXC daydreamed about while holed up somewhere hiding from the Wen in occupied Yunmeng with nothing better to do and it's the most unstable and terrifying experience of his life but at least his rescuer is life-changingly hot

Kissing Meng Yao under the moonlight. Obviously

Calling him a-Yao. Also obviously

Showing Meng Yao around a fine and normal Cloud Recesses

Someone from the Cloud Recesses showing up and LXC introducing them to his wonderful rescuer

Nie Mingjue showing up and LXC introducing him to his wonderful rescuer

Mentally replaying the time Meng Yao held his hand for 37 full seconds and the expression MY was wearing about being allowed to

Meng Yao holding his hand forever maybe?

Meng Yao's lips have been a bit dry with the cold lately and he licked them the other day and LXC has been thinking since about what would happen if he'd been like Hhey can I t;ake care o fthat for yuo

"Meng-gongzi, I... I've never been at someone's mercy like this before..." "Don't worry. I'll be gentle ^_^"

Meng Yao's beautiful dazzling mind means he manages to get some vital information abt the Wen troop movements and this wins them the war and he's legitimized and it's awesome and some idiot says MY would be nothing without LXC's vouch and LXC goes You have it the wrong way around... I would be nothing without him 💗 and then the entire bus claps and cheers for MY yayyyy ☺️

Hearing out Meng Yao's miseries and reassuring him and holding him gently. Meng Yao of course tries to bear it alone and with grace but Lan Xichen is honored to hear out Meng Yao's woes and be of any sort of help he can... 🥺

"Ah... you've... found a conveniently remote and/or insulated space that one could theoretically play a musical instrument in without alerting unwanted attention...? Would Meng-gongzi mind terribly if Xichen played a song for him....? :looks at you with my sopping wet romantic eyes:..."

Seeing Meng Yao's wrists

Seeing Meng Yao's collarbones

Seeing Meng Yao's... well... let's just say...

"[coughs weakly] Please, Meng-gongzi... it isn't your fault... it's only by your kindness I survived as long as I did... Meng-gongzi, the qiankun bags in my effects are the remains of the Cloud Recesses library... you must return them to Gusu when it is safe... tell my didi... tell Wangji I believe in him and I'm sorry..."

Actually saying something abt the Cloud Recesses and how fucked up scared he is right now and having Meng Yao actually comfort him. Which is of course the most shameful daydream of all.

"Meng-gongzi, with such news of the Cloud Recesses... I... I'm afraid I have nothing to repay your kindness with... whatever shall I do... all I can offer you to settle my debt is..... my body.........."

Just straight up unvarnished contextless sex. It's been a minute and he is tired and miserable and scared and horny they can't all have plots

[op-dumpstertruck]

Ahh I sent that before I was done!!! Do you also have a timeline of events? I love that you jump around but it is a little confusing >~<

Oh yeah, I know, oopsie! Since I had that question a few times I'll try to give you a timeline under the cut, but I'm really not a writer:

Sanji leaves Germa as a kid, deeply insecure about being an omega. Sora tried to hide it first, but when it came out Judge was furious. It adds an extra layer of disdain he has for Sanji in this AU; but it was also the only thing that increased his value somehow, in Judges eyes. I think even as young as he was, Sanji did realise that whatever the plans were Judge might have had for him, they were.. not good at all. Omegas don't really exist on Germa, but if they do, they are seen, not heard. Even as a kid Sanji heard some really degrading, overtly sexist comments from his brothers. When he ran away, Sanji learned to hide that part of himself.

Zeff definitely knows, but he's the only one that does. Sanji is a extremly skittish kid when it comes to that, that alone has cost Zeff years of his life (he worries all the time, but they also never talk properly). Worldbuilding wise, I think male omegas are very, very rare. In the context of how the cooks talk to each other, Sanji definitely has heard a lot of very crude jokes about himself.

As old habits die hard, Sanji didn't tell the crew when he joined. With scent suppressants he easily seems like a beta - and even if they run out here and there (which he desperately tries to avoid) with all the smoking he does you can barely smell him anyway.

Zoro and Sanji happened. Neither of them expected that.

Zoro knows Sanji is an omega, probably even long before they got together, I'm not completely sure yet. He's the first one to know and is the only one that does for a long time - Kureha didn't tell Chopper on Drum Island, but he'll eventually be the next one to know.

Sanji gets pregnant (to his own horror) and has to deal with that. Because they are actually functioning quite well at this point as a couple (who would have thought) Sanji tells Zoro as soon as he suspects what's up. They find out together, but don't immediately tell the crew, since they are unsure how to proceed.

thriller bark happens and Sanji looses his mind in the aftermath for a hot minute. (he'll eventually tell the crew in the aftermath.)

close to sabody and marineford (or parallel to it) Sanji gets kidnapped. Omegas are often sold into slavery there, so the crew is on the wrong track for quite a while. As other things are happening simultaneously, and plot happens, the strawhats are sweeped up in chaos. (I might come back to those details later)

the world is made to believe that Sanji died. It is Judges doing, but the timeline plays into his hands: it fits the narrative of the navy retaliating and punishing the strawhats for both what happened at Enies-Lobby and marineford perfectly. Since the strawhats don't know about Sanjis family, they fall for it.

Kuina is born in Germas prison. Sanji does everything he can to convince Judge to keep her alive. He knows Judge has plans for him and threatens to kill himself, should Judge do anything to her. She continues to be the bargain chip through the next few years, to make Sanji to comply to do things. They don't even need to threaten Zeff here.

Sanji gets married off. It's not a happy marriage, but of big political interest for Judge. (This time, there is no one to stop the wedding.)

Kid two and three are born (I don't know their names yet).

It takes them nearly nine years, but Reiju and Sanji get Kuina out and send her on a journey to find the crew. Sanji doesn't see her for more than a year, before the strawhats are back and all hell breaks loose.

[acourtofthought]

I get so annoyed when I see people compare elucien situation to real life scenarios. Especially when they say, omg I can’t count how many times I didn’t want a man, and people would say he is so nice just give him a chance. 

I always look at them like their crazy because firstly this is not real life it’s fiction 👀👀  and secondly even if it was, the situations are so vastly different .

Lucien did not just see Elain randomly on the street, become obsessed, develop a crush on her and randomly start coming every solstice with gifts even if he knew she wasn’t interested. That’s so out of character for the Lucien we know especially because he lost the Love of his life in such a brutal way. So he won’t even bother if a female supposedly didn’t have interest in him.

Elain is legit his MATE. Which changes everything. And considering what we have read in this books about mating bonds, trust me Lucien is actually doing a lot better than most of the males. Rhys legit breaks Ferye’s hand just to get her to spend time with him, and he probably didn’t know this then, but I have a strong feeling the mating bond was urging him to get her close to him and that was his only resort.

We don’t even give Lucien the actual flowers he deserves for trying everytime to hide his longing looks from her, not once but every single time. Longing that he can’t even control mind you. Cassain legit followed Nesta around with longing looks even after she told him to leave her alone. It’s very obvious this mating bond causes the men to feel things they can’t control. Lucien has so little agency in the scenario it’s hurts to think about. Elain even has more agency than him and that’s legit because of him. Because he gives her all the agency. The ball is in her court.

Also, I always think about how when we enter his head we see that wanting Elain is now ingrained in  his natural instinct. Do you know how hard that must be to fight???

The way people act like he can just be like yh sure she doesn’t seem interested so bye is so stupid to me.

So please forgive me for saying that I want Elain to give the male who she is bonded with for life, and who can go crazy if she rejects him a chance. That makes me so misogynistic.

Either they are really confused on how romance books work or they are being willfully ignorant all because that particular argument suits their ship so they're holding onto it like a life raft.

Lucien is not "the real life guy who just won't take the hint".

Lucien is a fictional, HOT character, one who many people in Prythian have wanted physically, one who many characters have commented on how good looking he is, how well dressed he is, how he knows how to fight, how he's loyal, how he's smart etc., one who is one of the authors favorite and who we know she always intended to end up with an Archeron sister.

The "nice guy who won't take a hint" is literally just a nice guy who doesn't have the thirst trap energy that Sarah has written Lucien as having "Autumn Court males have fire in their broad and they fuck like it too" "Sculpted chest, hard muscles of his shoulders, broad hands".

The authors intent with Lucien has been spelled out for us early on, and it's never been "nice guy energy." This is a future High Lord we're talking about who commanded Cassian with a single word before he even has his full powers. And the author's (emphasis on who wrote these books and characters since it seems to be something E/riels forget) opinion of Lucien and Elain was told to us in interviews:

Sarah J Mass: "That reminds me! Lucien and Elain would go to London and tour through the gardens before making their way out to the countryside. They are pretty much happy to be out in nature the most."

Sarah, unprompted to speak of Elucien, provided her headcanon for where Lucien and Elain would vacation together. Why would Sarah EVER say something like that if she knew Elain would only look at Lucien as the guy who couldn't take a hint? Wouldn't it be a little odd for her to imagine them spending a vacation together if she planned on making Elain truly uncomfortable with him? For gods sakes, E/riels can't even handle the fandom shipping Elain with anyone but Az but here you have the author herself playing out a happy little scenario with Elain and her mate yet somehow we're misogynistic?

The author also made Lucien 120% respectful of Elain's need for space right now. The "real life guy that can't take a hint" would be forcing his way into her orbit (cough cough Rhys and Cassian, cough cough) and forcing her to hang out all the time.

It's wild how much E/riels punish Lucien for a bond that took him by surprise, a bond that he's only tried to be respectful of since it snapped. "But Elain this and Elain that!". I'm going to stop things right there because it's not just Elain's bond, it's their bond and if the past has proven anything to us Sarah doesn't just care about her female main characters. She's on record as saying Rhys was a gift to her, that she'd take Rhys with her to a private island, that Rhys is great no matter what Nesta thinks of him. So when they try to act like this is all about the FMC, they're lying to themselves because Sarah fangirls hard over her MMCs too and she's not going to care only about what Elain wants when she's clearly been building up for Lucien and his HEA ever since book 1. And let's not forget that she already told us Elain took her by surprise by being the one for Lucien so clearly what Elain wants in the end will be her mate.

I have read hundreds of romance books at this point and nobody is set up the way Sarah set Lucien up only for him to end up as "the nice guy who won't take a hint".

And even if she had, since these are FICTIONAL books and not anything we'd experience in real life what with winged men, immortal lives, every single fae male being hot and tall and beautiful and well built (even the old ones and villains) then I think it's safe to say they don't have to worry about Elain suffering any real consequences from someone who "isn't taking the hint". (Weird how they never bother mentioning how that was the canon scenario with Az when it came to Mor yet they treat Az like he's a poor wittle baby who just wants love). Literally nothing is happening to Elain when Lucien comes around at Rhys and Feyre's request. He's polite, does not push her to interact with him yet he still buys her beautiful gifts that he doesn't even show frustration over when she barely thanks him. He doesn't push and provoke her the way Cassian did Nesta, he doesn't force her into spending time with him the way Rhys did to Feyre. He doesn't punch her in the face the way Rowan did to Aelin and he doesn't call her a spoiled party girl the way Hunt did with Bryce. Lucien is the least problematic of all Sarah's MMCs so it's actually really funny how hard they try and drag him.

As you pointed out above, these two characters share a mating bond so yeah, it's kind of an obvious thing to ship them no matter where things are currently at in their arc? As I said above, the author of this series imagined them happy which means she clearly envisioned them overcoming their current obstacles. I can't imagine this is the first book some have read where the FMC "ignores" the MMC and in many of those books the characters end up ridiculously in love. I'm reading a book right now where the FMC initially found the MMC stuffy looking with "muddy brown eyes", where she first lusted after one of his friends who was incredibly built. But halfway through and suddenly the Adonis wasn't doing it for her anymore while the stuffy guy was turning her on and she realized that up close his eyes were hazel, full of greens and golds alongside the brown.

This line:

So please forgive me for saying that I want Elain to give the male who she is bonded with for life, and who can go crazy if she rejects him a chance. That makes me so misogynistic.

Exactly. Elain / Lucien and Az / Gwyn are a HEA for everyone. Elain, while always feeling a tug to Lucien but ending up with Az while Az continues feeling a spark in his chest for Gwyn and where Lucien ends up suffering the effects of rejected bond sounds like the worst romance imaginable. Sarah clearly wants all her characters to have the most incredible love story possible and when she's already told the readers that is a well matched mating bond, then why would she have anyone settle for less?

[tsandoll]

yep, the rules page works now😊

ok so i just had the thought of being in like a stage of the relationship with jaehyun where you haven't been intimate yet(like making out sure but nothing more) and maybe you have your first sleepover. jaehyun doesn't want to pressure you into doing anything but his thoughts are running wild.

he can control himself quite well but when it is time to actually sleep he really struggles to because you are laying next to him. you in your skimpy pyjamas. you sleeping peacefully unaware of the mental battle he's currently fighting against his dirty thoughts.

through sheer willpower he manages to fall asleep but stirs awake because of a wet dream about you. before he even knows what he's doing still half asleep he's rutting his hips into you.

his eyes go wide because he doesn't want you to wake up and notice his raging boner but it just feels too good so he continues humping your leg praying that you won't wake up. it feels so good but he also feels so guilty that at some point tears start pouring down his face. he feels so horrible for doing something so dirty but he can't bring himself to stop. he's just trying(and miserably failing) to keep his whines and whimpers quiet. unbeknownst to him you already woke up when he started humping your leg like a puppy in heat and are getting turned on by his desperate little sounds. you don't want to stop him because he sounds so so close and so so hot.

when he finally cums in his pants he lets out a quiet sob "i'm sorry" and wants to get up to get changed but before he can do it you press your body closer to his. softly you moan his name while grinding your hips onto his. jaehyun is in absolute shock, because he was so lost in his own pleasure he didn't realize you were awake, much less enjoying this, while you straddle him, leaning closer to whisper into his ear "thought i wouldn't hear you, did you?" your words are accompanied by teasingly slow ruts of your hips down, jaehyun already being hard again. "you sounded so pretty, so desperate humping my leg, my pretty puppy" jaehyun now is rutting his own his hips upwards involuntarily. "why don't you show me how desperate my little puppy really is?"

it's going to be a long night for you and jaehyun. his dream from earlier certainly can't compare.

💙

he'd be in such a dizzy mindstate and his head is so foggy. he's not woken up enough at all, all he'd know is his body is hot and there's a throbbing in his pants. he'd recall his dream, remembering all that happened and it would only make the feeling between his legs hurting even more. his problem solving skills would kick him and he'd instantly try to take care of it <3. you were already laying super close to him, he was cuddling you previously so he'd instantly rut against the nearest thing which was you!! he'd let himself get lost in the feeling, it would take him a bit to even realize all the noises he was making. he'd even lift his shirt a little, trying to get his body to stop burning.. he'd look so pathetic like this. gosh this thought is so good..

it's making me think of how he would absolutely lose it if you let him use u to get himself off. if you laid on your back and spread your legs, leaving your pants or underwear on so he could rut against the fabric of his clothes ughhh. he'd be fully naked, exposed to you as he desperately ruts against you. he'd hold onto your legs, squeezing at your skin as he pants and whines desperately 😖

[mariacallous]

After the presidential election, many fashion and lifestyle influencers began to come out of the closet as conservatives. Some, like tradwife TikTok darling Nara Smith, were predictable, while others were less so. But what was clear was that MAGA culture, and the fashion and aesthetics associated with it, were becoming increasingly mainstream.

Inauguration weekend, with its mix of parties and formal events, brought together the who’s who of right-wing players. Observing the proceedings was Derek Guy, known online as @dieworkwear—a longtime menswear enthusiast and writer who has came to prominence as an influencer on X for his hot and unnervingly well-informed takes on the sartorial choices of everyone from Donald Trump to Andrew Tate, and what they might be telling us about this political moment.

WIRED spoke with Guy after the inauguration ceremony to get his takes on MAGA fashion, what it says about who the party is for, and what the richest men alive are wearing these days.

This interview has been edited for clarity and length.

WIRED: First, give us the reviews of the inauguration suits and ties. What are we looking at here? These are some of the richest men in the world, but I’m not sure they really look like it.

Derek Guy: You can break up the inauguration almost by age. The older someone is, the more likely they are at least avoiding the worst of what we're seeing. And the younger someone is, the more likely they are wearing something that looks cheap, because tailoring as a craft has mostly died in this country. Many people shop ready-to-wear. And when you're very wealthy, you are probably just buying a luxury-level off-the-rack suit. And just because something is made with fine materials doesn't necessarily mean it fits. So you have a market system that makes it difficult to find a good suit.

If you're younger, like Mark Zuckerberg's age, you're more likely to kind of fall into this short-jacket silhouette that you think looks modern and hip but frankly looks really dated and makes you actually look more middle-aged, like someone who learned how to dress in the early 2000s.

Vivek [Ramaswamy], for example, wears really shrunken suits. Jeff Bezos often wears pretty good tailoring, but today wore a very short jacket which did not look very good on him. He looked surprisingly bad today, given how he looks in tailored clothing other times.

Elon Musk, I'm pretty sure he wears a Tom Ford suit because that's five buttons on the cuffs. I thought it looked pretty good on him, but he looked bad at the rally last night. He was wearing a short overcoat with grey jeans and it didn’t flatter him very well. The outfit didn’t make much sense.

Zuckerberg, his suits are neither fantastic nor horrible. Tim Cook and Sundar Pichai, they are still clearly nerds who don’t care about clothes.

But, you know, for example, JD Vance has a custom tailor. He has a 90-year-old Italian tailor in Ohio. That guy is not following fashion trends.

Why do the rank and file MAGA enthusiasts favor such slim-fit suits when Trump himself often wears things that are quite baggy?

What you're seeing is young conservatives will often wear very shrunken suits because they care more about the tailored aesthetic. Ironically, you actually look better if you're the kind of young Democrat who doesn't care about aesthetics at all. So then you wear a sloppy suit. You still look bad, but you essentially avoid the shrunken look. The MAGA aesthetic will change over time as conservatives change their tastes naturally. But I mean, just to be frank about it, many conservatives are often behind on fashion trends.

We are at this moment where the large part of the market has shifted away from the shrunken look of the early 2000s. But if you're kind of behind on fashion trends, you still think that looks good.

Are you seeing changes to the hallmarks of the MAGA aesthetic, particularly as we're seeing it merge a bit with the quiet luxury vibe that became very popular online?

MAGA is a very populist aesthetic, so it's intentionally vulgar and thumbing its nose at WASP morality and aesthetics, even though within the Republican Party there is still that kind of celebration of bourgeois 1950s aesthetics.

I often like to contrast it. When Ronald Reagan and George Bush were first inaugurated in 1980, the Republican Party commissioned custom blazer buttons commemorating their inauguration, and they gave them out for free to attendees at the various events surrounding the inauguration. So if you attended Reagan's inauguration in 1980, you would have gotten a brass button commemorating the inauguration, made by Ben Silver in Charleston, South Carolina. It was presumed that people who attended Reagan's inauguration would have a navy tailored jacket. And if you put brass buttons on a navy jacket then that jacket becomes a blazer. It was presumed that not only would young Republicans have a navy jacket, but that they would want to wear a blazer with a button commemorating Reagan's victory.

The merchandise surrounding Trump's movement is gold sneakers and Never Surrender T-shirts and, of course, the red MAGA hat.

To me, this demonstrates the schism between the classic Republican—which is the Brooks Brothers, free trade, globalist, Reaganite Republican—and the new Republican, which is populist. They pay reverence to Reagan, but they don't share his politics.

The aesthetic is very much not the classic WASP aesthetic, which used to be the Republican aesthetic. Trump's own aesthetic comes from the 1980s—the “greed is good” of Wall Street boom times. He wears very padded shoulders and a power tie. He used to wear a banker collar, but no longer. And that's very different from the demure look of Brooks Brothers WASP. MAGA is a very aggressive, populist “fuck you” to the establishment aesthetic.

When you think about the MAGA aesthetic are there particular brands or influencers who come to mind for you?

It's all very campaign merch and the most mainstream item is just the MAGA hat. It still seems very much like campaign merch. I don't think there's anyone else that sets the tone except for Trump. There are certain people that embody that look very well. Forgiato Blow, he has that kind of very loud aesthetic. There was a moment where Viper sunglasses were very popular, which was, I think, driven by Baked Alaska. So there are microtrends in that universe. But it’s really Trump—whatever he releases next, people will wear.

Do you think that sort of classic American look—the Ralph Lauren, the Oxford shirt—is that going to be sort of the purview of MAGA forever or do you see that changing?

I don't think the classic American aesthetic is strictly MAGA, though. I think a Brooks Brothers look is like the ABC of menswear; that's like a very classic American tailored look. In the postwar period, right after the end of the Second World War, there was a culture clash between establishment lifestyle–the man in a grey flannel suit, who works in a corporate job and has a conventional kind of nuclear family and white picket fence house—and the counterculture. That was this kind of liberal side of the political spectrum. They wore workwear and chambray shirts, hippie gear, motorcycle jackets. That all became counterculture.

But if you go back further than that, everyone wore tailored clothing, from criminals to CEOs to liberals and Republicans. Ralph Lauren could not have built his empire if button-down shirts and penny loafers were exclusively conservative attire.

I think it's interesting that the current status of Republican politics is trying to unite the Brooks Brothers aesthetic with the gold sneakers. Do you see them coming together?

I think that's the weird dichotomy at the moment, because the MAGA movement and Republicans in general have always been kind of looking back towards some idea of America. Even though not every man wore a suit in the 1950s, the suit has historically been associated with the kind of bourgeois lifestyle. And a lot of conservatism in general is about upholding bourgeois lifestyles, morality, identity, politics and so forth.

There is now a populist section of the Republican Party that's not about Reaganism or Bush. It's very about Trump. And its aesthetic is very different from what William Buckley would have worn. William Buckley would not have worn gold sneakers.

I think they are distinct and contradictory, but people can hold contradictory ideas in their head. We are in an age where politics is very tribal. And so long as it fits the narrative of our tribe, then I think it's coherent for that group. For Republicans, I think those two very contradictory aesthetics are just now within the party.

The men of tech are new to the MAGA crowd, but many people have noted a significant change in their looks, particularly Mark Zuckerberg’s. Can you talk about what they’re trying to signal and to whom?

I heard from through the grapevine within my industry that [Elon Musk] used to have a stylist. I don’t think he has a stylist anymore. Mark Zuckerberg denies having a stylist, but I don’t believe him. He is certainly going through a style transformation in the last year and three months, I would say. Jeff Bezos most obviously has a stylist. I don't think what they're doing has anything to do with politics. I think Jeff Bezos went through a style makeover after his divorce. And I suspect Mark Zuckerberg just got tired of dressing like a college student. Elon has clearly given up on his stylist and doesn’t dress very well.

[Zuckerberg] dresses more like an MMA guy. He is wearing the boxy tees and the gold chain. But he looks like someone who updated his look to be trendier. There are a lot of guys wearing that kind of silhouette and gold chain and I don’t know that that says anything about their politics.

We saw a lot of the sort of “spaghetti Western” vibe happening. What’s your take on that?

As a fashion trend, the Western look really leans more liberal, right now, because it’s popular in big cities. Conservatives now dress like metrosexuals in the early 2000s and liberals dress like Bush-era conservatives. Conservatives are in slim-tight suits or slim-fit suits and then liberals are like Carhartt double-knees, Western shirts, cowboy boots. There is some of this inherently on the right because it's a Midwestern look.

But Elon Musk does wear cowboy boots pretty frequently, as does Jeff Bezos.