#is there a tag for someone just being the worst

[neellscapsule]

a resounding heart attack

summary | there are three romance rules you have to follow: don't date coworkers, don't fall in love with flirty people, and never show how whipped you actually are. clark fails the three of them.

pairing | clark kent x wayne!female!reader

warnings / tags | pure fluff with a bit of suggestive stuff (language & actions), but nothing actually happening except lingerie photos that reader does not send but they are from a production :D. reader is a menace but gotham loves her ??? she's actually so cheeky so flirty so everything (just one chance pls). clark is blushing mess especially when it comes to her. mentions to a sad childhood because reader it's literally a wayne ?????

word count | 4.9k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first language so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :)

i've written this with david!clark on my mind but you can picture him hoverer you want. i also believe in battinson agenda for this specific version of clark :D

THERE ARE LITTLE THINGS IN THE WORLD THAT CAN AFFECT CLARK KENT.

All the types of Kryptonite disturb him in different ways. Red sun weakens him, dulling his strength and senses until he almost forgets what it feels like to be invulnerable. Magic does a number on him too, inexplicable and chaotic, like trying to hold onto smoke with bare hands. Other aliens with tech far beyond Earth’s understanding have hurt him, too. Kara once punched his arm and left it all purple — it healed fast, but it still hurt.  

There are, indeed, little things that can affect him. 

But you? 

You are at the top of that list.

He does not remember his heart beating that fast, almost inhumanly, on the edge of being impossible. Does not remember his cheeks ever being so red, his clumsiness bordering on being considered the dumbest man on Earth. Once he dropped his entire mug of coffee on his slacks just because you called him “Smallville” with that mischievous little smirk. 

Jimmy, Lois and practically everyone just laugh at him, his quirks, but he can't help it.

He can't help how much you affect him. Can't help how much he likes you. 

In his defense, there's no way he was able to not like you. Not only because he —and at least half the population— thinks you are hot. You are hot. Very much. He’s not going to lie to himself about that. The kind of beautiful that doesn’t feel like it was made for the front page of a magazine, but the kind that stuns you mid-sentence because of how effortless it is. You laugh too loudly sometimes, you talk with your hands, and you make eye contact like it’s a dare.

But it’s more than that.

You’re smart. Sharp as broken glass. Your writing is electric, biting in the way that Gothamites tend to be—your byline alone has caused five resignations, two public apologies, and one lawsuit (which the Daily Planet won). Not even Perry crosses you, that must count for something. You flirt with everyone, but with him, it’s different. You save your cheekiest lines, your softest smirks, your most infuriating whispers for him—as if you know how easily he folds.

The worst thing is not that you work together. No. Clark has a complete and long list about the worst —best— part of working with you.

In the first place, is that you share the same space with him. Your desks are pressed together, both of you facing one another, screens lit up, voices low as you trade edits, ideas, and insults. Your heel taps his shoe sometimes—grazing more than stepping. He’s convinced you don’t even notice it, that it’s just a habit, something subconscious.

From his seat, he sees you clearly. Memorizes your expressions like a song stuck on repeat. The way your eyes narrow when something doesn’t sit right. The sharp inhale before you pounce on a lead. You scrunch your nose when someone makes a poor argument, like it physically pains you to hear idiocy. You press your tongue briefly between your lips when you're deep in thought, which he pretends not to see but always does. You smile—oh, when you smile—it hits like sunlight through lead glass. Blinding. Honest. Beautiful.

The two of you share a corkboard pinned to the wall. His side is sparse—some clippings, a "Mighty Crabjoys" movie poster, and a coffee-stained sheet of work hours he never took down. But yours? Yours is filled to the brim, despite not being much space.

A series of colorful letters that spell your name, doodles, a Gotham National University pennant, and a printed photo of a night out with everyone —Lois, Jimmy, Steve, Cat, you, and himself included.

He hears the click of your heels before anyone else does.

It’s the kind of sound that parts his thoughts in two, makes them flutter like loose pages in a breeze. Sharp, rhythmic, deliberate. You don’t walk through the bullpen—you arrive. And every step pulls the air taut around him like fishing line. 

He doesn’t need to look up to know it’s you. His entire body already knows. His hearing adjusts itself before he can think better of it—your heartbeat, lighter than most, steady and confident, like it owns time. Like it’s never once skipped or stalled the way his just did.

You turn the corner and he’s already looking, caught in the act—he knows you catch him. You always do.

You enter the Daily Planet like you own it, and in some subtle way, you do. Not because of your name. You don’t need money or threats to command a room. You have something worse. Charisma. Ease. Danger. Power in a smile that knows it has claws and doesn’t care to hide them.

Your skirt is black and short—unreasonably so. Illegal in several states, maybe. Certainly illegal in Clark’s heart, because it just stopped beating. Your white stockings gleam slightly under the lights, spotless and smooth and devastating. You’ve tucked your ironed shirt into your waistline like some kind of cruel, beautiful war crime. Gold glints from your ears, your wrist, the edge of your collar. Not fake gold, not plated. Real. Heavy. Old money.

You wear your wealth the same way you wear your grin—like a challenge.

You look over, the corner of your mouth curling, and say, just for him, “Good morning, Smallville.”

Smallville.

He could snap the pen in his hand if he weren’t careful. You say it so softly. So wickedly. Like you know. Like you know that he’s already halfway undone and you’re just playing with the bow.

Clark already had your coffee in his hand—he'd been holding it since 7:43 AM, exactly three minutes after he arrived. Two sugars, no cream. Lid slightly ajar because you said it kept the flavor from suffocating. He didn’t really understand what that meant, but he listened. He always listened.

He handed it to you with trembling fingers.

“Good morning,” he says, trying not to clear his throat.

You sit down, smooth the back of your skirt behind you with grace and muscle memory, and lean to the side, setting your bag against the leg of your desk. Your voice is light as you bring your phone to your ear again. He doesn’t mean to listen. But he hears everything. He always does.

“Alfred,” you say warmly. “Yes, I got here. No, no traffic, thank god. Yes, I remembered my meeting with Lucius over the computer. No, I’m not eating fast food for lunch. No— No, I will not talk to Bruce unless he sends Dickie over for the weekend. I already told him that.”

Clark’s cheeks heat just listening to you talk. Not because of what you’re saying. But because of how you sound when you say it. Comfortable. Confident. Unfiltered. Even the way you say Alfred is affectionate and biting at the same time. Gotham to your core.

“Alright, Alfie. Gotta go. No, I’m not drinking too much caffeine. That’s a lie and you know it. Bye.”

You hang up and turn your attention to the rest of the room, sweeping your gaze around the bullpen like a queen taking inventory of her court.

“What’d I miss?” you ask, reaching for your coffee.

Lois, across from you, didn’t look up from her monitor. “You missed Jimmy flirting with Marcie from legal. Again.”

Jimmy Olsen, from the far side of the square of desks, turned his chair with all the mock indignation of someone deeply unashamed. “I wasn’t flirting. I was complimenting her boots.”

“You told her she had the stride of an Amazon warrior,” Lois deadpanned.

“Well, she does!” Jimmy said, throwing up his hands. “That’s empowering. I’m being supportive.”

You sipped your coffee, giving Clark a wink over the rim. “You’re one scandal away from a harassment workshop, Olsen.”

“Pffft. I’ve dated half the women on this floor.”

“Exactly.”

Lois snorted, and Clark tried very hard not to laugh. He tried even harder not to stare.

It was pointless.

You leaned back in your chair, arching slightly as you stretched—your blouse pulling just enough to make Clark look away before he went blind from the effort it took not to look. You tapped your pen against your lower lip as you glanced at the whiteboard across the bullpen.

“I see no one’s updated the lead stories,” you said casually. “So we’re still pretending the mayor’s brother being caught in a LexCorp-funded apartment with two unlicensed bounty hunters isn’t news?”

Perry White’s voice roared from his glass office. “I’m waiting on confirmation before we blast that one, Wayne!”

“Oh, sorry,” you replied, not even looking at him. “I forgot the Planet’s new slogan: ‘Cowards First.’”

Clark coughed to cover his laugh, and Lois shook her head, grinning.

“Do you wake up and choose violence or is it just muscle memory at this point?” Lois asked, not even hiding the fondness in her tone.

“Neither,” you said, rolling your chair closer to the below edge of the desk. Your knees brushed his. He stopped breathing. “I wake up and check if Gotham’s still a hellhole. Then I make myself look nice for Smallville here.”

You smiled at him, devilish. Clark’s mouth opened and closed like a dying fish.

Jimmy leaned over the desk, pointing between the two of you. “This,” he said, “this is why I never bother flirting with you. I don’t like losing.”

“Oh, lover boy,” you purred. “No one even asked you to compete.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “And I never will again. Lesson learned.”

Lois chuckled, returning to her screen. “Good. Maybe now you’ll actually write your piece on the sewage reform bill.”

Jimmy groaned. “Please. Why do I always get the sexy stuff?”

Clark finally found his voice. “Because last time you covered a robbery, you took a selfie with the suspect.”

“He was holding the stolen merchandise!” Jimmy argued. “What was I supposed to do—ignore the story?”

You shook your head with a dramatic sigh. “You’re the reason Perry has a ‘No Selfies at Crime Scenes’ memo pinned to the break room door.”

Clark smiles, ducking his head toward his screen, pretending to reread a paragraph he’s already proofed twice. But your heel taps his shoe under the desk—lightly, casually—and the impact goes straight to his ribcage.

You sip your coffee and sigh happily. “Mm. You got the vanilla right this time.”

“I, uh—yeah,” Clark says. “I remembered.”

“Of course you did.” You grin, crossing one leg over the other. “You always do.”

He forces his eyes to his monitor. His vision is fine, of course. Superfine. He could read microscopic text if he wanted. Right now, though, even large font blurs when you look at him like that.

Lois finally glances up and gives you a once-over. “Did you steal that skirt from a teenager?”

You make a scandalized noise. “Lois Lane. Jealousy is unbecoming.”

“I’m just worried HR is gonna pass out in the hallway.”

“Please. HR loves me. They send me memes.”

Jimmy leans over the divider. “Is it true you threatened that CEO with a bottle of wine?”

You tilt your head thoughtfully. “Technically, I described what a bottle of wine could do in the hands of a woman from Gotham. The threat was implied.”

Lois huffed. “God, you two are unbearable before ten.”

You wink. “We’re unbearable after ten, too. Just more caffeinated.”

A comfortable hum settles into the bullpen after that. Everyone returns to work—Lois muttering to herself, Jimmy editing photos, the low murmur of keyboards and printer hums filling the space. Clark focuses on his article, or at least pretends to. The screen glows back at him, a half-finished headline blinking expectantly. He tries again.

From his seat, he can see you—your expression flickering through a dozen small emotions as you scroll through your inbox, narrowing your eyes, muttering curses at editors, grinning when Jimmy shows you a ridiculous photo of a dog wearing sunglasses. He watches you like a man stranded in the desert watches a thundercloud. With reverence. With thirst.

It’s stupid, probably. This crush. This...thing.

But then again, everything about you is a little bit dangerous. A little bit impossible.

And still—he wants it. Wants you. Wants this part of his life that feels so close to normal, even if it isn’t.

Because you don’t know.

You don’t know who he is. What he is. You flirt with him like he’s just a man. You smile at him like he’s not carrying the weight of ten thousand secrets on his spine. And when your heel brushes his shoe again, just lightly, he lets himself smile back.

Just a little.

Just enough to make it through the rest of the day.

Moving to Metropolis had been a choice . . . unexpected to everyone close to you. Well, you didn't have many close people back on Gotham that weren't your brother, Alfred, and Dick. And Dick was your nephew, so that must say something. 

Growing up as orphans took its toll on you and your brother, but each of you took different paths. While Bruce trained in his youth to become Gotham's vigilante—the glorious Dark Knight—adopting Dick while on it, you had become more of a celebrity, always the center of attention. 

When you came of age, you became a model —while studying multiple careers: you were fascinated with the aspect of having many degrees since you could remember— and it wasn't until you moved to Metropolis several years later that you abandoned your career altogether.

It wasn't that you didn't enjoy it. You really enjoyed being a model. Especially when the shoot wasn't shared—the modeling world was very competitive, and quite exhausting, too.

But it wasn't enough.

You went to therapy for many years. Your brother hadn't been able to be convinced, but Alfred had insisted so much that you had no way of refusing. And it was in one of your last sessions that your psychologist had mentioned something about a new lease on life.

Perhaps she didn't mean exactly moving to another city, but you took it like that.

Gotham had been your cradle and your crypt. It raised you, starved you, scarred you. It made you what you are. But it also stole a piece of you when it took your parents. You were only eight, and you still remember the scream your brother made—guttural, inhuman—as he held your tiny shoulders and covered your eyes. He’d been just a kid, too.

You loved Bruce, deeply. You respected what he became. But the way he chose to fight back… it wasn’t your way.

You had to find your own.

That's how you ended up in Metropolis, with an excellent letter of recommendation (or rather, a favor) that led you right to where you are now. You lived well, combining the money from your last name with your salary, in a safe area, on the top floor of a tall building.

Metropolis differed vastly from Gotham. While Gotham rarely saw a ray of sunlight, Metropolis seemed flooded with it. There weren't as many villains as in your hometown either, but the ones that did exist were either pure aliens or completely enhanced. Meta-humans, they called them.

And here they didn't have a vigilante. They had a hero.

Superman.

Your brother doesn't especially likes him. Doesn't hate him either way. He just wants you safe, and if Superman is there to protect all of Metropolis, then he must be there to protect you as well. 

You don't worry much about it. If it's about burglars, you have a gun, a taser and a pepper spray so powerful that you could be arrested in at least five countries. If it's about aliens . . . well, you had a good life.

Lunch breaks at the Daily Planet were a coin toss. Sometimes, you barely got a fifteen-minute window to scarf down a protein bar between deadlines and chaos. Other times, like today, you managed to sneak out with Lois Lane—two of the sharpest tongues in the city wrapped in designer sunglasses and sarcasm, tucked into a booth in a tiny diner four blocks from the office.

You liked this place. A hole-in-the-wall with cracking linoleum and a grumpy waitress who called everyone “sweetheart” and meant it in a way that could also mean “dumbass.” The coffee was terrible, but the fries? Perfect. Greasy, salty, served on cracked white plates with tiny cups of spicy ketchup. You and Lois had claimed the corner booth months ago, and no one had dared to sit there since.

You pulled your sunglasses off your head, tossing them onto the table as you sank into the squeaky vinyl seat.

“I swear to god,” you muttered, unbuttoning the top of your blouse to breathe, “if Perry gives me one more rewrite on that Luthor piece, I’m going to throw myself out a window.”

Lois smirked over the rim of her iced tea. “He only pushes you because your drafts are so clean. You know he likes to feel like he’s doing something.”

“Yeah? Next time he wants to feel productive, he can scrub the bathrooms.” You stabbed a fry. “He’s lucky I don’t invoice him for every time he makes me put a period after LexCorp instead of Lexcorp.”

Lois’s laugh was soft, knowing, the kind that made her seem lighter than she ever let herself be at work. “You need a vacation.”

“I need a raise.”

“You’re already rich.”

You shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want Perry’s money too. I’m a capitalist pig. I want your money while we’re at it.”

Lois chuckled again, shaking her head. “Gotham.”

“Damn right.”

It was easy, this. Effortless. You’d always gotten along well with women—grew up around men who didn’t talk about their feelings and a brother who bottled everything up until it cracked through his ribs—but Lois? Lois was like steel wrapped in velvet. Smart, intense, loyal to a fault. You liked her immediately. She reminded you of a fox—sharp, beautiful, and always watching.

You weren’t sure when you’d become best friends. It had just… happened. Shared assignments turned into late-night editing sessions, which turned into wine-fueled gossip nights, which eventually became something deeper. It felt good to have someone like her. 

She didn’t care that you were a Wayne. She didn’t care about Gotham. You were just you to her. You hadn’t had that in years.

“So,” Lois said, her voice carrying that sharp edge she got when she was gearing up to dissect something, “are we gonna talk about it or do I have to drag it out of you?”

You blinked at her. “Talk about what?”

She gave you a look. The Lois Lane look. The one that could strip paint from a wall and force you to confess crimes you hadn’t even committed.

“Oh no,” you said, pointing a fry at her like a weapon. “I am not talking about it.”

“You are absolutely talking about it,” she countered. “Because you’ve been mooning over him like a teenage girl with a crush on her math teacher, and I’m this close to staging an intervention.”

Your entire body went hot, like she’d just shouted the truth to the whole diner. “Lois—”

“Don’t Lois me,” she said firmly. “You are painfully, pathetically, devastatingly whipped for Clark Kent, and it’s embarrassing for both of us at this point.”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “I am not whipped.”

“You’re whipped,” she said again, sipping her tea with infuriating calm. “You’re so whipped you buy your outfits based on how you think he’ll react. I saw you this morning. That skirt? That was a weapon of mass destruction.”

You peeked through your fingers at her. “Okay, first of all, I looked amazing. And second of all…” You hesitated, then sighed. “Yeah, maybe I wanted him to notice.”

Lois leaned forward, smug. “And did he?”

You hated that she was making you say it out loud. “He… looked at me.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes!” you hissed. “Lois, it’s Clark. He looks at everyone like they hung the moon. That man probably blushes at Perry when he’s in a good mood.”

Lois laughed so hard she nearly choked on her tea. “Okay, first, I wish I could un-hear that mental image. Second, you’re wrong. Clark doesn’t look at me like that. Or Jimmy. Or anyone. He looks at you like that.”

You snorted, leaning back against the booth. “He’s just… nervous. He’s nervous around everyone. That’s his thing. He’s like a giant golden retriever with anxiety.”

Lois leveled you with another one of her patented, withering stares. “You’re an idiot.”

“Thank you,” you said sweetly. “I work hard at it.”

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Y/N. He likes you. He’s just shy. Painfully shy. The man can barely string a sentence together when you’re around.”

Your heart gave an unhelpful little flutter, and you immediately tried to squash it. “Or he’s just… shy in general.”

“No,” Lois said flatly. “Trust me, I’ve known him for years. He’s quiet, but he’s not shy. He’s the kind of guy who’s comfortable letting everyone else take the spotlight. Except with you. You short-circuit him.”

You stared at her, trying to will yourself not to hope. Hope was dangerous. Hope led to heartbreak. And you’d had enough of that to last a lifetime. “You really think he likes me?”

Lois smirked. “I know he likes you. You could cut the tension between you two with a butter knife. Honestly, it’s nauseating.”

You bit your lip, fiddling with your straw. “He’s just… I don’t know. He’s Clark. He’s kind, and sweet, and ridiculously good-looking, and—”

“And you’re crazy about him,” Lois supplied.

“Shut up.”

“You are,” she said, grinning like the devil. “You’re so gone for him it’s painful.”

You shoved a fry in your mouth to avoid answering, chewing furiously. But she wasn’t wrong. Clark Kent had somehow managed to completely undo you. Which was ridiculous, because you’d grown up surrounded by some of the most intimidating, impressive men on the planet. Bruce. Alfred. Hell, you had met the most attractive men on Earth while being a model…

Clark Kent made your heart beat like you were sixteen again.

“He’s so fucking cute.”

“You’re pathetic.”

“Violently.” You popped another fry into your mouth. “Do you think he knows? Like, knows?”

Lois blinked at you over her straw. “Are you serious?”

“I mean… I flirt with him a lot.”

“You practically sit on his desk and purr.”

“He never flirts back.”

Lois put her drink down with a thunk. “Y/N. He stutters when you look at him. He spilled an entire latte on his lap last week because you called him Smallville.”

You tilted your head, considering. “Okay, but—he’s like that with everyone, isn’t he?”

“No. He’s not. He’s awkward, sure, but with you? It’s different. What I'm saying is that Clark Kent is terminally down bad for you. And has been since you showed up at the Planet for the first time in Prada heels and a war crime of a pencil skirt.”

You smiled, teeth flashing. “So you noticed that skirt.”

“Everyone noticed that skirt. Including HR.”

“Still not my shortest.”

Lois rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible. And half the office thinks you’re already dating.”

You blinked. “They do?”

“Of course they do,” she said. “You two sit practically on top of each other all day. You bring him coffee, he brings you bagels, you touch his leg under the desk, he turns the color of a tomato… it’s a whole thing.”

You buried your face in your hands again, frustrated with yourself. “I’m going to die.”

Lois grinned wickedly. “Or you’re going to kiss him. Your choice.”

The walk back to the Daily Planet is slow, heavy with the weight of too many fries and just enough gossip to give the next hour of productivity a fighting chance. You and Lois move together the way you always do—shoulder to shoulder, stride for stride, two women used to commanding space and rarely apologizing for it.

Lois is telling you about a source she has in the Mayor’s office—a guy who apparently sweats like a faucet when asked about Luthor’s latest construction contracts.

“You should see him,” she says, half-laughing as you both round the corner. “One mention of ‘independent oversight’ and the man’s upper lip turns into Niagara Falls.”

You snort, adjusting your sunglasses on top of your head. “I’ll go with you next time. I’ve been told I have a very disarming presence.”

“Oh, you disarm alright,” Lois mutters, pushing open the lobby doors. “Mostly by blowing people’s equilibrium to hell.”

“Why thank you,” you grin. “I do my best.”

You ride the elevator up with the kind of easy silence only best friends share. Lois doesn’t press, not anymore. She’s said her piece about Clark—twice—and now she’s letting the cards fall where they may. Which is good. Because your heart is still somewhere back in that booth, fluttering like a moth caught in a lampshade.

The bullpen is quieter now, the post-lunch lull settling in. Phones ring, keys clack, and the occasional shout from Perry’s office cuts through like a cleaver. Jimmy’s at his desk, editing something with his headphones on. Lois splits off with a “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” and you answer with “That’s a very short list,” earning a wink and a wave as she disappears.

You move through the bullpen with purpose—heels tapping soft but steady—and you’re halfway to your desk when something catches your eye. Or rather, someone.

Clark.

He’s exactly where you left him: sitting ramrod straight, tie slightly loosened now, glasses perched just so, brow furrowed in concentration. From behind, he looks painfully composed. Too composed. The kind of composed that only comes from total panic.

And the screen in front of him?

Well.

That’s your face.

Your body.

A high-resolution photo splashed across his monitor, larger than life. You in pale green lingerie, draped across a white velvet couch, lips parted, hair tousled, gaze direct. The photo is a couple years old, but unmistakably you. From a Gotham editorial that never ran publicly, just teased in hush-hush corners of the internet and fashion magazines. A private, exclusive shoot—back when you still occasionally let stylists talk you into anything.

It wasn’t obscene, not exactly, but it was… suggestive.

Clark Kent is staring at it like it might explode.

You stop walking.

Then, slowly, carefully, like a predator who’s just spotted something delicious, you change course. You drift behind his desk with feigned nonchalance, the lazy curl of a smirk already blooming on your lips. He hasn’t noticed yet. He’s too focused. You almost feel bad.

Almost.

You lean in close. Not too close—just enough. Close enough to breathe the same air. Close enough that he can feel the softness of your blouse graze the back of his shoulder. You rest your chin on the slope between his collar and the thick fabric of his suit jacket. He froze, every muscle going tight as though you’d just hit him with a Taser.

Your voice is warm honey when you speak.

“Well, well. I didn’t know I had a fan club.”

Clark jerks like he’s been electrocuted.

“Y-Y/N—!” His voice pitches up. He fumbles for the keyboard like it might save him, slamming a key—probably Escape, poor thing—but it only zooms the photo in further. Right on your midriff.

You raise an eyebrow, still resting your chin on him like you belong there. “Nice monitor, Smallville. That screen quality’s amazing. Did the Planet get new tech or are you just… investing in some private research?”

“I—No, I didn’t—This isn’t—” he’s turning bright red, hands practically slamming at the keys now in pure panic. The image disappears with a blur of motion, but the damage is done. The shade of him. Scarlet all the way up to his ears. You swear even the back of his neck is blushing. 

You grin, slow and wicked.

“Relax,” you murmur near his ear. “It’s not like I’m offended. I’d say I’m flattered.”

Clark makes a sound that’s somewhere between a cough and a strangled gasp.

You step around his chair, finally moving to stand in front of him. Not that it helps. You’re still too close—just standing, slightly leaning into the wood. And you’re looking at him now. Really looking. Fingers resting lazily on the edge of his desk, eyes soft but unreadable.

“That’s an old photo,” you said conversationally, eyes flicking toward the screen. “At least two years, maybe three. I’m impressed you dug it up.”

He made a strangled noise. “I—I wasn’t—”

“Oh, sure,” you interrupted again, smirking. “You just… accidentally stumbled across me in lingerie on a random Tuesday afternoon. Happens all the time.”

“Y/N,” he said, his voice rough with mortification. “I can explain—”

You tilt your head.

“But between you and me,” you say, voice low, “there are… better views than that photo.”

Clark blinks rapidly, shoulders so stiff they could crack. “Better—?”

You let the silence stretch, letting him squirm just a little longer. Watching him. Watching how hard he tries not to look at your mouth. Your legs. Anywhere but your eyes. He fails, beautifully.

You smile—real slow, like it knows too much.

“I mean,” you shrug, feigning innocence, “if you want an updated photoshoot, all you have to do is ask. I’m very cooperative when properly motivated.”

The sound that escaped him wasn’t even a word. More like a faint, startled noise from the back of his throat.

You straightened up at last, letting him breathe, and smoothed your skirt with a practiced flick of your fingers. “Anyway,” you said breezily, as though you hadn’t just completely destroyed him in front of his own computer. “I should get back to work.”

Clark turned slowly in his chair, wide-eyed and still visibly reeling, his tie slightly askew. “Y/N, I—”

You held up a hand, cutting him off. “No need to explain, Smallville. Really. Just… try not to get distracted, hmm? Perry would hate for you to miss a deadline because you were staring at my legs on a screen.”

You gave him one last, devastating smile before gliding toward your desk, heels clicking softly on the floor. Behind you, you could feel his gaze follow you like a physical thing, hot and helpless and utterly, wonderfully Clark.

Yeah, maybe Lois was right.

[cherrysinner]

PAIRING: adult nerd!rafe x adult pervert!reader

SYNOPSIS: your stay at tannyhill doesn't start off well, yet somehow it ends up with you being sarah's bridesmaid.

TAGS: flashbacks. fluff. angst. rafe's pov. wc: 2.5k

SONG: favourite person - peach prc

THE ART OF REDISCOVERY

the worst thing about first loves is that you don't really realize they're just going to be your first love, and nothing more. most people think they're going to end up with their first love, whether it's their sandbox love, high school sweetheart, or even someone who never really reciprocated their feelings. but more often than not, it ends up not lasting. most of the time it isn't even because the love was no longer there. it can be that you just grew apart and feel like different people now, it can be extenuating circumstances, or it can be that you feel like you are thousands of miles apart, whether that's literally or figuratively.

as you laid in the guest bedroom of your first love's childhood home, with him only soundly sleeping a few rooms away, you could still remember how you both thought the same thing about yourselves. you'd thought you were the exception, instead of the rule.

you knew you and rafe were going to take different paths in life, but you'd hoped you'd get to walk them side by side. but life sometimes had a way of throwing curveballs at you.

rafe stared up at the same ceiling he'd spent all his teenage years staring up at, but none of his teenage thoughts had been nearly as grueling as the thoughts currently bouncing around in his mind. the last time he had been in this house was with you when you'd met his family, and now you were both back here again.

yet it was nothing like back then.

"fuck, i'm gonna miss you so bad, you have no idea." you mumbled through tears, sniffling as you hid your face in the side of rafe's neck. rafe let out a teary laugh, stroking your head as he pressed his eyes closed, "trust me, i know."

you pulled back, stroking his cheek, the boy's glasses slightly fogged up from tears. "i love you so much. promise me that we're gonna talk every day, and that if anyone tries to hit on you you're just gonna look them up and down and go 'eugh'."

"i promise." rafe said, and he meant it. he leaned down, capturing your lips with his, the grip on your waist tightening, pulling you into his chest as your lips moved together for the last time for a long time, both of you trying to convey just how much you didn't want it to be happening.

you pulled away, pressing your forehead against his, "i promise i'll love you forever." rafe whispered, and hearing those words broke your heart all over again.

"i should go." you pulled away with a sniffle, rafe reluctantly letting go with a sad nod. "call me when you get there." "as long as you'll do the same."

and when you turned and walked to your car, you couldn't bare to look back, knowing that if you did, you might not ever be able to resist turning back and running to him.

so you got into your car, and drove away. and as when rafe's figure started getting smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror, you had to resist turning back and running back to him.

but you could make long distance work. if anyone could make it work, it would be you and rafe, you smiled tearily, clutching the locket around your neck with one of your hands.

you walked into the makeup trailer with cat-eye-shaped sunglasses covering your eyes, giving everyone in the trailer a wan smile as you went to your usual makeup artist, the blue-haired woman smiling brightly at you, "hey gi- oh."

the makeup artist's sentence was interrupted by you taking your sunglasses off, the woman taking a look at your red-rimmed eyes and the eyebags decorating them. "rough night, huh?"

"you could say that." you said with a humorless chuckle as you sat yourself down on the chair, "don't worry, i'll make you look like you actually got some sleep." she said as she started to gather up stuff, looking through the makeup on the desk in front of you.

"so, you wanna talk about it?" clarissa asked as she was applying undereye patches under your eyes. you pursed your lips, swallowing as if swallowing down the words you were about to say would make them not a reality. "break up."

the blue-haired woman's brows raised, "what, you mean with mr. 'we're gonna be together forever'?" "that's the one." you tutted your lips, "what happened? do i need to call up some guys?"

you let out a soft chuckle, "no, it wasn't like that... it was for both our sakes. he's busy with his studies, i'm busy shooting, then i'm gonna be busy promoting, and then shooting something else..." you sighed, "maintaining a relationship where you can't physically touch someone while doing that all just felt too much, you know?"

"i'm sorry," clarissa pursed her lips, "but some things just aren't meant to last forever. but having a relationship that was as good as yours and lasted for as long as it did is rare. and it ending doesn't mean it failed, it just... ran its course." you nodded at her words, "but, you definitely need some cheering up. i'm taking you out tonight." "clar-" "no buts." "wasn't gonna say but." you grinned, "i was gonna ask if i can bring my roommate."

when clarissa turned away, you looked at yourself in the mirror and took in a deep breath, "i'm going to be okay." you whispered to yourself, putting on a calm smile, "i'm going to be fine."

you walked into the kitchen when the sun was already up, still clad in your pajamas and rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, taking advantage of finally having two weeks off from waking up at four in the morning, only to find that rafe was already fully dressed, perched up on one of the stools, reading a newspaper with an apple in his hand.

this rafe looked much different from the rafe you remembered. he had built up a bit more muscle, and unlike when he'd push his hair back with gel, he'd let it be, even having a slight stubble. he wore different spectacles, silver-rims changing to a darker color, a more mature shape. his skin—

you were startled by the sudden tsk of his lips, the man not even looking up from his newspaper at you as the words, "are you gonna get something to eat or just stare at me the entire day?" left his lips in a cold tone. you cleared your throat, avoiding looking at rafe as you felt your cheeks warm up.

"so, any exciting plans?" you asked with a cheery tone as you made your way to the coffee machine, "are you gonna see some old friends?" "stop trying to make small talk. we both know it's awkward." rafe rose from his stool, letting it scrape against the marble floor, looking at you for the first time that day, "congrats on the nomination." he said, but there was no joy in his tone of voice.

before you could respond, though, he'd let the core of the apple hit the bottom of the trash can with a metallic clang! and walked out of the kitchen. when you looked to the newspaper on the counter and saw even a sliver of your name, you scoffed, the newspaper joining the apple core in the trash can. you leaned back against the counter, bringing the cup of coffee to your lips.

this rafe didn't only look different than your rafe. this rafe acted different.

the moment you and rielle got back to your apartment from the night club, the girl was already putting music on all over again, already digging through the liquor cabinet.

"do you mind if i use your bedroom to call rafe?" you asked with a pleading grin, "go ahead. but if you two start having phone sex over there, just know that i'll be listening." "good, i'm into that." you laughed, pulling the bedroom door closed.

you plopped down onto her bed, searching for rafe's contact until you finally found it, hearing your roommate pop a bottle open in the other room. after a few rings, rafe answered with a groggy voice, "mmmhello?" he mumbled.

"guess what, guess what, guess what!" "tell me..." "i got it!!" you cheered. "got what?" you laughed at your boyfriend's sleepiness, "the part. the netflix show i've been telling you about? i got it." "mmm, that's good, baby..." "rafe, i'm gonna play the main character! on a netflix show! this is huge for me!" "'m sorry..." rafe cleared his throat, "i was up late 'n i just got to sleep. i am really happy for you, though. so proud of my girl. can't wait to watch it."

"shit, i forgot that it's almost five am there..." you groaned, "come on, celebratory shots!" echoed from the living room. you let out a sigh, "i'm sorry for waking you up." "it's okay. i always love hearing your voice." you chuckle softly, "go have fun with rielle. not too much fun though, no slumber party kissing." "we were thirteen!" you laughed softly, "i love you and i miss you." "i love you and i miss you too."

you hung up the phone and went into the living room, "you're getting your own showwww!" rielle whooped, holding up a bottle of tequila. you rushed to her, "to me getting my own show." you grinned, the two of you clinking your shot glasses together before tapping them on the table and throwing them back.

you were lounging by the pool in one of your bikinis, sunglasses covering your eyes, your speakers playing music at a low volume next to you, your mind feeling empty, your body feeling calm, for the first time in as long as you could remember.

until you heard the back door glass door slide open with a frustrated sarah rushing out, "no, jb, you don't understand! her not being able to make it ruins this whole thing!" she cried. you slid your sunglasses down your nose as you looked over to them with furrowed brows, "come on, it's just one bridesmaid! you've still got kie!" "no, but i have her dress, i have her bouquet, neither of those will be refunded, and even worse, we're gonna have to pick a whole new entrance song! the one i picked only works if my maid of honor and two bridesmaids walk before me! not just the maid of honor and one bridesmaid! it doesn't work! "

"sarah, i'm sorry, but annie couldn't really predict this." john b sighed, "we'll just find a new song, baby. i'm sorry." the man pulled his fiancée close, pressing a kiss on top of her head.

you wrapped a bathrobe around you before you got up off the sun lounger, heading towards the couple, "is... everything alright?" you asked, your brows furrowed as you looked between them. sarah sniffled, pulling slightly away from john b's grasp, sniffling, "yeah, sarah's just bummed because one of her bridesmaids called and said she couldn't make it." "and now we're gonna have to figure out a whole new entrance song, and probably use the bridesmaid's dress as kindling." sarah wiped at her eye with a sad chuckle.

you pursed your lips in thought before speaking, "i don't wanna cross any boundaries, and you can say no, but... if you need a bridesmaid, i could be one...?"

sarah's eyes seemed to brighten at your suggestion, "really? you'd do that for me?" "i mean, i've never been a bridesmaid, so i wouldn't know what to do, but if you-"

before you could finish your sentence, sarah had pulled you into a bone-crushing hug."thank you, thank you, thank you so much!" she exclaimed as she pulled away, "thank you, really. you're a lifesaver." "of course." "shit," sarah looked down at her apple watch, "you need to get to a fitting to make sure the bridesmaids dress will be ready before the wedding!"

"it's two weeks away, though." "yes, but they're gonna wanna make a bunch of alterations." sarah sighed, "if you go get changed now, i'm sure they can start off tonight." "alright." you chuckled softly, clearing your throat, "i'm gonna head inside."

when the door closed behind you, sarah turned to her fiancé, cocking her head to the side and narrowing her eyes, "you did well. i'm starting to think you're enjoying this." john b. cleared his throat, "i'm just... following your lead." "but the name we agreed on was anna. not annie."

"kook diva." john b mumbled before pulling his fiancée into a kiss.

as you rushed down the stairs, now fully dressed, you found no one around you except for rafe, "where are-" "they went wedding cake tasting." rafe cut you off, getting on his feet. "i'm your ride, unfortunately. again."

you twiddled your thumbs in your lap the entire ride to the tailor, your foot tapping at the floor of the car the entire ride, until rafe piped up, "can you stop?"

you turned to him with your eyes narrowed, tilting your head to the side. you'd had enough of his bitchy attitude.

"why? it's not your car anyway. if you're bothered by the noise then turn on the radio." you scowled, turning to look out of the window, missing the small upwards twitch of rafe's lips.

once he pulled up in front of the tailor, rafe cleared his throat, "alright, hurry up in there. i don't wanna wait in a hot car all day." you scoffed, "like i'm suffering alone." you crossed your arms in front of your chest, "you're coming in there with me, or i'm not going at all."

"are you serious?" rafe let out a sigh, only to receive a simple lift of your eyebrows in response that made your ex reluctantly leaving the car and walking into the shop with you.

rafe was sitting on a sofa outside the fitting room waiting for you, when you finally pushed the curtains aside with a wide smile, giving him a little twirl. "how do i look?"

he looked at you up and down, clearing his throat. "you look... fine."

watching you drive away from him felt like rafe was watching his entire life drive away right in front of him. so he closed his eyes, but kept waving at you, kept up the feigned smile on his lips. but every part of him regretted not coming with you.

when rafe saw you walk out of the fitting room in the pink dress, smiling widely at him in a way that made his heart pang, before spinning around, looking to you with your head tilted to the side, as if the seductive look on your face was pulling the words he wanted to say right out of his throat; gorgeous, sexy, beautiful, ethereal... only for the words he forced himself to let out to be heard, "you look... fine."

[trust-is-a-dangerous-thing]

Worse Things - 141 x Nightmare!AU Reader

Here it is! The first chapter of my actual Nightmare!AU fic! If you guys want to read it on Ao3, here is the link (which also contains all the tags), and if not the chapter is under the "read more" bar and I'll be posting specific tags for each chapter. I really hope you guys like it! As always, if you'd like to be added to the tag list, just let me know in the replies and I'll add you!

Chapter One || The Crow - 2.1k words

TW - Brief mention of starvation

Three months ago, when Laswell had first approached Price with your file and suggested that they have you transferred to 141, he had been sure of his decision—you’d been drafted into the military as soon as you turned 18, your marks were some of the best in your class in basic, your record was clean both before and after you joined the military, almost every mission you were part of was successful. The choice had seemed obvious. Now, though, approximately 10 minutes from your arrival on base, he was having doubts. 

Laswell had been upfront with him, they didn’t know much about you...or rather, they didn’t know much about your particular skill set, your powers. The only information they had was what they’d observed of you while you went through training, and what your team had observed of you over the years you’d been one of them. 

In short, you ate people’s nightmares—their fear, more specifically. 

And that was in a literal sense. 

You didn’t eat fruits, veggies, or meat like everyone else. There was no substituting your diet with nutrition pills or vitamins or intravenous fluids. No, there was something in people’s fear that you needed to survive, something that wasn’t found in anything else—with it somehow manifesting as a dark blue-black oil-like substance that spilled from small ducts in your mouth and dripped from your claws whenever you fed. It wasn’t necessarily your diet that put him—and everyone else—on edge, though, or, at least, it wasn’t the only thing that put them on edge...it was the abilities that came along with it that were the most concerning. 

You could mimic the voices of others so long as you heard their voice at least once before, often luring enemy combatants to their deaths by feigning their team or family members’ calling for help; you could create hallucinations, illusions, so vivid that they could leave physical marks on those who came into contact with them, the only thing your illusions couldn’t do was kill...but they could do everything but; you could worm your way into people’s minds to see their worst fears, or simply to make them see and hear things that no one else could, to make them go crazy chasing things that weren’t there; you could bend shadows to your will, even using them to move from place to place—sometimes materializing right behind an enemy who’d wandered too far into the dark, snapping their neck and then shifting back to where your team was before their teammates could do anything about it. You could do a lot of things. You could probably do a lot more if you tried.

Apparently there were other things as well, things that just seemed to happen on their own without any effort on your part—things you couldn’t hide, no matter how much you might’ve wanted to. Lights seemed to brighten and flicker whenever you walked into a room, harsh and stark-white in color; some of those on your previous base claimed that whenever they got near you they got the distinct feeling that they were being watched, stalked, even when your attention was clearly on something else; on the few, very few, occasions that you’d lost your temper, those present had said that they were hit with a debilitating sense of dread—so terrified that they’d been unable to move until after you were long gone. 

For all intents and purposes, you were a walking horror movie. 

They’d never seen someone like you before. You were an anomaly—different, dangerous. It’s what made Laswell so keen on transferring you to 141 in the first place, despite the fact that your previous team had fought tooth and nail to stop the transfer, to keep you with them. Now, though, everything that had made you seem like a perfect fit for a team like theirs felt more like nails in their proverbial coffins. 

It put Price on edge. Because it was one thing to read your file and run the numbers, chalking up everything about you into a list of pros and cons, benefits and liabilities—and it was an entirely other thing to be in your presence, to actually have to deal with everything he’d only heard about in testimonials and mission reports. There was nothing he could do about it now, though. You’d already been hired and now you were almost there. 

All he could do now was deal with it and hope that he’d made the right call in hiring you. 

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Your stomach tied itself into knots as you stepped out of the heli and onto the helipad, although you did your best to hide your nervousness—easy enough with the thick mask covering the lower half of your face, hiding everything but your eyes. You didn’t want to be here, you hadn’t wanted to transfer, you wanted to go back to your base and your team and hide away from everyone...but it wasn’t like you had much of a choice in any of this. No choice at all, really. So you took a deep breath, steeled your nerves, and approached the man clearly waiting for you at the edge of the pad—your new captain. 

As you did, you got to watch him go through a bastardized version of the five stages of  grief as he took you in and, likely, as he realized that he was stuck with you now. To be fair to him, he hid his reaction quite well, so well that you would’ve had a difficult time pinpointing the exact emotions if you couldn’t feel them—sharp, distinct waves that crashed down on you one after the other, seeping into your every pore. Shock, uncertainty, disgust, regret, fear. Always fear. Obviously you didn’t blame him for feeling those things, for having that reaction to you—everyone, your whole life, had always reacted similarly to your presence, no matter how reserved you tried to be to soften the blow. 

You were used to it. 

You hadn’t eaten for the last few months prior to your transfer. Your team had been on leave after some bad intel on the last mission almost got all of you killed, and being stuck on base meant that there were no enemy combatants for you to feed off of, with your captain’s permission of course—and you knew better than to ask if your team would be willing to help. It was fine—because of your dietary needs, you could go a very long time without eating and still not die—but the slight smell of the captain’s fear still sent a harsh stabbing pain through your stomach, your hunger coming back with such a force that it made you nauseous. 

You were used to that too. 

Years of practice made it easy to ignore both feelings, pushing them to the back of your mind as your new captain introduced himself, offering his hand up to you with a smile. 

“John Price,” he said, his voice low and warm, “I take it you’re the new transfer?” 

You bit back the small, surprised laugh that threatened to escape your throat—he really was laying it on thick, wasn’t he? Asking you if you were the transfer, even though it was obvious given your...condition, and even smiling at you and trying to shake your hand. 

Part of you thought it was nice, no one had ever done that before—usually they didn’t bother hiding their disdain, didn’t bother pretending that they didn’t notice all your abnormalities, didn’t bother pretending like the thought of touching you didn’t make them sick. So for Price to do it...well, it was new. Another part of you—the hurt, angry, pessimistic part that’d kept you alive this long—hated it, wanted him to drop the act and give it to you straight rather than trying to pretend he saw you as anything other than what you were. What you wanted didn’t matter, though. He’d already decided that he wanted to play nice, so you didn’t really have any other choice but to follow his lead...not without consequences, at least. 

You shook his hand, careful not to make him more uncomfortable than he probably already was, pulling away quickly afterwards. Even though you didn’t need to, you confirmed that you were the new transfer, giving him your name. 

“-but everyone just calls me Crow.” 

Given to you after a particularly rough mission, your callsign didn’t do you any favors. You’d captured an enemy combatant and your team tried to get some intel off of him, but they couldn’t get anything because he wouldn’t stop screaming about seeing “the face of death”  when you’d dragged him into the shadows. He was being dramatic, you didn’t think you looked that bad, but your teammates had found it too funny to just leave be. After some discussion, they'd figured "death" was too on-the-nose, so instead they settled on "Crow" after one of them read that crows used to be considered harbingers of death, way back when people had superstition instead of common sense. The name had stuck, and now here you were.

Price seemed amused by the callsign, quietly repeating it with a small smile on his face. You couldn’t tell if it was real or fake, but you supposed that didn’t matter. Once introductions were over, he gestured for you to follow him and started walking away from the helipad, setting an even pace. You did as you were told. While the two of you made your way to who-knows-what building, he gave you a quick rundown of the basics—paperwork, the type of missions you would be sent on, what would be expected of you, all that jazz. 

You only half-listened, as most of it had either already been written in your contract or told to you by someone else before you got there, and you were more focused on figuring out where they were gonna put you. It was better to know ahead of time, so you knew how much of your stuff you would need to put in your storage locker once Price showed it to you, that way you wouldn’t be stuck carrying it everywhere. All of the buildings around you seemed way too big to serve as your room and the smaller buildings seemed mainly delegated to bathrooms, armories, and the like, so another storage shed was out of the question. 

Maybe they’d put you in a supply closet? Once, when you were loaned out to a team in France, that’s where they put you—it was dirty and smelled so strongly of bleach that you’re pretty sure it burned off all your nose hairs, but you’d been able to repurpose one of the tarps into a sort-of hammock that you could sleep in so you didn’t have to sleep on the floor. So, other than the grime and the smell, it was a pretty nice set-up compared to your usual. You didn’t know if that would be the case, though, since all the supply closets were way too close to high-traffic areas, so you highly doubted they would risk putting you there. Still, you weren’t seeing many other places they could put you. 

Price never seemed to mention where you’d be staying either, nor did he ever show you to your storage locker, so you were stuck carrying your bags while he dragged you all around base. It was irritating, but you knew better than to try and voice your annoyance, or to interrupt him to ask where the hell they planned on making you sleep. You figured you’d find out soon enough, anyways. Eventually Price finally stopped in front of one of the larger buildings near the back of the base—kept separate from all the others—and turned around to face you again, still wearing that warm smile that you were now pretty sure was fake. 

“Ready to meet everyone?” 

Well, you were hoping that that particular shitshow could at least wait until after you’d gotten settled into your new room, that way you’d have somewhere to hide when your new teammates started freaking out about having to work with you—that way they could have some space and deal with it without having to see you or feel your presence anywhere, and you could be alone and not have to deal with people screaming at you like you were fucking Ghostface. However the universe (read: your captain) seemed to have other plans. 

It’s not like you could say no to him. So, you nodded. 

‘Alright,’ you thought, ‘let’s get this over with.’

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Tag List - @yearninglustfully @fruitymoonbeams-blog @omnifiction @cryingpages @splicer13vex @z-wantstowrite @kawaii-michealmyers @listen-to-navi @taxidermypossum @error6gendernotfound @probablydeadbynowdotcom @xxravenxstarxx-blog @babym0-0chii

[di-42]

Your MFLs’ worst nightmare is back, everyone. You’ll never get those down and you don’t really want to, do you? So please help yourself to this wonderful selection of fictions I have been lucky enough to read in July! There is something for everyone: canon, canon divergent, lots of human AUs, and my first fantasy AU! Any rating, any length, WIPs and complete fictions, you will definitely find something you like and haven’t read! (Except for you, Pups. You’ve read them all already, haven’t you?)

These fics will be added to The Nice And Accurate Lists Of Di-42, Witch, if you enjoy my lists please consider following my side blog for when you need inspiration on what to read.

As always I’ll try to tag the authors whose Tumblr usernames I know, if you know any usernames I’m missing, please tag them or let me know.

As always if you want your fic taken off this list, or know someone who does, please let me know and I’ll do it immediately, no questions asked.

As always, please, please, please, remember you are much better than someone who would judge a fiction by the number of kudos.

Please don’t forget to leave a comment on the fictions you read, anything from a heart emoji to an essay will be treasured! 

And now, gather close, good people, til the fire nearly scorches you. Gather close and let me tell you what I loved about 

July’s Jubilant Fictions

WIPs:

Accidentally In Love, by SpyGlassez @wildespyder. Rated T, chapters 28?49.

Slow burn human AU featuring long COVID suffering ace Aziraphale and relationship averse Crowley. After their first meeting they are drawn to each other despite their doubts and insecurities. It is such a joy to follow their journey and to witness their blossoming friendship! This story has such a gentle, refreshing, angst-free pace! They both slowly start to suspect they want more from this friendship and even though they don’t really (so far) talk about it, there are no major misunderstandings. Great story!

Anchored, by @curiouspupsicle. Rated M, chapters 9/27.

Sailing human AU with a slow burn and lots of nautical knowledge! Crowley and Aziraphale are competing international race sailors with a history between them that we’ll discover as we go along. Great characterisation and banter, FANTASTIC self confident Aziraphale, council estate liverpudlian Crowley: these are the ingredients for a great fiction! 

Better The Demon You Know, by HenriettaRHippo @henriettarhippo-hrh. Rated E, chapters 4/12.

This story has very quickly become my new obsession! It’s soooo good! Canon divergent AU in which Aziraphale was never stationed on Earth, but was captured by hell and given to Crowley as a reward for (accidentally) discorporating Sandalphon. Please do read the tags carefully for this one as it’s on the darker side in regard to trauma and abuse, but oh! I am always in awe of writers who can imagine a canon divergent relationship between these two: how would they meet? Would they befriend each other under different circumstances? Would they trust each other if they hadn’t both lived on earth since the beginning? Would they still be them? According to this gripping story, it really seems they would. I can’t wait for each new chapter of this fic!

Group Chat: Flat 3b, by whatkeepsusalive. Rated T, chapters 10/15.

Oh, the fluff of this story! Fluffy banter, fluffy humour, fluffy pining, fluffy ikea trips, fluffy everything. The word adorable has been invented to describe this fiction. Human AU in which Aziraphale and Crowley are flatmates. You might think that they are pining for each other as per trope, but pining doesn’t begin to describe it: they are completely, unquestionably in love with each other. They might not act upon it, but it’s not like they deny it either. While there is a certain amount of dancing around each other, there is no real miscommunication in this angst-free story, just gentle, fluffy waiting, gentle, fluffy smiling, gentle, fluffy joy of being around each other. Did I mention the fluff?

Do You Believe In Love Afterlife? By Letha. Rated E, chapter 1/40.

Only one chapter in, but I’m hooked already! AU in which human Aziraphale buys a property comprising a flat and a bookshop. He hears strange noises at night, and one morning he wakes up to find someone has tidied up the cups he had left around the shop. Yes, this is a ghost story, yay!

Complete Fictions:

Morning After Nights Before, by Majnoona @majnoonathelibrarian Rated M, 15K. P. Jul 25.

Oh, but the gentleness of this human AU is something else! Two lonely souls who come upon each other and, thank someone, won’t let go. Each of them has got his vulnerabilities and it’s heartwarming to see how they start to trust each other. I love how they encourage each other to be their true self, to reach for what they really want, to heal and be healed. Really great story!

What We Know Of Cages, by CurrieBelle. Rated T, 25k. P. Jan 20.

This is the first Fantasy AU I’ve read and I couldn't have asked for more! The beginning is so intriguing (Crowley is a wrench, and I don’t mean that metaphorically), and the ending so heartwarming! I loved the timeless setting typical of certain fantasy fiction, but the great characterisation and the bond and trust blossoming between Crowley and Aziraphale is what really made me love this fic!

The Trouble With HELL, by @beerok23. Rated E, 120k. P. Jul 25.

Aaaahhh! Oh, this fiction. It took over my thoughts. I have had my fair share of fictions I have been obsessed with, but every now and then you come upon a fic that you’re not just obsessed with, but that in your mind kind of replaces canon. I was thinking of this fic’s version of Crowley and Aziraphale with more fondness than I was thinking of the canon version; I needed to remind myself that their particular bickering and bantering and falling in love wasn’t canon, it was a human AU version of them. The humour, the characterisation, the side characters, the suspense, the tension (sexual and otherwise), the plot, the mystery! There is nothing missing from this fiction, not a thing! It’s beautiful and perfect, and I’ll miss HELL Aziraphale and Crowley so, so much (though hopefully not for exceedingly long, as a sequel seems to be in the writer’s brilliant mind already. Yay!) You all know that when I’m so passionate about a fiction it generally doesn’t disappoint, so you know what to do: read it with style!

Angels On High, by Santillatron. Rated M, 30k. P. Oct 21.

The rock climbing human AU I didn’t know I needed! Aziraphale tries out rock climbing. Crowley is a rock climbing instructor. Aziraphale turns out to be too good a climber for Crowley’s liking. Tantrums, fits, sweetness, flirting and pining ensue. Lovely fic, highly recommended if you need a story to cheer you up!

One-shots:

Consenting Cycle Repairmen, by @groovynightstrawberry. Rated E, 13k. P. Jun 24.

This story was absolutely adorable! So hot, but also so sweet at the same time! Human AU in which Crowley and Aziraphale open two bike repair shops next to each other. The writer does a wonderful job at showing us our heroes’ vulnerabilities through their masks of self confidence. Great characterisation and a heartwarming ending, I loved it!

Click, click, Flash, by @thavron. Rated T, 4k. P. Jun 25.

This human AU has a very gentle tone. Aziraphale is a famous actor, Crowley is a celebrity photographer. The narration is almost poetic at times and the writer does a wonderful job at painting the whole picture by showing us only a few selected scenes of the relationship between Crowley and Azraphale.

Hooked On A Feeling, by @itsscottiesstark. Rated T, 12k. P. Jun 25.

Adorable and heartwarming strangers to lovers human AU where Crowley and Aziraphale meet in a bar. Soft Crowley, light banter, fluff, and great side characters! What more could you ask for?

Assistance With Evicting Former Partner Needed, by @waitingtobebroken. Rated T, 6k. P. May 25.

By now, everyone knows that WaitingToBeBroken never disappoints! Aziraphale needs help in getting his ex to leave his flat, Crowley wants to create chaos. This Human AU is hilarious and sweet, the dialogues and characterisation are great as usual and there is a little nonsensical spooky element that makes the story all the more intriguing!

Good Omens - Civilian Casualties, by The_Annuntziation. Rated G, 4k. P. Jul 25.

This in-universe rarepair fic is so original and so funny! Scattered with literary references, from Homer, to Dante, to Shakespeare, it will make you root for one of the characters you never thought you could root for! I was laughing out loud throughout the fic, it’s a real treat!

Reunited, by CuriousPupsicle. Rated T, 2k. P. Jun 25.

This story is so full of fluff and humour, just the way I like them! The author in the story (who’s also the author of the story -the meta-author?) is trying to write a sweet scene between Aziraphale and Crowley, but keeps getting interrupted by a demon and an angel on her shoulders who have opinions on how the story (in the story) is going. It’s a treat!

Very Personal, Very Quickly, by @mageofthepeople. Rated E, 5k. P. apr 25.

The sweetest friends to lovers human AU! Aziraphale and Crowley are flatmates and best friends. The level of trust and bond in this fiction is so heartwarming and for once they are communicating beautifully and clearly.

To The Bone, by @quitequaintrelle. Rated E, 7k. P. Jul 25.

Get ready for an incredibly hot piece! This is a delicious post-canon, established relationship fiction, full of sexiness, tenderness, love and mutual trust. The writer does an excellent job at weaving humour and banter with the heat of the scene and the characterisation is great!

Keep Reading, by Aerenii @savyl. Rated E, 1.8k. P. Jul 25.

Have your fan ready for this incredibly hot post-canon fiction! Male presenting Aziraphale and female presenting Crowley go on a plane. Crowley is feeling rather horny. The fact that the fiction is told in Aziraphale’s POV makes for some hilarious lines in the middle of all the heat. And yet, the thing I loved the most about this fic is the unquestionable love between our two Ineffables! Fantastic fic!

Written for Good Omens After Dark’s EXPOSED: public and semi-public sex fuckfest 2025, do read the tags!

Well Earned Rewards, by Aerenii (Savyl). Rated M, 2k. P. Jul 25.

I am always in awe of the humour in this author’s stories and this one doesn’t disappoint! Post-canon, established relationship fic. Aziraphale asks Crowley to help get people to Nina’s coffee shop stand at a festival and promises rewards to motivate him. Challenge accepted, Crowley naturally behaves like a 4 year old (and we love him for that!). This fic is just so full of love: their interactions, their banter, their everything screams love! It’s the husbands at their husband-est!

‘t Smidje (Belgijka), by @enderhuntresss. Rated G, 2k. P. Jul 25.

I was so, so lucky that this wonderful fiction was my gift from the writer for FTH! I love it so much! It’s a sweet and tender high school human AU where Crowley and Aziraphale have a secret crush on each other. Neither of them thinks the other is interested until they have to learn to dance the Belgijka. They hold hands, they stare into each other’s eyes, and va-voom! This gift was a real treat to read and I’ll treasure it forever!

Burn The Memory Of Who I Was Before, by WaitingToBeBroken. Rated T, 2k. P. Jul 25.

Lovely, bittersweet Reverse Omens AU, where angel Raphael and demon Azirafell have to hide their true feelings for each other and from each other. I really, really love that, even in this version, Aziraphale/Azirafell is the one whose main focus is to protect, and Crowley/Raphael is the one who says fuck it all, let’s do this! Because to me it’s really important that they are who they are: while their history, trauma and circumstances might affect their way to see and feel things, their behavior and reactions, the deep core of their personality stays the same. I loved it!

Physical Education, by @victims-of-love. Rated E, 1.4k. P. Jul 

Human AU where literature teacher Aziraphale joins the volleyball team. And NOT because he has a crush on PE teacher Mr Crowley. This fic is deliciously smutty and fantastically funny!

My own Play By The Rules, rated E, 2k.

Every now and then I need to get some smut out of my system before happily going back to my fluff and humour. Aziraphale follows a handsome red-haired man to the toilet of the bar they are in, eager to let the man have his way with him. Written for Good Omens After Dark’s EXPOSED: public and semi-public sex fuckfest 2025, do read the tags!

June 25’s list here.

[ceoandslutler]

personally i think this is one of oddest things i have ever read. thank you, captain obvious! ignoring the fact they spelt out the ship name in the tag causing it to appear for us, lets get into what they're actually saying.

they think ciel cannot recover and they accuse sebaciel shippers of thinking that he can recover. as someone who has had multiple people tell me my opinion that ciel can't recover is wrong—non sebaciel shippers, mind you—this is hilarious actually. i don't know why op thinks sebaciel shippers water down the story, likely just projecting their own interpretation when they used to ship them onto everyone else. if anything, when you're not scared of mentioning the romantic subtext, you can get a deeper understanding of the characters. the green witch arc was just ptsd being induced, ciel was not healing, sebastian did not prevent him from healing at that point. you can debate that about other points in the series but what ciel was going through in that arc was not an example of sebastian preventing him from healing. if he didn't snap ciel out of it, wolfram was planning to kick them all out and kill him along with his servants. sebastian did not want that to happen so he was opting to eat ciel early. also for a demon to be only 90% serious (if he wasn't just joking) is a big deal, he literally confesses in the same arc a few chapters later that he likes the game he's playing as butler. he did not truly want it to end there.

also nobody thinks everything is going to end well. some of us might wish that but we know it's hopeless.

we all know sebastian cannot heal ciel's trauma, at best he can remove triggers (by killing people who want to further traumatise ciel or remind him of his trauma like kelvin) and at worst he is one of the scary adults ciel fears (like in the green witch arc). if these two characters do survive long enough to develop an explicit relationship, it will not be a pretty one.

sebastian and ciel have ultimately 'cursed' each other, which is how the sebastian himself describes their contract. their relationship is one that is mutually beneficial but also causes suffering for both parties. sebastian is forced to serve in exchange for his hunger being satiated at the end of the contract (which we know is important because william states he's starving) while ciel is given a rather vicious dog on a leash that can snap at any moment and he'll get his face eaten; unfortunately he gets his face eaten either way but he wants to reach his goal of revenge first.

so pros for sebastian:

• gets to eat soul at the end of contract

• contract can be ended if ciel gives up so he isn't just trapped in a long ass meaningless contract for the 60-70 or so years it takes for ciel to die

• even if it takes a long time to complete the revenge, a human lifetime is nothing for sebastian

cons for sebastian:

• he was summoned against his own will by the cultists

• he is stripped of all rights while he is contracted and has to obey ciel no matter what

• if ciel gives up, his soul won't be as tasty

• he is devoted to his butler role and won't be able to continue playing the game once this contract is over simultaneously he is treated differently by those with a different status to him

• this contract has caused him to make enemies with a retired grim reaper who has a weapon that can literally tear him into bits

now let's talk about cons for ciel:

• he cannot give up or he will be eaten

• he will be eaten either way because that's the nature of his contract with sebastian

• debatably he didn't have much of a choice when making the contract due to being in a cage and watching his brother die seconds prior

but the pros for ciel are pretty good:

• got back his land, title and status and while he is using his brother's name, he won't have to be his brother forever (he doesn't want to be him forever)

• will die either way but his soul will just disappear this way rather than being collected by reapers

• wants to die after attaining his revenge anyway and this way, he won't become a reaper if he commits and have to work for eternity, he made the choice to not die in that cage and instead agreed to the contract (so maybe he did have a choice)

• gets to reach his goal of revenge easier because he has a demon under his control

• literally has a slave who caters to his every whim

this is not that bad of a deal for either of them but debatably the biggest con for ciel being "he'll die once he's done what he wants to do" is a little silly. we all die. at least he gets someone to help him do what he wants before he dies and clearly he's using this well—he established funtom as soon as he came back as 'ciel'. that was his childhood wish. he got to make the people living in his earldom happy. that was thanks to a certain butler who has been coaxing him towards kindness and empathy all through the blue cult arc and currently opts to solve problems through providing compensation to those he's wronged rather than violence. he's not fixing ciel's trauma but he's not always outright a negative force.

that's what makes it interesting. will they cause each other to suffer by making it each other worse? or will they make each other better and suffer loss? ultimately we don't know... it's up to toboso to decide

also op loves glazing random antis in the fandom who don't even interact with them then insults shippers for being "parasocial with yana" like what are you talking about even?? generalisation final boss, just because you were hanging around a certain group of people doesn't mean you can say 'everyone who likes sebaciel is xyz' stop projecting onto us while writing meandering posts that pander to antis 😪

[fight-nights-at-freddys]

found THE wildest anti post while scrolling mindlessly on reddit and i HAVE to show it. i'm gonna break it down, too, bc there's so many things to say

1) listen. i don't like RPF about real kids. i really struggle with saying "it's just fiction" because it sorta is involving real kids (even if it's fictionalized versions of them), and i'm deeply uncomfortable with it. but I ALSO understand that it's hard to draw the line there, because it IS just words on a screen, and it isn't illegal. the compromise here IS ao3, because that stuff is both allowed to exist, and we have the tools to block it from our vision if we want. everyone wins.

2) what. are you talking about. it's free, and open-source, it can't be a monopoly?? other sites are struggling because they keep censoring things, so ppl move to the better site (AO3).

3) WHAT DO YOU MEAN. how is it only protecting the "inner circle" and "very active users"?? how active do you have to be? what do you mean "work for it"? "funded MAP projects" do you have any sources for that or are we just talking out our asses now?

4) immoral to whom? and what activities? anyway, here's how the money was spent for 2025, so we're crystal clear that ao3 is not stealing money from donors and using them on "MAP projects" and other various "immoral" goings-on. (rest is under the cut bc LONG)

5) if you were a former user, you'd have to had known about rpf. i'm sorry, but at this point in time, if you're involved with ANY fandom, you've at least heard of kpop and know ppl ship those guys. be for real. and even if you (somehow) didn't, you, as a former user, would know you can just. block those tags or stop using the website as a whole? "dogma" and it's just anti-censorship. okay.

"this reminds me of several cases where cults have turned out to be sex schemes preying unsuspecting people," hello? am i awake? what is this sentence?? how is ao3, a website mainly for uploading any kind of fan fic, like a cult where a person uses money, religion, and sex to gain power over people? what??

6) i've written some fucked up stuff. i love love love writing about the darkest of taboo topics, and yet i do not find myself within the upper echelons of ao3, because that would be crazy. no one is more celebrated for writing nasty things than anyone else is for writing fluff. that doesn't happen.

again with the "MAP inner circle". actually on some conspiracy level shit oml

7) just look at this. i'm not entertaining it enough to reply fully, but if you wanna know what they're referencing, it's the international school of temple arts. but TL;DR, it's nothing like ao3.

8) i hate to break it to you, but that's currently what conservatives are doing, and they're using your backs to ride on. banning rpf will lead to a ban on lgbt content because CONSERVATIVES DON'T CARE TO DRAW A LINE. they are ready and willing to treat censorship like the fucking nuke it is and wipe out communities because they can. how are you not getting this?

you're right and you're wrong. proship was the default stance for forever in fandom, just not using those words. less proship, more mkinykatok. antiship has been a thing for a long time, but it wasn't used to refer to people who didn't like darkships, it was used to refer to someone who didn't like shipping, period (non-shippers). it wasn't till the mid 2000's that the words started being used the way we use them today.

9) fuck off with your concern trolling! and no, no one should inform local authorities about FICTION, even written rpf. if you find genuinely harmful content (a real person was harmed in the production of the content)(no, seeing something you dislike isn't harmful), report it to the correct authorities, but written fic is not that.

10) do not contact ao3 over this either?? they clearly state that if it isn't illegal, it's allowed on-site. they're not gonna do anything, and you're wasting everyone's time.

now, would you like to know the worst part? NONE of the comments are disagreeing with OP (minus one obvious proshipper)

i ADORE spn so i'm gonna yap a lot about it. forgive me. but. to my knowledge, that's not why people ship J2?there's no proof of that being direct cause, anyway. i reckon it's some mix of people not liking dark themes in fanfic (which is hard to avoid if you're setting it in-universe), not liking incest, seeing j2 as having chemistry, or simply seeing two pretty guys and wanting double of it.

plenty of ppl back then openly shipped wincest, it was talked about regularly at cons (the actors making jokes about it, met with audience laughter, jensen bought jared a wincest phone case, jdm saying both jared and jensen send him fanfics, j2 saying they were fine with people shipping whatever...i could go on, but i won't.), they joked about it in episodes and bloopers, jensen said it was a 'hot fantasy' when asked about it during an interview because PEOPLE WERE TALKING ABOUT IT AND SHIPPING IT. i also just dk how to tell you that most J2 shippers are ALSO wincesties...

also i'm sorry but rpf fans have NEVER been more accepted than darkshippers. we've always been at similar levels, esp when it comes to spn ships (except maybe for jenmish, which has always been treated better in my opinion? but that's another topic for another day)

the "pro-MAP" stuff in question? they're anti-thought crimes and believe thoughts ≠ actions, per their dreamwidth about section. idk if they're associated directly with ao3 though.

crying. like it's some secret government psyop and not a fanfiction site.

idk in conclusion this post was bad!! sorry about my supernatural rant it WILL happen again.

[bijouxcarys]

I’m gonna play devil’s advocate for a second (don’t I always), and just say that we have no idea what Brian and his wife were going through privately. We have no idea what they were going through individually. We have no right to make any judgement on what happened because we aren’t in their shoes.

So everybody who reblogged this with a tag asking what he thought was going to happen, or “separate art from the artist” as though this man has committed the worst crime of all time, take a step back and treat the situation with a little more respect than you’re showing. Try not to be so condescending about it.

Because again… you don’t know shit. We don’t know shit about what was going on.

Brian’s smart enough to know what was going to happen, it wasn’t a case of him being an idiot. That’s literally what the song is about. It’s about how complex it feels to develop feelings for someone who isn’t your wife. It’s about the conflict. The pain that not only he’s clearly feeling, but also the pain he’s inflicting on others.

He was very self aware. And treating him like he wasn’t, is disrespectful.

So no, we don’t need to separate the art from the artist in this case because the art closely reflects the artist here. It’s not taboo to enjoy it. No more “I like the song but” “it’s a good song but” and then go on to say why does it have to be about….

Because it is. It wouldn’t be as good of a song if it wasn’t. That’s what makes the song so good. The heartache. The authenticity.

Some Queen fans in general need to learn how to not be so judgemental and flippant in their comments on the members’ personal lives.

ugh, Too Much Love Will Kill You is such a good, beautiful song, why oh WHY does it have to be about CHEATING ON THE WIFE

[killerkendallroy]

CHAPTER FIVE

SEND THE ATTACK CHILD

NEW MONEY: A ROMAN ROY X READER FIC

MASTERLIST WORD COUNT: 4.4k

"Thank you but uh, I'd rather stab myself in the jugular with a ballpoint pen than live under a bridge with the other alt-right trolls." You smiled softly. You’d rather watch someone like Colbert tear their conservative views apart after the idiocy aired than actually watch ATN.

Warnings/Tags: Succession canon themes including a lot of sexual jokes and innuendo, heavy swearing, corporate and political jargon, discussions of Adolf H*tler and fascism.

Roman's whiny voice reverberates through your AirPods as you walk through the Waystar lobby, a fresh coffee in one hand and your phone in the other. He’d called you twice before you finally picked up on the third ring, during the several block walk to work from the coffee shop. You held the phone out in front of you as you walked towards the elevators, glaring at the camera at his insane request.

"I can't just 'come to Tanegashima', Roman. I have work to do. You know that word right? Work? It's where you have to-"

"Fuck you, I know what work means. As a matter of fact I worked my ass off today," he snapped back at you. “Come on… I’m bored," he then whined.

"Oh! I know someone you could ask to drop everything and fly to Japan to stop you from being bored… Your girlfriend," you said cynically, lowering your voice as the elevator doors opened and several employees joined you inside.

Roman was still very much in a relationship with Tabitha despite their qualms about sex. She'd explained their situation as being ‘eunach besties' which felt kind of weird for him to hear out loud and had stuck with him like a sour taste in his mouth. She had confided in you at the wedding that the closest they had gotten to having actual sex was him masturbating 'kind of' near her once.

“Hold on a sec, I’m getting in the elevator,” you say quietly, holding the phone between your crossed arms in the crowded lift. Not only was there minimal space to hold your phone out, but you didn’t particularly want people seeing such a familiar face on your screen.

“Where are you anyway?” She asks, hearing the sound of traffic on his end.

Roman huffs, “Gerri and I had to go to some hospital to visit the satellite guys,“ he says, annoyed he had to do the politically right thing and visit the victims of the explosion that he had semi-caused.

“Worst Make-A-Wish appearance ever. I’d ask for a refund.” You joke darkly, stepping out of the lift on the Parks and Cruises floor.

“It’s a charity fucktard, you can’t get a refund.” He snarls back. “Unless you call it a tax write-off.“

“Right, like you pay taxes.”

Pushing open the door to your office and sitting down in the leather chair, you kick off your heels to swap for the pair of flats you kept underneath your desk. Wearing heels every day to work was such performative bullshit, but after Tom had roasted you for wearing sneakers one morning in your first month, you learnt your lesson. Despite the designer sneakers being Saint Laurent.

"Seriously though, I need you here," Roman sulked.

Resting your phone against the monitor you open your laptop and sigh at the dozens of emails in your inbox. You still hadn’t gotten through them all since flying back from Tom’s wedding last week and they just kept on piling up every day since.

"Oh you need me do you? Hm, we should get a swear jar but instead of swearing it's just the rare times you say something nice to me," you joked.

"Fuck you, eat a dick. Have fun with your empty jar of nothing," he spat back, only silent for a few seconds before launching back into his personal atmosphere of chaos. "What if I send you a picture of my dick just for funzies," Roman suggested, like that would convince you to fly overseas.

"It's nine in the morning Roman, I haven't digested my breakfast enough to throw it all back up at the sight of your micro-penis. Gimme a rain check," you scoff.

"Aw you've imagined my dick, how romantic. I'd have you know though, you're totally wrong... It's a really great dick. You're missing out," Roman retaliated.

You mutter under your breath, “So is Tabitha.”

He frowns, “See, this is why I didn’t want to give her your number. It’s so fucking annoying how much women love gossiping about men. So how ‘bout you pick a different topic and pass the fucking Bechdel test for once.”

You were shocked he even knew what that was.

Looking up from your laptop and seeing majority of the staff on the main floor turning towards one of the large television screens on the wall, you furrowed your brows to see what they were all so focused on. Some of them who were seated further away had even gotten up from their desks to crowd around the broadcast.

"Wait, wait, wait. Shut the fuck up for a second... Kendall’s on TV. I'll call you back," you say quickly hanging up on Roman and walking out to join the forming crowd.

You watched on in awe, mostly that Kendall was out of the rehabilitation facility he had only checked into less than a week ago but also at the fact he was talking about Waystar in a positive light so publicly after being fired by Logan. Apparently he was pulling out of some hostile takeover with Stewy Hosseini and rival CEO, Sandy Furness.

Huh, Stewy from the wedding was kind of a bigger deal than you thought. Go figure. The majority of the commentary was complete news to you unlike everyone else, who was up to date and on the edge of their seats for this new episode in the Kendall Roy saga.

"I saw their plan, but Dad's plan was better," Kendall spoke, looking directly down the barrel of the camera with lifeless, dead eyes.

The whole office floor was focused on watching every word spill from Kendall's mouth, desperate to hear what he'd say next. For you though, you were focused on how terrible he looked. You could tell that the hair and makeup team had smeared a bunch of concealer under his eyes to make him look more awake; more alive. Though it was obvious he was exhausted.

Weak. Empty. Broken.

As the news broadcast ended and everyone meandered back to their desks muttering under their breaths and discussing amongst themselves, you returned to your office and sat down with a huff. Was it inappropriate to message Kendall and ask if he was okay? He’d probably lie and say he was fine anyway. Suddenly, a string of messages pop up on your laptop screen from Greg:

     
Greg Hirsch
Hey

Greg Hirsch
Tom wants to see you

Greg Hirsch
If you're free of course

Greg Hirsch
Your calendar says you are

Greg Hirsch
Please come upstairs

Greg Hirsch
Thanks

With a reluctant sigh, you weighed up a pros and cons list in your head about whether to go and see Tom. One of hand, you hadn't really started work yet so now would be better than later in the day. On the other hand, you didn't work for Tom anymore since he had gone to the dark side working for ATN now, thanks to Shiv. Sighing to yourself, you slugged your way to go and see him.

Tom's new office was adorned in rich mahogany with a large black leather couch opposite his desk. That's where Tom and Greg were sitting when you knocked on the door and Tom’s cheery voice told you to come in. They were not alone however. No, no. To your shock and surprise both of the men had their legs elevated with their feet resting on the back of a fellow colleague, using him as a human foot stool.

"Uh, you um... You wanted to see me Tom?" You said nervously, trying not to make eye contact with the man on his hands and knees, wearing a suit far more expensive than your whole outfit.

"Kid genius! Don't mind Jonah down here, we were just settling a bet. You can go now Jonah.” He says cheerily, shooing away the humiliated employee to now get out of his office at once. “I need to ask you something," Tom said, asking you to close the door.

"Okay..."

"What does 'serving cunt' mean?" Tom said looking up from his phone.

"Is that what you called me up for? Because I don't work for you anymore, remember? Plus you could have just Googled that in the time it took me to come up here," you protested.

"Sorry, no, no it wasn't about that. Although I am curious on how someone can serve cunt. But I uh, I just spoke with Logan and he needs you to fly to Japan tonight.”

“Bullshit.”

Having Logan even know your name was the equivalent of being tapped by God in this place. If God were a terrifying media mogul who thought empathy was a weakness. Once he asked ‘what’s that, a fuckin’ sandwich?’ to a junior executive eating lunch at his desk one day and made the poor man cry. Seriously. That’s all it took. You’d never even met him and you were scared.

“Excuse me?” He blinks in disbelief.

“Lemme guess, Roman called you and said it came from Logan,” You huff, annoyed that Roman thought he could control you so easily by going above your head and pulling the CEO Daddy card on Tom.

He narrows his eyes, “What makes you say that?”

“He called me three times this morning and on the time I finally picked up, he begged me to fly over because he’s bored.”

“Oh, then you can go now, I don’t care. I don’t want to be exposed to any part of your demented foreplay.”

You’re still trying to processing the last two minutes; Roman, satellite, Japan, Kendall, rehab, Tom, fake Logan, seeing a man being used as furniture inside the fucking office. It made you come to the realisation that fuck, you should really be looking at the news more often. Especially when it comes to the Roy family or the company in which you worked for. You’d be far less stressed if you were aware of who was trying to take down the company or when said company’s satellites explode.

Normally, you’d find an all-expenses trip to Japan a dream and say yes in a heartbeat. Ticking a country off the bucket list was a once in a lifetime opportunity for most people, and that was without the private jet or the 5 star hotels. Under different circumstances, you’d be squealing with excitement. But right now? You’re just too tired.

Your jet lag still lingered from Tom’s wedding after flying back to New York last week. You were just getting your sleep schedule back to normal. Fuck, the last thing you want is to get on another flight.

“Wait, no, I do need one more thing... You see, we have this news anchor who... in very broad and simple terms, is being accused of um… Being a N*zi," Tom says quite bluntly.

You blink back at him. Unsure if words were even necessary right now. And if they were, what the fuck would you even say back to that?

Tom clasps his hands together, "I need to find out whether he's a full blown N*zi, or perhaps just a partial N*zi.”

"A partial N*zi?" You ask dumbfounded.

"Uh-huh," Tom nodded. “But I wouldn’t mind if you maybe asked your Dad what he thinks about him. If you’d like. Just to protect me from spreading propaganda accidentally or anything N*zi-y...”

You furrows your brows. Partly because he had just tried to make the word N*zi into an adjective but mostly at him trying the father-in-senate card the second he starts working at ATN.

“Why would he know if Ravenhead’s a white supremacist or not?”

Tom scoffs, “He’s been in DC longer than Ravenhead’s been on America’s screens. Whether he likes the guy or not, I think he’d know a thing or two about the skeletons in the right-wing closet.”

"Fine. I’ll call him-" You stopped, interrupted by a loud bang echoed through the office.

It was only a few seconds until people began panicking and the term 'gun' was thrown around worriedly amongst scattering staff. Tom was quick to rush to his feet, poking his head out of his office to see the commotion happening outside. Safety marshals started escorting people through the lockdown protocols and sure enough, a designated security guard had arrived to escort Siobhan Roy’s husband Tom to a safe room.

The guard unlocked a nearby supply room and let you, Tom and Greg inside. He then entered the room with you all, locked the door and stood in front of it as a human barricade. He was the most calm person there by a long way but that was his job. Plus, it wasn't difficult. Tom was freaking out on the phone to Shiv after finding out she was in the real panic room with Logan and Kendall. Greg, who’d unfortunately forgotten his phone back in Tom’s office, had nothing left to do but start scrutinising the room that they had been put into and questioned the guard on the legitimacy of its 'safety'.

"This doesn't feel very safe... Are those windows bulletproof? They don't look bulletproof. What about up there? A person could definitely fit through there," Greg said pointing to a smaller window above the doorway. "A small person- An attack child!"

"An attack child? Jesus Greg, use your fucking head," Tom scoffed at Greg.

The security guard remained standing in front of the door for quite some time, stoic and cold. He didn't give away any of the information he had received through his headset, nor did he let the three of you know any updates. He was highly persistent in telling Tom that he would not be transferring him to the other panic room and advised him that protocol stated they must stay inside the room until police give them the all clear.

All of you succumbed to the boredom.

Tom sat perched on top of one of the desks in the room playing Candy Crush, groaning whenever he failed a level. Which wasn’t often. But when it was the only thing you could hear, it felt like he was groaning on loop. You and Greg sat together on the floor watching YouTube videos, and your phone vibrated as a message notification appeared on the top of the screen.


Roman Roy
Attachment: One photo

You flicked the notification away so that you could continue watching but Roman decided his previous image needed a caption and sent:


Roman Roy
The tastiest thing to eat in Japan ;)

You swiped the second notification away and prayed Greg wouldn't ask to see what 'thing' Roman would be sending photos of. It was almost certain that he hadn't sent a photo of expensive sashimi or a soul-warming ramen. No, you were sure it was a picture of his dick.

"Hey Kid Genius? What’dya say about coming to work for ATN with me and the Gregster?" Tom asked, raising one of his eyebrows.

Greg became visibly uncomfortable with the conversation topic being raised. He didn't like ATN’s tone of voice, their political alignment or what the brand stood for but he knew that following Tom would be good for his career. Well, he hoped it would be. He didn’t really have much to put on a resume if he wanted to leave Tom.

He wasn’t even sure what his job title was.

Tom’s bitch boy, perhaps.

You simply laughed in protest, shocked that Tom would even suggest something so ridiculous. ATN might show your father’s face from time to time but it was far away from your political views. Quite honestly, you thought it made for trash television. It was barely news, bordering on far right wing propaganda and even the ‘entertainment’ sucked.

You’d rather watch someone like Colbert tear their conservative views apart after the idiocy aired.

"Thank you but uh, I'd stab myself in the jugular with a ballpoint pen before living under a bridge with the other alt-right trolls." You smiled softly.

"Oh what, you think you're too morally upright for ATN? Some sort of pariah with a good conscience?" He mocked.

You glared back at him. You weren’t going to give Tom the satisfaction of reacting to his outburst. Greg sneezes but nobody says bless you. You and Tom are too focused on glaring at each other whilst the guard at the door is trying not to fall asleep. Great protection.

"Give me a fucking break. Are you some sort of fake liberal martyr now? You're just like the rest of us. Impartial to politics until it affects you personally,” he scoffs. “I can smell the privilege flowing through your blood stream. It even cuts through your overwhelmingly pungent perfume. Seriously, what is that? Blowjob Chic by Paco Rabanne? It's disgusting. Foul. It burns the hairs in my nose like cheap ethanol.”

"Is this really your pitch to try and get me to come join ATN?” You ask with a simple eyebrow raise.

"No, this is me reminding you that I know what game you're playing and I can play it better," Tom threatened before smiling. “Think about it. Speaking about ATN, why don’t you call up Papa Senator, tell him you haven’t been shot in the head yet and ask him about Ravenhead.”

The security guard at the door mumbled into his ear piece which gave you all slight hope in getting out of the stuff room but it was a false alarm. Security were still sweeping the building and waiting for police to arrive to give an official all clear. You sigh in defeat, knowing that there wasn’t really anything better to do right now and decide to call your father.

“Speak of the devil, hey sweetheart! I just saw on ATN there’s an active shooter in your building? Are you at work? Are you okay?” He asks the second he picks up.

“Hey Dad, yeah no I’m safe I’m in a room with a guard and everything. It- It’s super safe,“ you say before looking at the guard in front of the door and the glass window panels behind him which you were definitely sure weren’t bulletproof. “They think it’s a mentally ill employee or something.”

“Or it’s Antifa,” Tom says quietly next to you and you roll your eyes at his grandiosity. He mouths ‘speakerphone’ and you swat him away with your hand.

“So Dad, I wanted to ask your opinion. What’s Mark Ravenhead like? I mean, his approval ratings are pretty strong but I’m hearing whispers that he’s uh… A little intense politically…”

“Well…” he says, voice dropping to that typical conspiratorial tone when one was sharing secrets. “Mark’s… Passionate. He believes in tradition. Values, discipline, structure. Real back-to-basics stuff.”

You try not to sigh too loudly and cut to the chase, “People online are saying he’s a N*zi.”

“People online say lots of things,” he chuckled. “Why the sudden interest in Ravenhead?”

“So you know my old boss, Tom?” You ask as Tom’s face lights up like a kid at Christmas. A coveted name-drop. He moves closer to you, muttering ‘put it on speaker’ over and over until you pull the phone away from your ear and do so.

Your father groans, “The one married to Siobhan Roy? Yeah, yeah I know of him.”

Tom grins, happy that the Senator knew who he was. Vaguely.

You try to tell your father that he’s on speaker phone before he has the chance to say anything particularly unsavoury or insulting but he launches into his anti-Shiv agenda nevertheless. You see, your father’s home state of Pennsylvania was a swing state, so it had split delegates. One Senator was a Republican and the other was a Democrat. Which meant that the blue counterpart to your Dad was none other than Senator Gil Eavis.

And boy did they hate each other.

“Tell me something, did she walk down the aisle with her arm firmly hoisted up Eavis’ asshole or did she take a break from being a self-righteous cunt for her wedding day?”

You look up at Tom wide-eyed and horrified. Tom looks back at you with the same expression and Greg just shifts his gaze between you and Tom, the three of you just as uncomfortable as the other. Greg maybe more so but Jesus Christ, you wanted to die.

“Dad, you’re on speaker phone and Tom’s in the room with me,” you blurt out.

Tom, ever the showman, laughs jovially at the insult he’d just heard about his wife. “Luckily for me Sir, wearing the asshole of a Democrat as a bracelet didn’t quite suit the rest of her outfit.”

Your father just laughs, not at all worried or ashamed at what he’d just said. “Tom Wambsgans, a pleasure to meet you. How’s married life treating you?”

“Oh you know, the same as before but with a shiny new ring,” Tom chuckles.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re a Midwesterner aren’t you?” Your father asks, which makes Tom straighten his back a little. A sliver of pride perhaps, or just readying himself for the onslaught of insults to be hurled his way.

“I am indeed, yes.” Tom answers, looking at you for some kind of reassurance or guidance on navigating your father. “Minnesota.”

“Democrats, fuck. I was hoping you were from one of the good ones,” the Senator taunts.

Of the 12 states considered to be a part of the Midwest, the last few elections showed 8 were red, 2 were swing and 2 were blue.

Tom tries to compensate for being an outlier, “Oh but we loved Nixon. The few elections we swung Red was when he was in office. Twice as VP under Eisenhower and then back again when he reigned supreme in ‘72, Sir.”

You roll your eyes at Tom’s sycophancy, rambling like a Republican fanboy all of a sudden. Fucking freak. Richard Nixon was the only US President to ever resign, which was why? Oh yeah. Fucking Watergate.

Greg leans down closer to the phone in your hand, “Hello Senator, Sir? This is Gregory Hirsch, I just wanted to make my presence known in case of-”

You pull the phone away, “Right, yeah Greg is here too. Sorry, I should’ve said it’s the three of us and the security guy. But Tom’s actually just moved across to ATN, Dad...” you say looking at Tom to make him speak again.

“Ah yes, Chairman of Global Broadcast News,” Tom answers, knowing that in the right rooms his title held weight. Even if the room was for empty supplies and used as a makeshift panic room.

“What happened to Cyd Peach?” Your dad questions.

“She’s- She’s still here. Still head of the news division but really it’s a two-pronged approach with ATN. We need someone on the ground like Cyd, who has years and year of history on her side, and then someone younger and fresher up above pulling the strategic strings.” Tom looks at you and you give him a thumbs up, considering your father was a fan of Cyd so souring her name too quickly wouldn’t come off well. But he made sure to make it sound like he was above her regardless.

“So Dad, the reason I asked about Ravenhead and the whole N*zi thing is because there was a video of him which surfaced online showing him at a fascist thing in Europe…”

On the other end, your father makes a thoughtful dad-grunt. The kind he usually reserves for diagnosing a weird noise coming from the car engine or when someone says they’re Vegan.

“I saw that, yeah… The kid was 21, probably didn’t know who he was sitting on a panel with.”

“That’s what I said,” Tom blurts out before pulling himself back into line. “I had the exact same sentiment, Sir. I mean, who wasn’t a little salty at that age?”

You sigh. “Dad, he got married near H*tler’s retreat in Bavaria.”

Tom interjects, “His agent assures us that it was purely a coincidence. He was vacationing in the area at the time.”

“Big fucking coincidence,” you scoff quietly.

“It’s just a mountain in the alps sweetheart, it’s not some sw*stika laden bunker or anything.”

“It’s a bit far to go just to get married though, don’t you think? And he named his dog Blondi, which is what H*tler named his dog…”

“Common dog name. Could be named after the singer,” your dad responds and you can practically hear him shrugging over the phone. He chuckles, “Look, I’d trust Mark to coach little league baseball but I wouldn’t trust him around a synagogue if you know what I mean…”

You furrow your brows, “Uh, I guess so.”

“Ooh hey, whilst I’ve got you. Fourth of July weekend, you coming home?” Your dad asks cheerily.

Your expression softens involuntarily and Tom and Greg lose interest slightly at the topic being shifted away from Ravenhead. “Yeah of course, I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” you smile, taking the call off speaker phone and raising your phone back to your ear.

Your dad doesn’t say anything for a second, but you can hear the shift in his voice. Proud-dad energy, turned up to eleven. “Good, good. You know I can’t wrangle your Mom all by myself.”

Your mother spends weeks and weeks planning the annual 4th of July barbecues. Even though the party decor is always themed red, white and blue, last year she made a ‘bold choice’ to hang white paper lanterns from the trees with the backyard string lights twinkling amongst the foliage. They looked great in the end but she fretted on and off for hours about whether or not they looked too ‘communist’.

A lot of the time politicians flew in and out of Washington for work but many had second homes there for convenience. Despite being a ‘resident’ of Pennsylvania for election and tax purposes, your father established the family in DC like so many others did. Apart from a few family members that lived close by, the majority of the party guests were fellow members and allies of the conservative political world. It was a relatively high profile event under the masquerade of it being small, laid back and casual. Just a few friends and some beers celebrating America.

“Look Sweetheart, I’ve gotta go. I have another call on the line but stay safe from those Antifa freaks and let me know when you’re going to fly in. I miss you, and your Mom does too.”

“Love you,” you respond before he hangs up and you slowly look up at Tom with a sigh. “Happy now?”

Tom grins, “I love your Dad already.”

COMMENT IF YOU WANT TO BE ADDED TO TAGLIST

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[eden-writes-stuff]

Inspired by a post from r/SuddenlyBisexual tags: modern au, wolfstar, cheating, dick pics, referenced sex, but no explicit description, (I know the tags don't sound like it, but this is a fun one, I promise)

"I have a confession to make."

Sirius inhaled, closing his eyes. 

"So... you know that I'm dating Jennifer right now, right?" he continued.

James nodded, confused as to where this conversation was heading.

"and you know that in a relationship you sometimes send each other stuff." "like dirty talk?"

"Like pictures..."

"Oh, okay. Yeah."

"So, I took the picture and then I sent it. But I may or may not have sent it to the wrong number. Because, well I saved Jennifer as 'babe', but I have Moony as 'baby <3', because of that one dare five years ago, and then I just never changed it back."

"Oh my GOD, you didn't." James had caught on rather quickly and was clutching the edge of the sofa.

"I kinda did..." Sirius looked at the floor, biting his lip. "But that isn't even the worst part..."

James sat back, pulling his knees toward his chest to have something to hold onto for what was about to come.

"He sent me one back.”

James gasped in disbelief.

“And I don’t know what happened, but we just kinda started flirting, like we always do-"

James' eyes grew wider as he realised where the story was heading.

"And next thing I know I was over at his place."

"No, You didn't-"

"And then two months had gone by and we just kept meeting up whenever one of us was in the mood."

"Oh! My! Fucking! God!"

"And I don't know what to do. Because Jennifer is really nice, but with Moony it just, urgh, it feels so fucking good, you have no idea, man. He gets me there every single time. But I don't wanna break up with Jennifer because what if Moony isn't into me like that, I mean, I don't even know if he likes blokes. But I also don't want to keep cheating on Jennifer, because she really doesn't deserve this, but I also don't know how to tell her that I like being dicked down by my second-best-friend, and maybe I like him in a soft of different context."

James took a deep breath. "Firstly, thank you for clarifying that he is your second-best-friend. Secondly, I would like to request a pillow please," he said in the calmest voice Sirius had ever heard from him. Carefully, Sirius handed him a pillow, which James accepted gladly only to burrow his face in it and let out a minute-long scream.

Sirius waited patiently until he was finished and gently put the pillow aside. "Thank you. That helped a lot. Now... Why the fuck would you wait TWO. MONTS. to tell me?!"

"I'm sorry. I felt awful. And in the beginning it wasn't even that big of a deal."

"Not that big of a deal? Do you have any idea how much money everyone owes me?"

"What?!"

"Not the point!" James argued, standing up from the sofa to start walking up and down in his living room. "So, you're worried that he's not into you? After doing it for two months? Repeatedly. After he sent you a dick pic and invited you over to his place?"

"Well, yeah."

James considered grabbing the pillow again. "Usually when someone is inviting you over to have sex with you, that implies some sort of interest in you. Unless they're a hooker. And I don't think that Remus took any money for his services."

"No, but-"

"Nuh-uh! No but! The only but around here is your butt going to his butt and telling him how you feel. After you break up with Jennifer that is. Because if it were anyone other than Remus, I would be furious with you for doing that to her. But I've been waiting for this to happen for seven years, so get your ass moving."

"But what if he doesn't like me?"

"Of course he likes you, you're brilliant. That guy is a simp for you. You should see how he looks at you. He's almost as pathetic as me and that is something to say."

Sirius furrowed his brows. "Almost as pathetic as you?"

"Very, very close."

"No... You're exaggerating. I couldn't have missed it if he was being that pathetic."

"Yes, you can. You can do anything."

"Fine," Sirius sighed. "I mean, I guess, I can go talk to him, and then..." he looked at James as if hoping he would finish the sentence for him.

James sighed. "And then. you will say something like 'Moony, I get the impression that, over the past two months, we have started to explore new territories of our relationship, and I would like to take that even further.'"

After letting the words sink in for a minute, Sirius shook his head. "That sounded absolutely ridiculous. I will say nothing of what you just said."

"It's gonna sound slightly ridiculous. It's a talk about emotions. It's not real unless it sounds a little cringe."

"But I hate talking about my emotions."

"Yeah, I know that. But if you don't you won't get to date Moony..."

Sirius swallowed, then nodded enthusiastically. "Alright. If that's what it takes..."

"Finally."

With one deep breath, Sirius moved to get his jacket. "Thank you, I love you. I love you so much."

"Yeah yeah, save that for Lupin," James grinned while shooing him out the door.

[jellesreid]

Injured

In which Spencer doesn’t turn up to teach his lecture at the University due to being injured during a case leaving his girlfriend extremely worried (angst? fluff?)

masterlist

tags: professor!spencer reid, student!reader, university, bau, age gap relationship, injury, spencer gets shot on a case, worried reader, meeting the team, caring for spencer, relationship, early days relationship, love, hospital setting, spencer has pictures of the reader in his wallet

warnings: nothing major talks of hospitals and gunshot injury. Also reader is 23

Note: I’m so sorry I keep forgetting to post I promise I have loads of fics written I’m just super busy

———————————————————

You were more than slightly surprised when you walked into class early to find the room empty, Spencer was always there forty minutes before class if the lecture hall wasn’t being used. 

He had been in Pennsylvania working on a case but on your phone call last night he said he’d be back in time for the afternoon class. You hadn’t heard from him yet today but that wasn’t unusual if he was working and then returning home quickly after. 

You sat at your desk and pulled out your laptop to do some work before he turned up, but as the minutes passed and the class got closer, you couldn’t help but drum your fingertips on the table. 

Your best friend took her seat next to you 10 minutes before class started, “Where’s your handsome boyfriend?” She whispered into your ear. 

“Uh, I’m not actually sure.”

10 minutes turned into 5, and 5 turned into the time class started, and still no Spencer. You bit your lip anxiously. At this point, you knew something hadn’t gone to plan; you just weren’t sure what yet. 

A substitute professor entered the class a few minutes after class started offering a quick apology for getting lost on his way down.  

He laid the papers out on the desk and stood in front of it leaning against it, “I’m Professor Lang, I’ll be covering the first hour of your class today as Doctor Reid has been held up.”

‘Held up’ circled through your head… maybe they hadn’t caught the guy yet, that had to be it. 

“Held up how?” Sydney, the girl in the 4th row who never stopped giving your boyfriend heart-eyed stares throughout the lessons, asked.

“I was told a case ran over and Doctor Reid was injured, he’s at the hospital. The dean is unsure when he will be back to teaching,” Professor Lang replied. 

With each word the Professor said you felt more and more sick with anxiety until you had almost blocked out any words he was saying by the end. Avery’s eyes softened as she looked at you, her hand falling to your arm to comfort you unsure of how you were going to react. 

You took a few minutes to regulate your breaths, trying not to think of the worst possibility in this situation. The first thing you thought of doing was to look at the train times for straight after the lesson ended. 

It was also moments like this where you wished someone on Spencer’s team knew who you were so you would receive a call when things like this happened but you understood there were things he liked to keep private. 

The case was in Philadelphia so it was only just under 3 hours on the train and a whole lot cheaper than a flight so that would have to do. 

You booked a train that was leaving in an hour and 20 minutes which would give you enough time to get to after the class finished. For the rest of the lesson you sat and listened but you couldn’t bring yourself to do any work until you found out what had happened. 

The moment the class ended you were first out of the door with Avery, you dialled Spencer’s number hoping that someone had it with them and would answer. 

———

In Philadelphia, the team sat in the waiting room, waiting for updates on Spencer. A nurse had brought out his clothes along with personal belongings such as his phone and wallet. 

Spencer’s phone rang in JJ’s hand pulling her from her worried haze, she looked over at the others, “Should I answer?” 

“What does the caller ID say?” Derek asked. 

“It says, ‘Honey’ with a heart?” JJ answered confused. 

“Answer, he must know the person,” Penelope said. 

JJ answered the call before taking a few steps away from the team, “Hi?”

You weren’t expecting a woman to answer the phone but you knew he worked with a few, “Hi, I’m assuming you work with Spencer?”

“Yeah, who are you?” JJ asked.

“I’m Spencer’s girlfriend.”

“What? Spencer doesn’t have a girlfriend.”

“Um I know he hasn’t told you guys about us but if you’ve got his wallet, there’s a picture of us in there or in his camera roll there are pictures of us or me, I just want to know if he’s okay… please.”

JJ opened his wallet to see a picture of Spencer and a younger-looking woman in his wallet, “How do you know he was injured?” 

“The substitute professor told the class, I’m on my way but please can you tell me what happened and if he’s okay?” You were basically begging at this point.

“He was shot, he’s in surgery but the last update the nurse told us he was stable,” JJ said choosing to ignore that she was in his class right now.

You gasped, placing a hand over your mouth, “Oh my god, okay breathe everything will be okay,” you said to ground yourself.

“Do you need the name of the hospital? Or maybe a ride?” JJ offered.

“No, it’s all good, uh I have his location for emergencies, thank you though,” You ended the call after that.

The rest of the team's eyes were on JJ as she put the phone down on her lap.

“So?” Emily asked.

“That was Spencer’s girlfriend…”

“He’s never mentioned a girlfriend?” Emily replied.

“I assume that’s because she’s roughly half his age,” JJ said with slight judgment in her tone.

“My man!” Derek responded, earning glares from both JJ and Hotch.

“What’s her name?” Penelope called through Derek’s phone.

“I didn’t ask…”

“How do you know it’s not some stalker?” 

“There’s a picture of her in his wallet.”

———

Spencer had just come out of surgery when you arrived, you had to admit you hadn’t planned on approaching his friends.. were you even meant to? 

Instead of going to them, you went to the reception first asking for the update but they blasted the nonsense that you weren’t allowed to know because you weren’t married or family.

You felt a hand on your shoulder and looked up, it was Derek, you had seen multiple pictures of the team you knew who they were but you were unsure how Derek recognised you.

“JJ showed us some pictures of you, plus you look like the sort of girl, pretty boy would go for,” He smiled. 

You raised your eyebrows, “Uh thanks, Derek right?” 

“Yeah, do you know the others?”

“Not formally of course but I can match names and faces from pictures Spence has shown me. Oh, have you had any updates?” You asked hopefully. 

“He’s out of surgery, they said we can go and see him within the next couple of hours, he won’t be awake yet though.” 

You nodded as Derek led you over to the rest of the team gesturing to an empty seat. 

“What happened?” You frowned, “Last night he said everything was on track for you to finish up in the morning and be back in Virginia by the afternoon?” 

“Things can get complicated, it's not always as straightforward as we may once believe,” the man you believed to be Aaron Hotchner, Spencer’s boss, answered. 

“I understand that but how did Spencer get injured… shot rather?”

“There were many shots fired by our unsub, luckily most of them were badly aimed, a couple hit other members of the team's protective vests but Spencer was unlucky the bullet hit his leg. Shortly after the unsub was gunned down,” Hotch explained. 

“How bad?” You asked. 

“That’s as much as we know, but with it being his leg he will need to be out of the field for a while and likely a personal trainer to help him with the function and movement as he will have to be off it for a while.”

“How long have you and Spencer been together?” JJ asked. 

“Uh, about six months?” 

“Wait around that time Spencer started mentioning a girl,” Penelope said. 

“He did?” Emily asked.

“Yeah, Y/N.” 

“He mentioned me?” You asked surprised. 

“That’s your name?” Emily asked and you nodded, “I figured he was talking about a cousin that’s why I didn’t pay much attention.”

You scrunched your nose up but at the same time you felt a pang of sadness that your boyfriend’s friends didn’t listen to him as much as he thought they did, “Definitely not a cousin… gross.” 

“How old are you?” Emily’s curiosity finally got the better of her.

“23.”

Before anyone had a chance to reply the nurse came to the team letting them know Spencer was out of surgery and you could see him one at a time. 

You and JJ both rose from your seats at the same time, which made you feel awkward so you chose to just sit back down as JJ made a couple of steps to follow the nurse to Spencer’s room.

“JJ, maybe she should go first?” Derek suggested. 

“Why? I’ve known Spence longer and she’s basically a kid,” JJ said. 

The words hurt you a bit but you knew you and Spencer had an age gap, which not everyone would agree with. 

“She’s his girlfriend.” 

JJ looked to Hotch and Emily for their support but both had straight faces. 

“It’s okay, you can go I’ll wait…” You said to be nice, she was right she had known him longer. 

JJ had been in the room for at least half an hour before you finally got enough courage to find the room and ask if you could swap with her.

As you approached the room you heard two voices, one that belonged to JJ and the other, your boyfriend’s voice which was groggily sounding to say the least. Your first feeling was hurt that she hadn’t come to get you when Spencer woke up but that was quickly replaced with relief that he was awake. 

You knocked on the door and leaned against the door frame as they both looked up.

A smile broke out over Spencer’s face, “Honey what are you doing here?” 

“You got shot idiot,” You rolled your eyes, shaking your head. 

“But you didn’t need to come, honey, I would have been fine,” Spencer said, brushing it off. 

“Spence, you had surgery that’s not fine.”

“JJ could you leave us alone for a bit?” Spencer asked. 

JJ looked between the two of them, “Are you sure?” 

Spencer looked at her puzzled as to why she was questioning it, “Yes, I’m sure.” 

JJ nodded and left the room as you took her place on the chair before Spencer scooted over on the bed and patted a small sliver of space.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea, I don't want to hurt you.”

“Please,” Spencer gave you a small welcoming smile that you couldn’t resist. 

You climbed into the small space facing him, “Does it hurt?” 

“I’m on a lot of pain meds, so as of right now no,” He laughed. 

“I’m sorry you got hurt,” You said with a frown, placing a small kiss on his cheek. 

“Why are you sorry? It wasn’t your fault honey.”

You shrugged, “I just don’t want you to be hurt.” 

“I didn’t really want to get hurt either but it’s a risk with the job. How was class?” 

“I stayed up all night doing your assignments and then I couldn’t pay attention in class because I was worried about you,” You held his face in your hands gently brushing the stubble he had growing.

“Don’t do that again, You need to sleep I’ll let you off the assignments,” He reached to play with the ends of your hair. 

“No, I don’t want special treatment, other people have too, so I do as well.”

“You’re pretty,” He said, wrapping an arm around his waist. 

“You’re pretty too baby but you need to get some sleep,” You left a kiss on his nose watching him smile as he drifted off to sleep before getting out of the bed and returning to the chair beside him, holding his hand gently as he slept. Not long after you somehow managed to fall asleep in the not so comfortable chair with your hand intertwined with his.

———————————————————

[dinod3su]

Acquainted

Pairing: Rodrick Heffley/Reader

Warnings: mdni 18+ smut

WC: 3.0k

Tags: smut, hate sex, rough kissing, dom reader, neck kissing, dry humping, grinding, oral sex (m receiving), vaginal sex, rough sex, riding, begging, whimpering

Summary: You and Rodrick are family friends and forced to share a room when both your parents have you guys house sit/babysit both your siblings in one house when they go on a trip together. You and him always banter and argue, and in the midst of arguing with him about cleaning his room, your anger turns to something else heated.

A/N: Def different from what I normally post, but I recently saw an edit of him on tik tok and remembered how big of a crush I had on him when these movies came out.

cross post on a03

❀˖°𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟❀˖°

Rodrick and you are alone in a house with your siblings because your parents were on a trip. You and Rodrick never really got along, ever, despite your parents being best friends. You were always bantering and at each other’s throats, so of course, you guys had to share a room since your parents all decided to stick you in one house.

Rodrick's brother, Greg, stayed in Rodrick’s room, and your brothers shared Greg’s room, leaving you and Rodrick in the guest room, the only room with two beds. Your parents stuck you guys together to put the two “adults” in the same room, also in the hope that it would help you guys deal with your issues.

The worst part of all this was that you had to share a bathroom, and his side of the room was always dirty, sometimes even on your side of the room. You were always yelling at him for leaving his shit everywhere, or toothpaste in the sink.

“Ugh, would it kill you to keep your side clean?” You groan at his mess. Rodrick rolls his eyes and smirks.

“Yeah, yeah, keep your panties on. It’s not that big of a deal.

“Ugh, don’t talk about my panties,” you say, annoyed. “I just…would it kill you to clean up a bit? I mean, we have to share a sink, and it’s nasty you have toothpaste all over, and I don’t want your shit to get on my toiletries or makeup bag. And don’t even get me started on your side of the room…it’s messy as fuck. How? I don’t even know.” You ramble, annoyed. Rodrick chuckles and leans against the bathroom doorframe, arms crossed.

“Aww, is the princess upset because her makeup bag might get dirty? Boohoo,” he mocks dramatically. “And my side is messy because I have better things to do than be all neat freak like you.”

“I am not a neat freak, I just don’t let everything go to shit.” You say, pushing past him out of the bathroom. “And you don’t have better things to do.” Rodrick scoffs as you walk past him.

“Whatever, princess. At least I’m not obsessed with keeping everything perfect.” He turns around and walks back into his messy side of the room, kicking a pile of clothes out of the way. You scoff and roll your eyes.

“I’m not obsessed with keeping everything perfect. In fact, I have a pile of unfolded clothes on my window seat at home.” Rodrick laughs and sits down on his bed, surrounded by his mess.

“Oh, so you’re saying you’re not a total neat freak? Because from what I can see, it looks like you’re trying to keep everything in this room spotless.”

“No, I just try and make it not look like a fucking bomb went off,” you retort. Rodrick shrugs and leans back on his pillows, grinning.

“Too messy for you, princess?” He teases, picking up a dirty shirt and throwing it across the room onto a pile of other dirty clothes. “I like it like this, it’s comfortable.”

“Wow, didn’t know you loved rolling around in filth,” you say as you roll your eyes. Rodrick laughs again and throws one of his pillows at you.

“You’re one to talk. You probably sleep with your stuffed animals arranged perfectly around your pillow,” he teases. “And use those fancy body washes that make your bathroom smell like a fucking garden or something.”

“So last time I checked, when you try to insult someone, don't tell them their fancy body wash smells good.” Rodrick pauses for a moment, then smirks.

“Toche, princess. Maybe I should stick to insults I actually mean.” He leans back more, crossing his arms behind his head. “But seriously, can’t you just deal with a little mess?”

“Um, yeah, I can deal with a little mess, but this is not a little,” you say as your hands motion to his side of the room at him. Rodrick raises an eyebrow and looks around his side of the room.

“So, what you’re saying is that this,” he waves his arms around dramatically, “Is way too messy for your delicate self? Like, does it offend you?” He grins mischievously, waiting for your response.

“Yes,” you say bluntly. Rodrick stares at you for a moment, trying not to laugh.

“Let me ask you something,” he says, waiting for your response. When you raise an eyebrow, he continues. “Do you have a problem with messes in general, or is it just my mess that bugs you?” He says with a wicked smirk. You roll your eyes.

“Just…Why can’t you clean up a little?” You ask, ignoring his question. Rodrick sits up, his grin dropping.

“Why can’t you just deal with it? It’s my space, my mess. You don’t have to touch it or even look at it if it bothers you so much.” He throws his arms up dramatically.

“Well, it’s in my space because we are sharing a room. God, do you need me to help you or something?” You say, extremely annoyed now. He scoffs, looking away from you as he smiles and runs his tongue over his top teeth.

“No, I don’t need your help, princess. I can clean my damn room.” He stands up and starts picking up some of the clothes off the floor, throwing them into a nearby hamper with more force than necessary.

“Aww, look at you go,” you tease as you watch him clean, standing with your arms crossed. Rodrick glares over at you.

“You know what your problem is?” He waits for you to say something if you have to. When you raise an eyebrow at him, he continues. “You’re too damn picky. Like, everything has to be perfect. Your hair, your clothes, your room…”

“You think I’m perfect?” You tease with a wicked smirk. Rodrick freezes for a moment, then realizes you're messing with him.

“No, God. You’re far from perfect. You’re uptight, you’re picky, and you probably organize your underwear by color or some shit,” he says as he throws a nearby sock at you. You scream as the sock hits you.

“EW! Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew, ew!” You say as you pick it up with the tips of your fingers and quickly throw it back. “Why would you do that?!” Rodrick laughs as you freak out over the dirty sock.

“Because it was funny. You should see your face.” He picks up another sock and holds it out teasingly. “Want another one?” He smirks. “Or maybe I’ll throw a pair of my boxers at you next.”

“If you throw your underwear at me, I swear to God I will kill you,” you warn. His laughter reaches new heights at your threat.

“Oh, really? Just try and stop me then, princess.” He picks up a pair of his boxers from the floor, holding them in his hand dramatically. “You can’t stop me from throwing these at your perfect little face.”

“Thank you, my face is perfect!” You say louder, annoyed and scared he will actually throw his underwear at you. Rodrick rolls his eyes at your teasing comment.

“Yeah, yeah. Your face is perfect. Your hair is perfect. Your attitude is perfect.” He throws his boxers at you, laughing as you jump back to avoid them. “Your reaction to my dirty underwear is perfect, too.” You scream and jump back as his boxers fall in front of one of your feet, not hitting you.

“Get your underwear off my side of the room!” Rodrick laughs even harder, bending over slightly to catch his breath.

“Oh my God, you’re so dramatic. It’s just some boxers!” He picks up more clothes from the floor, tossing them into the hamper without bothering to look at them. “You know what?”

“What?” You ask, annoyed as you hesitantly kick his boxers over to him. Rodrick’s expression turns thoughtful as he watches you kick his boxers back over to him.

“You know what would bug you?” He says with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“What?” You ask dryly.

“If I threw my boxers right on your bed.” He says it casually, but his eyes are watching you closely. He picks up the pair again and holds them out, like he’s considering throwing them onto your bed.

“Rodrick. I swear to God. I will break your drums and then cry.” Rodrick can’t help but burst into laughter at your threat,

“You would actually cry because I put my underwear on your bed? What are you, five?” He takes a step closer to your bed, purposely dangling the boxers. “Maybe I should…”

“Rodrick!” You say as you stand in front of him, between you and your bed. “Rodrick, please do not.” He stops in his tracks, looking down at you with a playful grin. You’re standing right in front of him, blocking his path to your bed. He leans down slightly so his face is closer to yours.

“Yeah? And what are you gonna do about it?” You look at him for a second before reaching up and kissing him aggressively. Rodrick is caught off guard by your sudden kiss, but he quickly responds. He drops the boxers onto the floor, and his arms wrap around your waist to pull you closer. He kisses you back with equal intensity, his hands gripping your hips tightly.

“Fuck.” You walk you both until the back of his legs hit the side of the bed, and you break the kiss to push him down so he’s sitting on the bed. Rodrick falls back onto the bed with a surprised grunt as you push him down. He’s looking up at you with a stunned expression mixed with arousal. His hair was slightly messy from your hands gripping it during the kiss. “...What the actual fuck was that?”

“Just shut the fuck up,” you say as you crawl onto him, and he moves to sit with his back against the headboard as you straddle his waist, kissing him desperately and aggressively. He can barely breathe as you kiss him, his arms wrapping around your waist to keep you in place on his lap. He breaks the kiss to start kissing along your jawline and down your neck, his hands slowly moving to grip your thighs spread over his hips.

“Fucking hell…” He mutters against your neck.

“Fuck…” You moan out, Rodrick’s hands slide up your thighs, his fingers digging into your skin as he holds you in place. He kisses and bites along your neck and collarbone, his hips bucking up involuntarily as he feels you grinding down onto his hardening cock through his jeans.

“Shit…stop moving like that…” He groans.

“Why? You gonna fuck up your pants?” You tease aggressively. Rodrick lets out a low whimper, his grip on your thighs tightening. He bucks his hips up again, pressing his growing erection against you.

“You know I’m not gonna last if you keep doing that.”

“Not so cocky now, are you?” He groans loudly, his face pressing into your neck as you grind down onto him again.

“Shut the fuck up. You’re just making it worse.” He bites down on your neck, his hands moving to grip your hips and hold you still. “Stop fucking grinding on me.”

“So pathetic,” you say as you kiss him and pull at the hem of his shirt. He moans softly as you kiss him again, lifting his arms so you can pull his shirt off. His hips jerk upwards slightly as you pull back to throw his shirt on the floor. He watches you straddle him again, your hair messy and cheeks flushed. You take off your shirt, revealing your lacy, black bra, and throw your shirt over onto your bed. Rodrick’s eyes widen slightly as he takes in your appearance. He swallows hard, his hands moving up to grip your hips again.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters under his breath. His eyes trail down to your bra, and he licks his lips nervously.

“What, never seen a pair in real life before?” You tease. Rodrick rolls his eyes but can’t help the smirk that forms on his face.

“Sh-Shut up. Just…” But you cut him off with a kiss. You grab his hands and move them to cup your breasts through your bra. You moan into his mouth when you feel his hands on you. His breath catches in his throat as he feels your breasts in his hands. He moves one hand to support your back while the other starts exploring, rubbing, and squeezing you through the bra.

“Jesus…” he mutters against your lips, his hips jutting upward again as yours move. You moan into his mouth as you continue to kiss. Rodrick kisses you back hungrily, his tongue pushing into your mouth as he continues to grope your breasts. He can feel himself getting harder by the second, his pants feeling too tight. Without breaking the kiss, he starts to unbuckle his belt with one hand. “I need to…” He pants.

“What do you need?” You ask as you run your hands up his chest, ending to rest on his shoulders. He swallows hard, his voice hoarse with desire.

“I need to be inside you.” Rodrick manages to get his belt off and starts unbuttoning his jeans with shaking hands. “I need to feel you, taste you…” He kisses you again, more urgently this time. “Please…”

“So needy,” you say as you kiss his neck and trail them down his stomach as you move off his lap, down his happy trail, and stop at his unbuttoned jeans. You palm him through his boxers. “Is this what you need?” You tease. He lets out a choked gasp as you palm him through his boxers. His head falls back against the headboard with a thud.

“Fuck yes…that’s exactly what I need…” Rodrick spreads his legs wider unconsciously, giving you better access. “Take them off…Please…” He begs. You bite your lips and smile as you pull his hard cock out of his boxers and lick his tip, teasing him. His hips bucked up off the bed, a low groan escaping his lips. “Fuck…Don’t tease me,” he pants, his hands gripping the sheets tightly. He watches you with lust-filled eyes, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Put it in your mouth…Please.”

“Since you asked so nicely…” You say as you spit on his cock and lick a strip up it before taking him in your mouth, looking up at him through your lashes as you begin to bob your head. Rodrick’s mouth falls open, his eyes rolling back in his head as you take him in your mouth. He watches you through heavy-lidded eyes, his hands reaching out to tangle in your hair. He groans loudly, his hips moving in sync with your head.

“Holy fuck…” You pull off his cock, licking your lips. He whines at the loss, his hips still moving slightly as if looking for your mouth. Rodrick looks at you with a desperate expression. “Why’d you stip? I was so close…” He reaches down to grab his cock, giving it a few pumps. “Come on…” He whines.

You sit before him, loving the sight of him, all needy. You move to straddle his waist again. His hands immediately go to your hips, gripping tightly as you straddle him. He’s rock hard and leaking precum, his cock pressing urgently against your cloth-covered pussy. “Ride me…” He begs hoarsely. “I need to be inside your pussy right fucking now.”

“Say please, Rodrick.” He groans in frustration, his hips bucking up against you.

“Please…Come on, please ride my cock. I need to feel you around me.” Rodrick looks up at you with pleading eyes, his hands squeezing your hips. “I’m begging you…”

“Good boy,” you say as you pull your shorts and underwear to the side, as you sink onto his cock, moaning softly at the stretch. He throws his head back, a loud groan escaping him as you take him in. His grip on your waist tightens, helping you set the pace as you start to ride him. He’s so deep inside you, filling you completely.

“Fuck yes…Just like that…” He whines as he kisses you hard. You smirk against his lips before you kiss back, riding him. Rodrick kisses you eagerly, his tongue tangling with yours. He lifts his hips to meet your movements, thrusting up into you as you ride him. The room fills with the sounds of skin slapping against skin and the two of you panting and moaning. “You feel so fucking good.”

“Yeah?” He nods vigorously, his hands moving from your waist to your breasts, squeezing and kneading them.

“So tight…so wet…” Rodrick rambles, and he pinches your nipple through your bra, making you gasp and ride him harder. “Don’t stop…fuck me…”

“Wasn’t planning on it, Rodrick.” He loses control as his hips move faster and harder. He’s so close to coming undone.

“I’m gonna cum…” You smile and bite your lip as you ride him faster, your moans falling from your lips. His eyes roll back in his head as you move faster. He grabs your hips and slams you down on his cock, holding you there as he cums with a loud groan. “Fuck, fuck fuck…” He keeps thrusting up into you, filling you.

You slowed your riding as he finishes. Rodrick pants heavily, his body shaking slightly from the intensity of his orgasm. He looks up at you with a satisfied grin. “Fuck…” He gives you a few more gentle thrusts before pulling you down for a deep kiss.

“Now, will you clean your side?” You tease. Rodrick laughs softly against your lips as you break the kiss,

“Yeah…Yeah, I’ll clean it.” He pulls out of you slowly, groaning as your pussy tries to hold onto his softening cock. “Jesus Christ…”

“Good,” you purr. Rodrick smirks as he moves to get up, shirtless, as he starts to pick up clothes from around the room and throws them nicely into the hamper.

[blitzwhore]

Happy WIP Wednesday! Today I am sharing a little snippet from chapter 7 of You're Perfect (And Everything in Between) aka my tattoo shop AU. Enjoy Blitz being particularly silly! 🤣

“B it is.” Blitz selected the option, and his expectant grin died down as he watched the results page load. “What bullshit is this?!”

“What did I get?” Stolas asked, and leaned over the table to peep at Blitz’s phone screen. 

“No. No no no n—there’s no way you’re Sunbeam. Literally no fucking way.” He reloaded the page, as though that would make a difference. “Stupid fucking test!”

“I thought you said you’d made the test yourself?” 

Stolas looked far too entertained by Blitz’s shenanigans—too damn oblivious to the blasphemy of his result. 

“First of all, I made Moxxie type it all down for me, which means I can technically blame this on him.” 

“I’m not sure that’s how that works…”

“Second of all,” Blitz went on, “Sunbeam is a top. And she’s an asshole! She is literally the host of the Anti-King-Slut party. Talk about sinking down to someone’s shitty level!” He threw his arms in the air. “Nope. Test cancelled,” he declared, and shut his phone. In search of some kind of consolation, he took another bite of his pizza. It had gone cold. Ugh. Whatever. 

Stolas watched him grouch with quiet amusement, finishing the last of his dish and placing the cheap cutlery far too neatly on the plate.

“You’re clearly Slime,” Blitz grumbled around another bite, still not over it. “It’s so obvious.”

Stolas dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “What is Slime like?”

And, okay, Blitz’s crankiness could do nothing against the excitement of being asked about his OCs. Still, he pouted for a moment longer, if only out of principle.

“Well, for starters, they’re a bottom,” he mumbled, earning a solemn nod from Stolas.

“A crucial detail,” he agreed.

“Right! And he’s, like… the sweetest fucking bean. My other characters are all assholes, obviously, because that’s what makes for a complex and layered story—”

“Of course,” Stolas interjected with a snort.

“—but!” Blitz perked up. “Slime isn’t like every other asshole around him. He doesn’t let the world bring out the worst in him. He’s a cutie patootie who needs to be protected at all costs.”

With Stolas’ attention unfalteringly set on him, he pressed on. “They reject all labels and just want to vibe and be happy. And they’ve never given up on King Slut, even when he was at his most self-sabotaging. Those two are basically the ultimate OTP. One True Pair,” he clarified at Stolas’ confusion. “It’s, like, Internet slang for your favorite fictional couple.”

Tagging @stolitzsings @helluvagirlboss @larryisnotagirl and @fuzzandfeathers if you want to share! 🥰

[dixonsdarkelf]

☾ basics

☾ Full Name: Lydia Rae Vector

☾ Nickname(s): Vec (everyone except Georgie & Scud), Vector (Abraham, Eric, Eugene), Doctor (Hershel, Carol, Eugene, as a sign of respect), Dia (Georgie), Vee (Scud), Vecna (Georgie), Buttercup (like the Powerpuff girl) (Scud), my little bee/bumblebee (Scud), the Mrs. (Scud), Deetz (started by Matt), Firecracker/Alexandria's little firecracker (Negan), sweetheart (her dad), Starlight (her dad)

☾ Age, Birthday, Zodiac: 30 (at the start of the outbreak), July 6th 1980, Cancer

☾ Orientation: Cis-het

☾ Religion: Atheist

☾ Birthplace: Toledo, Ohio

☾ Hometown: Swanton, Ohio

☾ Nationality/Ethnicity: American, ancestry is German, Scottish, and Irish

☾ Accent: Midwestern

☾ Languages: English, enough sign language to say "Hi", "how are you?", "how was your day?" and introduce herself as both Lydia and Vec (understands some words and phrases here and there)

☾ Left or Right-Handed: Right-handed

☾ Medical conditions: Asherman's Syndrome

☾ Occupation: Emergency Room Trauma Surgeon

☾ Love Interest: Joshua "Scud" Frohmeyer

☾ Story Trope: Meet cute, love at first sight (for Scud lol)

☾ Tag(s): lydia vector, ❧ 𝓋𝑒𝒸 & ❧ 𝓂𝓎 𝒷𝒶𝒷𝓎

☾ Links: About Vec (QOTU) About Vec (my original fic) Her OC template Her Tumblr blog Her Spotify playlist Her & Scud's wedding playlist

☾ Author's note: TW for mentions of suicide, infertility, hospital stuff, and death in the line of military service below the cut. Template by @sa1nt-bambi-ocs 🖤

☾ appearance

☾ Face Claim: I picture this Twitch streamer I follow (her links: YouTube, Twitch, Instagram, TikTok)

☾ Hair Color: Jet black

☾ Eye Color: Dark blue (like this)

☾ Skin Tone: Pale

☾ Face Shape: Oval

☾ Scar(s): Internal uterine scarring

☾ Birthmark(s): None

☾ Tattoo(s): A sternum piece with blue morning glory flowers, line work of a bouquet of daisies on her right hip, line work of the moon on her left hip, clusters of bumblebees on the back of each other thighs under her butt, and Scud’s kiss mark between her breasts

☾ Piercings: Ear piercings (just regular earlobe piercings). Not a piercing, but before the outbreak, she had an eyebrow slit on her left eyebrow.

☾ Accessories: A replica of Arwen’s necklace from The Lord of the Rings and a ring that belonged to her mom.

☾ Weapons: A vibrator (yes, it’s a weapon) and a knife in leg holsters (such as these). Her main weapon is her spear (hers would be silver).

☾ Aesthetic/Fashion: Most of the time (when she’s not in her scrubs), she dresses something like this but with combat boots instead of cowboy boots (this content creator’s style is what inspired what I wanted hers to be lol). Sometimes, she likes to wear sundresses or put outfits together like this. Everyday life needs more whimsy, she’d say. If she’s going to a renaissance festival, she’s wear something like this or this. After the outbreak, she usually wears a sports bra (sometimes with a flannel over it, but most often not), shorts, and her combat boots. When she needs to, she’d opt for a flannel/layered shirts and jeans.

☾ Height: 5'7"

☾ Body Type: Pretty straight up & down, some curves but not a lot, small frame with small assets, if you catch my drift (but she’ll tell you she can still shake it)

☾ personality

☾ General Personality: Black cat, guard dog, wildcard, firecracker, extroverted

☾ Best Personality Trait(s): Empathy, kindness, protective over the people she cares about, understanding, compassionate

☾ Worst Personality Trait(s): Stubborn, quick to temper (hence the nickname “firecracker”), hyperindependent/refuses to accept help even when she clearly needs it

☾ Good Habit(s): Writing (to process her feelings), staying hydrated, constantly wanting to learn, having many strong social connections

☾ Bad Habit(s): Not getting enough sleep/having a chaotic sleep schedule, being a little messy, confrontational (some would call that a bad habit, but she doesn’t because sometimes it’s necessary, especially when trying to stick up for yourself or someone else)

☾ Trigger(s): Controlling behavior

☾ Likes: Bees, writing, yapping, Indian food, attending renaissance festivals, her sex toy collection

☾ Dislikes: Most men, asking for help, being emotionally vulnerable, Shane Walsh, unseasoned/under-seasoned food, her small chest, Merle Dixon

☾ Goals: Survive, keep the people she loves safe, heal as many people as possible, live a fulfilling life despite the outbreak, find out what happened to her family

☾ Fears: Spiders, losing those she cares most about, losing her independence, never finding out what happened to her dad or brothers

☾ Skills: Medical, hand-to-hand combat, intelligence

☾ Talents: Writing, singing, line-dancing, trick-shots with her spear, breaking the occasional man's nose

☾ Weaknesses: Her hesitation to kill (even when necessary), refusal to accept help

☾ family & relationships

☾ Mother: Meredith Vector (deceased)

☾ Father: Jonathan Vector (unknown)

☾ Sibling(s): Preston Vector (deceased), Jay Vector (unknown), Eli Vector (unknown)

☾ Lover: Joshua "Scud" Frohmeyer

☾ backstory

Lydia Rae Vector graduated with honors from Swanton High School and went on to study pre-med at the University of Toledo. From there, she went on to Emory University School of Medicine for med school and completed her residency at Atlanta General Hospital, where she later became employed in their emergency department. She is the youngest of four with three older brothers—Preston, who’s five years older than her, and identical twins Jay and Eli, who are three years older than her. They all grew up to become Navy SEALs and made sure to teach their sister everything they could about hand-to-hand combat and self-defense.

Her mom, Meredith Elaine Vector, and her dad, Jonathan Thompson Vector, met through Georgie’s parents, who were dating at the time. Leonard, Georgie’s father, and John were best friends, as were Maria, Georgie’s mother, and Meredith. They each brought their friend along on a double date, and the rest was history. Vec’s father is an astronaut, while her mother worked part-time as a sex therapist while raising the kids and transitioned to seeing clients full-time once Vec entered high school.

She is extremely close with everyone in her family, and they are a very tight-knit unit. Her parents raised her and her brothers with open discussions about things like drugs, alcohol, and sex. They wanted their children to know that these aren’t taboo topics & for them to feel comfortable coming to them to talk about these things. Vec’s parents and brothers are some of her best friends, and she wouldn’t trade them for anything.

Vec and her best friend, Georgie, became friends because their moms were pregnant with them at the same time (Vec is about two weeks older than Georgie--12 days older, to be exact). The two are tied at the hip, practically growing up side-by-side and doing everything together, even going to the same colleges and living together in Atlanta up until the outbreak begins.

When Vec was three, then eight-year-old Preston was in an accident & was hit by a car on his bicycle. At the time, their dad was up in space, so Vec’s mom frantically piled her and the twins in the car and followed the ambulance to the hospital. When they’re in the waiting area, her mom begins talking to the surgeon, a woman Vec describes as “the most beautiful woman three-year-old me had ever seen.” She toddled up to the doctor and asked if she was a princess, and the doctor said yes. That was when Vec decided she wanted to be a princess when she grew up (which she later learned was a trauma surgeon) and save lives the way that woman saved Preston’s.

When she’s around 13 years old, she got pelvic inflammatory disease & was hospitalized for a couple of days. From then on, she dealt with unimaginable period pain, and despite seeing a variety of doctors, they couldn’t seem to figure out what was going on. When she’s 29, she finally finds a gynecologist willing to do extensive testing, and it’s discovered that the infection she had caused her to develop a rare condition called Asherman’s Syndrome, which creates intense uterine scarring.. Because of this, she’s unable to have children. She dreamed of becoming a mom, and that dream was ripped out from under her in a single afternoon.

When Vec was 25, Preston was killed while on a deployment in the eastern Mediterranean Sea. This destroyed her family, and her mother struggled with his loss the hardest. For two months, she suffered from severe depression before she couldn’t handle the pain of Preston’s loss anymore and succumbed to it. She took her own life two months after his passing. She wrote a lengthy suicide note, addressing her husband and each of her surviving children with their own sections. Vec has her portion folded up in the back of her notebook, and it’s one of her most prized possessions.

Not long after her mom’s passing, she meets her ex-boyfriend, Seth. They met at a bar one night, and while Vec wasn’t looking to date at the time, they hit it off immediately. She was in a very emotionally vulnerable state at that time in her life, and Seth saw it and took full advantage of that. He became controlling, wanting the final say in what she could and couldn’t wear, who she could and couldn’t hang out with, where she could and couldn’t go, her location, how she did her hair, etc. He didn’t like her spending time alone with her brothers, or even Georgie (and they lived together, so there was no avoiding that). One day, after just over a year of being together, Vec went to leave the apartment for a date with him. As she looked at herself in the mirror, something snapped–she saw herself with her hair and makeup done the way he likes, wearing the clothes he likes, and she didn’t even recognize herself anymore. On their date that night, she dumped him and later celebrated with Georgie once the tears had subsided.

Because of this past relationship, she’s very reluctant to be emotionally vulnerable around people or accept help, even when she desperately needs it. When she was at her most emotionally vulnerable, she was taken advantage of, and she’s terrified of that ever happening again. Due to Seth’s control over her during their relationship, she’d lost so much of her independence for a long time, and once she gained it back after she left him, she fully swung in the other direction, never wanting to accept help, even when needed.

Just over a year before the outbreak, she meets Scud. Her car breaks down on her way to work one morning, and he just so happens to be working at the auto shop she shows up at. She has to drop her car quickly and run off to work, but a certain “cutie with the bandana,” as she called him, stayed behind after closing to allow her to pick her car up. They flirted like crazy, and Vec gave him her number before they separated for the night. They go on their first date a few weeks later, and they are together for just over a year before the outbreak begins.

Vec, Meredith, John, Preston, Jay, Eli, and Seth belong to me. Georgie, Leo, Matt, and Maria belong to @dixons-sunshine.

QOTU taglist (aka the council): @kat-herine00 @gothic-pumpkin @imadisneyprincessiswear @weirdoneattheparty @negansbestie @holdmytesseract @ffsjustletmesleep @ddixonsangel @sharkie06 @the-strangest-things @d1xonss @bigbaldheadname @banshees-martin @sa1nt-bambi @bambidixon @sweetsourgone

General taglist: @raddydaddydude @lovenormandixon @angeldemoncrowley @negansbestie @holdmytesseract @dixons-sunshine @stellar-waves @chateaujoon @mediocrxtes @angelsanarchy @sharkie06 @sa1nt-bambi

Certain characters taglist: @dixonsbridexx @janiehellion

Click here to join my taglist!

Banner (pic found on Pinterest), divider & ©️ below were created by me.

[bigfatbreak]

Birds of a Feather previous / next

[dreamsy990]

drew some of my fav ody designs! wasnt originally meant to be also replicating the styles but thats sort of just how my brain works. except i didnt copy the lineart styles of anyone here so its DEFINITELY a bit uncanny for a couple of these (LOOKING AT YOU QINNY IM SO SORRY) but whatever

the designs featured here (from left to right) belong to: me, @gigizetz, @neal-illustrator, @irunaki, @bigidiotenergytm, @qinnyanimation, and @foopsie-daisy

[bennetsbonnet]

Much has been made of Mr Darcy's "confession" to Elizabeth that he does not converse easily with strangers. It is repeatedly used to support neurodivergent interpretations of his character. And I suppose that when taken at face value, a character confessing that they do not easily converse with strangers and struggle to catch their tone or appear interested in conversation can absolutely scream AUTISM! (I say as an autistic person myself)

But this line is often taken in isolation. When considered in terms of the passage in which it appears in Chapter 31, it appears far less of a smoking gun than may initially be suspected. After some discussion about Elizabeth and Darcy's prior acquaintance in Hertfordshire, Colonel Fitzwilliam asks Elizabeth for information about Darcy's behaviour there. She readily supplies it:

'Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of,' cried Colonel Fitzwilliam. 'I should like to know how he behaves among strangers.' 'You shall hear then—but prepare yourself for something very dreadful. The first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you must know, was at a ball—and at this ball, what do you think he did? He danced only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce; and, to my certain knowledge, more than one young lady was sitting down in want of a partner. Mr Darcy, you cannot deny the fact.' 'I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the assembly beyond my own party.'

What Darcy leaves out here is that it was he himself who chose not to be introduced to anybody. As we learn from the description of his behaviour at the Meryton assembly in Chapter 3:

Mr Darcy danced only once with Mrs Hurst and once with Miss Bingley, declined being introduced to any other lady, and spent the rest of the evening in walking about the room, speaking occasionally to one of his own party.

Anyway, Elizabeth correctly does not buy his excuses. Not only does she respond with a cutting sarcastic remark, but she tries to bring the discussion with an end by speaking to Colonel Fitzwilliam:

'True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball-room. Well, Colonel Fitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers wait your orders.'

But Darcy does not get the hint and continues conversing with Elizabeth rather than quitting while he's ahead. However, I don't believe him to be missing a social cue here. Rather, this is an exceedingly conceited man who cannot conceive that anyone would not want to speak to such a Superior Being as he and more-so, is determined to defend himself from a perceived slight against his impeccable character.

Then we come to the passage containing the oft-cited line which allegedly contains proof of his neurodivergency:

'Perhaps,' said Darcy, 'I should have judged better, had I sought an introduction; but I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to strangers.' 'Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?' said Elizabeth, still addressing Colonel Fitzwilliam. 'Shall we ask him why a man of sense and education, and who has lived in the world, is ill-qualified to recommend himself to strangers?' 'I can answer your question,' said Fitzwilliam, 'without applying to him. It is because he will not give himself the trouble.'

Once again, Elizabeth does not buy his excuse for even a single second. She's fully aware of all the advantages a man such as he will have received in society (opportunities not open to women, might I add!) and draws attention to that fact. It's a brilliant, cutting line from her and she really set that one up for Colonel Fitzwilliam to deliver the knockout blow.

Not only do we have the testimony of Mr Darcy's cousin, that 'he will not give himself the trouble,' to appear cordial to strangers, but we have evidence from Wickham too. Although after this statement, Wickham quickly goes onto misrepresent Darcy's kindness to the poor, which contradicts Mrs Reynold's later testimony, I do believe Wickham to be telling the truth (for once!) here, when he tells Elizabeth in Chapter 16:

'Mr Darcy can please where he chooses. He does not want abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he thinks it worth his while.'

Which, again, demonstrates that Darcy is capable when he wants to be. That is the crucial point. Autistic people fundamentally lack the ability to understand social cues, they cannot turn it on and off as they please because they are snobs.

So, now we come to the infamous line about Darcy's supposed social struggles, and I hope that I've provided enough context to the line to make you see that it should not be taken at face value:

'I certainly have not the talent which some people possess,' said Darcy, 'of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done.' 'My fingers,' said Elizabeth, 'do not move over this instrument in the masterly manner which I see so many women’s do. They have not the same force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I have always supposed it to be my own fault—because I will not take the trouble of practising. It is not that I do not believe my fingers as capable as any other woman’s of superior execution.'

Again, Elizabeth is not buying his excuses for even a single second and tells him if he feels like that, maybe he should put the effort in. She has seen him in numerous social settings and been thoroughly unimpressed with his behaviour which, when you consider his rudeness to her at the Meryton assembly, she has every right to be.

So, what do I make of the line?

Well, I think it's abundantly clear that Darcy absolutely can speak to people when he wants to. Perhaps, in his mind, he struggles to make that deeper connection and make friends easily. But making friends is not always easy, it's a process you must invest time and effort into. If you do not do that, it stands to reason that you will struggle. Plus, if you hold others to ridiculous standards (as Darcy does) without recognising and fixing the flaws within yourself, you're not going to have deep, lasting friendships.

While this quote may appear to be a moment of vulnerability where he does confess a fault of his, which is astounding given his pride, personally I do not think it was not a soul-searching exercise. It was to make Elizabeth stop grilling him. It was self-serving. Although, I don't think he's entirely lying. Darcy is veeeery careful with his words and though this statement is not considered and perhaps comes out rather abruptly, it doesn't necessarily follow that it isn't true. I can imagine that it is probably something he's felt for a while, yet it is a rather desperate attempt to defend himself from a woman who sees right through him.

I think perhaps Darcy does realise that he isn't as naturally gifted as other men he knows (such as Wickham, Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr Bingley) when it comes to forming acquaintances. However, he looks outwards and turns that bitterness against the world rather than looking inwards, reflecting upon himself and improving his manners which would be the correct thing to do. Thankfully, he later does this, but it took him twenty eight years...

In addition, Darcy appeared to have been under the illusion that he could coast by on Pemberley's reputation... which has always worked... until he met Elizabeth. For perhaps the first time, he encounters a woman who is not awestruck by him and his reputation and delivers the rebuke that he always needed.

So, while personally I'm inclined to believe there is some truth to his statement, as Mr Darcy is many things but he isn't a liar, I think it is said in desperation. His feeling stems from him knowing what he should do, but he can't be bothered to enact it... rather than any inherent social deficiency stemming from being neurodivergent.

Although, even if he does struggle socially, it's still no excuse for the rudeness he displayed to Elizabeth! My main issue with neurodivergent readings of Darcy is when they are deployed to defend his behaviour, when they attribute his rudeness to any potential neurodivergency and when they excuse his laziness. That is an awful message! Autistic people who struggle with social cues often do not, nor should they, go around insulting others. They should and often do put plenty of effort into being considerate and polite. In fact, I think, if anything, a love of rules makes us more likely to have good manners, rather than the reverse.

Ultimately, I'm not sure this line makes Mr Darcy the sympathetic-poor-sweet-innocent-shy-boy-autistic-representation that people want him to be. In fact it makes him look even worse, if anything. On matters such as these, he is every inch the conceited proud man he was widely believed to be at the Meryton assembly. Luckily, Elizabeth is an incredibly smart woman, who doesn't fall for it and immediately calls him out on his behaviour in a way that he has never experienced before. As she should!