#the pages are very difficult to take photos of...

[xitty]

I got my copy of Ensemble Stars!! Official Works vol. 2! Here's the case, I tried to show it has texture and the characters are embossed. It's very nice.

The book has events and scouts from Flowers of Wasteland/Neverland to Prison Breakers/Veiled Fragrance and FS1s from Shinobu to Sora. And it has casual autumn-winter outfits! And some extra, like the April Fool's Gundam Stars mechas.

Here's Primavera outfit and without jacket too! I wish we had illustrations of fine in their outfits without the jackets, for example in the backstage before or after a concert. I think they'd look so good. ^^

Some outfits have only a few notes but then there's Tsumugi's Burning Azaleas outfit hahaha. I pity the people who worked on his 3D model for this.

And the casual outfits! These are interesting because you don't always see them in full, except for the chibis. For example, Wataru's shoes are ankle boots! There are actually two cards you can see his feet in this outfit but he's indoors in both of them so he's not wearing the shoes.

[icewindandboringhorror]

Recent life photos

[emiliaoleary]

Hooking rugs that look like dogs

Here's how I do it:

The process I use is called rug hooking (not latch hook or punch needle or tufting, though it is the forerunner of the latter two techniques). Rugs are hooked by pulling loops of fabric strips or yarn through the holes of a base fabric with a coarse open weave, like burlap, or linen, or rug warp. The loops are pulled through the fabric with a squat-handled hook whose business end is shaped like a crochet hook.  There are no knots and the loops aren't sewed down in any way.  The whole thing stays put just by the tension of all those loops packed together in the weave of the foundation fabric.

This isn't a true detailed tutorial but a walk-through of my particular process. The same information is on my web page, emilyoleary.com .

I hook with yarn, rather than with cut strips of wool fabric, which is what many rug hookers use.  I can get a looser, more organic distribution of loops with yarn than I could with wool strips, which are hooked in neat lines. 

Mostly I use wool yarn. In terms of yarn weight, I can use DK, worsted, or Aran.  If I'm using thicker yarn, I leave more holes un-hooked; if I'm using finer yarn, I hook more densely or double up lengths of it.  I particularly like using single ply yarns (like Brown Sheep Lamb's Pride or Malabrigo Worsted).  I don't keep count, but I think I usually use around two dozen types and colors of yarn per dog.  

This is my yarn wall in my apartment. Mostly brown and gray yarn!

I start from a small drawing in my sketchbook, then I head to FedEx office to use a copy machine, blowing up the drawing repeatedly and experimenting with how big the dog rug should be. 

After transferring the image onto my linen, I immediately go over it with Sharpie, because the Saral is really difficult to see and really easy to rub off.

The rug is held taut by a PVC quilting frame that I set on my lap.

I push my hook down through the fabric with my right hand and my left hand stays below the fabric and guides the yarn while I pull it up and through with the hook. Not every hole in the fabric is hooked. Hooking every hole would make the rug too dense. I do hook pretty densely, though-- If you pick up one of my rugs you’ll see they have a slight curl to them, which is because they’re hooked pretty tight. I'm using all different weights and types of yarn, so it's a challenge to keep the overall tension even.

I hook my loops at varying heights to create a very low relief. Sometimes I trim the loops to make them fluffier or wispier or to shape a particular part. I look at a reference photo while I work and pull out and redo sections a lot.

My q-snap frame can accommodate the growing dog rug. I have extenders to make it bigger and I can clamp around my hooking.

The back of a rug looks like lines of little stitches. The lines are little worm trails snaking around because lines of hooking are not supposed to cross over each other. It's important to start a new length of yarn rather than cross over a stitch you already made! I read this when I first started and took it to heart. It makes it much easier to undo and redo hooking if you have to (and I redo sections A Lot). It also keeps the back from getting too bulky and resulting in uneven wear on the back of a functional rug that gets floor use.

When I’m done hooking everything I turn the rug over and brush watered-down Sobo glue on the edges of the dog, making sure to get one or two of the outermost lines of hooking. I do a couple coats of this thinned out glue. I'm careful not to use so much that it seeps to the front of the rug. When the glue is dry I cut the rug out, but I don't cut so close that the loops don't have any linen to keep them in.

​ It generally takes me at least several months to finish one dog rug. My hooking frame and yarn bag are very portable (though bulky) so I can hook out and about at coffee shops or the library or a brewery if there's enough space and light.

Hooking in the wild makes me an ambassador for making things in general and rug hooking in particular. I answer people's questions and always emphasize how relatively easy it is to get started hooking. Sometimes I get anxious that other people will hook rugs that look like mine but better, but I think that working in a traditional medium means you should share your knowledge for the good of the craft.

[darkmatilda]

𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐲𝐬𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐬 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: there’s a stranger living in your body. after a traumatic experience, you shed your own identity and adopt another—one that belongs to the sister of your captor. while spencer fights desperately to restore your lost memories, the rest of the team decides to use the piece of a person that lives within you to catch the unsub.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: continuation of metamorphosis, spencer reid x fem!bau reader, split narrative, amnesia and loss of identity, cult, hotch acts like a total bitch but it is explained later, a vague, even imprecise description of a psychiatric facility, forgive me for all the inconsistencies and plot simplifications because there are plenty of them lol (same goes for those few corny moments)

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 15k

𝐚/𝐧: sorry it took e so long to write the second part—it required a lot of planning. to make your reading more fun, you can use my reading game and see if you manage to get bingo <33 the biggest thanks to my dear @angellic4l not only coming up with this title but also for the overall help with planning, and to @mggslover for holding my hand during this difficult labour...

───────────────────────────────────

/ˈkrɪs.əl.ɪs/ a moth or butterfly at the stage of development when it is covered by a hard case before it becomes an adult insect with wings or the case itself

───────────────────────────────────

I am Lydia.

The cardboard box landed on the counter, accidentally knocking over a piece of paper, which Spencer didn’t even notice. Instead, he began placing the first items inside—items he honestly hadn’t expected to be so numerous. Choosing the first one proved immensely difficult. He paced the walls of his apartment, feeling as if his feet weren’t even touching the floor.

I am Lydia.

Bringing small, personal items is a therapeutic practice often used in cases of amnesia or identity disorders. Their presence, touch, and smell can sometimes break through the walls built in the mind of a person suffering from memory loss, shattering them and allowing everything that had once been separated to flood in like water through a broken dam. In theory, it sounded logical, even simple. In practice, someone had to choose the right items.

I am Lydia.

Even though days had passed since he saw her empty gaze settle on his face and her lips form that sentence, so certain of its truth, it still haunted him.

The kidnapping, the torture, the pretending—it had all completely broken her mentally, causing her to truly adopt the identity of her captors’ sister. She genuinely believed she had become her. First, she spent some time in the hospital to regain her strength, but very quickly—in fact, it was only the fourth day since her escape—she was transferred to a specialized psychiatric facility for federal agents.

And now he was about to visit her for the first time.

Reid spent the most time choosing the first item. Well, initially, he had only planned to bring one. One small thing—something that wouldn’t overwhelm her. He settled on her badge.

The moment his fingers gently lifted it, opened it, and his gaze fell on her expressionless face in the photo, he seemed to slip into a trance. She didn’t remember who she was, for heaven’s sake. The badge itself wasn’t a talisman that would magically restore all the lost years, names, faces, and relationships. So he decided to take something else too.

The earrings Penelope had given her for her birthday—her favorites, though their shape and color meant she never wore them to work, not wanting them to clash with her professional demeanor.

An old, used ticket to a musical she had already seen, still pinned to her fridge.

A handmade card from their godson, Henry. 

A book he had given her, its pages filled with two distinct handwritings—their separate annotations intertwining between the lines, overlapping at times like strands of hair in a braid.

Photos—all the photos he could find.

Before he knew it, he needed a box to take everything with him.

"Seriously, Spence?" JJ’s eyes widened in surprise as he slid into her car and set the box on the floor, reaching for his seatbelt. He avoided her gaze—just a little. "I’m not even sure they’ll let you in with that much stuff."

He shrugged. It was morning; they had arranged the day before to go together. Actually, it was JJ who had offered. Not only did she not want either of them to face this alone, but she also still seemed to feel a bit guilty for blaming him for her abduction.

He wasn’t offended. Not because he thought she didn’t have the right to blame him, but more because his mind was currently consumed by a much greater worry.

"Well, as long as I’m not bringing anything dangerous."

"They still might say it’s too much," she said, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. She took in his hunched, exhausted shoulders, the tension in his body—like he was bracing for a blow, caught in a state of perpetual waiting. For things to get better. Or worse.

She didn’t look much better herself, deep shadows under her eyes, but she was holding it together. JJ always held it together. Spencer sometimes caught himself wondering what it would take to truly break her—then immediately shut the thought down the moment he reached the obvious answer. It made him feel sick, and he refused to go there.

Suddenly, she pressed her lips together. "At least, I think so. I’ve never been there. Never..."

Her eyes fixed on the road. She had never had a reason to go.

When they finally pulled up to the facility and Spencer grabbed the box, JJ hesitated for a moment before stepping out of the car.

"We only have thirty minutes," she announced.

Spencer’s brows shot up in surprise, his mouth opening in protest, but she pressed her lips together—almost apologetically.

"I know it’s basically nothing," she admitted, "but Hotch wants us back at the office after. We’re starting a new case."

He already knew that.

Which didn’t mean it didn’t feel like a fucking joke.

After they got her out of the oil rig, the surviving kidnapper—Lavinia—had escaped. She reached a boat before the police helicopter hovered over the scene, something they hadn't been aware of at the time. After that, she vanished without a trace.

They should have been looking for her. She was a serial abductor, a murderer. She had nearly drained her of blood—had done it to other women before. But the official stance was that, after losing both her siblings—including her sister’s body—Lavinia had also lost whatever force had been driving her crimes. She wasn’t a danger to civilians, they said. She would rather disappear than strike again.

And in the meantime, there were other cases, more urgent ones. People abducted, children held captive—where hours, even minutes, could tip the scales between life and death. That was the nature of the job. Priorities. Because they couldn’t save everyone.

Spencer understood that. But he couldn’t just let her stay free. Neither could the rest of the BAU.

So they worked the case after hours, burning through sleepless nights.

It wasn’t like the FBI had entirely abandoned the search. Lavinia was a wanted fugitive. The first day after her escape, dozens of roads had been shut down, the entire country put on high alert. Airports had been monitored, all the usual places checked.

But Reid had a feeling it wouldn’t matter.

She was too smart. Too careful. Too experienced at running.

They wouldn’t find her in a location.

They had to find that location in her mind.

"Are you sure you can handle this?" she asked quietly as they got out of the car. She looked at him carefully her expression gentle, almost cautious. "You know, going in there, seeing her..."

"JJ, I could ask you the same thing," he cut in dryly. He didn’t like the way she was treating him like someone who needed to be handled with care. "Even if I'm not ready, it doesn’t matter. If she’s going to get her memories back, she needs to see the people she knew."

"I know. Her therapist said the same thing. I just want to make sure you're okay."

"Let's just go."

She gave him a long look, sighed, and let it go.

The moment he stepped over the threshold, a strange feeling washed over him. It didn’t surprise him—he even knew its name, which, given how common the term had become, wasn’t exactly impressive. Just a déjà vu. Recognition without recollection.

Just like JJ, he had never been to this place before. But his brain still reached for a memory that felt almost identical, if he really thought about it. Someone close to him, memory loss, hospital visits—the more he let his mind go down that path, the less prepared he felt, which was completely irrational.

And Spencer deeply hated when things in his life didn’t fit within his personal definition of logic. He felt uneasy dealing with things beyond its reach. He felt uneasy then. 

But he was already standing right in front of her door, which was slowly opening before them, and there was no turning back.

"Lydia, like I told you, you have visitors," the facility worker announced.

JJ looked at him, pale. His jaw also tensed when he heard the name the worker had used.

“It’s meant to reach her and gain her trust,” he explained to his friend in a whisper, the words barely making it past his clenched teeth.

He already knew he would simply speak to her without using any name at all. Nothing else would physically make it past his lips—more likely, it would get stuck in his throat and choke him first.

He adjusted his grip on the box. The room didn’t resemble a hospital ward; in fact, it was a rather cozy space with large windows and an abundance of flowers. Soft turquoise walls, dark flooring, a wooden floor lamp with a slightly old-fashioned shade adding a touch of character, and a small bookshelf filled with books. Spencer felt relieved that she hadn’t been placed in a setting that visually resembled the one where she had been held captive.

Before he managed to find her with his gaze, he exchanged one last glance with JJ. He gave her a small nod. It was okay. She nodded back.

The woman standing by the window turned to face her visitors. She was already dressed in casual, comfortable clothes instead of the ones she had been given at the hospital. Because of that, and the cozy decor of the room, she could have passed for an ordinary person, surprised by friends dropping by unannounced. For a brief moment Spencer felt exactly that way—like it was their day off, and he had just stopped by without warning, only for her to open the door with a pleasantly surprised expression, happy to see him, glad she had no other plans.

Recognition without recollection.

He had to shake off that feeling. But he didn't do it himself—her face did it for him. Marked by healing wounds and entirely indifferent to the sight of her friends. In fact, her gaze barely lingered on them before shifting uncertainly toward her therapist, thumb brushing against her lips. She lightly bit down on her nail—a reaction to stress.

She never used to bite her nails.

"These are your friends," the therapist informed her, stepping slightly to the side as if to encourage her to focus on Spencer and JJ. "You might not remember them. They just dropped by to talk, to see you."

Slowly, she looked at JJ first, then at him.

He caught himself overanalyzing her every smallest gesture and movement, searching for something familiar. If she were herself, her eyes would have gone to the box first. A foreign object, yes, but held by someone she knew, someone she was friends with, someone she saw almost every day—the box would have instinctively drawn her gaze.

But instead, she looked at him first. A stranger standing in her room. Only then did she glance at what he was holding.

"I can stay if you feel like you need me to," he continued. "But if you'd rather I leave..."

"Stay," she finally spoke.

Though her voice was quiet, Spencer heard her with an almost heightened frequency. Each syllable distinct, separate, rather than a fluid sound.

The therapist nodded but subtly shifted into the corner, giving them space to talk.

Spencer met her gaze and tried to speak, but no words came out.

"I'm JJ," his friend finally said, stepping forward toward the woman she used to greet with a hug and a kiss on the cheek on various occasions.

This time, she extended a stiff hand instead.

"Jennifer Jareau, actually. Or maybe...maybe you know who I am?"

She didn't answer. And by not answering, she didn't deny it either. And so, Spencer felt a surge of a naive hope.

"Should I?" she asked.

JJ closed her eyes longer than a normal blink, trying not to show how much it affected her. Meanwhile, Spencer was staring at the box—at a pair of colorful earrings lying on the cover of the book he had picked up. Only then did he notice its title. A Case of Identity by Arthur Conan Doyle.

Oh, fuck you, coincidence. Do you always have to mock everything?

"And I'm Spencer Reid," he replied after a brief silence from all sides. He tucked the box under his arm so he could also shake her hand. That seemed like the right thing to do—touch from familiar people might help her remember them.

Her hand wrapped around his uncertainly, lightly, as if testing the waters.

"These are, um, things that might interest you. They..." He hesitated, unsure if he should phrase it that way. But pretending she truly wasn’t herself didn’t seem particularly helpful in the process of recovering her memory.

She was herself—just buried deep within.

And they had to reach for her slowly, subtly.

"They belong to you."

Her lips parted in surprise.

He handed her the box, and she stared at it, bewildered, yet drawn to it.

His heart pounded faster, and he struggled to swallow, his throat suddenly tight.

Unmoving, he watched—along with JJ and the therapist—as she sat down on the bed and silently examined the items.

Each of them, in their own way, hoped for a breakthrough.

The musical tickets confused her. The earrings, she simply called pretty. When she picked up the book, she only glanced at the cover before setting it aside without a trace of interest.

“Where did you get these?” she asked. “You said they were mine, but that’s not true. I’ve never seen them before.”

Before anyone could respond, her fingers caught one of the many photographs.

“Oh, that’s you. Oh, this boy…” she sighed, surprised at the sight of Henry’s picture.

JJ shifted uneasily, her face lighting up with something close to hope.

“He looks just like my brother when we were kids. Same hair.” She let out a quiet chuckle before tossing the photos back into the box.

"You don’t—" Spencer started, his tone almost sharp, surprising even himself.

He had meant to say You don’t have a brother, but he managed to stop himself. So did JJ’s hand, gently reaching for his forearm in a subtle gesture of restraint.

He drew in a deep breath, wincing slightly.

"You have no idea what a smart kid he is. His name is Henry."

She nodded, her gaze drifting between him and JJ.

"Your son?"

"My son," JJ corrected gently.

She let go of his forearm, but before she did, her eyes flicked to his watch. And the time.

"Spence, we have to go," she murmured.

He looked at her in surprise, then at his watch.

She was right—the small window of time allotted for their visit was nearly up.

He couldn’t even begin to articulate how deeply disappointed he felt. He hadn’t expected her to recognize them immediately, but he had hoped for something—some flicker of familiarity. A gesture, an expression, a phrase she used to say. Or at the very least, some tension, some sign that deep down, something inside her was fighting to surface.

Instead, she acted like a stranger who had stolen his friend’s face.

After they said their goodbyes—or rather, after JJ said goodbye, because he hadn’t managed to—they walked out into the hallway in silence.

He was too shaken, too numb. His body felt disconnected from his mind, moving only out of ingrained habit. If his muscles hadn’t carried him forward automatically, he might have collapsed face-first onto the floor.

“It was the first meeting,” JJ said after a long moment. “With time…with time, it’ll get better.”

Spencer only looked at her, wanting nothing more than to believe that.

ʚଓ

He wanted to visit her the next day, and the one after that, but something always got in the way.

Specifically, work.

Over twenty-four hours on high alert during an attempt to rescue a kidnapped child—an attempt that not only failed but ended in tragedy, with the unsub still at large. His eyes burned from exhaustion, and the edges of objects blurred if he stared at one spot for too long. When he finally decided he couldn't push through any longer (the first of his three standard milestones before completely collapsing), Hotch assigned him to an interrogation.

They had managed to track down several people from whom Lavinia and Leon had been acquiring medications and medical equipment. Spencer personally considered it a waste of time; he was convinced that no one knew where the woman they were searching for was—except for herself, of course. But he couldn’t exactly refuse an order, so he headed to the dimly lit interrogation room, feeling as though his tie was slowly strangling him.

During the questioning, he inadvertently managed to extract a piece of information from one of the men. It didn't necessarily bring them closer to catching Lavinia, but it was something that absolutely warranted FBI follow-up. That alone took hours, and in the meantime, at least twice, the rest of the team consulted him about their current unsub’s profile (the second of his three standard milestones before completely collapsing).

And when it was already late at night, there was still the report.

Hotch had made it clear that he wanted to see it on his desk before either of them left the office.

So, Spencer hovered over the documents, their pages tinted yellow under the glow of the desk lamp. The ticking of the clock filled the silence, and in his exhaustion—pushed to the point of absurdity—his brain started generating the sound of a cricket chirping, as if bitterly and ironically emphasizing its opinion on this amount of work and staying this late.

He was dangerously close to the third milestone, so he took a detour around logic.

Instead of finishing the report and going home, he started procrastinating—his chin resting on his hand, a pen in his fingers feeling as heavy as a barbell. They always had packed schedules, but this was starting to get excessive. Suspiciously excessive.

There was a high probability that exhaustion alone was making him unusually receptive to conspiracy theories, but that didn’t change the fact that one had started to take shape in his mind— as if it didn’t already have enough to deal with.

Either he was imagining it, or the boss showed up with another task at the exact moment he finally managed to finish the last one.

He didn’t suspect Hotch of plotting to work him to death. But he did suspect—just a little—that he wanted to keep him at the office as long as possible.

And that’s where the conspiracy part began.

It crept into his mind hesitantly, uncertainly, suggesting that maybe—just maybe—this was meant to keep him from visiting her again.

Why?

Well, no logical explanation came to mind, though he tried hard to find one. He clung to the thought. It wouldn’t leave him alone. Was it just a tool to stretch out this hazy, half-dreaming moment of procrastination, or was there actually something to it?

He never answered that question because then, someone knocked on his office door. 

He quickly pulled the barely started report closer and pretended to be engrossed in it as Rossi walked in, a leather jacket slung over his shoulder.

"Have you even eaten anything today?" Rossi asked.

"Nice to see you too.

The older man stepped closer to his desk and placed a triangular sandwich in a plastic container on it. Spencer regarded it with mild surprise, but before he could thank him, Rossi spoke again.

"You've been here way too long," he noted. "I know you're using work to avoid thinking about everything that's going on. I get it, really, but you're going to burn yourself out, Reid."

Spencer gave a small shake of his head—not an energetic denial, just the barest movement.

"It's not like that," he refuted. "Not this time. I want to go home, but Hotch told me to finish this report."

"He could've had anyone else do it, seeing the state you're in."

"I'm not in any—"

Rossi cut him off with a sharp scoff.

"Have you seen yourself in a mirror lately?"

For a moment, Spencer just stared at him, exhausted eyes dull and unblinking. Then, without a word, he reached for the sandwich, his fingers trembling slightly from an excess of caffeine. Rossi sighed because, of course, he had noticed.

"How I look is the least of my concerns right now," Spencer muttered.

"This isn’t about anyone’s sense of aesthetics, though, forgive me for saying this—you look like hell. It’s about what’s happening to you."

He paused, waiting for Spencer to say something, but he simply stuffed his mouth with the sandwich, so Rossi decided to continue. He spared him the lecture about his health, though.

"What about her? Any progress?"

The food started to swell in his mouth, and he struggled to swallow it. The reason was simple. Guilt.

"I've only seen her once," he admitted. The thought gnawed at him. In a way, it was because of him that she had been kidnapped, he hadn’t done anything to save her, and after everything, he hadn’t even been there for her. Friend of the year, truly. The best she could have ever wished for. He felt the need to justify himself in Rossi’s eyes. To make sure he didn’t think he was avoiding her because he was too weak to face it. "But that’s only because I practically live here."

Rossi nodded, watching him analytically.

"From what I’ve heard, though, there hasn’t been any improvement," Spencer added after a moment.

"These things take time. But she’ll pull through soon, trust me."

"I don’t understand it," Reid blurted out, his voice slightly louder, shedding its usual apathetic tone. It had been festering inside him for days, growing, and he didn’t know why it chose to escalate and escape right then, in that dimly lit office—but he let it.

"She was holding up so well…I mean, what she went through was horrific, and I’d do anything to keep her from experiencing it…We watched those streams, you saw them too. She was pretending to be Lydia, I thought, No I didn't think she was actually becoming her…If that were true, she wouldn’t have done what she did then…”

"As you said, she’s been through a lot," Rossi replied, watching him with quiet concern. Because of course, Spencer’s voice had faltered as he got the words out, and with exhaustion clinging to him so completely, he must have looked like nothing more than a pathetic, broken mess. “Trauma finally caught up to her. Before, she was too focused on surviving. But now she’s safe. She has access to professional help, she has us, she has you. She’ll be okay,” he tried to reassure him. “Go home.”

“What?”

Reid froze, thinking he must have misheard.

“I said, go home. Get some rest. I’ll finish the report for you.”

“No, Rossi, you can’t—”

“As it happens, I can. I’d rather stay late for one evening than have to watch you in this state again tomorrow,” Rossi said, taking advantage of Reid’s surprise to snatch the report from right under his nose. He let out a chuckle when it became clear the report was practically blank.

At Reid’s incredulous look, he just shrugged. “What? I mean it. Go home. And tomorrow, I’ll do whatever I can to make sure you can go see her. Even if it means yelling at Hotch.”

He hesitantly rose from behind his desk, his gaze still fixed on it. He could see from Rossi’s expression that he was sincere, that he truly cared about him—and that feeling tightened something in his chest.

“I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Then don’t. Just go. Seriously, get the hell out.”

For the first time in days, a faint smile appeared on his lips. He grabbed his half-eaten sandwich and reached for the bag waiting for him beside his desk. Just as he slung it over his shoulder and cast one last grateful glance at Rossi before heading toward the door, they opened—without his doing.

In other words, they opened because someone else had stepped inside.

At the sight of Hotch, he froze, his fingers tightening anxiously around the strap of his bag.

At the sight of JJ standing behind him, his brow furrowed in deep confusion.

The two of them, here, at this hour? Right at the moment he was about to dump his responsibilities onto Rossi? Sometimes, fate really seemed to hate him.

"I need a word with you," Hotch announced, his face as unreadable as ever.

He didn’t seem surprised to see another team member there. JJ, on the other hand, was avoiding his gaze, her arms stiffly crossed over her chest. They both stepped inside, forcing Spencer to take a step back.

"Oh, Aaron, give it a rest already," Rossi sighed, rolling his eyes. "Just look at him. He looks like he’s about to drop dead any second now, and he probably will. It was cruel to make him stay in the first place—"

"Dave, this will only take a moment," Hotch cut him off.

"What is this about?" Spencer asked, his voice hoarse.

He was exhausted, desperate to go home, but he couldn't suppress his curiosity. Or the worry creeping in as he thought about it more. A chill ran down his spine, making him stand a little straighter. Had something happened? Was it about her? Had she regained her memory?No, judging by their expressions…

"I think we have an idea on how to catch Lavinia," JJ spoke up, glancing at her boss from the corner of her eye.

She seemed tense, almost hesitant, and Spencer couldn't help but wonder if this was truly a plan they had come up with together. What exactly did it entail to make her react this way?

"But it will require…uh, it will require—"

"We want her to hold a press conference," Hotch clarified for her, pausing to let the weight of his words fully register with Reid.

It didn’t.

Spencer had no idea what he meant. Neither did Rossi, who crossed his arms over his chest and silently mouthed what?

"We'll make sure it's broadcasted on every possible channel. Wherever Lavinia is, she's likely keeping track of the news and any police activity related to her," JJ continued, running her fingers through her hair in thought. "When she sees that she has her sister's identity… we're assuming she'll believe her ritual was a success, that Lydia truly has been reborn in her body."

Either due to exhaustion or because the plan simply made no sense, he struggled to follow their reasoning. But the longer he sat in silence, analyzing it, the more he started to grasp what they were trying to convey.

"But," Rossi began, crossing his arms. "Let's assume she does believe that. Then what? How exactly does that help us catch her?"

"Lavinia lost her brother and was left alone," Hotch said. "And for her, their sibling bond was always the most important thing. We believe she's delusional enough to actually believe this—more than that, to come back for someone she thinks is her sister. But she's also cautious and will likely consider the possibiity that we're setting a trap."

"Which means we need to plan this carefully. As... as Lydia, she has to be convincing. She needs to mention something only the two of them would know..."

Spencer raised his eyebrows higher and higher at the blonde woman.

"And how exactly is she supposed to do that if she's not Lydia and doesn't have that information?"

"Oh, c’mon, Garcia will definitely be able to dig up some details from their childhood. Besides, she spent some time with the twins. Leon told her a lot about them. She just needs to agree to say what we've rehearsed with her beforehand. And that's where we might have a problem—she might not want her sister, or well, someone who thinks she's her sister, to get caught” 

JJ paused for a moment, her gaze locking with his, catching his eye.

"You need to help me convince her," she asked.

For a brief moment, Spencer stood motionless, unsure of how to respond. Rossi didn’t seem to know what to say either. The two of them had managed to explain the plan reasonably well, but when he tried to imagine her in front of cameras, talking about her sister as if she truly was Lydia, as if she had really been reborn in her body, he felt a wave of nausea. He shook his head in disbelief.

“No. No, no, no way,” he started repeating, even though he wasn’t quite sure how to justify it yet. No, and that was it. “This…this is like encouraging her to stay Lydia. To stay without her true identity. What if it makes her condition worse?”

“It’s just one press conference. Alright, maybe two. Enough to gain Lavinia’s trust and suggest a place where they could meet. So far, there hasn’t been any progress, nothing we could undo or waste. At least…at least maybe we can catch the person who did this to her.”

Her words hurt because, in a way, she was right. There hadn’t been any progress they could ruin.  However, that didn’t mean he was going to agree to it. The small chance, the risky and somewhat flawed plan to catch Lavinia, shouldn’t matter more than the potential harm it could cause to her, their best friend. They should be helping her regain her memories, not feeding her head with new, false ones that didn’t belong to her and forcing her to speak of them convincingly, reinforcing the identity of an imposter.

"It will hurt her," he said quietly, trying to reach JJ, even though it was clear she had doubts too. She had to—this was about the godmother of her son. He clung to the belief that she had those doubts. He looked at both of them, including Hotch, who, it seemed, briefly lowered his gaze. "Do you really want to risk her health?"

He hesitated before responding. Spencer had long given up on deluding himself that he truly understood the emotions hidden behind that serious facade.

“We’ll consult with her therapist,” he finally decided. “But if he agrees, then that’s exactly what we’ll do. No matter your personal doubts.”

He exchanged glances with both of them before they left the room. JJ looked as though she wanted to stay and discuss it with him one more time, but his expression made it clear that he wasn't up for it, and she relented.

The only thing he wanted now was to go home. Thank goodness Rossi had agreed to finish that report for him.

ʚଓ

“She did something bad, didn’t she?” she asked. “That’s why you’re looking for her. And that’s why you want me to help you.”

She was sitting on her bed at the facility, one of the available books left open beside her when they walked in. She looked at JJ with clear distrust. The moment they brought up Lavinia, she tensed, and her responses became sharper, as if she was determined to defend her sister at all costs.

Spencer stood a few steps away, arms crossed over his chest, listening more than actively participating in the conversation. As always, he found himself staring at her. The injuries on her face were healing, and in theory, she should have been looking more familiar to him. But it was the opposite. Even in silence, she no longer resembled the person he once knew.

Missing someone who was right there beside you was something truly difficult to describe. He could say that the feeling only grew stronger the more time he spent with her, which felt almost paradoxical. When he visited her, he spoke little. He simply couldn’t bear the way she answered his questions or addressed him, treating him like a complete stranger.

He berated himself for it in his thoughts. She wouldn’t remember who she was if he didn’t communicate with her. On top of that, he was placing the entire burden of this situation on JJ. He rubbed his temples, feeling the growing pulse within them. Thanks to Rossi, he had managed to get home a little earlier, but that didn’t mean he had gotten any sleep. The thoughts and worries haunting him weren’t the kind he could simply jot down in the journal on his nightstand, pour out of himself, and empty his mind in the process. They had long since seeped into it.

He still didn’t trust the plan to capture Lavinia, even though he had agreed to go with JJ to the facility to discuss it with her. Deep down, he hoped she would refuse.

“You’re right,” JJ said after a moment of careful thought, choosing her words with great precision. “She did something wrong, something that can’t be undone. But running only makes things worse. If she comes back on her own, the consequences will be far less severe. Someone has to convince her, and we thought you would be the best person for that,” she paused, her lips trembling before she forced out the next words. “As her sister.”

He watched as the woman swallowed, hesitation nesting in the corners of her face. Spencer, looking at her, tried to pierce into her mind and decipher the inner monologue unfolding within. What did it look like from the inside? Did she truly believe she had become someone else, or was there a lingering feeling that something was off?

How far would he have to go, wander, and search to stumble upon the remnants of her true identity—something that could be rebuilt and revived?

The sound of a phone ringing broke the silence. JJ reached into her pocket and whispered a quick apology before stepping out into the hallway, leaving them alone.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. An unpleasant feeling coiled in his stomach.

"You can sit," she finally said, nodding toward the spot their friend had occupied just seconds ago. "If you want."

"I’m fine," he replied.

A moment later, he sat down.

Something strange began to weigh down the air the moment he did. Physically, he was close to her, yet for once, physical proximity did not define reality—it deceived it. They were far apart, so far that he had no idea what to say. What to talk about with her.

"If Lavinia comes back," she suddenly began, shifting her gaze to him and fixing it on his face. Did something in her subconscious recognize him? "Will I be able to see her?"

He hesitated before answering. If he denied it—if he truthfully said that if Lavinia came back, she would never leave prison again—he would likely cause her to refuse. Hotch’s entire plan would collapse before it even began because she wouldn’t agree to take part in the press conference.

“Yes,” he finally forced out, against his better judgment. He didn’t know what had tipped the scale. He had been ready to observe his team’s scheme from the sidelines, yet he couldn’t face her alone. “If it works. And she comes back.”

For a moment, her expression blurred, her gaze unfocused. She must have been lost in the vision of seeing her sister again—he could almost swear the corners of her lips lifted in a dreamy, longing way. He looked away, unable to watch as the thought of someone who had hurt her so deeply evoked a better reaction than seeing him did.

JJ still hadn’t returned—she must have received an important call. They sat in silence. His gaze landed on the cardboard box in the corner of the room, the one filled with the things he had brought her. He recalled the frantic state he had been in while packing it, grabbing item after item, hoping they would help restore her memory. They had failed. Maybe they had never had that kind of power to begin with. Maybe he should try himself instead of relying on keepsakes.

“H-how…how do you feel here?” he asked at last, hesitating. “I mean…in this place.”

She seemed surprised that he was starting a conversation with her. She studied him for a moment without saying a word, then shrugged slightly.

“It’s nice here,” she said. There was a lot of emptiness between her words. There wasn’t much more she could say when she wasn’t there entirely by choice. Or even fully understood why she was there. “Just a little boring. I mostly read.”

He felt even guiltier for not spending more time with her. He was just about to speak when she added:

“And I really miss my siblings.”

Spencer stayed silent, not knowing how to respond. He got angry every time she said something like that—not at her, of course, but at everything that had happened to her, everything that had led her to this state.

“It’s good that you have books,” he said quietly. “Have you read the one I gave you?”

She furrowed her brows before finally remembering.

“Oh, that one. No, sorry. I don’t think it’s really my thing. What about you? Do you like it?”

He nodded.

"One of my favorites."

"Maybe I should give it a chance, then," she mused.

Spencer nodded again. He remembered the annotations in it, the small pencil notes in the margins. They had both written down what they thought the solution to the mystery would be.

"I think you'll like it. It's Sherlock Holmes."

"Then no wonder it's one of your favorites. I mean, you're with the police, right?"

"With the FBI."

"And you're here, visiting me, because something happened to me."

He froze on the spot, not expecting the conversation to take this turn. Was she starting to remember something? He struggled to find words, so he just nodded again. The pressure inside him grew, tightening his chest and buzzing in his head. 

"Yeah. Yeah, that's why...Do you remember anything?"

He hoped she would hesitate, that something would start to break through the fog clouding her mind. He waited for her answer, his gaze locked onto her with quiet desperation.

She shook her head.

"Nothing at all," she said.

Spencer couldn't hold back a disappointed sigh, and at the sound of it, she flinched slightly.

"I'm sorry."

Their eyes met and held for a long moment.

He was about to say she had nothing to be sorry for—that none of this was her fault—but something in her gaze stopped him. There was sadness there, the kind you don’t direct at a stranger. Unless, of course, you're a natural-born empath. But usually, it's just a trace of pity, dusted with awkward sympathy.

With her, it was genuine sorrow. And something else.

She looked away.

"I'm back," JJ announced, stepping through the doorway and tucking her phone into the pocket of her jeans.

Her eyes landed on them, sitting side by side. It was clear what they had been talking about. For a brief second, her expression brightened—but then she caught sight of their faces and hesitated, momentarily thrown off.

"It was...a call about the conference happening tomorrow," she explained. "The one we really want you to be part of."

A moment of silence stretched between them as JJ cast a meaningful look at the woman sitting beside him.

For a second, it was impossible to tell what she was going to say. Would she refuse, realizing that their main goal was to capture her sister? Or would the need to see her again win out? And, more importantly, had she believed him earlier?

"What do you want me to say?" she asked.

Her tone sounded like agreement.

Spencer exchanged a glance with JJ, wondering if she truly believed they were doing the right thing.

"We'll give you a script and go over everything with you, so don't worry," JJ assured her. "We just need to know...hm...we need to know if you and Lavinia had any places that were important to you as siblings…”

They spent another hour at the facility, listening to her suggestions—her memories, or at least what she believed to be memories.

She knew a surprising amount.

And the worst part was that she spoke with such conviction, as if she genuinely believed she had lived through it all.

ʚଓ

You had never been in front of cameras before.

Or rather, you had once, a long time ago, but the experience was so small and insignificant that it had disappeared from your memory. You had never stood in front of cameras knowing that everything—your face, your voice, your body language, your behavior—would be broadcast on national television.

You were incredibly nervous, despite all the preparation. You didn’t have to think about what to say; you simply followed the guidelines given to you by the agents working with you. They handed you the script that you had built together. They told you that Lavinia might not believe you were really her sister, which seemed absurd to you. Why wouldn’t she believe it? You were family. You came from the same womb, and you had always, always trusted each other. No one provided you with an explanation, and eventually, you gave up on the questions, focusing on other things instead.

Your words had to be planned. They had to form a code, one that could only be understood by her, for her. There were going to be two conferences. In the first, you only had to introduce yourself. Show that you were truly yourself, whatever that meant. In the second... they hadn’t explained that to you yet. But they had asked about some place that only you two knew about. You didn’t understand why, but you felt a strange emptiness in your head when they asked. The more you thought about it, the more anxiety gripped your body. What if you couldn’t name any place? What if you never saw your sister?

Finally, you managed to force out the name of your family’s hometown. The last foster family you were sent to. You hadn’t been there long, only two years, but it was the only place that truly felt like home.

"Please, be honest with me. Did I do well?" you asked, looking at the blonde woman.

 JJ, as they called her.

She bit her lip, hesitating before answering. It was right after the conference, and she had taken you for a walk outside the center so you could clear your head a little. It was nice to finally leave that strange place. The trees were much more beautiful when you could walk past them instead of being confined to watching them through a window. Why did you have to stay there? Why couldn’t you just go back to...you didn’t even know where. To Lavinia, you could have said.

"Well, it was clear you were stressed," she started, and you frowned, so she quickly added, "But don’t worry. It’s normal, anyone would be stressed in your shoes. The important thing is that you got all the necessary information across. In two days, you'll have another conference, and I'm sure you'll do better then."

For a moment, you stared at her in silence. It seemed like she wasn’t telling you the whole truth. That, secretly, she was dissatisfied. in fact, it always felt like you weren’t getting access to the full truth. There were always these unspoken things, doubts. People even looked at you in a strange way. Her and that other agent.

Oh, especially him. Although looked was too strong a word. He avoided your gaze. Spencer, the surname slipped your mind. Spence, JJ called him.

She didn't form an opinion about either of them, but while she could say that JJ was nice and seemed to care about her, she couldn't say the same about him. He appeared less often, spoke little, and when he did, it seemed like he forced himself to say each word, holding back a grimace every time she opened her mouth. However, he stared at her when he thought she wasn't looking.

How should she interpret such behavior? The more she tried to understand it, the more she thought about him, and when she did, a buzzing filled her head, like the sound you get from awkwardly adjusting a radio dial.

JJ’s phone started ringing, and with a sigh, she reached into her jeans pocket, murmuring apologies under her breath.

You decided to focus on the walk, pushing aside thoughts of the press conference, of finding Lavinia, and of the peculiar agent for a brief moment. It wasn’t like they wouldn’t let you leave the four walls of your room entirely. You just couldn’t leave the building alone, and while someone always accompanied you, with JJ by your side, you felt much less watched. More at ease.

“What? What happened?” she asked, pressing the phone tighter to her ear. Suddenly, her eyes widened. “Oh. I understand, I understand, I’m so sorry. It’s just…Will’s not home, would you be able to...yes? Thank you...”

You watched with curiosity as she tucked the phone away. She seemed slightly shaken, but not completely rattled.

“It’s the neighbor who was supposed to take care of my little one,” she explained, noticing the look on your face. “She called because her mom was admitted to the hospital...My husband is also at work, so I asked her to drop him off here. Hope it’s not an issue if we head back a little earlier?”

You felt a bit disappointed, but understood that these things happened. You shook your head in denial and soon, you both turned back toward the center. Within minutes of walking, a car pulled up beside you, and a small boy jumped out. The woman behind the wheel offered a few more apologies before driving off.

JJ looked at her son, then at you. She swallowed and made a sound, as though searching for the right words, probably about to introduce you, but the blond-haired boy beat her to it.

In fact, he threw himself into your arms.

“Auntie!” he exclaimed joyfully, colliding with you, his little body crashing against yours.

At first, you completely froze in place, not expecting this at all. But as the initial shock passed, or rather just a fraction of a second earlier, you reacted almost instinctively, holding the boy tightly and closing your eyes with a strange feeling of relief in your chest.

When you opened your eyes, you immediately caught JJ’s gaze. 

You hold it for too long, and by then, you already knew she knew.

ʚଓ

"Are you leaving?"

Spencer didn’t freeze upon hearing his boss’s question. In fact, he was—he had finished his work and had every right to do so. He slung his bag over his shoulder and gave a confirming nod.

"As you can see."

The coldness in his tone had long since slipped out of his control. He was too tired for anger, so he stuck to his short, sharp replies and cynically thrown statements, all while ignoring the echoing question in his mind if was this behavior leading him anywhere? 

"Reid," Hotch called him back before he could take even a single step away. Lately, it seemed like he was constantly holding back a tired sigh. Well, with one of their team members suffering from memory loss, a serial killer still on the loose, and yet another case just beginning, it was taking a toll on all of them.

"I have to ask you not to visit her today."

He remained silent for a moment before letting out a short laugh. He wasn’t particularly surprised to hear something like that from Hotch. Well, he would have been once. But lately, things had changed a lot between them.

"There's another press conference tomorrow," Hotch explained, watching his reaction without so much as blinking. "She did terribly at the last one. I assume you're aware of that. If we want everything to go according to plan—"

"We have to keep letting her believe she's Lydia, resurrected through some ritual," he finished sarcastically. A surge of anger clenched his chest, but it faded quickly, replaced by nothing more than sheer disappointment. That was probably the best word for it.

"This is hurting her. What does it matter if we catch Lavinia if she ends up staying like this forever?"

His voice wavered slightly, and for a brief moment, it seemed like something close to concern flickered in Hotch’s eyes before he pushed it down.

"Recovering memories takes time, Reid. Just because she hasn’t yet—"

"Oh, I’m well aware that it takes time. You don’t need to explain that to me." He exhaled sharply, irritation laced in his tone. "What I also know is that by now, there should have been some progress. Even the smallest sign."

He took a deep breath, recalling the last time he saw her. After that conversation about books—when he thought he'd caught something strange in her expression—he had stuck to his decision and visited her as often as work allowed. He had hoped to dig down to that spark again, to turn it into something bigger. But maybe he had been wrong. Despite the few conversations they’d had since, her eyes still didn’t light up at the sight of him like they once did. There was only unfamiliarity in them.

"Don't you think it might be different if we didn't force her to pretend in front of cameras that she's someone else? Or if you didn’t keep me here until ridiculous hours, making it impossible for her to see the people she actually knows?"

"I'm only keeping you here as long as necessary. And right now, it is very necessary."

"Or," Reid lowered his voice, suddenly aware of the weight of his own words, "you're doing it on purpose, so she doesn't regain her memories too quickly."

A shadow flickered across Hotch’s face.

"Because that wouldn't be convenient for the case."

Reid swallowed. "I thought… I thought you could see us as more than just coworkers, Hotch."

His boss’s jaw tensed, but it didn’t stop him from continuing. Before he spoke again, Spencer took a deep breath, making sure his voice was even lower. If he was going to say this, he was going to be brutally honest.

"Because we’ve always seen you as more than that. As family. At least—I did."

For a moment, they remained motionless before Reid finally tore his gaze away from Hotch’s unreadable face and walked away, not giving him a chance to respond. Not that he thought Hotch would have continued the conversation anyway.

Lowering his eyes to his hands, he realized they were trembling. He clenched them into fists to stop it. He had let out a lot, but it hadn’t brought him any relief. If anything, saying it out loud had made it hurt even more.

He left the office with measured steps, his breathing slightly uneven. Despite the request that had started this conversation—this argument, or rather his own bitter monologue—he decided to go there anyway. To her.

A strange nervousness settled in his chest, a sense of foreboding he couldn’t shake. His desperation had reached its peak. He knew this visit wouldn’t be like the last ones, when he had carefully measured his words, speaking softly so as not to overwhelm or frighten her.

This time, a little turmoil—some real emotion—might be exactly what was needed.

It might be the spark.

He was afraid that Hotch might have made a call revoking his right to visit her. So, upon arriving at the facility, he tried not to draw attention to himself and slipped into her room as discreetly as possible.

She was sitting by the window, a closed book resting on her lap. She wasn’t reading, but the moment she heard the door open, she suddenly grabbed it, as if caught off guard. However, when she saw that it was him, the book fell limply in her hands.

“Um, hi,” she said, showing him the book’s cover. It wasn’t the one they had discussed. “I still haven’t started that one, I’ll admit it. But like I said, I don’t think it’s really for me…”

She trailed off, watching as he approached the small bookshelf and pulled out the book in question—the one filled with their shared notes and annotations.

Gripping it a little too tightly, he sat down across from her.

“But I think it is for you,” he said. His voice came out weak, despite his efforts to keep it steady, despite the storm of emotions raging inside him.

He handed her the book—almost pushed it into her hands.

“Open it.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“On any page. Please.”

It was clear she had no idea what he was getting at or why he was staring at her so intensely. But he wasn’t asking for the impossible—just for her to open a book—so she only sighed quietly and complied, curiosity flickering in her eyes.

She flipped to the first page and started skimming through, too fast and too carelessly.

“Read the margins,” he urged, his voice rough with something dangerously close to pleading. He swallowed hard. “D-do you recognize it?”

The woman remained still, her gaze tracing the pencil-written sentences on the pages. For a moment, Spencer could hear nothing but the pounding of his own heart, drowning out everything else.

“You wrote them.”

She let out a surprised scoff and shook her head.

“I’m seeing this for the first time in my life.”

“It’s your handwriting,” he repeated, louder this time. “Yours. Our notes. I gave you this book a while ago. Three years ago. Exactly one thousand one hundr—”

“I’m seeing this for the first time in my life!” she cut him off, raising her voice as well. She lifted her hands as if to cover her face, to steady her breath that was growing too fast, too out of control.

Spencer caught them—too abruptly. She flinched when her skin touched his.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, loosening his grip but not letting go. He simply held her hands as gently as he could, momentarily paralyzed by the sensation. He rarely exchanged handshakes, but when he did, he remembered them vividly. This touch, this specific feeling, was the only thing about her that had remained unchanged.

He smiled faintly, in a way that was both bewildered and heartbreakingly fragile.

The woman remained silent. Her gaze was fixed on their intertwined hands, her chest rising and falling in erratic rhythm.

"Look at them again," he pleaded. "Do you recognize them? Your handwriting? Your thoughts?" He paused to swallow. "Do you recognize me?"

Their eyes met. Hers were wide, his head tilted slightly in a silent, almost prayerful gesture. And then, gently, almost imperceptibly, she nodded.

For a fleeting moment, he thought he might have imagined it. His breath halted entirely.

"You recognize me?"

"I do," she replied.

She looked down, but not at their hands this time—just away, retreating for a second.

"You're the agent working on my case. Because something happened to me. Something involving my sister. You visit me, so yes, I do recognize you."

All the hope that had begun to build within him shattered. It escaped as a short, broken sound—somewhere between a whimper and a sob of sheer helplessness.

For a moment, he thought it had worked.

That he had her.

That he had her back.

Spencer drew in a breath—he had to.

And then he did something absolutely spontaneous, reckless, unreasonable… in some way, even downright selfish.

For one last time, he lowered his gaze to their hands, shut his eyes, and leaned forward—before logic could catch up to him.

The unexpected pressure of his lips made her freeze. Shock tightened her grip on his hands, but otherwise, she barely moved. Holding her breath—just like him.

For him, it was tied to anticipation, to a foolish sliver of hope.

He had no idea why he, Dr. Spencer Reid, a devoted friend of reason, had chosen such a… fairy-tale-like gesture. Did he truly believe it would work? Some tiny part of him must have. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have done it.

And, God, he almost wanted to laugh at his own stupidity.

But then something happened that stopped him from laughing at himself.

She moved within the kiss—not to return it, but to examine it, almost as if she were testing something. He inhaled sharply through his nose, just as she jerked away from him as if burned, her eyes blazing with fury.

She said something, but he couldn’t hear it over the deafening rush in his ears. It happened. She…

"I want you to leave," the words spilled from her lips—lips he had just kissed.

It was like waking up from a trance. He shook his head.

“N-no, I— but I—”

“Before I call security.”

Spencer stared at her, his eyes wide. She looked straight into them, not avoiding him.For what felt like the thousandth time, he searched for something familiar in them. Anything.

She yanked her hands free from his grasp and nodded toward the door.

ʚଓ

two weeks earlier

Even though you had regained consciousness some time ago, you remained in a state of half-sleep for a while—where sounds around you alternated between growing louder and fading away, where your body sometimes floated on soft waves and at other times lay buried beneath tons of rubble, where your eyelids trembled against the hospital room’s light.

You forced them open with difficulty, immediately colliding with someone’s dark irises. Upon noticing your movement, they softened with fleeting relief—but only for a brief moment.

"It’s good to have you back," he said, though his voice carried no real ease. On the contrary, it was filled with an insistent tension that compelled him to speak again before you could utter a word. You were in a hospital. The events of the past few days began flashing through your mind.

“Am…I…” you started, but your weak, hoarse voice made it barely intelligible. You forced yourself to swallow. “Am I safe now?”

You needed to hear it from someone else to believe it.

Hotch didn’t answer your question. He just stared at you, motionless.

“She escaped,” he stated simply.

A crushing noise filled your ears. How was it possible that she had managed to get away? Just picturing that woman’s face, remembering the suffering she had inflicted on you, sent a jolt through your body.

You gathered every ounce of strength you had—some borrowed on credit—and pushed yourself up into a sitting position so you could look your boss in the eye.

“No.”

You shook your head, refusing to accept this reality. In truth, you wanted to scream—at Hotch, at the team, at everyone involved in the rescue mission for somehow letting this happen. At yourself, for not making sure you’d be free once and for all, the way you had with Leon. His memory flashed too vividly before your eyes—or rather the memory of his shattered skull.

You looked down at your hands. The blood had been washed away.

You almost choked on air as another wave of realization crashed over you.

“No,” you repeated. “We have to do something, Hotch. We have to catch her as soon as possible. Are there even any active searches? What about the airports and—”

“We’ve implemented all necessary procedures,” he assured you. “But keep in mind how cunning an escape artist Lavinia is. We might not be able to track her down right away. And if she refrains from further kidnappings, if she withdraws from the criminal world…”

“You’re telling me we might never catch her?”

Hotch remained silent for a long moment.

“Not exactly,” he finally said. “I’d say we might not be able to catch her using standard methods.”

He had only suggested it. The rest—the entire plan—was almost entirely your creation. The mere thought of Lavinia roaming free somewhere, even far away, made you sick to your stomach. You knew the nausea wouldn’t subside until handcuffs adorned her wrists. Just like the nightmares, the fear, and the lingering psychological terror wouldn’t fade. You were willing to sacrifice a lot.

In a way, even your own identity.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Hotch asked, once everything had been decided. "Do you really think you can pull off being Lydia? Enough to fool her own sister?"

You nodded without hesitation.

For a moment, he just stared at you, searching for any sign of doubt. Though he was a man of reason and logic, in crisis situations, he could commit to even the most reckless plans—if he saw a glimmer of hope, even the slightest chance of success.

"Hotch," you called out just before he stepped away from your bed, before he could leave the room.

Your throat felt dry again.

This next part—this next decision—you weren’t as sure about. But there was no time for hesitation. You had to trust your instincts. They had saved your life before.

"This stays between us."

His face flickered with surprise.

"If I’m going to become her, I need to believe it, at least in part," you explained. "I have to immerse myself as fully as possible. I can’t do that if every one around me knows the truth and keeps treating me like me. That’s why you can’t tell anyone."

"Not even…?"

Alone in the room, you touched your lips.

Spencer had just left—or rather, you had made him leave.

You had to.

You couldn't allow the mask you'd so carefully crafted to slip, even a little. Yet every time you spoke to him, it loosened, piece by piece. That was why you had asked Hotch to keep him away, to make sure he wouldn’t visit you again. When he agreed, when he kept the two of you apart, you knew there was no turning back. You were fully committed to the plan now.

At some point, you caught yourself linking Lavinia with the concept of a sister, losing track of your own reality, getting tangled in the web of your own thoughts and memories.

It had gone too far.

The only thing that stopped you from completely losing yourself was the conversation you'd had a few days ago, right before your first press conference. That conversation had been both a relief and a disappointment.

Because of it, you'd faltered.

And in this plan, everything depended on you.

You couldn’t afford another mistake.

Meanwhile, tomorrow's press conference loomed, and you sat by the window, an open book resting on your lap, still feeling the ghost of his lips on yours.

Your mind was clear. Sharp.

More aware of who you were—who you really were—than ever before.

Fuck.

ʚଓ

"If Lavinia watched the last press conference—and let’s hope she did—she’ll probably watch this one too," JJ muttered, standing across from you in the room where you were getting ready. Neither of you met the other's gaze, like two bullets that would explode on impact, tearing everything apart. "She probably already suspects you’re trying to send her a message, but she won’t think the FBI is involved. You need to mention the town where she and Lydia grew up, but subtly. Don’t say the name outright, just hint at it, maybe—"

"The town where we grew up," you cut in.

The words felt strange in your mouth. Just yesterday, calling Lydia yourself had been instinctive, as natural as breathing. But then Spencer happened. Then that stupid kiss happened. And after that, nothing felt natural anymore.

JJ’s correction made her look you in the eyes for the first time since she had figured it out—since your reaction to Henry hgging you had given you away.

You knew Hotch had let her in on the plan and ordered her not to tell anyone. But that didn’t mean she supported your actions. In fact, once the initial shock and relief had passed, all that was left was anger. Until now, she hadn’t allowed herself to explode or confront you.

Until now.

“How…how can you even do this?” she snapped suddenly, shaking her head in genuine disbelief. “Lying to us like this, playing a role while we’re all worried about you. Me, Derek, Emily, Penelope…” She started listing the team membersbut the last name got caught in her throat. She didn’t say it with frustration—just a quiet, precise accusation. “Spencer. Do you even know what he’s going through? And can you imagine how he’ll react when he…”

"And do you have any idea what I’m going through?" you hissed, completely breaking character. "Knowing that the woman who kidnapped me, tortured me, made me take care of a dead body, tried to drain my blood, and nearly killed me is still out there, living free?"

You scolded yourself immediately, ordered to get back into the act. The press conference was starting in just a few minutes—you had to stay in character. But it was unbelievably difficult when your best friend didn’t even seem to try to understand your situation.

"And you really think this is the only way to catch her?" JJ pressed. "This was reckless from the start—"

"It’s not the only way, but it’s the one I chose," you cut her off. "And trusting my own plans, relying on myself and my instincts, is what saved my life. When you couldn’t. So, forgive me for sticking with what works."

Her eyes remained wide open, her chest still, as if she had forgotten how to breathe. When she finally tried to draw air into her lungs, her whole body trembled.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to steady the shaking inside. You had hoped that letting out the anger—so deeply tied to who you were—would help you set it aside. At least for the duration of the press conference.

You both knew it was time to leave the room. JJ seemed to be waiting for you to turn toward the door.

"You could have at least told us," she said quietly.

Your hand closed around the doorknob, holding it too tightly, for too long.

For a moment, you were back in that small, freezing room where Lydia’s body had lain. Her hair fanned out over the pillow, the teeth of a comb gently untangling each strand. Her wrists, marked by wounds. The door that never opened. The closet where you had spent an entire day—the only way to survive the cold without freezing to death.

"No," you said simply. "I couldn’t."

ʚଓ

Spencer had a feeling that JJ had been acting strangely for a while now.

It was hard to pinpoint whether it had been like this from the very beginning. Ever since this whole thing started, they hadn’t actually spent much time together. Most hours, he was buried in work. Sure, they usually went to the facility together, but during those moments, his mind was occupied with other things—not with analyzing whatever was hidden in her expression.

They found themselves facing each other across the jet, separated only by a table and some sort of barricade that seemed to have appeared relatively recently. She avoided his gaze. Her answers were more general, but then she would almost as if reconsidering, add something after the pause. It was as though she was aware that her behavior betrayed whatever it was she was hiding, and she was desperately trying to mask it. The thing was, it was too late.

Or maybe she was just tired, like all of them, like him. Or maybe it was him slipping into paranoia again. What could she possibly be hiding from him? His gaze involuntarily shifted to Prentiss, sipping her coffee.. For a long time, he had struggled to forgive them for the lie, but eventually, he understood that it had been necessary. The circumstances had justified it. But now? What is happening now? 

He was quickly distracted by the sight of someone else. The whole team was present on the jet, including her. During the conference, she had done what they asked of her, subtly encoding the message in the meeting. They hoped that Lavinia, driven by the desire to reunite with her beloved sister—who had been brought back from the dead—would not only understand it, but also respond by showing up at the brief location mentioned.

Asheville was a city in North Carolina, where the triplets had been taken in by one of the many foster families throughout their lives. It was said to have truly been their home, the only place where they hadn’t experienced the cruelty of another human being, someone who was supposed to care for them.

Spencer watched her staring out of the window. Of course, she believed it was her first time flying on a jet. She sat directly across from Prentiss, who, by the way, had initially been against bringing her along. In the end, they hadn’t taken her for her knowledge of the area, which she clearly didn’t have, but to possibly lure Lavinia in.

"The couple that adopted them back then is no longer acting as foster parents to anyone," Morgan sat down next to them, his nose buried in the prepared files, flipping through them with little emotion. "The siblings spent exactly three years with them, from the age of fifteen to eighteen. After that, their trail goes cold until the first kidnapping. Doesn’t it make you wonder what happened to them during that time?"

Spencer shrugged. He didn’t feel very present in his body.

“Maybe they’ll answer that question for us,” JJ muttered. Of course, they had planned to interrogate them. “Assuming they know themselves. What exactly do they do, by the way?”

Mrs. Thomas opened the door for them, pressing a hand to her chest at the sight of the FBI on her doorstep. She was dressed in a brown button-up dress with a simple pattern, fastened high at the neck. She appeared outwardly elegant, but Spencer noticed that the fabric of her dress was visibly wrinkled, her eyes looked tired, and her face was gaunt.

“My husband isn’t home,” she announced almost immediately. Then, suddenly, her lips parted in alarm. “Oh, God, did something happen to him…?”

Morgan quickly reassured her with a gesture of his hand.

“This is about something else entirely. Actually, we’d just like to talk.”

They were invited inside. JJ accompanied them as well, while the rest of the team had been assigned to other tasks related to the search for Lavinia. Also, someone also had to keep an eye on her. Of course, they couldn't bring her to the Thomases. To them, she would be nothing more than a stranger claiming to be their former foster child.

When the woman was asked about the triplets, her face showed a tense expression, not entirely decipherable but clearly strained.

“Did you keep in touch after they reached adulthood?” JJ asked at one point during the conversation, as they were led into a living room filled almost entirely with dark mahogany furniture.

“Our paths diverged,” she stated curtly. Most of her responses followed the same pattern—brief and carefully measured.

"Has any of them tried to contact you recently?"

She watched Spencer closely as he glanced around the room. He wasn’t doing it out of nosiness—it was simply a profiler’s instinct. He always paid great attention to his surroundings, fully aware that clues could sometimes be found in the deepest corners of a home.

"You just asked if we kept in touch, and my answer was no. So I think it’s not hard to figure out that my answer to this question will be exactly the same."

There was no television inside. He wondered if she kept up with the news, if she had heard about the recent events and the ongoing search for Lavinia. He exchanged a meaningful glance with Morgan. She had taken on a passive-aggressive stance, seeming more than just displeased with their presence. Not even displeased—stressed.

“Mrs. Thomas, what made you decide to become foster parents all those years ago?” Reid asked, slipping his hands into the pockets of his blazer.

It wasn’t directly related to why they had come, but he needed to loosen her tongue somehow—perhaps get her to share something important, even by accident. The woman let out a short sigh before answering.

“My husband and I were never able to have children.”

“So you decided to take in three teenagers at once?”

“That’s admirable,” JJ interjected immediately, shooting him a look. “I mean, a huge responsibility, but also a beautiful gesture.”

The woman looked at her blankly.

When asked further questions about the siblings, she answered only as much as she had to, avoiding any details.

Yes, they were fifteen when they came to us. Yes, they were exceptionally close. Smart kids, always looking out for each other. Their mother died in childbirth. Their father abandoned them, as far as we know.

At that last part, her clasped hands tightened, causing her knuckles to turn slightly white.

Morgan raised his eyebrows.

JJ kept the conversation going while Spencer moved closer to a large bookshelf filled with books and what looked like typical family memorabilia. He could feel Mrs. Thomas’s gaze on his back.

His attention was drawn to a photograph of none other than the three blond-haired triplets, nearly indistinguishable from one another. Their hair fell to their shoulders, the only difference being their facial expressions. Lydia had a gentle smile, Lavinia stared straight into the camera, and Leon’s gaze wandered elsewhere.

They were all dressed in identical white garments resembling tunics and stood in front of a poster, partially obscuring a purple inscription in the background.

“They were the first children you and your husband decided to foster… and also the last,” JJ continued. “Was there a reason for that? Did they cause any issues that might have influenced your decision not to take in more children in the future…?”

Her voice faded as Spencer’s mind suddenly sharpened. A few pieces of information clawed at the edges of his memory, begging to be released from one of the countless overstuffed filing cabinets in his head.

Morgan stepped closer, intrigued by Spencer’s abrupt stillness. When he glanced at the photo, he didn’t see anything particularly noteworthy. He even picked up the frame, turning it slightly in his hands.

“It’s from a summer camp,” Mrs. Thomas explained quickly when she saw what had captured their attention. “We sent them there every year.”

“Reid?” JJ started, taking a step toward him.

Spencer looked at the photo again, at the words on the poster above the children’s heads.

“Do you guys know what The Chrysalis Fellowship was?” he asked, fixing a pointed stare on Mrs. Thomas.

He saw her inhale sharply.

Morgan shrugged.

“Never heard of it.”

“No surprise. It wasn’t exactly a big case,” Spencer replied, crossing his arms.

His friends were visibly perplexed by his reaction, but they understood that he had stumbled upon something significant. They watched him with anticipation and tension.

“But it was definitely not a summer camp,” he continued. “They presented themselves as just another religious gathering, kept a low profile…but in 2001, they drew some media attention when one of their members mysteriously ended up at the bottom of a cliff. Dead, for the record.”

JJ shook her head slightly, still not fully grasping what Spencer was trying to convey.

But Spencer wasn’t looking at her—his gaze was fixed on someone else.

“Mrs. Thomas, for what possible reason would you send the children on summer vacation to a cult?”

The woman fidgeted with the collar of her dress.

"I won't say anything else without a lawyer," she announced weakly. 

Spencer heard Morgan sigh heavily behind him. He placed the photo back on the shelf—it was no longer needed.

He was almost certain he knew where Lavinia was hiding.

ʚଓ

The terrain at the foot of the mountains was gently undulating and covered in dense trees. After a longer drive along a narrow, winding road, they reached a place that resembled something between a well-kept neighborhood of a quiet town and an abandoned campground. Seriously.

In a small area, there were a few houses with flat roofs and white walls, some of which bore the first signs of dirt and graying. However, what dominated above them, in terms of sheer numbers, were the trailers, spaced evenly apart, as if they symbolized a former order, a time of past prosperity.

In short, they quickly contacted the rest of the team to inform them of their destination. There was no time to waste. When they asked her to choose a location based on the information she had gathered during her week of being held captive by the twins, which Leon had revealed to her after she manipulated him, she pointed to this town. They assumed she was referring to the foster family's home. However, there was no sign of their missing person inside, and while Mrs. Thomas was hiding a lot, she had not reestablished contact with Lavinia.

But that didn’t mean she wasn’t in the area.

When the three of them arrived at the nearly desolate location, which in its prime had been a thriving congregation with a large number of members, a middle-aged man immediately appeared on the doorstep of one of the houses. He was wearing nothing but a loose white shirt. His light hair reached almost to his shoulder blades, and his face was covered with a few days' worth of darker stubble.

“Hello, my children,” he nodded toward them.

“David Vaughn,” Morgan identified him instantly, thanks to the information Garcia had gathered for them.

The man simply waved his hand.

“You can call me Father.”

“Hell no.”

He didn't seem offended. In fact, his face was constantly adorned with a calm, almost serene expression. Spencer glanced around at the trailers, wondering if anyone actually lived in them. No one else had come out to greet them, and in such closed communities, the arrival of outsiders usually stirred up some general curiosity.

“Let’s get to the point. Is Lavinia Schuyler hiding here?”

The man opened the door to a small white house, standing in the doorway in a welcoming gesture.

“Come in, and we’ll talk.”

Without waiting for another refusal or command to step outside, he simply turned his back and disappeared inside.

After a brief discussion, they decided to follow him. Although, it was more JJ and Morgan doing the talking. Spencer, on the other hand, was completely absorbed in scanning the surrounding trailers, almost as if his gaze could penetrate through the walls and reveal whether Lavinia was hiding inside one of them. He didn’t even realize when his legs instinctively began to follow his friends, or when he found himself inside a cramped, multi-roomed interior. A stale, unpleasant odor hung in the air, and Spencer could confidently say that the owner wasn’t a fan of the activity called cleaning.

David Vaughn, a man once known for his reputation as a spiritual guide, dropped into a chair with such ease, it was as though there weren’t three FBI agents in his home at that very moment.

“So?” he asked cheerfully. “How are we doing this? You listen and stay silent while I speak, or do I speak, but you ask your obvious questions like what were you doing at 8 p.m. on Monday…’”

“We’re here for a different kind of obvious questions,” Spencer replied dryly. “What you were doing at 8 p.m. on Monday, or any other day of the week, is the last thing we care about. Where is she? And I know you know who I’m talking about. They all used to belong to this…”

“Fellowship,” the man finished for him. He scratched under his eye with a touch of nostalgia. “Haven’t said that word out loud in a long time. Ah, the good old days. Then everyone left, and that was that. But I’m not angry. Our lives are a constant journey. We arrive at a place, replenish our supplies, set a new direction. We wander…”

“Enough,” Morgan cut him off, his face expressing deep exhaustion with this nonsensical, pseudo-spiritual babble. “We don’t want to hear your philosophies, we want your answers. Is Lavinia Schuyler hiding here? This place will be searched soon, so you could make this easier for us…”

"Let's start with the fact that there’s no one by the name of Lavinia Schuyler," he said, causing everyone to furrow their brows. He flashed them a grin. "What? As my favorite daughter, she deserves the right to carry my last name. Lavinia Vaughn. Much better."

"Your...daughter?" JJ repeated in disbelief.

Spencer gave a subtle nod, seeing some sense in it.

"Abandoned by their father."

"Abandoned? Please. Life’s a journey, didn’t I mention that? I just moved on. Honestly, I believe children don’t need a father for proper development. A mother is only needed in the very early stages…"

“Back to the point,” Morgan interrupted again, stopping him from drifting off-topic. “Let me ask the right question this time. Is Lavinia Vaughn hiding here…”

“Aren’t you curious how I managed to bring my kids here when they were grown?”

“No, we're only curious about—”

“Well, I've been thinking about it for a long time. I knew they were approaching adulthood, bouncing from one foster home to another. A journey is a journey, but blood is blood, my blood. So I thought, why not? I asked my dear friends, oh, they were so young back then, just joined us, but already showing such loyalty. They did what I asked, of course. Took them in under their roof, sent them to me whenever the chance arose, so they could learn a bit about the world…”

Spencer could tell his friends were, deep down, intrigued by the story. After all, both of them were profilers, and understanding the backstory, discovering the circumstances that shaped a killer, was essential. Even he couldn't bring himself to stop the man, falling to some degree under the sway of his gift for persuasion. He mentally pinched himself when he caught himself in that moment.

Something about this whole situation didn’t sit right with him. Sure, some people were just chatterboxes, and this guy certainly fell into that category, but everything he said felt too calculated. It was as if he knew exactly what type of story would capture their full attention, drawing it to him and away from everything else.

"...they left me when all of this happened. You know, one guy ended up at the bottom of a cliff, and the media swooped in, saying we probably killed him in some cult ritual. Years passed, and my dear Lavinia only reached out to me recently," he suddenly stopped, grinning wide, a madness in his eyes flashing. "I was watching the news, right? She did it. That woman. That woman is now Lydia. Lydia is in her body. Oh, I always knew this girl, my Lavinia, was special. Some didn’t believe me when I said the soul is like blood. That you can transfuse it into another vessel. They thought I was speaking metaphorically, but she really listened to me..."

Spencer caught something out of the corner of his eye. A flash of light in the window, a glimpse of blonde hair. David was talking and talking, distracting them, pulling their attention away from other things. Like Lavinia, who was packing in another room and making her escape through the back door. He nudged Morgan, their eyes met, and without looking out the window, he understood.

They rushed after her, the sound of the man's loud, hysterical laughter echoing in their ears, a sound that would linger long after.

Reid’s heart pounded against his chest as, for a brief moment, he feared that when they reached the outside, Lavinia would already be gone. Her trail would vanish like it had on the drilling platform, and they would never catch her again. And he would be to blame—he would always be so, so guilty.

He stopped so suddenly that his body nearly collapsed.

But contrary to his dark visions, she was there. She was there, with a backpack slung over one shoulder, her hands raised high, frozen in place as someone had her at gunpoint, preventing her from fleeing any further.

The rest of the team arrived, and the person pointing the gun at Lavinia wasn’t Rossi, Prentiss, or Hotch.

It was her.

ʚଓ

Watching the woman who had nearly taken your life—and had certainly cursed it forever—being loaded into a car with her hands cuffed behind her back was both therapeutic and surreal.

A part of you felt relief, while the other hadn’t yet grasped the reality of the situation enough to fully process it.

Something heavy slid off your chest, but instead of crashing to the ground with a deafening thud, it dissolved into quiet.

Peace.

You hadn’t known that peace, relief, and respite—these supposedly positive emotions—could be so overwhelming that they left you frozen in place.

Someone appeared at your side.

JJ offered you a small smile. There was still a trace of lingering anger in her eyes, the remnants of her inability to understand your decision, the open disapproval that hadn’t faded and wouldn’t for a long time. But in that brief moment, above all else, she was simply relieved that it was finally over.

Her touch on your arm was hesitant, as if she were testing whether you were still yourself.

You looked at her in silence for a moment—then threw your arms around her neck.

You heard her inhale sharply in surprise.

And you didn’t even focus on the gazes fixed on you—until they became unbearable.

The first one you caught.

Hotch, nodding at you gently. As if confirming that it was over.

You almost smiled.

It was true. It was over.

So why did it still feel like something was weighing on you?

Then you caught the second gaze.

Spencer looked as if staying on his feet was a struggle. And yet, he managed to move—his expression a mask of merciless emptiness—as he closed the distance between you.

You felt your body beginning to crumble in JJ’s arms.

You stepped away before you could drag her down with you.

He stopped a step away from you, at a painfully close distance—technically, you could reach out and touch him. Do something you had wanted to do every single day and night spent on the oil rig. That is—to reach for him. In a way, it symbolized an escape for you. A return to what was good, constant, and safe.

You knew, however, that he wouldn't allow it. He would reject any attempt you made, for the lies you surrounded yourself with were dangerously toxic—they could taint and damage him.

He shook his head from side to side, clearly uncertain of what to say.

"All this time," he finally began. Quiet, but not weak.

A sigh escaped JJ’s lips. Her gaze wandered between both of your faces.

"Maybe we shouldn't talk about this now. Maybe we should first—"

"And you knew too. Of course, you knew."

From the very beginning, you knew that when the moment of revealing the great truth came, looking him in the eyes again would be unimaginably difficult. You had also suspected that words would fail you, and that’s exactly what happened. Nothing seemed right. You couldn’t apologize, because you didn’t feel guilty. I mean, you did, in a way. You felt guilty for hurting him like this, but at the same time, you were ready to admit without hesitation that even if you could go back in time, you would still do the same thing, because it meant catching Lavinia.

“I had to do this,” you finally said.

Spencer opened his mouth, then closed it. He clenched his jaw. Nodded. In a way that not only showed he didn’t understand, but also that he couldn’t forgive.

ʚଓ

Twelve months had passed.

In the blink of an eye, they say. Well, if there was an opposite to that saying, it would fit your situation perfectly. Every day, week, and month carried the weight of everything that had happened since the moment the syringe with the sedative first pierced your neck. You were facing not only the trauma left by the abduction but also the consequences of pretending to be someone else and lying to those closest to you in such an elaborate way.

You got involved in Lavinia's case, making sure you'd never have to chase her again. You took temporary leave—your psyche simply needed it.

And as you began healing from within, you could reach further.

Most of the team pretended to accept what you had done, to be ready to move forward. Pretended, perhaps even wanting to believe it was truly over. But in their minds, you would always be trusted a little less. By pretending to be Lydia, you wanted them to believe you were a stranger. And in a way, that's exactly what happened. You would always remain slightly different, distant, to them.

With Spencer, things were particularly difficult. For a time, he simply cut himself off from you. When disappearing seemed like the easier option for him, you felt quite the opposite. You preferred to stay close, even if it meant hurting each other with those prolonged moments of tension, resentment, and the painful silence of unspoken accusations.

But what happened was that, for a time, you simply disappeared from each other's lives. You fell back into them by sheer accident. Well, actually, not such a clean accident. The Christmas party held at Rossi's house took you by surprise when you received the invitation. Spencer probably didn’t expect to see you there either. Ironically, you both arrived at the same time, and without a word, he held the door open for the two of you.

You didn’t talk about it, but over the next year, these small things and gestures, progressing with the passage of time, seemed to reintroduce you to each other. At one point, you were laughing together, not just the two of you, but with the whole team, yet it didn’t change the fact that the joyful sound was coming from both of you at the same time. There was a moment when you watched your godson play on the swings, and the silence between you no longer gave you that painful, guilt-ridden knot in your stomach.

Then, on your birthday, you sat side by side in the theater. A year earlier, he had given you tickets for the musical you’d always wanted to see. They had been lost, for obvious reasons.

Before it even started, you glanced at him from the corner of your eye.

"I never said sorry," you suddenly announced.

Spencer turned toward you, his gaze filled with surprise. You, too, didn’t know where that came from. Maybe it had been nesting inside you for a long time, and you chose that moment because you realized that for the next two hours, out of respect for those around you, you wouldn’t be able to talk. And the words would have to echo in the way they should.

He shook his head.

"You don’t have to."

"But I do. You can’t forgive someone if they never say they’re sorry."

A sigh escaped his lips, and after a long moment of hesitation, he reached for your hand. You flinched when it happened, so unaccustomed to his touch.

"I think I’ve already forgiven you," he finally said, turning his face slightly toward you. His gaze fell on your hands, barely visible in the dark theater. Just the faint outline of knuckles against the blackness. Somehow, you could hear him swallow.

"I’m just not sure if I’ll ever be able to trust you again."

The musical began, and your hands remained entwined until the very end.

[goldfish-afterhours]

Genshin Characters Apologizing After a Bad Fight

Characters: Diluc, Childe, Kaeya, Zhongli x Gn!reader

Type/genre: Bulleted headcanons, angst/hurt comfort?

Warnings: Curse words, probably not the healthiest coping mechanisms/apologies

Diluc

His apology comes out strained, as if the words are clinging to the back of his throat

His fists are clenched tight by his side. He prepares himself for you to yell, to scream at him

But you don’t even turn around to look at him

Diluc always saw you as his rock, his lighthouse in the stormy night, the one who keeps him steady as his duties of both vineyard owner and vigilante shake him back and forth like a ragdoll

But right now, it hits him for the first time how small your back is, how human you look

Has he been taking you for granted all this time?

When you don’t respond to his apology, he calls your name, and you finally turn around

His eyes widen when he sees the tears streaming down your face

His heart absolutely breaks. How could he have made you, his love, his everything, hurt this much?

Before either of you says anything, Diluc flies towards you, cradling your head gently in his arms, as if any slight pressure would cause you to break and shatter like glass

“How pathetic of me to make you cry. I’m so sorry.”

Childe

His heart could rival the weight of the world right now

Childe isn’t used to disappointing others. No, he’s always been the golden boy, the prodigy, the one who sets the bar and breaks it at the same time

So how come you are sitting with your back to him, refusing to say a word?

And why can’t he find it in himself to say something, anything, to make this better?

He is petty person, someone willing to drown an entire city rather than admit defeat. Any word of apology is almost impossible to force out of him.

Instead, he drops a book in front of you. It flips to a random page, and you can see the photos and names of people listed on it

Not unlike a cat bringing their owner a mouse, this was Childe’s form of an apology, even without the actual words being uttered.

“Choose any person from this book. I’ll bring you their head.”

Kaeya

His fingers are restless, constantly scratching the back of his hand or twisting each other

His jaw is clenched, shoulders slumped forwards as he refuses to look you in the eye

“I…I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

You knew that Kaeya had a hard time with apologizing—not because he was arrogant and thought he could do no wrong, but the emotional and physical toll it took on him was great

He often finds himself caught in a dilemma

On one hand, he has a difficult time admitting he is wrong as it forces him into a vulnerable position. To be wrong is shameful, an embarrassment.

On the other hand, he knows he fucked up. And he knows there are only a very few amount of fuck ups people let slide before they get fed up and leave.

And having you leave is not something he can afford

Kaeya’s seen this before. Faced again and again with abandonment, he knows a simple “I’m sorry” is not enough to make most people stay

But it is all he can offer

He prepares himself for the worst, but he was not prepared for the way you gently lifted his chin with your hands, a soft kiss melting away his fears

Zhongli

When you slam the door to your room, Zhongli doesn’t try to stop you

He doesn’t knock on your door, nor does he try to coax you out

He knows your type of anger—it’s like fire, and feeding premature apologies or sweet nothings would only fan the flames

So he sits outside your door until you’re ready to come out

Slips you snacks and books from under your door, in case you get hungry or bored in your anger

When you see the treats and novels slowly appear from under the door, you’re still fuming, but it’s difficult to be furious knowing your thoughtful lover is on the other side, not pushing you to calm down but trying to make you comfortable as you sit with your anger.

When you finally calm down enough to unlock the door and step outside, Zhongli is waiting

There is not a trace of annoyance on his face, but you can tell he relaxes a little from relief that you are willing to come speak with him again

Takes your hands in his, giving them a gentle squeeze as he apologizes for his behaviour earlier.

“Please accept my apology, my love. I never meant to hurt you.”

[stevieschrodinger]

Part One ThirtyEight

“Hey baby what are you...doing?”

There’s a tree in the lounge. A live one. It’s not that big, maybe four feet tall but...it’s in a bucket filled with dirt.

“Decorating the Christmas tree.”

“Right,” Steve can clearly see the trail of loose soil across the lounge carpet, where Eddie has had to wriggle the bucket back and forth to get it in. It looks like it was probably heavy. It’s also not a Christmas tree, which Steve figures is usually a...fir tree. Or a pine, something like that, anyway. But this tree...it’s just a regular tree.

“I thought we were going to go and pick one up?”

“I found a nice one here,” Eddie tells him, “and I don’t like that they cut them down.”

“Oh...so you’re just going to take that one back out, after?”

“Yeap,” Eddie’s concentrating really hard on getting the decorations on the tree, a task made even more difficult by the narrow, wispy looking branches. Eddie doesn’t actually have any decorations since they’re in the attic, but he’s doing a sound job of improvising; Steve’s pretty sure half his mother’s jewelry box is on there. Steve’s not one hundred percent sure about the sock Eddie has limply draped over one of the branches, though, “Baby, what’s with the sock?”

Eddie tilts his head, frowning, “we put socks on the mantle,” Eddie points to where their stocking hang, Steve took the blue one with the stars, and he likes to think he managed to be tasteful and understated with his decorations. Eddie’s looks like Christmas vomited on it.

“Those are stockings baby, that’s different.”

Eddie shrugs, “I really like socks, they keep my feet warm.”

“I have...no argument against that.”

“I couldn’t find the lights,” Eddie tells him, moving on to more important matters.

“Yeah, they’re in the attic, you want them?”

Eddie’s nose wrinkles as he finally looks over at Steve, “what’s the attic?”

“Uhm. There’s a ladder, it’s the space in the roof, we store stuff up there.”

Eddie blinks, then frowns, “inside the roof? The house roof?” He points up.

“Yeah, want to come and look?”

Eddie nods, getting up to follow Steve, eyes wide and then grinning when Steve pulls the ladder down, “hidden secret,” he says, suitably awed.

Steve laughs, following Eddie up the ladder. It’s dark up there, but when Steve finds the pull for the light, Eddie lets out an impressed, ‘ooooh’. The attic is kind of cluttered, lots of...stuff. Boxes of forgotten things that have been stored up here, some old pieces of furniture, long term storage of his mom’s clothes protected by plastic covers...just all sorts of dusty stuff. “The Christmas stuff is over here,” Steve pretty sure he hasn’t been up here since last Christmas, and he remembers coming up for the lights and decorations...Steve swallows thickly, Eddie was sick, and Steve decorated the tree to try and cheer him up, even though part of him knew it might be useless.

“Okay Stevie love?” Eddie asks as he opens a box.

“Yeah...yeah I’m fine. We can take whatever you want downstairs baby.”

They hunt for a little while, Eddie getting a little tangled in some lights, and Steve having to perform a very small rescue. Eddie keeps hunting through boxes, and Steve lets him, taking the box with the lights down, and then the box with the ornaments in case Eddie wants any of them for his tree.

“Stevie!” Eddie calls, “come and look at this!”

“What you found?” Steve ambles over, Eddie sitting criss cross apple sauce on the dusty floor. He has a thick book open on his lap, a photo album, “holy shit, I haven’t seen that stuff for years.”

“Photographs?”

“Yeah...that’s me,” Steve points. It’s summer, he’s wearing a floppy white hat, a yellow shirt and blue dungarees. Steve figures he might be two or so in the picture, he’s barefoot on the grass and his bare legs are chubby baby legs.

Eddie turns the page, “this you too?”

“Yeah, it’s probably mostly me.” There are a couple of staged family photos in there, but largely it’s just random toddler pictures of Steve.

Eddie sits, staring, and when he gets to the end of the book he flips it and goes right back to the start again, “can we take this with us?” he asks when he’s about half way through his second pass through the photos, “you’re just a little guy,” he adds absently.

Steve snorts a laugh, “sure baby, of course.”

They don’t add very many decorations to the tree, it just can’t hold them. They end up improvising and wrapping the bucket in lights, since the tree can’t handle many of those, either. It looks...charming, by the time they’re finished. Steve struggles vaguely for positive descriptors, but chooses to avoid them entirely and simply tells Eddie, “I really like it. I am absolutely sure no one has a tree like ours.”

Eddie grins, and they head into the kitchen to make dinner together.

They settle in for a film, some inane made for TV movie about the magic of Christmas and the little kids get their puppy at the end or something equally saccharine and painfully acted. Steve doesn’t remember nodding off, but he wakes up slumped over on the couch. Eddie’s not paying attention to him, he’s still looking through the box of photos and albums he chose to bring down from the attic, half watching the movie.

Steve blinks the rest of the way awake just as the children save the magic of Christmas, or whatever it is that’s happening. Steve yawns, joints cracking. Eddie sniffles.

Steve scooches the length of the couch immediately, “baby?”

“I’m okay.”

Eddie isn’t crying, but there’s a tell tale mark on his cheek; Eddie’s tears are a bit of an off color, even now, “what is it?”

Eddie’s attention is drawn back to the books in his lap, he’s found a picture of Steve, maybe eight years old? Grinning proudly, sitting on his new bike. It wasn’t that long after that that his parents lost interest, or at least, it doesn’t feel like it was. The next picture he’s on the couch with his mom, Steve has no idea what the photo was in aid of, they’re both just sat there, but they’re sitting close enough that it’s a bitter reminder of when his relationship with his mom was a good one. He’s never been that close with his dad, not really, the man has always been disinterested...but his mom, that was different. Steve thinks she really loved him, once upon a time.

Eddie has a loose picture in one of those card frames, another staged one, his mom holding baby Steve, swaddled all in white, dads hand resting carefully on her shoulder as he stands behind them. “This is a proper family, right?”

Steve shrugs, “I think family is...not a set thing. As long as you care for each other, then that’s family.”

“But you want kids?”

“I…” Steve considers lying, briefly, but doesn’t see what it’ll achieve. A lie won’t explain to Eddie how he feels, or why he’s changed his mind. A lie won’t tell Eddie how much he loves him. “I thought I did, at one time. But only because it feels like what I should do, find a nice girl, get married, have kids it...felt like something I had to do just because everyone's doing it. But I chose you Eddie, and everything that means, you know?”

Steve closes the book in Eddie’s lap, taking Eddie’s hand instead, they link fingers, the last little bit of Eddie’s webbing is really obvious when their hands are pressed together like this. His collection of rings kind of hide it though, or at least camouflage it, “don’t feel bad, okay? I love you,” Steve tells him.

“I love you too,” Steve senses a ‘but’. Eddie opens his mouth, closes it again. Sighs a little, like he’s thinking. Steve just plays with his rings a little while he waits for Eddie to arrive wherever it is he’s going. Eventually, finally, he just asks, “are you sure? I don’t want you to be sad you chose wrong. You know, later.”

“Nah. I’m sure. No regrets; I'm not choosing wrong."

“Okay,” Eddie leans over for a soft kiss, but Steve senses his melancholy, and doesn’t really know how to dispel it. The only way he can show Eddie he means it is to keep meaning it, and Steve intends too.

Eddie stands, looking out of the window, as Steve gets ready for bed. It's uncharacteristically clear out, so Steve’s fully prepared for everything to be frozen in the morning, “Stevie?”

“Yeah?”

“Santa...isn’t real. Like, he’s a bunch of stories right? Like...Santa’s been around a long time, but he’s not real? Right?”

“Yeah, pretty much. I mean I think there’s like...a saint or something, like historical figures that might be...might have kind of caused the story of Santa but, yeah, Santa’s not real,” Steve climbs into bed, but Eddie’s still there, looking at the sky.

“But reindeer are real. They’re in my book.”

“Yeah,” Steve snuggles into bed, “reindeer are absolutely real.”

Eddie hums, but doesn’t move from the window, watching the sky, “are there any reindeer in Indiana?”

“I...I mean maybe? In like, petting zoos maybe a few? I think they live in cold places though, normally," Steve yawns, "like Canada and stuff I guess."

“Oh...so I won’t see any?”

Finally, it clicks, “Eddie...reindeer can’t fly.”

“What?”

Steve laughs, “come to bed baby. Reindeer are real...but they don’t fly.”

“Oh for fucks sake. I’ve been looking every night all week!” Eddie comes to bed, grumbling, “how am I supposed to know?!”

Part Forty

[inherdaze]

dark red — megumi fushiguro

megumi x f!reader

18+ content, apocalypse au, slow burn, strangers to lovers

12k

summary: megumi finds himself growing closer to you as you both fight to survive in an infected world.

October 30th. 

You eye your floppy, double-paged calendar lovingly as you uncap a marker, drawing a big ‘X’ across the date. 

Your eyes scan over the top page of it. It has some corny close-up stock photo of a bird with the month October printed in big, cursive lettering. It’s the type of calendar that your grandmother would keep in her office, very neutral with nature images. And for some reason, it’s like your comfort object. It made you happy, reminded you of simpler things and simpler times. It reminded you of life before- before the infectious bite.

The bite is deadly. 

Or, beyond deadly, since it doesn’t quite kill you. 

Your brain only rots away and hunger pools at the pit of your stomach, the only thing to sedate it being human flesh. Ah, yes, the infamous zombie bite. 

You and countless others had seen it plenty of times- in movies, in shows, in video games. Even funny little quizzes would pop up on your timeline, Who Would You Be In A Zombie Apocalypse?

Never would you have dreamed of it all coming true. 

When you think about it, it happened so simply, so quickly, that the sequence of events could be plastered onto an elementary foldable. You think that’s what’s probably going to happen, in the future, when humanity re-establishes itself. When.

Not an if, but a when. 

You were one of the few that strongly believed that humans could overcome such devastation and rebuild. Perhaps you could help in creating a better world. 

It happened as such: A disease was created. Created. This fact alone angered the population enough to start riots, protests, petitions. It was the beginning of the end. A disease that was supposedly heavily concealed and secured was created by the government, until all the scientists working on restricting the disease escaped the laboratory, no longer themselves. They’d changed, transformed, and it had only spread like a wildfire from there.

With people constantly out on the streets to protest and express their disbelief and opposition to diseases being formulated in the first place, it was not that difficult for it to spread. And spread it did. 

Humankind really took a hit. There was no organization, no plan, no stability to overcome the outbreak. The government was too busy trying to better their image and hide their mistakes that no one even considered a plan of action to tackle the sickness and the spread. It was literal hell. Infrastructure was being torn down, people were turning against each other, either locking themselves away from everyone else or going out into the world to try to play hero. 

You had a sliver of luck on your side. 

Now, you didn’t make it without pain and hardships, no, the world would simply be going too easy on you. But when you and your college friends decided to scram, to flee in prevention of being cornered, it played out rather nicely. Others had traveled back home, or hid themselves in their dorms, too scared to go out and face the world. Their poor choices usually resulted in them being practically overtaken with zombies, with nowhere else to run. 

You decided to keep it simple. To keep moving. 

Your plan was to move upwards, towards the North. When the disease had initially broken out and there was still debate on whether it was a legitimate issue or not, nobody had really taken it seriously if the government wasn’t taking it seriously. In the early stages, when everyone was wishy-washy and laughing about it on their timelines, an organization in the North was formed and said to have set up a base- just in case. 

It worked out in your favor. Just a little bit. 

You had left with your roommate, Nobara, and her girlfriend Maki. The three of you participated in all the chaos, too- what else could you have done? Law was no longer applicable. The three of you sought out to steal, to take, to do what you needed. You remember it all, the beginning of summer.

You focus back on your calendar. It’s late October now. 

You were also completely alone now. Nobara and Maki had given up their lives when the three of you scrambled around a sporting goods store for weapons and had been targeted by a herd of zombies. Maki was the strongest, so she took it upon herself to fend them off until it became slightly overbearing. Nobara had jumped in to help, the both of them hollering at you to hurry and find a weapon and run. One last look into their eyes was all it took, for they knew the both of them wouldn’t be able to make it out alive. 

You traveled alone, carrying a huge backpack with a bright red wagon trailing behind you at all times. All food, cooking ware, and clothing were stored in the wagon, protected by a tarp and a heap load of bungee cords. The backpack held all the little snacks, medicine, and bottles of hot water. It was never hot by choice. It just never cooled fully after you boiled it to fend away the bacteria. 

In the very back pocket, where a laptop would typically be, was your crumpled calendar. 

Every evening was the same- you had a three-step routine to provide yourself a feeling of stability in the midst of chaos; 1) Hide yourself amongst the trees, 2) Cross off the day in your calendar, 3) Go straight to sleep. It was a routine that had a sense of simplicity and discipline that you so desperately needed. You could not let yourself forget to mark off the days (you’d probably lose your mind from the lack of track of time) and you absolutely could not let yourself stay awake longer than needed. Sometimes, you would explore an unwelcome corner in your mind. A corner that whispered that maybe you’d be better off just dying, at this rate. No more struggles, no more worries, just sleep. Luckily, the sounds of nature and the idea of a better future always pulled you out of that spiral. 

You tuck your marker into your pocket and bring the floppy thing close to yourself before a feeling of embarrassment comes over you, as if someone is watching you from afar. 

With heated cheeks, you scurry to sloppily stuff it back into the back pocket of your pack before curling up against it, pulling your parka tighter against yourself to go to sleep. 

When you woke up, everything was the same. The world was still falling apart, and you were still alone. 

You hauled yourself up and pat at your cheeks- they stung from the oncoming cold. You knew that winter would be difficult to handle- you figured it would probably be much worse than the summer. You’d just have to face it alone, with limited shelter and supplies. 

You pulled on your backpack, tugged at the handle of your wagon, and went on your way. 

You weren’t alone for long. 

You walked at the edges of the forest, smart enough to not make yourself a target in the middle of the road, but you still needed it to guide you. You were well hidden among the trees, but were close enough to peek out between branches and leaves to make out the pattern of the street. 

A loud snap had jolted you awake from your light daydreaming. You immediately stopped walking and slowly reached down to the wagon, trying to pull the tarp away as quietly as possible. 

Your eyes flitted among the scenery, mind on alert as you reached for the only impactful weapon you had- a bat. 

You managed to successfully grab it, and you held it out defensively, waiting for something to come rushing at you. A few minutes pass and nothing happens. 

Knuckles turning white from your grip on the handle, you stepped forward slowly, trying to find the source of the sound. It was a stupid move, you knew, but you also could not keep moving with the knowledge that there was possibly a zombie in the same woods as you. It would probably eat you alive- the idea and the zombie. 

You try not to trek too far from your wagon, and you promise to yourself that after a couple more steps, you’ll turn back around and you’ll act like this never happened to save yourself from panic later. 

Your little plan is interrupted when your eyes make out a figure not too far from yourself. It’s tall, and unnervingly still, with its back facing you. You can’t decipher whether or not it’s a human. 

You squint and make out the movement of clean, steady hands. You see, in one hand, a little radio, crackling and emitting fuzzy noises. The other hand is occupied by something that you cannot make out. It’s at that moment that you know you’re safe- at least you hope so. 

The sight of another human excites you so much, you cannot help the sudden adrenaline that surrounds your heart and the smile that reaches your face as you cheerily (and semi-softly) call out, “Hey!” 

The person whirls around and suddenly your heart drops, the adrenaline mushing into dread, your smile faltering. He faces you with a gun, held up high, level with his eyes in order to aim properly. 

He gives you a once-over before interrogating you. “What do you want?” 

“Oh,” You sputter, limbs feeling heavy with fear. “N-Nothing,” You try, “Just…. just bumped into you here.” 

“Okay,” He starts hesitantly, dark blue eyes showing you distrust. “Run off, then.” 

Your heart drops even harder, this time. To think that he doesn’t want anything to do with you, that he doesn’t even want to talk, to meet another human. You assume he’s alone, too, since he’s got a backpack that looks much heavier than your own right on his back, straps tight. 

It’s not that you necessarily expect anything from him- it’s just that this is a rare moment. You haven’t spoken to another person in months. 

The crackling of the radio fills in the quiet between the two of you before he pulls you from your thoughts, “We can part ways, now.” 

His voice is only slightly condescending, and he talks as if it’s an obvious fact. 

“Wait,” You lazily blurt, hand reaching out just a little as if he had offered something for you to hold onto. “Don’t you want to be friends?”

He scoffs at you, embarrassing you. “Friends?”

“W-well, not friends,” You struggle, ears and neck heating up, “Just, yunno, partners or- yunno?” 

“No.” 

His blatant answer makes you wince. As much as he makes you feel small, a sliver of desperation shines through your timid form and you try again. “You know what I mean,” You breath out exasperatedly, “There’s nearly no one else left in the world. Might as well work together. We can take turns patrolling and sleeping, and especially when it comes to gathering supplies- like the buddy system, kinda- and things will run smoother. We can put what we have together.” 

He knew you were right. He hated that he knew you were right.

Truthfully, Megumi had no intentions to create bonds and team up with people. He thought it would only slow him down, both physically and mentally- he went out of his way to avoid attachment. 

He responds with silence, so you give it another shot. 

“I’m moving North, too… if that’s… if that’s what you plan to do as well.” 

It catches him, and you knew you had won him over. And he knew, that you knew, that you had convinced him enough. The way that he had faltered and his stern expression melted into one of surprise told you all that you needed to know. 

You gave him a little smile to soften the blow of his loss. 

“Fine,” He says through gritted teeth, letting his arm fall to his side in defeat. He sees you keep your eyes trained on the gun, so he tucks it away in an attempt to ease your nerves. 

You tell him about your supply wagon and let him know he can probably lighten the load on his back by mixing his supplies with yours. While you lead him back down the path where you had abandoned your precious wagon, you try to get him to converse with you. His silent nature made you a little nervous, but you were deeply in need of human connection. 

“Oh! By the way, my name-” 

“No.”

You cough and look up at him, shock written across your features. “Huh?”

“We shouldn’t do that. Exchange names, I mean. It’s just the two of us, we’ll be fine without it.” 

“Huh?” You call out again, this time louder and with more confusion. He shoots you a glare that tells you to shut up. 

“But- why not? What am I supposed to call you?” 

“I already said, it’s just the two of us. Who else could you be addressing? Exchanging names makes us friends. We are, by no means, friends.”

You watch him speak with an unbothered tone, eyes not even meeting yours as he empties half of his supplies into the wagon. Your mouth is slightly agape and you falter to respond, but as he swings his backpack around, a flash of black and white catches your attention. 

“Are those…” You trail off before he finally makes eye contact with you. 

“Are those plushies?”

You see him freeze, and his pale skin blossoms with color. “No.”

“Oh, come on,” You huff out playfully, almost circling him to get a better look at the little fluffy keychains that hang clustered together at the zipper of his backpack. Two tiny but puffy little dogs of opposite colors stare right back at you, felt tongues poking out and all. 

“Huh. Didn’t peg you as a dog boy. Or an anyone boy, for that matter.”

“Are you done? We need to keep moving.”

“Alright, alright,” You huff, reaching for the handle of the wagon. He takes hold of it before you get the chance and starts walking, and you feel your heart smile at his silent offer to pull it for you. You didn’t think there was a deeper meaning to it, you were just happy that you didn't have to haul that heavy thing around for once. “No need to be snappy, Dog Boy.” 

He only groans in response. 

The rest of the day flies by in silence. You try your luck a few times to start a conversation, to pull anything out of him, but he’s so damn stubborn, either keeping his eyes  focused on the path ahead or fiddling with his radio. The radio gives him an excuse to tell you to shut up, since he needs to hear if there are any broadcasts or incoming news- signs of life. 

He finally speaks up when he claims it’s time to sleep. 

The two of you settle against a cluster of tree trunks, and you repeat the same thing you’ve been doing for months on end- laying against your backpack, looking at your calendar with a glint of hope and desperation in your eyes. 

Megumi watches as you pull and flatten it out before rummaging around for your marker. He narrows his eyes and tries to focus on the clunky piece of paper you seem to be carrying around. 

He makes out the rows and columns of dates, an unimpressed look dawning on his face. “Don’t tell me…”

“Hm?” You hum lightly, beckoning him to continue. 

“Don’t tell me you carry that thing around and actually use it.” 

“What else can I say? We’ll need it, in the future. Once everything starts going back to normal, people are gonna be like, ‘Oh no! What day is it? What season are we going into? Must we start a new calendar?’ And then, I’ll have my trusty calendar right here, with all the dates crossed off. Think about it. Very important.” 

He remains quiet as you make big ‘X’ on the final date, October 31st. 

“Hm. We met on Halloween. Funny, isn’t it? I think it suits you a little.”

He disregards your last comment and speaks with a monotone voice, “Don’t get ahead of yourself. Humanity will never recover- that thing’s useless. Just taking up space.” 

You fall quiet after that. Normally, you think, you wouldn’t be too iffed by some pessimism. But his comment regarding your calendar and how easily he dismissed your hopes had hurt, just a little. 

Maybe more than a little. 

You instinctively held the thing a little closer to you, as if to protect it. You avoid his eyes and silently decide that the conversation should probably end there. 

He sees you shift a little farther away from him, bringing the stupid thing closer to your chest. He can’t find it in himself to care. 

You admire that cheesy stock photo on the top of the calendar before flipping the bottom page to sneak at a glance for the photo for November. It’s a scene of a pathway formed by trees, nearly dead trees, with the leaves caught mid-fall, yellows and oranges everywhere. November is, again, printed in large cursive at the top of the page. 

You fold it back up and jam it into your backpack before pulling it down closer to your head, to use it as a pillow. You wrap yourself up in your parka and turn to sleep on your side, back facing Megumi. He sees it all from the corner of his eye and scoffs to himself, remarking how childish you are. 

Steady hands lay his gun next to him, close to his head- just in case he ever needs it throughout the night. He sleeps firm on his back, but he turns his head to look at you just before he dozes off. 

Bathing becomes much easier, now that Megumi’s around. 

Before the two of you crossed paths, you would rid yourself of your clothes shakily, always leaving them on the rocks that kissed the lake. You couldn’t even clean yourself off properly, eyes always on the lookout for movement or an undead form to creep up on you. 

You had begged him. Shamelessly. The whole morning consisted of you yapping away, Please, Dog Boy, there’s a perfectly good lake right there, and a rock for you to sit on while you wait and patrol. I’ll patrol after. I really, really need this bath. 

He wouldn’t even look at you as he gave you a hard No.

Megumi was beyond dead set on moving forward. Over the last few days, he was always quick to shut you down and occasionally scold you for being so easily distracted and perhaps a little too light-hearted for your own good.

But this was your last straw. 

He only caved in when you threatened to wipe some of your sweat off on him. You had never seen him recoil from something so fast. 

After making him literally swear to not turn around and peek while you were bathing- to which he had rolled his eyes and told you he wouldn’t even dare to consider such a thing- you pointed to the rock for him to sit on before you began to strip. Megumi could only hear the light splashes of you walking into the water and your little cries of Oh my god, it’s so fucking cold. 

You gladly took advantage of such a moment. Finally, you had got to scrub every corner of your skin, finally got to really wash at your scalp, all without looking around in fear of what’s out there. 

And maybe you were taking a little too long, because after a while, Megumi coughed out to remind you that he was still there. His back was starting to hurt from sitting on the rock for so long without proper support. 

“How much longer are you going to take?” 

“Not too much longer,” You sing-songed, clumsily trying to dip your head in the water to wash out your hair. 

He rolled his eyes to himself at the tone of your voice. You were much too playful for his liking. 

“Don’t worry, Doggy,” You teased, though your voice was slightly muffled from your awkward position in the water. “You can bathe after this. Although, you might smell worse after- like wet dog.” 

He could hear you laughing to yourself like a child.

Megumi never responded to your little lighthearted jabs. 

Life goes on as it always has. With Megumi so quiet, sometimes you ponder if you had been better off just walking away from him that day. And, if he wasn’t quiet, he was always on your back about something.

(“Why’s this water so warm?” 

“I boiled it. It’s from the lake. We can’t get sick, you know.” 

“You poured hot water into an insulated water bottle?” 

“My God, just- just drink the damn water, Doggy. Or don’t, not like I care. More for me.”

“Shut up. I’ll drink it.”)

The two of you were nearly on opposite ends of the spectrum, personality wise. You two would’ve probably clashed if you hadn’t taken things in such a jovial manner. He even started calling you Sunshine mockingly, as if to belittle you for being so stupidly bright and optimistic when the world was reaching its end. 

The first time he called you that, you had actually smiled. He had to refrain from reprimanding you for being so… so...happy-go-lucky. 

He couldn’t pinpoint as to why your preppy nature had irritated him so much, but his epiphany reached him one night when the two of you settled against a group of tree trunks, like you always did. 

You were, as always, cuddled up with your little calendar. Megumi discreetly watched as you marked off the day, taking note of how you had to redraw the ‘X’ a few times. Your marker was drying out. 

You were well into November, and you scanned over the rows of dates, spotting the box marked Thanksgiving. With your tongue slightly poking out, you poorly drew a little turkey inside the box. 

He watched as you scanned over the top and bottom page again, but he felt like your mind was elsewhere. 

“When’s your birthday?” 

Your question caught him off guard, and he flustered as he quickly looked away, fearing that you had seen him watching. 

“What?” 

“Your birthday. When’s your birthday?” 

He cast you an awkward sort of look. “December 22nd.” 

“Cool,” You replied almost automatically before flipping the page of your calendar. Megumi’s eyes only slightly widened as he witnessed you try to cram the words Dog Boy Birthday in the little box marked with 22. He was unsure if he was meant to see that. He didn’t want to embarrass you by mentioning it, but he felt like it shouldn’t go unmentioned, either. 

“You don’t need to do that.” 

“Why not?” You were being genuine. 

“Because,” He said without knowing what it was he wanted to say. “Because. It’s pointless.” 

“Pointless this, pointless that.” 

Your comeback wasn’t all that great, but you had brushed off his statement so easily- you had seemed to have grown accustomed to his little remarks, especially the ones with negative tones behind it. 

That’s when his revelation crashed over him. It hit him so strongly, and he was frozen in place as you mumbled a goodnight before cuddling up to your clunky backpack. 

You were so precious. Because despite all your banter, you were always playful about it, and when you weren’t being playful, you were being genuine. You always openly offered him things, the fair share of your supplies, always told him to get some sleep while you keep watch, always told him to eat up, have the last of your water bottles, always looked out for him in little ways that he did not bother to return. And, what irritated him so much about it was that you were so vulnerable, open, shamelessly smiling and laughing alone or at him, trying to get him to laugh too. And he hated how you had done all this, offered so much to him, remained open to him, only for him to constantly chastise you and feed you despairing comments. 

He wanted you to put up more of a fight. He wanted you to be able to be okay, without him. Megumi criticized himself after having that thought. He knew that your nature didn’t equate to weakness, but he couldn’t help but let his mind wander off a little…. 

You were so easy to trust him. At any moment could you have given up something to him and he could’ve just ran off with it, leaving you empty handed and destined to literally die. He thought that if something were to ever happen to him, and you kept going on with your open, kittenish self, that someone would come along and take everything you ever knew and had. 

Thinking of it made his chest pinch. He felt guilty for criticizing your calendar, the symbolization of all your hopes, on the day that you met. If he hadn’t realized this all now, he may have become the one to take all that you knew and had, figuratively. The way that he had belittled your dreams for the future had already spoken for itself. 

He laid down to finally sleep after swallowing down his thoughts, and he turned to look at your sleeping form, wantonly. He wanted to be better to you.

Suddenly, he thinks about how weird he looks, watching you sleep. His ears flush red and he turns to sleep on his side, back facing you, as if he needs to cover his tracks from the peering trees. 

You’re woken up by a string of broken, awkward groans. 

You assume it’s Megumi. Your eyes are crusted with sleep, so you don’t even bother to flash him a teasing look as you lightly jab, “Hush, Doggy.” 

He doesn’t respond with his usual sneer or command to shut the hell up, but with an even louder, pained groan. 

You sigh to yourself. He’s probably having a nightmare. You feel generous enough to break him from his terrors and lazily sit up, roughly rubbing away at your eyes and reaching over to him. 

Your hands meet a still, soft and sleeping form, completely at peace. 

You do a double-take when the feeling of his form contradicts the pained sounds he’s making and suddenly, you’re up and wide awake, especially when you come to realize that the groans are not coming from him. 

Whirling around to find the source, you come to see a beat-down zombie, tumbling its way towards you both. It’s missing a leg and its steps are off-kilter, slow, and if you had it in you to laugh at it, you’d probably laugh. 

“Holy shit,” You whisper to yourself, body stilling out of fear. For a few seconds, you can’t bring yourself to do anything, and the creature crawls closer, despite it being so slow. 

You finally come to your senses and weakly shake Megumi to wake him up. 

He’s knocked out cold. You figure that it’s from exhaustion- the both of you had been taking a beating from your recent drop in supplies. The last thing the two of you ate was a granola bar for yesterday’s breakfast. It wasn’t even a whole granola bar- Megumi split it in half for the both of you. You had let him have the last drop of hot water, too. The both of you were running on empty.

You trip over yourself and hastily pull on your backpack, still focusing on getting Megumi to awake. 

“Dog Boy,” You whisper-yell, lightly kicking at his leg. It’s ridiculous, you think. All of this is ridiculous. You have only a sliver of time to spare, thanks to the zombie moving at the speed of molasses, so you settle yourself behind Megumi and wrap your arm across his torso, beneath his own arms, your grip on him loose as you drag his body further away. Your main priority now is getting away, creating distance between you and the undead figure. As you tug on him, his gun slips out into the sunlight and you gasp, using your other hand to grab at it shakily. 

You had no idea how to use it. 

You hold it up to the sun and try to look for the little safety knob that you often heard that guns have. You spotted it, but you couldn’t tell if it was on or not. 

You’re sloppily scooting back, heaving Megumi with you, nearly falling backwards from the weight of your backpack. If you’re being honest, the two of you hadn’t even gotten that far. With Megumi attached to his backpack, he was heavy, and with your newfound weakness from exhaustion, the two of you probably only moved five inches max. 

The creature looms closer, and on second thought, maybe using the gun isn’t that smart of an idea. It would be noisy, easily giving away your location and the two of you would instantly become magnets, become bait. You wouldn’t be able to drag Megumi away fast enough to save yourselves. 

You eye around for your bat but it’s much too far. It’s tucked away under the tarp on your wagon and the zombie is already too close, surpassing the wagon- there’s no way you could get it without actually surviving.

Tears prick at your eyes. No, you think, now’s not the time. Your hands are shaking- you’ve never been this close to a zombie before- and you’re thinking fuck it, your arm letting Megumi go to steady your grip on the gun. 

Megumi drops down on the ground with a thud as you release him, but you don’t have the time to fret over it and ask if he’s okay. You think your ears are playing tricks on you when you hear a groan that’s a little too close. 

You wrap your hands around the base and stupidly close your eyes as your finger lands on the trigger. 

Everything after happens too fast for you to register, almost like a dream. You feel cold hands wrap around your own and tear the weapon away from you, and then a few loud bangs go off, and then it’s quiet. 

“Christ,” He mutters, voice caked from sleep. His eyes are droopy, and he looks so jaded, you’re preparing for him to chew you out about how stupid you were being before offering a list of what you could’ve done better. 

But he only slumps from fatigue, closer to you, nearly into you. He’s the weakest you’ve ever seen him, but guilt nips at the edges of his heart for making you go through such a thing. 

“Are you okay?” He finally breathes out, lifting his head to meet your eyes. 

You’re taken back at the sudden display of concern. 

He sees your face flash with unfamiliarity as a response to his question. The guilt makes its way past the edges and into the depths of his heart, now. He hopes it’s not too late. He hopes that he hasn't already become that person for you, the one that takes everything you know. 

“Yeah,” You say quietly from the shock of it all. 

Megumi falls silent after that, tired.

A few beats pass and he speaks, “We need to keep moving,” He says weakly, convincing himself more than you. 

“Yeah.” 

Lethargy is a plague between the both of you. 

Megumi tells you that you both need to find a store, and fast. He pulls out a map from one of his backpack pockets, and it’s so torn and dampened with water and other questionable substances that you can barely even make out the lines. 

But he reads it like a pro. He misses the look of admiration in your eyes when he finally concludes that it would be smarter to move in closer towards the suburban area. He says there’s a higher chance of strip malls and markets to sneak around and take from. You trust his word. 

The trek there is nearly torturous.

It’s getting colder, and you try not to think about how the two of you will survive when winter hits. Your feet ache and ache, and you’re sure that you’re slowing Megumi down- you swear you see him slow down his steps just the slightest. You have to refrain from complaining like a small child, asking over and over Are we there yet?

You finally reach a parking lot, and you think you could nearly drop down to your knees and kiss the gravel.

Your sense of euphoria is interrupted as a horrible stench reaches your nose. It’s unmistakable; it makes you double over and slap a hand over your nose and mouth, coughing roughly as you feel a series of gags coming on. 

Dead bodies were sporadically laying across the parking lot, some human, some zombie. Megumi looks at you pitifully, then looks away as you live through your coughing fit, not wanting you to feel worse about being seen in such a state. 

“‘So bad,” You finally manage to wheeze out, cueing him to look at you. 

He reaches into the wagon, towards the end of it, where the clothing was stored all lumpy. He had to slowly pull out whatever it was he was looking for so that nothing else spilled out, and he tugged one end of it slowly, revealing it to you. 

A big, lumpy scarf that has the most terrible pink camouflage print all across it. It’s horrendous, really. You remember you had stuffed it into your wagon a few months back, thinking about how you’d probably need it later. 

Now was later. 

He steps closer to you, close enough that it’s distracting and you nearly freak out at the proximity. He sees your confusion spark across your face and he hushes you before you even start. “To help with the smell.” 

That’s all he says as he reaches behind you, gently wrapping the scarf across your head, leaving you enough room to breathe but making it secure enough so that the scent is muffled. 

“‘M so tired, Doggy.” Your voice was stifled by the heavy fabric. 

“I know,” He says, and he does. 

You then feel bad for voicing your little complaint. Megumi was just as tired as you were, perhaps even more, and he hadn’t complained once, nor did he scold you for being a crybaby like you thought he would. 

Once he saw that you were satisfied with the scarf and concluded that you wouldn’t bend over and gag again, he smoothed his hand over his jacket awkwardly. “I’m gonna go inside and find more stuff. Are you okay with me taking your wagon and your pack?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Megumi has to lean in closer to hear your voice. “I understand if you don’t want to trust me with all your things.” “Our things,” you enunciate. 

“It’s-” He starts, then pauses abruptly. He doesn’t want to keep creating a divide between the two of you. “Yeah. Ours,” He affirms, searching your eyes for a reaction. He can tell you’re smiling stupidly (cutely) behind the scarf. 

“You’re sure?”

“More than anything.” 

He thinks, for a second, that your answer means something more. But you play it off, immediately taking off your backpack, so he chastises his previous thought as he takes your nearly empty pack into his hands. “Are you gonna stay out here?”

“Mhm. I’ll try ‘n find a place to sit.” 

“Okay. I won’t take long, I promise.” 

“Thank you.” 

He turns on his heel and walks in a straight line towards the entrance of the store, where you can make out the broken and crooked sliding doors that had probably been jammed so many times before they gave in. 

You take note of how many vehicles have been haphazardly left behind in the parking lot, mostly likely during moments of panic. 

If only... 

You begin to search the parking lot, bending down to get a clearer sight of all the miscellaneous objects scattered across the ground. Something glints in the corner of your eye, and you perk up, rushing towards it before scooping it up in your hand. 

It’s a clunky, round keychain that says Dog Dads Are The, and right below the text is an image of a dog taking a dump. 

“Huh,” You huff out with a little smile, “Perfect.” 

You take hold of the set of keys that are strung along the ring and single one out- vehicle keys. They’re the type of keys that you have to manually insert into the lock in order to actually open the car door. 

As soon as you stand up straight, you search for the oldest looking car throughout the entire parking lot. Your eyes fall upon a truck that looks like it’s been to hell and back, little scratches and scuff marks lining the sides with splotches of blood on the doors. You note that it only has two doors- the two of you will really have to squeeze in. 

If you ignore the poetic spots of blood, it's one solid color- a color that resembles dirt, you think. It looks like a little old farm truck, with crates stacked in the bed, and there’s a little figure of a cow swinging from the rear view mirror. 

You try your luck and insert the key, to which it fits. Your heart has never fluttered so viciously before. 

Turning the key, you see the little button on the inside of the door pop up. The door swings open ungraciously, a creaky sound ringing out. It makes you freeze, looking around to see if you had alerted anything that could be lurking. 

You decide to hold off until Megumi comes back. It’s completely dead quiet, and he might freak out inside the store at the sound of an engine. 

Just as he promised, he didn’t take long. He steps out to see you sitting in the truck with the door open, your knees brought close to your chest, and although the both of you are incredibly grimey, spent and hanging on to your final threads, you look so peaceful curled up like that. He thinks that maybe he would’ve liked to see you like that, under better circumstances. 

“Sunshine,” He starts as he gets closer, and you open your eyes and unravel from your coiled position. 

Megumi shuffles towards the bed of the truck and starts unpacking the wagon into the back. “Got some food,” he offers, unloading a loaf of bread that has yet to go stale. You hold it like it’s precious, waiting for him to unpack everything into your new truck. 

“Does it have gas?” 

“Dunno,” You say tiredly, and hopelessness sneaks up on you again. Perhaps you had put too many eggs in one basket. 

“Move over.” 

You scoot to the opposite side of the seat to make room for him. He plops down in the driver's seat and you perk up to hand him the keys, “Look, look.” Untangling all the keys from each other, you proudly hold up the keychain to his face. He furrows his eyebrows at first, but then his face melts into an amused expression as he reads over the whole thing and gets the joke. 

“Very funny.” He rolls his eyes, but you know he’s being lighthearted. 

He takes the key and inserts it, holding his breath in hopes that it’ll work, that the heavens are on your side today. 

They seemed to be, since after a few turns, the engine sputtered and coughed, and soon enough, it was settled. Megumi checks the gas level and nods approvingly to himself. He explains that it’s enough to get you a bit farther, but it’d be smart to keep an eye out for gas stations, or, better yet, other vehicles. 

You unwrap your scarf from around yourself and begin to unveil the loaf of bread as well, breaking the fluffy food in half to share. The two of you eat in silence, save for the low humming of the engine. You’re too tired to talk.  

Through the window, you see that it’s getting darker, and you remember your calendar. As you shuffle around to pull it out, Megumi seems to remember something as well, as he takes his bag into his lap and unzips one of the front, small pockets. 

You don’t notice his hesitation as you bring out the floppy thing and lay it on the dashboard, smoothing all the wrinkles away. 

He stares into his backpack pocket. He knows it’s okay to be vulnerable with you. He wants to be vulnerable with you. Embarrassment rushes up his neck and to his ears, but you don’t notice. You’re too busy shaking your old marker to force some ink to come out. 

“Here,” He breaks the silence, voice cracking from the lack of use. “Here’s…. I figured you might need it, I…” Megumi shuts himself up as he sloppily tosses you a pack of permanent markers. 

The way your face lights up makes it all worth it. He thinks he could face this type of embarrassing feeling every day if it makes you this happy. 

“D’awwwww,” You coo, poking fun at him. You’re as jovial as always, eyes bright as you uncap one of the markers and mark the day off, marveling at how smoothly the marker glides. 

He speaks up before he can stop himself. “I’m sorry.”

You pause and look back at him, the look on your face encouraging him to go on. 

“I mean, I’m sorry for… what I said on the day we met. About your calendar.” 

Your demeanor lightens again. 

“Ah, that- don’t worry, Doggy. I don’t even think about that, barely even remember it. It’s okay. You’re good.” 

He knows you’re being genuine, and that you really do forgive him. He sees it in the way you brush it off, going back to your markers and looking at them like they’re made out of gold. He feels something in his chest lighten, like the guilt from that night had been weighing him down this entire time. 

Once the both of you finish your chunks of bread, and after you tuck your calendar away, you curl up on opposite sides of the seat and sleep the most comfortable you have in ages. 

Everything’s a breeze now that the two of you have the truck. 

It’s easier to fend off the cold, and the both of you have more energy since you don’t have to walk anywhere. The days seem to fly by faster, and with each passing day, you see Megumi opening up to you a little more. He’s not as harsh as he used to be, and even when he does mock you, it’s playful and light. There’s no more malice laced in his tone. 

He’s softer now, cares more now. He accepts your invitations and attempts at making it concrete that it’s the both of you, together, as survival partners or whatever he likes to call it. Your stomach feels warm whenever he agrees or accepts your little comments about things being ‘ours’, referring to you as ‘us’ and ‘we’ rather than correcting you to ‘I’ like he used to. 

It’s not enough for you, though. You can’t help but want a little more. You’re thankful that the two of you greet December, because a) you’re grateful to have even survived this long, and b) it’s much colder now, so he doesn’t question you that much when you coyly try to cozy up to him before bed, complaining about how you’re freezing and that you’ll die of frostbite. 

He sees through your little act. He never mentions it, but he does. Megumi’s more than happy to let you have your fun. 

Megumi’s usually the one who sneaks out into stores to refill your load of supplies, and you stay cozied in the truck. He says it’s because at any moment, if any one of you are away from the vehicle, someone just like you could easily take it. His statement is true, but he doesn’t mention his second, secret little reason- he likes to know that you’re safe and warm in there. 

 One day, though, you try to kiss up to him so that he’ll let you loot with him. 

The morning starts off with you feeding him little compliments that are definitely out of pocket. 

“Your hair looks rather nice today, Dog Boy.” 

“Oh….yours, too.” 

“Mhm. And that jacket you stole fits you well, I think. Really, uh, matches your vibe.” 

“Yep.” 

“Yeah. Your scarf looks real… real snazzy, too.”

That pulls a laugh out of him- he had been borrowing your pink camouflage scarf. He knew something was up, and you knew he did. You just wanted to get on his good side, at least for today. 

“What is it that you want, Sunshine?”

“I wanna help you today, when you go fetch supplies.” 

He’s driving, but you think that if he was doing anything else, he’d stop his movements. He recovers as fast as he had reacted and clears his throat. “Why?” 

“I need some stuff.” 

“Stuff.” 

“Yeah.” You hope he doesn’t ask for elaboration. 

“I’ll think about it.” 

You let out a groan and let your head rest against the window, putting on a dramatic little show so that maybe he’ll cave. 

He doesn’t seem to be caving in any time soon, and from afar, you can see the parking lot. You’re eyeing him nervously, unsure if you should bring it up or not, but you make the first move when you hold onto the door handle as if you’re preparing to get out once he parks. 

He’s hesitant, takes his time to park and drives through the lot as if every space was taken. He could’ve taken up three spaces, if he wanted. 

“Doggy. Stop stalling.” “I just think you’d be safer if you stayed here.” 

“I’ll be fast. I’ll get what I need and then come right back.” 

That seems to ease his nerves, so he silently agrees and parks perfectly between the two lines before shutting the truck off. 

You walk together to the entrance of the store, but as soon as you make it inside, he laughs to himself when you make a beeline to the sweets aisle. He couldn’t believe that you made such a fuss to join along just to get some of those mini cakes. 

  You stay true to your word and gather what you need before making your way back to the truck, keeping an eye out for Megumi. You hope he doesn’t see the small chocolate muffin that you’ve stuffed close to your chest in a weak attempt to hide it. He’d probably make fun of you. 

When everything’s done and he meets you back at the truck, he’s slightly surprised to see that you hadn’t eaten your little sweet during ‘dinner’. He doesn’t have the energy to confront you about it. 

Today’s the day, you think. 

It’s difficult and very painful to conceal your excitement for all the hours that you spend at Megumi’s side. You try to calm your nerves by making lots of conversation with him, now that he’s more responsive. At first, you were the one to talk about your family, your old friends, how you grew up. Lately, though, in his mission to be more vulnerable and open with you, he reciprocates and tells you about his past, here and there. 

Night falls. He’s closing up one of his stories about one of his old teachers that usually made you laugh till you cried. It makes you laugh this time too, except your heart is racing and you can feel your palms getting a little sweaty. 

The both of you go quiet as you eat lightly, taking only a few bites before calling it a night. 

“I have a surprise for you,” You suddenly say, and his face is plastered with confusion. “I need you to close your eyes.” 

He’s so obviously taken aback that you snort at him. “Just for a second, it won’t take long. Please.”

He complies and places his hands over his eyes to reassure you that they’re for sure closed and that he can’t see anything. Megumi hears you rummaging around in your bag that you kept at your feet, hears you tear something open, and then you fall quiet. 

You kind of want to throw up. You don’t know why this feels so difficult, why it’s making you so nervous. In the past, when Megumi was mean to you, you think that this might’ve been easier, because you’d be able to tell what reaction he would give. 

You can’t tell anymore. 

You collect yourself together before you speak up, finally, “Okay. You can look now.” 

He removes his hands to see you sitting sideways in your seat, to face him. Your feet are tucked beneath you and you hold out a sloppy, slightly smeared chocolate muffin with an unlit candle stuck on top. 

“Happy birthday, Dog Boy.” 

Your voice is so soft and quiet, and he feels something take over him for a second. It’s strong, this feeling of adoration and something else he’s too nervous to admit, even to himself. He’s about to ask how in the world you would know that today’s his birthday, because he didn’t even know- but then he remembers the night you had written it into your calendar. 

“You,” He begins, nearly breathless. “Thank you.” 

You smile up at him and scoot closer, pushing the muffin towards him so that he could take it. He does, and he removes the candle and puts it on the dashboard, letting it roll away carelessly. 

The muffin looks miniature in his big hands, which is to his advantage as he splits it into two, effortlessly. He offers you a piece and you take it with a big, gushy smile on your face. You don’t see him smiling back at you endearingly. 

You’re bashful like the two of you are having a lunch date in a school courtyard. You want to look at him, revel in his features, but you don’t want to be caught staring either. 

You throw yourself a bone and let yourself glance at him. He’s finished his piece, and all he’s doing now is swiping the crumbs off of his jacket. As he shifts around, you see a smudge of chocolate right by his lip. 

“Wait,” You start, leaning closer. “There’s frosting on your lip.” 

“Here?” He pokes his tongue out on the wrong side, and you have to bite back a little smile. 

“No, no- I’ll get it for you,” You offer, leaning in even closer to him, nearly crawling right on top. You stick your thumb out gently, your touch feather light as you bring it to the corner of his lip and wipe off the small spot of frosting. 

You linger on purpose, and his breath hitches. 

“Sunshine,” He breathes, hands frozen in the air. He’s unsure of where to put them. 

“Mhm?”

“Can I,” He starts, hesitates, then starts again. “Can I kiss you?” 

Your smile speaks for you, but the moment that you let out a breathy yes, he cups your face and slots his lips against yours. He’s so soft, despite it being winter and the both of you constantly dry and chapped. He holds you, moves you like you’re a glass doll, so cautious and gentle. Megumi begins to shift the both of you, sitting up before pushing you down onto the seat. 

It’s awkward. The truck is so small, the both of you clunking around, but you two take it like champs. He breaks away to give a little laugh against your lips, easing the tension, and it’s so wonderful, so beautiful, that you waste no time pulling him back down to kiss him just a bit harder. 

You figure that he’s hesitant, and you appreciate that he isn’t pushy and trying to cross all boundaries at once. You know that if you only wanted to kiss and call it a night, he’d be perfectly okay with that. 

But you’re as greedy as ever, and you want more of him. 

You start playing with his lips, pulling away to softly bite at them, dart your tongue across the bottom one. It makes him freeze for a second, feelings of surprise and excitement engulfing his heart, but then he indulges. Megumi gently pulls your bottom lip into his mouth and sucks on it, thumb softly caressing your jaw. 

And you’re so starved, having gone months without even shaking someone’s hand. His actions make you gasp out softly, and he feels driven to pull more out of you. 

Megumi catches himself in his thoughts and pulls away again, “This- Is this okay?” 

You’re melting beneath him. You nod rapidly, begging silently. “Yes,” You huff out, precious smile coming across your lips. “Please.” 

He nods and then dives back in to kiss you square on the lips before moving lower, planting kisses down your neck as much as he can before your puffy parka interrupts him. He smiles fondly and looks up at you, seeing if you would notice the obstruction. 

“Oh,” You let out, face hot. “Sorry.” 

You’re so embarrassed, but Megumi thinks he could just eat you up. 

You prop yourself onto your elbows as best as you can, messily unzipping the jacket and flinging it away. It’s not like it goes far, anyway. You hear the zipper scratch against the glove compartment as you thrash it away, and it makes the both of you laugh breathily. 

You watch as he takes it upon himself to do the same, undoing the buttons on his own jacket before carelessly tossing it behind him. The two of you are now just in long sleeves and cargo pants, and he looks at you with an inkling of concern. “It’s still cold,” He whispers, now that he’s lowering himself back over you, “Leave it on, yeah?” 

You want nothing more than to rip your shirt off, but you know he’s right. You know that if you take it off, the bite of the cold would probably dampen your mood. 

You can only nod obediently, eyes begging him again, for a kiss. 

Megumi sneaks back down again to pick up where he left off, kissing along your neck and down to your collarbone before your shirt blocks off the rest of your chest from him. He’s moved his hands lower to rearrange your legs, to make it more comfortable for the both of you, and you’re so pliant beneath him, wanting all of his touches. 

His hands reach the button of your pants, “I’m gonna…” he starts, but never finishes. He’s caught up in the way you lift your hips to help him slide down your pants, caught up in the sight of you in your underwear. 

As soon as he tugs them off and pushes them to the side, you hiss as the cool air kisses your skin, and he’s quick to soothingly rub at your thighs, hands trailing down to your calves. 

“I know,” He soothes, warming you up. “I know, baby.” 

Megumi wants to take it slow, he wants to be able to ride out the moment, but the way you whimper at his touch pushes him. “Fuck- fuck, okay.” 

His movements and options are limited due to the space of the truck. He can’t necessarily do everything he wants with you, but he's grateful for the moment regardless. 

He moves back down to kiss you, slightly softer this time, with his forearm propped beside your head to keep him up, and his other trailing up and closer to the space between your thighs. Just the movement of his fingers gently dragging across your clothed cunt is enough to have you rutting up into his hand, desperate for more, tired of his slow pace. He’s swallowing all your sounds, but he pulls back as soon as he slips his hand beneath your panties, wanting to hear you this time. Cold fingers meet your folds and you twitch, legs nearly closing around his hand, and he smiles as he tuts at you. “Relax,” He breathes out against your jaw before softly nipping at it, kissing it. 

You’re already wet, and he smiles to himself cheekily before lazily rubbing his fingers against your entrance to slicken them. It makes you sigh out, so pretty and light, and he just loves the way your chest rises and falls. 

What he loves even more, though, is the moan you let out the second that he starts circling your clit, the way your hands tighten their grip on his shoulders. You’re trying to push yourself up against him, trying to feel more, but all he does is smile into your neck, absolutely basking in the way you need him so badly. 

“Please,” You finally cave, voice airy as you softly drag your nails across his back to get his attention. “More, please, I want- I want you.” 

He reaches up to plant a kiss on the corner of your lips. “All you had to do was ask.” 

He smoothly pulls down your underwear entirely, and just the sight of your arousal clinging onto the cotton fabric is enough to have him swallowing, adam’s apple bobbing. Megumi slips only his middle finger into your core at first, and it’s enough to satisfy you for now, walls fluttering. His fingers are so long, and you think about just how big his hands are, and it’s enough to make you whine in your own little fantasy. 

He takes his time in pumping it in and out of you before slipping his ring finger inside, picking up the pace. Your thighs tighten around his hand and you sloppily try to pull him down closer to you, hiding your face into the crook of his neck as he curls his fingers. The palm of his hand presses against your clit and you cry out, fingers latching onto his hair as you start your little spiel of babbles. 

“Right there, right there, oh my god, there, there-”

You cut yourself off as he speeds up, your cute little incoherent sounds encouraging him. He wishes he could see your face, see the look in your eyes, but you can only squeal into his shoulder and knock your knees against his legs as you feel something within you tighten. 

“Right here?” He teases, fingers curling against your warm walls, and the feeling of it is enough to make him hang his head low, panting, cock straining at the thought of how you’d feel around him. 

“Mhm,” You choke out, too far gone to try and say something to tease him back. Your head drops back onto the seat and you feel your back arch up against him, heat swarming in your abdomen as you chant out breathily- Yes, yes, yes. 

Megumi feels you tense up, and then you’re twitching, crying into him as you come undone all over his fingers, earning a groan from him. He works you through it, lets you have your fun before your vision is blurring and you’re half heartedly pushing his hand away. 

You fall limp beneath him and watch him with a hazy mind as he brings his fingers up to his lips, lapping at them, sucking them clean. 

You turn your head to the side, suddenly feeling shy. He smiles down at you, “Don’t try to be modest, now.” 

It makes you laugh weakly, makes you swat at his chest so softly that it feels like a mere tap. He dips back down to pepper the junction of your neck and shoulder in kisses, occasionally licking and biting, hoping little bruises bloom across your skin. 

The both of you freeze when you feel something hard poke at the inside of your thigh. 

Megumi groans, and you know he’s embarrassed. He buries his face into the side of your neck, hand slipping beneath your shirt to massage at your waist. 

You want him now, fast, before the two of you call it a night, and you want to call out for him. 

But you can’t just say Dog Boy, please fuck me. 

It makes you wince at yourself, but you’re too shy to ask for his name now. 

“Baby,” You finally breathe out, your hand running up and down his arm. 

He hums contentedly into your neck. 

“Need you,” You start quietly, taking his hand in yours and guiding it to your heat. “Need you inside me.” You swear you hear him groan a low Fuck right into your skin. 

He heaves himself up, eyes glossed over with lust and a glint of something that makes your heart skip a few beats, but you don’t want to jump the gun with that just yet. You can only hope that he sees the same thing in your eyes, too. 

Megumi sloppily works on undoing his pants, heaving a content sigh when you rushedly swat his hands away and take the task into your own hands. 

He stuffs his pants past his knees, frantically trying to kick them off his legs as fast as he can. 

You nearly whine at the sight of him, like this, all for you, in front of you. 

He moves down to kiss you, pushing you back down to the seat, making sure you were lying comfortably. He takes his cock into his hand, smoothing it over your wet folds back and forth to prep himself. 

You’re panting, lifting your hips, urging him on. 

He finally aligns himself with your slit, but pauses for a second. 

“Megumi.” 

“H-Huh?” 

“My name’s Megumi,” He suddenly confesses as he pushes his tip in slowly. 

You think you carry the universe in your chest. It feels like it’s expanding, endlessly, painfully- a delicious type of pain. You’re too caught up in the newfound intimacy of learning his name that your jaw goes slack as soon as you feel him bottom out within you, breaking you from your trance. 

You feel so full. 

“Megumi,” You cry unabashedly, moving your hips, encouraging him to move. 

He groans, big hands planting themselves on your hips as he begins with slow thrusts, drawing out the feeling. He hits all the right places, but the pace he’s going at is devastating.

You’re whining, begging, babbling out for him to go faster, to fuck me, please, please Megumi, and the sound of your pretty voice crying out his name is enough to drive him insane. 

He loves torturing you, really. Loves the way you cry for him, the way you clench around him, the way your voice shakes. 

Megumi sets a fast pace, rutting into you like you’re the outlet for all his pent-up feelings. You’re squealing, and when the tip of his cock hits the spot that sends you around the world and back, you feel tears blur your vision. 

“Feels s-so good, Megumi,” You chatter dumbly, too lost in the feeling and the sounds he’s making. 

“Yeah?” He strains, grip tightening on your hips. “Look so pretty like this, baby. So fucking- oh, god- pretty.”

He enunciates his statement with a particularly hard thrust that has your toes curling, your hands tight on his biceps before he moves to fold you in half, squeezing you into a mating press as best as he can. His eyes zero in on where the two of you meet as he tries to etch the sight into his memory. 

“Megumi,” You cry weakly, “So much, so so good, so- ah!”

You can’t even form a single coherent sentence, and he thinks you’re so adorable. He watches as fresh tears cascade down the path of dried ones, and it only spurs him further. The two of you are so pathetically desperate to reach your orgasms, you don’t even mind when his thrusts become sloppy and off-kilter, when he starts groaning and even lets out the prettiest of sounds when you flutter around him. 

You manage to collect yourself for just a second. 

“Please fill me up,” You beg, nodding dumbly to egg him on. “Wanna- wanna feel you cum inside me, wanna- oh, fuck, fuck, baby, please-” 

He knows it’s probably not the smartest idea, but he’s too caught up in chasing his pleasure, and your little begs and mewls make his movements stutter before he finally stills inside you, pressing your thighs to your chest to steady himself. 

“Take it, baby. Fucking- god- take it.”

“Mhm,” You nod frantically, static invading your vision, “Make me yours, please, make me- I’m, oh, I’m yours,” You’re running your mouth nonsensically, and the feeling of his seed spilling inside of you is enough to push you past the edge until you’re crying and shaking beneath him. 

He wants to hear you say it for forever, telling him that you’re his. 

He leans in to kiss your forehead, “Say it again.” 

You think you could pass out, chest still heaving up and down as you come back down from your high, but you would do anything to please him. “‘M yours.” 

Megumi smiles to himself before he pulls out, the sensation pulling a hiss from you as he lets you relax your legs and tries to clean the both of you to the best of his ability, considering the circumstances. 

He helps you slide your panties back on, maneuvers your legs for you so that you can tug on your pants, worried that you’ll get cold fast. 

You let him take charge, too exhausted to even move. Megumi splays across the seat and pulls you into his chest, trying to pull his jacket over the two of you like a blanket. 

“Megumi,” You say sleepily, cheek smushed against the spot where his heart beats. He hums, encouraging you to go on. 

“My name,” You start, “My name is (Y/N).” And, before you let him speak, you turn your head to look up at him with a cheeky little smile. “Does this make us friends, now?” 

He laughs. It’s your favorite sound.

“I hope we can be more than friends.” 

You hum affirmatively and kiss his earlobe before nestling against him, falling asleep.

The days are filled with love and gestures of affection after that night. Megumi is more comfortable now, though sometimes he pinches your side gently whenever you slip up and accidentally call him Dog Boy. He tells you that he demands reparations for your wrongdoings- he specifies that he would like to be paid back in kisses. 

Whenever you call him a sap, he pinches your side again. 

Although the two of you seem to be in your own little world, lost in love, the outer world has not changed. You add another step to your nightly routine, right before you go to sleep; Check the radio. 

Megumi leaves it propped on the dashboard at all times and frequently asks you to try and catch a signal so that the two of you can hear some news. Day after day, you find yourselves unlucky. You’re always greeted by the same crackle and fuzz. 

He’s been thinking hard lately, and you can see it. He’s always a little distracted, late to respond to you, or sometimes not even listening altogether. 

He’s thinking that at this rate, it may be smarter to settle down. To find somewhere to stay, to wait out the situation. Surely, with time, the zombies should die out. This cannot last forever. 

And while you’re splitting the food or reading outdated magazines that he grabbed for you at the store, he’s facing his own little mental battles. He knows that you dream of a better future, with people coming together and starting anew. And he knows that you’re becoming even more hopeful now that you’ve reached North and the camp should be within your sights at any time, but the journey itself is not promising. It’s colder, storms more often, the truck shakes and does not shield you from the cold all that well when the two of you are asleep. Megumi is nearly positive that the best idea, for now, is to settle down somewhere and to at least let the season pass. 

He’s promised himself that he’ll bring it up to you on this particular morning, as the snow kisses the windows and fights against the weak attempts of the windshield wipers. You’re rummaging through a magazine, reading it over for the nth time and trying to fill out one of the crossword puzzles you had previously left empty for times like this. 

“(Y/N),” He starts, mouth dry as he glances at you before looking back at the road. 

“Hm?”

“I’ve been thinking, recently…”

As he pauses to collect what he wants to say, you giggle to yourself. “I know. You always look kind of constipated, you know? You’re not very good at hiding it, Megs.” 

His face flushes red, and the both of you know it’s not from the cold. He appreciates that you’re not upset that he’s been keeping things to himself as of late, but he thinks he could’ve gone without the playful comment. 

“Anyway,” He stresses, though he doesn’t feel so panicky anymore. He strictly keeps his eyes trained in front of him, on the road, following the short, yellow lines that divide it down the middle. 

“I think… think we should settle down. The winter is only going to get harsher, and this truck is so old, I’m not sure how long it’ll last. We can find some place to stay- there’s empty houses everywhere- and we can sit out until the season is over. It’ll be safer that way.” 

His proposition hangs in the air. You’re awfully quiet, and for a second he wonders if you were even listening. 

“Megumi- pull over.” 

“Huh? What?” 

“Just- just stop the truck.” 

He thinks you’re angry, but you don’t sound it. He rushedly puts the truck into park and tries to catch a glimpse of your face, to see how you feel. 

You look focused. You don’t even bother to look at him; you’re looking past him.

He confirms that you probably weren’t even listening to what he said when you ask, “Do you see that? Over there?”

“See what?”

“That… that big white thing, like… look.” You point your finger in the general direction of what you see. 

“(Y/N), everything’s white- it’s snowing-”

You hush him, “No, no. It’s huge...it’s..”

You don’t finish. You’re tired of squinting to try and make out the shape of what you see, so you haul the truck door open and spill out of it clumsily, the snow catching you. Fear, hope, adrenaline, excitement; it swallows you whole and you think you could throw up. You trudge towards the front of the truck, snow pulling on your boots like it’s begging you to stay. 

Megumi follows after you, worried as to why you’re frozen in place, pushing past the clingy snow. Your name catches in his throat before he gets to call out to you. He finally sees what you see, just a few yards away. 

Children. Young, healthy looking children. They’re running around, squealing and throwing snow at each other, little hands covered in gloves and big, puffy jackets slowing down their movements. He sees people calling out to them, ushering them inside big tents- tents.

They’re caked with snow, but positively scattered all over the place. He sees people peeking out, zipping them up, running straight out of them to dive into inches of fresh snow.

You’re rushing back to the truck, feeling weightless as you snag your backpack from the passenger seat and haul it with you as you try to run past Megumi, towards the people. “Hurry, Megumi!” You call, a smile so evident in your voice. 

“I have to show them my calendar!” 

[spiceofvy]

how about secretly dating skz members and how it would be like daily with having to hide from the public 🤫

Secretly dating SKZ

cw: gender neutral reader, sfw, very fluffy

Chan: Very serious about keeping the secret but also wants to talk about you all the time. He is just so proud of everything you do and achieve in your day so he just wants to tell the whole world but he can‘t because he is scared of how you would be treated by the public. So instead he tells the rest of his members everything about you that makes him smile. Which is everything.

Minho: Has a very easy time not talking about you or not posting you. Actually not even his friends know a lot about you.He just likes to keep you to himself. To save you completely ror himself. So no one else even looks at you, as your smile is only meant for him. You are definitely his safe haven after a long day of schedule.

Changbin: Would love to take you with him wherever he goes but it‘s not easy. So he takes little things with him, a picture of you in his wallet, a shoelace in your favorite color on one of his shoes. Little things that remind him of you without telling the public about you. Only for him to know.

Hyunjin: You are in every piece of art he creates. Not directly with your appearance but the flower he painted is your favorite color or the background of his painting is in the color of the shirt you wore the morning he started painting. He posts them proudly knowing that only the two of you know the true meaning of his painting.

Jisung: Has a hard time keeping the secret to himself. He just constantly talks about you so suddenly not being able to do so when the camera runs is really difficult for him. Will instead talk about „a friend“ which honestly just leads to even more rumors, but he is fine with that, as long as he gets to talk about you.

Felix: Hides you in plain sight. Your shadow is on his Insta stories, he has boyfriend photos of himself without crediting any of the members or someone else who could have taken the photo. Maybe he even posts the bouquets he gets for you every week, reading the speculations in the comments. He is the one most likely to one day make your relationship public.

Seungmin: He keeps you all to himself, actually not even the members know you. You are the thing that grounds him, that stays with him no matter what happens. He has pages in his journal dedicated to you. So it‘s not hard to keep you away from the public, as he loves the feeling of knowing that you and your thoughts are only for him to enjoy. Though he does mourn that he can‘t take you out to town for fancy dinner dates.

Jeongin: He has a pretty hard time adjusting his behavior to being in public. He is just used to constantly sending you photos and voicemails of his days. So when the camera switches on he usually switches off his phone completely so he doesn‘t get too close to leaking something.

[yuurei20]

Not sure if you've already answered this question, but was it ever confirmed that Leona's mother is dead or is just a popular fan theory?

Hello hello, thank you for this question! 🦁

It has never been confirmed in-game that Leona's mother is dead! (Parent info is compiled here! ->)

⚠️Small Book 7 spoiler below!⚠️

For spoiler-avoiding purposes the page above lists Leona's mother as "never mentioned in game," but she actually has been!

Just once, in Book 7:

"On days when I wasn't doing official duties, my mother and the head chamberlain would take pictures all over the place. I thought I was finally done with pointless, self-indulgent photo sessions once I left the palace......but now, every season, it's 'send pictures.'"

Twst is generally very careful with its wording, being intentionally vague in ways that can be difficult for the English language to follow (ex: the VDC choreography), and this may be another example 👀

In Leona's line about how he is always being asked for photos even now, he does not actually say who it is that is reaching out to him.

His mother and the chamberlain were established as the subjects in an earlier sentence so he could be referring to them, which would confirm his mother is still alive, but his "every season" sentence does not actually have any personal pronouns in it at all. He could mean both of them, just the chamberlain, just his mother, or an entirely different person or people--it is not specified!

In his ceremonial robes vignette, for example, he says he has received a letter asking him for pictures sent from his sister-in-law.

(For reference: an interesting blog post on this same topic 📝)

It technically also does not confirm that she was alive up until he left for NRC, as the mention of his mother could be an anecdote from his childhood with the chamberlain alone (or even someone else entirely) continuing the trend up until he left.

It might be safe to say that she did not die in childbirth, as Leona seems to have memories of her? But that is all!

And it also means she is maybe alive and often asking that he send her pictures even now :> We do not know anything for sure as of this post, but maybe one day!

[chadobi]

Raising the Next Generation | TMNT bayverse x Reader Kids!!

TW: Miscarriage (please read note at the end🤍)

Marcus (18) – Leo’s son

His name, Marcus, was chosen by Leo and means “warrior” (a nod to strength, leadership, and discipline)

He secretly plays a bamboo flute when he’s alone , it’s how he calms his mind.

He was the first mutant child born into the family and the first to complete ninja training from a very young age.

Despite being serious, he has a soft spot for Noah and often carries him on his shoulders.

He’s fascinated by the stars and knows almost every constellation by name.

Marie (16) – Donnie’s daughter

She’s named after Marie Skłodowska-Curie. Chosen by Donnie to honor one of his scientific heroes.

Like her mom, Marie has a photographic memory and can recall entire pages after reading them once. (you get the reference? hehe if don’t here is answer: …)

Her room is filled with glowing constellations, 3D models of molecules, and custom-built tech.

She once hacked into a security system just to help Max get his game account back.

She sometimes wears her dad’s oversized goggles for fun, even if they’re way too big.

Alec (15) – Leo’s son

His name means “defender of mankind” but he jokes it should mean “trouble magnet.”

He has a scar on his eyebrow from sneaking out to do a rooftop stunt at 10 years old.

He often “borrows” Marcus’s weapons and gets scolded for it, then does it again anyway.

He loves fast movement , sprinting, parkour, rooftop jumping, anything that gives him adrenaline.

He pretends he doesn’t care what Leo thinks, but he secretly keeps an old photo of just the two of them in his drawer.

Nova (15) – Raph’s daughter

Her name means “new star”, because Raph said she lit up his world the first time he held her.

She’s incredible at both painting and boxing, a strange but perfect combination.

She keeps a sketchbook full of emotional drawings she never shows anyone… except maybe you.

She once punched Alec for making fun of Ginny and broke his nose. Raph grounded her but also bought her ice cream.

Her favorite hoodie is actually one of Raph’s old workout shirts that she stole and never gave back.

Max (13) – Mikey’s son

Max loves making funny videos and even has a secret channel where he posts animations and skits (with voiceovers by Mikey).

He once taught Noah how to skateboard using a pillow and a lot of yelling.

He’s obsessed with pineapple pizza and has tried to convert the entire family.

He wears mismatched socks every single day, it’s his lucky charm.

Max often talks about wanting a little sibling, not knowing that his own birth was a miracle. You and Mikey tried for years to have a child, and you suffered two heartbreaking miscarriages before him. The moment you held Max for the first time, you both cried, not just because he was beautiful, but because he was your long-awaited light after the darkest times.

Ginny (12) – Raph’s daughter

Her name is short for Genevieve, which means “woman of the race” chosen to honor strength through quiet resilience.

She’s incredibly good at parkour and climbing, and often trains in silence when no one’s around.

She prefers solo sports, especially gymnastics and obstacle courses.

She rarely speaks in large groups but has a very dry, clever sense of humor when she’s comfortable.

She always tapes her fingers before training, a habit she picked up from Raph, even if she doesn’t need it.

Noah (6) – Leo’s son

His name was chosen because it symbolized peace and new beginnings after a difficult year for the family.

He’s obsessed with toy swords and has named each one after a superhero.

He often “patrols” the house with a towel cape and makes Marcus act like a villain so he can “save the day.”

He once drew a crayon picture of the whole family and gave Leo three muscles on each arm.

He insists on wearing socks with turtles on them because “they look like Dad.”

———————————

Hey there!

I hope you’re all satisfied and enjoying my take on the TMNT boys’ kids headcanons! I put a lot of thought into their children’s personalities and everything around them.

I know I touched on the topic of miscarriage here, and I understand it can be uncomfortable or painful for some people. However, I decided to include it because, sadly, it’s something that happens to many people in real life.

I personally know several couples who have gone through it, and I wanted to mention it here to remind us that life isn’t always perfect, these things happen too.

If this is something you’ve experienced, I’m truly sorry 🩷

You are incredibly strong, and you’re not alone in this.

[bronzepascal]

a cambridge affair, part one - pedro pascal

pairing: pedro pascal x fem!reader warnings: age gap - the reader is her late 20s, pedro is 50. sexual tension, smut, forbidden relationship between a university professor and his student. swearing. lots of academic talk, the books that have been mentioned are actual real-life books (yes, i actually have had to read them for my degrees). mentions of misogyny. author’s note: PLEASE CONSIDER DONATING/BUYING ME A COFFEE as I take my precious time for the writing and also, I am currently struggling to buy food for myself. please note that i’m dyslexic & non-native english speaker - i make mistakes! feedback is very welcomed! word count: 13.6K or 33 pages. NO MINORS! 18+ READERS ONLY!

The first breath you took in Cambridge was heavier than you’d expected — thick with honeysuckle and something older still, a smell you couldn’t name but felt somewhere in your molars. Not the kind of spring air you were used to in Manchester, where drizzle wrapped around redbrick buildings and trains hummed past your window like impatient insects. No — this was slower and older city - a quieter - more like suspended in time. The taxi cab had rolled past stone colleges and ancient gates that looked like they’d been waiting for centuries just for you to walk through them. You didn’t, of course, not at first. You stood at the edge of King’s Parade with your luggage like a visitor in your own body, a phantom of the student you were supposed to become.

Your room in your private accommodation was on the top floor of a building that overlooked a quadrangle the colour of faded postcards. Creaking wooden stairs and a leaded window with a narrow seat — exactly the kind of place you imagined Sylvia Plath would’ve sulked in. There was a desk made of walnut, older than your parents, probably, and a radiator that coughed when the heat kicked in. On that desk sat a sealed envelope with your name in looping handwriting, the ink slightly smudged. Inside, a welcome letter from your faculty and a reading list so dense it made your eyes ache. You ran your fingers over the spines of the books you’d brought — The Blazing World by Siri Hustvedt and The Silence by Don DeLillo (yes, these are actual books), dog-eared and annotated in different colours. You felt both absurd and terrified. Like a child dressing up as a grown-up or like a scholar-shaped ghost.

Cambridge didn’t offer itself easily. Not the way Manchester had — all unfiltered honesty, kebab wrappers and warmth you could measure in sarcasm. Cambridge, instead, watched you with a stare that kind of made you feel like a total outsider - obviously it would, especially when you have a working-class background. It was pretty much evaluated. You walked through the courtyards conscious of every footfall, every flicker of your expression when you passed a don on a bicycle or another undergrad or postgrad student reading Foucault at breakfast. You had chosen to research something that would make you flinch on the page: misogyny, language and collapse — how contemporary fiction on both sides of the Atlantic had become a sort of cultural morgue. Your thesis proposal had earned a lot of polite nods and one raised eyebrow in your interview. They had called it “timely,” but you had seen something else in their eyes — the wary sort of interest reserved for difficult women.

And then came the email. Just two lines:

Your doctoral supervisor has been confirmed. You will be meeting with Professor Pedro Pascal in Room 326, Sidgwick Site, Tuesday 11am.

No context, no bio. No link to an academic profile. You Googled him, of course as everyone did and would do. The results were surreal — red carpet photos, interviews in Variety, a résumé filled with ghosts: Oberyn Martell, Javier Peña, Joel Miller. And yet there he was, listed on the Faculty of English website, a Visiting Professor in Contemporary Literature and Languages with a research focus in narrative ethics, masculinity and post-celebrity fiction. The notes said he had submitted a dissertation on performance theory in late-stage capitalism and published a monograph with Verso.

You didn’t know what to expect. A well-known actor turned academic? Maybe it was a publicity stunt on Cambridge’s part? But the moment you stepped into his office, all of that dissolved, kind of.

The room was warm with dust and soft light, full of papers and second-hand books and the distinct smell of old wood and bergamot. There was a long, designer coat thrown over the back of an armchair — not posed, not performative, just human. And then there was him. Not behind a desk, as you had imagined, but seated in the windowsill, one foot braced against the radiator, a notebook open on his knee. He looked up as you entered and there was that brief flash of recognition — not in the celebrity sense, not “you know who I am,” but something more complicated. Something that read: You’re going to be difficult. Good.

“Hello, please, take a seat,” he said simply. His voice was quiet, but it had weight. American, yes, absolutely — but softened by years of silence. “You’re early.”

“Old habit, time anxiety stuck in me,” you replied, surprised at how clear your voice came out. “I don’t like being late and given stares when I enter the room on time or a few seconds later.”

He smiled at that, mainly with his eyes. There was a weariness to him that felt earned, not worn. He gestured to the chair opposite the desk and you sat, your hands resting on your knees in a way that felt both composed and childish.

He glanced at the paper in his notebook. “You’re writing about misogyny and contemporary fiction, I see on this document - themes such as transatlantic scope, politically charged notes and quite ambitious I can tell.”

You nodded. “Is that a problem?”

“No,” he said, closing the notebook. “It’s exactly the sort of thing that makes this place uncomfortable as it should be. That’s usually a good sign.”

There was a pause. A long one. Not awkward — loaded.

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on knees. “Why fiction? Why not politics straight up? Or history?”

You shrugged. “Because people lie less when they are trying to make something up.”

That earned you a proper smile out of him. The kind that made his eyes crinkle and his shoulders relax a fraction. He looked at you again — not the way men look at women, but the way readers look at books they have not decided how to feel about yet. Being extra careful and curious. With a certain respect that bordered on reverence.

“Good,” he said finally. “Then let’s see how well you write lies.”

And just like that, supervision began. He did not ask you to read anything aloud from your notes or your proposal — didn’t even glance at the printed copy peeking out of your satchel, as if its presence was enough. There was no discussion of a timeline, no mention of quarterly objectives or formatting guidelines, none of the bureaucratic scaffolding you’d half-expected to be given, like some sort of strong basis to begin with. He didn’t offer you a reading list or a framework or a milestone calendar as there was no attempt to define the rules of your four-year academic contract. Instead, he sat in that slanting, honeyed light and asked questions — slowly, carefully, not the kind designed to elicit tidy, quotable answers, but the sort that took up residence in your chest like a draft, unsettling everything you thought had already been arranged. They were questions that tugged at your intellectual certainty like loose threads — pulling apart your comfortable definitions and reweaving them, word by word, until you felt slightly tilted inside your own head. It was not so much that he wanted to know what you thought; it was that he wanted to see what you would do when your thoughts were turned upside down, stripped of polish and certainty, and laid bare in front of someone who had no intention of saving you from your own mind.

But the questions — God, the questions — they didn’t reach for answers. They reached for you. They curled around your thoughts like smoke, soft and lingering, and forced you to follow them long after they’d been asked. Questions like: Who taught you to trust first-person narrators? Which scenes in fiction do you find unbearable — and why? If misogyny is a structural force, what kind of architecture does it build? And are you living in it when you write? They didn’t test your knowledge; they tested your footing. Each one rearranged the furniture in your mind — not violently, not to shame you, but like someone lighting the room differently so you could see that the chair was never where you thought it was in the first place.

“How do you define misogyny?” he asked at one point, his voice calm but deliberate, like the question had been waiting all morning for its chance to surface. He leaned back slightly in his chair then, his long fingers steepled just beneath his chin, eyes fixed on you — not with challenge exactly, but with the quiet intensity of someone studying a text they hadn’t annotated yet. Pedro wasn’t smiling as he didn’t need to. The question was doing all the work.

You’d prepared for it, of course — it was the opening paragraph of your proposal, the fulcrum of your research. But you hadn’t prepared for the way it would sound coming from him: unhurried, low, slightly gravelled at the edges, as though the word itself weighed differently in his mouth. It made you want to rewrite everything — your thesis, your notes, your so-far written out citations — just to match the cadence of his voice. You swallowed, steadying yourself, and offered what you’d written: that misogyny isn’t just hatred of women, but a regulatory force—social mechanism. The way a culture disciplines and corrects female behaviour not through overt violence alone, but through more subtle methods — shame, silence and storytelling. The kind of stories that are handed down like doctrine or slid under the skin like anaesthetic.

You told him that, post-2016, fiction has started staging this correction in newer, more fractured ways. That unreliable narrators have become not just literary devices, but metaphors for surviving in a world where women are disbelieved by default. That timelines collapse in novels the way they collapse in trauma. That male characters in contemporary literature often dissolve into abstraction — all theory and posturing — while female pain becomes hyperreal, rendered in such granular, physical detail it almost aches to read.

Pedro nodded, not as a seal of approval, but as an invitation to go deeper. He didn’t want to interject. He let the silence stretch just long enough to make you uncomfortable and then a little longer — until you felt the need to fill it, to explain yourself more thoroughly, as though the thought was only halfway formed until it met his gaze.

“And I think,” you added quietly, “the reason literature’s handling it differently now — on both sides of the Atlantic Ocean — is because the social contract has broken. Fiction isn’t pretending to fix it anymore. It’s just holding the fragments up to the light.”

At that, something flickered in his expression. Not surprising. Not even agreement. Something quieter and older. Like a nerve catching fire somewhere behind his eyes. He looked down at his hands for a moment, his fingers clasped loosely together, like a man remembering something personal and trying, with some difficulty, not to offer it just yet.

“That’s good,” he said finally, voice lower than before. “Painfully good.”

You didn’t thank him nor did you give a smile. You just took a small, controlled breath and reached for your notebook like you were trying not to shake — like you needed to touch something solid.

The next twenty minutes passed in a kind of suspended haze — part supervision, part philosophical interrogation, part something else entirely. He asked you about genre: why female writers were so often shoved into autofiction whether they asked for it or not, while their male counterparts were allowed abstraction, grandiosity, experimentation. He asked about class and taste, about the canon and who gets to be included in it. Why British fiction seems to fear sincerity when it comes from a woman’s mouth. Why certain working-class narrators are branded “unreliable” even when they’re plainly telling the truth.

You found yourself talking about Girl, Woman, Other by Bernardine Evaristo, about My Year of Rest and Relaxation by Ottessa Moshfegh, about the shift in fiction from confession to performance — how women writers are no longer allowed to simply confess, they have to perform that confession for an audience already primed to doubt them. You argued that we are past the age of catharsis. That contemporary fiction doesn’t want to cleanse the wound — it wants to show the infection.

Pedro pressed you on every point. Never cruelly and never condescending. Just relentlessly. The way a very sharp knife presses into the skin — not to draw blood, but to remind you exactly where your nerves are.

At one point, you were gesturing with your pencil — nothing dramatic, just an instinctive flick of the wrist — and you caught his eyes shift. Not to your face or to your hands. But to the breath you had just held, sharp and invisible. For a second, he watched it — the pause in your chest — and then he looked away. Too fast to mean anything.

“I’ll want a chapter draft of the thesis by the end of term,” he said eventually, standing with a kind of slow, unfussy finality that startled you. He hadn’t raised his voice, but the shift in his posture — the closing of the session — was unmistakable. “Doesn’t need to be polished. Just honest.”

“Of which chapter?” you asked, collecting your things with hands that felt colder than they should have.

He looked down at you — a flicker of mischief in his eyes now, too brief to name.

“Whichever one scares you most.”

You hesitated. “What if they all do?”

He tilted his head, his mouth curving into something not quite a smile — something smarter than a smile. “Then you’re probably on the right track.”

He turned towards the bookshelf behind his desk, scanning the spines with a practiced hand, and pulled a book free — a thin copy of The Argonauts by Maggie Nelson. Its spine was creased, corners bent, faint pencil markings ghosting the margins. He held it like something familiar. Like something lived with.

“Take this,” he said, extending it to you without flourishing. “It’s mine, so don’t annotate it. Just read.”

You took it with both hands, the pages still warm from his fingers, the cover soft at the edges where it had been handled too often. You could smell the faint scent of his aftershave on the paper. Sandalwood, maybe.

“Do you-” you began, but stopped yourself. It felt like a question that had too many endings.

He turned slightly, his expression unreadable. “Do I what?”

You faltered. “Do you always lend your own books to students?”

His gaze lingered which held yours just a second too long. A beat too sharp. And then: “Only when I want them to come back.”

You didn’t reply, a sharp breath took you back to reality. You couldn’t really comprehend the response from him.

And with that, you were dismissed.

Outside, the light had shifted — that golden-grey hue peculiar to late autumn in Cambridge, where the sky bruises gently and the air tastes like pages curling in the corners of old libraries. You stood at the edge of the stairwell for a long moment, the book pressed tight to your chest, trying to remember your own name. You told yourself it had been a supervision. A meeting about your thesis and research.The only reason you were here, as you thought.

But somewhere beneath your ribs, something had already begun to smoulder. Quiet. Patient. Fatal.

And you knew, even then, that whatever had just begun in that room — it wouldn’t be written into your thesis. But it would write through it.

Cambridge in February is a study in restraint. The city hunkers down in greys and silvers, the cobbled streets rimed with frost, ancient stone buildings exhaling cold. Even the river seems quieter now, its slow eddies carrying ghost-thoughts between the punting poles and the bare, outstretched branches overhead. You’ve taken to walking the long way to your supervisions — through Clare’s Fellows’ Garden, along the Backs where the colleges brood like old aristocrats, then down Trinity Lane, your breath spiralling out ahead of you like mist. You don’t mind the cold. It helps. Gives shape to nerves that have otherwise begun to slip their names.

You’re holding your chapter draft in your bag — twenty-eight pages of thought you didn’t know you had until you wrote them. It nearly destroyed you. Not because of the content, though the content was difficult — an excavation of narrative rupture in post-Brexit British fiction, specifically how contemporary female authors are dismantling ideas of national identity through the lens of female fragmentation. You wrote about Deborah Levy’s Hot Milk, about the notion of the unreliable mother as a metaphor for a nation gaslighting itself. You wrote about alienation, class betrayal, the ache of belonging somewhere that has made itself unrecognisable. But none of that was the real rupture.

The real rupture was writing it as though Pedro Pascal would read it with his whole attention.

And now, he would.

You climb the stairs to his office slower than usual, with no ill-thought intention. It’s just that your body knows things your mind won’t say aloud. It knows that once you cross the threshold, something will change — maybe imperceptibly, maybe irrevocably.

He’s already there, as always. Reading, glasses on this time, hunched slightly forward with one elbow resting on the desk. There’s a mug near his hand — chipped navy ceramic, the kind that feels like it belongs in a house rather than an office. He looks up before you knock.

“You’re early, again,” he says, voice still lower than it should be for an academic building at 10am.

“I walked like a snail,” you answer. “Needed to clear my head.”

He smiles — the small, crooked one that you’ve learned is genuine. “Did it work?”

You shake your head. “Not even remotely.”

That earns a soft chuckle. He gestures to the chair opposite him — same one as last time. You sit on the same chair as before, funny, right? The chapter draft is already on his desk, marked faintly in pencil as you had to send it via email. Pedro most definitely printed out to read it properly. No red ink, no harsh scribbles. Just margin notes, underlines, the occasional vertical line beside a paragraph he apparently wanted to return to. There’s a paperclip at the top. The kind detail your nervous system latches onto.

He doesn’t hand it to you yet.

“I read it three times,” he says instead.

You blink. “Three?”

Pedro nods. “Twice quickly. Once out loud to myself.”

There’s something intimate about that. The thought of him reading your sentences not just with his eyes but with his voice — alone, somewhere in the stillness of his flat or this office or some strange, off-hours place in between. You wonder if he paused between sentences. If he cursed at the phrasing. If he let the silences carry him.

“You wrote like someone with no skin left and your anxiety was trying to punch you into your guts,” he adds. “But in a good way.”

You let out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “That’s sort of how it felt.”

“I can tell. There’s a lot of pain and anxious feeling in this, but also clarity. You’re writing toward something unspeakable — which is, paradoxically, the most honest kind of writing there is.”

He finally slides the draft across to you, fingers grazing the paper just before yours do. You feel it within a distance. A single electric nerve lighting up somewhere behind your knee. You don’t look at him as you open it, flipping to the section he’s bracketed in the margins.

“I think this paragraph is dangerous, a bit too emotional,” he says, leaning forward. “Not because it’s wrong — but because it’s right, and you don’t yet know what that means.”

You read the paragraph aloud which you hadn’t planned to. But suddenly you need to hear it outside of your own skull:

“Misogyny, at this point in history, doesn’t need to be a monster with teeth. It just needs to be shrugged as institutional forgetfulness. A curriculum where female anger is always called hysteria and male violence is just a tragedy we footnote. It’s in the silence that follows a disclosure. In the sighs of men who say ‘we’ve heard this before’. Misogyny has become ordinary and structural.”

Pedro is quiet for a moment after you finish. He leans back again — always that subtle shifting of distance, the pull and release you’re starting to recognise as his way of not crossing lines too quickly.

“You should put that on your title page,” he says finally.

You half-laugh, half-scoff. “It’s a bit dramatic.”

“No,” he says, and his voice is calm, serious. “It’s true. And if you keep writing like this — if you don’t flinch — it’s going to be a painful thesis. And a beautiful one. But make sure you stick to your academic guns.”

That word - beautiful. Spoken so plainly you don’t know where to put it. It lands differently coming from him. Not like praise, more like knowledge.

Something shifts then. Not in the words exchanged, but in the air between them. He reaches for the mug, takes a sip, and you notice — absurdly — the slight smudge of ink on the side of his index finger. He’s been writing or annotating — or maybe just touching books again, the way he always does, like they’re alive and breathing.

Your gaze lingers too long. He notices.

Neither of you speak.

He sets the mug down.

“Have you ever thought about including autofiction?” he asks suddenly. “Blending your own experiences into the argument? Just enough to destabilise the line between analysis and memory?”

“I thought that was risky.”

“It is,” he says, voice lower again. “But so is telling the truth.”

You nod slowly, unsure whether you’re agreeing with the idea or the man offering it.

“Besides,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, “you write like someone who already knows where the pain is. You may as well trace it.”

You don’t reply.

You glance down at the book he lent you months ago — still in your bag, carried like a relic. You wonder if he remembers and wonder if he meant for you to.

“I think about it more than I should,” you say instead, the words slipping out before you can filter them.

He lifts an eyebrow. “The thesis?”

You shake your head. “This - the supervision and the theme of my thesis. Also, kind of these conversations. I think about them when I’m writing and when I’m not.”

The air changes again. Sharper now. Thinner.

Pedro looks at you then — properly. Not like a professor to a student. Not even like a man to a woman. But like someone on the edge of saying something that could shatter both of you.

He doesn’t say it. Not yet.

“Good,” is all he offers, standing to signal the end. “Then it’s working.”

As you leave — book in your bag, the printed chapter pressed to your chest with the notes and scribbles from Pedro — the wind catches just behind you, and you swear, for one disoriented moment, that the city bends itself around your thoughts.

And though nothing is said — though everything remains technically unbroken — you walk away with the trembling certainty that the boundary between intellectual desire and something else entirely is becoming less a line, and more a breath.

The third supervision was meant to be routine. You told yourself that as you stood outside the door — rehearsing neutrality, adjusting your scarf like it might tighten the spine you’d been steadily losing around him. The draft you carried was smaller this time, more refined. You’d written about contemporary transatlantic narratives and female embodiment — how American and British authors alike were confronting trauma by literalising it in the body. You referenced Melissa Febos as you wrote about pain as performance. You didn’t intend to make it personal, but somehow, there it was — small confessions braided into the theory, like threads you didn’t remember weaving.

Pedro opened the door before you knocked.

“Wow, you are punctual, on time, today,” he said, stepping aside to let you in. “Should I be worried?”

You smiled, stepping past him into the office that had started to smell faintly of him — cedar, ink, black coffee. “Worried? That I’ve become institutionalised?”

He laughed — properly this time. Voice in the lower register and lovely. “I meant for myself. You’re getting sharper. I may have to start preparing.”

That was new. The compliment was veiled, playful. You turned toward him slowly, letting your coat slip from your shoulders with a practiced ease that wasn’t exactly deliberate — but not innocent, either.

“I thought you liked being the smartest man in the room,” you replied, setting the draft on the desk between you.

He tilted his head, smile lingering, eyes darker than they had any right to be on a Thursday morning. “I like being challenged. It keeps me honest.”

You laughed — because you didn’t know what else to do. The tension and air in the room had changed. Maybe it was because he wasn’t sitting yet as usual before you both started discussing the matters or because his gaze was still fixed on you like you’d said something far more dangerous than you meant to.

Now, you both sat.

And for the next forty minutes, the supervision went on as usual, mostly. You discussed the text. He scribbled margin notes, argued with your syntax, pushed your thinking on embodiment and fiction. But something had shifted — his posture had relaxed, his smile stretched longer, his voice dipped lower when he asked questions. At one point, he leaned back in his chair and said, out of nowhere:

“You know, you’re very good at making things sound like the truth.”

You looked up sharply. “Is that a compliment or a warning?”

He grinned. “Both.”

There it was again. That slant to his words. Like he was speaking in italics.

You laughed him off — again. You always did. It was easier and less dangerous. Safer to believe you were imagining it all. A man like that — charming, intelligent, impossible — didn’t flirt with his PhD students. Not seriously - let’s be real at this moment.

But as you packed your bag and stood to leave, Pedro remained seated, gaze following your hands.

“Do you know what I like about your writing?” he said quietly, like it was the last line of a page.

You paused. “What?”

“You let the reader come to the conclusion. You don’t drag them there. You invite them to get a little lost first.”

You smiled, warm and awkward, unsure if he meant the thesis or this very moment.

“Thanks,” you said, your voice half-caught in your throat.

He nodded. But his eyes were too steady. Too patient. Like he was still waiting for you to catch up.

You left with a strange flutter in your stomach — one you didn’t fully name until days later.

It was a Wednesday when it finally clicked. You were re-reading your draft, Pedro’s notes in the margins, and there — at the top of page seventeen, scrawled in small, neat pencil — was the line:

“There’s more you’re not saying. You should write like you trust me.”

You stared at it for a full minute. Then another. Then read it again, even slower. Not because it was inappropriate. It wasn’t, well, not technically. Certainly not academically. But there was something in the phrasing. Something that curled under your skin and stayed there.

That night, in bed, you thought about the way he’d looked at you. Not leered — not once, but he watched. Like he was tracing a thesis of his own and you were the hypothesis. Like he was waiting for you to realise he was writing something, too — just not on paper.

And once the thought arrived, it wouldn’t leave. Day after day, it returned, featherlight but constant. Pedro hadn’t crossed any lines, not yet, but he was close enough that you felt the wind of it. Close enough that your body had reacted before your mind caught up.

Friendly, yes. But friendliness isn’t the same thing as innocence.

And Pedro Pascal was many things — brilliant, respected, relentlessly composed — but innocent was not one of them.

It happened one afternoon in late November, when Cambridge was already starting to fold into winter, when the streets smelled of woodsmoke and wet wool, and the light fell too early, painting everything in that ghostly half-gold. You’d stayed later than usual in the faculty library, chasing a footnote on post-Brexit fiction that had somehow unravelled into a full paragraph. By the time you packed up, your hands were stiff from the cold and your phone had just buzzed with a message from him.

“Office door’s open. If you’re still around.”

Just that. No greeting. No sign-off. You read it three times anyway. In your mind, you just thought maybe he just wants to give some more advice or go over some literacy paragraphs, you did not think too much of it.

The corridor outside his office was dimly lit, mostly empty. Your boots echoed softly on the worn stone as you walked. You paused before pushing the door open, just long enough to inhale.

Pedro was seated on the windowsill, uncharacteristically casual, backlit by the dusky amber outside. He was nursing a mug of coffee — or maybe tea — sleeves pushed up, collar undone. There was a novel half-open beside him, pages curling slightly from the air.

You stepped in. 

He looked up and smiled — slowly. “Didn’t think you’d still be around.”

You shrugged, setting your bag down near his desk. “Didn’t think you’d still be working.”

“Who said anything about working?” His voice had that soft, teasing lilt again. You looked over, and he gestured to the battered leather chair across from him. “Come on, sit. Let’s waste some time wisely.”

You sat. Warily, curious.

He didn’t reach for your thesis notes or a pen. Didn’t say anything about your chapter. Instead, he asked, 

“What are you reading lately? Not for your research — just for yourself.”

The question disarmed you. Not because it was strange, but because you’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be asked anything without purpose in this place.

You said something — a name, a title. He nodded, leaned forward. Asked what you thought of the ending. You responded, gesturing now without realising. He mirrored you, eyes fixed with that look — like he wasn’t just listening but mapping you in real time.

The conversation spun out. Not quite flirtation, not entirely innocent. You talked about books that made you angry. Authors who disappointed you. Sentences you underlined for reasons you couldn’t always articulate. Somewhere between laughter and argument, you felt yourself tip slightly — inward, toward something unnamed.

And then he said:

“You do that thing,” he murmured, voice almost lost beneath the clink of his cup. “Where you look away when you say something vulnerable. Like you’re protecting the sentence from being too real.”

You froze. The air went thinner.

“I—” You smiled, lightly. “I didn’t realise I was being psychoanalysed.”

He chuckled, unbothered. “It’s not analysis. It's an observation.”

You looked at him. Really looked. “Are you always this intense outside office hours?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Would you prefer I saved it for daylight?”

You didn’t answer, you couldn’t. Because your throat was dry, his gaze had done something to your balance, your body was alert in a way that had nothing to do with caffeine or cold air.

The silence stretched.

And when he finally stood, brushing past you to put his cup in the sink by the back wall, you caught the faintest touch of his hand on your chair — not intentional, but not accidental either.

When he turned back, you were already watching him.

He smiled. Slow. Knowing.

“Same time next week?”

You nodded, your voice lost somewhere beneath your ribs.

“Don’t forget your notes.”

You rose, grabbed your bag, and turned — and just before you stepped through the door, he said, casually:

“Oh — and wear that scarf again. The red one. It suits the way you think.”

You didn’t reply.

You just walked all the way back through the college, past the archways and the chapel and the old trees spilling leaves like gold coins, with that sentence blooming slowly through your chest like a match catching fire.

And you wondered — truly, wildly — what game it was he thought he was playing, because whatever it was, you were starting to play it, too.

The seminar room had that soft hush particular to Cambridge in the late afternoon — filtered light slanting in through tall windows, dust caught in the sunbeams like static. The table was oval, polished, and far too big for the six of you. Five PhD students, one professor, and a tray of untouched tea things sweating quietly in the middle of it all.

Pedro sat at the head, sleeves rolled, a black pen in hand that he never once used. He didn’t need to. He had that way about him — of drawing out discussion without force, letting silences grow until someone rushed to fill them. You had seen your cohort fall under his spell one by one: Georgia with her brilliant but brittle reading of Houellebecq, Ravi with his postcolonial angle on Zadie Smith, the others who danced nervously around their ideas like the floor might crack beneath them.

You had tried to remain detached, a bit clinical, but even here, in a group, you felt it — that silent architecture between the two of you, shaped by private supervisions and quiet provocations. His questions always cut a little deeper when they were aimed at you. And today, they were relentless.

“What do we mean,” he said now, “when we talk about the unreliable narrator? Is it a literary device or is it something we’ve inherited socially? Particularly in narratives about trauma — who gets to decide what’s believable?”

Your heart was already racing before he turned to you.

“Go on,” he said, too lightly. “You’ve got strong feelings about this.”

It wasn’t a question.

You answered — something smart, polished, half-prepared — but you could feel him watching you the whole time. Not just your words, the way you gestured. The way your mouth shaped certain syllables. You looked away too quickly when your gaze flicked back, he was still watching.

Afterwards, the group trickled out slowly — laughter, coats pulled on, someone making an awkward joke about going to the pub. You stood, tucking your notebook into your bag, ready to leave, when his voice came — soft, low, just behind your ear.

“Come by my office.”

You turned.

He was close. Closer than he needed to be. One brow arched slightly, like he’d asked if you’d remembered your umbrella, not inviting you into something dangerous.

“Now?” you asked, quietly.

He didn’t smile. “Just for a minute.”

You told yourself it was harmless. Maybe he had feedback. Maybe it was something about the chapter draft you’d emailed that morning, the one you weren’t ready to talk about yet. But you felt the heat blooming at your collar as you walked beside him — neither of you speaking — through staircases that echoed and corridors that held every word like a secret.

Inside his office, the door clicked shut behind you.

The room was still warm from earlier. His scarf was draped over the back of his chair. A lamp glowed on his desk, casting everything in honey and shadow.

He didn’t sit. Neither did you.

“I wanted to ask,” he said, stepping toward the desk, fingers grazing a copy of A Girl Is a Half-Formed Thing. “That moment in your draft. The bit about performance replacing testimony in modern feminist fiction. Did you mean to implicate yourself in that?”

You frowned. “Implicated?”

He looked at you fully now. “You’re performing restraint. In your work. And in here.” A beat passed. “But I don’t think it’s natural to you.”

Your breath caught. You were suddenly very aware of how quiet the room was. How close.

“Is this still supervision?” you asked, not moving.

“That depends,” he said, voice even, “on whether you want me to keep playing the part.”

The silence that followed felt like standing at the edge of a drop. He didn’t touch you and he didn’t move.

He just waited — letting you feel the weight of his gaze, the shape of the room, the way the floor felt beneath your feet as something in the atmosphere snapped taut.

And then — as if the moment had never happened — he turned, picked up a book from the shelf behind him, and held it out.

“Read this before next week,” he said. The calmness was settling in. Your fingers brushed the book as you took it.

He didn’t say anything else and you didn’t ask.

You walked back to your room in a kind of trance, the cold cutting against your cheeks, the book pressed tight to your chest.

The question now wasn’t whether something was going to happen. It was how long you could stand the wait.

The more you had to attend the supervision meeting, the more nervous and anticipated you started to get. It was after four o’clock in the afternoon when you climbed the staircase again, the same narrow one that creaked slightly underfoot, its wooden banister worn smooth by generations of hands. His email had been simple: “If you’re free, I’d like to go over your second chapter. Nothing urgent.”

That was a lie. Everything about this supervision and thesis were urgent.

The hallway outside his office was quiet now, the kind of hush that settled over the university campus after most of the undergrads had fled to the pubs or their rooms. Through the narrow window at the end of the corridor, you could see the lantern glow of a bike parked against the gate. Inside, his lamp was already on, the same strange amber hue as last time, the door just slightly ajar.

You knocked, and his voice came — low, casual: “Come in.”

He was sitting this time, glasses on, sleeves rolled to the forearms, a few pages spread before him like he had been waiting for an excuse to read them again. You stepped inside and closed the door behind you. That simple act — the soft click of it shutting — felt louder than it should have.

“You’ve changed it,” he said without looking up. “The middle section. You brought in Milkman.”

“I thought it made sense,” you said, crossing the room slowly, “with the themes of surveillance. The way characters and people monitor each other through silence — through what’s left unsaid.”

He glanced up now, the barest flicker of something moving behind his eyes.

“Social policing,” he said, nodding slightly. “Power through insinuation. Yes, that fits as it is very Irish, kind of like bashing down Britishness . But it’s also... universal now, isn’t it? This idea that silence speaks louder.”

You perched on the edge of the chair opposite his desk. “I think it’s gotten worse since 2016. Or maybe it just got louder. The silencing, I mean.”

“And so you want to read that through the body,” he said, tapping the corner of the page, “materiality. Lived experience. Not just a metaphor.”

“I don’t think this metaphor is enough anymore,” you replied. “Metaphor doesn’t get bruised.”

That made him stop, like really stop. He took off his glasses and set them down, then looked directly at you.

“Say that again.”

You blinked. “Metaphor doesn’t get bruised.”

He leaned back in his chair, considering. “You like ambiguity,” he said at last. “Not just as a subject, more as a method.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Don’t you?”

He smiled, but not fully. The corner of his mouth curved, but his eyes didn’t quite follow.

“I like clarity,” he said. “But only after I’ve tested every route that might lead to misdirection. There’s a pleasure in getting lost first, in this... disorientation.”

You met his gaze and didn’t look away.

“I think ambiguity can be more honest than certainty,” you said quietly. “Certainty can be a kind of performance. Ambiguity leaves room for truth.”

The silence between you was no longer the pause of scholars thinking. It had changed shape — thicker now, slow and warm, the kind that filled your lungs and sat low in your stomach.

He stood.

Moved toward the bookshelf behind you, but slower than necessary. His hand reached past your shoulder, fingers trailing lightly over the spines, and you could feel him there: not touching, but close enough that the space between you felt charged. His breath stirred the loose tendrils of hair at your neck.

You didn’t move. You didn’t and couldn’t dare.

He pulled out Bodies That Matter — the paperback edition with the worn corners and a faint English Breakfast tea or black coffee stain at the bottom — and set it on the desk between you.

“Let’s talk about how materiality functions in your argument,” he said, voice low again. Steady. “What do you mean when you say female pain is being written more bodily in recent fiction?”

Your fingers hesitated on the edge of the book. “I mean… that the body’s no longer metaphorical. That trauma isn’t described as something ethereal or poetic — it bleeds now more often. It looks and sounds like vomit and it bruises all around. In A Girl is a Half-Formed Thing, for example... the pain isn’t lyrical, it’s anatomical. I think literature’s trying to reclaim physicality as a political act.”

He was watching you too closely. The kind of watching that had nothing to do with critique.

“And you think that’s a post-#MeToo shift?”

You swallowed. “I think it’s older than that, but the language sharpened after 2016, it had to as metaphor started to feel like complicity.”

He said nothing for a long moment. Just looked at you — and not like a professor anymore. Like something else.

When you reached to collect your draft pages from the desk, your fingertips brushed his by accident.

It was almost nothing. Almost. He didn’t pull away, neither did you.

For a second — no longer than that — you looked at each other like something had already happened, and neither of you knew how to undo it.

Then he blinked, as though surfacing from water, and straightened his spine.

“You should get some rest,” he said, softly. “Your work’s sharpest when you’re not exhausted.”

You nodded — a little too quickly. At the door, your hand froze on the handle, you didn’t turn.

But you could feel it: the weight of his gaze between your shoulder blades. Hot, still and certain.

“You’re not…” you began, voice quieter than you meant. “You’re not playing games with me, are you?”

The silence that followed was deliberate. A choice.

Then: “Not unless you want me to.”

And you walked out — breath caught somewhere in your chest, the click of the door behind you louder than it should have been. Every step away from his office echoed like a heartbeat.

The next time you saw Pedro was in a public gathering in the middle of Cambridge. Controlled environment mainly, almost disappointingly so.

A faculty event — wine in non-wine glasses, more like milk glasses, cubes of cheese curling at the edges, conversations about funding, politics and which department had most recently butchered its hiring process. You arrived late on purpose as it gave you something to hide behind — a reason for the flutter in your chest that had nothing to do with him.

Pedro was already there, of course. In a lavender blazer and open collar, a glass in his hand and a student on either side of him. Not your cohort — these were from another college, another discipline. They were laughing way too loudly. One of them touched his arm in that absent, familiar way that felt designed for you to notice.

You didn’t go next to or near him, you did not need that kind of attention as you wanted to be in your bubble and calm environment.

Instead, you stood near the book table, idly flipping through a new collection of essays on contemporary identity politics, pretending to be absorbed while your skin prickled with every movement in the room.

It wasn’t until half an hour later that he approached.

You had not even seen him move as your mind was on the academic papers. One moment you were alone, the next he was beside you, a half-step closer than etiquette required. Cambridge was very strict with its ethics and rules.

“Are you actually interested in that,” he asked, low, “or just trying to avoid conversation?”

You turned your head slightly, didn’t smile or give a quick glance.

“Maybe both.”

“Wise,” he said, his voice pitched so only you could hear it. “No good conversations happen here. Only careful ones.”

You turned over the academic paper. “I didn’t think you were the careful type.”

“Oh, I am,” he said. “Careful, deliberate — same thing, really.”

He sipped his drink, eyes scanning your face with that same professorial intensity he used on your footnotes — like he was looking for something you hadn’t cited properly.

“Your chapter’s stayed with me,” he added, casually enough that it didn’t quite sound like flattery. “The bit about narrative violence. How stories can be a form of containment. Or punishment.”

Your mouth went dry. You hadn’t known he’d read the whole thing. He hadn’t said anything after you sent it — no comments, no annotations, just a brief “received, thank you” email.

“I didn’t think you’d get to it so soon,” you said. “You’ve got six other students to supervise.”

His expression didn’t change, but something in his voice shifted. Dropped an octave or so, as though slipping into a lower gear.

“Yes,” he said. “But they’re not you.”

And there it was — the thing that hovered always just beneath the surface. The thing he never said outright. The way he bent the rules without ever breaking them.

You could have laughed, rolled your eyes. Deflected, like you always did.

But instead you said, “Are you going to clarify what you mean by that?”

He didn’t answer right away. He studied you for a moment, as if deciding what version of himself to give you.

Then, he whispered: “Come to my office tomorrow. I want to show you something.”

“Something related to my thesis?”

Another pause. Then a smile — small, conspiratorial.

“Let’s pretend it is.”

He turned and walked away before you could respond, leaving you staring after him, heart hammering against your ribs like it was trying to warn you of something you didn’t want to hear.

The next day, you arrived at his office exactly on time. Not a minute early, not a second late. The corridor was even quieter than usual, the college in that liminal space between lectures and evening supervisions. A campus cat moved past the archway below, silent as a thought.

The door to Pedro’s office was open. Inside, the room looked the same — books still arranged in chaotic precision, a coat folded over the back of his chair, a teacup half-drained beside a stack of marked essays, but the air felt different, a bit tense, or maybe just expectant.

He was standing by the window this time, looking out at the quad.

“Close the door,” he said without turning. You did as he asked, nicely.

He waited until you were seated, until the silence had lengthened just enough to press at the edge of discomfort. Then he moved — slow, considered — and picked up a small volume from his desk which was pale blue and slim. No title on the cover.

He handed it to you.

“An unpublished manuscript,” he said. “Written in the early ’90s by a woman who never submitted it anywhere. I only have it because she gave it to me after a seminar years ago and told me it wasn’t meant for public eyes.”

You turned the book over in your hands. The paper was soft, lived-in. The margins filled with faint pencil notes in a spidery, slanted hand.

“What’s it about?”

“Power,” he said. “And narrative, and obsession.”

You glanced up.

“She wrote it about her professor?” you asked.

“She never said that outright,” he responded.

“But you think she did,” you answered back.

He smiled again, and this time, it did reach his eyes.

“I think she wanted me to wonder.”

The words hung between you like smoke.

You looked back down at the manuscript, suddenly aware of how warm your hands had become.

“So this is why you brought me here?”

“Partly.”

“And the other part?”

He walked around to the front of the desk and sat, not in his usual chair but directly across from you, very close, closer than you were used to.

“I like watching you think,” he said simply.

The air in your throat caught.

“That’s wildly inappropriate,” you said, but your voice was quieter than it should’ve been.

He nodded, as if agreeing. “And yet, here we are.”

You stared at him — really stared — and for the first time, you saw the game that he was trying to play. It was not that cruel, not too careless, but pretty much very deliberate. Like chess with no clock.

“You’re trying to destabilise me,” you said.

He leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees.

“No. I’m trying to see if you’ll destabilise yourself.”

You held his gaze, held it even as your pulse began to skitter, even as your mind tried to make sense of what was happening. Even as your fingers closed tighter around the book in your lap.

But somewhere in the quiet space between your thoughts, something was already beginning to crack open.

It was two days later when the invitation came. Not by email this time. Not a scheduled appointment in his calendar. Just a note, slipped under your door sometime between dusk and now.

It was handwritten — not typed — on a torn scrap of lecture paper. You recognised the slanted cursive instantly.

Dinner. My place. Nothing formal. 8:30.You’re probably curious enough to come. P.

No signature, just the single initial, as if he knew you’d be watching for it.

You stared at the note longer than you should have, fingers tracing the indentation of his writing. It felt… loaded, but not in a way you could defend aloud. On the surface, it was nothing , just a simple dinner invitation. Professors invited students to dinners all the time, for just some morale, for “community” purposes.

But this wasn’t about morale or community. Pedro knew that you pretty much had acknowledged this.

His flat was in a row of Georgian townhouses just below Jesus Green, on the street of Park Parade, right near the entrance where you could see a different type of trees in a row. The staircase smelled like old paint and wood polish, the kind of scent that clung to time, like an usual British flat smell.

He opened the door before you knocked, Pedro was wearing jeans, a dark jumper, and he was barefoot.

“Good,” he said, stepping aside. “You actually saw the invitation and came..”

“You sounded very sure I would.”

He smiled, just slightly. “I was betting on curiosity.”

You stepped in, slowly, eyes scanning the room, weirdly enough his flat has high ceilings which is not common for an usual British apartment. Shelves packed with books, but less organised than his office — a little more lived-in, a little less performative. A record player in the corner and an open bottle of wine on the counter. A single place set at the small kitchen table, just one.

You raised an eyebrow.

“No dinner party?” you asked. “No group bonding?”

He shrugged, unbothered. “I found them dull. I thought you might too.”

You turned slowly toward him, arms crossed. “So I’m your entertainment?”

“Hardly.” He tilted his head. “You’re the interruption.”

You did not know what that meant, but it hit you somewhere low in the ribs, like he had marked the shift in the atmosphere before you even walked through the door.

He poured the wine and handed you a glass full of it. The same way he handed you books: without ceremony, but with intent.

The food was simple, homemade, cooked by Pedro himself. Pasta with some creamy sauce and chicken, a Caesar salad that he whipped together. You talked about books, music and all-around topics mostly — novels that disappointed you, songs that haunted you, theories that made you want to argue with walls. He was better at listening in private than in seminars, he seemed less guarded. Maybe just more interested.

And then — after the plates had been pushed aside, after your second glass of wine, after he’d leaned back in his chair like the room itself belonged to him — he said:

“You know I’ve had students here before.”

You didn’t look away. “I assumed.”

“But it’s not like that,” he said. “Not with you.”

“Because I’m smarter?” you asked, arching a brow. “Or just more subtle?”

“No,” he said, and this time his voice dipped, softer than before. “Because I can’t quite tell what you want or what and who you are.”

That landed somewhere between your lungs.

You didn’t answer. Instead, you shifted slightly in your seat — leaning forward just a little — and held his gaze until the silence grew some teeth-rotting tension between you two.

“You like not knowing?” you asked.

“I like the process of finding out.”

And then — casually, almost absently — he reached across the table and touched your hand. Just his fingertips against your knuckles. A single glide, smooth and slow, before withdrawing again.

It wasn’t accidental. It wasn’t impulsive.It was most definitely deliberate.

But what surprised you most was that it didn’t unsettle you. Not in the way you’d expected. It was kind of electrifying. But still — you kept your voice level.

“You do that often?”

“What?”

“Seduce your students over some pasta and Judith Butler?”

His smile curved, crooked. “Only the difficult ones.”

You tilted your head, meeting his provocation with one of your own.

“So you want difficulty?”

“No,” he murmured, rising slowly from his chair. “I want a surrender.”

The word felt like a match struck in your stomach. You stood too, unsure if you meant to mirror him or defy him. The air between you was charged — not quite touch, not quite restraint.

You stepped closer, so did he. When he reached — slowly, gently — to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers brushed your jaw, lingered, then fell away.

“You can leave anytime,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t owe me anything.” You nodded, but didn’t move.

He looked down at your mouth, then back at your eyes. “Unless you want to stay.”

Your breath hitched. Your hand — of its own accord — moved to rest lightly against his chest. You could feel the slow, steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. It felt realer than it should have. For a moment — one slow, suspended moment — you leaned in. Your lips were close enough to feel the warmth of his breath.

But then you stopped. Taking a step back from Pedro. Not dramatically and not in fear. Just enough, enough to say: not yet. His eyes didn’t change, he just studied you. As though even your retreat told him something he wanted to know.

You licked your lips, heart pounding, and whispered, “You want me to surrender?”

He nodded once.

“Then earn it.”

With that, you walked past him, out the door, the click of your heels against the wooden floor the only sound left between you. The moment that had just happened was not going to fade away anytime soon. After arriving back to your flat, you needed to take multiple deep breaths in and out to assess the situation and interpretation of your and Pedro’s actions and behaviour.

The following week after the heated moment, a thunderstorm had rolled in over the city sometime after six o’clock in the evening, soaking the ancient brick and cloaking the college campus in a hush even more pronounced than usual. You were the only one still on the floor, the seminar having ended an hour ago. The others had filtered out quickly, leaving behind the faint smell of rain and the creak of chairs being straightened. You should have gone, too.

But there was a moment when Pedro looked at you — not as a professor looks at a student, but as a man who’s been holding something back too long — you knew you wouldn’t. He didn’t ask this time. Not aloud. He just left the door open as he walked back into his office. An invitation — silent, reckless and clear.

You stepped in, slowly.

He was by the window, one hand braced against the frame, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair slightly damp from the walk back from the Hall. The storm lit him in pulses, flashes of white and blue slicing across his cheekbones, the sharp line of his jaw. You closed the door behind you. This time, the sound didn’t startle you. Neither of you spoke, not yet.

You moved to the desk where your notes were still laid out — untouched since the seminar. You reached for them out of habit, but his voice stopped you.

“Leave them,” he said quietly. “That’s not why you stayed.”

Your fingers hovered over the pages, then dropped.

“No,” you admitted. “It’s not.”

He turned then, slowly. Watching you the way someone watches a line in a poem they have read a thousand times but only just to understand enough of it. There was nothing academic in his gaze now, just heat. Something deep and unfiltered. Something that had waited long enough.

You felt it as you breathed: the inevitability of it.  Like gravity and the falling of it.

“I’ve been trying to ignore it,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

His brow twitched. “So have I.”

You stepped forward, until the edge of the desk pressed against the backs of your thighs.

“It feels like something out of a bad romance novel,” you said, lips twitching — but your throat tightened the moment the words left your mouth. “Like… Fifty Shades behind an office door.”

He gave a small laugh, but it was strained. “Except I’m not offering you a contract.”

“Just chaos?”

His eyes dropped to your mouth, and when they rose again, they were darker.

“No,” he said. “I’m offering you honesty, finally.”

Your pulse thrummed in your ears. You wanted to step closer, to close the distance, to feel the pull of him, but your mind fought it — the instinct, the power, the risk.

“I’ve started to have feelings for you,” you said, quickly, before you could stop yourself. “And I hate that I have, because it complicates everything.”

He took a slow step forward. Then another.

“Then let it be complicated,” he said. “Just for tonight.”

He was close now — not touching you, but so near you could feel the heat of him like a fire lit too close to your skin. His voice dropped, gentler now, intimate.

“May I kiss you?”

That question — not a command, not a presumption, but a request — undid something in you. You nodded, then paused. 

“Yes. But—,” your voice got caught. You tried to steady the nervous clump in your throat. “It has to be a one-time thing. Just… tonight.”

His smile was soft, but his eyes didn’t believe you. Not for a second.

“If that’s what you want,” he murmured. “Then we’ll lie to ourselves together.”

And when his mouth finally met yours — slow, deep, reverent — it didn’t feel like a first kiss. It felt like something that had already happened a hundred times in the spaces between words, between glances, in every silence that stretched too long.

It felt inevitable. You let him kiss you like that. The kiss was like a forbidden notion between you two. Like you were both about to break the rules of the world. Even as you whispered again — “Just once” — you knew the truth already bloomed between you: it was never going to be just once.

It didn’t become an affair overnight.

It began, instead, in half-lit margins — in meetings that were never scheduled but always somehow expected. You never talked about it, not in any official way. Pedro never said come see me after, and you never asked can I stay a bit longer? From now on, you always did as the emotional part of you got the best of you. You stayed and he waited.

Sometimes it was after a seminar, sometimes under the soft alibi of needing to “go over revisions.” Always late, always when the halls had emptied and the air felt saturated with the hush of things left unsaid.

And then the kisses.

At first, they were cautious. Hands lingering at the edges of coats, the soft slide of knuckles along your jaw. His touch always asking first — not aloud, not with words, but with the way his eyes searched yours, giving you the chance to leave. You never did.

The first time he kissed you like he meant it — not gentle, but starved — was in his office, the blinds half-drawn, the rain whispering against the leaded glass. You had brought a new chapter, but he had not opened it. Pedro stood when you entered, circled behind you without a sound, and just as you turned to ask something — he kissed you passionately. Hands in your hair, thumb resting just beneath your ear, mouth firm, open and wanting.

It startled you, how much you wanted it back.

You clutched at his shirt — the linen one you always secretly liked — and kissed him like you had been waiting months. Because you had, you both had.

There were moments it turned urgent — your back against the door, his hands slipping beneath your coat, mouths colliding with a low sound of relief — and others when it was slow, deliberate, as if he were memorising you one kiss at a time. He kissed the edge of your mouth first, then the hollow beneath your ear, then the base of your throat. You would gasp his name, half-warning, half-confession.

And he would whisper: “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

You never did.

The library became dangerous. The King’s Parade cafés became unbearable, even during group supervisions, you would feel his gaze catch on you and flinch — not from discomfort, but from the way your body reacted instantly, breath tightening, spine straightening, thighs pressing together beneath the table like a reflex.

In the evenings, he started to send you the odd message: Are you awake? — never past midnight, never signed, just the implication. Sometimes you would ignore it, on purpose. Sometimes you wouldn’t.

One Thursday, just after the clocks had gone back and the evenings darkened early, he asked you to meet him by the back gate of Trinity. Said he had something for you — another fucking book, you assumed. You had barely slipped through the wrought-iron when Pedro was there, pulling you into the shadows between two buildings, lips on yours before a word could form. It was rough that time — hand flat against the wall behind your head, his hips pressed to yours, the kiss almost angry in its hunger. You moaned — quiet, breathless — and his fingers caught yours in the cold, holding them like a secret, tight and trembling.

“Tell me you’ve thought about it,” he muttered into your mouth. “Tell me you want me.”

You did. God, you did, but you also knew what you were standing on — a knife’s edge of risk and desire. You pulled back just enough to speak, your voice hoarse: 

“We can’t. Not all the way. Not yet.”

Pedro pressed his forehead to yours, eyes shut. His breath was warm on your cheek.

“I know,” he whispered. “But I swear, if you asked me to take you home right now, I’d lose the will to resist.”

You bit your lip. You didn’t say no, didn’t say yes, either. Instead, you kissed him again — softer this time, aching — like a promise you weren’t ready to name. You told yourself you wouldn’t go. That you needed distance, control, clarity. As you were leaving a hollow hole between you two, you walked faster than ever back to your accommodation. But when he had messaged you right before you managed to insert the key to the keyhole of your front door — Come over, we need to talk — something in you caved, quietly, without a fight.

You didn’t answer his message, just turned around, back to the road you had just walked from. The wind caught your coat as you retraced your steps through the emptying streets of Cambridge, the kind of evening where every light in a window felt like a secret, every rustle of leaves like someone watching. You knew your way by then — across Jesus Green, past the slow trickle of the Cam, through that quiet corner where his building stood tucked behind ivy and iron. He buzzed you in without asking, without saying anything at all.

“You came,” he said. Not as a question.

You stepped inside and shut the door behind you. The click echoed in the empty hallway. You didn’t know what to say, weren’t sure if this counted as a line being crossed or just the continuation of something neither of you had dared name.

“I wasn’t going to,” you murmured, making it sound more like a sarcasm.

“I know.”

And then, silence again — dense and humming — before he moved. Like you were a wild animal, like too much noise might send you bolting. He stepped toward you, but didn’t touch. Just looked.

“I need to be sure,” he said, voice low. “That you’re here because you want to be.”

You swallowed. Your pulse was a storm under your skin. “I want to be.” That was all it took.

The space between you vanished like a breath on a mirror. His hand found your jaw first, not rough, but certain — fingers warm, calloused from books and years of different activities. The kiss was soft, reverent at first, as if the moment itself was too fragile to break — then deeper, hungrier, as your hands tangled in the hem of his jumper and his mouth moved with quiet desperation over yours, like he had been waiting far too long. There was no performance, no pretense. Just heat, and a kind of aching gratitude — like you had both stumbled into something holy.

He led you to the sofa — not the bedroom — as if unwilling to waste a second. Clothes came away slowly, not torn, not rushed. Every button undone was a hesitation answered. Every inch of revealed skin was read like a page. He kissed your shoulder, your neck, the hollow just beneath your ribs. You trembled when his hand found the curve of your waist, not from fear, but from recognition as it didn’t feel like the first time. It felt inevitable.

As Pedro was smoothly and slowly hovering over you, the kisses got a bit more rough. As it got to the culmination of the heated moment, Pedro asked:

“Are you all good?” He was trying to catch his breath.

“Yes, I am alright,” you looked into his eyes. “I am more than okay to proceed to the other level.”

With that, Pedro aligned his hips between your thighs, his length already hard against your entrance. He asked one more time if you are all good, you just nodded and took his hard phallus inside of you. 

The first thrusts were slow, a bit painful for you as you have not had intercourse for years. The movements that Pedro did were certainly careful, making sure that you were comfortable and feeling in a safe zone. 

“Ah, fuck,” you whispered. Your whole body and mind felt like you were on some sort of LSD or ecstasy trip, in a good way. The pleasure that you both were feeling and getting was building up thrust by thrust. Every single one of them was passionate. Pedro started to move his hips faster to set you both closer to the climax. There were lots of moaning to be heard, many names were said into each other’s ears. The room was filled with passionate lust and lovemaking. You dragged your nails against his back, leaving red trailmarks, marking yourself on Pedro’s skin. Pedro was holding your right thigh strongly against his hip, making sure you were not falling, protecting your position and body. 

“I am so fucking close, darling,” Pedro spoke near your lips. In this very heated closing moment, your mind went blank from the bliss and pleasure that your stomach was full of knots, butterflies and everything that could be named out when you are at the edge of the orgasm.

“I am as well,” you said word by word as you tried to reach the blissful climax. 

Pedro tightened his grip on your thigh and pulled out quickly before letting the seed insert your body. Both of you came to the highest point of your orgasm, breathing heavily and laying down on the sofa for a couple of minutes to catch your breath.

As the heart rates of both of yours had calmed down, Pedro went to the bathroom and brought back a damp towel with him to clean up the white mess he had bursted out on your tummy. 

“Sorry,” Pedro said, smiling, you giggled at his comment. He softly cleaned up all the shit on your skin and even gave you a long kiss on your lips. He carefully caressed your thighs to relieve the tension and pain so you could get home without any limping but you could not give a single fuck about that. You thought that this must be the sweetest and kindest aftercare you have ever got. Pedro even brought a blanket and a cup of tea for you which made no sense in your mind as in the past, when you have had intercourse with someone, they asked you to leave straight away. 

Pedro wanted to make sure, again, that you were all good and everything was alright. You reassured him that everything was top notch and everything that happened between both of you will be locked in the cage of your mind, lips completely sealed.

The night ended up with you staying at Pedro’s flat.

The next morning came cloaked in a strange hush, like the world outside had conspired to keep your secret. The sheets were still tangled around your ankles when you opened your eyes, the sun too high for comfort, streaming in through half-closed blinds. Pedro had fallen asleep beside you at some point — though you'd tried not to let him — one arm heavy across your waist, his breath warm against the back of your neck. You’d watched the light shift on the ceiling for what felt like hours, willing yourself not to attach language to what had happened. The words would make it real and you weren’t ready for that.

He stirred when you moved to sit up, reaching out without opening his eyes, fingers brushing your thigh like muscle memory.

“I should go,” you whispered, already reaching for the shirt you couldn’t remember taking off.

Pedro exhaled slowly, like he’d known this would be the first thing you said. “Your supervision’s at eleven.”

You checked your phone. 10:42.

“Shit.”

You were out of the bed and half-dressed in seconds, pulling on yesterday’s clothes with the clumsiness of a dream breaking apart. He didn’t offer coffee as you were in a rush and he didn’t stop you either, but he watched you the whole time — silently, deliberately — as if he were trying to record this version of you too: post-you, post-him, post-everything. Something in your chest pulled tight at the thought of it.

You slipped out of his flat with your coat half-buttoned and your hair barely managed, heart hammering like it was trying to sprint ahead of you. You had to leave Pedro’s place first, just in case, so people would not catch on to your messy appearance and would not start questioning whereabouts you hung around last night - you knew what was going in the minds of every single student or coursemate that you talked with. Pedro left 5 minutes later, you already speed walking halfway to his office on the campus.

By the time you reached his office door, it was 11:07. You knocked once — out of habit — then pushed the door open without waiting. He was already inside as he took another route to his office and entered the other door. His shirt was… crisp. Papers were laid out on the desk. Calm restored like nothing had happened.

You hated how good he was at it.

You took your usual seat and let your hands rest in your lap, trying not to look at the sofa, still remembering the weight of his body against yours, how it had felt when he said your name like a confession and not a fact.

Pedro glanced up from your printed draft and got straight to the academic point of your chapter: “You’ve tightened the second half. The argument’s more cohesive.”

You nodded, because that was safer than speaking.

He paused, pen still in his hand. “You all right?”

You met his gaze. “Fine.”

Just then, there was a knock, too brisk to be ignored. The door pushed open before either of you had a chance to answer.

George, your new and good friend that you met on your first day. He had a kind of effortless charm that made you trust him before you even knew why. He had joined the programme the same year as you, though his Master’s in Politics had been completed at University of Sheffield, and the polished confidence he carried from that world clung to him like an expensive aftershave — subtle, but unmistakable. His intelligence wasn’t performative; he never flaunted it. Instead, he wielded it with grace, like someone who had nothing to prove but everything to offer. All tousled curls and a rugby scarf, holding a folder with the kind of earnest energy that only someone two years too young for you could carry.

He was tall — lanky, really — with an artfully dishevelled mop of dark curls and a wardrobe that somehow made corduroy look cool again. Tweed blazers, patterned scarves, round tortoiseshell glasses on days he felt dramatic, which, admittedly, was most days. He spoke in long, looping sentences, often peppered with witty asides and theatrical impersonations of lecturers. You had laughed so hard once during lunch that you’d nearly choked on your chicken wrap, and he’d only grinned and bowed like a stage actor after curtain.

George was out — proudly, joyfully so — but never in a way that sought applause. He made it easy to talk about anything, really. You’d told him things in the warmth of shared pints at the Eagle that you hadn’t told anyone else on the course. He was the kind of friend who walked you home in the rain without mentioning it once, who remembered your birthday without needing Facebook to nudge him, who instinctively stood between you and anyone who raised their voice in the pub.

“Oh—sorry—thought it was my time?” George asked.

Pedro didn’t flinch. “You’re early. Give us a few minutes, George.”

George hesitated, eyes flicking between the two of you — not long enough to suspect anything, but enough to plant a seed you didn’t like the taste of. 

“Sure. I’ll just wait downstairs.”

As soon as the door clicked shut, you exhaled hard — realising only now how still you had been sitting.

Pedro rubbed the bridge of his nose. “That was close.”

You swallowed. “Too close, shit.”

He didn’t answer at first. Then, slowly, he looked up, and his voice dropped into something quieter.

“Do you regret it?” you asked him, a bit louder than a mouse's squeak.

“I—I don’t, actually,” he responded, gently. “But we have to be careful now. More careful than before and ever.”

You nodded, your throat feeling thick and full of saliva.

“Because this—” he said, tapping the page in front of him like it was some code for everything unspeakable, “—can’t be the only thing between us that’s brilliant.”

And there it was again — that dizzying, disarming ambiguity. The place where literature and longing for each other collapsed into the same sentence.

Before you left, you stood from the desk chair and Pedro stopped you by taking your wrist into his grip, not with a force but with a feather touch. He gave you a passionate kiss as he did not want to say goodbye yet but he acknowledged that there was another student waiting to be given advice for their thesis. You left five minutes later, paper in hand, pulse still misbehaving — and George didn’t look at you when you passed him on the stairwell, but something in the tilt of his head told you the universe wasn’t going to let you keep this clean for long. Obviously, he was clueless as fuck what was going on but the body language that your body was telling stories in was something different.

George had invited you out for a pint or a few of them — not in the usual bustling pubs near Market Square, but a quieter place tucked behind a side street off King’s Parade. He said the chips were excellent, and you had needed the distraction. You needed some other kind of environment to get the thoughts of Pedro to fly away from your brain. George was your safe person. 

You sat in a booth under the low cylinder lights, the conversation light for a while — gossip about other PhD students in the Humanities department, how Professor Whitaker was still marking with a green pen like it was 1963, and how George’s last date had ghosted him after a two-hour museum crawl. But your laugh wasn’t as free as usual. You were clutching your pint of Neck Oil a little too tightly.

He noticed, of course. George always noticed when you were flinching, clutching and stimming. 

“Alright, gorgeous?” he asked, his voice warm, his eyes soft behind those ridiculous glasses. “You’ve been tense since your supervision today. Did Professor Pascal assign you a three-volume thesis on Judith Butler, or...?”

Your mouth opened before you even realised you were speaking. Maybe it was fruity from Neck Oil’s taste or maybe you just needed to tell someone who wouldn’t implode.

“I slept with him.”

There was a pause, a very fucking long pause.

George blinked. Once and then twice. Then he sat up straighter and slowly set his pint down.

“I’m sorry — you what?”

“I know,” you buried your face in your hands. “I fucking know. It was… it’s been going on for a bit now. He has been my supervisor, and I know it’s mad, absolutely fucked up and unethical and probably incredible disgusting but—”

George held up a hand, then let out a stunned laugh that turned into a snort. “Okay, I was not expecting that, bitch. I was ready for ‘he yelled at me about citations or your perspective of some silly arse Brexit topic’ because he is an American sausage or maybe even ‘he made me cry over a book that you read, but not this.”

You looked up, mortified, your pulse hammering. “So, wait, you’re not actually like—judging me?”

“Oh, please, babes,” he said, shaking his head. “Do you know how many questionable flings I’ve had? I once dated a visiting American professor who insisted on reading poetry to me in bed. T.S. Eliot, no less. You think I’m in a position to judge?”

Relief flooded you so fast it made you dizzy. You laughed, maybe too loud.

“I’m not saying it’s not… complicated,” George added, more gently now. “And I do worry about you because he’s got power, and you’ve got so much at stake. But as we both know, you’re not stupid. You are an intelligent, independent woman — an absolute queen! Just — be careful. If it goes sideways, I’ll be here with bottles of white wine and something outrageously unhealthy.”

You reached across the table, squeezing his hand. “Thank you.”

He smirked. “Also, I expect every single sordid detail every single day. I want chapters, like Professor Pedro Pascal demands — you hear me, yeah?”

For the first time in days, you felt like you could breathe.

As you left the pub that night, the sky already bruised with summer dusk, George walked you to the junction nearby your street and kissed your cheek in that chivalrous way of his — part friend, part protector. He did not press for more, he didn’t ask what would happen next.

But when you glanced over your shoulder, just before turning the corner, you saw that look in his eyes — quiet, calculating, concerned. A hint of something unspoken. Like he was turning it all over in his mind, weighing things, ready to act if he had to. 

Something told you he wasn’t going to let this go. Not completely. Not now that he knew.

And as you walked back through the Cambridge streets, a few of the street lamps flickering to life above your head, you felt the pull of something tightening. Not just desire or secrecy — something else. Like the first crack in a dam, the quiet before the rush.

Whatever was coming, it was already on its way.

Your phone buzzed just as you reached your door. A single message. No preamble. No name needed.

We need to talk. Come by. Be quick, P.

--

© - bronzepascal.

please do not copy and translate my work (unless it’s in my native language and you give me full credit)! you are more than welcome to support me by buying me a coffee - link in the blog!

[dreamer1084]

Spoilers of Natsuyuu Sp.23

Only 8 pages special chapter for this month, so it's almost a summary...

I am not a native English speaker, and I used Google Translation mostly (from Chinese to English), I hope the translation is not difficult to read.

Spoilers under cut.

At first, Sensei was drinking juice and waiting for Tanuma with Natsume, complaining about waiting for so long (Natsume: It's only three minutes late, Sensei) Sensei said that three minutes was also fatal. What if the new dumplings are gone? When Natsume was wondering why Tanuma was late, Tanuma finally arrived (it felt like the scene in Ch.117)

Tanuma was late because of a cold snap, so his father forced him to wear more clothes.

When they were finally ready to leave, Tanuma said that he wanted to take a detour to find a mailbox because he wanted to mail a postcard. Suddenly a strong wind blew the postcard away. Natsume immediately chased after it and saw some pattern on the postcard.

When the post card flew up, what Natsume saw was: beautiful seasonal flowers carefully painted with watercolors, and densely written words that did not contrast with them. Why he thought this way, he himself didn't know. "Is it a hand-painted postcard? Sorry, I saw it by accident..." But it looked like a love letter.. "Oh, this is a letter my father wrote to my mother."

Natsume could only look at Tanuma, think that his friends didn't usually ask about his family, and he didn't often talk about them. The same was true for Tanuma.

"Mom is far away. Oh, far away really means far away, they live separately. But they don't have a bad relationship. ──How should I put it? My mother never seem to be in good health. After she was with my father and gave birth to me, her health deteriorated rapidly... Her health improved slightly after she was admitted to the hospital. But when my father happily visited her, her health deteriorated again. Because the cause was unknown, the doctors said that maybe meeting dad caused her some stress. And there was a period of time when we had a bad relationship with my mother's relatives... Dad decided to live separately because of mom. However, mom was quite against it and made a fuss about it. Although my mother is recuperating now, she sometimes comes to visit me as long as she feels better. "

Natsume remembered that Sensei once mentioned that Tanuma's father was possessed by a youkai with divine power, and that the youkai was very powerful. But it may be jealous of the people around him. (Vol.16 Ch.66, this part was deleted from the anime) (The Youkai I see can sometimes be very unreasonable...) "So my father writes letters occasionally." (It's just like a love letter.) Because she is important, they cannot meet. Because they cannot meet, he put his heart into it──

Natsume could only say Tanuma's name helplessly, and then Sensei asked: "Hum, did you write a letter then?" Tanuma put his hat on Sensei's head. "Eh? Me?... I did write to her, but it's hard to make a reply lately..." When Natsume asked why, Tanuma said his mother had wanted him to send photos because he unintentionally mentioned something in the letter. "Photos...? What did you mention by accident?" Tanuma thought awkwardly for a long time, and finally said:

"...I made a best friend here."

+

We finally know about the situation of Tanuma's mother. I am glad that he did not grow up in a single-parent family... But maybe Tanuma's mother is also sensitive to youkai? That's why she met her husband? I believe how these two people met and interacted can be a good story LOL

Also, for Natsume's first "like a love letter"... did he actually think that it was written by Tanuma (Huh? Natsume's second "like a love letter" might be referring to the feelings of those unreasonable youkai who want to monopolize the people they value...

[photo1030]

Anonymous asked:

Heyy , so i had this smut idea for a while now, but bare with me please cuz my English isn’t that good lol . Anyway it’s about arthur and f!reader who’s been teasing arthur with a lot of touches and stares all day. But they were all busy that day so nothing happened. Then at the end of the day arthur finally got to be with her alone to sort things out (if you know what i mean) and confront her.

Ik … not very fluent in English lol , but I really really LOVE your writing so i figured i should maybe request something

Hello again, my lovely Anon!

Thank you for the "ask"! This was certainly a fun one to write out. I wasn't sure if you wanted Arthur and reader to be friends with longing tendencies, or in an existing relationship. I went with the latter. Hopefully that is okay. Either way, it ends up with some steamy goodness. If you need it tweaked the other way, let me know.

LEATHER AND LACE - CLOSE, BUT NOT CLOSE ENOUGH

Summary: You and Arthur have been trying to get some time alone together all day, to no avail. But by the end of the day, Arthur finally gets what he wants.

Warning: 18+ please. Minors - DNI; NSFW

*This is not my image. I have found it posted on multiple pages on Pintrest but can't find the originator. If anyone knows, let me know for specific photo credit.

Masterlist

The early morning sun tries to cut its way into the woods, cutting the dewy mist with its beams of warm, golden light. The burgeoning glow sets the birds into motion, their busy little chirps filling the brisk air around the camp. 

You are dead tired this morning. It was a long, hard day of chores yesterday and when you had turned in for the night, all you wanted to do was rest your weary head on that lumpy pillow of yours atop of that squeaky cot. And with all of the hustling and work lately, Arthur was hoping to have a little “private time” with you last night, too. 

But much to his disappointment, you had already passed out the moment your head hit the pillow, already fast asleep before he could even get his boots off. So with a sigh and just a bit of frustration, Arthur lumbered onto the cot next to you for the night. 

So this morning, you are reluctant to crack open your eyes when the feeling of Arthur’s heavy arm makes its way around your waist, slowly exploring your midsection and creeping up to your breast with his fingertips. His chest is pressed up against your back as he spoons you tightly to him, his skin radiating a comforting heat that sinks down through your skin and into the very center of your body. You can already feel his half-erect cock finding its place against the bottom of your rear. 

In this precious little moment, you are faced with a “difficult” decision:  do you try to get some very much-needed sleep? Or do you give in to the temptation of your beloved outlaw? 

“G’ Mornin’, Darlin’”

His low, raspy voice, cracked with remnants of sleep, floats its way into your ear and breaks through your mind’s thoughts…and that is all it takes for you to decide. A smile slowly emerges across your face without you even opening your eyes. 

“Good morning to you too, my lover.” You playfully reach up to encircle your arm around his head, turning your face back towards his. Your greeting is met with a simple low groan of approval as Arthur’s lips seek out the cuff of your ear. 

You gently roll over onto your back, looking up into his awaiting face. His hair is rumpled from the night and his eyes are still heavy-lidded with fatigue. Yet those eyes still sparkle like the bluest sky as they meet your own. And your heart could burst at how that is the first thing you get to see in the morning.

He leans down to gently catch your lips into a kiss. It’s the first of many to come for the day, knowing you two. You push your body upwards to flatten against his, your leg bending up to entwine with his burly ones. A soft giggle emanates from your throat as you deepen the kiss and run your hand along his cheek and up behind his head to pull him down to you. Arthur is quick to roll himself to climb over you, settling himself between your spread legs. Your lips press together, repeatedly working over the other’s as his hands begin to explore along your chest, grappling at the tender flesh there.

You lift your hips just a bit in invitation as Arthur rocks back and forth ever so slightly. Your eyes roll back as your fingertips drag along the thick muscles of his back, trailing through the soft body hair that scatters across his wide frame. 

“Arthur? You in there?”

Your eyes shoot wide open, instantly snapped out of your blissful reverie at the deep-sounding voice coming from the other side of your shared tent. Arthur seems to be oblivious to the intrusion at first as his motions atop of you do not slow down in the slightest. 

“Arthur?” the voice repeats.

Finally, Arthur collects his thoughts enough to respond.

“Go away, Bill,” mumbles Arthur, pausing in his administrations only long enough to warn the burly man outside the canvas, as he has no intention of stopping right now. 

“There’s a group of us heading out. Got a tip on a stagecoach coming through.” Bill pushes insistently. “Come on, we gotta go.” 

“Not now, Bill!” barks Arthur as he keeps kissing you, his teeth nipping at the tender skin of your neck and collarbone. 

You are trying not to focus on the fact that someone is not only outside your tent at this inopportune moment, but actually having a conversation with Arthur as his erect cock is rubbing against your aching heat, mere moments away from being embedded into the warm cradle between your legs. 

“Well, Dutch is askin’ for you. So what do you want me to tell him, then?” Bill asks impatiently.

“Bill!” you suddenly snap, lifting your head to turn your burning gaze over Arthur’s broad shoulder towards the tent flap. “If you do not walk away from this tent right now, so help me God…!”

“Oh!” Bill’s eyes open wide and his face suddenly turns beet-red as the realization of what he is interrupting becomes all too clear. “Oh, sorry! I’ll..uh…come back, I guess.” He snickers as he abruptly turns to hurry-off back to the waiting group. 

An exasperated sigh pushes out of your nose as your head plunks back against the pillow. Arthur has finally stopped the amorous actions, but still lays overtop of you, motionless and reluctant to move. 

“Well, that just killed the mood,” you huff, noting how Arthur’s face has turned down into a hard frown. 

Arthur takes a deep breath to steady himself. “I know I said I can never leave the gang, but there’s moments like this that I am open to the discussion.”

“Don’t tease me, now,” you warn as a tiny grin creeps its way across your lips. Arthur just rolls his eyes and sits up, playfully pushing your legs to the side so he can sit at the edge of the cot to get himself dressed. 

Back at the hitching posts, Bill approaches the waiting group with a smirk on his face, shaking his head. 

“Where’s Arthur?” asks Dutch impatiently, his gaze looking past Bill’s shoulder when he does not see the man in question in attendance. “You were supposed to go get him.”

“He’s…uh…busy at the moment.” Bill offers this obscure excuse to the men with a quirked eyebrow.

Dutch’s ringed hands land on his hips, his impatience growing by the minute. “Busy doing what, exactly?”

“More like, busy doing who?” chuckles Bill. 

It only takes Dutch a moment to realize what Bill is talking about before his dark eyes roll to the heavens. “Oh, for Christ’s sake…”

—-----------------------------------------

Fortunately, the coach job didn’t take too long. Arthur had begrudgingly pulled himself from your warm and loving arms to drudge over to join his companions. He got a good ribbing from the men, as was expected, but all it did was aggravate his already irritable demeanor. He wanted to spend the morning buried between your legs in his tent, not between Bill and John on their smelly horses.

By the time the men get back to camp, you and the other girls are already embedded into more chores. Seems there is always something to do. In fact, the moment he gets back to camp and unpacked, Ms. Grimshaw is quick to get Arthur to the wood pile, stating that the firewood is already low again. He shoots you a quick glance, your eyes meeting briefly across the camp, before giving her an exasperated sigh as he reluctantly heads over to the ax to get started.  

As you work with your needle and thread to mend shirts and darn socks, you delightfully treat yourself to observe Arthur as he chops the firewood. His strong arms slam the ax down onto the chunks of timber, causing them to splinter in his wake. His muscled arms flex with each blow, his wide shoulders set beautifully with each stroke. His burly legs set into a wide stance, the tendons there rippling beneath the fabric of his trousers with each jarring blow. 

The sight of it makes your heart race so fast that it skips a beat in your chest, knowing that this hulking man belongs to you. Your legs involuntarily cross and squeeze your thighs in an attempt to contain your arousal, a feeling that has yet to be quelled since your abrupt separation this morning. You try to finish your mending as quickly as you can so that you can steal away to go over there. 

“Hey, you,” you call to Arthur as you eventually saunter over, swinging your hips with a cheshire-cat-like grin on your face. 

Arthur lifts his head as he tosses a heavy piece of wood as if it were feather-light. The second his irritable eyes land on your beautiful form floating towards him, the tension melts away from his weathered face. He stands up straight, grinning from ear to ear. “Hey, you.”

You hand him a cup of cool water, which he gratefully accepts as your fingers linger across his knuckles like an ivy vine. You intently watch him as he gulps the refreshing liquid down, observing how his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. God, how you want to plant your lips all over his neck right now. You shift your weight from hip to hip and bite your bottom lip as you watch him.

You step up even closer, bumping your hip into his and giving him that look. Arthur looks at you with intrigue. He swipes the back of his gloved hand across his mouth, wiping away the water droplets that escaped his lips. He dips his head to kiss you, but halts mid-stride when you hear Ms. Grimshaw’s shrill voice hollering for you from across the camp. 

“Y/N! Quit foolin’ around with Arthur and get over here! I ain’t done with you yet!” You and Arthur turn your heads to see the woman standing in the clearing, arms crossed and face twisted up in annoyance.

“You gotta be kiddin’ me,” Arthur mutters. He turns back to you and the disappointment is plain on your face. You could be off wrapping your legs around this man’s waist, but no. You are needed elsewhere…to stitch holes in socks. 

—------------------------------------

And so it goes for the rest of the day. It's as if the universe is purposely trying to keep you and Arthur apart. But Ms. Grimshaw is shrewd. Normally, you and Arthur can get a lot of work done when paired together. But when the two of you are acting more flirtatious than usual, the only way she can get anything done is to completely separate the two of you. Like wound-up teenagers, you and Arthur are known to play around and get distracted, sometimes even disappearing altogether. So the matriarch has been keen to assign you tasks on opposite sides of the camp. 

Seeing an opportunity to catch you alone, Arthur comes up to you while you’re cooking. You are over at the food wagon, stirring the heavy cast-iron pot for tonight’s dinner when you hear the grass and leaves crunching behind you. You don’t even have to turn around to know he’s behind you, as the scent of leather and cigarettes, mingled with clove, permeates your senses. It’s a familiar fragrance that will immediately set your mind to race, making your blood run hot. 

Arthur pushes his chest up against your back just enough to create that electricity. You suck your lip in between your teeth to silence any wanton noise that would be in danger of bubbling up from your throat. You turn your head slightly to the side, catching the pale blue color of his faded work shirt as he runs a single finger down the length of your arm.

“Ah, Mr. Morgan, there you are! I haven’t seen you all day.” Mr. Pearson suddenly appears out from behind the wagon with an armload of ingredients for you to cut and chop for tonight’s stew. 

“Glad you’re here! Listen, did I ever tell you about the time I got into a fist-fight with a fella from town? He was an honest-to-God boxer. But I was too quick for him, you see. It was a good fight, too.”

Mr. Pearson is so wrapped up in his own story that the disappointed groan that comes from you goes unnoticed. Arthur’s brow settles into a hard, dangerous frown again. If it wouldn’t land him a stinging slap upside the head from Ms. Grimshaw, he’d land his fist in the portly man’s face just to shut him up. On and on Pearson goes, excited to have a captive audience for his rambling. You try your best to be polite and smile and nod along, but Arthur has never been one for social etiquette and quickly finds an excuse to walk away. 

After you suffer through yet another one of Mr. Pearson’s stories and manage to get tonight’s dinner going, you set off to find Arthur again. The sexual tension is building and you can’t wait too much longer to deal with it. You finally locate him over by the horses. 

Arthur is preoccupied with getting Buck saddled up, fixing the straps of the saddle and filling his saddle bags with provisions. He’s bent over at the waist, checking Buck’s hooves for any muck or debris, and you come up behind him, slowly running your hands up his back, pushing your fingertips into the muscle. You can feel Arthur shudder from your touch. But he quickly switches gears, muscles stiffening up under your hands.

“Quit. I can’t be startin’ that now,” he quickly scolds you.

“Oh really?” you purr as you press up against him, thinking he’s playing hard-to-get.

“I mean it. Knock it off.” He spins away from you, putting his hand on your forearm and holding you at arm's length as if you were something offensive. 

Your eyebrows shoot up to your hairline. “Excuse me?” Your arms cross indignantly over your chest in disbelief. 

But he doesn’t mean to be cruel. He has to focus on what needs to be done. He can’t get sidetracked by those improper thoughts of you. And he has so many of those thoughts about you right now. 

He sighs, rolling his eyes. “Look, it ain’t you, alright? I gotta head out. Dutch needs me to handle something for Strauss.”

You give a long frustrated huff. “Figures,” you mumble under your breath, taking a step back even further away from him.

“Don’t get mad at me for it!” he snaps.

“I’m not.” 

His ocean-colored eyes flash at you. “Yeah, you are!”

“Arthur, if I was mad at you, you’d know it,” you snark back.

“Oh, so this look on your face is one of joy, then?” he says with dripping sarcasm as his hand waves inches from your nose. 

You slap his hand down, your eyes narrowing at him. “Don’t be an ass.”

“I ain’t bein’ in ass!” His voice raises in volume as his limits get tested. He drags his hand over his face in frustration. “Nevermind. Can we deal with this later? I got things to do.” He plants his hands on his hips in impatience.

“Of course you do.” You give him an eye roll, your hair tossing in the air, as you spin on your heels to head back to the campfire. 

—--------------------------------------------------

Later that night, you are walking through the camp. Arthur is nowhere to be seen, which is annoying. You grab the water bucket and head over to the edge of camp to dump it, when you hear a whistle. Confused, you follow the noise as it leads you to the tree line. Suddenly, a massive hand shoots out of the shadows and clamps over your wrist. It's Arthur. He holds his finger up to his lips in a shushing motion, tilting his head to indicate to follow him before you can even utter a word. 

You quietly follow as he leads you away from camp and into the dark and awaiting forest, confused as to what in the world he’s up to. When you get to a thick collection of trees, he stops. 

“Arthur, what are you doing-” but you can’t get another word out before he spins on you and roughly grabs your face, crushing his mouth into yours. You can’t even breathe, as he sucks the air right out of your lungs. He backs you up a few paces, hands still clamped around your cheeks, until your backside hits a tree, trapped and unable to move anywhere else.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Can’t wait a damn second longer. I gotta have ya and have ya now.” He grabs at the fabric of your skirt without warning or permission and starts to hike it up, but you are quick to grab his wrists.

“What?! Out here? Arthur, someone is going to see us!” you gasp, shocked at his brazenness. 

“Don’t care,” he grits out as he pins your body to the tree with his own, his lips attacking your neck. He maneuvers your hands away from his own in order to keep pulling at the skirt fabric which is the only barrier between him and his prize. 

“But Arthur-” You try to take a second to try to talk some sense into him, but he silences you again, shoving his tongue down your throat. Your hands shoot up to his shoulders with a feeble push to try to get him to stop. But by releasing your grasp on his wrists, it frees him to reach up further under your skirt and yank your bloomers off, ripping them at the seam. 

The sudden jerk causes you to gasp and it’s as if a switch has been pulled within you. The culmination of pent-up desire has come to a head as you no longer care about the world around you two. You look up at him with hungry, needy eyes of your own, but see nothing but pure lust reflecting back at you, like looking into the face of a wolf.

Your own pupils are blown wide with yearning and briefly flick from his captive gaze to his full lips. And with that brief glimpse of approval from you, Arthur shoves his arms under your thighs and lifts you up off the ground, slamming you back into the tree trunk. The motion causes the wind to briefly knock out of your lungs as your arms wrap around his shoulders to hold on and keep yourself from falling to the ground. 

His hips grind harshly into you as his mouth devours your jawline and neck. You can feel how hard he is under the fabric of his trousers. Your precious little gasps only spur him on faster. Arthur fumbles with the buttons of his pants, pulling out his rock-hard cock. You can feel the tip of him rubbing hotly against your inner thigh, the length of him dragging along the folds of your heat. He seems impossibly rigid at the moment and you take a split second to wonder if it's actually painful for him. The thought of it causes you to desperately whine and moan in anticipation. 

Arthur can be soft and attentive as a lover, and he can also be hot and passionate. But, every once in awhile, he can be just outright insatiable. A downright, dirty outlaw. 

“You like that, don’t you?” he smirks, pleased with your reaction to his thick manhood teasing your sensitive skin. Cocky bastard. 

All you can do is nod, your mouth agape and gasping for air.

“Good. ‘Cause I ain’t about to stop now.” He lines himself up to you and pushes in, burying himself until his pelvis is flat against yours. You cry out with a wanton little whimper, your head thrown back until it knocks onto the bark behind you with an ungraceful thud. Arthur is large between his legs, always a tight fit within you, but you have zero complaints about it. 

“C’mon, baby, let me hear ya,” he coaxes in your ear. He immediately starts to pump into you, quick and desperate. Your back begins to drag along the tree as he ruts into you. The tree bark cuts into your skin, even through the fabric of your blouse, but you couldn’t care any less. 

“Jesus, Arthur,” you moan. “Right there…(gasping) just like that…just like that.” You try to lean back, pushing your hips towards him and he grunts with a devilish grin. 

“That’s right, girl”.

The beautifully lewd symphony that the two of you create could be heard by anyone in the area if they are close enough. Moans and stifled screams wrap around the wet sounds of tongues and lips clicking, while the unmistakable sound of skin against skin vibrates throughout the ring of trees that encompasses you.  

Arthur lets your one leg drop down so that he can use that hand to reach between you. The pads of his fingers find their way to that sensitive bundle of nerves nestled within your folds and he begins to curl and rub. His other arm that is still hooked under your knee pulls your hip up, opening your gait even more, allowing his cock to ram into the back wall of your cunt with full force. 

It's too much. You loudly cry out at the additional stimulation, your breath gasping as your hands pinch into the meat of his shoulders. 

The sight of you coming undone before his eyes is enough to melt his mind. You lean forward this time, burying your head into his shoulder and letting your whole body go limp in his arms like a rag doll, giving in to sweet pleasure and just letting him have his way with you. 

When you cling to him, he immediately pulls his hand away from your heat and lifts you back up again to get better leverage. He pounds into you even harder, chasing that euphoric ending. You are completely at his mercy now, mercy which will never come. The sexual tension that has been building all day like the pressure of a tea kettle boiling some water has finally been released. And like that scalding hot water, Arthur’s lust burns you.

“Baby, I’m…I’m close…” he sputters, his forehead digging into your temple. You can’t even form coherent words to give him a reply. In fact, you couldn’t care any less about anything he is saying right now, only about what he is doing. 

Your climax is a tidal wave as your hands dig into his shoulder like the claws of a bobcat. The painful sensation of your fingernails cutting into his flesh is enough to push him over the edge as he quickly drops your legs, pulling himself out of you before his spend is sent hurling into the grass at your feet. Lightning clouds his vision as Arthur lets out a loud moan of release, not even bothering to try to hold anything back. His rough hands clasp the rough bark of the tree behind you, snapping pieces of it off in his palms as he braces himself for his own overstimulation.

As his large body comes down from its high, Arthur hangs his head, leaning it against your collarbone, his chest heaving for air. Your legs are shaking, trying to keep upright as you bring your hands up along the sides of his face, cupping his cheeks. Your thumbs begin to stroke his cheekbones to calm him and you press light kisses to his temple as you catch your own breath. 

He slowly pulls his face back to look into yours. Both of you are left speechless. That feral beast that drug you off into the woods to be devoured is no longer in front of you. The man you recognize and love oh-so deeply is back, that sweet grin on his lips. 

“What the hell was that?” you pant out in surprise.

“A man’s got needs,” he smirks with that devilish grin. “And I needed you.” He shakes his eyebrows suggestively at you as he kisses your still-trembling lips. 

“I guess so."

[cosmic-ghost-hermit]

What Are You Too Hard On Yourself About?

So my camera that I usually take pictures with is not accessible rn so I'm going to be using a different approach to doing pick-a-pile readings. I'm taking inspiration from other tarot readers on tumblr and use aesthetic photos that I find on pinterest and tumblr. let me know if yall like this more than the photo approach!

PILE ONE

Astrology: Virgo, Capricorn, Leo

Cards: The Wheel of Fortune, The Tower, King of Pentacles, En Caul

Song: Queen Of This Shit by Quay Dash

Vibes: ❤️🎂🚗🫖🥊☕️🍎🎲🎸🎹🍒🚑🍅⏰🍉✉️🍓🤍🌶.⚾️🥩🍰

Hello, pile 1! You seem to be hard on yourself for things that aren't even your fault, my friend. I think when you were young a lot of things were blamed on you so now you take responsibility when anything tragic happens. The thing about you is you are the one person that holds together the best in tragedy. It's only after it's all happened that you start feeling like you are to blame. You are not the cause of the wheel turning. Life is a series of up's and down's on the wheel of fortune. I hear you saying things to yourself like "I'm better off not being around" but my friend the wheel would still turn if you weren't. You being in the general vicinity does not make you at fault. You keep the ride on that wheel semi-stable, my dear. Please be kinder to yourself. You are so intelligent and you have the abilities of a seer. You know what to expect from the rollercoaster that life is and you are fantastic at preparing for it. Do not beat yourself up for existing. Do not beat yourself up for making simple mistakes. Accept yourself at every part of life. Love yourself at your best AND your worst.

PILE TWO

Astrology: Pisces, Gemini, Libra

Cards: The Hanged-Man, Page of Swords, Two of Cups, Lady of the Lake

Song: I Wish I Never Met You by Oh Wonder

Vibes: 💙❤️🦋🌹❄️💥🫐🍒💎🧲🧿🪓🌀🧯♿️🧰💦🍄🐳🎒🧢👠🧵🧣🌎

Hi, pile 2! You are hard on yourself for 2 things that work in tandem with each other. You either really struggle to find partners or you struggle to build romantic connections with the sexual partners you find. You have a very pixie-like energy which makes me think this is rooted in ADHD. You get extremely distracted by your interests and your experiences. This makes it difficult for you to find romance with anyone. The people you find connections with don't understand that you need patience and understanding. They don't understand that your ADHD isn't just a disability. Your ADHD is a PART of you and if they can't accept and love your ADHD along with you, they don't even deserve your attention and love anyway. I see that there is trauma connected to you feeling useful. Because you have been rejected for the way your mind works you think all you are good at is sex. You have fallen victim to people-pleasing behaviors all because you are allowing people to shit on an entire facet of your personality. Please stand up for yourself instead of being hard on yourself for how others view you. Their opinions do not matter if they constantly put you into a state of distress and self-hatred. Do not beat yourself up because of other people's ableism. You deserve a lover that understands you and accepts every part of you. When you finally stand up for yourself you will have completed a really tough cycle and your new energy will reward you greatly with a true romantic partner that will most likely be sticking around longer than the others.

PILE THREE

Astrology: Taurus, Sagittarius, Aries

Cards: The Empress, Strength, 8 of Wands, The Rainbow

Song: No Drug Like Me by Carly Rae Jepsen

Vibes: 💛🎺🏅🐝🐱👑👙🍯🥧🥞🧀🌸🍋🍌☀️💫⚡️✨🌻🌼💐🕯💰🛍

Hey there pile 3. Your energy is so light but somehow very rich as well. You have such a lovely energy that people love to be in. This can be a blessing and a curse for you. This is because you aren't too attached to anything or anyone. You are the type of person who people get addicted to but you often leave as quickly as you arrived. You are too hard on yourself about how this makes people feel. You feel as if you have left a string of broken hearts behind you. I see you feeling very guilty because of this. Don't be harsh with yourself about your true nature. You need room to travel from person to person. You aren't the kind of individual to get attached to concepts you experience as temporary. Human connection isn't meant to be permanent for you anyway. You shouldn't try to save feelings by moving away from your authenticity. You are meant to be independent and follow your heart where the wind takes it. Let the broken hearts leave your mind. Let the guilt slide off of you like water off a duck's back. Those people will find new beginnings with people who are meant to settle down. You will forever be a free spirit. If you tried to tie yourself down out of a sense of guilt it wouldn't end well for anyone. Your authenticity should be your main priority, not saving the emotions of people who have paths to walk you can't follow. What they think about you doesn't matter if it's your time to dip again.

PILE FOUR

Astrology: Scorpio, Cancer, Aquarius

Cards: The Hanged Man, 2 of Pentacles, Ace of Swords, Cosmic Ocean

Song: Greener by Kid Quill

Vibes: 💚🤎🐸🦇🪲🦂🍀🍂🥝🥥🍈🍹🧩🛖✅⚰️♻️🧺🇵🇸🚪🤑🪑💸🕯📗

Hey there, pile 4! You need to be easier on yourself for your indecisiveness, my friend. You are a very interesting combination of compassionate and intelligent. This is what makes it so hard for you to make decisions fast. It's not that you are bad at making decisions. You are smart enough to consider the different paths that could happen when making a decision. You understand that your actions have consequences and you can predict them very accurately. You are also kind enough to consider how those consequences affect the people around you. You are actually REALLY good at making decisions but it takes time to consider all of the possibilities. People have given you a hard time about indecisiveness for a long time but that's because they can't see the gears turning in your head. They don't see that you see every possibility. They can't even fathom the experience because most of the people giving you a hard time are only thinking logically or are only thinking compassionately but you see both perspectives which gives you more intel to contemplate. Be a bit nicer to yourself when you make decisions slowly. The people critiquing you don't even know the half of it.

[e-dubbc11]

Warm and Cozy

Photos are not mine. They are courtesy of Pinterest/Google.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x F! Hunter Reader

Warnings: Bit of angst, tears, smooches, maybe a couple of swear words, fluff

Word Count: 1.9K-ish

Summary: After a semi-successful hunt of a rugaru, you need to decompress and get away from everything for a minute, so you escaped to your tiny cabin in the woods to take a breather. Dean follows you to make sure you’re actually alright.

A/N: This has been finished for over a month. Again, I know I’ve been MIA lately. I still have a small hump to get over next week and hopefully I’ll be able to exhale and exhale HARD, so I need all of your good thoughts, please and thank you.🙏 ♥️

As always, thank you for reading!  I appreciate it so much and comments, reblogs are welcome and encouraged. Don’t be shy to tell me your favorite part. 💕💕 💕

The fire had gone out a few hours ago.

You wanted to stoke it last night so the heat would last until morning as the fireplace was your main source of heat at night inside the tiny log cabin.

Needing a break from it all, you decided to spend a handful of days alone in the woods with a few new books, comfort food, and plenty of cozy blankets to keep you warm at night.

Last night you stood completely still on the porch, watching the hefty snowflakes fall from the sky, land on the forest floor and pile onto the bare tree branches, creating a picturesque scene all around you. The snow blanket created a cocoon of silence, making it difficult to hear any sounds of wildlife around you such as squirrels scurrying across the dry, dead leaves or deer stalking through fallen tree branches and large stones.

As you closed your eyes, you inhaled the bitter winter air and felt the chill as it stung your lungs. You wanted to watch your long exhale mix with the icy atmosphere. You remembered doing that a lot when you were a kid, just absolutely fascinated with how you could “make smoke,” as you called it.

Most people didn’t but you actually loved winter. You loved the silence of it all, the haunting silver skies, punishing winter winds, the perfect and undisturbed overlay of white that the latest snowstorm left behind. It was your ideal getaway when you wanted to be alone.

It was exactly what you had wanted…and needed.

You had tried your best but it wasn’t good enough. Sometimes hunts don’t go as well, or as easy, as you wanted them to go. Sometimes the people you are trying to save don’t make it, like what happened two nights ago.

They were just kids, teenagers that were in the wrong place at the wrong time being hunted by a recently turned rugaru. You saved two of them but the other two weren’t as lucky and you knew you did everything you could have including burning the monster that killed two young men. Their friend group will never be whole again, they’ll always have two pieces missing and it was because you weren’t strong enough to save them all.

Dean had texted after it was all over.

It’s ok, sweetheart. You did good. Lives were saved and that’s all that matters.

He said it was ok, that you can’t win them all, you can’t save them all, and that you had to look at the bigger picture. That monster was dead because of you and because of you, it will never hurt anyone else again.

After it was all over, you got in the car and headed for the cabin. It was small but it was all yours and you could not wait to take a hot shower, make something to eat, and try to remember the bigger picture that you saved two lives when it very well could have been none.

With the fire roaring and the soup simmering on the stove, you cozied up on the couch with a blanket draped over you and a book in your hands, ready to just decompress and get lost inside the pages. But every time you tried to read the words going across the page, you’d have flashbacks to the kids you couldn’t save, how strong that rugaru was, and the way it screamed as the flames engulfed him.

The memories of those frightened boys caused your hands to shake as you tried to hold your book steady. Your tired eyes, half closed from exhaustion, had a hard time focusing on the words on the page. They all ran together and became blurry until you gave up in favor of a decent night’s sleep, which you didn’t even bother moving from the couch to the bed because you were cozy and warm.

You could always try again tomorrow.

**********

The daily journey of the sun begins at sunrise.

After the storm finished last night, the sky cleared, making way for a beautiful sunny morning. The clear sky was bathed in golden light as the yellow ball of fire started to brighten the sky, reflecting off of the freshly fallen snow as the purr of an engine became louder as it came closer to the cabin.

A familiar door squeak followed as your eyes fluttered open and you couldn’t be certain if you were dreaming or not. Rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, you reached behind the couch cushion at your side to pull out your 9mm as you listened to boots hit heavy and move slowly across the porch, toward the front door.

Taking aim at the door from the couch, whoever it was tried to turn the doorknob but it was locked. You were sitting all the way up now as the lock turned, the door slowly opened, and you heard a deep booming voice call out to you.

“Put the gun down, sweetheart. It’s just me.” Said Dean.

As you put the safety back on, you replied, “What are you doing here, Dean?”

He closed the door behind him, but not before you felt a rush of winter air blow across your face. It actually felt refreshing.

Dean slowly walked through the kitchen, stopping at the edge of the tile to remove his boots. He knew you didn’t like shoes on your living room floor.

With a warm smile, he replied, “I just came to see if you were ok, y/n. You know I worry about you.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t have to. I’m a big girl, I can take care of myself.” You replied.

Dean sat down next to you, looked at you cocooned in blankets and said, “I know you can but I still like to check on you. So, you got enough blankets there?”

Narrowing your eyes at him, you replied sarcastically, “No actually, I don’t. Go get me the ones from my bed.”

You didn’t know what you had to do to convince Dean that you were a really good hunter and that you could take care of yourself. You never had to rely on anyone else to take care of you or someone to hunt with but you did think it was sweet that Dean came all this way to check on you.

He removed his jacket, pushed the sleeves up on his gray Henley, and gazed at you with his shy but inviting green eyes. They were the color of an early summer moss, the lines around his eyes crinkled a little as he smiled at you, and leaned forward to rest his forearms on his knees.

“You ok? Tell me the truth, sweetheart.” He said softly.

Dean knew you well. He was a good friend that you always suspected maybe wanted more but the hunter life really didn’t allow for anything else, especially relationships.

You knew that, which is why you were alone too but you always wondered what it would be like to kiss those perfect lips of his, run your fingers through his soft brown hair, or rest your head against his chest as his strong arms wrap around you.

Tears stung the back of your eyes as you tried your hardest not to let them stream down your cheeks. You opened your mouth to speak but no words came out as there was an overwhelming piercing dryness in your throat.

He was waiting for you to say something when you lunged across the couch and slammed into him, a sob tore loose and shook your chest as you buried your face against his and his arms instinctively wrapped around you and hugged you like a weighted blanket.

“Sshhhh, it’s ok sweetheart. See, this is why I came.” Whispered Dean.

One of his hands inched up to lightly cradle your head as he gently kissed your forehead and eased back to support his back against the arm of the couch.

“I just wish I could have saved them all, Dean.” You replied.

Smiling against the top of your head, he said, “I know, y/n. Sometimes it just doesn’t work out that way though.”

“That’s all I could see last night, even in my dreams.” You said.

“It’s all over now and you saved those boys.” He paused. “Also, I refuse to believe that you don’t dream of me every night.” Said Dean with a chuckle which made you laugh.

He didn’t have to drive all the way to your cabin in the middle of nowhere, in the snow, and through the night. You thought his texts were enough of a reassurance that you did the best you could and lives were saved that night.

Your tone softened and in barely more than a whisper, you replied nervously, “Who says I don’t.”

You brought your gaze up to meet his and he brushed a stray tear off of your cheek. You don’t drive for hours on end just to check on someone if you didn’t really care for them so maybe you wanted to take your shot and see if you could hit something.

Dean looked a little surprised but also relieved as his shoulders relaxed and his lips curled up into a warm smile.

You continued, “It’s always you, Dean. Whether you’re wearing a leather jacket, a flannel shirt, or a grandpa sweater…the face in my dreams is always the same. It’s yours and I don’t want it to be anyone else’s.”

The room was silent with the exception of the low hiss from the remnants of last night’s fire. Searching his face for any clues on how he was going to respond to your confession, you came up empty. Perhaps you were wrong, you misread his signals and actions. Maybe he was just being nice and nothing more.

Rather than continue to make a fool of yourself, you gently pushed away from his chest and tried to get up.

“Okaaaaaay, I guess I’ve embarrassed myself enough this morning. Thanks for checking on me and…” You started to say before he cut you off.

Dean pulled you back down until your lips collided with his, they were soft just like you thought they would be, his hand cupped your cheek as his tongue parted your lips, begging desperately to tangle with yours and the knot in your chest eased. With your heart thumping loudly against your chest, a rush of heat flushed across your cheeks as fresh shivers danced down your spine and you felt a tingle in your core.

With a slight growl against your lips, he purred into your ear, “It’s nice to know the feeling’s mutual, sweetheart. Can you tell me what we’re doin’ in these dreams of yours? I’ll tell you what we’re doin in mine.”

You loved the smooth deep tone to his sexy voice as his breath coasted down your neck causing goosebumps to pepper across your skin.

You kissed him again and a soft moan escaped your lips before you replied with a wink, “What if I show you instead?”

As Dean licked his bottom lip, he asked, pointing at the fireplace “You want me to light the fire first?”

As you grabbed his hand to pull him toward the bedroom, with a devilish smirk, you replied, “Oh I think we’ll make plenty of our own heat, baby.”

Tag List: @munsonownsmyass @gijos @vaguekayla @stoneyggirl2

Others that might enjoy: @fluffyprettykitty @imagine-a-fictional-boyfriend @k-marzolf @jvanilly @deans-spinster-witch @savorxe @delightfull999

If you would like to be added to(or removed from) my tag list(s) for this smexy Winchester, just let me know!

[cy-lindric]

I wanted to vent, but also ask an honest question. Since I was a teenager, I always wanted to work on character design. And one thing that always caught my attention was how I always preferred male character designs over female ones. My first thought was that I was always more into androgynous fashion and more masculine styles. But time passed and I came to the conclusion that it wasn't just that, and it seems that male characters can always be different things: fat, thin, handsome, ugly, short, tall, young, old, etc. and female characters, for the most part, fall into two categories: cute or sexy. I wanted some tips on how I can make female characters with more interesting designs, without having to fall into those two categories. I love your work and you managed to make someone else like the three musketeers <3<3

Hello ! That's definitely a good question and something I think about a lot. The bias towards beauty is very strong in character design and it takes a conscious effort to diversify output in that regard.

That sort of advice might be a bit obvious, but one habit I picked up from the director on my first feature film gig was to actually "cast" characters. Without reference, we tend to go for the kind of symmetrical face and "average" features mostly out of stylistic habit. I like to look at character actors with distinct faces (I like this pinterest page that has a lot of faces in one place) but also just acquaintances or pictures of random crowds.

When designing a character, at first I'm always building a big reference board trying to decide what Type of Guy (gender neutral) I'm going for, trying use photos rather than other people's art, because I want to rely on automatics and graphic symbols as little as possible. Whether I'm designing a man or a woman or other, I use references of fashion styles and people across the board in terms of gender so I keep the scope open. Sometimes a character ref board for me will be a picture of one of my aunts next to a bunch of screenshots of Columbo. In my experience, a lot of the times, it's mostly about going with styles and archetypes the same way you would for a male character, and switching it up somewhere along the way by looking at real women in your life and beyond as a grounding mechanism. Sometimes that will mean changing almost nothing, because the borders between genders and how you characterize them is blurry and fluid, and sometimes it will mean using features that are uniquely tied to some sort of female experience.

I enjoy realism and I think getting more proficient at it did help me diversify my designs (I find that more difficult to do with more minimalistic styles). Still, I am mostly a fantasy artist and in my case that comes with some amount of stylization and idealization of shapes and looks. I'm far from perfect in my biases and I'm not going out of my way to draw "ugly" characters because that doesn't mean much to me ; I try to draw inspiration from the faces of every day people and I associate it with my love for fashion. It's also worth noting the work I post here for fun is a lot more hash tag aesthetic than the stuff I do professionally where diversity is much more important.

I don't know if any of that is relevant but that's definitely an interesting topic ! I'd love to know others' perspective and tips on the matter.