#(besides the fact that the last few months have been a time of illness and injury for me)

[alotofpockets]

Rough shift | Caitlin Foord x Doctor!Reader

Where Caitlin comforts you after you lose one of your patients

Warnings: surgery, blood, cpr, patient death

Woso masterlist | Words: 2.5k

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“Good morning, how is my favourite little Champ doing?” You ask as you walk into Maya’s hospital room, followed by four of your interns. “I’m doing good.” She answered, but the smile didn’t fully reach her eyes, a tell tale that she wasn’t telling the truth.

You had met Maya last year, when you moved back home to work at the hospital you worked at before. It had been hard leaving London, moving away from your girlfriend and your friends, but there was a shortage of pediatric surgeons at your former place of employment, and they reached out to you. You talked about it a lot with your girlfriend, Caitlin, who was very understanding of why you felt like you needed to go.

The two of you have been doing long distance for the duration of it. While it was hard at times, the two of you made it work. You were already excited to see her later today, since she and the rest of the Matilda’s would be arriving for their training camp.

Maya had been one of your first patients when you got back. She had been in for many surgeries before you had met her, and have been there for plenty after. She was a tough kid, that besides all of the medical treatment remained positive. 

“Alright,” You continued, ignoring the fact that she lied about her well-being. She was here for another surgery because her bowels were acting up again. Sadly no one had been able to find a permanent solution for her illness yet, and repeated surgeries were only short term solutions. “Doctor Taylor, can you present, please?” 

He stepped up with Maya’s chart, and started presenting her case. “Thank you Doctor Taylor.” You said after he perfectly shared all the necessary information. To teach the interns, you asked them a couple questions about the surgery, and made sure that they answered in a kid friendly way to make Maya feel at ease.

“Do you have any more questions for us, Maya?” You turned to the young girl on the bed. “Will you be there when I wake up?” Her eyes filled with hope, “Of course, I always am.” And you had. After every surgery you had been with her in the recovery room, always making sure to give your patients that extra bit of comfort that they needed. 

While your interns walk out of the room, you take a moment to speak to Maya’s parents. While they were used to the surgeries by now, every parent was nervous about their child getting operated on. Surgery on the bowels was always risky.

“How long do you think this fix will last?” You felt for Maya and the family and were gutted for them that there still wasn't a permanent fix. “Our best hope is another few months.” They knew that was the answer they were going to get, yet they still hoped that this time would be different. 

When you walked back into the hall you overheard Taylor brag about being the best in their class, and not needing the hours on peds because he won’t be choosing that specialty anyways. You listen for a bit longer and cannot believe the words you hear coming out of his mouth.

“Why do we keep going with these hopeless cases? It’s not like she’s ever going to get better. We’re just delaying the inevitable.” His words hit you like a punch in the gut, but you quickly gather yourself and step forwards. “Doctor Taylor,” The sharpness of your voice quickly grabbed the attention from everyone around you. “With me, now. All of you.”

You didn’t say a word until you had all of them in an empty hospital room. “These aren’t just cases, they are human lives; children’s lives. You are talking about Maya as if she’s some sort of lost cause, but she’s not. We are giving these kids the best care possible. We are keeping them alive, for when there is a permanent cure.”

Taylor opens his mouth to respond, but you aren't done yet. “If you cannot handle treating every patient with respect, you have no business being in this field. You are off this case, go find the Chief and see if she is willing to put you on a different case today.” He walks off with the whisper of a “Sorry.”

“As for the rest of you, I want to make it very clear that this is not how we talk about patients, especially not on the floor where everyone can hear you. If one of your peers does this, I want you to take the responsibility to tell them off. Do you understand?”

They all nod in understanding. “Good, now that we have that out of the way. Anderson, please get all the tests to the lab and page me when you’ve got the results. The rest of you with me to continue our rounds.

It was your job to make these interns good doctors. You hated having to kick them off cases, but if they treated patients like this, there had to be consequences.

The rest of the rounds went smoothly, and just as you got done with the last patient, Anderson paged you that the results were ready.

“How are we looking, Anderson?” He handed you the tablet, “Looks good. All her test results come back to the right levels.” You look over the results yourself to verify and agree with his conclusion. “Alright, prep Maya, and let me know when she's ready to go to the OR.”

“I'm here!” You announce before bending down and putting your hands on your knees, pretending to be out of breath. “Did I make it? Am I still on time?” 

Maya's giggles filled the room, the reason you loved to joke around like this. Kids deserve to feel comfortable and at ease in a place that is filled with unknowns. 

“We can't start without you, silly.” The girl laughs. “Oh, you're right, silly me!” You wipe the non-existent sweat off your forehead. “Alright Champ, are you ready?” She nodded and reached out her hand for you to hold, like you had done for the last couple of surgeries. 

You hold her hand until you arrive in the OR. “Alright Champ, hop on over.” The girl expertly switched onto the surgical bed. “What flavour popsicle will it be this time?” She puts her hand to her chin, “Strawberry!” You had expected no other flavour, as it was her favourite. You grab your phone and start typing. “Alright, I've let the chef know your order. It will be served when you're ready.”

Once Maya was under anaesthesia, you left the room to scrub. You learned that kids often found comfort in seeing someone they knew, you, for as long as possible. When you got back into the OR you were gowned and gloved, before you went to work.

The three interns still on the case were allowed to observe in the OR. You remembered what residency was like for you, and wanted to make sure that they got as many opportunities as possible in an OR, before they got their first operation.

Everything went smoothly, until it didn’t. 

Seemingly out of nowhere her lower abdomen filled with blood. “I need suction.” You instructed and were instantly handed the device. It was pooling in her abdomen fast that you could clear it. You handed the suction device to Doctor Jackson, who was on the other side of the table. “Lap pads, please, and keep them coming.”

Lap pad after lap pad was thrown in the little bin beside you, but the blood didn’t seem to lessen. “Doctor Smith, what’s her pressure?” You needed one of the interns to read the board, since you were both too occupied with trying to stop the bleeding. “BP is 60 over 40 and falling.” 

You cursed under your breath, while desperately trying to find the source of the bleeding. “Clamp.” The tool was in your hand mere seconds later. You tried to clamp off the vessel, but despite your best efforts, the bleeding didn’t slow down.

“She’s crashing.” The anesthesiologist warned. “Not on my watch. Doctor Anderson, take over suction. We’re going to transfuse.” Doctor Jackson handed over the suction, and got ready to set up a transfusion.

“BP is 50 over 30.” Doctor Smith announced. “Hang in there Maya.” You willed her to fight. But the blood was still not slowing down and her pressure was dropping rapidly. 

“We’re losing her.” The anesthesiologist said with worry in his voice. “We are not giving up. Get the crash card ready.” You took a deep breath and got ready to start CPR. 

The room full of doctors watched in silence as you continued compressions on the tiny body that laid on the table. “Come on, Maya.” Your voice barely above a whisper.

You don’t know how long you had been going, but your arms were starting to get tired. Doctor Jackson put his hand on your shoulder, “It’s time.” You shook your head, “No, she’s just a kid.”

His hand stayed on your shoulder, “You did everything you could. It’s time to let her go.” You slowly stopped compressions and looked down at her still body. Tears blurred your vision as you realised she was gone. 

“Time of death,” You started but weren’t allowed to finish the sentence. “11:16” Doctor Smith filled in. You stepped back and ripped your bloodstained gown and gloves off, and threw them onto the ground in frustration. 

You took a moment to gather yourself. You had to inform her family, and you needed to be strong for them. 

The moment you walked into the waiting room, Maya’s parents stood up. “No.” Maya’s mom said as all hope left her face. “No, my baby.” She could tell from your expression that the news wasn’t good, like it had been previous times. “I’m so sorry,” your voice broke. “We did everything we could, but Maya didn’t make it.”

You stood by as they fell into each other’s arms with tears streaming down their faces. They knew every surgery was a risk, but losing their little girl was something no parent was prepared for. “What happened?” Her dad asks.

“She lost too much blood. I- we tried everything to stop it, but we weren’t able to.” He nodded, still in disbelief. “Alright, thank you.” He got out before letting out another sob. Your heart broke even further. “If you want, you can see her for a bit. Would you like me to take you to her?” 

You walked them to the room and let them have a private moment with their daughter. Once you stepped outside, you got a page and headed to reception where you were asked for assistance. 

In a blur you walked down the hall and rode down in the elevator. It wasn’t until you laid your eyes on Caitlin that your vision got a bit more clear. You make your way over to her, and fall into her arms without saying another word. With her comforting arms around you, you couldn’t hold back any longer. The tears started streaming down your face, and Caitlin had to hold you tight, to keep you up right. 

“Oh, my love, what’s wrong?” She shared a worried look with her best friends Mackenzie and Alanna, who you hadn’t even realised were there too. “Can we go somewhere more private?” She asked softly. You nodded and took her hand. That’s when you realised the other girls. “Oh hi, I’m sorry. You guys can come too.” 

You walked the trio into your office and pulled Caitlin down onto the couch, to fall into her hold again. “I lost her, Cait. I lost Maya, she didn’t make it.” The room went silent. Caitlin held you while you sobbed. 

After a while you had no more tears left. “I’m sorry, you guys were here for a fun time, and now you’re stuck with me being emotional.” Alanna is quick to shake her head, “Don’t apologise, we’re all here for you.” Mackenzie agreed, “Yeah, if there is anything we can do for you, please let us know.” 

“You should drink some water, love.” Caitlin suggested and pointed out the water pitcher to Alanna. You did as you were told, and sipped on the water that Alanna handed you. 

“Macca, could you do something for me?” She nodded instantly, “Of course, anything.” You had thought back of the last conversation you had with Maya. “Could you go down to the cafeteria and get some strawberry popsicles?” The request seemed odd to her, but she asked no questions.

Not long after she got back with four strawberry popsicles. “They were her favourite, we were going to have some when we were in the recovery room.” You put your head back on Caitlin’s shoulder. “This one’s for you Maya.”

You sit with the girls for a while longer. Maya had been your only surgery for the day, as you had taken the rest of the day off to be with Caitlin. When you feel strong enough to get up, you ask them to meet you down in the lobby, since you wanted to check on Maya’s parents before you left.

Her parents just walked out of Maya’s room when you walked onto the floor. You weren’t sure what to say except sorry, which you did again. What happened next surprised you. Her mom hugged you. “Thank you for giving us more time with our girl than we ever thought we’d have.” Every surgery had given her a couple of months longer to live, yet you had hoped you’d be able to keep her alive until a permanent solution was found, they made you realise that keeping her alive this long was a miracle already. 

Maya’s dad gave you a firm handshake. “While now is a dark moment for us all, we want you to know that we know you have given your best to our Maya, and for that we will forever be grateful.”

“Maya was an incredible young girl. While the circumstances of us meeting were never possible, I am honoured that I was allowed to know her. If there is ever anything I can do for you and your family, please don’t be afraid to reach out.”

You made your way downstairs again, where Caitlin met you at the bottom of the stairs. Her arm wrapped around your shoulder, as she walked you out of the hospital. “I sent the girls to get us some food, they’ll meet us at home.” 

You didn’t care for the food, but you were glad to be surrounded by your loved ones. All plans you previously had for the day were wiped off without having to communicate your needs. The couch is where you spend the rest of the day. A movie was playing on the tv, but you had fallen asleep in Caitlin’s comforting arms a long time ago.

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[dogsliampaynedoesntinstagram]

What did you think of that Matty Healy New Yorker profile? 👀

I've a lot of thoughts about this profile - and another ask where I'll talk about him more generally.

The article came out late evening New Zealand time - so I had an experience I've had a few times of seeing stuff as I'm going to bed, before anyone has reacted to it - and knowing I'll wake up to the reaction.

And in this case I was fascinated by the profile - but also could very clearly see how bits of it would be understood and the negative response that's coming. I want to focus on what was to me the most interesting part of the interview and which I could see that people were going to hate:

“But it doesn’t actually matter. Nobody is sitting there at night slumped at their computer, and their boyfriend comes over and goes, ‘What’s wrong, darling?’ and they go, ‘It’s just this thing with Matty Healy.’ That doesn’t happen.” “Maybe it does,” I said. “If it does,” he said, “you’re either deluded or you are, sorry, a liar. You’re either lying that you are hurt, or you’re a bit mental for being hurt. It’s just people going, ‘Oh, there’s a bad thing over there, let me get as close to it as possible so you can see how good I am.’ And I kind of want them to do that, because they’re demonstrating something so base level.”

I am much more sympathetic to this than most commentary I've seen, but before I explain why I'll say the ways that I think is not true - and also not a reasonable thing for Matty Healy to say.

Because my very first thought when reading this was - 'Matty Healy, who are you to call someone mental?' And more than a statement about how he navigates the world (although it's not not that) - by that I mean - he is obviously someone who is fascinated by the fan performer relationship. He is fascinated with and his whole career is based on the way fans give meanings to performers. He's talked a lot about that feeling himself. Of course Matty Healy has meaning to people - of course there have been people (with and without boyfriends) slumped over their computers, because they have an emotional reaction to what he said. It's both childish and absurd to pursue stardom and a fandom for decades and then respond to people having a problem with your actions by claiming that nobody should think you're that important.

But the other way to take 'who are you to call other people a bit mental Matty Healy?' is to take the sting out of the idea. If I'm a little bit mental, and so is Matty Healy, and his fans - if the assumption is that everyone is a little bit mental in one way or another (which is certainly a basic assumption to how I navigate the world) - then I read what he said in another way. I think that Matty Healy was saying something that is interesting, resonant, and not always articulated.

What he is saying about false outrage - of people wanting to get close to and claim a personal stake in certain sorts of controversy - that resonated with me - as I've watched the different ways on-line dynamics play out.

I first thought about this in terms of amplification. I remember when the first Hunger Games movie came out and Jezebel ran a piece about people (none of whom had very many followers) who tweeted about caring less about the Rue character, because she was black. Writing that article greatly increased the number of people who saw these tweets. I think that decision can be defended (although I suspect it was made on clickbait terms - rather than principled ones). But what I found indefensible was that afterwards the journalist tweeted something like 'Oh no I really hope Amandla Stenberg doesn't hear who don't care about Rue'. I thought then you can't have it both ways - you can't bring terrible things to a wider audience and then act as if the fact that more people know about them now has nothing to do with you. (I thought of this when I saw people blaming Taylor for the fact that teenage girls knew about the porn site mentioned in the podcast)

But it's not just about amplification - the dynamic Matty Healy names is a very real and human one. I've always been very suspicious of the politics of designating an individual man 'a sexist' or an individual white person 'a racist'. It suggests that they want to treat racism and sexism as things that are rare, unusual, and reside in the individual. And often this is part of erasing and denying their own racism. I think there's some of that going on here - particularly at some of the hyperbolic reactions from white people. Such as claiming Taylor was making them unsafe by inviting Matty Healy to Eras shows (the idea that what we know of Matty Healy's behaviour would make him stand out as dangerous in a crowd of 70,000 Americans - is totally disconnected from reality).

One of the reasons I find what Matty Healy said so interesting - is because I think it and don't say it. I often get anons who express very strong emotions that I just don't believe. They'll say they're outraged or offended or something, and it just doesn't ring true. I wouldn't frame it the way Matty Healy does - as getting close to the bad thing. I have always thought it in stan terms - anons are performing outrage as part of black and white thinking of standom. But I really like Matty Healy's framing.

If I was being generous with myself I'd say the reason I don't say anything is that I could be wrong - and for me 'what is the impact if I'm wrong' is quite a big factor in how I behave. Taking a risk that I'm telling people that their offense isn't real is something that I'm cautious about. But what this does mean is that I am part of creating and promoting something really false - and I do think that promoting that false idea of the politics of being offended is damaging - it's not something that I want to do. (For those who are new here and haven't seen me link to it dozens of times before, I think Racism is a system of oppression not a series of bloops by Gary Younge is a really important articulation of what is at stake here).

But as well as finding it interesting that anyone says things that I find myself not saying - I think it's particularly interesting coming from a celebrity. So much of what celebrities say about fans is just baby food - totally pureed and anything that might be interesting removed. 'Blah, blah, blah I have a really special relationship with my fans.' There's nothing true or real about any of it - because in general for a celebrity to say most things that are true is too high risk.

I do think what Matty Healy was saying was mostly true - particularly if you take away all the connotations of 'a bit mental' (if you take that to mean overinvested in - or even just fan). And there is something to be explained here - there is a gap between what he has done - and the response over the last few months. Some of that gap is about stan culture - but not all of it something else is going on.

I also think he's hiding behind the fact that some people are being outrageous. The people who are declaring him the worst people in the world, or suggesting that he's a danger to fans, or writing ridiculously long threads about their own accountability - they are lying and I like that he says so. But if some people are criticising you in an unjustified and absurd way that's not a good reason to ignore everything that is being said to you.

I find myself returning to the idea of standing - and asking if I have standing in a particular issue. I can have an opinion on things - whether or not I have standing. But if I don't have standing then there's no reason my opinion should matter to anyone else. (There is something in here that I haven't fully unpacked about the individualisation of all this).

There are plenty of people with standing here - Ice Spice, Rina Sawayama, fans of the 1975 who listened to the podcast and heard people like them talked about in degrading ways. The fact that someone who has never listened to the podcast and is misrepresenting it - doesn't change what was said on that podcast.

That's a lot to say about 116 words - so I'll stop. But I would love to know what Jia Tolentino said yes. And I'd want to push on the implications of a popstar believing that people who were invested in what they say were 'a little bit mental'.

[suguann]

tags. fem!reader, boss/employee relationship, stupidly domestic, little wife kink in there somewhere, nanny reader, single dad gojo, breeding kink [18+ only]

You sometimes find yourself wistfully imagining having a family of your own—a soft and sweet little bundle to cuddle and someone strong and capable (competent) at your side. But you can’t think of the last time you’ve been on a date where that person had the same interest in something more serious than casually sleeping around. 

Nannying seemed like the natural conclusion, especially when you’re still settling in a new city and barely scraping by for rent and student loans for a degree you don’t use. 

You pick up a few jobs just to get a feel for it: parents going away for a honeymoon, a last-minute call-in, a weekend business trip. Then a friend of a friend says she makes enough to afford one of those picturesque apartments that overlook tall high-rises and iridescent lights, the very ones you’ve dog-eared in real-estate magazines.

All it takes are a few phone calls and an interview until you’re packing up your apartment and taking the freeway outside of the city to somewhere remote and expensive, your car looking almost out of place parked beside the shiny new one in the long driveway.

You rap on the front door before you lose your nerve, and a few moments later, it opens, and you’re unsure who looks more out of place: this man with a smile too big, dressed for work, immaculate suit dampened by the baby rag slung over his shoulder and what looks like drool on his crisp collar, or you in your scuffed shoes and second-hand store clothes, standing in front of the nicest house you’ve ever seen.

“The nanny?”

“Yes,” you mutter, licking your lips. “That’s me.”

“Good, Ren just woke up from his nap,” he says, opening the door a little wider with a creak. The darkness behind him is almost comforting.

You take a deep breath and pass over the threshold into his home.

The entire time, his hand stays on the small of your back to steer you toward the nursery, and a shiver threatens up the length of your spine.

Three months. That’s how long it takes before your employer poses a problem.

It’s not that he’s a terrible boss; in fact, he’s quite the opposite. He lets you take over one of the many spare rooms in his massive house, pays you double the regular rate, and gives you time off when you ask for it.

It also helps that Ren is cute, only a year old, and still so sweet and tiny. 

Perfect.

The problem lies in that you know what he sounds like first thing in the morning, that he knows how you like your coffee, that he helps you fold laundry in the living room while the baby naps, how you catch him staring anytime you hold his son—his expression shuttered, a foreign thing that you can’t read. It’s all so terribly domestic. 

Terrible in that you think it’s a horrible idea to develop a crush on your boss, that you can’t help but get flustered anytime he so much as looks your way, even if it’s fleeting. How a sleepy smile before he retires to his room for the night can turn your thoughts into a scattered, ill-defined mess of what they used to be until all that’s left are words like spun sugar melting on your tongue.

But also, it’s not normal, at least not from your experience. 

You were lucky in the past if your employer even wanted to know about their kid’s day. Barely saying hello once they walk through the front door before sending money to your bank account.

Satoru—because that’s what he asked you to call him one afternoon while you were in the middle of feeding Ren mashed banana, a lazy smile curling the edges of his lips after you say it for the first time—wants to know everything: what Ren ate, if he laughed, how your day was, if you finally got your hands on that book you’ve been meaning to buy. 

“You don’t have to ask about my day,” you tell him shyly, accepting the glass of wine he proffers you after spending the past hour trying to put a teething baby to bed. “To make me feel better, that is.”

“Would it be so bad if I said I want to? You live here, too.”

You try to separate the two: that he cares as your employer and not for any other reason, and how you sometimes catch the soft look in his eye whenever he looks at you could make you believe otherwise.

Cool fingers cup your chin gently, thumb caressing the top of your cheek, now close enough that you catch a few of the warm notes of his cologne, a move that’s probably very inappropriate between a boss and an employee.

“I never say anything I don’t mean.”

You swallow, nodding, slightly shaky, breath caught in your chest. “Okay.”

“Good girl.” He retreats to his office before witnessing how those two words knock the wind out of you.

He starts saying things like our shopping list, our car—because he gave you the keys to the SUV parked beside his car and hasn’t touched it since; for you and the baby, he said, plus it’s terrible on gas when I drive it to work—our house, our baby. You don’t think he means to do it; it's more of an easy slip in conversation.

But then, one morning, he’s rushing around the kitchen, hair still damp and smelling like his shampoo, as he grabs his coffee and briefcase from the counter, kissing Ren’s forehead first…and then yours.

You’re half convinced that you imagined it—that his lips hadn’t stayed there for a second longer than necessary—until he straightens his tie and heads out for the day with a ‘be good’ tossed over his shoulder, and you’re left wondering if he meant to say that to you or Ren.

It sets off a chain reaction of thoughts whirling away in your head, leaves you wanting and wondering—only ever allowing yourself to fantasize a little when the house is quiet and dark, the baby monitor humming on your nightstand, and images of your boss flit behind closed eyelids as you fit your hand underneath your soft sleep shorts.

In the morning, you worry he can tell what you did, his smile almost too sharp, too something—more teasing than what you’re used to—his hand resting on your lower back as he leans down to kiss Ren’s chubby cheek while you make breakfast.

“I have a meeting this afternoon, so I’ll be late. Want me to pick up some food on the way home?”

No, you think, there’s no way he knows.

You spend most of the morning cleaning and folding the array of graphic onesies Satoru has a penchant for dressing Ren in, and the later half walking around the pool because it’s warm and Ren enjoys splashing around in the water. It’s enough to tucker him out for bed early, unable to keep his eyes open while eating a plate of mashed potatoes.

It’s also the first time in weeks that you have the night to yourself, no baby keeping you busy, no Satoru to—well.

After a long shower, you step out of the bathroom, moving into the hallway. And there are many reasons why you felt confident walking the few steps it took to reach your bedroom. Most revolve around what Satoru told you that morning, so you don’t expect him to be standing there, shirtsleeves rolled up, piercing gaze sliding down the length of you wrapped in a towel and little else.

“I brought home those drunken noodles you like,” he says when his eyes focus back on your face, his whole expression softening into a smile.

A beat. “Thank you,” you whisper, unable to look away.

He tucks the wet strands of hair clinging to your cheek behind your ear. “Why don’t you get dressed, and I’ll join you downstairs?”

The noise in your brain goes static.

You’re unsure what causes it, but everything changes when he comes home early one afternoon and finds you and the baby napping in the nursery. He has this soft look on his face and something else you can’t decipher with his piercing blue eyes settled firmly on you.

Ren coos softly into your shoulder. 

When Satoru picks him up and settles him in the crib, then walks you to your room—here, let me help you—and when he hovers in your doorway, you let him in without question.

He doesn’t waste any time peeling off your clothes, eager to have you naked and splayed out underneath him. You cum on his tongue more times than you can count until you’re silently begging him to fuck you.

He laughs, large hands spread over your tummy. 

“Use your words, baby. I’m not a mind reader.”

You feel like you’re someone else watching you from somewhere else, another body rocking against the length of your boss’s cock, back arching every time you manage to find the friction you need. He’s hard against your back, thick in a way that makes you wonder if he did enough to stretch you out. 

“I-I want—”

All other thoughts are obliterated by the stretch and press of him against your cunt. 

“Think I’m going to keep you,” he rasps, lips dragging over your throat. “Keep this drippy little cunt spread open on my desk whenever I want while the baby naps. Would you like that? For me to fuck you full until you give me a baby.”

You clench, nerves shot.

“Gonna get all round with my baby, stay here forever,” he mumbles when he draws away, and you can’t tell if the words are meant for you to hear or slip out without him realizing. “Fuck—breed my little wife until it takes—”

Your eyes roll up, lost in the little promises he paints across your skin, body shivering over and over until you’re sobbing from it until he has to clamp a hand down over your mouth—shh, you’re going to wake the baby—going limp when he finally cums, pressing as deep as your body will allow, as if he can somehow imprint himself there. 

Wonders if maybe he’s been building up to this moment all along. 

It’s so easy to lay there after, blissed out while he litters kisses across your face and collarbones, letting him lift your hips up to slide a pillow underneath, even though the position is awkward when he tries to cuddle you afterward.

His fingers draw shapes on your stomach, giving you a wistful look, like he can’t believe he’s laying here with his cum still dripping between your thighs—no matter how many times he scoops it up and pushes it back inside you. “Do you think it’ll take?”

And you don’t have the heart to tell him about the little foil packet of pills tucked away in your nightstand.

[iwillnotdieamonster]

"This is a beautiful letter from Fiona Apple explaining to her fans why she must postpone a concert date. I am impressed at the way she was instantly able to make the decision to choose love over her career. Indeed, the world needs more of this.

It's 6pm on Friday, and I'm writing to a few thousand friends I have not met yet. I'm writing to ask them to change our plans and meet a little while later.

Here's the thing.

I have a dog, Janet, and she's been ill for about 2 years now, as a tumor has been idling in her chest, growing ever so slowly. She's almost 14 years old now. I got her when she was 4 months old. I was 21 then — an adult, officially — and she was my kid.

She is a pitbull, and was found in Echo Park, with a rope around her neck, and bites all over her ears and face.

She was the one the dogfighters use to puff up the confidence of the contenders.

She's almost 14 and I've never seen her start a fight, or bite, or even growl, so I can understand why they chose her for that awful role. She's a pacifist.

Janet has been the most consistent relationship of my adult life, and that is just a fact. We've lived in numerous houses, and joined a few makeshift families, but it's always really been just the two of us.

She slept in bed with me, her head on the pillow, and she accepted my hysterical, tearful face into her chest, with her paws around me, every time I was heartbroken, or spirit-broken, or just lost, and as years went by, she let me take the role of her child, as I fell asleep, with her chin resting above my head.

She was under the piano when I wrote songs, barked any time I tried to record anything, and she was in the studio with me, all the time we recorded the last album.

The last time I came back from tour, she was spry as ever, and she's used to me being gone for a few weeks, every 6 or 7 years.

She has Addison's Disease, which makes it more dangerous for her to travel, since she needs regular injections of Cortisol, because she reacts to stress and excitement without the physiological tools which keep most of us from literally panicking to death.

Despite all this, she's effortlessly joyful & playful, and only stopped acting like a puppy about 3 years ago. She is my best friend, and my mother, and my daughter, my benefactor, and she's the one who taught me what love is.

I can't come to South America. Not now. When I got back from the last leg of the US tour, there was a big, big difference.

She doesn't even want to go for walks anymore.

I know that she's not sad about aging or dying. Animals have a survival instinct, but a sense of mortality and vanity, they do not. That's why they are so much more present than people.

But I know she is coming close to the time where she will stop being a dog, and start instead to be part of everything. She'll be in the wind, and in the soil, and the snow, and in me, wherever I go.

I just can't leave her now, please understand. If I go away again, I'm afraid she'll die and I won't have the honor of singing her to sleep, of escorting her out.

Sometimes it takes me 20 minutes just to decide what socks to wear to bed.

But this decision is instant.

These are the choices we make, which define us. I will not be the woman who puts her career ahead of love & friendship.

I am the woman who stays home, baking Tilapia for my dearest, oldest friend. And helps her be comfortable & comforted & safe & important.

Many of us these days, we dread the death of a loved one. It is the ugly truth of Life that keeps us feeling terrified & alone. I wish we could also appreciate the time that lies right beside the end of time. I know that I will feel the most overwhelming knowledge of her, and of her life and of my love for her, in the last moments.

I need to do my damnedest, to be there for that.

Because it will be the most beautiful, the most intense, the most enriching experience of life I've ever known.

When she dies.

So I am staying home, and I am listening to her snore and wheeze, and I am revelling in the swampiest, most awful breath that ever emanated from an angel. And I'm asking for your blessing.

I'll be seeing you.

Love,

Fiona"

Credit goes to the respective owners.

[binsoojun]

ㅤ“ THE WRITING IS ON THE WALL. ” — ✧

ㅤ

CHARACTERS: modernau!donquixote doflamingo (one piece), (gender neutral) reader

warnings: angst (break up), doffy's a huge asshole, reader is mentioned wearing makeup, suggestive mentioned (but its just a veryyy small detail)

author's note: oh my god.. its been such a long time since i wrote a fic or posted a fic here.... ALAS! i have went out of my writer's block and wrote this (i got inspired by chappell roan's song "my kink is karma" and the lyrics were so catchy i had to write it) + my writing may be a little shit in this since its been AGES... ill probably proofread this in the future... (who knows i might release another part of this winks)

NOT PROOFREAD.

"You're fired."

"..What?"

Your life flashed before your eyes the moment he said those exact words, your future and career breaking down as he continued to flip through various papers on his desk.

"Are you deaf? I said you're fired." The blonde repeats again, pausing his fingers from turning the documents.

"You can't just fire me out of nowhere like that- I—"

He cuts you off, the lens of his flashy sunglasses shining at your direction. "I don't need you anymore. We have enough employees already and I'm getting sick of you."

The tone of his words felt like a pang in your heart, an obvious clue that he was breaking your relationship off.

You thought due his constant clinginess, you assumed there were no issues between the two of you. Those romantic and intimate encounters you had with him all broke down in one fell swoop as soon as he informed you that you were being terminated.

"Are you serious?" you scoff, eyebrows furrowed in frustration due to how your boyfriend was suddenly ending things. "We both live in the same apartment. How can you just carry on after this?"

"That too."

"I'm kicking you out of my apartment."

Eyes widening in shock, he chuckled at the sight.

God. He was a fucking asshole.

"What? You think that I'll let this risky relationship go on for that long?"

"You're nothing but a toy to me. I'm simply tossing you out to the trash."

Silence responded to him after finishing his cruel sentiments to you. Eyes threatening to spill out tears before you know it. You forgot how rude and vile he was after all those months you've been with him.

Turning on your heel to leave his office, you mutter out a small insult to him. Just enough for the man to hear you.

"Fuck you."

Now crying your heart out on the elevator down to the ground floor, you paid no mind to your surroundings anymore. You didn't care if he could see you through the cctv camera or if you might bump into a coworker while sobbing. You just got fired. And, got your heart broken.

The ride home was terrible. Due to moments earlier, your mascara was now smeared across your cheeks. Tears drying up as you turned to park the car outside your apartment.

Arriving at your room after unlocking the keys, you felt another wave of dejection as you scanned through the living room. Reminiscing past memories of you and Doflamingo in this small apartment room.

You've always wondered why he didn't pick out a fancy room for the two of you, knowing how well off he was with his company. But realization hit as you recalled.

The reason why he chose not to pick a luxurious place was because he already knew that the two of you wouldn't last long.

Your fingers graze along the wall, examining the smooth surface as you scrunched it up into a fist. Slightly jabbing it with the side of your palm in irritation.

"He was fucking planning it already."

With a few hours gone by, you finished up packing your things. A few breakdowns caused you to take longer time than usual but you put up with it.

A small sigh of satisfaction came past your lips as you plopped onto the mattress behind you; slowly accepting the fact that you two were now off.

"Maybe it's for the better."

Turning to your side, you unlock your phone and gawked at the sight of his contact. His contact name was beside small hearts, along with a small photo of you and him beside each other, clearly smitten. You cringed at the sight. You were certain that you'd block him in all social medias after this.

You opened up his messages and began typing.

"I'm done packing my things. I'll leave the spare keys by the desk."

The dark starry sky greeted you as soon as you walked out of the building, not noticing that it had been hours since you and Doflamingo officially called it off. (Though, it was mainly him that broke it off.)

The engine of your car started, the lights of the fuel gauge and speedometer mirroring your messy makeup. You gasped at the sight, adjusting the rearview mirror while your fingers came in contact with your cheek.

"Was I.." you trailed off, "Was I walking around like this..?"

Embarrassed, you took out the wet tissues that was stored in your glove compartment, quickly wiping off all your remaining makeup. Finishing it off by throwing the tissues at the side.

Pausing, you realized something.

You had just paid the apartment's rent.

And he fucking took advantage of that.

"Fuck."

ㅤ

@@. binsoojun

[lanawinterscigarettes]

hiii i just found your blog, I LOVE HOW YOU WRITE, and if i can request like an angsty story about house and wilson with reader, and the reader has like some disease that'll kill her😭😭😭😭😭im just craving angst

YOU ARE SO SWEET THANK YOU 💞💞 it's been awhile since I've written a good angst fic so this is perfect for me

Your Last Breath (Greg House x gn reader x James Wilson)

Warnings: talk of hospitals/medical procedures, reader has a mystery illness that kills them, they/them pronouns used a few times to refer to the reader in a gender neutral way, hurt/no comfort, heavy angst, main character death (spoiler: it's you)

The doctors had been trying for months to figure out what was wrong with you. Months of invasive tests, months of going back and forth with possible explanations, months of being put on temporary treatments that seemed to work for a short while before you eventually succumbed to whatever was causing your problems again.

Everyone was stumped, and by everyone I truly do mean everyone. Not even House could figure out what was wrong, something that frustrated him to no end for multiple reasons. And by the time he was finally able to figure out what the cause was, it was already too late.

The disease had progressed too far along on its course for the doctors to be able to treat it properly. The best they could do was make you comfortable for the few weeks you had left to live.

Usually he liked having cases he couldn't crack, he liked figuring out the puzzle of what was bothering his patient, he liked being able to go to Cuddy and say "I told you so" when it ended up him being right and everyone else was wrong. But not this time.

This time all he wanted to do was curl up into a ball and die. If only. He'd gladly give up both of his legs if it meant you'd get better.

Meanwhile, the resident head of oncology wasn't taking the news very well, either. It was normal for House to shut himself away for extended periods of time, but not Wilson. He barely left his office anymore, not to check on his own patients, not to accept a request for a consult, nothing. In fact, the only time he ever did leave was to visit you.

Most nights were spent with either him or House at your side, checking your vitals and fetching whatever it was that you needed. You ended up having to beg the both of them to go home at some point, even if it was to just shower and change, but they still refused, choosing to stay at the hospital instead.

Occasionally one of the ducklings would stop by if either of them couldn't for some reason, whether that be due to another patient needing attention or because you finally convinced them to take a break for once.

Foreman was solemn, talking about arrangements that could possibly be made for your body after death if you hadn't decided already. Cameron was sympathetic, reassuring you that they'd make sure you wouldn't be in any pain during your last days on earth. Chase was playful, trying to take your mind off things by cracking a joke or two. And Cuddy was surprisingly very nurturing when she managed to make the time to check in on you.

The whole thing was very bittersweet. While you appreciated everyone caring so much about you, it hurt to know why they were doing it.

Your final day was surprisingly quiet, with no nurses stopping by to check on you every hour or so like they had been for the past couple of weeks where you'd been bedridden almost completely. You suspected someone had requested for that, so you could have a bit of peace in the last few hours you'd be alive for.

House stood at the foot of your bed, watching as you slept. He looked like he was about to say something when Wilson suddenly spoke up from the armchair beside your bed.

"Don't even think about it, House. You're not waking them up right now."

Despite Wilson's firm tone, House couldn't help but roll his eyes. "Oh, come on. It's not like it matters much, they're going to be dead soon anyway."

It took everything in the oncologist not to snap and strangle the man in front of him. The only thing that managed to stop him was the sound of you letting out a hacking cough as you woke up. Even with the oxygen machine, it had become increasingly more difficult for you to breathe.

"Guys, don't fight," you tried to make your tone stern as you lectured them, but your throat was dry and therefore made your voice weak and raspy when you spoke.

"Hey, hey, don't speak, it's alright," Wilson gently reassured you as he reached out to take one of your hands into his. Your skin felt clammy, but he didn't care.

House had a pained look in his eyes as he watched you, but he did his best to cover it up with his usual snark. "We were just talking about you. Trying to figure out who should get your stuff when you die."

Wilson gave him an evil look, but you simply laughed. At least, they thought you laughed. It was kind of hard to tell given how sick you were.

"You guys are funny."

If it were any other time, House would've beamed with pride and joy at being able to make you smile with one of his quips, but this time he just felt empty inside, knowing that it was possibly the last one you'd ever hear. He quietly observed as Wilson helped you drink some water out of a small paper cup, one hand helping you hold it up to your lips while the other rested on your shoulder.

"Thank you," was the only thing you managed to get out once you were done, your breathing stalling yet again when you tried to speak. The three of you knew it was getting close to when it was going to happen. The problem was that only one of you had accepted it, and it wasn't either one of the two doctors who were in the room.

"I love you guys," ended up being your final words, a bittersweet smile on your face and tears in your eyes as you took your last breath. You hoped they knew that you meant that. You hoped they knew that you didn't blame them.

And you hoped that your death helped to bring them closer together rather than tearing them apart. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but who really cared? It's not like you'd be around to witness it anyway.

End notes: I rarely ever finish a request this early so please don't expect this to become a normal thing 😭 I just got really into writing this for some reason and once I started I just couldn't stop

Likes < reblogs | comments are greatly appreciated | requests are currently open

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🏷 taglist: @pigeonmama @caplanreblogsfics

[amnevitahwritesstuff]

The Pretty Woman AU no one asked for.

Fandom: A Court of Thorns and Roses

Pairing: Feyre/Rhysand

Rating: Explicit

Triggers: Prostitution, Older Man/Younger Woman

Chapters: 2, 3 (WIP)

AO3 Link

For @whatishowedyouinthedark because she wondered when we were going to get a Pretty Woman AU. Well, my dear, that day is today.

• $ • $ • $ • $ • $ • $ • $ • $ • $ • $ • $ • $ •

Chapter One: Day One

Feyre tried not to let the dread and panic choke her as she walked down the street.

Everything had been fine until that text. The one from her landlord informing her that no, she could not extend her late payment any later, and yes, she would be facing eviction if she didn’t cough up the now three thousand dollars she owed for both this month’s and last month’s rent.

And, at any other time, this might’ve been doable. Difficult, but doable. Normally her sisters were there to help pay their fair share of the rent and cover for each other any time one of them was a little short. But now that Elain had moved out to live with her boyfriend, and Nesta had disappeared to lord knew where again, their little sister had suddenly found herself on the hook to cover everything herself.

And she was struggling.

She was already working two jobs and even then she was just barely getting by. Even if she managed to fit in a third job somehow and started today, by the time she received her first paycheck she would’ve already been booted onto the streets.

How did one even make that kind of money in a few days? Become a hit man? Did she need to become John Wick for a night? She briefly considered drug dealing…until she realized that she didn’t actually know any illegal drug suppliers. Which was, you know, probably important.

She ended up going with the next best (and illegal) thing.

Which was how she ended up here, on the street corner on the bad side of town, wearing the shortest, sluttiest thing she could find in Nesta’s closet. After all, how difficult could it be for a nineteen year old to find some horny old men to pay her for sex?

Rather difficult it turned out.

Three hours in and she was now beginning to regret her hasty decision. Three hours and she hadn’t seen a single man wander past and give her so much as a creepy stare. Instead, she’d had the local corner shop owner ask her four times in the last hour if she wanted to come inside.

“You look cold dear,” the woman insisted for the fifth time as she closed up shop for the night. Feyre suppressed a shiver as the early spring air gusted over her bare legs.

“I’m alright,” she said while trying not to let her teeth chatter. That probably would’ve been a dead giveaway that she was not, in fact, alright. God, why hadn’t she thought to bring a coat?

Because coats hide the goods, that infuriatingly rational part of her brain supplied.

Not that anyone besides Mrs. Nosy had seen the goods the entire time she’s been out here.

“It’s fine,” Feyre continued. “Really. I’m just waiting for a friend.”

This might’ve been convincing if it hadn’t been the exact same story she’d given this woman every time she’d asked. Said woman looked at her disapprovingly, but seemed to sense she wouldn’t be winning this battle and so left with a parting, “If you say so dear.”

Forty-five minutes later, Feyre wondered where she’d gone wrong in her life. If it hadn’t been apparent before that she was ill-dressed for the weather, then it certainly was now that the sun had set. It had to be near freezing.

And still she hadn’t seen hide or hair of a single horny man ready to throw money at her. She’d barely seen anyone out here really, save for passing cars and the odd homeless person muttering to themselves. God, had she picked the wrong day or something? Did she miss the memo? Was there a prostitute group chat she wasn’t a part of that told everyone which street corner was the busiest? Did prostitutes even have group chats?

These were the questions she was asking herself when he appeared.

“Excuse me, do you know the way to the Four Seasons?”

Feyre startled.

A man had joined her under the flickering street light. A man who was talking to her. And asking for directions.

A handsome man.

…Maybe even too handsome.

“Oh, umm…” she blinked at him stupidly.

“I’m sorry to ask, but I seem to be a bit lost. I swear I was downtown an hour ago but now I’m not really sure how I ended up here. I’d just call an Uber but unfortunately I left my phone at the hotel so…” He smiled at her sheepishly as if to say, ‘what can you do?’.

Feyre studied him thoughtfully. He was tall and impeccably dressed. He certainly looked like someone who could afford to stay at the Four Seasons so that part of his story was likely true.

Which also meant…the wheels started turning in her head.

“…And what’s that worth to you?”

It was cruel. Normally Feyre would’ve just walked the poor man to his hotel herself or offered for him to use her phone….but she was desperate. And from the looks of his shiny shoes and expensive peacoat…he could afford it.

The man looked at her then. Really looked at her, with her ill-fitting cheap dress and haphazard attempt at gaudy makeup…and something suddenly seemed to click in his brain.

“I see.” And he did. His entire demeanor had changed. Where once he had seen a young college student who could give him directions now he clearly saw her for what she truly was.

A whore.

Even if only for the night.

“Do you?” Feyre lowered her voice as she straightened her spine a little. Anything to make herself appear older. Sultry. Unconcerned. As if she weren’t about to be homeless in five fucking days.

“How much do you charge?”

The question caught her completely off guard when it absolutely shouldn’t have. This was exactly why she was here. And yet, when actually faced down with a living, breathing man ready to pay for her services she couldn’t think of a single fucking number. What did sex workers usually charge? It’s not like she knew a lot of prostitutes she could ask. And what if this was the only man she managed to snag in the next five days? She needed to get as much out of him as she could. She needed…she needed…

“Three-thousand dollars.”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth she desperately wanted to take them back. Was she fucking insane? Nobody was going to pay three-thousand dollars for her!

“Three-thousand,” the man repeated. His face was infuriatingly blank. Was he angry? Upset? Convinced this was all a joke?

“Yep,” Feyre confirmed, figuring she was already in too deep. Might as well commit.

After all, the worst thing he could say was no…and then she would have to go ask that nice homeless man who’d been circling the block for tips on how best to survive on the streets.

“Per?”

She blinked. “…Purr?”

Like…like a cat? Was that something he was into? Was he seriously asking if she would be willing to purr in his lap like a kitten for three grand? Because if so, the answer was definitely-

“Per hour? Per night? Per week?” The man clarified, face still blank.

“Oh…” She suddenly wished lightning would strike her dead right then and there. “Umm, per night?” It came off as a question even though she hadn’t meant it to.

“Three-thousand dollars for the entire night.”

Feyre was deeply annoyed by his ability to make his questions not sound like questions. As if question marks didn’t even exist in his vocabulary.

“That’s…what I said.”

Maybe she needed to revisit the drug dealing idea again. Surely that was easier than standing in front of this stranger and negotiating her worth like she’d never done it before. Which…she hadn’t. But still.   

He stared at her for a moment with those intense dark eyes of his. She couldn’t really tell under the flickering light, but she thought they looked almost…purple? Violet maybe? Which was stupid because neither of those were actually a real eye color.

“Tell you what,” the man said pulling his hands out of his pockets. In his right he held a leather wallet that looked as if it were brand new. He plucked several bills out and held them out to her. Her heart stuttered when she saw the number 100 on each of them. “I’m afraid I don’t have three thousand dollars on me at the moment, but I do back at my hotel. I’ll give you five-hundred now if you agree to take me there and the rest when we get back to my rooms. Do we have a deal?”

Feyre felt faint.

She hadn’t actually believed he’d give her three-thousand dollars! That was just…a Hail Mary! A dumb, impulsive shout into the void!

“Just to get you back to your hotel?” She asked, eyeing the bills greedily.

“Just to get me back to my hotel,” he confirmed.

She took the money.

• $ • $ • $ • $ • $ • $ • $ • $ • $ • $ • $ • $ •

As they made their way downtown, Feyre thanked her past self for having the foresight to wear her ratty converse instead of squeezing her feet into Nesta’s too-small heels. Not exactly the sexiest shoes ever, but they were saving her from the blisters she likely would’ve had by now after walking the last six blocks so she wasn’t about to complain. And it wasn’t like men were going to be staring at her feet all that much anyway. Or, at least, that’s what she had assumed.

Because he was staring at them.

She’d caught her strange companion (Rhys, he had introduced himself as shortly after she’d snatched the money out of his hand) staring at her shoes at least three times now. If she were anywhere else, doing anything else she might’ve confronted him about it, but he had also just paid her five-hundred dollars and was planning to pay her another two and a half grand more once she got his ass back to his ritzy hotel so she was willing to bite her tongue.

“Are you sure you don’t want to borrow my coat?” He asked her for the second time in the last twenty minutes.

And even though she was freezing her tits off she was just stubborn enough to give him the same answer she had last time.

“I’m sure.”

He kept doing that. Offering her things. Asking her questions. Normal questions. Like how old she was and how long she’d lived here.

It was kind of freaking her out.

She had lied of course. She couldn’t exactly have some strange man knowing who she was or where she lived. This was only temporary after all. What would Nesta think if she knew her baby sister had dressed up like a hooker and propositioned a man on the street corner? What would Elain think? No, better none of this got back to them. Better she got her money from him as soon as she deposited him at his destination and then went home and forgot all about this hare-brained adventure of hers.

Thankfully they wouldn’t have to travel much further. The buildings had gone from old and neglected to shiny and new rather quickly. Once upon a time Feyre used to come here often to visit her father in his swanky office in the financial district, but those days had come to a very sudden close after the market crash. Now she was lucky to come here whenever her job at the local bistro needed extra help on the weekends.

She spied a passerbyer give her a judgmental look as if to illustrate just how much she no longer fit in here anymore. Or, you know, it was probably the skimpy dress she was wearing in freezing temperatures. Who could say really?

The entrance to the Four Seasons wasn’t all that difficult to find amongst the busy streets of downtown. Honestly, Feyre sort of wondered how on earth Rhys had managed to get lost when all he’d really done was walk in a straight line away from his hotel for about a mile. It almost felt a little unfair to be taking so much money from him over something he could’ve easily figured out himself but, then again, any man willing to throw three-thousand dollars away over something so minor probably deserved to get scammed.

The man in question stared up at the entrance and then back at her curiously, as if surprised she had actually kept her word and done what he had asked. Then, without a word, he opened the door and waltzed inside.

She stood there for a moment, not sure what she was supposed to do now. Did he expect her to follow him up to his room? Or did she wait outside and hope he returned with the money? Thankfully, he saved her from fretting for too long because she saw him reappear, holding the door open for her.

“Aren’t you coming?” He arched an eyebrow at her as if to say ‘well?’.

She supposed that was as good an invitation as any and followed him inside.

The lobby was enormous. That was her first thought. Her second thought was that she absolutely did not belong here. Everything looked so…expensive. And white. Spotlessly white. White walls. White marble floors. White furniture and decor. White, white, white. Rhys, however, seemed completely unfazed by all the luxury around him and headed straight for the gold elevator, Feyre scrambled after him and desperately hoping her grubby shoes weren’t leaving dirty shoe prints on the pristine floor (they were).

They were quiet on the ride up and she watched the number slowly rise and rise and rise the higher they went. Just how far up was his room? When she saw the number go past forty her mind really started to boggle. What on earth was past the fortieth floor?

The fucking Presidential Suite, it turned out.

No wonder he was willing to throw thousands of dollars around for some directions. This place had to cost at least three times that just for a single night!

Rhys, oblivious to her inner turmoil over his clearly considerable wealth, wandered in almost aimlessly, dropping his coat on the back of a chair and loosening his tie as if returning home after a long day at work.

“Make yourself comfortable. Give me a moment and I’ll grab the rest of your money.”

Your money. As if it were already hers and he was just returning it to her.

She just nodded dumbly, but he was already disappearing around the corner into what she assumed was the bedroom. She tried to do as he said and briefly sat down on the couch…only to shoot back up moments later, afraid to sully the spotless brocade with her…with her what? The miasma of poverty she carried with her?

“Here,” Rhys reappeared carrying a large stack of crisp hundred dollar bills and handed them to her without fanfare. “That should be twenty-five hundred but feel free to double check. I wouldn’t want to cheat you out of what you’re owed.”

He was right. She should count the money just to be safe. She needed it to keep the roof over her head after all.

She didn’t.

Because it suddenly occurred to her…she had the money now to pay this and last month’s rent…but what about next month’s rent? And the one after that? She still had to cover Elain’s portion of the rent now that she had moved out. And Nesta was still M.I.A. and thus unavailable to pay her half. So where did that leave Feyre? Stuck covering the entirety of their fifteen-hundred dollar rent bill all by herself for the foreseeable future, that’s what. She needed some sort of buffer to fall back on while she waited out the last few months on her rental agreement and Nesta figured her shit out.

She needed more money.

And, she thought as she looked up at the handsome man before her, it looked like she might just have someone willing to give it to her.

“Is that all you want?” She tried to sound sultry but Feyre had a feeling she sounded less like Jessica Rabbit and more like Velma from Scooby Doo. Awkward. And incredibly young.

Rhys gave her a strange look. It wasn’t turned off exactly, but it also wasn’t exactly turned on. He seemed…searching. Like he was trying to figure her out.

“Isn’t that all you want?” He asked, turning the question around on her.

“I could…do more,” she said clumsily. “For a price of course…”

He didn’t answer her, just hummed thoughtfully. She pressed forward, hoping he just needed more convincing.

“You could have me for the whole night this time. I can do whatever you like…”

“How old are you?”

The question caught her completely off guard. He had already asked this on their walk and she had already given him an answer. She’d told him that she was twenty-four but it was clear now that he hadn’t believed a word she’d said. And, looking up at his inflexible features, it was even more clear that this time he wanted a real answer. A truthful one.

Feyre glanced down nervously. Would he continue if he knew her real age? Her real name? Her real reason for being here? Or would he kick her to the curb?

She really, really needed the money.

“Nineteen.”

He nodded, as if this were what he’d been expecting.

“And is your real name Vivian?”

“…No.”

“And would you rather I called you Vivian?”

“Yes, please,” she whispered meekly.

“Why were you on that street corner Vivian?”

She hesitated. Did she tell him the truth? She’d already divulged more than she likely should have…but he was being strangely sweet to a random stray he’d found on the side of the road. So what was the harm in giving him at least a little more? Not all of it though. She wasn’t that stupid.

“I was going to be evicted and needed the money. I still need the money.”

“I see,” and just like before, he did. He wasn’t pitying exactly, but he had a look of understanding. “And do you want to have sex Vivian?”

The answer to that question should’ve been ‘no’. She absolutely should not have wanted to have sex with a much older man just so she could pay her rent. It was wrong. It was illegal.

And he was really hot.

And nice to her.

“Yes.”

Shockingly, he didn’t immediately turn her down. He just said, “Are you sure?”

“Will you be paying me?” This was, after all, why she was here. Even if she also selfishly wanted to know what he looked like without his clothes on. If she had to earn her paycheck on her back, at least it was underneath somebody who wasn’t a completele asshole and looked like he stepped out of a perfume commercial.

“If that’s what you want.”

“Then I’d rather earn my money, if you don’t mind.”

He just nodded.

And that was that.

• $ • $ • $ • $ • $ • $ • $ • $ • $ • $ • $ • $ •

They didn’t immediately jump into bed, as it turned out.

As she soon discovered, there were negotiations to be made. Prices to agree upon. And limits to discuss. Honestly it felt a lot like that Fifty Shades movie she had guiltily watched on her laptop and then told everyone she hadn’t seen.

“Is there anything you don’t want me to do?”

Truthfully, her sexual experience was rather limited so it was hard for her to answer that question. She’d only ever had sex with two people a handful of times before deciding that maybe she just wasn’t that into it. But he was also paying to use her body so it really didn’t matter what she was into. Just what she absolutely wouldn’t be able to stomach.

“Just…no kissing.”

In hindsight, it seemed like a stupid rule but it felt right to her. Sex was sex. But kissing made it…real. Like feelings were involved.

He didn’t argue. Only gave her a curious look before moving on.

Finally, he handed her an even larger stack of bills than before.

Five-thousand dollars.

Between that and the money he had given her previously, she was officially eight-thousand dollars richer. It was enough to make anyone feel a little faint.

“So you just…have this kind of cash on hand?” Feyre blurted out, a little breathless.

It was still mind boggling to her that anyone would throw this sort of money around willy nilly, as if it weren’t life-changing. Because that’s what this was for her. It was a life preserver. He was saving her and he didn’t even seem to know it.

Rhys raised his eyebrows.

“Not always. Usually I just use credit cards.” She noticed he hadn’t actually answered her question but knew better than to push. He probably thought she was planning to rob him or something.

As if you aren’t already? Her brain screeched, still unable to process that anyone was willing to spend this kind of money just to get inside of her. If you asked her, she was worth like…a hundred bucks and maybe a pizza. Maybe. Not…eight-thousand fucking dollars. And for only the one night!

Feyre took the money and held it in her hands like a live grenade. It felt wrong to just stash this in her purse instead of immediately dashing to a bank or ATM to deposit it but she’d made an agreement and, damn it, she was going to stick to it.

“So…how do you wanna do this?”

By now, Rhys was lounging on the couch in the living area, watching her intently as if she were a fascinating creature and not a very broke and awkward teenager.

He patted his lap. “Come here.”

Whelp. In for a penny, in for a pound.

She sat on his knee and shifted clumsily, trying to find a more comfortable position, but Rhys fixed that quickly by pulling her against his chest so she could hear his heart beating against her ear.

“Can I touch you?” He asked, as if they hadn’t just spent the last forty-five minutes discussing exactly that.

“Of course.”

He could’ve touched her anywhere. Her breasts. Her ass. Between her legs. And yet it caught her completely off guard when he went for, not any of those, but for her hair.

He was…stroking her hair.

She went still.

Bit by bit she felt her muscles go lax and limp. She felt a bit like a cat being stroked into a nice, long nap. It was…nice. Soothing.

“Good girl.”

They were such simple words. So normal. A little condescending even. But god, they lit up her brain like a fucking Christmas tree.

Oh, she thought as gooseflesh broke out along her arms. So it’s like that then?

Feyre pressed her nose to his throat and filled her lungs with the scent of salt and citrus and expensive cologne as she tried to suppress the shiver that suddenly took hold of her.

She felt…restless.

Squirmy.

That hand kept stroking her hair, unconcerned with the bomb he had set off in her brain.

“Look at you,” Rhys murmured into her ear. “I knew there was a sweet girl under all that bravado.”

She felt his other hand skim down the length of her, the slope of her shoulders and the curve of her waist, before coming to rub innocent circles into her thigh.

“Are you going to be my good girl?” He whispered, petting her hair with one hand while his other finally began to sneak under the hem of her skirt. “Are you soft and wet for me?”

Her heart thumped against her ribcage like a hummingbird trying to fly free.

Oh she was certainly wet alright, a fact he soon discovered when she heard his pleased groan as his fingers made contact with the gusset of her panties.

“My good sweet girl. You need this don’t you?”

Feyre shivered as lust crawled through her veins like fire. He hadn’t even really touched her yet and she could already feel her heartbeat throbbing away in her cunt.

“Please,” she begged against his neck.

Those fingers petted her over her panties. Softly. Gently. Like she were a wild animal that needed taming. Her clitoris felt flush with blood and heat. Jesus, this was already hotter than anything she’d ever done and he’d barely even touched her. 

“That’s it…”

She just sighed.

Between one moment and the next she felt his fingers slip under her panties and brush against the curls there. Self consciousness suddenly gripped her. Should she have shaved?Didn’t men hate pubic hair? Her last two partners had. Perhaps there was still time to make an excuse and then go find a razor in the bathroom and-

“So soft for me here.”

Okay. So maybe he didn’t mind it so much.

His fingers sifted through her pubic hair until they found the burning seam of her. They dipped inside and she tried hard not to gasp when they brushed over the pulsing little bead of her clitoris.

“And so soft for me here too…” She felt ready to combust when two of his fingers burrowed their way inside of her.

His erection pulsed underneath her, hot and hard, but shockingly Rhys, unlike every man she’d ever met, seemed in no hurry to attend to it. Perfectly content to whisper in her ear and plunder her insides while he ground his palm against her clit.

“Don’t…don’t you want to have sex?” Feyre gasped against his throat.

She felt a gust of laughter against her skin. “My sweet girl, what do you think we’re doing?”

And then, just as if to prove his point, he curled his fingers inside of her.

In theory, Feyre knew what the g-spot was. She’d heard it spoken about in whispers in the girl’s locker room, as if it were a myth. She’d read about it in the romance novels she told Nesta she totally didn’t steal from her. And yet, none of that could’ve prepared her for what it felt like to actually find out that it was very real and ohJesusohGodohfuck-

Her body seized. Her legs kicked out. Her toes curled.

“There you go,” Rhys crooned sweetly, petting her through her orgasm. “Such a good girl. You’re so pretty when you come.”

She was shivering.

Why couldn’t she stop shivering?

Rhys lifted her as if she weighed no more than a kitten. Only moments later she found herself laid down upon a plush white bedspread. His room. He had taken her to his room.

“Are you going to fuck me now?” She whispered, suddenly sleepy.

“Is my sweet girl so desperate for my cock already?” He asked, amused. He pulled the covers out from under her and then laid them over her, cocooning her in a cloud of warmth.

“Why don’t you come over here and…uh…find out,” Feyre replied with a yawn.

“We have all night for that,” he pointed out as her eyes began to droop.

“Yeah…that’s true…”

Maybe he was going to let her nap and then wake her up later? It was getting late after all. And his bed was so very comfortable…maybe just a quick power nap first…

She was asleep long before he kissed her on the forehead goodnight.

[dootdootwriting]

Oooh is it possible to request scenarios with the Liyue boys having a Kitsune s/o (that also has a teasing side like Yae Miko)

featuring: childe; xiao; zhongli; baizhu (new!) tw: teasing, spoilers (?) in baizhu's (for content not released yet) type: fluff, established relationship, mentions of chronic illness in baizhu's, slightly suggestive in childe's part, sparring in childe's part pronouns used: none a/n: multitasking writing this and using my 113 arena tickets in crk <3 i am so sick of those hollyberry/moonlight/pv combos </3 die in agony <3

utc for length as usual!

BAIZHU

In the name of Rex Lapis, if that man overworked himself one more time you would force him into paid vacation.

This was not the first time Baizhu had collapsed at work, and certainly would not be the last. With his condition, of course it would happen, that in itself wasn't what bothered you -- it was the fact that, despite being perfectly able to keep track of his symptoms and react accordingly, your much beloved partner always insisted on continuing his work.

"You know," you hummed, hauling him gently off the floor, "if you wanted to see me home early so badly, you didn't need to go to all these lengths."

Baizhu managed a smile and a light huff in recognition. "You know I would spare you the trouble if I could."

"Trouble? Taking care of you is nothing but a pleasure." Baizhu's bed, thankfully, was not far away, and you sat him upright on the mattress, checking his breathing and heartbeat for any irregularities. Fortunately, you didn't find any, so you gave Baizhu the OK to start work again -- SLOWLY -- along with a soft kiss on his head.

"Thank you," Baizhu called before you left, "for not making me feel like a burden."

"Are you kidding? Getting to see your gorgeous face every day is a blessing from the archons themselves."

Though you had your back turned, you could feel his blush, from all the way across the room.

CHILDE

"Can't keep up?" came the ever-familiar sneer from a few feet away. You sprung back up to your feet and leveled your daggers at Childe, who insisted on sparring every weekend as a "couple's bonding activity." You weren't sure if he liked showing off or getting rough better.

"You wish," you shot back, and within the blink of an eye you were on him. With one knife just grazing his jugular and the other tossed aside to pin his arms behind his back, you sneered back at him. "What's the matter big boy, cat got your tongue?"

For half a second, you could see your boyfriend's thought process stop abruptly. His eyes widened and his mouth parted, light traces of the start of a blush making itself clear across his freckle-covered cheeks.

And then he was back to his usual self. "Okay, you win!" he dropped the spear he'd been using, raising his arms up in a surrender motion and backing a few steps away.

"I swear, you get me every time when you talk like that..."

XIAO

As much as Xiao loved you, he sure didn't visit you very often. It wasn't intentional or anything -- he was just new to the whole relationship thing, and he wasn't exactly the best at, well, quality time.

So, naturally, you put on your best outfit, made sure you were looking snazzy, and went to wait for him at the Wangshu Inn. Verr Goldet recognized you as soon as you walked in and let you upstairs. Now all there was left to do was wait.

Xiao's room wasn't much, honestly; a bed mostly for you and a dresser and a rug was all that was anything close to decoration. You recognized a vase of qingxin flowers, a gift from you a few months ago, now sitting on the windowsill and wilting despondently.

"Who let you in here?"

Xiao had appeared in the doorway, silhouette illuminated by the light in the hallway.

"What do you mean who let me in here? Verr Goldet did, of course. And besides," you said, making your way over to him and taking his face in your hands, "you owe me some time together. With the way you've been avoiding me you'd think you didn't want me anymore~!"

Xiao looked back at you, horrified, as you laughed lightly.

"Only joking, dear. But really, we have some catching up to do."

ZHONGLI

If you had told any of the adepti a century ago that in a hundred years the venerable Rex Lapis would be seen in human form wandering the harbor with a silver-tongued partner, they would have reacted one of two ways, depending on the adeptus.

"Absolutely not, no way in hell," or "Archons, that's a relief. He needs a break."

He did, of course, need a break. And that's where you came in. Because after centuries of violence and upholding peace over an entire region, anyone would get tired and want to settle down. And though that's exactly what Zhongli did, he would occasionally feel the need to continue on with work at the funeral parlor long past overtime.

"Aw, and leave me all alone to watch the ships tonight? I really thought our little tradition meant something to you," you would pout, giving him a hopeful glance. Zhongli, of course, knew exactly what you were playing at.

"Well, alright. I suppose I can spend a few hours with you tonight." Your persuasion and good nature was always exactly what he needed to make sure he was taking enough care of himself and you.

"Only a few?"

[astroels]

Ellie's love language

headcannons

A/n: These are just little thoughts, since Ellie seems to consume the entirety of my mind nowadays :))

Physical Touch

While watching any movie, Ellie will always make sure to be touching you. It'll come in forms of playing with your hair, grazing her hands or fingers against your skin endlessly, which leaves a nice tingly feeling of your lover's presence, and kisses every so often. You're right there, but she'll hold you like it's the first time, always appreciating you, making sure you know with her touches.

When you're sleeping, it'll usually begin with cuddling of some sort, with her always moving towards you if you move. Not holding you while sleeping makes her feel nervous, as she's scared to lose you. If she feels like you'll wake up from her movements, she'll make do with the slightest touch of draping her arm on you or entangling her legs with yours.

Even if she's not too touchy in public, she'll always hold your hands while walking through crowds or at diners. Knowing you're right there, and she's right there, comforts both of your anxietys about being around many people.

Ellie would be so impatient if you're right there, and she knew she shouldn't be too clingy. The temptation always gives in while you cook, she'd grab you from behind, whispering sweet nothings and leaving you kisses. This applies to any chores you do around the house, leaving you with just giggles and forms of reassurance to give back.

Whenever she knows you've had a hard day, she'd offer massages or soothing movements, knowing it helps you and brings her the joy of touching you. She likes the fact you'll be relaxed due to her own pleasure.

Quality time

If you decide to shower alone, you know you'll be greeted with Ellie sitting on the toilet seat telling you all about her day. She cannot stand to be apart from you, so this is obviously the best option for her. She'd go on about people at her work, the things she speculates, her rants about her interests and any sort of silly thought that crosses her mind.

Even if she dislikes going to parties, She knows that atleast she'll be with you. Just seated right next to you while you talk to everyone is enough for her. Ellie just adores you and would look at each of your features, wondering how you ever chose to love her.

If week schedules were to ever get hectic where you haven't had time to spend together, she'd plan little at-home dates for the both of you. A movie that you've been dieing to watch or baking together (even if you're doing all the baking.)

Knowing that you'd always be down to hear about her stories from the comics she read, she goes to the bookstore weekly to get the latest volume just to have a talk with you afterwards. The talks can last hours, and thats the best part of finishing each volume to her.

Ellie likes to know you rest well, so sometimes she'll sing you to sleep. There with you, she'd hold you and stay till you're sound asleep. She likes when you look at peace and that you're there with her.

Acts of service

Since Ellie tends to be more of an early riser compared to you, she always has your coffee or tea prepared in the morning. She'd wake you and have your drink at ready to give you. This always makes your morning with such a thoughtful girlfriend.

Whenever you catch a cold or feel ill, Ellie sticks beside you, offering soups, medicine, sueros, anything you might need. She takes on the household chores, so you dont have to worry and get up.

Ellie would spend months saving up just to take you to that concert or show you've been talking about for ages. In a box with flowers, she'd surprise you with the tickets, just to see how happy you are with them.

With you always asking Ellie about music, She'd spend days burning songs into a CD to decorate and give to you. It'd be personalized to your interests, with maybe a few songs that'd you two would dance to together.

Any time you mention aches that sound like your period is coming, Ellie would stock up on your favorite snacks and have relaxers in hand. She makes sure to be extra gentle and caring to lessen the stress following your period.

[thepunchingbag]

Scorch

Fandom: Baldurs Gate III

Pairing: Astarion/Karlach

Description: Astarion and Karlach try to unwind after a difficult day on the road. Burnt flesh and charred clothes might just be a fair trade for a kiss.

Read on AO3

--

Since a peaceful rest evaded him this evening, Astarion chose to idle away the hours by spotting constellations. He stretched over his bedroll, staring up at the vast night sky. The campfire had burnt down to embers, allowing him to see the night's true vibrancy. The stars shined brilliantly here in the wilderness – back at the Gate, he hadn’t much time for stargazing. Not that his Master would have allowed him to do anything so pointless for mere enjoyment.

He spotted the Harp first, glittering against the sky like diamonds upon black velvet. The Centaur and the Woman Warrior had come into alignment, frozen in celestial battle. Squinting his eyes, Astarion thought he could make out the Eyes of the Watching Woman, or. . . perhaps it was Jassa’s Dagger? No, the Dagger normally appeared in autumn. . .  

He heard her approach well before she came into view — for all of Karlach’s many charms, subtlety was not among them— and he could tell she was trying her best to be quiet. Her footfalls were slow, deliberate … but still clumsy. Not to mention the heat radiating off her body and the sound of flames sputtering as her engine rumbled made her ill-suited for stealth.

The fact she was trying so desperately to stay quiet, and failing equally desperately, was actually rather endearing.

Even her whispers were loud, “Hey soldier – you aren’t asleep, are you?”

Astarion whispered back softly, “Just doing a spot of stargazing. Besides, my dear, I don’t sleep, I—”

“Trance. Right, right.” Karlach nodded, “Anything good up there?”

Astarion lifted his arm to point, “The Centaur and the Woman Warrior are in alignment, probably for the last time this year. Then the Centaur will roam across to the northwest. Other than that, it’s awfully boring, darling. But now you’ve come along to keep me company, things have become so much more interesting. . .”

He’d been greatly enjoying himself watching the sky alone— it was far from ‘boring’—  but lying about innocuous things was an old habit. A habit picked up over two centuries needing to be careful about who knew what he enjoyed— and who could take it away as punishment. Not that he needed to worry about that now. Still, some of his old tendencies lingered. No matter what, they lingered.

Even in the dim light, he can see her eyebrow arch. Karlach studied him carefully, then asked, “I can talk to you in the morning, if you’d rather?”

Astarion lowered his voice enticingly, “Heavens forbid. Whatever could my fiery friend want so late at night? I’d be fraught with tension all night without knowing.”

Karlach’s skin glowed in shades of gold and scarlet in the darkness, fire touching her fingertips, flames licking the sides of her face and fluttering in her dark hair. It was hard to look away from her— just as it was often easy to get hypnotized by the dancing flames of a campfire.

Her heartbeat quickened. It was obvious, the way the pulsating light in the center of her chest started rapidly throbbing bright. Her emotions seemed to be on full display, without the benefit of even bodily privacy. Astarion wasn’t sure if he pitied or admired her for it; she was hellishly beautiful.

Karlach’s smile broke out into a full-blown grin, “I’m buzzing, honestly. I couldn’t wait to talk to you.”

Astarion frowned, his smile wavering, “What brought this on?”

“I dunno,” Karlach propped herself up on her elbows, “I was just thinking. Isn’t it mad, how good life is?”

He wanted to laugh in her face. . . but that was unfair. In truth, she was right. Life was good. Or, at any rate, it was better. A damn sight better than a few months prior, when he was prowling the streets and getting on his back in fetid alleyways. Circumstances had drastically improved for her too; no longer suffering under the heavy heel of Zariel, no longer a soldier-slave.

Astarion just manages a half-smile, envying her ability to enjoy the freedom so genuinely— it seemed like every waking moment he was looking behind his shoulder, hearing a hunter’s footsteps close behind.

Before he even knows what he’s doing, he falls into an old rhythm, his smile widening despite himself, “I know what you mean. When I look at you, it’s all I can think about.”

He doesn’t mean it. He means it more than anything. His head swims, lips pressed tight against his fangs as he grins, and he wishes he could pick apart his true intentions from old falsehoods. Karlach deserved better, so much better. And her heart was too fragile to be toyed with, perhaps literally. She was—

Her voice was steady, warm, but her eyes were strangely sad, “Thank the Gods. I was afraid I was the only one. Ten years is a long time to be trapped in the Hells. Ten years without a kind word, a touch.” She shifted nervously, “When I look at you, I feel real again. Alive.”

Astarion wanted to tease her for taking one of his best lines, When I’m with you, I feel practically alive! Ah, yes, an old favorite. Except, she was so. . . so much more convincing than he ever was.

He swallows, sitting up and turning towards her. Opening his mouth to speak, the words die in his throat as he watches her.

“Gods, I want to ride you till you see stars!” She blurts out, throwing her head back in frustration.

A cold pit opens up in his stomach. He digs a fingernail into his palm, letting the painful sensation ground him. It’s funny, he actually lets out a stifled laugh — he’s flattered. Disgusted. Excited. Amused. Worried. Happy. He isn’t sure.

Astarion looks at her, really looks, trying to read her expression. She seems happy, perhaps guardedly so. Hopeful, although a bit of caution behind her eyes. Gods, it’s enough to break his dead heart. Doesn’t she deserve to have something good, for once? He chastises himself. Karlach isn’t a fool; she probably can sense his hesitation.

And he falls into an old dance, the steps almost comforting in their familiarity, “You don’t have to ask me twice, darling. Let’s go.”

She looks away, “Ugh, I’m sorry.” Karlach digs her heels into the dirt, “I shouldn’t tease you – or myself. I’d give anything to touch you, but I can’t. Not until I can be sure I won’t burn you.”

He pouts, “Not even just one kiss?”

“I’ll turn you to charcoal. Guaranteed.”

He draws closer; he can half-pretend that his dead body is alive and warm again being so near to her radiating heat, “We’ll make it quick. One tiny kiss, nothing more.”

Karlach hesitates, holds back. For a minute, he worries she’ll get up and leave. A part of him is surprised when he realizes he’d actually be disappointed if she left. If nothing else, his curiosity is getting the better of him. A chaste kiss is a novelty. Strangely… it’s quite appealing.

She shifts nervously. Finally, she concedes, “We can try.”

He grins and leans in closer, sweat already beading on his brow, a blast of intense heat hitting his face as she leans towards him.

Karlach murmurs, “But don’t hurt those pretty lips of yours, all right? Because they feature heavily in my future plans. . .”

Their lips touch for less than a second, but his skin feels like it’s going to slough off, boiling and red. Karlach’s kiss is a scalding hot brand on his mouth, scorching hot, hotter than the deepest pits of the Hells.

His hair and clothes start catching fire.

Astarion pulls away from her immediately in alarm, picking up dirt and tossing it into his hair, throwing himself onto the ground and patting down the flames. After a moment of sheer terror, he catches his breath while absentmindedly realizing he’s covered in soil and must look dreadful. He reaches to his mouth, feeling blistered flesh.

“Bloody fucking Hells!” He hisses.

Karlach is in a full-blown panic, her hands reaching out to comfort him before she quickly pulls away, remembering her touch would only make things worse, “Oh Gods, are you all right?”

Astarion has the audacity to look shocked and Karlach almost wants to slap him across his smarmy face, if that wouldn’t turn his head into a well-cooked roast.

“I— you nearly melted my face off!” He snaps.

“Make better decisions then!” She snaps back, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, fangs. I’m an ‘at your own risk’ attraction.”

Astarion breathes out a long and ragged breath before he gathers himself, “I’ve never been one for listening to good sense, unfortunately, darling. I’m. . .” He struggles, “I’m sorry.”

She shrugs, letting out a dejected sigh. 

Astarion glances up and notices the forlorn look on Karlach’s face. Something within him twists in sympathy, and the emotion catches him off-guard.

His lips have split open, bleeding— he licks the blood off his lips greedily, not wanting to lose a drop. Sitting there next to her, unsure of his next move, he watches Karlach’s expression gradually grow more miserable with every passing minute. He’s mystified at his own impulse to reach out to her, to lay a hand on her shoulder— if only it was possible without immolating himself. His chest aches in some strange, heavy emotion he can’t classify.

“So,” Karlach says after a long silence, “What do we do now?”

Pausing, he considers this question seriously.

Then he looks at her, a mischievous smile growing on his face. Karlach almost laughs at the sight; him, covered in soot and soil, singed white hair and all. She reminds him of a mangy alley cat about to do something naughty, like stealing a sardine off a fishmonger’s cart.

“Maybe I can’t touch you, my dear, but I can tell you what I’d like to do with you…”

He leans in close, but not too close to cause a repeat incineration, whispering behind his hand. Her tail flicked back and forth involuntarily as he described dragging his tongue along her neck, his hands unstrapping her leathers, his fingers trailing along her body and sliding into the warmth between her legs. How her nails would feel digging into his back. As Astarion pulled away, he was relieved to see her expression had lightened.

“Right, my turn.” She says excitedly.

Karlach carefully drew near. Whispering in between self-conscious bursts of laughter, she told him how she’d thread her fingers through his hair, kissing him (“No burning this time” she sighed)—kissing his face all over. First his brow, then the bridge of his nose, then his lips. She’d hold him close, pulling him to her as they settled comfortably into a soft bed (“The bed’s also not burning” Karlach added quickly; Astarion tried not to laugh) and she would straddle his hips, riding him until they both lost their senses. Then they’d fall asleep together with their hands intertwined, Karlach murmured, her voice trailing off. . . 

Astarion raised his eyebrows. “How sweet. I didn’t realize my she-devil was such a soft touch.”

“Don’t be so sour.” Karlach twisted one of the leather straps on her cuirass, “Besides, caught you blushing just then.”

“I don’t blush,” Astarion bristled, adjusting the ruffles on his collar, “I hardly have the blood to spare for that.” 

“Oh? Just my imagination then. . .” Karlach guffawed, “Guess we’ll have to find another poor innocent boar for you to snack on. Wait, no! Better idea: we bash Gortash’s brains in, you drink him up, then we have victory sex over his corpse.”

“Keep talking like that, and I won’t be able to keep my hands to myself. Burning be damned.”

“Not unless you want your soft hands getting cooked, you won’t.”

To his surprise, he genuinely felt dispirited. “Alas.”

She shook her head, sighing, “Well, you’ve given me a lot to. . . think about. Not sure I can sleep now, honestly. Not without doing something really indecent in my bunk, anyway.”

“Likewise. I’ll be tormenting myself all night with the thought of you.”

“Cheeky.” She snorts, “Seriously, though. I need to take my mind off this, or I’ll overheat. Don’t want to set anything else on fire. Got anything boring to talk about?”

Boring conversation wasn’t usually what he was aiming for with his victims – Astarion stopped himself. She wasn’t a victim.

Dusting the soil off his clothes, he settled down into his bedroll again. Smiling courteously, he patted the earth next to him, inviting her to lie down. . . at a safe distance. Given her affliction, Karlach wasn’t able to even have her own bedroll – not without it immediately combusting upon contact. She had to use a pair of blacksmith’s tongs to pick up anything flammable and even then, the metal became superheated if she held the tongs too long. Even her “bunk” was little more than a patch of dirt, covered with a canvas shade hung high enough to avoid her flames.

As Karlach made herself comfortable (as comfortable as possible, lying in the dirt), Astarion focused his attention again to the sky above.

He pointed to a cluster of stars, “Before you so graciously joined me, I was trying to decide what that constellation over there is. It can’t be Jassa’s Dagger. Too early in the season. But it doesn’t look like anything I recognize.”

“All I know is how to spot the Tears of Selûne but that’s the biggest, most bloody obvious thing in the sky. Bit out of practice— no stars in Hell, you see.” Karlach stretched out on the dirt, “Anyway, that one just looks like a hand flipping me off.”

He snorted— it did actually look like that. Appropriate. Given their current circumstances, was it any surprise that even the heavens were telling them to go fuck themselves?

Things weren’t all bad, though.

They argue over what they’d name the constellation, and somewhere about an hour in, Astarion turns over to point out that he’s spotted the Circle starting to crest over the east— only to see Karlach dozed off, drooling into the dirt. Before he stops himself, he almost reaches over to wipe the drool off her face.

A wave of guilt overtakes him when he breathes a sigh of relief that all they did, all they could do, was talk. Somehow, he’s grown fond of their odd little chats, their not-quite-courtship.

He enjoys being near her. Likes her.

More than likes her, he realizes as he falls into a trance, feeling her kiss still burning hot on his lips.

[mcdynamite]

Dream

Little late posting this, but written for the @wolfstarmicrofic prompt for February 4th: Dream. Sort of failed miserably at the "micro"fic part, but here you go! 3.3k of Wolfstar! (CW for mention of The Prank, but the story takes place months after it actually happens. Happy/hopeful ending guaranteed!)

Now posted to AO3!

The Gryffindor Common Room is uncannily quiet late at night, long after its many residents have retreated to the safety of their beds. What is ordinarily a bustling, cacophonous space becomes one of stillness… of silence.

But Remus has never minded the quiet.

On the contrary, he quite likes it – the way he can hear the crackling of the hearth as it radiates warmth into the large, empty space. Sometimes, on nights when sleep is even more elusive than usual, he finds himself sitting on the plush couch nearest the fire, keeping the tower’s resident fire-dwelling salamanders company.

Tonight is one of those nights, and he’s only just turned to the next chapter in his novel when he hears the soft padding of footsteps coming down the stairwell from the boys’ dormitories.

He’s not terribly surprised to see that the boy who emerges from the shadows is one he knows quite well. Achingly well, if he’s honest.

Sirius looks exhausted and skittish when he steps into the firelight, and he jumps, slightly, when he lays eyes on Remus, who stares silently up at him from where he’s lounging on the couch. A year ago, one of them would have made a quip about not being able to sleep as they settled in comfortably beside each other, words long having ceased to be necessary.

But this isn’t a year ago. This is now, and even though Remus forgave Sirius for his ill-conceived “prank” on Severus Snape some time ago, things are still different. They’ve been different ever since that night, even after their reconciliation following James’s frantic Floo call to Remus’s cottage on the night Sirius ran away from home.

They’ve only been back at Hogwarts for a few weeks, and though Remus is loath to admit it, the two of them still seem to be finding their footing with each other.

This isn’t a year ago, and Remus knows that’s why Sirius stops short when he first enters the room.

“Remus,” Sirius says softly. His voice is hoarse from sleep, tainted with an edge of guilt Remus desperately wishes weren’t there.

“Hi,” Remus breathes. He closes his book – offers Sirius a small smile. “You’re up awfully late.”

Sirius smiles hesitantly, his eyes darting around the room like he’s waiting for something awful to come leaping out of the shadows. He’s like this often, now – ever since he ran away – and even after weeks of seeing him like this, it doesn’t break Remus’s heart any less. “I’m sorry,” Sirius mutters. “I didn’t know you’d be down here. I can go, if you-”

“No, don’t,” Remus interjects quickly, because even after everything, Remus craves Sirius’s presence like a sprout craves sunlight. Sirius still looks hesitant, so Remus pats the cushion beside him. “Really, Sirius, it’s okay.”

We’re okay, Remus wants to say, only he doesn’t, for fear of being proven wrong.

Still, Sirius flounders for a bit, and Remus wonders if the other boy is really going to flee back up the stairs, after all. But eventually, Sirius sighs and makes his way over, sitting a foot or so away on the other side of the couch.

It’s yet another thing that’s changed, in the last few months. A year ago, Sirius would’ve sat so close they’d be touching from ankle to shoulder – practically on Remus’s lap. Remus quickly pushes the thought away, because if he thinks about it for too long, he may do something terribly embarrassing like cry. Instead, he focuses on the much more important problem at hand, which is the fact that Sirius is still plenty close enough for Remus to notice the trembling in his hands.

Remus swallows and stares at his friend’s shaking fingers, feeling rather wrong-footed. He hates this – God, he fucking hates this. He hates that Sirius is hurting. He hates that things are so strange between them, nowadays. He hates that the strangeness does nothing but make Remus feel like he’s missing a limb – trying to walk without a leg – and that it makes him feel unable to comfort someone who means more to him than anyone could possibly imagine. More than Remus has even admitted to himself.

“Sirius,” Remus says, setting the book on the table beside the couch. “Are you alright?”

The question makes Sirius curl in on himself, and Remus waits patiently for a response, if he’s going to get one at all.

“I-” Sirius starts, then cuts himself off with a sigh. “Yeah, I… it’s fine, Rem. Just a bad dream. You know how it goes.”

Remus does know how it goes, is the thing. He knows better than anyone, because he and Sirius have been sharing the darkest hours of the nights for years after bad dreams – after visions of glowing yellow eyes and sharp teeth have Remus waking in a cold sweat, and memories of shouted curses do the same to Sirius. They’ve talked each other through the aftermath. Held each other at the worst of times, occasionally waking up the next morning so tangled together that Remus couldn’t tell where he ended and Sirius began.

But they don’t do that anymore. Not since…

Remus doesn’t want to think about that, right now.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”

There’s a long pause before Sirius speaks again.

“You know…” Sirius says tiredly. “I’m not sure I can remember the last time I had a good dream.”

The statement takes Remus by surprise, not because he’s surprised to hear that Sirius feels this way, but because he’s surprise to hear Sirius say it. It feels dangerously close to opening up, and that’s something the two of them haven’t done with each other in a long, long time.

“There are nights where I don’t really dream, or at least, not that I remember, you know?” Sirius continues. “But I can’t remember the last time I dreamt about something that was good. Something that made me happy.”

Remus’s heart beats unsteadily in his chest, because this, strangely enough, is not something he can relate to. Remus does have good dreams, on occasion, and a great many of them feature the boy with whom he is currently sharing a couch. He’s done his best to shove them to the back of his mind, whenever he wakes up from them. He relegates them to that ever-expanding box of Sirius-related memories that would be better off forgotten and moves on, only now… Sirius is right beside him, prodding at the box with long, aristocratic fingers, and Remus can feel the lid beginning to slip.

But he’s been silent for too long, and he should know better, because Sirius Black has never been able to resist filling a silence. “Do you have good dreams, Moony?” he asks softly.

Remus won’t lie, but that doesn’t mean he has to tell the whole truth. “Sometimes,” he says noncommittally, praying that will be enough of an answer for Sirius.

It’s not. Of course, it’s not.

“Yeah?” Sirius asks, turning sideways to face him – one elbow propped up on the back of the couch and a knee resting on the cushions between them. “What about?”

“Mundane things, really,” Remus answer diplomatically. “Everything’s so awful, out there in the real world, for people like me. Sometimes I dream that I just… disappear. Get a little cottage somewhere off the beaten path, with a garden, and a crup or a kneazle, and I can just sort of… exist, you know?”

It’s all true, even if he’s leaving out the most important parts. The part about Sirius being there with him, cooking dinner together in a tiny kitchen. The part about the bed he shares with a boy with long, wavy black hair and shining grey eyes, that leave him waking up hard and aching with want.

He swallows, and Sirius studies him for what feels like an eternity. Remus is certain that his face must be giving something away. He’s never been particularly good at poker.

“Sounds lonely,” Sirius murmurs, and it cuts through Remus like a knife.

It is, he wants to say. It is, because at least before, I could trick myself into thinking that maybe I wasn’t so crazy. That maybe you could be there, after all.

Instead, he says, “It’s not. Not always, at least. Sometimes I’m not alone.”

There’s a flicker of something sad and haunted in Sirius’s eyes. “Good,” he whispers. “I don’t want you to be alone, Moony. You don’t deserve that.”

Remus blinks at him – barely even thinks before uttering, “Neither do you.”

He nearly chokes on all of the words left unsaid in the silence that follows. There’s a palpable tension in the air, and Remus wonders if perhaps it’s all in his head or if Sirius can feel it too – if Sirius can feel the crushing, all-consuming weight of Remus’s love for him, attempting to bully its way out of Remus’s throat and into the open, like water testing the integrity of an overburdened dam.

Sirius’s gaze is a weighty thing, when it finally settles on Remus again. “Your dream sounds nice,” Sirius says. Remus feels his eyes begin to sting. “Practical, but sort of cozy. Like you.” His ears turn crimson when he says the last, and Remus has to wonder whether he meant to say it at all.

“You could do it too, you know,” Remus says tightly. “There’s nothing stopping you.”

There’s another pause – a long one.

“We could do it together,” Sirius says.

He’s poking that box of memories, again, and this time, the lid goes tumbling off.

Remus laughs wetly and quickly brushes away a tear he never granted permission to fall. “Sometimes we do,” he confesses. “When I dream about it.”

He glances at Sirius, who’s looking at him with wide, teary eyes, and finds that he can’t stop now that the lid is off the box, now that the dam has begun to crack under the pressure.

“Sometimes you come with me,” he says, voice shaking. “And you laugh at me when I fuss over the garden. You bring that muggle record player you have and never turn it off. And sometimes we quarrel about dinner, or whose turn it is to feed the crup, but we’re-” Remus’s voice breaks, and he sniffles. “We’re happy.”

He feels a bit like he’s losing his mind when he finishes, and he can’t bring himself to look at Sirius. It’s as close to a full confession as Remus will ever get, and Sirius is an idiot, sometimes, but he’s not stupid. He’ll be able to put two and two together, and then Remus’s secret – the only one he’s kept closer to his chest than his lycanthropy – will be out. Exposed like a wound that will never fully heal.

Sirius’s voice is strained and soft, when he speaks again. “Remus,” he croaks. “Remus, I…”

He never finishes the thought, and Remus’s blood begins to burn with shame.

But then… Sirius murmurs something else. “Remus, I want that.”

They’re the words Remus has been longing to hear for years, but dismissing them is astonishingly easy.

“You don’t mean that,” Remus says flatly.

“I do, though.”

“No, Sirius, you don’t,” Remus snaps, rising to his feet. “You don’t know what you’re saying – what I’m saying. You don’t know what you’re agreeing to, it’s-”

“No, Remus, listen to me,” Sirius pleads. He reaches out, nimble fingers encircling Remus’s wrist, and Remus freezes. It’s the first time they’ve touched each other beyond an accidental bump in the halls since the night of the prank, and his skin suddenly feels too tight for his body. He’s so shocked, he can’t even bring himself to resist when Sirius pulls him back down to sit on the couch again, much closer this time. Their knees brush against each other, and the contact burns hot like a brand.

Remus looks at Sirius – meets his gaze properly – and is stunned to find that his grey eyes are filled with tears.

“I know what you mean,” Sirius insists. “And I mean what I’m saying, Remus, surely you know that.”

“Sirius, it’s just a dream,” Remus counters tearfully. His heart is dangerously close to cracking open right there inside his chest, and he’s not ready. God, he’s not ready to have his heart broken by the conversation he knows is coming. “And you’re not… you don’t feel that way about me. Not like I do for you.”

“Remus,” Sirius whispers, soft and urgent, like Remus is the one breaking his heart, and not the other way around. “Everyone knows. Everyone knows that I- that I-” He can’t seem to get the words out, but Remus knows what his imagination wants to fill in at the end of the sentence. Two words that simply cannot be true.

Until Sirius Black, unpredictable as ever, does what Remus has never, in four impossibly long years, been able to do.

“Everyone knows that I love you, Remus,” Sirius says, tears streaking down his alabaster cheeks. “Everyone except you.”

Remus forgets how to breathe. “What?”

Sirius sniffles and releases his grip on Remus’s wrist in favor of tangling their fingers together. “I have no right to say that, Moony, I know that. I do. Especially not after… what I did last year. But Gods, I- I can’t do this any longer. I’ve been disowned by my family, Remus, I haven’t talked to Reggie in months, and I’ve still never missed anyone as much as I’ve missed you.”

Remus shakes his head, unable to believe what he’s hearing with his own ears. “Sirius, we talk to each other every day-”

“But we don’t, do we?” Sirius argues, desperate. “Not like we used to. Not like I wish we did. It’s different, now.”

“Of course it’s different!” Remus hisses, his fingers tightening around Sirius’s, even as his own heart tries to pull away. “It’s- I can’t… I’m not…” He huffs in frustration and fails miserably at blinking back the tears that won’t stop coming. Sirius looks utterly devastated when Remus glances at him.

“I know,” Sirius mutters brokenly. “I know, Remus. You can say it.”

Remus takes a shaky breath, and he thinks of all the things he’s wanted to say to Sirius for the last few months – all the questions he’s never asked – but they’re questions he knows Sirius won’t have answers for. Sirius will never be able to tell him why he sold Remus out to Snape, that night, because Sirius doesn’t know why. That much has been clear from the moment it happened.

So Remus doesn’t ask. What he says, instead, is this:

“I don’t understand why it had to be you,” Remus whispers, and he can’t look at Sirius’s face, right now, so instead he looks at their joined hands. “That’s the most fucked up part of this whole mess, Sirius. When I think about it…” He pauses. “When I think about things that I wish were different, my first thought is never that I wish the whole prank never happened – it’s that I wish it had been someone, anyone, other than you who did it.”

Sirius is silent – head bowed and hand shaking in Remus’s grasp, despite how tightly they’re clinging to each other.

“I know it sounds mad, but it’s true,” Remus continues. “Because I love James, and Peter, and Lily – you know I do – but not…” He takes a deep breath and raises his eyes to meet Sirius’s. God, what a messy, tragic pair they make.

He squeezes Sirius’s hand.

“Not like I love you.”

Sirius’s breath hitches softly, his red-rimmed grey eyes flitting back and forth across Remus’s face while the words hang in the air between them. The silence is deafening, ringing with the truths that have finally been voiced after years of silence – that Remus and Sirius’s relationship has never been quite like the others. That it’s always been a different sort of love.

Of course, it’s Sirius who ultimately shatters the silence, and Remus hardly has time to register what’s happening before Sirius chokes out a sob and launches himself into Remus’s arms, clambering into Remus’s lap and wrapping around him like a koala. The broken apologies that emerge between sobs are the final blow to Remus’s fractured heart, and he feels the moment it cracks open, bleeding desperation into every cell in his body. He winds his arms around Sirius’s body and holds him close – just like he used to after their worst nightmares – and stops trying to fight the tears.

“I’m sorry, Remus, I’m so sorry,” Sirius pleads, breaths ghosting over the exposed skin of Remus’s neck. “Please, Remus, you have to believe me. I’m so sorry. Forgive me. Please.” I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

Remus knows – he’s always known – and he forgave Sirius a long time ago, only because he knew Sirius would never forgive himself.

“I know,” Remus murmurs, holding Sirius so tightly he’s nearly surprised Sirius has any air left to speak. “And I do. It’s okay. We’re…” He pauses, because, he wants to tell Sirius that they’re okay, but they’re not. Not really. Not yet. “We’ll be okay, Sirius. We will. I swear it.”

He hears Sirius let out a shuddering breath, but he feels, more than hears, Sirius murmur into the skin of his neck, “I love you.”

“I know,” Remus says again, burying his face in the crook of Sirius’s neck, where the soft wool of his sweater gives way to smooth skin. Sirius’s arms tighten around his middle. “I love you, too.”

“I want-” Sirius starts, interrupted by a soft hiccup. “I want to have good dreams again, Moony.” His voice sounds so small – like that of a child – and it makes Remus ache.

Slowly, gently, Remus extricates himself from Sirius’s grasp so he can look Sirius in the eye. His hand hardly feels like his own when he lets it rest against Sirius’s flush cheek, brushing away the still-falling tears with a careful swipe of his thumb.

They’ve shared a bed dozens of times, before. Spent entire evenings on this very couch with Remus’s head in Sirius’s lap while they laughed with their friends. Sirius is straddling him right now, in this very moment, but this – Remus cradling Sirius’s face in his hand, stubbornly thumbing away tears while they stare at each other, gazes open and honest in a way they’ve never been, even before the prank – is undeniably the most intimate thing they’ve ever done.

And Remus knows, now, what he’s denied for so long – that there will always, always be a part of him that loves Sirius Black, and miraculously, he thinks Sirius may always love him, in return. It may not be tonight, but one day, Sirius will gather the shards of Remus’s heart and put it back together. Breathe love into it like oxygen. And Remus will do the same for him.

Maybe they can start right now.

“You will,” Remus says softly, a wobbly smile on his lips. “But for now, you can borrow mine, if you’d like.”

Sirius’s eyes widen with wonder, and God, Remus loves him. He loves him so much it hurts.

Remus doesn’t know this, yet, but in two years, the two of them will lay together in their bed and bicker teasingly about who kissed who first. Remus will claim that it was Sirius who first leaned in, and Sirius, ever the contrarian, will say the opposite. But they’ll smile through the playful disagreement, and sooner or later, the argument will end with one of them cheekily fitting their lips together in a successful attempt at distraction.

But this isn’t two years from now. Not yet. So for now, Remus doesn’t particularly care whether it’s him or Sirius who initiated it. His only cares in the world are that Sirius tastes like mint toothpaste, and his lips are soft and pliant against Remus’s own, and that their first kiss is a little wet with tears and a little devastating, but still perfect.

It’s perfect because it’s them – RemusandSirius – and for now, that’s enough.

For now, Remus Lupin kisses Sirius Black and smiles, because for the first time in a long time, he knows that his favorite dreams are finally, finally within reach.

[arazialotis]

Get Him to the Con - Part 7

Pairing: Jensen × Reader

Word Count: About 6000

Summary: The reader stumbles into Jensen at her favorite bar, a very drunk Jensen. She soon realizes Jensen was booked for a con this weekend and has to be eight hours from town in only two.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

Warnings: Language

Although this is an RPF, it is a character I created and should not reflect back IRL. I intend no hate or ill wishes to him or his family. This is purely just for writing and wasting my time as coping skill. Maybe some of you will enjoy it too. I apologize in advance for any mistakes or grammatical/spelling errors. I appreciate any feedback or suggestions!

*** Saturday ***

“Hey man,” Jared greeted Jensen, clasping hands and pulling him in for a half hug. “Glad to see you’re still alive. How was it?”

The entirety of the trip was still catching up to him. He was tired, from being in constant motion for three days straight to sleeping on crappy motel mattresses. But it was more than that. He had made it blatantly clear how he felt for you and still held no inclination on your stance. That wasn’t true; if you had any affection, it would have been reciprocated. Sure, there was the flirtatious banter and the natural ease in each other’s presence, but twice he had laid it all on the line only to be met back with a block of ice. And that last one… Hell, it had been magical. Sparks flying, gravity-defying. But your response confused the hell out of him. He’d been misinterpreting signals and your friendship the entire time. And god, he was such an idiot. He practically forced it upon you. If you felt uncomfortable or violated, his reputation would be in shambles, as he knew it should be.

“It was fine.” He grumbled. There was no need to get into all this with Jared, for the fact alone he would gloat about being right for months on end.

Jared did not let his relief show. Maybe Jensen was finally coming back to his senses. He feigned empathy instead.

“Just fine?” He asked.

No, it wasn’t just fine; it was amazing. You were amazing, and perfect, and hilarious. And he fucked it up just like he predicted.

“Yeah,” Jensen responded curtly.

“So, no Y/N then?” Jared pressed, a little confused by Jensen’s abruptness. “I thought she’d be here.”

Yeah, you and me both, pal. “Nah, she knew we’d be busy all weekend and wanted to hike the mountains instead. I don’t blame her. I’d rather be doing that myself too.”

“Are you okay?” Jared persisted.

“Yeah.” Jensen squeaked. “Let me get cleaned up. Then we can scout out some dinner before the craziness starts.”

Jensen left Jared in the hotel lobby. Jared sighed, unsettled. Something was clearly bothering Jensen, but getting him to open up would be hard. All Jared knew is it was centered around you. Ultimately, if the road trip didn’t go as planned or wasn’t everything Jensen had dreamed up, it was for the best. Sure, Jensen was down now, and it hurt to see him this way, but hopefully, this would help him move on and snap out of these unrealistic fantasies.

Jensen didn’t sleep well that night. The mattress was too plush, the sheets too silky, and the space beside him was too cold. He’d been informed that a few videos of the kiss had been circling some fan accounts and to expect questions about it at the panels. Followed by a scolding lecture on how to respond. He knew the expected response but wondered what he would say if he hadn’t been coached. It didn’t settle right with him. Maybe he’d get up early and call you in the morning. Just rip the bandaid off and ask what you wanted him to say. He tossed and then tossed again—the sheets tangling around his calves. He reached for his phone, the light momentarily blinding him. His heart raced as he scrolled through Instagram. It was easy enough to find. Replaying it, he could still imagine your lips against his, the back of your neck in his grasp, the fabric of his shirt straining as you pulled against it. It was a very good kiss. That is when your text came through.

‘Thanks again for an amazing trip! If you’re looking for a buddy on your next road trip, let me know. And don’t worry, the ghosts here are all bark, though I can’t say the same for those in room 217.’

He didn’t think his heart could drop further, but it did. There was no second-guessing it this time. The word repeated in his mind. Buddy. He had officially and unequivocally been friend-zoned.

*** Sunday Afternoon ***

If AllTrails had been tracking your time, they would have sent you a medal for the record time in which you descended that mountain. Even paying no heed to the speed limit, you couldn’t make it to Denver until mid-afternoon. You called Jensen twice, hoping to explain that you were on your way and wanted to talk, hoping he could spare a few minutes of his day. If you held these pent-up emotions in your chest any longer, you would explode. On the third attempt, you hung up early, logically knowing he was predisposed.

“Come on, come on, come on,” You chanted through the city streets, the consistent string of red lights taunting you.

The wheels of the rental car screeched as you pulled into the parking lot with a little too much tenacity. Upon exiting, you backtracked, realizing you had left the vehicle running. You ran through the hotel lobby to the adjoining convention center. The hall was filled with fans and staff alike, all eagerly waiting for the next event. Booths were filled to the brim with Supernatural merchandise, shirts, photos, and trinkets. Cosplayers caught your eye, Castiels and a human version of Baby. It was overwhelming and distracting from your overall mission to find him.

You pulled open large double doors leading to the main ballroom.

“Ma’am.” Someone called, and it took you a moment to realize they were speaking to you. “Ma’am. You need a wristband to enter here.”

Security personnel dressed in black pants and a yellow shirt with a conspicuous earpiece halted your progress further into the room.

“A wristband?” You questioned.

“Yes, you have to check in outside. Exchange your ticket for a wristband.” They explained.

“I don’t have a ticket.”

“You’ll have to buy one to enter.” Their patience drawing thin, tired of a weekend of over-explaining processes.

“Okay,” You held up your hands in defense. “Okay, where can I buy one?” You started to back away, signaling you wouldn’t be a problem.

You followed the directions back through the hall’s entrance to a booth where two bored attendants scrolling through their phones sat. Most attendees had already checked in at this point.

“Hello,” You tentatively called them from their screens. “I’m here to see Jensen.”

The one with pink hair sighed. “You and everyone else, sweetheart.”

Their concentration broke from the phone, and puzzlement crossed their face. Only then did you realize what state you were in from the morning hike. Tangled hair, sweat-crusted clothes, dried dirt down your entire left side, and a series of angry red scrapes on your calve. But they quickly recomposed themselves. Apparently, it wasn’t the oddest thing they had encountered today.

They grumbled as if you should know the process. “Ticket?” They held out their hand for a paper stub or your phone.

“You see, I don’t have a ticket.” You gritted your teeth, knowing how the next bit would sound. “But Jensen and I are actually… friends. So maybe he left my name or something on a list so I could get in?”

Something between a scoff and a laugh escaped the second’s mouth, covered up by a following cough.

“There’s no list. Friend or not, you still need a ticket to get in.” They held firm.

“Right, totally understandable.” You attempted to present as sane as possible, realizing passersby were staring too long for your comfort. “May I purchase a ticket?”

“If you want to meet Jensen in person, photo ops are done for the day, but we have a few silver packages that include autographs.” They explained.

“Great, that sounds wonderful. How much?” You asked compliantly.

“750.”

Now it was your turn to scoff. “You must be joking.” Even for romantic prospects, paying that absurd amount would take hell freezing over.

From their facial expression, they were not joking. “You could get general admission for 95, but that will only get you to the day's last panel, starting in about an hour.”

You raised an eyebrow. “A 100 dollars to hear them talk for what, forty minutes, an hour max?” Fucking ridiculous.

“You need a ticket.” They crossed their arms.

“Listen.” You pulled out your phone. “I literally drove the man here. I have the pictures. I think it will be okay if I go see him.”

You realized how much of a ‘Karen’ you were coming across as, but something inside you was starting to boil. The further you were being pushed away from him, the more you needed to fight.

The second attendant leaned into the collar of their polo, whispering. “We have a potential code gray.”

Fuck. You tucked your phone away. “You know what, it’s okay.” You slowly back away. “I’ll wait until it’s over. This is a big misunderstanding and does not need to get out of hand. I’ll talk to him tonight, and it will all be fine.”

You weren’t sure if you were trying to settle them or yourself, but you turned back down the hall and hastily walked out. Back in the hotel lobby, you weighed your options. You looked at your phone, and he still had not responded to the missed calls. Your stomach rumbled, and you smirked, knowing Jensen would tease you about not making the most rational decisions on an empty stomach. And you know what else? He’d encourage your spontaneity. Rather than wait in the lobby until the evening, you’d find another way in. There couldn’t be watching eyes everywhere. And once you did find him, he’d explain everything to whoever was being called in for code gray or whatever that meant.

Exiting the lobby, you circled the building and found a little courtyard where fans sat, chatted, and indulged in a quick meal. A hint of envy glossed over your eyes as you caught sight of an In-N-Out bag. You anticipated the doors to be locked, circumventing fans to use the one entrance, but they easily gave way. With feigned nonchalance, you went through another hall as if you belonged and knew exactly where you were going. Having quickly mapped the layout, you went around the ballroom to the back.

You were quickly met with a barricade of metal fences and high black curtains. An obvious sign to keep out and most likely where cast and crew could walk through unimpeded. You were close to out of ideas when an unmistakable figure in black jeans and a blue denim shirt walked past, followed by a posse.

“Jensen!” Your voice cracked.

It didn’t sound like your voice. It was higher and sharper. But through the sways of fabric, you saw him briefly hesitate. He was quickly ushered along.

“Oh, I think not.” You mumbled to yourself.

One leg was over the fence railing before your brain could comprehend your actions. Two shadows approached from behind the curtain as you straddled the cold metal. The crackling of their radio startled you, and you realized too late your mistake.

“Ma’am, we’ll need you to come with us.”

Double fuck. You ran for the exit back to the courtyard. Pausing once outside, you texted Jensen.

‘You remember that bucket list item I was talking about? Yeah, well, it might be much closer in the future than I anticipated.’

You tucked your phone away and continued your circle of the building. At this point, you were in too deep. You either had to leave the premise or find Jensen so he could bail you out. Well, fuck it. Unwittingly, he was the one to get you into this situation in the first place. He could get you out. You came across a stairwell entrance requiring a keycard for access. But gods, be blessed; whoever was watching you sent an answer. Someone came out for a cigarette break, and they even held the door for you as you stepped in.

You plotted the path in your mind, where you were positioned, and the direction he was headed. You took a left, scanning the area for any threat. A hall stemmed down to the right, and you saw more black curtains, but this time, you were successfully on the other side of them. You had to be close. A mischievous smile crossed your lips. This was fun. The adrenaline coursing through your system giving you a temporary high. Soon the Ocean Eight team would be knocking down your door, begging you to join their next heist.

Your false confidence shattered as you collided with the solid frame of a man. You looked up and up some more. His expression was far from pleased. A small, terrified giggle escaped your lips. As you turned, you found his double blocking your exit. Handcuffs came down upon your wrists, and you were escorted away.

Jensen sighed a breath of relief, making it to the holding room, where he joined Jared. He made it through photo ops; all that was left today was the panel and autographs. The panel earlier today for VIPs went better than expected too. The kiss never came up, and he was holding out hope that this next one would mirror it. Clif, his long-trusted security guard, closed the door behind them.

Jared had already gone through a pour of bourbon and was now cracking the seal of a Russel’s 13.

“Make mine a triple,” Jensen instructed.

Jared laughed. “That kind of day, huh?” And handed Jensen a generous double.

“I can almost see the finish line.” Jensen sniffed the top of the Glencairn and took a testing sip.

He prayed that the whiskey would loosen his nerves or, at the very least, get you off his mind. Logically, he knew you were in Estes Park but couldn’t stop thinking about you. It only worsened as the day progressed. In this last hour alone, he thought he glanced at you exiting the lobby and later heard you calling his name. He shook the feeling off as he took a bountiful swig. He smirked, knowing you’d call him out for not slowly savoring the whiskey’s intricacies, and he would retort with you being a snob. He poured himself another round, this time to take it more slowly. Jared scoffed and was about to condemn him when the Barrell Seagrass caught his eye.

The radio crackled, and a stern voice came through. “Tiny, we have a situation. Require your assistance.”

Clif, who was also about to help himself a pour, cursed under his breath upon hearing his codename. It had almost been a flawless con. He had jinxed himself by celebrating too soon.

Jared’s brow furrowed. “Everything alright?”

Clif grumbled. “It will be once I get there.” And exited the room.

Jensen was unconcerned and too focused on the palate of cherry and leather.

“What’s that about?” Jared chuckled.

“I find it better for my mental health not to dwell on the possibilities.” Jensen teased back.

He went to his phone charging on the gray console to check the time, wondering when he’d needed to start hyping himself back up. Immediately his brow furrowed upon seeing your three missed calls and your message. Bucket list? Bucket list? He had to think back. The alcohol already clouding his memory. His eyes popped. Immediately setting the glass down, he dialed your number. You didn’t answer. He dialed again. No answer. He resorted to texting.

‘For the love of god, pick up your damn phone.’

Followed by, ‘I swear to god if your ass is in jail, I’m not bailing you out.’ Though he fully would.

“Jesus Christ.” He muttered. How was he supposed to get through the day now?

The holding room you were kept in was less of a room and more of a closet. The several monitors that observed the conference center’s layout indicated that you were not as stealthy as you had initially thought. One security guard sat across from you while the other stood behind them. Both of their arms crossed.

“Come on.” You reasoned. “One of you has to be the good cop and at least pretend to believe my story. At least offer me a coffee.”

“You think you are hilarious, don’t you?” The one seated said.

Deadpan, you said, “I think I’m adorable.”

They did not engage further, only held the stern expression.

“I’m not fucking crazy.” You would have gestured to the phone if your hands weren’t cuffed behind you. “You saw the pictures, the texts.”

“It’s amazing what Photoshop can do these days.” The one standing remarked.

“What about the video with the kiss?” You pressed.

They both scoffed. As you watched it with them, there was no clear angle of your face.

“That doesn’t prove anything.”

You rolled your eyes and clenched your jaw.

“Then bring him here, and he will vouch for me.” You demanded. “If he doesn’t, I will willingly walk away and accept whatever restraining order you see fit.”

There was a knock on the door, and your hope lifted. The one standing stepped out. Thus commenced a staring contest with the one across from you. As your phone rang, you lost.

“That’s him!” You exclaimed.

They didn’t move, still engaged in the staring contest. He let it ring to voicemail. Immediately it rang again.

“Goddammit! Answer the phone!” You demanded.

“Just because you named someone Jensen on your phone doesn’t mean it’s him.” He held his head high. “But then again, I’m fully aware there is no use rationalizing with a delusional person.”

Your breath became ragged and sharp. You were forming venom on your lips when the door opened, and the man you saw yesterday approaching Jensen appeared in the room. A couple of texts came through, but you couldn’t read them. The man took one look at you and sighed with disappointment.

“Let her go.” He instructed.

It was all you could do not to stick your tongue out in victory.

“Y/N, I thought you were supposed to be in Estes Park?” He said with an agitated tone.

The cuffs clicked as they released, and you rubbed your wrists.

“How do you know my name?”

You were equally concerned yet grateful this stranger was on your side.

“It’s my job to know.”

The other two whispered back and forth to each other.

“Speaking of jobs,” He remarked. “Why don’t you do yours and look for an actual threat?”

“Yes, boss.” They hung their heads and left you alone in the room.

“Let me guess,” You started. “Good cop?”

He chuckled. “No, not at all. The name’s Clif. I’m the head of Jared and Jensen’s security team. You caused quite the stir these past couple of days.”

“Yeah,” You agreed. “I may have gone a little off the deep end at the end there. Am I in trouble?”

“Only if Jensen wants to press charges.” You could tell he wasn’t joking. “Which I imagine he won’t. Not after a kiss like that.”

Your cheeks grew warm. “I’m here to talk about that with him, actually. To talk about that and a lot of other things. I know he’s busy, but…”

Clif checked the silver watch around his wrist. “He’ll be getting ready to go on stage in about 15 minutes. Something tells me you’ll need more time than that.”

You nodded in agreement though slightly disappointed.

“If you’d like to sit in, it might make the time go faster,” He continued. “I can grab you afterward. There’s a dinner break between the panel and autos. I think he would be agreeable to see you then.”

You held up your bare wrist. “I don’t think they’ll let me in.”

Clif chuckled and fished through his back pocket, producing a bright orange wristband.

Before you left with Clif, you found Jensen’s texts and shot him one back, hoping he would see it before he had to go on stage.

‘False alarm. I’ll explain later. Have a great panel.’

The conversation was already in full swing by the time you arrived. Clif was escorting you there when he commented on your leg. Now that the adrenaline and pain meds from earlier had worn off, the pain was catching up to you. He made a quick pit stop on your behalf, getting you some additional painkillers and water. He insisted on cleaning it up better, but you insisted harder you wanted to see the panel and that it could wait.

The door echoed as it shut behind you. Jensen’s head snapped in your direction, but from the lights blinding him and dimming the crowd, he could barely make out a figure. He continued the banter with Jared as they began taking questions left and right.

As your eyes adjusted to the low lighting, you scouted out empty seats, yet the throbbing in your hip protested. It had already been cramped on the drive down here and again in the security room. You opted instead to lean against the back wall. Their antics riled up a laugh in you, but you couldn’t help to notice Jensen was on edge. He was fidgeting more than usual, wringing the microphone with his hands, combing his fingers through his hair, twisting in the barstool. You couldn’t help but feel a slice of guilt knowing you had caused some of it.

A girl walked up through the crowd, and as she got closer, her face felt familiar. She leaned against the wall a few feet away from you.

“Oh, I remember you.” You said aloud. “We took pictures with you at the Colorado sign.”

She glanced out of her peripheral and then fully at you when the realization hit.

“Oh my god, yeah. You were with Jensen, right?” She confirmed.

“Yup, that’s me.” You followed her gaze over you and remembered how dirty you were and most likely smelled of sweat. “Sorry, I went hiking this morning but wanted to make the panel.” You explained.

“No, I didn’t mean to stare. Sorry.” She gulped. “It’s just, yesterday you said you were only friends, but then we saw you kiss outside the hotel, and, like, that was a kiss to end all kisses. You’re totally together now, right?”

You gulped and stared ahead.

She didn’t wait for an answer. “What was it like? Kissing him?”

You inhaled sharply, remembering his taste, his scent, the feeling of his strong fingers against your flesh, wondering where else his hands and lips might wander if you gave him the chance.

“That good, huh?” She concluded.

“Are you having a good time at the convention?” You asked, hoping to move on to other topics.

“Oh, absolutely, but the crowds,” She gestured outwards. “They get a little overwhelming at some points.”

You nodded understanding. “Y/N.” You introduced yourself and held out your hand.

“Casey.” She said and shook.

As if proving her point of crowds further, Jensen used the bottom of his shirt to wipe his face. The crowd went feral upon seeing a hint of skin.

“Stop it.” Jensen’s voice boomed over the system.

Then with a wave of his hand, he called for more praise which the crowd was more than happy to oblige. This went back and forth for at least three rounds. Jared and Jensen shared a private small conversation.

“Alright, alright, simmer down,” Jensen called. “We have more questions to answer.” When he finally drew command over the crowd, he turned to the girl on the right. “Hey, we ran into you at the border, didn’t we?”

The girl nervously chuckled, flabbergasted that he would remember.

“Oh, that’s my friend.” Casey pointed.

You were standing obviously next to flight, and based on the girl’s response, she must have been freeze.

Finally, she regained her composure and stumbled out of the question. “My question is for Jensen, and I’m a little shocked it hasn’t come up yet,” Jensen’s face dropped as she continued. “Since a lot of people saw you yesterday and the video of you kissing that girl has been circulating, I was wondering if you are officially off the market?”

Jared’s head whipped to Jensen. He held his microphone down as he hissed, “What kiss?”

Jensen gulped, realizing he had discussed it with Clif and his PR team but forgot to loop in Jared. Well, maybe purposefully forgot so as not to relive the humiliation. The crowd was so silent you could hear the air conditioning humming. Only the pounding of your heart was louder.

The lights seemed to grow brighter as the seconds ticked by. He raced through what his team had suggested and how he should respond. He breathed into the microphone, then paused as if halting a thought before it even started.

“It’s complicated,” Was all he said.

Jensen gave Jared a pleading look for aid.

Jared breathed in deeply, thinking he was going to save the situation. “I know every heart in this room just broke but don’t worry, everyone needs a good rebound, and Jensen was due for one, give it a few weeks.”

“No.” Jensen stopped him. “No, that’s not what this is at all. I…” His voice cracked, and he paused again. He was exhausted from being careful with his words, hiding shit, and painting a face that would create appeal. And so he decided to let it all go. He picked a loose thread in his jeans as he confessed to the world. “A few months ago, I met someone. And I was a complete ass, but she gave me a second chance anyways. She’s not just a rebound from Elena. She’s kind, and funny, and a smart ass, but most of all, she is real. And she sees me not as Jensen Ackles, but just as…”

“Dean Winchester?” Jared grumbled.

A few fans yelped, but most stayed respectful.

Jensen’s jaw tightened. “She sees me as I am.” He huffed. “I like her. Like, like her.” He said as if he was in middle school, and there was a collective aw in response from the audience. “I saw a future with her.”

“Okay, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Jared piped in.

“Calm down,” He snipped back. “Not wedding bells, two kids, a dog, and a white picket fence. Not yet, anyway. Just taking it a few months at a time. Having someone other than you to confide in, to care for and be cared for in return, someone I can laugh and cry with, someone to share adventures with, I don’t know…” He sighed, defeated, getting away from himself, feeling like he wasn’t making sense. He turned to Jared, “It’s not like you aren’t my best friend, but you have Gen. You have someone you can go home to, someone you can talk to when I’m annoying the hell out of you, someone you can be vulnerable with and don’t have to act around.”

Jared sighed.

“That doesn’t sound complicated.” The shy voice peeped up.

Jensen smiled mournfully, addressing the fan again. “The thing is, she doesn’t feel the same. I got friend-zoned. Hard. Which is okay. It is completely her right. And I mean, I’m a lot to deal with, so I get it. So it’s complicated because we have to figure out if we can stay friends now that I screwed us over with that kiss half of you witnessed.”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. It took a second for you to process it all.

“This is utter bullshit.” You gasped, Casey taking it all in, though you had completely tuned out the rest of the world as if you were talking directly to him. “Friend-zoned, how did I friend-zone you? Maybe, and here’s a thought: if you had the ability to confess your feelings to me with as much ease as to hundreds of people, I could have told you I felt the same. But you just kissed me, and I panicked because I didn’t know what you wanted, and I thought I wanted more than you. Because I do see you as you are, but I acknowledge that you are still Jensen Ackles, and I’m still a crazy little fan that shouldn’t even know you in the first place. It’s not either, or, asshat; it can be both. I’ve been waiting for your lead this whole time. And now that I’m here, you are telling everyone it’s over before we even had a chance. Fuck!”

Although it was a rageful whisper, Casey heard everything and ferociously typed away on her phone.

Before Jared tried again to regain control of the situation, Casey’s friend jumped back on the mic. “Y/N says that if Jensen had confessed his feelings to her in the first place with as much ease as he can in front of thousands of fans, she wouldn’t have accidentally friend-zoned him.”

Jensen stood abruptly. “Y/N’s here?”

Panic rose again, seeing heads turn, looking for an imposter in the crowd.

The girl continued. “She says she was waiting for him to decide if he wanted to take the relationship to the next level, probably because she’s just a fan like us, and well, fuck, he’s Jensen Ackles. And I’m looking at her right now, and she is head over heels. Well, okay, she’s a little furious, but if Jensen wants her to have his babies, she would totally have his babies. Girl, we have to help her lock that man down…”

Again, silence in the room.

“What did you do?” Your eyes were wide.

Casey kept typing, ignoring your panic. “Trust me.”

You felt eyes on you and slid down the wall in mortal dread.

“Sorry,” The friend at the mic said. “Those were texts from my friend. I probably shouldn’t have read every single one.”

Crickets.

“Y/N’s here?” Jensen asked again.

“Yeah,” The girl looked through the crowd and pointed. Thankfully, it redirected some of the gaze to the back. “She must be sitting with my friend over there somewhere.”

Jared stood, but Jensen waved him away. “How do I know it’s really Y/N, and you're not making this up?” He asked skeptically.

Casey looked down at you as you were hiding your face between your palms. She nudged you with her foot.

The girl’s voice sounded throughout the ballroom. “I spy something yellow, clouds or mountains, the nasty-ass ball pit, Neil Diamond, or Bate’s Motel; any one of those should do.”

Jensen snickered and shook his head back and forth. “God dammit, Y/N. Do you want to try and make this work? Be more than friends?” He was still searching the crowd but couldn’t find you.

“Sign an NDA,” Jared sarcastically commented, believing Jensen’s previous analysis of your commitment to privacy was shockingly misguided.

“She says you can ask her face-to-face on a proper date.” Some of the crowd chuckled; others held a sadness that the window of his singleness was closing.

“I didn’t say that.” You snipped at Casey.

“We can’t make you seem too eager. Not after that baby comment.” She retorted.

Jensen chuckled again. “How does ten tonight sound? You pick the place.”

From a distance, he could see the door in the back crack open, light flooding the darkness momentarily, and he knew it was you. A small smirk escaped his lips.

The friend at the microphone continued to telephone Casey’s messages. “She left, I think, 'cause I embarrassed her and exaggerated certain details. But if I didn’t completely mortify her, I say it’s safe to change your relationship status.”

From the main lobby, you could hear the cheers and applause. This was not how you expected the day to go, especially almost getting arrested and working things out with Jensen over a panel. There was the sound of heavy footsteps and keys jingling as Clif rounded a corner.

“You keep making my job more and more interesting.” He jokingly scolded. “Come on,” He gestured with a nod of his head. “Let’s get you out of here before the panel ends, and people put two-and-two together.”

You stepped in line. “Let me make the record clear that Jensen was the one to kiss me and could have been more tactful in answering that question. I will only take the blame for momentarily losing it and breaking a few convention policies that may or may not be criminal offenses. I don’t know how this stuff works.”

He turned to look back at you and wiggled his eyebrows as if keeping you privy to a secret. “Something tells me I’m going to have to keep an eye on you.”

“Not when you should have both eyes on Jensen.” You teased back.

He laughed as you continued down the hall, and he parted a black curtain for you. “Oh, I like you.”

He led you to the holding room. It was nearly as messy as a frat house after a championship victory. Bottles of whiskey lined a TV stand, jackets and sweatshirts were strewn about, devices of all kinds were plugged into outlets, and piles of eaten and unopened food sat everywhere. You found a clear spot on the couch, and exhaustion finally hit you. Exhaustion from traveling non-stop, to restless nights, to hiking earlier this morning, to internally debating everything that was happening. You leaned your head back and shut your eyes.

The temporary relief was short-lived as the click of the door opening jolted you from the micro-nap. You stood up as Jensen and Jared entered the room. They looked equally exhausted but somehow maintained their brightness and energy. Jensen’s face glowed upon seeing you.

“Y/N!” Jensen exclaimed.

“Hi.” You greeted sheepishly.

He bounded over to you and took your cheeks in his hands, pressing his lips against yours. Jared went for another round of whiskey.

“What the hell are you doing here?” He pulled away and looked you over. “What the hell happened?”

You didn’t know where to begin. “I met a park ranger.” You said, accompanied by something between a laugh and a huff.

Jensen took in your scrapped-up leg, and his face grew stern. “Are you okay? We should get a doctor to come look you over.”

“I’m fine,” You promised. “The ranger did a thorough examination and knocked some sense into me. I should be back to normal in a couple of days.”

“Was he cute?” He asked.

You grinned. “Very.”

He pinched his lips together in a smile. “Well, then I better up the antics for our date tonight and really try and impress you.”

“Oh my god,” You giggled. “I never said any of that!” He gave you a questioning glance. “To be fair, not most of it.”

“So, no babies then?” He teased, and your cheeks turned ten shades darker. “Hey Jared, it’s time I officially introduce you; this is Y/N. Y/N, Jared.”

“Pleasure,” Jared stated coldly.

“It’s great to finally meet you,” You offered.

“Hey, we should order some food before autographs.” Jared bypassed you and spoke directly to Jensen.

“Yeah,” Jensen agreed. “I’m starving. You want anything?” He asked you.

You shook your head no. “What I need is a shower and clean clothes.”

Jensen smiled and dug through his wallet, fetching out a key card. “Room 912. If you need anything, text Clif. I’ll send you his number.” He handed it to you. “See you later tonight? Then maybe we will have the chance to talk about all this.”

“Yeah.” You bit your lip, accepting the key and trying not to get ahead by wondering if you would be sharing a room tonight.

Starting a relationship with him required a plan, including expectations and boundaries. As much as you wanted to rush into things, taking it slow was for the best. Waiting for him to finish autographs would give you time to make a list and develop some questions on what a relationship with him would entail beyond the normal stuff. This wouldn’t be as easy as it seemed, but you trusted he would be there to guide you. Before parting, he placed another peck on your lips, leaving you craving more.

Part 8

---

GHTTC Tags: @maggiegirl17 @foxyjwls007 @djs8891 @deans-spinster-witch @tmb510 @ghostofjoharvelle

[dreamdaddydutch]

Javier x reader crying during an argument??

Thanks for your request - as always it's appreciated. This ended up being longer than I'd planned.

As a side note - I reference that the reader was sick with a virus a few months previous, this isn't based on any particular virus/illness, so if you think symptoms don't really add up with anything - that's why. It's just for the stories sake.

Pairing: Javier x gn!reader Word Count: 1,782 Warnings: Intensity of argument and accusations. Some swearing. Descriptions of illness.

As you stormed through the camp, you knew all eyes would be on you and that most of the others would have heard the harsh words spoken between you and Javier. But you cared little for gossip, you cared little about what they thought, they didn’t know Javier like you did and they didn’t know you.

Fuck them, you thought, I don’t care.

But lies don’t last long, not even the ones you tell yourself. They either get buried and fester until they become something ugly, something you eventually believe but never for the best. Or within moments the truth seeps through and you’re unable to deny the truth any longer. Today was one of those days.

Javier had gone to rob a stagecoach with Sean and John, he’d asked you to stay behind. Pretty much commanded it. But you were bored of being left behind and longed for adventure, longed to do your bit. Hunting was more your thing, hunting and gathering berries, herbs, whatever you could forage. Occasionally you’d see some action when it came to robberies and the little missions Dutch sent the others on but hearing the excitement in the voices of those who’d come back frequently from such excursions, made you want to do it all the more.

Additionally, you missed Javier. The two of you would go fishing together and sometimes he’d come hunting with you, but you wanted to be gun slinging by his side as it felt like it was somewhat romantic to you. It’s not that Javier didn’t think you’d be good at it or that you’d be a liability, he knew you could handle yourself, it’s just you were better with a bow, better at hunting and tracking. Better with formulating plans and the theory behind the actions.

Besides, recently you hadn’t been well. You’d caught a nasty virus in Clemens Point that left you bed bound for several weeks and even now you were still feeling the effects. You suspected this was the real reason Javier had been so adamant about you not joining them on any jobs for the foreseeable future. But Javier didn’t own you and so on this day for this particular robbery you’d decided to surprise the other three and turn up to help.

Only it hadn’t gone to plan. If anything, it had hindered the others, who had returned empty handed. It

On the way back to camp Javier had remained silent, furiously riding Boaz behind you so that he didn’t let you out of his site, while the others rode in front. You felt like you were being punished, that the other 3 had no trust in you so were escorting you back. Any time you tried to speak to Javier he said nothing, his face angry and hurt, the only words he said the entire time was, “Not now.”

That was what hurt, the fact he wouldn’t even acknowledge your presence. Did he really think that little of you now?

Back at the camp it was little better, you hitched your horses and then John and Sean departed quickly, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire between the two of you.

You could handle the silence no longer, it hung in the air cloying, suffocating, unrelenting, “I’m sorry, okay, I’m sorry I don’t know what…” Javier held his hand up to silence you, “Don’t.”

“What do you want me to say?” You begged

“Nothing!” Javier shouted back, “Nothing, there is nothing to be said okay. It is done, it’s done,” he said, his voice calming a little.

“I just wanted to be…helpful.”

Javier shook his head in disbelief, “Well, look how that turned out huh? We came back empty handed, you nearly died… Sean could have been shot. You just don’t think do you?”

“Don’t think?” You snapped, “All I do is think, you’re away so often it’s not like I can talk to you about anything. I think about you, where you are and who you’re with, especially when you don’t come back at night. Is that why you don’t like me coming with you?”

The genuine look of shook on Javier’s face at your implied accusation made you regret your words immediately. Javier was the most faithful and loyal of the lot.

You hung your head in shame, “I’m sorry Javier, that was cruel. I know you’re not…I know you’d never.”

The damage was done, “I need some time on my own.”

You looked up with tears in your eyes, but Javier had already turned away and begun walking.

All the things you wanted to say, to tell him to fuck off, to tell him to grow up, to tell him how sorry you were and how much you loved them. You opened your mouth but nothing came out, the regret just swimming in your stomach causing nausea, bile climbing your throat.

So you’d stormed through the Shady Belle camp and into the house, straight to the room you and Javier shared, slamming the door behind you.

“Trouble in paradise?” You heard Micah shout as he started laughing, “Told me you should be with me and not that…”

“Shut the fuck up or I swear to god I will ram my fist down your fucking throat you!” You paused as you saw Abigail stare at you, Jack by his side. Oh…

You turned away from the window, slamming that closed too and pulled the curtains close.

For a few minutes you stood alone, agitated and unsure of what you were supposed to do now, what he expected of you. You pulled your arms round yourself into a tight hug and tried to fight back the tears, they came anyway whether you wanted them or not. Maybe Javier was right, you should have listened and not put the others in danger, yourself in danger. It was only now you realised how close you’d come to death.

The door flung open and Javier stormed in, his presence looming over you, a shadow cast across the wall.

“Don’t Javier, if you’re here to berate me, make me feel stupid, I already feel like shit.”

“Ay, ay ay,” Javier shook his head, “Don’t you get it? I’m not mad at you over the money, I couldn’t care less. They’ll be other stagecoaches. I’m mad because you nearly got yourself killed.”

You bit your lower lip, “It wasn’t that bad…” you whispered.

Javier put his head in his hands, “Wasn’t that bad huh? If…” he stopped, clearly pained as he thought about what had happened, “You know how close you were to getting a bullet through the head?”

You shook your head, actually…you weren’t sure. “If…if…that horse hadn’t of bucked when it did you would be dead do you hear me? You would be dead.”

Dead, the word pierced through the air.

“And I,” he patted his chest, “Would be all alone and forever I would carry that guilt, what could I have done to protect you.”

“I’m not your property or some creature you can just keep Javier, it’s my life.”

He gave a mirthless laugh, clearly exhausted from the day and tired of trying to make you understand, but right now this seemed impossible.

“Mi amor, that virus that struck you down, don’t you remember?”

“Of course, I remember, how could I forget, throwing up onto the floor and having to watch the girls clean it up. Pissing myself, coughing up blood, snotty nose. What an attractive beast I must have been.” Javier let out a small chuckle, “You were still beautiful.”

He took a step closer to you, “But that isn’t what I meant. What I meant was what the doctor said afterwards, when you’d mostly recovered?”

He looked at you as he reached for your shoulder, you shook your head. You didn’t remember what he said.

“That for some time, possibly six months the illness would still have an impact. You may feel dizzy very quickly, struggle to remember things, to focus…struggle with things like taking aim, your reflexes.”

Your heart sunk as the penny dropped, shit, the doctor had said that hadn’t he? Javier wasn’t trying to keep you back at camp because he thought you were incapable or better doing camp jobs, it wasn’t that he didn’t trust you or think you’d fuck things up. He was doing it because he knew it wasn’t safe for you to be participating in anything like that right now, he knew the very real danger and how easy it would be for you to get lost, confused or fail to react quickly when reacting quickly would be the only thing to stand between life and death.

You struggled to meet his gaze for a few moments, as his words sunk in, feeling foolish and ashamed you finally faced him. A sob erupted from your lips, “Oh Javier, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…I didn’t remember. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I should have listened to you.”

Stepping forwards you sobbed into his chest making it damp with your tears as Javier held you, the palm of his hand pressed against the small of your back.

“It’s okay, shhhh mi amor. It’s done now, it’s done and you’re still here as is Sean,” Javier attempted to reassure you, though you barely heard his words through the sound of your tears and heart pounding in your chest.

He tilted your chin up gently, his thumb gently brushing over your lower lip, “I know you didn’t mean what you said. I know you didn’t mean for that to happen.”

His dark brown eyes studied you, saw how you reacted to his words, whether you trusted in him, whether you believed in him. You did, no matter how hard it was, you believed because you had to.

“I love you, there is no one else for me. You know I respect you,” Javier begun but you reached up and placed a finger to his lips, “I know, it’s me who should be apologising and not you.”

Javier shook his head, “No, we both said things we didn’t mean, I over-reacted,” he paused, “A little anyway,” his lip curled into a small smile, his hand reached for your face, fingers tracing back across your scalp.

“Just promise me you’ll listen going forward if I say no there’s a reason, okay? Please trust me.”

“I will and I do, I do trust you.” Javier placed a kiss to your lips and held you against him for a few seconds.

As he held you he made the best suggestion you’d heard in a while, “Let’s stay in here for a bit before we go out to the others huh?”

[anony-man]

Some Delphi doctor Pharma thoughts because, well… why not? More specifically, a thought-out explanation for successfully hiding the very, very illegal business of organ harvesting (or cog harvesting, if you’re Pharma). Very, very long, and mainly Pharma-centric. Also TW for mild mentions of gore below (near the end):

It would have been a very, very good question to ask how in the world he’d managed to get into the practice of harvesting cogs for the enemy, but that isn’t exactly the focus here. What it came down to, for the most part, was being stationed at Delphi of all areas. It was a rough place to work, and it had quite the reputation of being the worst of the worst when it came to practitioners AND survival rates. The extra factors were probably due to the fact that an ex-Decepticon and a war frame were both in high ranks of the medical staff (not to mention the awful habit Cybertron’s governors had of actually making sure funds went to keeping heat and lights on in the building), but none of this phased Pharma. When the offer—well, not so much offer as it was threat to end his life and career if he didn’t accept—came up, he wasn’t exactly in a place to decline.

It was easy work, really. All he had to do was stay after hours and harvest cogs from dead patients before they left to be cremated, or buried, or recycled, or… well, whatever their loved ones chose to do. He was practically running the hospital at that point, and no one had ever questioned his authority. Besides, no medical staff outside of himself and Ambulon had ever worked at Delphi for more than a few months tops. Delphi’s hospital was severely understaffed with one or two medical drones patrolling the area outside of himself and Ambulon, but that’s the way Pharma would have had it. After all, it’s what made his awful situation possible.

Besides… If push came to shove, and by some miracle someone found out about his forced ties with the DJD, he could always blame Ambulon. It would be easy enough to frame him, after all. No one would believe him, anyway. Not with his past as an ex ‘Con. Pharma wasn’t much better, being built a war frame despite his work in the medical field, but what choice did he have?

Things were going well, at first. Pharma was averaging at about three to four cogs a month, give or take a few. Despite what outsiders said, Delphi was typically the place where those too far gone came to live their last moments in the peace and comfort medical support was able to offer, so the supply was always steady. That is, it was steady, until Pharma got a rather threatening letter in the mail. The DJD had begun to demand four times what he was averaging, and that number was expected every two weeks.

The first time he took a life with his own hands, Pharma had felt physically ill. He spent the rest of the day locked up in his office, ignoring Ambulon’s pestering concerns with the complaint that he was feeling unwell, which was true, but that he didn’t require support, which was… well, sort of true. He’d barely managed to make it through a ration of energon that evening, and he’d spent most of the night forcing down bottle after bottle of cheap alcoholic drinks. The overwhelming guilt didn’t last long, however, since Pharma knew he couldn’t physically keep it up. He’d have to tough it out, take in a few extra cogs from living patients, and maybe—just maybe—his circumstances would change.

As expected, things most certainly did not change. At least, not for the better. Enter First Aid, who soon became a sort of Achilles heel to Pharma’s process. The new doctor was young and inexperienced, practically fresh out of the academy from what Pharma had heard. For the first few weeks, Pharma was absolutely relentless in his blatant dislike of First Aid, and he took every chance he could get to publicly disapprove or humiliate the young doctor when he could. It felt awful, it really did. But given the very dangerous situation he found himself in, he couldn’t risk having more than one other doctor around the hospital floors.

First Aid wasn’t supposed to have lasted as long as he did. One week became two, which became four, which turned into one month, but still, Pharma relented. He chastised the young medic every chance he could get and occasionally gave crude, condescending remarks about question just how long First Aid would last before he, too, dropped out of the Delphi work force. Would he even remain a doctor, Pharma wondered? Would the stress from his experience at Delphi turn him away from any and all future medical endeavors? He’d hoped it might end that way—not for his sake, but for First Aid’s safety. Still, his nagging coworker who still struggled to turn over a new leaf was also relentless, but in the aspect of helping the new recruit. Before Pharma knew it, Ambulon was taking First Aid under his wing, showing him the ropes. It was infuriating, and it posed a very, very great threat to Pharma’s new business.

Primus, he grew so nervous during that time, so very, very nervous. He shouldn’t have been doing it at all. Everything, all of it—the manipulation, the twisted work, the criticism to both First Aid’s character and his career, it was all so fucked up in the worst way. It was unethical. It was awful, it… it was—ohh fuck. Fuck, what choice did he have? He didn’t have one. He had no choice at all, and this was how things would end. A well-known, well respected medic who’d risen above the hierarchy and racism, only to destroy it all after doing such dirty work for the DJD.

Despite his petty and discreet efforts, First Aid relented. It was nearing six months into the young medic’s employment at Delphi when Pharma realized he needed to do something different, and fast. He had already experienced one too many close calls, what with the nosy little doctor running into him after hours on the wrong floor at the wrong time. Sexual innuendos and workplace relationships had only gotten him so far with Ambulon, and after an awkward interface session in the washracks while bodies lay decomposing in locked bathroom stalls mere feet away, Pharma simply couldn’t take it anymore. Drastic measures had to be taken, unfortunately, and despite the medical oaths he’d sworn to observe and the many, many moral boundaries he’d never wanted to cross, Pharma was no longer against twisting the tables in his own favor.

He started out innocently enough. Aid was a smart one, of course, and Pharma caught the skeptical looks the young medic gave him every time he dared to bring up Delphi’s sketchy past. Despite the visor covering his optics and the mask he wore nearly all the time, it wasn’t hard to gauge First Aid’s reaction, and given a few weeks, Pharma knew it was starting to take a toll on the new medic. It was only when Ambulon had begun to scold him behind closed doors for “scaring” First Aid that Pharma realized he needed to push things up a notch.

He wasn’t a terrible person. Truly, he wasn’t. He never meant for any of it to happen, and he had never intended for First Aid to be affected so deeply or for his own reputation to be tarnished. He’d known his fate was sealed the moment he was given over to the DJD as their own personal provider of anything organ-related, but that didn’t make him a bad person, right? He was only doing his job. He was doing what he had been forced to do. He was still a doctor, a good person. Right? He was still him. He still saved lives, he still helped others, he still held the role and responsibility of being a strong, confident medic. He was a good person, right? Right?

He hadn’t been thinking all that clearly when it had happened. Still, the pieces just so happened to fall into place, and Pharma knew that his secret was sealed for at least a few months. He had been in the process of dragging the most recent body into a storage closet for safe keeping while he dealt with other more impending issues when it had occurred. Of course, shoving a dead corpse into an old closet wasn’t the best course of action, but with his mind starting to crack under the pressure and his options starting to slim, Pharma knew he didn’t have much of a choice.

He could hear the sound of quiet pedesteps entering into the washracks. It was First Aid, he knew, stopping to get cleaned up after a long shift. He always came into the washracks at this time, after every shift. Primus, he did it almost daily. How could Pharma have forgotten? How could he have forgotten?

Never mind that, he supposed. Pharma had waited until First Aid was rifling through his belongings and getting everything unneeded placed into a locker (really, with there only being three bots capable of making it to the washracks, what was the need for the locker?) before making a run for the shower stalls. He had thrown the body over one shoulder as he headed there, and as expected, it made quite the sound. Instead of hearing a bout of silence to follow the sudden interruption of First Aid’s prep-work, he was instead met with a small, startled gasp from the young medic. He paused in the middle of pulling the curtain shut and waited, just in case his cover was to be blown. He would hate to do it, but if he needed to take out one of his fellow medics—

“Is someone out there?” First Aid had called out, the anxiety practically dripping from his voice.

If Pharma hadn’t been so busy with not getting caught carrying a corpse around, he would’ve felt a little bad for the poor doctor’s frazzled nerves. Still, a job had to be done, and a job was what he was going to do. Pharma laid the corpse down onto the shower stall and, after quietly drawing the curtains back to hide it, made his way towards the exit. He managed to escape without running into First Aid, which would end up being a blessed accident for him in the next ten minutes.

Pharma was nearly halfway to his office when he heard it. A guttural, blood-curdling scream that sent a chill racing down his spine. He knew what had happened, of course, but the sound—Primus, the sound, the palpable horror and fear in the air as First Aid screamed—it would stick with him for a very, very long time. It didn’t take long before Ambulon was rushing down the hallway, a mixed look of confusion and concern plastered across his face as though First Aid—a disposable, inexperienced waste of space on their hospital’s floor—could have actually meant anything to him.

Pharma turned around quickly enough to see First Aid bursting out of the washracks, his entire frame rattling with choked sobs that even Pharma could see the plating shift and grind from such a long distance. He couldn’t quite make out the words—not that the poor medic was saying anything legible, but still—from where he stood, but from the way First Aid all but collapsed against Ambulon’s front, wailing about a “dead body” and the poor soul he’d just checked on so and so minutes ago and the guilt he felt, oh the guilt. What could have he done differently? Was it his fault? Was he to blame? God, why couldn’t he stop crying? He couldn’t breathe, Ambulon, he couldn’t breathe—

It ended up being too much to bear, too much to witness. Pharma slipped past with a distant pat to Ambulon’s shoulder and muttered something about giving First Aid a little something to take the edge off before he headed in to “take a look.” Of course, Pharma took the chance to properly dispose of the body so that nothing else could be said about the standalone incident, and when Ambulon had come in sometime later and informed him that First Aid was in the medibay sleeping off some heavy sedatives, Pharma was more than willing to show him the now-empty and pristine shower stalls. Every one of them, too, not just the one that had just so happened to inhabit the… the victim.

It didn’t come as much of a surprise when, a week later, there was a new medic among their ranks. First Aid had hardly even gone to the third floor—the floor where the incident had occured—at all during the week, and he had barely managed to keep himself moving throughout the normal shift changes. At first, Pharma expected him to drop out of the hospital staff like all of the other medics before him, but no. Instead, he was treated to a new recruit.

Ratchet was his name, Pharma recalls. Ratchet, Ambulon’s acquaintance, First Aid’s temporary mentor, and Pharma’s mortal enemy. Well, mortal enemy and secret obsession. If there was one thing Pharma had become good at during his many months spent harvesting the cogs of helpless victims, it was casting illusions. Though he had taken a deep, almost toxic, interest in Ratchet, Pharma knew he was more than capable of keeping up the charades.

[xopinkroses]

Toxicity♥

(Dante x Reader)

Summary; You are in a toxic relationship and Dante tries to talk some sense into you. Word count; Warnings; Toxic relationships, abusive relationships, mentions of physical abuse, mentions of emotional manipulation and gaslighting, (reader is in denial and acts a little aggressively)

MASTERLIST🌸

You were in serious denial about your relationship. Dante had only known you for a couple of months and already he had noticed. 

The first thing he noticed was how possessive they were, constantly blowing up your phone with texts and repeatedly calling when you were working. When asked, you’d meekly claim they were just worried. Later on you admitted that they didn’t like you being around other people a lot. 

Then he began to notice how upset you’d get after returning from answering one of those calls. Piecing together other scraps of information you had accidentally mentioned, he also knew that you argued a lot. Your partner liked to start confrontations with you and then twist it around to make it your fault. 

It was none of his business, but Dante couldn’t get over the feeling that there was just something wrong. The last straw was when your partner called the office to resign on your behalf, while you were sitting right beside him. He hadn’t hesitated to tell them to fuck off and slammed the phone down, hanging up. You’d been mortified, but apparently this wasn’t the first time they’d pulled a stunt like this. 

You left for your shared apartment that evening, only to return to the shop a few hours later with puffy eyes and a bag. Dante didn’t even let you ask the question before letting you inside from the cold. You spent the night on the couch, the first of many. Dante noticed the trend quickly– your partner would do something out of line, you would react, you would wind up on Dante’s doorstep after being kicked out for the night. Your stays were almost weekly at this point. 

He had to wonder where you went before he met you, did you just rough it on the streets? You didn’t have many other people you could turn to. There was a certain kind of isolation that came from being a demon hunter, but from what he understood, you were on your own even before getting into this line of work. The thought of you curled up on the side of the road in the cold made him feel physically ill,  and he promised you a safe place to sleep should you ever need it. 

It was another one of those nights, except this time you showed up holding onto your side. It had escalated.

“So,” Dante finally broke the tense silence that had been stretching on between the two of you for the past fifteen minutes or so, throwing his magazine down onto his desk and leaning back in his chair. “You gonna tell me what happened?”

“Nothing happened,” You stated lowly, glaring at him through your eyelashes. You were sharpening your knives on the couch, and clearly had some pent up frustration, normally he would have just left you alone but not tonight. “Stop making a big deal out of it.”

Dante huffed, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the cluttered desk with his head slightly bowed, causing strands of snow white hair to fall into his eyes. “I almost believe you,” he said. “But the fact that you’re crashing at my shop again for the third time this week tells me things have gotten worse. Am I right?”

You ground your teeth, looking away from the man to focus on your task with more force than necessary. The shrieking scrape of metal made the hairs on his neck stand up, he knew he was poking the beehive but refused to back down this time.

“Nothing. Happened,” You spoke through clenched teeth, refusing to return his gaze. 

“Yeah,” Dante scoffed. “Sure.”

This was becoming a recurring argument between you two. He’d try to make you admit what he already knew, and what he knew you knew as well deep down, and you’d snap and deny the truth. Like clockwork. Rinse and repeat. And everytime he would yield to your demands to drop it; but not this time. Because Dante couldn’t ignore the way you were still guarding your side like you were in pain. 

“They’re bad for you.”

The knife you were sharpening was dropped onto the couch beside you, your posture defensive. You looked like a cornered animal as you stood and began to pace a few steps along the hardwood floor. Stress rolling off you in waves, Dante had clearly unscrewed the lid you were keeping on your emotions.

“I’m not some poor, abused housewife!” You snapped. “I can handle it.”

“I’m not saying you’re being abused,” His exasperated voice raised in pitch, in one fluid motion he got up off his chair and stretched to his full height. “I’m saying your relationship is toxic!” 

His tone was venomous, yet filled with so much earnest concern that you couldn’t find it within yourself to be mad. It was so rare to hear Dante get genuinely upset, he always tried to keep things light. But this was different, you were hurting and you weren’t letting him help you!

“Dante,” You said softly, some of the tension dropping from your shoulders. “We’re fine. Just… drop it.” Dante didn’t know if you were trying to convince him or yourself. 

He stepped around the desk to stand in front of you, no longer letting you distance yourself behind it. “If you’re both fine then why are you spending another night on my couch? Why can’t you just admit it?” 

You looked defeated, whatever had happened between you and your partner must have been bad. In the time Dante had known you, he’d never once seen you cry or even tear up– but here you were now, eyes filling up with tears and trying to stop your bottom lip from trembling. 

“Because then it’ll be real,” You said, throat tight. “And I’ll have to leave the one person to ever truly love me.”

The room was silent once more, Dante had thoughts running through his head a mile a minute but had no way of expressing them all at once. So, he let you keep talking.

“You’re right…” You continued, roughly wiping your eyes with your sleeve. “We’re not fine, we’re barely even functioning… but they’re all I have. I know they’re bad for me, I know our relationship isn’t perfect. But I love them… even after everything they’ve done, I love them... I can’t be alone again.”

“You wouldn’t be alone.”

“What?” You sniff.

“You have us– you have me,” Dante reached out and put his hands on your shoulders. “We care about you. You don’t need to hold onto people that are corroding your life.”

He felt you melt into his touch, like you hadn’t received a kind touch for a while. The reassuring weight of his hands felt nice, spreading warmth through your body. You swallowed and looked up at him through blurry eyes. 

“You mean that?”

There was no room for doubt in his voice as he answered right away, “Of course I do.”

You let your eyes fall back down to the collar of his shirt, feeling embarrassed for breaking down in front of him. “Thanks, Dante,” You said, reluctantly stepping away to put some distance between you and wiping your eyes again. You missed the feeling of his hands on your shoulders the second it was gone.

Dante wished he could do more for you, but this was something you had to do for yourself, “Just promise me you’ll think about this seriously.”

You nodded, “Yeah… I promise.” 

And you meant it. 

It was only a couple days later when your partner found themself standing in an empty apartment, all your belongings gone and a set of keys left on the kitchen counter. 

This time when you entered Devil May Cry, Dante welcomed you inside with a dramatic bow and a cheerful grin. There wasn’t enough space for you to live there forever, but those doors would always be open for you. ~ 🖤

[peculiar0ne]

okay

so for the record because i've never officially mentioned it- i have a chronic illness. it is (as of currently due to financial reasons) undiagnosed, but that's besides the point.

it mostly affects my legs, they're always in some sort of pain. tolerance has gotten lower over the last few months and my cane that i only used on my worse days quickly became almost useless, except as an assistant in getting up and down stairs in my apartment. i recently was lucky enough to be able to have my friends scrounge up enough cash so we could get me a wheelchair, as my health has declined so rapidly and i was losing most of my independence, having to rely on my boyfriend for most basic things.

i was able to take a day trip with some of my friends just yesterday, it was not only my first time using my wheelchair in public (minus a literal 5 minute walmart trip the day i got it), but also my first time using it in a completely different place from home. we were in a town that we all travel to quite frequently, but because of how far away from home we were (hour 45 minutes), and the fact that my comfort person, my boyfriend, was back at home stuck at work, it was extremely difficult for me to enjoy my day the way i wanted to.

because yesterday i experienced my first ableism encounter(s) since becoming an ambulatory mobility aid user in general. i've had ableist comments over my autism, adhd, and ocd countless times before...but this stabbed me right through the heart.

i've had my wheelchair for i believe 4 days in total now, i'm still getting used to it and i still have very mixed feelings about myself having to use it (internalized ableism, but mostly just fear of not being independent enough). i have already sat and cried countless times, worrying that my partner will eventually give up on me because of how dependent i'm slowly becoming...

yesterday i was in a location in which i have always felt safe in with my close friends. i've visited said place over 30 times in my life because it's so close to home, and not once have i had a moment where i've had to stop to sit and hold back tears.

tears of rage i think, mostly.

but also devastation. i knew ableism was shitty especially to those of us who are visibly disabled in some way shape or form (whether that be using a mobility aid or being a fancy walker, etc.), but holy fucking shit i am absolutely in ruins over what humanity has become.

i was wheeling alongside one of my friends to go to a store in our favorite mall while our other two friends stuck behind at the arcade, which we all agreed to meet back up at. when leaving the store to quickly visit another one, i heard a group of three boys saying "tokyo drift" behind us.

at first, i pushed it aside. i figured they were just pointing out something or watching some sort of clip on their phones. but then when i glance behind me, as i have caught myself doing as a cautious approach to still not being fully used to my chair, they're smirking cockily at me.

again, i push this aside.

but i shouldn't have because the moment i turned back around i hear "they see me rollin'", followed by a chorus of immature giggles, and the boys running away laughing and looking back at me and my friend.

i immediately dropped any evidence of happiness on my face. i was disgusted with myself. honestly it's only been 12 hours, i still am pretty disgusted with myself even though all i was doing was minding my own business.

now, my friends that came with all either have adhd or autism, much like myself. the specific friend i was wandering the mall with at the time has selective hearing because of her adhd therefore she did not hear these horrid comments, but she looked over to me and asked what was wrong.

i tried NOT to sound like a dick but lowkey i kind of growled when i told her what happened and she just death glared them and then took me to build-a-bear (our original destination) and bought me a kuromi plushie to cheer me up.

fast forward about an hour, the four of us are just finishing dinner in the mall food court. at this point, i was still upset but i had cheered up a little as my mind was able to be elsewhere for a while.

just as we're getting ready to go to the arcade, i'm falling a tiny bit behind. but the arcade is about 100 feet away so it's not a huge deal, right?

wrong.

two other boys, completely separate from the three earlier, look down at me with stupid grins on their faces and say "do a trick!" as they're walking away.

again, my friends were a bit ahead of me, and we're in a crowded food court so they didn't hear.

thankfully they all spend the rest of the night trying to cheer me up (i do not deserve them) but i'm sitting here typing this and trying not to cry.

it's so stupid.

but the stupider thing?

all five of these guys were ranged 18-25 at most. one of the guys in the first group looked to be 16, but i'm not sitting here about to assume that shit. it just devastates me that these people can just look at someone in a wheelchair and think "OMG THAT'S SO FUNNY GUYS" and all his friends will fucking agree.

disabilities are not funny.

mobility aids are not a joke. mobility aids are necessary for us with disabilities to get around.

honestly, i hope you don't look at your grandfather in a wheelchair and start laughing. because there's really no difference there besides age.

just grow the fuck up and start respecting us disabled folks.

that or kindly go fuck yourself!

thanks for coming to my tedtalk, i will now go contemplate my life and worry about my crippling medical bills :)