#AND YOURE WONDERING WHY SHES SO DESPERATE

[luveline]

hi love ;)

i have a request for hotch and pregnant reader if thats okay w u, how about reader having terrible morning sickness btu not wanting to wake hotch up because he was away on a case and got home super late and she wants him to rest up BUT hotch obv wakes up and uk coddles her

i hope u have wonderful day/ night and tysm for writing such wholesome stories <3333

thank you angel 💌

cw sickness / throwing up

You’re mostly asleep, occasionally and briefly awoken by a panging ache in your spine. You only know Aaron’s home because you sigh in pain and he shushes you gently. 

With the weight of his arm over your stomach, you mumble, “What time is it?” 

He whispers back. “Nearly three, honey. I’m sorry for waking you.” 

“Didn’t.” It’s the achy back.

Aaron gets the memo. He shifts your weight onto his chest, and that stretch of your shoulder is all you’d needed. You’re asleep again in moments, his breath warming the shell of your ear. 

You wake again a few hours later. It’s still dark out, the alarm clock blinking a bleary 5:42AM. You clutch your tumbling tummy and hold your breath even as your mouth fills with saliva, determined to fight it today. You’re sick of being sick.

Aaron snores behind you. His hand has moved up to your chest, though it’s not a salacious touch where his hand rests on your breast. His fingers cover the skin above your heart, his face pressed to a shoulder like he’s desperate to be near. 

Oh, no, you think. You’re not eager to throw up, but it’s not what panics you. He only got home a few hours ago and he’s hard not to wake when you move, he’s hyper vigilant even in sleep. But if you don’t get up soon, you’re gonna be sick in your white sheets. 

You pant a hot breath and peel away from him slowly. Climbing out of bed is a pain, and you hold your hand to your mouth to stop from throwing up as you stand. You shuffle, disorientated but urgent, to the en-suite bathroom, palming along the wall for the light. You barely have time to grab the toilet lid. 

It doesn’t get easier doing this every morning. You eat light before bed and it doesn’t matter, it hurts regardless, your eyes tear up and you feel wholly miserable. Worse when a familiar creaking comes from your bed. 

“Ugh,” you whisper, hanging your head, hand tight-knuckled on the lid. 

“Why don’t you sit down, Y/N?” he asks softly. “Come on, kneel down on the floor. That’s it, honey. It’s alright.” 

You can’t stop yourself from resting your arm on the seat. It might be unhygienic, but you’re exhausted, and the effort it takes to throw up has depleted everything you had. Aaron pauses to touch the space between your shoulders, before he flushes the toilet and kneels down beside you, bringing a wad of toilet tissue to your face. 

“I was hoping your morning sickness might’ve gone away while I was in Georgia,” he says, his open hand coming up to cup your back, while the other wipes at your chin. 

“It can go all the way to your third trimester.” 

“I know, but I still hoped.” He rubs the brunt of his palm gently over your back. 

“I’m so sorry. You look so tired.” 

“I don’t mind. Do you think it bothers me?”

“Just wanted you to rest.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” —he kisses the skin beside your eye carefully— “honey, it’s fine, we’ll sleep again when you’re finished.” 

He jinxes you, summoning another round, but it is admittedly less horrid to go through with his hands at your face and neck. You struggle to breath when it’s done, gasping unsuccessfully for a full lungful of air. 

Aaron encourages you away from the toilet with some loving manhandling. “Sit here. Just take a deep breath.” He blows one out for you to follow, and another in. “You got it. Let me get you a glass of water.”

“Can you help me up? I’m done. Just want to be out of this room.” 

He’s quick and strong, hands under your arms, pulling you up. You fully believe he could get you into bed if you didn’t get your feet under you, but you do, and he walks you back to your room with a sluggishness you know to be a great deal of care. He goes slowly with you as though you might break. You press your face to his arm and think, Well, at least he loves me.  

Being sick is awful, but that’s a certain truth. 

“I should’ve made you brush your teeth,” he says, ushering you down onto your side of the bed.

The idea of a toothbrush near the back of your mouth gives you chills. “Maybe in ten minutes.” 

He fluffs the pillows behind your back. He seems tempted to kiss you regardless, but he just touches his nose to yours for a brief second and then pulls away. “Drink this,” he demands, passing you the glass from your nightstand. His hands are careful tucking the sheets over your legs and up against your slight bump. “I’m sorry.” 

“You should be.” You take a couple of sips. “I wish I could hate you for this.” 

You’re joking makes him laugh. “That’s okay. It’s my fault, honey. Hate me all you want.” 

“I don’t want to,” you say. 

He cups your face. Like you didn’t just throw up, no hint of disgust in his touch, only love. “Thank you.” His clumsy thumb on your cheek betrays how tired he is. You move over and usher him onto your side of the bed for hugging, your face hidden in the place between his shoulders. 

“Don’t be sick without me,” he says sternly, his hand reaching back to hold your arm. 

You try not to think about it. “Ugh.” 

[basketonthedoorstepofthefbi]

“flu season” - hotch stops by to check on you while you’re home sick (hotch x bau!gn!reader), 1.7k words

cw; mentions of canonical violence, icky sickies, and yearning teehee

———————

You have the flu. 

You have the flu, and it hits you like a bus. 

You have the flu, and it hits you like a bus, and you hate feeling helpless, but you can’t even walk to the bathroom and back without feeling dizzy. 

There’s a waste basket by the bed, lined with a plastic grocery bag. There are four glasses of water, varying in stages of fullness, littered on the nightstand. Your blinds are open because yesterday you wanted to see the sun, but you were too exhausted later in the day to close them. 

Your phone is ringing. You’re groggy, the whole world feeling hazy and heavy, as you lift it from the space in bed beside you and see a call from your boss. When you called Hotch two days ago and told him you were ill, he was incredibly patient with you. Don’t worry about work. Get some rest, he said. Check in so we know you’re okay. Let us know if you need anything. 

You answer the phone on the last ring, and a hoarse, weak voice that is not yours exits your throat. “Hello?” 

“Y/N,” Hotch sounds relieved. Did he think you were dead or something? It’s only the stomach flu. He also never calls you by your first name, which only makes you concerned that something else is gruesomely wrong. “Did you see my calls?” 

You put him on speaker and check your call history. Aaron Hotchner has called you four times in the past six hours. You missed every single one, having drifted in and out of consciousness all day long. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t. Is everything okay?” You ask, thinking something must have happened to him or to one of your teammates. Why else would he be desperate to reach you when you’re home sick? 

“Well, you tell me,” Hotch exhales, an incredulous chuckle lining his voice. The phone muffles the sound, but you know that if you heard it in person, it would sound symphonic. “I was just checking on you, Y/N. I know you’re new to the city.” You sit up a little in bed, as if he were in front of you. “How are you feeling?” 

You run a clammy hand over your sweaty forehead. “Hot,” you blurt out. 

“Excuse me?” Hotch laughs. 

“Hot, like… like a fever. Like I’m running a…” you shake your head at yourself, resisting the urge to scream into your pillow. “Sick. I feel sick, very sick.” 

“What kind of sick?”

What kind of sick? Why would he ask you that? You lean back against the headboard and wonder if he’s trying to determine if you’re faking to get out of work, or if he’s genuinely concerned. You’ve only been with the BAU for a few months, but you feel like you’ve gotten to know everyone fairly well so far. You decide Hotch must just be genuinely concerned. You roll through your symptoms, and Hotchner clears his throat when you’re done speaking. 

“Do you feel strong enough to get to your door?” He asks.

“Huh?”

“Because I’m here. Outside your door.” 

“What?” 

Hotch lets out a breathy laugh, one that seems almost in disbelief of his own actions. “If you don’t want company, I’ll leave, but I thought you might need a hand. I’ve been sick and alone before. It’s not fun.” 

You feel your heart swell a little as you recall what Emily has told you about Hotch. You get little snippets about him from Emily, and from what you understand, he and his ex-wife were painfully separated for a while before she was murdered. You wonder if he was ever stuck at home, ill, during that period of time. 

Hotch says your surname. “Are you still there?” 

“What? Yes. Yes! I’m sorry,” you huff, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. The thought of planting your feet on the ground, however, has you already feeling nauseous. “I don’t, uh… I don’t think I can make it to the door, though,” you squeak. “There’s a spare key under the doormat. But I really look gross, Hotch. And I might be contagious. So, enter at your own risk.”

“I don’t mind, L/N. You keep a key under the - oh, yes, there it is,” you hear Hotch fumble to juggle the key and his phone, and after a moment of static - his hand over the microphone - he hangs up, and you hear the front door of your apartment creak open. “Y/N?” He calls out. 

“In here,” you croak, scrambling under the covers and desperately brushing your sweaty hair out of your eyes. 

Hotch is standing in the doorway in an instant, still in his suit and tie. You glance at your phone and conclude he must have left work directly to come here. “How do you know where I live?” You mumble as he lifts a full grocery bag. 

“Personnel file,” he shrugs. “How’s your fever?” 

You notice he’s lingering in the doorway. He’s waiting to be invited in. “You don’t have to have a warrant,” you smile weakly and beckon him into your bedroom, a lame attempt at humor. 

He exhales in amusement, and you see the smile on his face - light and mild, and you wonder, if you weren’t sick, would it have been a grin? 

“You didn’t answer my question,” Hotch says as he steps slowly into the room, taking a cold bottle of Gatorade from the grocery bag and setting it on your nightstand. He starts gathering the cups of water into one arm. 

“You don’t have to do that,” you protest, feeling embarrassed of your mess. “Hotch-“

“It’s Aaron, outside of work,” he corrects you, and you see a flash of his teeth. “And you didn’t answer my question. How’s your fever?” 

You swallow. “High? I guess?” You say dumbly. 

A warm hand is pressed against your forehead and you are once again very aware of how clammy it is. “When was the last time you took something?” He asks. 

You check the time again, then do the math in your head. “Five hours ago.” 

“Where’s your medicine?” He asked. You shift in the bed, to stand up, and Hotch - Aaron’s - hand is on your shoulder. “Stay in bed. I’ll get it. Where is it?” 

“Bathroom cabinet,” you point to the bathroom. You want to protest further. You want to apologize for the mess, to ask him why he’s doing this, to ask him if he’d do this for anyone else. But you keep your mouth shut, instead rubbing the space between your brows as the inevitable headache kicks in. 

Aaron’s quickly out of your bedroom. You hear him walk into the kitchen, a few cabinets open and shut, and then he’s in your bathroom, same thing, opening and closing a cabinet. He comes back to you with a few crackers on a plate, a fresh glass of water, and your flu medicine. 

“So, let’s talk about why you think it’s a good idea to keep a spare key under the mat,” Aaron proposes as you take the medicine. You nearly choke on the water in your mouth, but manage to down it. His face gives him away - he’s not mad, not even disappointed, just smirky. Teasing and playful were not words you would use to describe Aaron Hotchner. 

Until right now. 

You open your mouth to speak, but Aaron cuts you off. “You spend your whole week working gory murders, kidnappings, terrorist threats. You know that the key under the mat is the oldest trick in the book. Why do you do it?” He asks, leaning against the wall beside your bed. 

“You can sit, if you want?” You offer, pointing to the desk chair in the corner. “Your legs must be tired from hanging out up there on that high horse.” 

Hotch just lets a low chuckle escape him as he rolls the desk chair over. He keeps a respectful distance from your bed, but still crosses his ankles and leans back, like he’s sat there a thousand times. Like he’s somehow comfortable. He looks at you expectantly, as if to say don’t make me ask again. 

“Well,” you feel a bit sheepish, because he is right. Keeping a key under your doormat is pretty dumb. “I guess I figure, most people are smart enough to not do it, so the kidnappers and rapists would assume I would be smart enough, too, so they wouldn’t even look under the mat.” 

Aaron’s expression is priceless, and he opens his mouth to say something, but you cut him off. “I’ll just give a spare to someone I trust, how about that?” You suggest, knowing intuitively that the lecture was only going to continue. 

Aaron gives you a nod of approval, and you lean back against the headboard again, stifling a yawn. “I can go, if you want to rest some more?” he proffers, rising from his seat. 

“You don’t have to,” you say quickly, uncontrollably. The words were locked and loaded in your throat before you could think twice. “I mean, I’m probably going to fall asleep soon, but I wouldn’t mind the company. For a little while.” 

You wonder how visibly red your face is.

“I just wanted to make sure you were alive,” Aaron chuckles, his polite, subtle way of declining your invitation, of making sure boundaries are still intact. You know Hotchner is a rule-follower. You admire that about him. “I’ll let you get some rest,” his hand extends, as if to reach out to you. You wonder if he’s going to touch you. His hand retracts after a moment that seems to last for an eternity. 

As Aaron walks towards the bedroom door, he turns around and smiles at you. It’s a real smile. It’s soft. You want to press it like a flower petal, between two book pages, and keep it in a jar on your bookshelf. 

“I brought you some soup for when you feel up to eating. It’s in your refrigerator,” he says. He taps his hands against the door frame. “Feel better, okay? I’ll call you tomorrow to check on you.” 

Aaron Hotchner leaves your apartment a minute later, and you fall asleep shortly after that. Your head is still pounding, and your stomach is twisted in knots, but it’s not from the nausea. 

[bbgprentiss]

Cherry lips l emily prentiss x reader

Tags: fluff, first kiss, getting together, r has a lip peeling problem (bc I do too), teeny tiny mention of blood (from the lip peeling), no use of yn

Summary: Tired of seeing you pick at your lips, Emily gives you some lip balm. That proves to be a mistake.

Word count: 1.5k

“Here.” Emily throws a stick of lip balm at you. 

It falls on your lap and you give her a confused frown. She barely holds back an eye roll; your fingers are currently pinching a rough patch of skin on your lip—the rest is already peeled off—and when you drop your hand to pick up the chapstick, she catches a smear of blood on your thumbnail.

It really is such a shame. 

You have the most beautiful lips; kissable and soft looking and she’s so often gripped with the urge to lean forward and press her own to yours, test out that softness for herself.

But you have a bad habit—you pick at them constantly, your nails catching on rough skin and peeling it off, leaving behind bright red marks that are sometimes painful to look at. It doesn’t make you any less beautiful to her—god, she wished it did—but sometimes she takes pity on those poor lips of yours. And when she was shopping for some mid-week groceries last night, she couldn’t help but toss the chapstick in her cart.

She won’t be thinking too hard about why she did that.

“Really?” You ask, turning the chapstick over between your fingers, biting your lips to hold back a smile.

Emily’s heart trips when you look up at her with a quirk of your brow; she’s usually good at reading you, but right now she can’t tell if you’re amused or exasperated.

“Since you obviously don’t own one,” she quips, sitting down on the edge of your desk. You roll your eyes and run your thumb over the plastic tube, your nail dragging over the white lettering on the side.

Cherry.

Emily definitely didn’t choose that because it’s her favorite, and she most definitely didn’t choose it because she wants to see how that shade of red would look on your lips.

“I do,” you scoff, unthinkingly bringing your other hand to your mouth. Emily grimaces as you start tearing at the skin, insistent on peeling it off.

“Hey, stop that,” she swats at your hand. You frown as your hand drops to your lap. “Put some Vaseline on or something,” she says, her brow creasing at the blood slowly blooming on your lip, “or some of that chapstick you definitely own.”

She looks at you expectantly and you huff. “Smartass.” You mutter as she turns and snatches a tissue from Reid’s desk.

Emily arches her brow as she extends it to you. “Thank you, Emily, for giving me something I so desperately needed. Oh, no problem, it was my pleasure, really—”

You laugh as you take the tissue from her and press it to your bottom lip, wiping away the little smidge of blood. 

“Thank you, Emily.” You say sincerely, looking up at her through your lashes. “I really, really appreciate you giving me this lip balm and I promise to use it till it runs out.” You vow, your voice silky smooth, fingers wrapped around the chapstick as you hold it to your heart.

Emily’s heart stumbles once more. Do you know the effect you have on her? Sometimes she thinks you do, with the way you flirt with her, but other times you drip with genuine innocence, your smiles nothing but friendly.

“Whatever,” she murmurs, her booted toe lightly hitting yours. You smile and uncap the lip balm, twisting it to reveal a stick of deep red, almost burgundy. 

She almost stops breathing when you turn to the tiny mirror on your desk and start applying it, your lips quickly tinting red, the uneven splotches of recently peeled skin disappearing. You trace it over your skin and smooth your lips together when you’re done, spreading the balm evenly before you turn back to her.

“Good?” You ask as you cap the chapstick and slip it into your pocket. Something in her grows warm at the thought of you carrying it with you. She wonders if it’ll find its way onto your nightstand tonight, if it’ll be hidden in the pocket of one of your blazers tomorrow.

Emily almost laughs at the question. Her eyes drop to your lips, just to check, as if she hadn’t been ogling them while you’ve been turned away. She can still see the edge of the rough skin you were picking at, but it’s mostly hidden beneath the red. She has to tear her eyes from your lips, still ever so perfect.

Kissable. 

“Good,” she agrees, inclining her head in a nod. “I sincerely hope you’ll keep using it.” Her voice turns sickly sweet as she smiles, dimples curving in her cheeks. Your eyes brighten at the shift in her tone.

Grinning, you rest your chin on your palm. “Aw, you wanna kiss me that bad, Prentiss?” You tease. 

She laughs breathily, the sound a little choked if you listen properly. You have no idea.

“Just don’t want those lips to scare anyone away, hon,” she taps your nose and slides off your desk, grinning when you flip her off.

She settles back into her own desk and looks across at you, her heart warming at the light blush on your cheeks, a similar pink to your lips.

“Screw you, Emily,” you grumble, but you’re not fooling anyone with your poorly hidden smile.

She winks at you. “You’ll thank me later.”

----

It’s possibly the worst mistake she’s ever made.

Ever since she handed you the lip balm, you’ve been diligently applying it. Your lips are no longer cracked or dry; they’re plump and healed, shining with a subtle pink sheen, veering into red from the lip balm.

It goes without saying that work has become infinitely harder. She can’t focus when she sees the imprint of your lips on your coffee mug, a red kiss on the rim after you tip your drink back. When you pull out the chapstick in front of her she goes blank, her eyes zeroing in on the smooth, impossibly softer looking skin of your lips.

It only takes a week before her mind inevitably slips and exposes her.

You’re smoothing your hair in the bathroom when she walks in, also intent on touching up her appearance before delivering the profile. Your gaze slides to her and you smile, those perfect lips of yours turning up at the sight of her.

“Hey,” you say as she approaches, but she’s not listening. You’re turning over the chapstick between your fingers, the sheen on your lips telling her it’s freshly applied.

Emily doesn’t return your greeting. Her gaze drops to your mouth as she steps in close, closer than she realizes. 

“Your lips look good,” she says quietly. 

Your brows lift and immediately she feels her stomach drop, a flush rising up her cheeks. “Better,” she amends, her words breathless with embarrassment, “they look better. Than before. Not chapped.”

She really should stop talking. Her mouth snaps shut as her cheeks start to flame. She should stop looking at you, she thinks as your gaze drags over her. Your eyes linger on the pink tint of her pale cheeks, her widened eyes, the flush crawling up her jaw. She swallows and your eyes track that, too, making her body heat.

Emily sees the exact moment something shifts in your expression, as if you’ve come to a decision. Absently, you rub your smooth lips together. Absently, her eyes fall to them.

“They look good, huh?” You tilt your head. You take a few steps and close the miniscule distance between you two. Her chest presses into yours; she breathes in sharply. 

“You know what, Em?” You murmur, your eyes locked on hers in a way that makes her feel dizzy. “They feel even better.”

Emily’s heart races as you slip the lip balm back into your pocket. When you lean in impossibly closer and place your hand on her cheek, she stops breathing entirely.

“We’ve been playing this game for a while,” you say, your thumb stroking the soft skin of her cheek. She leans her face into your hand, chasing your touch. You smile.

“But it’s not a game, is it, Em?”

God, when you say her name like that. When you say Em and not Emily, when you let the syllables roll around on your tongue, when you say it lazily, carefully, as if you have all the time in the world.

Her hand finds your waist. She smiles a little, through her racing heart. “No,” she agrees softly. “It’s not.”

Your skin is warm through your clothes. She hears the soft hitch in your breath, the way your skin caves beneath her touch.

“Is it okay if I kiss you?”

Emily laughs, soft and a little breathless. “Please,” she twists her fingers into your shirt, feels the material slip against her skin.

When you finally kiss her, she tastes cherries.

*I didn’t expect to write this so quickly after the first one but inspiration struck and I ran with it haha. I hope you enjoyed <33 I’d possibly like to write more for em, so if you’ve got any requests, pop in my inbox and let me know!

[mrsbuckybarnes1917]

9.1: STEVE & BUCKY

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Steve tries to convince his oldest friend that he is making a mistake.

Word count: 666

Warnings: Bucky being dumb and oblivious.

Steve found Bucky hidden away in the gym the next morning. He cornered Bucky while he was aggressively curling his biceps with a couple of dumbbells.

“Buck?”

Bucky ignored him, focusing on his weights in his hands.

“Bucky, will you stop for a minute?”

“What, Steve?” he snapped, face softening slightly after seeing Steve’s disappointed expression.

“Bucky, what’s going on with you and Cricket?”

“Nothing, nothing‘s going on with me and Cricket.”

“What happened to your birthday gift?”

“Which one?” Bucky moved to the punching bag, motioning to Steve to secure it for him.

“You know what I mean.” Steve held the bag securely in his hands as Bucky put his weight into the first punch.

“She didn’t get me a gift,” he grunted, throwing his fist at the bag again.

“What?” Steve was surprised by his response. “Cricket. I was talking about Cricket.”

“Yeah, so was I,” he answered, punching the bag again.

“Bucky, didn’t you talk to her in the kitchen? I saw you follow her there. Didn’t she explain?”

Bucky stopped punching the bag, his chest heaving with exertion. He looked at Steve, his eyes filled with uncertainty and conflict. “Yeah, she explained exactly what she thought.”

Steve frowned, not understanding Bucky’s responses. He watched Bucky’s expressionless face as he repeatedly struck the bag he was holding. He knew his best friend well enough to know that things hadn’t gone well between the two of you. “She didn’t tell you about-”

“She was perfectly clear, Steve. She made it crystal clear about how she feels about Priya, and I’m done. I’m done trying to act like everything’s normal. She’s constantly judging her, making me feel like Priya isn’t good enough for me. What does she want from me?”

Steve could see the pain and frustration in Bucky’s eyes as he continued to vent his feelings. He knew that your feelings towards Priya were causing a strain on your relationship, but he also knew that Bucky loved you deeply. 

“Buck, Cricket loves you.”

“Then why doesn’t she support me?”

“Bucky, are you really this dense? Do you really not see what’s right in front of you?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “What’re you talking about Steve?”

“Cricket loves you, Bucky. She supports you in her own way. Are you too blinded by your own insecurities to see it?”

Bucky scoffed. “She has a funny way of showing it.”

“Bucky, maybe you should talk to Cricket again. Try to understand where she’s coming from.”

“I’ve tried, Steve. I’ve tried to talk to her, to make her see things from my perspective. But she’s so stubborn, so set in her ways. She just can’t accept that Priya is a part of my life now.”

“Bucky, maybe it’s time to make a decision,” Steve suggested, desperately. “You can’t keep living in this limbo, caught between two people you care about. You need to figure out what’s truly important to you.”

“Don’t worry Steve, I made my decision.”

Steve frowned. “What do you m-”

“Oooh, so is this where the boys wonder are hiding these days? Cap,” Sharon interrupted the conversation, nodding at Steve before turning to Bucky with a small smirk. “Sarge.”

“How’re you Sharon?” Steve asked amiably.

“Stark sent me down here with this intel, he suggested we check it o- hey!” Sharon exclaimed as Bucky snatched the mission brief from her outstretched hand.

He flipped open the file, balancing it on his vibranium palm, scanning the printed words and wiping the sweat off his furrowed brow.

“Buck?” Steve questioned.

“I’ll take this one.”

“You and Cricket?”

“No, I’ll go with Sharon. You don't need to get Cricket involved.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Now why don’t you let me finish up here and I’ll join you,” Bucky glanced pointedly at Sharon, “in the hangar bay in two hours.”

Steve sighed, staring at Bucky’s back for a few moments before following Sharon out of the gym, knowing that he wasn’t going to be successful with his conversation today.

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[live-laugh-lenney]

Hey I was wondering if you could write a little something about being on tour with George and Max like how max has Andrew with him no worries if not love your writing x

oh, imagine all the mischief they'd get up to... :'))

george loves it.

he loves waking up and seeing yn in the crew bunk opposite him on the tour bus, wearing an oversized t-shirt from their merch collection, curled up underneath the blanket she'd brought to add to her home comforts on the bus. he loves cosying up with her on the sofa in the made-up living space area, munching on snacks that they would buy from the service stations they stop at on the way to each location, as they watch the world go by on their travels to the next tour location. he loves getting to stay up late with her after each show is finished, talking nonsense and having the bus to themselves as max has his snooze in the bedroom at the end. there's just something relaxing, for him, that helps him wind down after each show with her being right beside him.

she's there during the meet and greets, too.

usually sat in the background or loitering by the set on the stage as she watches the two of them hug or take gifts from those who had brought them something special, and she listens as they say hello to everyone who had paid for tickets to see them before each of the shows. and, every so often, someone would recognise yn and they'd come over and say hello to her and include her in their conversations which she absolutely adores. (and sometimes, they bring gifts just for her and she doesn't know whether to cry on the spot or hug them or do both - which george loves to see happen and he's always standing behind with a massive grin on his face as he watches her interact with his fans).

her and max would be chaos.

they'd constantly 'bicker' over george and during the london show, she would make an appearance on stage with a 'query that she needs help with' and it would simply be about how there's some guy who won't leave her boyfriend alone - much like andrew did at the recent london show at the weekend.

"tonight, we thought we'd welcome a few special guests who have a few issues of their own that we most definitely are qualified to help with," george introduces the next, and final, segment of the london show and it's the time when the audience understands why the two arthur's and herself had been announced as guests for the show, "so, without further ado, can we please welcome onto the stage... our very first guest and my very lovely girlfriend, yn!"

she's met with cheers and blinding lights shining upon her as she steps from behind the wings of the stage and makes herself known to those in the audience. her cheeks heating up, already sweating from the stage lights that were intensely lighting her up, and her legs were like jelly as she with the phone in her hand.

"i'm actually really thankful you guys chose my query," she says into the microphone once the cheers had subsided, "i think it's getting worse and i was in desperate need of some answers."

"and how may we help you, dear yn?"

"you see, my boyfriend is currently on tour with his podcast co-host and i'm pretty certain said co-host has a thing for said boyfriend," she says playfully and max feigns shock, holding his hand to his chest with his mouth gaped open, "he's very forward with advances."

"how forward?" max asks.

"well, i'm currently visiting my boyfriend and there's been times when i come back from the toilet and said co-host is in my place beside him. he likes to cuddle with him a lot, too, which makes me feel very jealous," yn frowns playfully and her brows furrow dramatically and it makes the audience laugh loudly, "i was hoping for some alone time since it's been a while since i've seen him but, i'm scared i'm being replaced unwillingly."

"have you tried anything to stop this?" george asks, trying his best to hold back the laughter that was building up within him, "maybe, we should get our own bus?"

"or, you know, you should just consider the option of a throuple?"

shepherd's bush fills with cheers and claps and george just shakes his head at how max encourages the crowd to go louder with over-the-top hand movements to increase the volume. and yn can't help but giggle as george rolls his eyes.

"a throuple?"

"i'm sure said co-host is happy to share," max looks over at george as george's eyes are trained on yn, smirks on both of their lips, "i mean, if you're happy to share, that is."

"i don't know," yn pretends to think about it, tapping her chin with her finger before she placed both of her hands on her hips, "my boyfriend is very handsome, you see, so i really understand why he's in such demand by this co-host."

"maybe said boyfriend has eyes for his girlfriend and only her?" she hears george say into his microphone as the audience cheers at her previous statement, "have you asked him that? you're very beautiful so maybe he doesn't see what's happening because he's distracted by how you are? maybe he just loves you so much that he can't see what's happening?"

max pretends to gag and yn snickers softly at his actions.

"i don't think my boyfriend would like to hear you say that, george clarke," yn teases and george stands from his seat, walking around the desk he was sat at to stand beside her, "you know what, i think i'm just being silly because the co-host is so gay. unless-"

"nope," george shakes his head and stands beside her, pressing a chaste kiss to her lips as the crowd coos and cheers at what they were witnessing. and away from the microphone, he whispers, "i love you. nothing to worry about," into her ear and it's enough for her to melt under him.

"give it up for yn, ladies and gents," max grins widely and gives her a theatrical applaud himself, standing up to give her a hug, "i feel so accomplished tonight, we've helped so many people."

and when the show finishes, like she does every night, she joins them as they do a mini meet-and-greet with those who were waiting by the stage door in hopes of seeing them after the show. and she happily takes photos with those who asked her and has conversations with those who ask her questions and want to talk to her opposed to max and george.

it's always fun and the two weeks she spends on tour is something she speaks about for ages.

mini tiktok vlogs on her days spent with them, instagram q&a's about what she got up to and what her favourite night was, posting tweets during the shows as little updates for those that never got tickets. it's like a two week holiday for her and she has the best time. xx

[atlabeth]

🧸 dare i say luke castellan fluff..... please.... CONGRATS ON 3K!!!!

summer stressed

pairing: luke castellan x daughter of athena reader

summary: summer is over, most of your siblings are gone, but you still can't relax. fortunately, luke is pretty good at it.

a/n: thank you for the request sorry that these are taking so long but thats life !! this one is for all my anxious girlies that always think they're forgetting something even when there is absolutely nothing to do (me finishing finals and still feeling like i should be doing something at all times)

wc: 788

warning(s): all fluff

“This feels weird.” 

“How does it feel weird?” Luke asks, amused. 

“We’re just… sitting here,” you say. 

“Is that a problem?” 

Your head rests on Luke’s chest as you lay in your bed together, one of his arms curled protectively around you as he keeps the other behind his head. Every so often, he trails his fingers down your arm, plays with your hair a bit, adjusts his position to make you more comfortable. 

You can feel the warmth of his skin even through his camp shirt, and it makes up for the slight chill of the Athena cabin. He’s basically your own personal space heater. You wouldn’t classify any of this as a problem. 

“No,” you say. “The opposite of a problem.” 

Luke chuckles, and you can feel his eyes on you. “Then why does it feel weird?” 

You let out a huff and sit up, turning to face your boyfriend. “Because we’re just sitting here.” 

“You’ve already said that, babe.” He smiles, and you have the urge to kiss him right there. You wonder if he knows the power he holds with that damn smile. 

“It’s too quiet,” you say, gesturing around your cabin. “It’s never a good sign when things are quiet.” 

“Could that be because more than half of your cabin is gone?” he asks. 

“My siblings are smart,” you say. “They’re good at causing chaos in silence.” 

“And if they are, that’s a problem for another day.” 

“I’m still forgetting something,” you insist. “Are you sure I’m off the clock for today?” 

Luke nods. “All the counselors get the day off from leading lessons after the last day of summer. Everyone’s off the clock.” 

“And I don’t have anything I need to clear with Chiron.” 

“You had the conversation with him about going into the city to get stuff for Jane’s party last week, and we’re taking a van out in two days,” Luke says. “Nothing else I know of.” 

“You’re sure?” 

“Positive.” 

“There’s really nothing else?” 

“Nothing,” he promises. 

You look around your cabin and shake your head. “No. No— this place is a mess. I’ve got to clean up before inspections—” 

Luke catches your wrist as you try to get up and says your name softly. “Your cabin is spotless, ace. I think I can see my reflection in the floorboards.” 

“Still, Luke,” you insist as you look at him. “There’s got to be something we should be doing.” 

“There isn’t!” he exclaims. “I’ve never met anyone more desperate to be doing busy work, babe. All that talk about us getting some alone time for nothing.” 

“I just have this feeling that I’m missing something,” you say as you shake your head.

Luke laughs again, and you find yourself smiling just at the sound. He’s just so beautiful when he’s happy. “Alright, ace. Want me to ease your worries?” 

“You can try,” you say. “But you’ve spent enough time with Annabeth to know what she’s capable of. Imagine dealing with a whole cabin of Annabeths.” 

“You may have a whole cabin of Annabeths, but I’ve got a whole cabin of thieves, pranksters, and unclaimed kids. I think I’ve had my fair share of cleaning up messes.” 

“Alright, pretty boy,” you say, your smile growing despite yourself. “Ease my worries.” 

Luke nods, and he sits up so he can be eye level with you. He’s still got your wrist in his hand, and as he talks, he absentmindedly trails his thumb over your skin. “Yesterday was the last day of summer, and half of camp is gone, including your cabin. We spent the entire day fixing things up and making sure all our siblings were ready to go and doing everything Chiron and Mr. D asked. Everyone that wanted to leave left, all the counselors—including you—executed everything flawlessly, and there is nothing left to do but relax for a bit.” 

“My cabin—” 

“You’ve already cleaned it three times,” Luke says. 

“It doesn’t hurt to do it a fourth,” you shrug. 

Luke smiles and shakes his head. “It’s spotless, ace. The only thing left to do is enjoy some well-deserved alone time.”  

You meet his gaze, that slight smile still on your lips, and Luke tilts his head. “So? Have your worries been eased?” 

“...Mostly,” you say, and your smile turns coy. “Some kisses might help me forget them completely, though.” 

Luke laughs, and his eyes gleam as they drop down to your lips for a moment. He brings you even closer with the hand still around your wrist, then he drops it in favor of slinging an arm around your waist. When he speaks, his voice is much softer, though it’s got a rugged edge.

“Now that is something I can do.” 

[darylbae]

end of season 2 when the group escape hershel’s farm from the walkers, but they all get separated including daryl and his wife/girlfriend but they don’t realise until they have made it back to the highway. Daryl is all angry and just wants to find her. basically a bunch of angst w a maybe happy ending?

you can ignore this if you don’t like it 🖤

trouble — daryl dixon ��

in which you’re separated after the fall of the farm, and all daryl wants is you.

notes:

also this won't follow the show (except the desecration of the barn) as s2 was so long ago and i don't really remember it

guys i want him so bad

You don’t really remember how it all happened. A gunshot echoed in the field, the sound resembling a small bang to your ears due to the distance. And all Hell broke loose. You were with Daryl, sat with him on the staircase, just enjoying each other's company, a mumbled conversation between you. But you couldn't remember what about, now that you'd been handed a gun and sent out to the field to keep the walkers at bay. It was no use, you knew this from the start. But this group you've been attached to likes to hold onto the ideals of hope. Daryl had jumped onto his bike, trying to pick off a few with his crossbow in the distance. But they were closing in. You could no longer hear the rumble of his bike any more, the growls and moans of the dead succeeding anything else around you. You were almost out of ammo, the gunshots were attracting more towards you, so you'd relied on your knife and stamina to create a distance. It was no use. You told yourself this, repeating it in your head as you ran round towards the side of the house. Walkers surrounded you, there was no sight of anyone else, just cars driving off. They left, they fucking left. Even Daryl? The two of you hadn't been dating for long, but to leave without you? You prayed to God you'd survive to see Daryl and give him a slap. The barn burned bright in the distance, yet the smell of smoke invaded your nostrils even as you ran away from it. There were no vehicles around for you to drive away in, you had only your legs and your knives in each hand. Determined to survive the night.

Daryl had ended up on the outside of the farm, collecting Carol and driving off. But his mind stayed entirely on you, wondering if you were alive and fighting like you always have, or left to die through his own faults. He'd decided to head towards the highway, knowing people would regroup there, knowing you'd think to go there. Only to find him and Carol were the only ones. Daylight was breaking and still no sign of you. "Fuck!" He shouted, dismounting his bike and kicking the car beside him. He rubbed his face with his hands violently, thinking, believing you were alive. "Knowing Y/N, she is alive. You know what she's done to get here, there's no way she's gone." Carol tried to reassure him, which works more often than not. But where you were concerned, it was like talking to a brick wall. "She would've come 'ere." Daryl yelled, Carol looking around cautiously as sound attracted walkers. It was a small thought in his brain to get back on his bike and go back in search for you, but he knew how stupid that would be. He knew how smart you were, and tough, but he was getting desperate. He hadn't realized how much he cared for you until there was a chance you were gone. How he thought the world and more of you, how he worshipped the ground you walked on. To think it could all be gone, it scared him. "Let's carry on, Daryl," Carol whispered to him, her hand clutching the side of his arm, as a silent means of support. "We'll find them, we'll find her. I'm sure of it." He sulked against a car, arms crossed and mind distant, thinking about where you or anyone could be. "Why don't we leave something here? So they know we were here, hm?" Carol suggested. He didn't want to go. What if you were round the corner? But he knew Carol was right. You'd end up together, the world merged your paths for a reason. The two of them drew arrows on the dusty, dirty cars. This way, trouble. Daryl wrote on the bonnet of a car. He'd climbed back onto his bike once more, Carol behind him, and they sped off. It didn't feel right.

You could see the sun was coming up, you had no clue how long you'd been walking now. You were well away from the farm, the smell of smoke faint. You hadn't encountered any more walkers since then, but you were heading to the highway, hoping someone was waiting there. Otherwise, you were alone and unarmed except your two knives. You'd left the wooded area and come onto a road, the highway you'd all found yourselves on not too long ago. Your heart quickened, you felt hope. The thing that kept your group going, that you had lost when the world turned inside out. Your pace quickened, your walking turned to light jogging turned to full on sprinting. Please, someone be there. Tell me this wasn't all for nothing. Abandoned, rusted cars. Rubbish everywhere, everything was still and quiet. There was that familiar sinking feeling. What a stupid, fickle thing hope is. You felt like crying. You'd lost somewhere that felt stable, homely. And you'd lost the people that made you feel stable and homely. Your feet dragged along the highway, head hung low with little motivation to keep going. I need a break, you thought, leaning against a car and sighing heavily. It wasn't until you looked up to the car opposite you, seeing an arrow drawn into the debris of dirt and dust. You followed it, seeing every car had a collection of arrows pointing ahead. Your eyes caught the bonnet of a gorgeous, blue car. This way, trouble. That was Daryl. It had to have been. He was the only one to call you that. Something would always happen on the supply runs you'd do together, earning you the nickname trouble. And off you went, in the direction of the arrows. Yearning for the man you so desperately wanted to see again.

Daryl and Carol had stopped at gas station. Not to get gas, that was a thing of the past. But to wait. To find resources, to rest, to make a sign alerting you of his presence. He'd grabbed some markers, Carol climbing her way up to the price board outside of the gas station, and ripping out the numbers. She scrawled TROUBLE in massive letters, hope sitting on Daryl's heart at the sight of the word. His trouble, you, were on your way. He just knew it. "Okay, when did you know you liked Y/N?" Carol asked him, the two of them sitting with their backs against the doors, barricading themselves in this small, worn down store. He thought about it, struggling to remember a time he hasn't been die-hard in love with you. Who wouldn't be? You rocked up, covered in blood that wasn't yours, like a total badass. And more than that, you were kind, caring about the group that had welcomed you in, and you just understood him. He didn't need to act differently around you. "Well when she first turned up, I thought she was cool." Daryl remembered, and Carol could see the light in his eyes just talking about you. "But I remember us out lookin' for wood for the fire, and she wouldn't stop talkin'." He laughed, now the thought turned sour. He'd happily listen to you go on for hours about nothing, if it meant you were alive to do so. "And I ended up findin' all the wood, carryin' it all back myself," he added, "but it took me away from the world a little while. And I realized I needed that. I needed her." Carol rested her head on his shoulder, her work was done for the day. Once Daryl was in his little bubble thinking of you, he wouldn't be so gloomy.

Daryl being on a bike during this journey made this so much harder on you. Had he not realized that you'd be walking this distance? You huffed, hoping to find somewhere to stop for the night, and you could see where the trees cut off, a small building sat. The ache in your legs subsided, and you tricked your mind into coping with this journey easier Just gotta get to this tree. Now just gotta get to this tree. It had gotten you to the building, which appeared to be a gas station. And your eyes caught the price board, the world TROUBLE scribbled into it. He was here.

The pair had fallen asleep against the door, but the sound of gravel crunching outside had woken them up. Sleep never came easy, and it never stayed long. Daryl jumped up, reaching for his crossbow and squeezing it, peering out through the door where the glass would've been. And there you were. Finally, his dreams had physically appeared. His prayers had been answered. Your eyelids hung low, that was until you saw the familiar face of your love. He'd pushed open the doors, running over to you and holding you close to his body. Almost blending your bodies together. He just held you, arms smug around your waist, crossbow dropped to his feet. And you were sobbing into his shoulder, hands shaking as they found his face after your embrace. You wanted to make sure this was real, that he was real. His familiar, full of love eyes staring back at yours. You giggled, pressing a few small kisses to his cheeks. And you'd slapped his cheek, not too hard, like you promised yourself you would. You heard Carol laugh from behind him, covering her mouth to suppress the sound of her giggles. "I guess I deserved that." "Why did you leave me?" You choked out, his hands how on either side of your face, taking you in. You were like a tall glass of water in this upturned world. "I'm sorry, trouble," he apologized, and it felt like just the two of you in this world for a moment, the way he looked at you felt isolating, but in a good way, he made you feel like the only one that mattered. "I'm so sorry. I was mad and thought I lost ya." You sighed, just glad to be with him. With people again. "It made me realize I don't ever wanna lose ya." Daryl admitted, and Carol had returned inside, probably to get some sleep and give the two of you some space. "I want ya talkin in my ear forever, borin me to death with whatever ya goin on about." You giggled, just happy to be in his arms, and happy to have Daryl. "Do you know where Rick and everyone else is?" You asked, Daryl's arm around your shoulders as he led you inside. He just shook his head, knowing it was tomorrow's problem. "I'm so happy I found you guys," you mumbled against Daryl's leg. Your head was stationed there tonight, to get some rest for tomorrow's journey. "Get some rest, trouble." He spoke out, smoothing down your hair with his hands, leaning his head back against a wall to get some of his own. Whatever he had to deal with tomorrow, it didn't matter. He had you now, and he wasn't losing you again.

[chaifootsteps]

speaking of garnet, since i know there's been a fair amount of SU criticism w/ pearl both during and after the show- what's your own personal thoughts on pearl (her personality, the "moving on from rose" arc, general development, etc.)?

Pearl's one of my favorite characters in SU, probably my all time favorite. I relate to her way too much, feel seen by every neurodivergent quirk she's got, and want nothing but the best for her. At the same time, I can easily see why people dislike her, which makes me all the more protective of her.

Pearl's...complicated. She's complicated in that wonderful, rich way SU characters are. She's got so much trauma, so many issues, and the narrative doesn't make excuses when they hurt the people around her, but god, she also just loves so deeply.

Also, her relationship with Steven and with Rose was just...chef's kiss. One of the arcs I'm desperately glad got abandoned was the thing with that pink haired mystery woman. The last thing Pearl needs is another dead partner and a lesson on the fragility of life.

[theonceandfuturequeenoftarts]

It happens while he’s having a long-overdue visit with Ginny. After a night of good food and alcohol and catching up, she digs her fingers right into the bruise that is his loneliness.

“So, seeing anyone?”

The short answer is no. The long answer is, frankly, depressing. 

It’s a no, but not for lack of recent effort. He retired from professional football nearly five years ago, and he hasn’t had any luck finding a partner despite going on several dates. He’s tried to meet people; his friends keep subtly (and then not-at-all subtly) pushing him in the direction of single acquaintances or friends-of-friends, but he’s been out of the game long enough that it all feels foreign to him. He hasn’t felt a spark or connection with anyone. And if one more person mentions Tinder or Grindr to him, he might stuff his phone down their throat.

Hell, his last real relationship was… Ginny. Christ, that was almost twenty years ago. No wonder his friends think he needs to be set up. But after he and Gin broke up, he was so focused on playing better, keeping his team in the Premier League, or playing in Euro Cups or World Cups. The long hours spent training and playing and travelling didn’t exactly allow for much time to meet people or date, and a lot of the people he’d meet through club events or at the bars and parties his teammates frequented weren’t exactly looking for a committed relationship. From a couple disastrous attempts, he's well aware he doesn’t do well with one-night stands.

By the time his retirement loomed, he was more excited to spend time with his friends and family – to watch his honorary nieces and nephews grow up. He’d done his best to maintain those relationships when he could, and now he’s going to enjoy the results of that effort. 

But he’s always wanted a partner – a love like he’d heard his parents had. He’s sure there’s someone out there for him; he just wishes they’d stop hiding.

“I’m going to take that as a no,” Ginny says after an embarrassingly long pause. “Oh no, don’t get all mopey on me–”

“I’m not mopey,” Harry grumbles into his beer. Ginny gives him a look. “I’m not! I just. Maybe I’m a bit frustrated. Trying to find someone is exhausting. And demoralising.”

“If you can’t find someone, what chance do mere mortals have?” she teases.

“Oh, ha ha,” he snarks. “I know you’re taking the piss, but… I think that might actually be part of the problem? Most of them want Harry Potter, but I’m just Harry. Once you take away the sports stuff, I’m really quite boring.”

“Harry.”

“What?”

“You are not, and could never be, boring. You, my friend, are a chaos magnet. Even now that you’re not one of the highest paid football players, or on the cover of Sports Illustrated, or modelling underwear, or whatever ridiculous thing, you are plenty interesting on your own.”

“Gin,” he says, feeling a bit choked up.

“There, there.” She pats his hand before leaning back in her chair, lost in thought. “So, dating isn’t working…”

“To put it lightly.”

Ginny gives him a considering look. “Have you ever thought of finding a sugar baby?”

“A wh–” He chokes on his spit and coughs. “Sugar baby?! I’m not some creepy old letch, Gin!”

She waves off his pearl-clutching. “No, but you are rich and desperate.”

“Oi!”

“Oh, hush. Why not give it a shot? One of my rugby mates used this matchmaking service and had great luck.”

“I’m not paying someone to have sex with me,” he says flatly.

“Then don’t. Pay someone to keep your lonely arse company.”

He sighs, running a hand through his unruly hair and wincing when it snags on a knot. “That just seems so pathetic…”

“Harry,” Ginny says, looking him in the eye. “You have money you don’t need, and want someone to care about. There are many people out there who would love to have that money and someone to care about them.”

And that’s a little more enticing.

“But, since I know you, I will add: Do not try to be a hero. It should be mutually beneficial,” she stresses sternly.

“You say that like I’m going to do this, but I haven’t agreed–”

“We’re going to create a profile right now.”

“Ginnyyyyyyy,” he groans. “Noooooo–”

“None of that,” she says, grabbing his laptop. “You need to build up some relationship confidence, and since the old-fashioned way isn’t working, you’re going to give this a shot.”

He finishes his drink and goes to flop on the sofa in protest.

After a fair bit of typing, Ginny calls from across the room, “Ay, Harry – birds or blokes?”

He lifts his face from where it’s wedged into a pillow enough to shout back a bleary “Both!”

Foggy memories flicker in and out of them shouting questions and answers back and forth, with Ginny eventually migrating to the sofa and asking him to look at photos.

The next morning, Harry wakes up with a nasty hangover and a message on the sugar baby matchmaking app saying he has a date that weekend.

What.

(wake-up call)

[xll]

opinion: having borderline doesnt mean youre not just fucken right sometimes.😭

[luveline]

Hey Jade!!! I was just wondering if you could do a soulmate au with Spencer please? Maybe something along the lines of those cheesy ones like the first words are tattooed on or they have the same tattoo idk, whatever you u feel like 😊

—Spencer meets his soulmate. You’re as lovely as he’s always pictured. fem, 1.3k

Someone will love me one day.

Spencer must think it a thousand times. When he has to put his mom in the sanitarium and he feels more alone than he ever has in his life, he knows one day someone will love him anyways. When he gets called ugly, too skinny, nerd, dork, and a handful of words that are even worse, he knows one day someone will say the opposite. He won’t be alone forever.

He was two when they appeared, dark black cursive words tucked against his pulse. Spencer felt ugly nearly every day of his life, wrong and weird, but the words on his wrist have never changed, ‘You’re so handsome I can’t believe it’s you.’

One day someone’s gonna look at him and see handsome.

Today, he feels pretty good. He’s back home in Washington, D.C., the grocery store he loves is open again after a long reconstruction, and they had a bunch of fruit from South America that he’s never tried before. He carries a white plastic bag full of fruit, bread and cheese back to his apartment, each step in the sunshine, the kiss of it warming his cheeks. A busker plays music near the mouth of the subway station. Nobody has yet to scowl at him for being in the way.

He’s wondering what he forgot when he sees you. You’re smiling, the sun on your face and arms, which are strangely full. Books slide against your chest, but besides a little huff and a shift of your elbow, you don’t seem to notice the slim paperback working its way through the crowd in your arms. It drops down onto the sidewalk but you keep walking. You must be in a hurry.

Spencer darts forward to your dropped book, thumb under the title. Charlotte’s Web by E. B White. The spine is flaking and soft from use.

He should call out for you. You’re already getting too far away.

Spencer crosses the road and dives deeper into the city with you. Washington, D.C. isn’t without grandeur —it’s the capital of the USA— and so he finds himself surrounded by potted trees and stretches of well tended grass. School’s broken for the day, children weaving around on bikes and scooters or holding hands with their parents taking up altogether too much space. He loses you in the crowd.

Spencer stops in defeat.

Maybe if he puts the book back in your path you’ll see it on the way back.

He’s not sure why he doesn’t. Spencer keeps your book and starts to walk home. This isn’t how he’d usually get there, but he can manoeuvre around the park.

He keeps an eye out for you. Ridiculously, he’d thought about giving the book back to you and making you smile. He hasn’t talked to anyone who wasn’t a cashier in two days.

“Hi.”

Spencer looks down. “Hi,” he says, spooked by the little girl in front of him.

“Is that for the library?”

He shakes his head regretfully. “No, I– I found it. I’m trying to give it back.”

“Okie dokie. I never read that one before.”

“I’m sorry, it’s not my book to give away… Where’s your mom?”

The little girl points at a mom and a younger child playing on the grass near a circle of benches. There’s a huge dark cabinet with its doors skewed open in the middle, and when he squints he realises it’s full of books. “Oh, is that the library?” he asks.

“Yes!” the little girl insists.

“Okay, well, here’s what we’ll do,” he says, looking desperately for you, disappointed when he can’t see a sign of your nice blue shirt or your sunny smile, “let me go see if I can find the lady who dropped this book, and if she says it’s okay, I’ll keep it for you to have. But you can’t run off from your mom again. Deal?”

The girl grins, thick hair shiny in the sun. “Deal!” she says, running in a burst toward her mother, who startles when she realises she’d left in the first place.

Spencer creeps toward the library. He can’t leave the book here now, he’s promised he’ll try to find you.

You come around the back of the library cabinet with a smile. Free Library, the sign says. Take one if you want, leave one if you can.

You stop in your path when you see him. You smile again, you’re prettier for it, lovely with the sun on half your face, your slight squint. You open your mouth to speak.

Spencer beats you to it. “Hi, I’ve been trying to catch up to you,” he says, raising your copy of Charlotte’s Web to his chest. “You dropped one of your books.”

You take a half step back.

Spencer grimaces. “I promised a little girl I’d ask if she can have it, I’m so sorry. I get stuck and I don’t know how to say no.”

Your eyes flash down to your hands. “You’re so handsome,” you say, and Spencer’s heart stops dead in his chest, your lips shaping each word without measure and somehow the prettiest anyone’s ever looked as they move, “I can’t believe it’s you.”

His shoulders sag with a deep breath.

You raise your arm to show him the contrasting font laid against your pulse. Hi, I’ve been trying to catch up to you.

Spencer shows you his. You’re so handsome, I can’t believe it’s you.

“It’s you,” he says.

You press your hand to your mouth. “I was walking too fast, right? When I was a kid I thought if I made everybody chase me that eventually somebody would have to say it, but then it stuck, and I rush everywhere I go.” Your voice turns breathless. “But you’re the person who was supposed to catch up to me.”

He smiles softly. “I think so.”

“And I just told you you’re handsome. I’m sorry, I bet that was embarrassing to… carry around, all this time.”

“It’s the best gift anyone’s ever given me,” he says honestly.

“I didn’t think you’d be so pretty,” you explain.

“I knew you would be.”

You hold your hand out. He’s about to tell you he doesn’t shake but he finds he really wants to, and you’re not shaking his hand anyways, you’re holding it, looking at the cursive on his arm with a disbelief he echoes in his own smile. You rub the tip of your thumb over the word handsome.

“Do you like books?” he asks.

You nod distractedly. “I love them,” you murmur, looking up.

His entire arm is alive with tingles.

“Do you read much?” you ask.

Every word you trade with one another has this shy longing he’s never felt, like you’re desperate to know about one another but worried you aren’t allowed to ask. Spencer’s about to tell you all about it, how he’s always reading, how books have been with him through everything, but there’s a tug on his shirt that stops him.

“Hi,” the little girl says.

Spencer laughs. “Hi.”

“What did she say?” the little girl whispers.

Spencer looks to you for guidance.

“Of course you can have it. It’s an amazing book,” you say.

“Thank you!” she says, holding out her hands.

Spencer doesn’t mind handing it over. If she didn’t ask him for it earlier, he might’ve never had the courage to look for you. He could’ve left the book in the cabinet and turned around, but he didn’t. And now he’s met you.

You step into his side. “Did you– do you want to get coffee?” You peer down at the bag now slipped from his elbow down to his wrist. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Do you want to have a picnic with me?” he asks.

You nod for so long he has to laugh. “I’d love to,” you say, offering your open hand.

Spencer threads your fingers together. That one day he always dreamed of seems a lot closer than it did before.

[relicsongmel]

The Hawthorne twins suffered more than Jesus

[trainingdummyrabbit]

angela

hi this is Really Funny but also this just got me thinking that. yknow. angela never really Did get to leave the library did she. like, regardless of if she Completes Her Plan, she still just... shes still just In The Library. all that work to Leave Her House and she just Doesnt Get To. thats fucked up

[science-lings]

imagine being Misty Fey and leaving your daughters in the care of your asshole sister who frames one of them for murder and is literally just about to do it again, knowing that the asshole sister has a daughter who killed two (debatably three) people and nearly killed another. You keep track of one of your daughter's life enough to notice that that one kid that your niece tried to kill interned with your daughter and defended your other daughter for the first daughter's murder because they met at the crime scene and became instant buddies and the first time you meet your remaining child she doesn't recognize you. You will never be able to tell her who you are because you get murdered that night.

[blujayonthewing]

reflecting on how all of my other DMs have gone above and beyond to lovingly weave my and my friends' backstory elements into the larger worldbuilding of the campaign by contrast to all of the ways Elyss' DM has gone out of his way to suppress or excise any influences her family may have ever had on anything and I'm genuinely near tears over it

[brawlqueen]

What does your heart look like?

Basically, there are three due to the aspects / facets of Mizuki throughout the two games, mainly the first game, and seeing her a bit more unburdened in the second, although I feel she is most in character in the OG game of her own route imho, and the second game I personally feel is more a focal point for the plot's twists and turns and we see a lighter, more confident, more free side to her that we didn't get to in the Cyclops Serial Killings, which had her at the epicenter as two of the victim's daughter, however unloved, among several other victims.

However, I think in each one they apply to her, as I feel Mizuki still has not 'healed' and quite frankly, it's unlikely she ever will fully heal from the horrors and tragedies of her life, but that doesn't mean she can't have a hell of an adventurous one and find some peace, someday. Some parts I took out because I didn't feel they were applicable to her!

MOLTEN LAVA AND CHARRED FLESH. your heart burned so fiercely that it burned itself out, leaving horrible scars in its wake, scars on your chest and on the hands of those who touched you the hearts of any who got close enough to connect to yours. burnt up by your own anger, passion and love. the injuries will never fully be erased, but they can be soothed with time and trust.

A CAGE WITH IRON LOCKS you are an enigma. you take care to remain that way. what is it you truly want? you'll never know if you keep your heart locked away like that. you deserve to be known, truly and fully. stop being afraid of what you might find if you open your heart up to self reflection. stop thinking no one will love you the moment they understand you. you are more than the mask you put on.

AN OPEN DOOR, A BURNING HEARTH. your chest is wide open, and your heart is a home. others are welcomed in readily, and asked to stay. you are comfort and love, everything you were never given but so desperately want to provide to others. you have built this welcoming hearth with your own two hands and will not see anyone else left out in the cold. be careful not to burn yourself out trying to keep everyone else warm.

tagged by: @dearmeats tysm quinn!!! i loved doing this ! tagging: @nulltune @zelotae @ofpersistence @colnerys @lykaiia@saizansha @hymnblood @desuetmort @nostomannia @paraleech @psychcdelica @bonescribes @auburniivenus + you!