#fandom ought to keep in mind

[stardust-falling]

I feel like fandom ought to remember that artists who are involved in official projects should be allowed to be fans just as much as anyone else.

This has a two-fold implication— first, artists like VA’s and illustrators for official novel releases should be allowed to, when not doing it for work, make whatever sort of headcanons or fanworks they want to regardless of canonical integrity. There’s no reason they shouldn’t be allowed to be an ordinary part of fandom if they want to be, or to enjoy the thing they were involved in, and they shouldn’t be held to some kind of higher standard than other fans— because when they’re off the clock, that’s what they are.

At the same time, fandom needs to understand this and not put these artists on a pedestal— meaning, not taking everything they say as word of god canon. If a VA has a headcanon about their character that isn’t confirmed by the creator, that’s just their headcanon— which is okay! Similarly, if an artist who worked on the official release posts ship art of a non-canon ship on their art account, that doesn’t make it any more canon. It just means that this fan, who happened to be involved in the official project, likes this ship. Even if their character designs are approved for the official work, that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re canon-accurate (unless you’re using a tiered canon).

Anyway, let artists be people and enjoy things without holding them to a higher standard than the rest of the fandom. I love it when fans get to work on official projects. I think that’s super great! But let them also be fans.

[ally-holmes]

Volunteer | Aaron Hotchner x Reader

My Fanfic Masterlist | Multifandom

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Reader

Reader: no use of YN, reader is a doctor, no precise description of gender or physique of reader.

Summary: You were a volunteer for the soccer team Aaron Hotchner coaches. When you decide to bite the bullet and ask the man out, he rejects you in what you felt was a humiliating manner. As you're trying to get used to your new life without seeing Hotch every week, you get called to help with a hostage situation as they need a doctor on site. The BAU is there.

NOTE: The summary is awful but I had no idea what to say without making spoilers.

Content Warning: hurt/comfort, hostage situation, inaccurate medical procedures, inaccurate baby delivery situation, explicit labor, medical complications, and lots of blood. Again, highly inaccurate, don't come at me with your medical degrees, I'm a historian, not a doctor.

Words: 6695

Rating: Explicit (Look CW)

Volunteer | Oneshot

Soccer had always been an easy sport to introduce to children in the US, that's why Haley Hotchner played with her son at any given time since he was three. Spending his fourth birthday in hiding was tough for them and Aaron could see that. When Jack kept watching the same tape repeatedly, Aaron decided to sign his son into a soccer team.

Belonging to a team gave Jack another social group away from school and an understanding of teamwork and camaraderie. It was also the perfect excuse for Aaron to keep his phone away and focus solely on his son on the weekends. Naming it an excuse might seem inappropriate, but for Aaron, having a semi-structured schedule to drive his free time helped him to push the work aside, avoiding hyper-focusing on the paperwork he took from the bureau. His implication with the team drove the other parents to ask him to coach the team, a proposition that he accepted with the assistance of his best friend, David Rossi.

Things were fine overall.

Then you showed up one weekend with Jessica who introduced you as the volunteer who was going to take care of the children's health. Aaron did his best to control his microexpressions but the sparkling look Jessica gave him behind your back spoke volumes to him.

When Jessica Brooks told you about the infant soccer league you looked at her with an arched eyebrow. You've finally graduated from med school and work as a doctor in the ER of a hospital. After three years there, it felt like your own home and the staff you worked with were your family. Jessica had become a new addition to the hospital's cafeteria, and she was so approachable and extroverted that it was easy for her to bond with the other members of the personnel.

Of course, you knew about the tragedy that hit her family when her sister was murdered leaving a child behind, and you've met Jack on several occasions. Yet, you were unable to pin down the moment, the insinuation, or the interaction that made Jessica corner you at the end of your shift to ask you if you'd be interested in volunteering your medical abilities for her nephew's soccer team.

"It's mostly scratches or sprained ankles at its worse," she insisted. "A little bird had told me you ought to socialize away from the hospital. It will be great for you!"

"Jessica…"

"Listen, Jack's dad has accepted to be the team's coach, and although I know that it has been a ruse of the soccer moms to ogle him every Sunday morning, he's going to take it seriously. Not like, he's going to be focused on winning every single match. They don't even keep scores for that age group. What I mean is that Aaron is going to concentrate on making it fun for the children, but also safe, and his medical knowledge is limited."

"You just said it's mostly scratches and sprained ankles. You don't need a doctor for that."

"Come on!! It'll be fun!!"

"Are you trying to set me up with him or something?"

Jessica scoffed, "He's way too old for you. I highly doubt you find him anything else than stern and intimidating. However, there are younger single parents. All I'm saying is that you should spend time with people away from these walls."

You cave in, as might be expected.

Aaron Hotcher was stern and pretty much intimidating, but he was also an absolutely cute little thing with the kids, sexy, and interesting. His assistant, David Rossi, was approachable and found a way to involve you in his conversations with Hotchner.

You were eager to please as a volunteer. You were very nice to the children, who seemed to attach to you almost immediately, and the parents soon rooted for you when they knew you were a medical doctor. Your awkward smile when one of the parents told you about the weird rash that had appeared on his rear made Aaron giggle inside.

From the point of view of a profiler, he could tell you had terrible social skills that you tried very hard to overcome and improve. You were more comfortable with children than with adults, maybe because you've been hurt in the past, you may have some trust issues and second guess yourself often in social situations but never in your work. He was unable to see the classic narcissism noticeable in surgeons, instead, you had a compulsive professionalism while being warm and caring. Aaron also saw some nerdiness and geekiness in you that made his heart melt without permission.

"To think that I brushed her off when she asked me if I was trying to set her up…" Jessica's voice pulled him out of his analysis.

"Is this a setup?"

"God, no. Not an intentional one, at least. I was not expecting you two to check each other out like that."

"I did not check her out."

"Aaron, it's me. I may not be a profiler, but I know your looks. You like her already and I know that as you get to know her better, you're going to like her more and more."

"It won't happen."

"Tell yourself that."

And he did. He told himself that along with other things but when he caught your eyes lingering on him when you thought he wasn't looking he felt a boost of self-esteem. Talking to you was a treat he rarely indulged himself with. The worst thing he thought he could do was to lead you on to think he felt the same because then he would lose the restraint that prevented him from falling in love again. It was too soon. You were too young. The 'what if' list got longer and longer as months passed.

That's how, after a few months you ended up crushing hard on that man that Jessica assured you was too old for you. Oh, boy, you didn't care. After the practices and matches, you stayed with Hotch to clear the place of the things you'd used with Jack's playful help, and that's what drew you closer. You found his deadpan jokes hilarious. You lived for his small smirks or full-on laughs, the tiny movements his eyebrows made when he found something amusing, the light in his dark eyes when he looked at his son laughing about what you'd said or done. Being of assistance was your main goal for the weekends and your supervisor in the ER was more than glad to fix your schedule so you could have those moments for the soccer team.

At some point, you inevitably thought of yourself as a needy puppy when you found yourself being always the first to comply with any of Hotch's requests. Due to the lack of major injuries (or injuries in any way or form), you didn't have much to do with the team, therefore you ran errands like buying snacks, or bringing gallons of water… To be honest you would've driven all the way to San Francisco if Hotch and Dave had asked you to. It was embarrassing.

Now that you were facing a pissed-off Aaron Hotchner, you were regretting accepting Jessica's push six months ago.

Mulling over your feelings for the past few weeks, you've decided to approach him and ask him out on a date. Just some coffee, really, nothing fancy. He frowned; his eyes ran through you seeing things you were fighting to hide. Little did you know that Aaron felt at the edge of an abyss.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Aaron tersely told you, and when your eyes wandered between his looking for a longer explanation, his panic clouded his mind, and he must admit was gratuitously rude to you. "With my work consisting in profiling people, do you actually believe that your behavior had been unnoticed? I've tried to put some distance between us to avoid confusing you and apparently, it hadn't worked. I don't intend to be mean, but if your sole motivation to volunteer here is to spend time with me or look at me, I think it'll be better for all of us if you stopped coming here. We don't need a doctor, anyway. The most you've done has been cleaning Travis' wound when he fell on top of a tiny rock and his hand started bleeding.

"I am sure that you are great in your work," he slowly assured you, "but we don't need your skills here. I'm doing this to spend quality time with my son, and I cannot enjoy it if my attention is on your stalking behavior."

"Stalking?" You whispered confused.

"It's not the appropriate word. I'm sorry. Just… This is a safe space for the kids to have fun, and we, parents, are here because of that. You have no connection with any of them, not the children and not the adults."

You press your lips to avoid pouting. The last thing you wanted was to break in front of him after that awful humiliation. Handing him the cones you'd collected, you had nothing else to do there, and knowing just how unwanted your presence was prevented you from saying goodbye to Rossi and Jack as you usually did.

Aaron's grip on the cones hurt his hands as he followed you with his eyes, a storm breaking in his chest. When instead of going towards Dave and Jack you kept walking out of the field, the old profiler looked at him across the field with concerned eyes. He bowed his head in shame.

Hiding from Jessica at work was easy for you, at least for the first few days after the humiliation, but on Wednesday, you decided to bite the bullet and face her. After sharing some pleasantries, you smiled sadly at her before telling her what you actually wanted to say.

"I don't know if Hotch has told you, but I asked him out for a coffee. He rejected me, of course," you laughed self-depreciatingly. "Um… I'm going to quit volunteering on the soccer team. Could you make sure he understands it is because I cannot face him after how he did it, and not because I'm unable to stop stalking him?"

"He said you were stalking him?"

"Not exactly. He said I had stalking behavior, apparently. I didn't notice. I– I've been fighting very hard to act normal around him. I promise that if he had just rejected my advances I would've kept my volunteering. I mean, it would've been awkward but I really do enjoy being out there. He made it pretty clear that I've been making him uncomfortable, and that's something I can't gut. Um… So, yeah, that's that."

Hotchner did not have it that easy to hide from his sister-in-law. Jessica narrowed her eyes at him when he came back home from a long work trip in Texas. As he asked about Jack, worried that her sour mood had to do with something regarding his son, she sighed crossing her arms.

"You told her you felt stalked? Really?"

Understanding washed over him.

"I might've misused the word," Aaron took accountability for his mistake.

"I cannot believe you can be so dumb! Aaron, she likes you! And you like her too, don't try to lie to me."

"She's too young and–"

"You're scared. That is normal, but listen to me, you deserve to be happy again. I'm pretty sure that a doctor will understand your crazy schedule better than anyone else. Why are you doing this to yourself?"

"It's done. Forget about it."

Pressing her hands against her eyes, Jess tried to calm down her anger. "Fine. I'm going to leave you alone, just one thing, Aaron, you've hurt her pretty badly and if you don't fix your mistake soon, you're going to miss your opportunity. She's a nice person, and she deserves better than to be humiliated that way."

"It wasn't my intention."

"Just because there was no ill intention in your behavior, does not mean that you're innocent of the damage you've caused." Gathering her things, she headed out the door. "Oh, and by the way, she asked me to tell you that she won't be volunteering for the team anymore. Not because she's unable to stop stalking you, but because the way you're rejected her made her believe that her presence is unwelcome and makes you uncomfortable, so… Well done."

Aaron did not give much thought to that until the weekend rolled over and you weren't there. While the parents and guardians were concerned about your well-being, the children stubbornly refused to start without you on the field because in their minds you were an essential part of the team, just as the coach was. Dave caught him lost in his mind more than once, but he never said anything out loud.

Three weeks after leaving the soccer team you were still surprised at how much you missed it. Weaver gave you all the hours you asked for to work on the weekends in order to fill your mind with work instead of daydreaming about how much fun the kids must've been having. Jessica told you once that Travis had scratched his knees but refused treatment even from his dad as he cried calling for you. That touched your broken heart; knowing that the little ones appreciated your presence even if it was irrelevant meant so much to you.

That Sunday you'd been working since Saturday morning treating everything from mild intoxication to hardcore injuries. Adrenaline was still pumping in your veins as you tore the yellow gown off to deposit it in the bin with the gloves you just used on the car-crash patient that Coleen was taking to the OR. Cracking your neck, you grabbed your white coat from where you'd dropped it to attend to the emergency. Slipping it on top of your scrubs (a patient had vomited on you during the night which forced you to change clothes) you approached the admission desk.

"Got something for me, Jerry?"

"Take your pick," he pointed to the row of histories.

"That's not fair! How is it I cannot pick?" said a petulant voice next to you.

"Because you're a student, Natalie. Here, take this. Seems the patient needs sutures."

"That's all I'm doing. Sutures, sutures, sutures," she mumbled as she went to gather the patient.

That's when a known figure caught your eye in the waiting room. Frowning, you looked at the histories, finding two familiar names. With the documents in your arms, you cross the waiting room towards them.

David Rossi was nursing his injured arm against his chest, standing next to Aaron and Jack, who were seating in the waiting room. He saw you at the admissions desk looking through the histories before taking two of them and walking straight towards him. That's when he knew it had been a good idea to make Aaron drive them to this concrete hospital. Aaron's eyes were locked on his son's injury, therefore he tensed slightly when he heard your voice after so long.

"Why, good morning, Jack," you cheerfully greet the young child that's sitting in his father's lap, who was pressing a towel against his son's head. "Didn't you have a match today?"

"I got hurt," the boy pouted although you could see he was enduring the pain.

"Why won't you come with me? Come with us, Dave," the man nodded with a glint in his eyes.

You haven't even glanced at Aaron's face, afraid that you may compromise your patient's needs by remembering the humiliating rejection you've suffered.

When he gathered the courage to look at you, his heart clenched in need as, for the first time since he'd known you, your beautiful eyes never landed on him. Not even once.

With Jack seated on a bed in the ER, you removed the towel finding a small wound surrounded by dry blood. It was puffy and bluish. Rossi explained that Jack had passed out while on the field and he had launched to get him, failing, and hurting his wrist on the landing.

"Very well, Jack, I'm going to ask you to do something for me," you said putting your penlight away after looking at the response in his eyes. "I want you to touch your nose with your fingertips, then pull the arms as far away as you can, and touch your nose again," you demonstrated what you wanted and the boy did it without trouble. "Well done. Now follow my finger without moving your head. That's right… Very good, Jack. Give me your hands. Grab mine as hard as you can. Good. Now," you put your hands on top of his feet, "try to push my hands up. As hard as you can. There you go. Okay.

"I'll listen to your heart now." After that and checking his reflexes, you sat on a small stool by the bed and asked him a few questions to evaluate his mental state. He was shy at first, but then he started babbling coherently, which was a good sign. "Jack, did you feel bad before the match?"

The boy looked at his dad and at Rossi, "No."

"I might not be a profiler, but that seems like a lie to me. Do you want to try again?"

"I– I had a tummyache."

"When you went to the bathroom, was your poop very liquid?"

"Yeah…"

"You didn't tell your dad?" Jack shook his head, regretting it immediately. "Why not, sweetheart?"

"I want to spend time with him, but if he's the coach and I can't play, then I have to go with Aunt Jess or look from the sidelines. That's not fun."

"Perfectly understandable. Does your tummy hurt still? No? When was the last time you ate something?"

Opening the history, you scrabble and check several squares before facing Aaron Hotchner for the first time, pulling your most professional façade on. He was waiting, observing every single move with his arms crossed over his chest.

"I don't see any symptoms of concussion. Jack doesn't even react badly to the light when pointed directly at his eyes. I believe that he's caught the stomach bug that's been running among children for the last few weeks and he's dehydrated due to the diarrhea.

"I'm going to run some blood tests, just to be certain. Although the headwound is superficial I'm aware that you'll feel better if we take some X-rays. I'll give him some fluids, clean the wound, and he'll be free to go if the tests come back clear.

"Once at home, lots of liquids. Water, Gatorade… Bland food, the usual. Keep him awake at least until his bedtime, that way you'll be aware of something bad happening. It's not going to happen anything bad, though."

He nodded, unable to find his voice after feeling the way your eyes stabbed him. Aaron Hotchner made a life out of analyzing people and he could see how hard you were trying to stand composed in front of him, to hide how strongly he had hurt you.

"Now you, Dave," you palped his wrist and scrunched your nose. "It's not broken. I think it's dislocated. I'm going to send you to X-rays with Jack, that way you keep each other company, and we'll see what's the situation with your wrist before trying to put it in place. Any questions? None? Good. Haleh," you called the nurse, "blood tests and fluids for the little man. A round of X-rays for both of them."

"On it."

"Need some help!!" Carter yelled while running towards the entrance of the emergency where an ambulance was dropping an injured and bloody patient.

"I'll be back when the X-rays are done," you promised the three men before running for the second ambulance. "What do we have?"

As the paramedic was explaining the patient's situation, she started to code which made you copy one of Carter's most dramatic moves and jump on top of the gurney to start compressions as the paramedics kept pushing it toward box two.

"That's really cool," Jack whispered mesmerized by the display of action. Aaron caressed his son's head with love.

Time went by, busy as always in the ER so your hands were full with both complicated and easy cases. Rossi, Aaron, and Jack spent the time waiting for the X-rays before waiting in the ER again; it didn't annoy them much, and they understood how it worked. Overall, they were all aware that they would still be waiting for their turn if you hadn't been working that day and saw them in the waiting room.

You were exhausted when you saw the three men again. Haleh handed you the X-ray complaining about how rude the technicians were when overloaded with work. Greeting them again, you put Jack's rays on a light panel close by.

"Look, Jack. This is your head. Can you see these circles? Those are your eyes. Now, this is the side where you had hit your head. There's no trace of damage in the bone," you looked at Hotch to make your message clear. "I can see that the fluids bag is almost empty. That's a good sign. Blood tests came back clear as well. Jack is fine. As I said before, liquids and bland food until the stomach bug is over.

"Let's see Dave's hand now…" You changed the rays. Rossi's wrist had been dislocated, as you thought.

Getting ready the needed stuff for the cast before placing the wrist in place, you explained everything to Jack who watched your moves like a hawk. Using Rossi's distraction, you pull his hand, putting his bones in place. It hurt him, and he cursed under his breath so you gifted him with your most innocent smile.

"You need the cast to avoid hurting your wrist more. Be more careful, David."

"As you say, Doc."

Carter's voice calling for you prevented you from pointing out his age. You turned to see him pointing to the board. Right, your shift must've been over three hours ago. Thumbs up you wink at him before turning your attention to your patients once again.

"I'm going to put you in the cast while Jack's bag completely empties, and then you guys can leave. Sounds good?"

"Who is that?" Jack asked.

"Doctor Carter," you simply say, focusing on the cast.

"Is he your boyfriend?" the child insisted. Aaron tensed with his son's boldness.

"Nope."

"Jack, it's not nice to ask those questions," Hotch reprimanded, making him pout.

"I just want to understand why she's not coming anymore." That admission stabbed him right in the heart.

"I'm not coming because you don't need me, Jack," you smiled at him. Another stab clenched Hotch's chest, he'd told you that.

"But we want you there!! It's not the same without you."

"That's very sweet, but it doesn't change the situation. This is done. Haleh will take that out of you, Jack. Be good," you pointed to both of your patients, ignoring Aaron once again.

Leaving them behind, you approached the admission counter to fix the paperwork when Carter cornered you with his cheeky expression and half smile. You rolled your eyes, putting your arms up in surrender.

"Fine. Fine. I'm leaving. See? This is me leaving."

"You better get out of my ER before another ambulance comes by."

"Meany."

"Out."

Rossi hummed watching the interaction just as Aaron's jaw set in distaste. "Is that jealousy or envy?"

"Not now, Dave."

It didn't take you too long to get ready to leave the hospital, and just at the moment you were crossing the doors you saw an ambulance come to a halt. Standing on the tip of your toes, you try to take a good look at the patient but Carter gave you 'the look' and you gave up. You just wanted to keep yourself busy. It was lunchtime and although you wanted to eat, you didn't want to do it all alone in your small apartment.

Walking towards the bus stop, you pulled out your phone thinking about ordering from the Indian restaurant close to your place and picked it up on your way. With a sigh, you decided you were not that hungry anyway.

Once in their home after that long morning in the ER, Aaron tried to pry the real feelings from his son, who openly told him that yes, he missed you and that he thought that you two were going to date in the future.

"You smile way more when she's on the team, Daddy," he had told him.

His resolution was clear, he was going to confront you, take accountability for his mistake, and beg you for a chance. Work prevented him from doing it right away.

You didn't hear from the Hotchner men or David Rossi for the next few days, which you anticipated, but when Saturday rolled up you found yourself in an ambulance next to Doctor Carter and Nurse Patton running to attend a hostage situation.

The place is a grocery store. Hostages are pressed against its windows to prevent the shooters from having a visual of the suspect. There's a control area with local agents and the FBI, and as you're led there by an officer, you locked eyes with Aaron Hotchner. He seemed composed and focused, but the moment he saw you his frown deepened and his skin ashen.

The three of you were introduced to the agents and you let Carter take control of the situation. He's older than you, your superior, and he had proved his leadership countless times in the hospital.

"The unsub is desperate. He is a father who's seen his world crumbling in the last few months as social services threatened to take his children from him," Rossi explained to all of you.

"He's compassionate with other people but he won't hesitate to kill in order to keep the custody of his children. He has asked for a medical team as there's a wounded hostage and a pregnant woman in terrible pain," the agent introduced as Emily Prentiss continued.

"He is reckless. He's cornered and that makes him dangerous. Under no circumstance try to approach him, antagonize him, or contradict him. Understand? He's volatile at this point and if he believes that you are the enemy, he will kill you on the spot." Although Hotchner's words were meant for the three of you, his eyes never left you for too long.

"Is there any plan?" Carter asked.

"He'll be distracted with you there. You just have to focus on doing your job. There's a CCTV system with video and audio that still work. We have eyes and ears on you."

"Fair enough. Patton, when we get in, you and I will attend to the wounded. You," Carter pointed at you, "go to the pregnant and check on the baby."

"Understood."

"Let's get you inside."

Following Agent Morgan to the end of the perimeter your heart quickened its beating rate pumping your blood faster through your veins boosted by the adrenaline raising in your system. The unsub, as the FBI called him, ordered the bunch of you to show that you weren't armed before allowing you to enter.

The man, in his late fifties but athletic, was sweating profusely. His eyes never focused on a spot for too long. His hands were running through his hair, drying his face, fidgeting anxiously. Saying that he was unstable was a huge misunderstanding. When Carter asked for his name, the man mumbled Eli almost unconsciously before cursing and aiming at the doctor with his gun claiming that they weren't there to talk to him.

Carter calmly explained his plan of action to Eli before proceeding. Patton and Carter found the wounded victim bleeding in abundance from a bullet wound in his thigh. As they worked fast and efficiently on it, Eli hovered over them with guilt written all over his face. The man kept promising that it had been an accident, that the gun had shot itself because the victim kept talking and talking. Carter deemed the wound not life-threatening itself as it hadn't pierced the artery; however, Eli wasn't sure how long it had been since the man was bleeding, which made the situation delicate still.

Meanwhile, you've approached the pregnant woman asking for her name with a soft calming smile on your face. Patty was focused enough to tell you that this was her first pregnancy, that she had gone to the grocery store craving pickles and peanut butter, and that she was in huge pain that had increased in the last few minutes. Putting on some gloves, you informed her that she needed a pelvic exam to see if everything was alright, but you started the exploration by touching her belly and auscultating both her chest and her belly in order to find a trace of the baby's heartbeat if possible. After that, you pulled up her dress finding a concerning hemorrhage.

"Alright, Patty. Can you tell me how often it hurts?" You removed her bloody underwear before proceeding to the exam and… "You're in labor."

"No. No. No. There's no way. It's early still. It's early."

"That makes your baby a bit impatient," you joked kindly.

The most important thing was that Patty remained as calm as possible, which wasn't much. After noticing how dilated she was, you found the baby's head ready to start its journey into the world. Then you palpated it. The umbilical cord was surrounding the baby's neck. As Patty started to scream you could feel the baby moving forward as she was pushing.

"No, Patty. Don't push."

"It hurts!"

"I know it does, but you can't push just yet. Mister Eli," you called for the unsub, "this woman is in labor and she needs a hospital."

"She's not leaving!!"

"I'm not making a suggestion, I'm stating a fact," you sternly answered piercing him with your determination. You weren't scared of him. "If this woman and her baby die here, it would be your fault."

Eli ran towards you pushing his gun to your forehead, you didn't even blink refusing to show weakness. "Then do your job."

"Oh, I'm going to. I'm not a miracle worker, though. And I need help."

Outside, in the control center, Aaron was losing his cool. On the inside, of course, he rarely broadcasts his emotions. Dave knew him well enough to put his castless hand on top of his friend's crossed arms to give him support.

"She's strong," whether it was a statement or a reminder, they didn't know.

The fact that you weren't cowering under Eli's aggressive behavior broke his resolve allowing two of the hostages on the windows to help you. One of them volunteered because she was a med student; she had been helping the wounded man before the arrival of the ambulance. You asked her to monitor Patty as the other volunteer helped you handing you whatever you needed at the moment.

Trying to calm down Patty, you winked at her as if saying that her condition wasn't as grave as you'd told the unsub. Focusing your senses on your hands, you tried to remove the umbilical cord from the baby's neck without hurting it or the mother. It took some time and deep breaths but in the end, you were able to move it around freeing the neck. Patty was close to collapse, sweaty and exhausted. You asked her to push with every contraction. Head out. Another push and there came the shoulders. Another big one and the baby was limp between your hands, blue and unresponsive. Clamping the cord, you cut it before depositing the infant on top of a bunch of towels the volunteer had gathered from the end of the store for you. You start the baby's reanimation.

"She's passed out," the med student told you anxiously.

Without stopping your compressions you saw Patty unconscious, bleeding way too much.

"Carter!!"

"I'm not done yet," he shot you a look across the place.

"Fuck… She hasn't expulsed the placenta yet, Carter."

"She has to go to a hospital," Carter spat to Eli.

"No one is leaving until they gave me my children back!!"

The newborn made a complaining sound before starting to cry. Taking a deep breath, you auscultated her to make sure that everything was fine. You wrapped her on the towels and handled her to the volunteer with the order of keeping her warm and to make sure that if she stopped breathing at any moment, you were called.

Turning your attention to Patty there wasn't much you could do at the moment. Her heart rate was decreasing, and she kept losing blood. There was a hospital a mile away, she could make it and they would be able to help her before it was too late.

"Under no circumstance try to approach him, antagonize him, or contradict him," Hotchner's words danced in your head as you got up from the floor peeling the damp gloves.

Fuck it.

"Are you happy now?" You spat at Eli. Carter's patient was receiving CPR uselessly.

"Don't move," Eli pointed his gun at you.

"You know? The officers out there told us that you were a compassionate man. That you just wanted your children back. I thought I could understand you then, you were just a father loving his children and wanting to be with them."

"Exactly!! I'm–"

"You're not," you calmly cut his outburst shocking him. "You're a disgusting piece of garbage. Did social services take your children? Well, if you behave out there just as half as you did here I'm surprised they didn't take them sooner."

"Shut up!!"

There was a commotion outside when Aaron grabbed his gun and headed towards the perimeter, Morgan and Rossi caught him before he could even take a step away from them. Dave took the gun out of his grip.

"What's wrong with you?" Morgan demanded.

"She's going to get herself killed!"

"I know this is tricky for you, but you can't just break protocol, Aaron."

"Dave, she's inside and–"

"She's giving us an opening," Reid's absent voice ran through them. "Look, he's so focused on her and their argument that we can approach the store and take him without him noticing."

After a moment of studying the situation, Hotch took his gun again and nodded. "Let's get ready."

They put on the earpieces that kept reproducing the conversation that was taking place inside the store in order to give them the correct tempo.

"Look at what you've done," you pressed. Your voice was low and stern, completely calm as you kept approaching him cornering him against the counter of the store without him noticing. "A woman that still had time to become a mother, is now dying on the floor because of you. A man is dead because of you."

"It was an accident. I– The gun–"

"They could've lived if you had left them to leave to a hospital. Compassionate, they said," you snorted in mockery. "You're just a selfish bastard that would kill his own children if they disobeyed."

"That's not true!! Not true. I never touched them. I– I'm a good man."

"You're a murderer. Funny thing how you assumed your children aren't here yet because the police won't take them, but you know the truth, don't you? They don't want to have anything to do with you."

"No!"

"They know what you are and they don't want to be with you."

It was fast. One second Eli was an anxious and sweaty mess moving from side to side with unfocussed attention, and the next he was ready to shoot you between the eyes. However, your change was just as fast. One second you were approaching him slowly, and the next you hit him in the face with your elbow in a perfect move. Eli lost his balance falling face-first to the floor. You kicked the gun away before he grabbed you, pulling you underneath him. He punched you in the face before Carter hooked his head with his arm tearing him away from you. The door burst open and the FBI took Eli away.

In the mess that was taking the unsub away from the store, checking on all the hostages, and guiding the EMT to the injured, Aaron was unable to take a proper look at you which made him feel antsy.

With Patty and her baby in an ambulance and all the hostages safe, except for the wounded man that had perished, Hotchner approached you. His stern demeanor hardened his set jaw and frowning brow.

"We had video and audio from the inside. What you did was reckless. What were you thinking? Did you not pay any attention to what I had to say before you got in? Eli Marsh could've–"

"I did my job, Agent Hotchner. I'm a doctor and my job is to help people in need. My patient was losing blood and she needed a hospital, so I got her out of there. I'd do it again if needed."

Before he could say something else, Rossi called for you to make your statement.

Aaron saw you leaving with steady feet and felt his chest puff with pride at how brave you'd been. Dave's look in the distance made him take a deep breath and handle the situation as the Unit Chief he was; he needed to clear his mind.

Back at the office, the team dispersed to complete their paperwork. He had no idea how long he'd been surrounded by papers to fulfill, but as he was writing his statement, his mind wandered away, and the images of you confronting and insulting a volatile unsub with such a strong stance and calm tone assaulted him.

A soft know in his office door pulled him away from that helpless memory. David Rossi observed him with those profiler eyes.

"Yes?"

"Stop being this stupid, Aaron. Go to her."

"I'm not done."

"There's no rush. Plus, Morgan and I will take care of all the paperwork that doesn't need your direct participation."

Looking out of his window to the bullpen he saw his whole team looking back at him. They all knew.

"Go." His friend insisted.

Despite the dangerous situation and nerve-wracking job, you had to perform that day, you went back to your hospital to check in with your bosses. Weaver gave you, Carter, and Patton the rest of the day off as well as the day after that. Patton left immediately, but Carter and you procrastinated for almost two hours in the staff room talking about the day.

When Carter decided he had energy enough to go home, he offered you a ride and you gratefully accepted. Heading out of the ER door, it took you a couple of glances to acknowledge that the silhouette you were seeing was actually there and not a side effect of the stressful day you'd had.

"Go ahead," you told Carter. He looked between the man and you as the distance shortened. He didn't seem pleased with leaving you alone but did it nonetheless. "Agent Hotchner," you greeted him. "Is there anything else I had to do with the case today?"

Shying away, Hotch fixed his tie, "This isn't an official visit. I just– Are you hungry?"

"That depends. Why are you asking?"

"I want to buy you dinner."

"Why?"

You weren't going to make it easy for him and when he noticed he smiled slightly. "Because I like you and I've been an asshole lately and today I– I was terrified when I saw you come down from the ambulance. I'm not ready to have you out of my sight."

"That sounds concerning."

"I'm sorry about what I said when you asked me out. I– I pushed you away because I wasn't sure about how long I could keep my distance. I wasn't fair and I know it. This doesn't have to lead to anything, but…"

"Nothing fancy, though."

Smiling more broadly, Aaron nodded. "Nothing fancy," he promised making a gesture towards his car.

The end.

[spacebeyonce]

so I was on twitter and I see this tweet. and it's a screenshot of a fic writer who is pulling their writing that they worked on for around six years due to plagarism and lack of engagement. the screenshot shows them in the A/N saying the next chapter will come out if they get x amount of comments, like back in the early oughts. I don't really think it's a big deal so I don't pay that part no mind.

but I checked the QRTs...and it's people saying the author is entitled, that they have a big ego, that this is just for fun and they should be doing this for themselves, and if they are only doing this for engagement then they're just miserable, and that this is just a hobby, and no one's entitled to getting responses, and like. I have. Thoughts. Opinions, if you will.

I was talking with stace about it because I feel insane?? like being in fandom is so different compared to when we were younger...it's so...idk. my lip started curling up at how many people were saying that the author was asking for too much, that they're entitled because they are just grateful for getting two kudos or they got one comment and it made their entire week. and like. stand up. STAND UP!!! WANT MORE. YOU'RE ALLOWED TO WANT MORE!!

'you're supposed to be writing for you! you should be drawing for you!' yeah sure but we're sharing this shit with y'all for a reason. if I was just doing this for me I'd keep it to myself like I did when I was a kid.

because sure. this is a hobby. this is something we should just be doing for fun. but is it really so entitled to want more responses, more engagement? more dialogue? people loooooove to parrot the idea that fandom is all about community, it's all about creating and communicating and having fun with each other over art and writing and all that shit. people love to say that! but when artists talk about how not great it feels to share something they worked on forever and barely getting anything back it's a problem.

maybe it's because I'm getting burnt out. I'm tired. passion can only get one so far, and after a while it gets tiring after a while, putting something out with that passion and not getting much in return.

[saint-vagrant]

wooooof. i don't keep up with "anti/pro" "shipping" business so when i see it broadcasted or there's an uptick in people finding my work who have some variant on suicide-baiting in their bios, i just gotta say, for my part, it's totally alienating. fandom terms for a fandom lens and i'm not in that scene or writing/reading/curating my interests with that framework in mind at all. i don't want it explained to me. particularly not as (for example) libraries and schools are gutted by budget cuts and under fire from fascist "think of the children" TERFs. the big companies would be doing it regardless, but i don't want to lend credence to reactionary behaviour during the ongoing, full-scale crackdown on sex work that's jointly helped destroy the livelihoods of performers, artists, in turn public transness and queerness. i certainly don't care about this when exploitative opportunist publishers big and small can't say one word about Palestine, and actively punish anyone who does, while signing deals with zionists. among other things.

do you think that when i call myself a "transsexual leather faggot and pervert" that i'm joking? this is hard-won and i'm reasonably proud of it. why would i joke about that? or is following me a guilty secret that only you and i know about? i can accept that someone else's attachment to Concepts and Ideas, sexuality, symbols, reality, might still be developing (i think it develops forever!) or even comfortably shallow or anxiously tenuous, but i actually want to be treated with the consideration, seriousness, and respect that i deserve. i don't think anyone ought to automatically trust my art and stories are designed for them and therefor "safe" solely because they like the presentation (though they should still try 🖤) BUT, IF the presentation is all that matters, then the content, context, experiences and ideas within or which motivate them, should be of no major concern. right?

i began SUPERPOSE in my 20s and now i'm in my 30s. my art is a safe place for me, but i'll always invite people in— and it's not like i can stop anyone from seeing it, really— because it's a means of communication. i am moved to express something that only art, comics, in their multifaceted format, can accomplish. i'm driven to share it. this is an act of trust. i know in my narratives i don't do a tonne of hand-holding, and unless prompted (which is welcome) i usually don't explain in a footnote how a given moment or action should be taken, because it's a story, driven by the characters. interpret "mature" however you'd like but i do intend my stories be for "mature readers" and i'd like my art to be treated that same way. thank you!

[elvisabutler]

a love supreme seems far removed

summary: it appears old wounds between you and professor presley die hard after one particularly pleasurable but exhausting incident. fandom: elvis presley | elvis ( 2022 ) rating: m pairing: professor! elvis presley ( big daddy flavor ) x student! female reader ( nicknamed belle ) word count: 2462 warnings: big daddy elvis. elvis using a walking stick/cane. implied praise kink. student and professor relationship ( everyone is of legal age ). use of the derogatory name jezebel,in a negative way toward oneself. caning in a sexual way/sexual punishment way. negative self talk. dom/sub dynamics though not explicitly stated. near use of a safe word. sub drop. mild daddy kink? it's there, belle calls him that once or twice and elvis refers to himself as big daddy once. abandonment issues. author’s note: so this was sort of an accidental fic. once upon a time an anon came into my inbox and mentioned liking my fic about belle and professor presley with belle experiencing sub drop. i had never written that but between my right hand woman for belle and elvis @butlersxbirdy ( seriously, y'all she is the reason this entire series exists ) and my baby girl @stylespresleyhearted going "OKAY BUT CAN YOU DO IT THO I WANT IT." this fic was born. special thanks as always to my discord wives, christi and marina and for kicks also bee who i made love big daddy with these two. as always i love the love this fic series gets and truly i live for comments and questions regarding it or any of my serieses/fics. hell, the reason this series is a series is because y'all keep requesting more stuff from it. pay no mind to the moodboard as far as physicality goes or ethnicity, i just basically fell in love with her face because of daisy jones and she's got the right vibe.

It's funny, you think, how once upon a time the things you do with Elvis were things you shied away from with your other- partners if you could even call them that. There's something to be said about the sheer ease at which Elvis puts you in to make you agree to anything. You figure it's because you know he'll always take care of you. You figure it's because of how he'll stop if you cry out in more than just a pleasurable pain. No, he'll make sure you're alright, make sure his precious Belle, his angel sent from God himself is alright.

Smack.

A low keen leaves your mouth at the sting of his cane against your ass, hitting a spot still a bit tender from a week ago. Elvis had asked if you were alright with this, asked if you were ready to take this on this soon and it had been an easy question to answer. Of course you were alright because you had been the one to ask for it again. It's not that you needed it- craved it every second of the day but you knew very well you had nearly gotten yourself and him in some very hot water. It deserved more than his words of admonishment murmured against your neck and your hair. It deserved the caning that he rarely brings out but that you know tends to set you straight. Tends to keep you in line in a way you'll both never admit or question beyond these moments when he uses it. Your hand starts to move toward your ass, wanting to rub the spot that's sore before—

"Hands on the bed. Ya know better. Keep 'em where they're 'posed t'be," Elvis commands as your hands settle back against the bed. Back to where they ought to be because Elvis- Big Daddy- Professor Presley told you to keep them there.

"Elvis—" you start before another smack of the cane has your ass jiggling and has him chuckling a little as his ringed hand palms the area. You hiss.

"Ya asked for this, 'member? Told me ya needed the lesson, hm? Needed t'be 'minded that ya need t'be good, right? Keep that tongue o'yours in check. Doin' so good, Y/N. Doin' so good. What number we on?"

Your mind, fuzzy as it's becoming can focus on the number, can focus on something, settle on something that allows you to not float completely away. The grounding element of everything that keeps you tied to the Earth, tied to him and your life together. Your mouth opens and one single word falls out, "Three."

"Outta five, that's right, Belle. But ya haven't been countin' 'em out loud, have ya? Been tryin' to keep me from hearin' ya? Hearin' what my cane does to ya?" Elvis allows himself to lean against you, to press his stomach against your burning backside, his own warmth both a balm and an irritant against it. His chest hair scratches at your skin and earns a light whine as some rubs just the wrong way, the friction unwanted for now.

"Yes," you whine, arching your back as if to tease when really you only want to chase after the feel of the cane, of his body against yours in order to float and to feel safe. At your arch, he moves off of you and brings down his cane once more, this time closer to your vagina, in that dip where your thighs and butt meet. The part where his hands would grip and squeeze and slap when you rode his cock or his thighs. The number slides through your brain and into your mouth. "Four!"

You hadn't meant to shout the number but the sting overwhelmed you, the sting almost had you telling Elvis to stop, that this was too much too soon after the last week. It stopped though, the urge to tell him to set down his cane and pull you into his arms stopped. Still, even with your lack of asking, there's a pause with Elvis, a pause that has him leaning against you once more, his hand automatically starting to palm your ass. "Y'alight?"

He expects an honest answer out of you as you expect honest answers out of him when he wants to pretend his body isn't betraying him and hurting him. The bright side of when you do things like this, when you trust him to remind you to be a good girl- a good woman- you'll always tell him the truth.

A nod is what you manage before your body slumps forward just a little, the effort of holding yourself up on your hands against the bed becoming just a bit too much to handle. Elvis ought to stop right there and he knows it, can see an exhaustion settling into your body but a promise is a promise and he allows himself one final smack of the cane, lighter than all the others at the most fleshy and least bruised part of your behind.

"Five," you murmur against the sheets of the bed, your eyes a little glassy as he moves the cane to the side and tries to pull you up to a standing position. He manges it just barely but you lean against his chest, hand snaking up his chest to run your fingers through his chest hair. "Shower?"

You think it's you who asked for a shower but you're not sure, not sure with how your clit throbs and aches as it always does when Elvis does this to you, whenever you do something similar to this. Whenever he disciplines you like you deserve to be, because a simple talking to wouldn't have done, your body needed to know what was at stake. Whoever asked didn't matter as Elvis helped you walk to the bathroom anyway, his hands moving between your legs, playing with your clit, sliding his fingers between your folds gently as you rested your body against his own. It doesn't take long to finish the shower, doesn't take long for Elvis to wrap you in a towel and dry you off, only detaching himself to grab pajamas for both of you. You hadn't been this way last week but it had been earlier in the night, perhaps you were just tired from the day.

The bed sheets and Elvis provide a warmth that finally drags you into the land of sleep willingly and gladly.

It's cold.

It shouldn't be cold, you think. Elvis runs as hot as a furnace and usually makes you so hot that you have to slip from under the covers in the middle of the night. Your eyes blink to try and adjust to your surroundings and you realize it is the middle of the night. Why is it cold in the middle of the night?

Your heart lurches in your chest, moving upward to your throat as your hand moves to Elvis's side of the bed only to feel cool emptiness beside you.

Elvis isn't there. Elvis isn't beside you. You are alone in your shared bed. Was it shared any more? Was this his way of telling you to leave? After everything? Had you finally made him realize you made a mistake?

There's a sliver of your brain, of your mind that knows the thoughts that are swarming your mind are silly and yet you can't listen to that sliver. It's wrong. Elvis isn't here with you. Why hadn't he fucked you to sleep? Why hadn't you woken up with his soft cock inside of you? Had Daddy- Had Elvis taken care of you after he hit you? Where was he? Why wasn't— Why wasn't he here? He left you. He's leaving you. He's going to kick you out when the first rays of sunlight enter through the curtains.

You don't know when you start to sob, don't know when your body starts to shake, the overwhelming lack of warmth settling into your bones, don't know when your stomach threatens to empty onto the bed. All you know is that they happen all at once. All you know is that you've done something to make Elvis abandon you.

Maybe, maybe he was still in the house, maybe you didn't disgust him so much he had to leave the entire house. If you called for him maybe he'd come. Maybe you could find out— maybe you could convince him that it was fine. You were still worthy of his love.

The wail that leaves you would embarrass you in any other context. It would mortify you if your brain could process what was happening.

He hadn't quite registered that the noise he heard was you. Hadn't quite registered that the wail he heard was you. Graceland occasionally made noises that didn't make a whole lot of sense and that hadn't changed in the entire time you've been with him. It's only when he gets closer to your shared room that he hears your wail, your moan of unmitigated distress and anguish and knows it's you. He moves as fast as his body will let him and practically slams open the door, ready to use old karate moves and the gun he's got hidden in his dresser to defend you only to realize there's no one in the room but you.

There's no one in here who could hurt you and yet you're clutching at your stomach, curled in on yourself, looking as if you want to vomit all over everything. When you look up at him he sees your glassy eyes staring back at him, unshed tears in them to go with the ones streaming down your face. He opens his mouth to ask you what's wrong only to hear your whimpers and whispers to yourself.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry D- Elvis. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." It practically sounds like a mantra, a chant you'd only a monk say. It sounds wrong coming from your lips. What did you have to be sorry for? What would make you act this way? In what feels like a flash he moves to sit next to you on the bed and starts to touch you.

For once you shy away from his touch and Elvis's heart falls through his body to the ground. You never do that, even when the two of you hadn't worked through the dumbest set of issues known to man you had never shied away from his touch. Normally you would sink into it, but— what had he done to you. Had earlier been too much? Had he broken something inside you in a way he hadn't before?

"Y/N? Belle? What—" He doesn't get the question out before you whimper.

"You were gonna leave me like I did to you. I— I was alone. You hate— you don't love me anymore. Don't want to be with— you realized what everyone else does."

Tour Guide. Used. Whore. Bel— Jezebel. Not worthy of being with him or anyone else. But especially not him. Not worthy to spend the rest of your life waking up with him. Not worthy to have children with him.

Your hands tighten around your middle even more, as if that's the part of you that needs shielding the most. As if that will make the nausea you feel go away. As if it'll keep your stomach from revolting even as you feel Elvis's hand on your shoulder, tight as it was the first day he met you.

"My— Y/N. My angel from heaven. My Belle. No—" He pulls you into a hug despite your protests and your shaking head. "I couldn't sleep. I was downstairs. You—Belle. I— After everything, I would never do that to you. I could never hate you."

"You did," you whimper, your shoulders shaking even as you feel some form of warmth from him sinking through your pajamas and into your soul. "You did. You— I left you and I deserve— I don't— I made you hate me. You're gonna—"

Elvis shushes you, forcing your body against his, forcing your chest to rub against his, his chest hair brushing against the faintest bit of skin your pajamas show. "No. You're my good girl, Belle. Always have been even when I was so angry with you. I'm here. Your Big Daddy's here." He uses the nickname you had let slip that one time so long ago, knowing he finds it funny. It's supposed to put you at ease and he feels a tension in your shoulders lessen at it.

"For— You won't make me leave?" That's the question you ask, not does he still love you, because the two go hand in hand in your mind. For him to love you, he can't abandon you.

His answer should be silly, it should make you roll your eyes but something deep inside you finally uncurls when you hear him sing one of his own song lyrics acapella. "A team of wild horses couldn't tear us apart."

A sob, stronger than the rest wrenches itself from your throat, finally earning a proper release as he holds you even tighter through the tears, his hands petting your hair, murmuring soft words of comfort. You know the position has to be uncomfortable for him but he doesn't complain, too focused on making sure you're alright. Your tears and shivers finally settle into something manageable after what feels like hours and Elvis moves to lay you down on the bed, his hand still rubbing on your chest, right where your heart is. A whimper escapes your lips in fear only for him to shake his head.

"Let me get on my side of the bed. Then ya can curl up to me," he says and to show you how serious he is, he manages to clamber on top of the bed from the bottom, his hands never leaving your body, the warmth from his touch— his always burning hands allowing embers of warmth to blossom slowly but surely inside of you.

The second he's under the covers, you move to lay on top of him. He can't abandon you, can't leave you without warning if he has to move you from atop his body. Your hands haven't left your stomach as it still continues to roil and twist inside you, the nausea refusing to abate. Elvis looks at you and follows where your hands are before placing the hand that rubbing against your chest onto your stomach. For some strange reason it calms your stomach, allows for your body to settle down, and allows for you to lock your arms around Elvis's middle.

"Stay," you whisper, placing a kiss against his skin.

"Wouldn't dream of doin' anything but."

taglist: @ab4eva, @blurredcolour, @butlersxbirdy, @precious-little-scoundrel, @eliseinmemphis, @prompted-wordsmith, @missmaywemeetagain, @lookingforrainbows, @araxw, @thatbanditqueen, @ellie-24, @austinbutlersgirl67, @heartbrake-hotel, @ccab, @18lkpeters, @slutforsomegoodlettuce, @dkayfixates, @kendralavon7, @chasingwildflowers, @notstefaniepresley, @wanderingelvis, @kxnnxy, @powerofelvis, @stylespresleyhearted y'all know the drill with the taglist by now.

[cordiformpink]

tickles!! no names, so imagine whoever you'd like :)

he's dozing a little, when she finds him. stretched out on his bed on his stomach, arms folded, head pillowed on them. warm yellow light blankets the room and casts gentle shadows in the creases of his faded pyjamas. half an hour has passed since he claimed he was going to go get in the shower, and she didn't hear the water run once during that time. no surprises, then, when she finds him like this.

as cute as his impromptu napping is, it can't be allowed to continue. he's got things to do, and she'd hardly be a helpful partner if she didn't prompt him to get back on track with his day. still. he is cute. and there's really only one way such a cute boy ought to be woken.

she moves quietly, footsteps soft, gliding, nearly, until she's kneeling on the bed beside him. he hasn't stirred. her hand rests first on his back, stroking down his spine until he sighs in bliss. she slides her hand across his lower back then, rubbing circles there, feeling the way he begins to stir at her touch. he's half-awake, and shows it in the catlike arch of his back.

"like that, do you?" she smiles. she knows that he does. he likes all of this.

her other hand joins the first. she smooths them over his soft shirt to rest on his sides. then, she starts to tickle.

he twitches, jerks, letting out a quiet giggle.

"hiii," she says, voice soft and smile-shaped.

he tries to say it back, but her hands dart an inch upward and squeeze, and he cuts his own voice off with a surprised squeak and a second stream of giggles.

"mmm, i don't think so. i think it's my turn to do the talking. see, you told me you were off for a shower." her fingers begin to walk up his sides, each fingertip settling and giving a tiny wiggle before the next moves. "and yet, here you are, not showered."

he's holding as still as he can, and she can feel him nearly trembling with the effort to do so, but he twitches helplessly at the little presses of her fingertips. she walks her fingers to a stop, resting over his ribs. she pauses there for a few moments, watching him try not to squirm with anticipation, caught between one breath and the next, hardly daring to move.

"now. got anything to say for yourself?" she asks.

a beat passes while he summons his excuses. "well, i-"

she digs her fingertips into his ribs. whatever explanation he was planning to give is lost entirely as he shouts with surprised laughter.

she grins. his ribs are a bad spot, and she knows just how to get him best there. she wriggles her fingertips into the spaces in between his ribs, following the gentle curve of each one and poking into the ticklish flesh there until he jerks and bucks and shrieks. the giggles are pouring out of him now as he squirms and twists, face prettily flushed. though she knows he doesn't mean to, he twists over onto his side, curling up in defence of his sensitive ribs.

it doesn't help, of course. her hands are already there, and they follow him, so that his attempts to shield himself only serve to keep her hands pressed close. she gives him a moment's reprieve to contemplate his situation before she starts to tickle him again.

his laughter fills the room, and her own little giggles of delight join it. there's nothing quite so lovely as this.

he's breathless and on his back the next time she pauses, and she's leaning so far over him that she decides it'll be easier to straddle him instead, so she does.

he gazes up at her, smile so wide it warms her heart, eyes bright.

"more?" he asks, shyly hopeful.

she leans down and presses a soft kiss to his mouth.

then, she begins again.

x

written once again about my obscure fandom loves, and made vague so others can enjoy. if you do want to know the characters i had in mind when writing, pls ask!

[askyourwritergrandma]

Hello there. I have a bit of a difficult question in the sense that I don't know who to ask about it. You seemed to be arguably the wisest source to consult on the matter, so I'm taking a chance.

I had an idea for a fic that I wanted to write and I was actually in the process of writing it for a bit. It was for a small fandom event in which I signed up for. I was almost done with it and was in the finishing stages of them when I was obstructed by people and circumstances that really ought not to have ever been and as such, I was never able to fully publish it. Ever since then, I have resented the people who did this as I not only failed to deliver the final product I was supposed to, but I also looked like a fool. I hated everyone and myself for this entire thing as this is not the first time I had been stopped from doing something that I chose outside of everyone else's jurisdiction. To an effect, I still do.

As a more notable effect, looking at the document in which all of my hard work sat made me physically ill and enraged. I had also stopped writing completely because of how strongly I felt (and still feel) about this entire situation. Soon after the fact, I also essentially erased myself from the online space for a month because I didn't want anyone to question nor point out that I hadn't done it as I did not want to explain why and doing so would have me spiral out of control and simply delete my social media as I would not be able to live with it. I have only come back recently because I was sick of being socially isolated and alone. You would think that this would be the end of it, but there's one thing that for some reason sticks around.

I still want to write this story.

Yes, I know I essentially left them high and dry but this premise and what I had been working on captivated me to such a degree that I'm still thinking about it when my mind wanders on its own. But I still get sick thinking about my circumstances that I can't change nor budge and as such, I still can't stand looking at the document nor the outline. I desperately want to get to work on it again, but there's so much negative emotional attachment to it that I can't bring myself to do it because I wonder why I ever bothered with it in the first place if everyone and everything in my life keeps stopping me from doing it.

I've tried to write other things in the meantime, but they too are suppressed as I am constantly reminded of my failure and my circumstances that are not only unfair but ridiculous as this is the only outlet I really have and to see it limited to such a degree is sickening and still makes my blood boil.

I love writing things and I love exploring these things, but I don't even know how to do it when all of it is accompanied by rage, despair, inferiority, and pure unadulterated hatred directed at myself as well as others.

So I suppose that my question really is this:

How do I bring myself to write when my entire being hates me for even trying, knowing that I'll never finish what I start because something will stop me?

Oh friend, this is just some shit right here.

Ok so important disclaimer is that I am not a mental health professional. Anything I say is based on personal experience or accumulated knowledge from the internet.

Its important that you know, and really properly internalize, that you did not fail. In fact my first thing directly related to writing that I would advise you to do, when you start to feel this way, is to say 'I did not fail' to yourself. Sometimes things happen that can't control and they affect us in very serious ways that takes time to get over.

Certainly it sounds like what you were working on was important to you and the circumstances that interrupted it were very upsetting. There's no surprise that your story has becoming a focal point for those feelings. Untangling how they are connected is something that you can only do with time and trying.

If you have a safe place where you can externalize those feelings, either through talking to someone, keeping a journal or writing the events but fictionalized I would suggest those things. Sometimes just being able to put it all out there and know that its safe helps you move on from it.

As far as people on the internet questioning you about where you've been, I can't say that wouldn't have happened or that it won't happen in the future, but as a general rule good, decent people extend you grace. Everyone has a life outside of this anonymous mosh pit we call the internet and most people are capable of understanding that. You don't need to compound these feelings of failure with any additional shame from anonymous strangers. Would they have loved to read your story? Yes of course they would have. If you were to finish it they would still want to read it. But they aren't angry or upset with you.

As you try to write, remind yourself that you have not failed. Imagine yourself as a professional athlete who has suffered a serious knee injury. You had to take time away but you're back on your feet now and you're working towards getting back on the field. Every time you sit and try to write, remind yourself that you have no failed, that you are recovering and that you will get better. Writing will get easier.

Send me as many asks as you want, if they help, I'll do my best to answer them promptly.

Good luck anon and take care of yourself.

[jaynovz]

John Silver Recovery and Hurt/Comfort Rec List

Hi there! Another rec list? -surprised Pikachu face-

These deal specifically with Silver’s post-amputation struggles and recovery. Often deep character study, heavy on hurt/comfort, wound care/medical discussion, wrestling with his disability and body image type stuff, so mind the tags on individual works. 

These are all Silverflint because, well, you know why you follow this blog.

--

What It Feels Like Not To Hurt by robotboy

Summary: So. This is a 9k slow burn watersports fic. That's a thing that now exists in this fandom. But it's mostly about Silver recovering in the warship cabin and working out how much of his humanity is tied to humiliation. To echo my esteemed colleague purplecelery: 'I'm gonna gently suggest that anyone who's not usually into this take a gander anyway because you might be surprised.'

The Salt and the Sea by x_etoile_x

Summary: John Silver was always able to make the best of a situation. If this particular situation had started to feel complicated, well, a vast fortune ought to prove clarifying. Whatever he might have imagined he'd seen in Flint, the reality was they had used each other. And he had been set to walk away on top.

Except now he couldn't. Now he was trapped.

_______

The gap between the end of s2 and the start of the raids - Silver's early recovery and eventual decision to stay.

i’m discarding pieces of myself in the dark by coffeeandchemicals

Summary: Silver swallows and fights the urge to run his tongue along his dry, chapped lips. It’s been awhile since they were in the Doldrums, but they were in cages after that, and Silver still feels stretched too thin over his bones. He knows his eyes are shadowed and cheeks are hollow; he can see the same in Flint’s visage, and on the faces of the remaining crew – he can’t let himself think of the ones they’d lost. They all bear more than just the physical scars of their most recent misfortunes. Silver’s are just the most evident.

Or: Flint tries to help Silver during the events of 3x07

His Heart Is Already Mine by queerpyrate

Summary: When Silver collapses aboard the deck of the Walrus, overcome with fever from an infection in his leg, Flint immediately alters their course to return to Maroon Island.

after the winnowing by princesskay

Summary: After Charles Town, Silver convalesces at the governor's mansion in Nassau while Flint chooses what happens to the gold - and their futures. Flint tries to take care of him, but are the kind gestures what they seem?

The Soft Animal of Your Body by x_etoile_x

Summary: Silver has a problem. Flint has an interest, as it turns out, and tells a story.

no daylight between you and i by inwardphae

Summary: What’s it all for, anyway? They’ll take and take and take until there’s nothing left of him. Not his leg, not his name, not his life. And there’s nothing he can do about it.

But then, something happens that surprises him, even in his frantic state, even as he feels his grip on himself slide away. And as it always happens as of late, he finds that the edges of his world begin and end with James Flint.

missing moments during and after charles town

Taut by Thiebes

Summary: Silver did not make it to dinner.

He awoke with a jolt to a dark room. How did he get on the floor? He didn't remember sinking down any more than he remembers falling asleep. The noise outside his door had faded, only a few distant laughs punctuated the sound of crickets in the night.

Let me try to pull you free by ember_firedrake

Summary: Following the loss of his leg, Silver can't stop thinking about the last night he spent with Flint before Charlestown, and what will happen when Flint learns the truth of the gold.

Follows "My heart is under arrest again." 

Set between 2x10 and 3x01.

Forestay by Farasha

Summary: Forestay: A line of rigging which keeps the mast from falling backward.

After Charleston, certain truths come to light that have Flint and Silver's relationship hanging by a thread.

Truce by lostinafictionalworld

Summary: “Would you like me to do it?” Flint offered quietly.

Silver’s head snapped up to glare at him, his usually warm eyes icy. He would have been shocked by the offer if he weren’t so busy being furious.

“I am painfully aware that I can scarcely take a piss without assistance,” he snarled, “but I am perfectly capable of brushing my own hair.”

After returning to Nassau following the events of Charlestown, Silver and Flint manage to set aside their differences for an evening.

vigia by doomcountry

Summary: That’s his talent. That’s what he offers him. That’s what he is, before he is quartermaster or lover or friend: the tempering flame, the relief.

A Holier Thing Than Hell or Highwater by swampslip

Summary: “This is… A difficult thing,” Flint says slowly.

“I’m not saying this to be-”

“I know.”

“I just can’t seem to… Move on.”

“Why should you?”

“What?”

“Why should you move on?” Flint asks quietly, gestures at the pinking, slowly healing end of Silver’s thigh, “This isn’t a moment that will fade into the oblivion of living. You won’t forget this, nor should you.”

--

As always, hit me up if you feel I’ve missed a vital inclusion, and I will give it a read. Mwah.

[sleepingdeath-light]

overworked s/o hcs ; affogato cookie

requested by ; anonymous (24/02/23)

fandom(s) ; cookie run

fandom masterlist(s) ; hub | specific

character(s) ; affogato cookie

outline ; “Hello! I have been your fics for a while and I just want to say they're incredible! May I request an Affogato x a tired/overworked reader (it can be any gender)? Thank you!”

warning(s) ; none, just fluff!

affogato cookie is, as one might assume of someone as charismatic as himself, incredibly observant and would be quick to notice any changes in your schedule and body language as you start to become more and more overworked — arguably he notices it before you even realise that you’re overworking yourself

he broaches the subject gently at first, employing his best sweet talk and some well placed touches to try and get you to open up without too much prodding on his part — pressing slow kisses against your shoulders and hugging you from behind as he calls you ‘dear’ and ‘pet’ and oh so lovingly asks you about what’s going on at work

eventually he’ll get you to open up, because he’s so bloody persistent about it, and when you do he listens intently to everything you have to say — nodding and humming in an acknowledging way where appropriate, gently rubbing your shoulders in a comforting manner, having an expression of understanding and empathy on his face throughout, and just generally giving you the room to vent for as long as you need

part way through your speech he’ll get up to make you a cup of your comfort drink, kissing you on the cheek when he brings it back before settling back beside you and wrapping you back up in his arms

and when you’re finished he starts plotting — partially out loud, with you, and partially in his own mind to try and figure out a way to find a more permanent solution to your problem

he works with you to get the confidence to advocate for yourself in his absence to ensure that you’re not forced into doing more work than you ought to — and he also makes it abundantly clear that he’s happy to step in and talk to your superiors himself if you want him to (he does have a reputation and is charismatic enough to get the job done, after all)

hell, he might step in personally regardless just to make sure that your workload is reduced to a manageable amount — meeting your superiors by coincidence out and about and having a little chat about work-life balance, and maybe having some of his followers join your work to keep an eye on things where he himself is unable to follow

he’s very protective of you as his partner, after all, and would hate to see you get so stressed and overworked again — so he does everything he can to prevent history from repeating itself

[lavoixhumaine]

20 questions for fic writers

tagged by: @blossom--of--snow

1. How many works do you have on AO3? 13 on the main account

2. What's your total AO3 word count? 439,906

3. What fandoms do you write for? currently, just 9-1-1

4. What are your top fics by kudos? hearts in atrophy | feral

5. Do you respond to comments? yes, too much as i’ve been told (but i got the best friends out of doing this so i’m gonna keep doing that)

6. What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? it’s me, hi (dying ought to be considered angstiest, right?)

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? cataclysmic (i think?)

8. Do you get hate on fics? yep

9. Do you write smut? *cackles* you could say that, yeah, sure.

10. Do you write crossovers? no, but it’s my dream because one of my original ideas for a first 9-1-1 fic was supposed to be a crossover but i got scared.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen? not to my knowledge, no.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated? not to my knowledge, no.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before? nope

14. What's your all time favorite ship? Bathena 💞 (especially after this week)

15. What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will? hearts i—nah, i’m just fucking with ya. nothing posted but currently i have literally 223 ideas (there is a list!) and a huge chunk of that will never happen—does that count?

16. What are your writing strengths? i think it’s that i make people feel things (very recently, the last thing someone commented on any of my stories is that they hate me because something i wrote “broke” them and made them cry for over half an hour and i have been quietly wondering ever since if they actually did cry actual tears and i don’t know the answer to that)

17. What are your writing weaknesses? i cannot write anything short to save my life (see word count and keep in mind i only started writing in 2022 and i only have 13 stories to show for it)

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic? you better know the damned language you’re using otherwise it’s not going to sound right.

19. First fandom you wrote for? posted: miss fisher’s murder mysteries (don’t look for it, i deleted it) | not posted: the west wing (i was in high school and it is laughably terrible)

20. Favorite fic you've written? so far? maybe cataclysmic

tagging: @rainedamodred | @scar-letter | @bestbuddybobby

[kbrick]

What do you think about the Draco haters? Personally I don't get them. I don't get how you can feel hatred for a child who was raised by fucked up people and then had to do awful things that he obviously hated to survive and keep his family safe too. All as a minor. Where has all the empathy gone? It's like they think they're talking about a hardened criminal lol. Why are people like this?

Okay, I'll be honest with you, nonny, I'm of two minds about this.

The thing that I feel in my gut when I see this sentiment out in the wild is irritation and maybe a little flare of anger. Because I love Draco. He's my favorite. I empathize with Draco, with what he went through in canon, and I also associate him with the thousand redemption character arcs I've read about him at this point. Have I argued with people on reddit over whether Draco should have been sentenced to life in Azkaban? Yes, I have. Am I proud of that? No, I am not. Looking back, it kinda makes me feel like an idiot.

I try to remind myself of two things when I feel this way. One, Draco is a character, not a real person, and we're talking about literature, not real life, and so it's really not that serious (please note - this is not usually effective in talking myself down off the ledge, but it ought to be mentioned).

And two, I used to hate (well, maybe strongly dislike) Draco.

I came to the fandom late (as a full-fledged adult!), but in my younger years, I was a big HP fan. I had all the books on a bookshelf in my room, I had a poster, I had pencils with big erasers on the end in the shape of the house mascots. I had my favorite Harry Potter mug (which just recently met an ignoble end on my kitchen floor, RIP favorite mug - and now I can't buy a replacement because I no longer buy HP merch because JKR is such a terrible human being and I refuse to support her...but I digress!).

And let's be honest: Draco Malfoy is a complete asshat in the books. He's the villain. He's petty, he's mean, he's arrogant with nothing at all to back it up. He says horrible things to Hermione, who was my very favorite character back when I read the series. And I was young enough to accept characters at face value back then, so yeah, I kind of hated Draco. I wasn't ranting about him online or anything, but if somebody would have asked me what I thought of him, I'd have probably blown a raspberry and given them a thumbs down.

It wasn't until the later books (Half-Blood Prince, specifically), that I began to neutralize on my view of Draco. Even back then, I felt bad for him in that bathroom scene. But it wasn't until I started reading Drarry (as an adult) that I looked back at Draco as a character and realized what a fucking delight he actually was (not in the sense that he was 'good' or whatever, but he was an excellent foil for Harry and was incredibly entertaining).

And part of this is maturity, I think. As a full-fledged adult, I no longer take characters at face value. I no longer think- oh, this character is being mean to the good guy, therefore they are a bad guy and I hate them. Instead, I think - wow, something is going on with this character, to make them act this way. They're so desperate for attention, or they're so insecure, or they were hurt so badly when xyz happened that they're lashing out. I look for the WHYS in characters. And Draco has a lot of whys, especially in fanon, and so it has become easy to empathize with him and like him.

Another part of it is that I have become a writer, and I appreciate complicated, compelling characters, and I'm no longer interested in Mary Sue good guys who are always noble and do everything right. Because let's be honest: people are not that way. We shouldn't write them that way. That's not truth, and I want to read and write truth.

But for readers who do not value characters beyond the hero, or who have chosen not to look more closely at character whys, Draco is a bad guy. He's not insecure; he's arrogant. It's not hurt feelings; it's a mean streak. And to be frank, I think JKR herself viewed Draco in this way (for the most part). Yes, she gave him some depth towards the end of the books, but I honestly think that was due to pressure from fans who wanted a redemption arc for Draco (and really, it's a half-assed redemption arc at best). I think JKR is a mostly black-and-white thinker, and I think she wrote a mostly black-and-white series. Harry and his friends are good, Draco and his friends are bad. Voldemort is evil. The end.

So I suppose what I'm saying is that I understand why people don't like Draco as a character. I think it suggests a bit of closed-mindedness on their parts, and maybe a lack of empathy, and that they're horribly boring irl (ha, had to get that dig in there). But the truth is that people are allowed to feel how they want to feel about characters. I'm not the interpretation police.

Does that mean I no longer get fired up when somebody on reddit says Draco should've been sentenced to life in Azkaban? Nope, I'm not that mature, come on. Will I continue arguing with them about it? I hope I'm beyond that, but we'll see. Do I still love Draco with all my heart? I do, and so you know what? I'm going to keep writing about him and enjoying him.

That's about all I have to say about that. Which was a LOT, actually. Who knew?

Thanks for the ask, nonny :) It was an interesting one.

[sissytobitch10seconds]

Gentleness

Fandom: Queen Charlotte: A Bridgerton Story Summary: Sometimes, he has a need that he has to ask for. Brimsely has never really been good at that. Warnings: Period-typical homophobia, anxiety, crying during sex, and romantic misunderstandings Word Count: 4,615 Ship(s): Brimsley/Reynolds

Archive link!

A/N: My first work in this part of the fandom! I don't know what these two are typically headcanoned to be or the way that they're always written, but I thought that this would be cute. I really liked writing them being soft with each other but I had to throw some angst in there because that's just who I am. Hope you guys enjoy! Stay sissy and bitchy everyone <3

He could feel the need for something itching under his skin like nettles.

Sam Brimsley almost physically shuddered when he realized the comparison that his mind had come up with. He had been very young when he had first encountered the plant in the back of his father’s home. Unfortunately, he wasn’t young enough to forget the painful way that the rash had spread over every part of his skin that had touched it. The tiny spines had wormed their way under his skin and then further throughout his body until they were trapped deep under his skin. His mother had to take one of her sewing needles, hot from her fingers and the fire, to his palm so that she could get all of them out.

It was an accurate description to how he was currently feeling, however. He could taste the desire that he had for something on the back of his tongue and his skin felt tender at the idea of getting it. It was almost painful, the way that his heart ached with the need of it.

He would never admit that was what he needed, not when his queen still had need of him. He had gone through all those years of schooling and months of grueling training, including on how to stand still with nothing to do for hours and how to exist on very little sleep, specifically so that he could always be five steps behind her. He was glad that Queen Charlotte had turned out to be the kind of royal that was willing to bid him back to his chambers and sent random people after him instead of always keeping him at his post, at least.

As soon as the door to the study shut and the normal noises that came on even days began to emit from it, Sam stepped further away from the door. He was glad that the royal couple was making progress on procuring an heir for their family and the people of the United Kingdom as a whole, but that didn’t mean that he wanted to hear it necessarily.

“Do you want to come back to my chambers?” Reynolds asked, his hard clear blue eyes flickering down to the other man.

Reynolds was about a head taller than him, with blond hair that was always perfectly styled around his face and pulled back into the traditional ponytail. He wore a similar uniform to what Sam did, but it was blue instead of the red that signified he was to be kept by the queen. Their status difference was so slight, nothing like what actual nobles had to go through, but he felt it every time they were standing as they were now. 

They had the same purpose, the same job, but they served different people. Sam was to be at Her Majesty’s side until death or punishment separated them, while Reynolds did the same for His Majesty. That slight difference, the ever-so-tiny change in pronouns for the title of who they served was the reason that the power imbalance hung between the two of them. It was the reason that Sam had always kept that fiercely burning desire stoked just enough to emerge inside of him instead of letting it die out. Sometimes, Reynolds needed to be put in his place and there was no better person in the entire world to do that than him.

“I think that we ought to head to mine today,” he replied just as quietly as the proposition had been given.

“Mine’s bigger,” the blond quipped. He had turned slightly so that they were facing each other, but it wasn’t enough that the guards would begin to panic about them breaking from their training. Everyone in Buckingham House was aware that they often snuck off when their masters were otherwise occupied anyway.

“That’s not what you said the other night,” Sam replied. He felt almost like Shakespeare, speaking something so obscene into the air without saying it outright.

Reynolds let out a snort in the back of his throat and then his cheeks tinted pink. As soon as he realized what he had done, he cleared his throat and then tilted his head down towards the hallway that would lead to the servant’s quarters. “Right, we best be on our way before they hear us talking and begin to yell,” he said.

“Of course,” Sam replied, stepping to the side so that he was able to pass. He almost waited for five paces to start going after the other man before he caught himself and hurried after him.

They walked in silence, as they always did when they were traveling to one of their quarters. The days where they spoke to each other in hushed arguments around kisses were reserved specifically for when they were very angry or frustrated about their jobs. It had only happened once or twice, and that was during the times that they never got to see each other. They now lived in the same building and could see each other whenever their masters were not being tended to by themselves. There was no need to incorporate their positions into their intimate relationship with each other.

Sam held the door open so that the other man could step through and then followed after. As soon as the heavy wood had swung back into its frame, he switched the lock into place so that no one could barge in on them. He focused on pulling off his gloves so that they could be as efficient as possible, not paying attention to what the other man was doing in the process.

“That’s new.”

He turned around when he heard the voice of his almost-lover, his eyes flickering around the room. He spent quite a bit of his time there, almost every waking moment that he wasn’t doing something with or for his queen. Finally he found it, the one thing that had been moved out of place from what the room had been the last time that Reynolds had occupied it.

“Just a bunch of letters that I haven’t gotten around to replying to yet. I was going to work on it this morning but the queen rose before I was expecting her to,” he explained. He sat down on the edge of his bed and began to work on the fiddlier buttons that were hidden above his chest. The waistline of his coat had to be taken in again, he had lost more weight since the queen and king had moved in together, so those buttons had gotten substantially easier.

“If you’re letting your work escape you so that we can have a romp together then perhaps I should retire back to my chambers. Alone,” Reynolds said, eyeing him in that way that he always did. It was hungry and hard at the same time, like he held some kind of disdain for the man that he was always running off with.

“I would never leave my work to do until after I had relations,” he scoffed. He couldn’t imagine why he had ever given the impression that he was so flippant about the things that he had been assigned to do as the queen’s man. Just because he didn’t have some grand secret to keep the same way that Reynolds did didn’t mean that what he was doing wasn’t important.

“Then what are they?” While he spoke, Reynolds was trailing his hands over the front of his jacket. He undid the buttons with quick, harried flicks of his fingers as if it were the most natural thing in the entire world. It made Sam want to bite him, he could almost feel the itching in his teeth over it.

Sam didn’t really want to answer, not when it could possibly get him in more trouble. He was so exhausted, had been for weeks, that the only thing he wanted was a big of pleasure before he had to return to work. He didn’t have to deal with an interrogation from someone that didn’t like him very much. “Personal letters. From friends that I studied with and my family. Now are you going to come over here or not?”

“Perhaps having you be the queen’s man was a mistake when the woman that the princess chose is so bossy,” Reynolds nearly snarled. He had such a feral animalistic side to him, it was as enthralling and sexy as it was annoying and tiring.

“You don’t like it when someone else finally has the upper hand, do you?” Sam asked, tilting his head to the side. He had grown up with three older brothers, one who had died in war and two who had gone on to be servants in other houses across the Empire, so he knew what it was like to be at the bottom of the pecking order. He had worked long and hard to refine his skill enough to work with the best of the best. Reynolds may have served the king, but Sam was going to be serving every king they had going forward by tending to Her Majesty when she was expecting.

“I wish you would just stop talking,” Reynolds replied. He leaned down and their mouths connected in a fiery, passionate kiss just as they had every time before. Tongues danced and pushed at each other while teeth nipped and pulled at every bit of skin that they could get any access to. While their mouths were occupied, their hands went to work. Both of them had been raised as servants so there was nothing that they could do that would settle them more than multitasking. Reynolds quickly pushed back the fabric of his coat so that it tumbled down to the ground and he was left in nothing but his thin white cotton shirt.

Eventually they had to break apart so that they could both gasp for breath. Instead of taking that time to snipe back and forth at each other even more than they had before, Reynolds began to trail nips and kisses down Sam’s neck. He whimpered and tossed his head to the side, allowing the other man more access. Even though he had been smart before, even though he had been snappish and short, there was nothing more that he needed in that moment than to have the control taken from him.

Sam reached out and grasped both of his arms so that he could take the other man with him as they tumbled down onto the bed. It was cushioned by the amount of quilts that he had snuck into his space to make it more inviting, but the mattress was so thin that it was still quite uncomfortable. “We’re doing this in my room next time,” Reynolds informed him as if he was the only one in the relationship that got to have any kind of a say in how it worked.

“Mine is closer to this side of Buckingham House,” he protested.

“But the Queen always has to come to the King on even days,” Reynolds replied. He ended the conversation by smashing their lips together in another long kiss. Sam was, for once, too tired to let the conversation continue. Usually when they got like this with each other he was more than willing to show his teeth and bite back just as passionately. This time, though, he was too worn down to try and get hot and bothered over an argument. It was just making him feel sad.

They shifted further back on the bed so that their entire bodies were encompassed by the sheets and pillows, before the disrobing continued. The shoes and socks came next, then the pants and smalls, all dumped down onto the ground beside the bedframe where their coats and shirts had already been.

Sam could do nothing more than let his hands fall down onto the pillows above his head, fingers grasping at the loose fabric so that he had something to ground himself. His cock was already painfully hard, weeping against the course dark hair that lined the bottom part of his stomach. He was gasping, throwing his head back so hard that his neck began to crook.

Reynolds continued the work that he had been doing without saying a single thing. His teeth, tongue, and lips all worked in conjunction with each other to make Sam feel as though he was going insane. The other man trailed kisses down from his neck, sucking a dark bruise onto his collarbone on the way, stopping only he reached Sam’s nipples. Reynolds then took the bud into his mouth and grazed his teeth over it until it was pert and darkly pink, blossoming obscenely against his skin.

While he was working with his mouth, his hands also continued their harried movements. He trailed his hands down Sam’s body until he reached the divots of his hips, holding them down and yanking him around whenever he began to squirm too much. He only continued his work when he had grown bored of just teasing his sort-of lover. His hands, calloused and rough as they were, contained nothing but gentleness as they reached for his cock and then began to stroke it.

It was an overwhelming sensation as it always was. Sam could feel his breath coming in gasps as fingers brushed over his cockhead and dragged his foreskin down before releasing all of it at once. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do other than whine when he felt a tongue flickering over his other nipple and then nails brushing against his ballsack.

Suddenly, it was all too much. The overwhelming pleasure that he usually felt when he was being manhandled turned to the awful overstimulation that he got when he had masturbated too much as young teenager. His skin felt like it was on fire and his throat was constricting around nothing. He needed to be free, he needed something that would soothe the aching burning hurt that was now coursing through him.

“Rey-Reynolds!” he cried, the tears that had been collecting in the corners of his eyes now pouring down his face like water boiled for a bath. He was shaking, all of his muscles constricting and loosening all at once.

This wasn’t the first time that he had cried during sex and he doubted that it would be the last. There was always something, on the back of his tongue and buried within the thoughts of his job in his mind. He knew that what they were doing was a sin against God and the church, it was dirty and shameful. But it felt so good that he couldn’t believe that it was inherently bad, that God had tempted them into something that they both enjoyed so fully only to condemn them for it by falling.

“Do you like that?” Reynolds asked, pulling his mouth away from where he had been teasing Sam’s nipple within an inch of his life. His beautiful lips, swollen and bruised from their kisses earlier, twisted into a smirk. The look immediately dropped from his features when he saw what his lover was going through.

Sam had barely even registered the fact that he had opened his eyes again, or that the hand on his now soft cock had been removed. The arousal that had tightened like a coil in his gut was long gone, instead of releasing so that it sent energy throughout his system dissipating like sugar in tea. He would have kept going or changed how things were going if it turned out that his body was simply too tired to maintain an erection. It was clear to both him and Reynolds that something was wrong.

“What is the matter with you?” the other man asked as he righted himself. His lovely golden hair had escaped the pompous hairdo that he contained it in every morning, allowing the long locks to brush against Sam’s face as their eyes leveled.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “I… I am so tired.”

He knew that wasn’t the whole reason. He knew that there was more behind his sudden fit of crying, that he was upset for many other reasons. He couldn’t let a single one of them pass his lips, not to Reynolds. The other man wanted him for a quick fuck and nothing more. They had never shared more than an hour or two passed out next to each other and they never would. He had already tried to make his peace with that.

“I do not believe that hysteria and crying are something that comes with general exhaustion,” the blond replied. He slowly lowered himself down onto the bed next to Sam, and there he was able to feel the other man’s stiff member slowly loosing the arousal.

It should have been a relief to him, to know that he was no longer going to be expected to have the vulnerability of a man’s cock in his mouth when he felt so fragile and broken. Instead, he was simply overwhelmed with an unbelievable amount of grief and hurt. “I’ve ruined this whole evening.”

“Brimsely, you have done no such thing,” Reynolds replied. His usually harsh voice was so gentle, and that only made him cry harder.

Sam was unable to keep the sobs down in his chest, locked away below his throat where no one would ever be able to hear them. It was something that all servants learned how to do so that they would not end up wailing in front of the cruel masters that signed their paystubs and housed them.

“Please, do not call me that right now,” he whispered. Usually the name and the way that it was said gave him a sense of pride. He was doing something that provided for the family that he had left a hundred miles away, but now it brought him nothing but sorrow.

“Then will you finally tell me your name so that I can call you something else?” Reynolds asked.

Where their skin was touching felt like it was electrocuting and burning him at the same time. He had never known what it was to feel lightning through one’s blood, but he had to guess that it would feel something as he did now. He was exhausted and his heart and soul ached, but somehow being close to the other man in the way that he was now soothed it. “Sam,” he finally managed to get out.

Reynolds tilted Sam’s face up towards him like he had many times before when they were having some of their other daliances. “Please, tell me what is the matter, Sam.”

The words, thoughts, and feelings, had been trying to rise to the top of his skin since he had realized what they were the day before. He had tried to bite and swallow them back down so that he wouldn’t get threatened for being treasonous, even if one couldn’t police their own thoughts that far. Now that he was being asked, it all came tumbling out of him at once. 

“I do not feel as though I am wanted here, I feel as though my only purpose on this earth is to be used. I know that is the point of being a servant, but Queen Charlotte so often tells me that she does not want me with her and she dismisses me every time we have a moment where she might begin to trust me more. She has only very recently allowed me to start speaking freely with her when she is having a problem. I was told to expect the worst because no one had any idea what kind of a woman she would be. When she arrived, she was so young and so obviously scared of what being Queen would mean for her. I tried to be there to support her but everything that I did was wrong. She does not want my help and that is the only thing I can offer her. Day in and day out, I follow five paces behind her and I wait for her to need something from me. I cannot give her anything.

“The only person that I can give something to is you. You take and it’s rough but at least you actually want something and I know what it is,” he finally ended his tirade. He had shared more than he had meant to, dug deeper into feelings that he had only prodded at until that point. He should have stopped long before he had spilled his entire heart out between them on the bed, but there was not a single way to unspeak something.

“Sam,” Reynolds whispered. “I was doing that because I thought that it was what you wanted. You are always so ready to argue with me that I just kiss you when I’m finished or can’t think of anything.”

“You’re so demanding when we come in here, I thought that you wanted to argue with me. I know that you do not see me as an equal, but I thought that you wanted someone who would push back and yet know his place,” Sam replied. “It is why I have never asked anything of you, not even your name.”

Before he could wince and hide his face away, ashamed of all the things that he had spoken when he had meant to keep them a closely guarded next to his heart, Reynolds was speaking again. “I’m sorry that I made you feel that way, Sam. It was never my intention, I hope that you know that. You are the first man that I ever felt safe being my true self around. I had a single dalliance before you and it was with someone that was gone the next day, while I was traveling down here from my school in Wales. I… I suppose that I should have started this apology by telling you what my name was, shouldn’t I have?”

“It’s alright, you don’t have to be perfect all the time,” Sam replied. He reached one of his hands up so that he could caress the other man’s face. This was mode tender and intimate than anything they had ever done, including the day where Reynolds had been inside of him while they bathed together.

“My name is Frederick. You may call me Freddy if you so wish,” the king’s man said, his voice still soft but in that deep baritone that made Sam feel as if he were falling apart.

“I think I would like that very much,” he smiled shyly.

“I should be the one that’s telling you that you don’t have to be perfect, because you do not. I know that you are newer to the job than I am. Serving royalty, especially being the head valet to the queen or king, is a very difficult job. We are expected to see them at their worst and at their best. We are expected to know what they want before they say it because they should not have to ask. They were appointed by God to rule the land that we and our families live in, which means that they have more power than either of us could ever dream of,” Freddy said. He was speaking more than he had since their first initial argument. It was the kind of sound and affection that Sam wanted to drown himself in.

“I just wanted to be the best servant that I could be,” Sam sighed. “I think I’ve failed on that, and being what you needed from me.”

“What I needed was a companion, which was why I refused to be near you when other people were watching. I have to make sure that we are both kept safe, when the world is such a hostile place to people like us,” Freddy murmured. He leaned down and pressed a kiss so tender and full of love to Sam’s brow that he felt as if he might die on the spot. “I do not want to lose you. You are not just a rider to me, you are someone that I cherish deeply. I was overjoyed when I found out that the king and queen were going to move back in together and it would result in us being able to live together. You do not know how hard it was for me to restrain my jubilation.”

“I was scared, I thought that you would grow tired of me if I was no longer something you only got on special occasions,” the smaller man answered with a small shake of his head.

The phrase that he had used seemed to anger Freddy. Without realizing it, they had moved so that they were laying together as a married couple might. Freddy’s head was pillowed by the headboard and some of the sheets that had been rucked up, his back supported by the pillow. Sam was resting with the side of his head against Freddy’s shoulder and left pectoral, his middle pressed against the other man’s hip. Freddy’s arm was around his shoulders and brushing soft lines that might have been shapes or words on the skin of his upper arm.

“I wish that you would not refer to yourself in that way,” Freddy said gently. “You are not something that someone gets to have, like you are chattel to be bought and sold. You are a person and anyone that is blessed enough to get to spend time in your presence should be grateful for it.”

He had wanted someone to say that to him since he was a little boy. He was the fourth boy in his family, absolutely no prospects were going to be passed down to him even if something terrible happened to the rest of his brothers. He had always been treated as something that another family could use, a husband for an errant daughter or a hand for a struggling farm. Even when he had risen to the top of his class during his training to become a servant, he had been treated as if he was a tool for some noble that would never learn his name or age would use.

But Freddy saw him as the person that he was. Despite him grandly misconstruing what their relationship was going to be so that neither of them were getting or giving what they wanted, Freddy had seen through it and to him. He was able to speak the affirmation into the air like it was both a promise and something that should have been a given. 

It made Sam feel as though he was disintegrating. He tilted his head up so that he could stare into those crystalline blue eyes that his lover held, finding the words that would have usually come so easily to him. “I’m sorry that I created a disaster out of our relationship, Freddy.”

Freddy pressed his nose down into Sam’s hair, “Again, love, you do not have to be perfect. I am as much at fault for the way that our dalliances were going as you were. I would only ask that you promise to tell me when you need gentleness in the future so I do not have to see you cry and worry it was something I had done.”

It was the easiest thing he had ever had to say, both in their current conversation and throughout his entire life. He tilted his head up, a kiss on his lips and breath flooding into his lungs for the first time in days.

“I promise.”

[mostlydeadallday]

Lost Kin | Chapter XXXV | A Proper Introduction

Fandom: Hollow Knight Rating: Mature Characters: Hornet, Pure Vessel | Hollow Knight, Quirrel Category: Gen Content Warnings: dissociation, descriptions of injuries, referenced suicide attempt AO3: Lost Kin | Chapter XXXV | A Proper Introduction First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Chronological Notes: Quirrel gets a closer look. hi I'm so sorry it's been six weeks I went on vacation and time lost all meaning

○

“Oh dear,” Quirrel said, when Hornet opened the door. “I’ve interrupted something, haven’t I.”

Hornet, for her part, looked very much like she’d like to take a bite out of him. She was glaring, spikes prickling at her collar, and her needle glinted in her free hand—the one not clutching the doorknob hard enough to leave scratches in the metal.

He might have found it in himself to be offended, if he hadn’t sat across the table from her last night and watched her guard fall. If he hadn’t known how much it took to strip that wariness away.

But really, he could have done without the needle.

As if reading that thought in his mind, she lowered the weapon, the tip coming to rest on the stones with a tired clank. She let go of the doorknob all at once and turned, wordlessly, to step back into the house.

She hadn’t shut the door in his face this time. Small victories.

He followed her in, closing the door behind him and throwing the bolt, then shaking the rain from his shell with a brief shudder. It was not noticeably warmer in the house, but the lack of constant cold water streaming down his plates made a pleasant contrast, nonetheless.

Hornet would not look him directly in the eye, and neither did she answer his question, but she did extend one hand to take the catch slung over his shoulder—crawlids, this time, and a vengefly or two, plus some reddish, starchy roots he’d discovered in an abandoned greenhouse, for his own consumption. He hadn’t ranged far, keeping to the nearby neighborhoods in order to return in a timely manner, but there was still plenty to scavenge.

“I found paper,” he said, hooking the strap of his satchel over his head. “And a few other things. Any progress?”

“Maybe,” she said, still not looking at him. Claws clenched into a fist around her needle hilt, mandibles clamped tight beneath her mask.

Something had happened. She had not been nearly so angry earlier. He eased his bandana from his head and set his nail against the wall, gaze never leaving her, though she didn’t relent until he prompted, “Maybe?” and then her shoulders dropped.

“Some,” she admitted, and the steel had gone out of her voice. “They did well with the signs until I began asking questions. They cannot read or write. They said they are still warmer than they ought to be, and that they don’t eat the same things a mortal might, nor do they need food to survive. They did hesitate when I asked whether they might consume something that helps them to heal. But I got no more from them than that.”

Quirrel paused in the act of wringing out his bandana. “I did interrupt, didn’t I?”

“Your timing was… as good as it always seems to be.”

“That does not answer—”

“They panicked.” She broke off a short, sharp-edged sigh. “They always do. I was… attempting to calm them. Doing what you suggested last night. It seemed to be working.” A shrug. “Until you knocked.”

“I’m sorry.”

Another shrug, and she finally met his eye. The anger was still there, but it was no longer aimed at him; a blade lowered, but still in hand. He wondered if she quite knew what to do without it.

“If it wasn’t you, it would have been something else.” She jerked her head at him to follow her. “Besides, as I said before. You apologize too much.”

He laughed a little, under his breath, as she turned her back. “Perhaps I do.”

She didn’t respond, but her spines had smoothed back down, her fists no longer clenched, and he counted that another small victory.

He ought to start a list.

His antennae pricked up as he followed Hornet into the next room, and a tingling awareness rushed over him as the vessel’s mask turned ever so slightly. They did not otherwise move, they had no pheromones to warn him of their moods or inclinations, and yet his instincts did not want him to relax, not in the presence of something so huge and so alien. Their size alone spoke to a terrible strength, not to mention their ability to outlast the ravages of the plague, and yet they did nothing with it, as immobile as if they still wore the chains Hornet said had once bound them.

Fear was useful, as far as it went, but he sensed it would do only harm here, so he took hold of it, firmly, and pushed it away.

Hornet dropped his catch into a three-legged chair in the corner and went to her sibling’s side. Quirrel trailed her a little more slowly, lowering his satchel and settling down just forward of the hearth. The vessel’s stare did not leave him, and so he did not move any closer, not wishing to push into their space any more than necessary.

It felt cruel to compare their behavior to that of a beast, if they were indeed as intelligent as their sister implied, but the only experience he could bring to mind was approaching a wounded creature, something cowed and watchful, suffering silently in hopes that the world would pass it by.

Hornet, after considering for a moment, knelt on the mattress by her sibling’s head, laying a cautious hand on one ivory horn. Those dark eyes did not shift, but a certain tension went out of them, the murky writhe behind their mask slowing subtly.

She looked at him, and he forgot to look back for a moment, spellbound, until she cleared her throat, and he remembered what he was meant to do.

“Ah.” He set aside his things and clasped his hands in his lap, meeting the vessel’s unwavering gaze once more. “I regret that we did not have time for a proper introduction last night. My name is Quirrel. It is good to meet you, my friend.”

Their mask shifted, again, so minutely that he might have missed it, except that it turned their face slightly upward, toward Hornet. Confusion? Disbelief? Perhaps they did not think this introduction was truly directed at them.

Quirrel tried again. “Your sister has asked me here to assist her in caring for you. I was also a resident of Old Hallownest, having only recently… returned.”

Hornet clicked her fangs—a sound he was coming to associate with irritation or disdain. She bent down toward her sibling, tapping their horn once to draw their attention. “Quirrel was a scholar at the Archives. He has knowledge of vessels—much more than I do.”

They tensed.

Quirrel cut his protest short—it still irked him that she persisted in calling him a scholar, when he had been nothing of the sort, and she had been so particular as to how he addressed her—as Hollow visibly stiffened. Their silk-wrapped claws twitched, and their next breath sounded as if it had been dragged in over broken glass.

Curious that this would be what provoked a reaction.

Hornet, meanwhile, had frozen where she sat, shoulders curled, fangs rubbing together in a vexed expression that would have made his shell prickle had it been directed at him. She exhaled, slowly, something that was almost a frustrated sigh, and stroked their horn, murmuring something he could not hear—something that her sibling did not seem to hear, either.

Hollow did not move. Except to begin shaking, almost invisibly, like a string suddenly pulled taut.

This might, in fact, be a very good time to protest.

“You do flatter me,” he said, with his voice as level as he could make it, “but as I’ve said, I am no scholar.”

He held his ground when Hornet rounded on him, only lifting one hand to ask, silently, for leave to continue.

She granted it, though not without a suspicious scowl. “Why don’t you tell us what you are, then?”

This felt like a trap, but he had no choice other than to spring it. Especially with the vessel’s breath still hissing through a throat that sounded tighter every moment, with the darkness spiraling deeper and deeper behind their eyes like a whirlpool.

Take care, he thought, and step lightly, things he had often told himself on his travels, advice that had served him well, though he had no memory of who had given it.

“I would have loved to be a scholar,” he began, truthfully. Still looking the wounded knight in the eye, though every second added to his mounting sense of unease. “I wanted it, more than anything. I dedicated my time, my mind, my very life to the venture.”

He shrugged, looked away, allowed the silence to stretch while his shell stopped crawling. He had seen his own end in his travels a dozen times or more; seeing it in a vessel’s eyes was no different.

“I thought, perhaps, that I would like to be a healer. Matters of biology and medicine were fascinating to me. Or that the kingdom’s history was my calling, or the study of its myths. I was even a passable writer, but novels eluded me, and my essays and treatises went unfinished.

“The story is long, but to make short work of it, I found it impossible to choose a field of study. I was an apprentice longer than any before me—or since. I was on the verge of being sent home when the Teacher herself took note of me.”

Hornet, still stroking her sibling’s horn in a halfway absent fashion, tilted her head. Silent, tense, but she at least seemed to recognize that his story was not making things worse, so she did not stop him.

“The Madam said she saw something of herself in me.” He laughed, still half-disbelieving as he said it. “I cannot fathom what that might have been, but she refused to send me away. She gave me a home there, and a purpose, and the freedom to learn what I wished.”

“You said you were her assistant.”

“I was.” He paused, listening. The vessel had not calmed, exactly, but they were not panicking further, their breathing having settled into a quick but steady rhythm. Otherwise, they had not moved, and did not seem willing to; their limbs were locked in place, their swirling gaze fixed on him whether he looked at them or away.

Interesting. Hornet’s sibling might share her opinion of scholars—or hold an even less charitable one, if possible. He could not be sure he was right, as his denial did not seem to have dispelled their fear of him. Wherever that fear may have begun, he could only do his best to disprove it.

Leaning back, he wrapped his hands around one knee and did his best to appear relaxed. “I worked alongside her on many of her endeavors. Including her final and most noteworthy: the perpetuation of Hallownest.”

The knight did not react to this. The knight did not react to anything, including when Hornet bent down once more and looked into their face, then ran her thumb over the crack above their eye, delicate, feather-light. “I’ve asked Quirrel to assist me while I finish bathing you today. He’ll examine your wounds and collect information that may help us determine how to proceed.”

No change. Only the same rough drag of breath, in and out, and the same glassy roil of void behind their pale, motionless mask.

Quirrel was beginning to see why Hornet had felt the need to ask for help. As well as why she wished for him to see and interpret her sibling’s elusive moods for himself.

Hornet, evidently having waited long enough, pressed her other hand to Hollow’s face and held both still for a moment. “Remember what I told you. You are allowed to pull away if you cannot tolerate being touched, for any reason. And I swear this: Quirrel will not harm you. Nor will he do anything I do not explicitly allow.” This was said with a piercing glance his way, as if he were at all times ready and willing to defy her wishes.

He bowed his head, nonetheless. No good could come of protesting. And both siblings seemed to have a short supply of trust—a supply he was determined not to waste.

As he had come to expect, silence was the only answer.

With a murmured “I’ll start the water warming, shall I?” Quirrel stood, not missing the brief, startled snag in Hollow’s breath, but allowing it to pass as though he had. “Here.” He grabbed his satchel and leaned to place it beside Hornet’s knee without stepping closer. “I left my personal effects in my room, to clear space—this is everything I managed to find this morning.”

Hornet peered up at him from below the rims of her mask sockets. A steady, measuring look, less intimidating than her sibling’s black stare, but not for lack of effort.

She said nothing, already reaching for the satchel as he turned away, and he left her to it as he set about lighting a fire.

“Well, not everything,” he amended after a pause, as he stacked the sticks of shellwood in the hearth. “I did leave behind most of it. That’s everything useful I could find this morning.” Another pause. “Almost.”

He did not turn around as she sorted through his spoils, though he was hard-pressed to interpret some of the sounds of her efforts. What had he brought back, after all? The scrub brushes, the extra soap, the pencils, the note paper, and—ah—

“What is this?”

A glance over his shoulder confirmed that she was, indeed, holding a jar of shriveled leaves aloft between two claws, as if it had personally offended her.

“Tea!” When his enthusiasm went unrequited, he cleared his throat and returned his attention to the fire. “I—er. I know you said you never grew to like it, but I thought to offer you the opportunity.”

Hornet didn’t answer. When he turned back around, she had lowered the jar into her lap and was staring at it, uncertainly. Quirrel thought he had never seen someone look so unsettled at the prospect of tea before.

“I’ll happily drink it, if you don’t,” he offered, with an attempt to return to his previous unconcern. “That is, if it’s any good in the first place.”

She set it down carefully, so carefully that he barely heard the tink of the glass upon the stones. And after a long, long minute, she said only, “I shall have to send you for more shellwood, then. I haven’t much to spare for brewing.”

Relief washed over him, a relief he didn’t quite understand. But he only smiled, struck the flint, and nursed the little flame until it caught.

By the time he returned with the kettle and pulled out enough towels for the two of them, she had spread out the contents of his satchel on the floor and selected one brush for herself, working at a dry patch of void on Hollow’s arm, sweeping off little black flakes that—for some reason—melted away as soon as they hit the floor.

Ah, that had been one of Monomon’s pet interests. Not strictly essential once the Dreamer plan was in place, but tangential, something to occupy herself with as her other plans came to a close, in the long months and somehow even longer weeks and days until her Sealing. He had walked into her rooms more than once to find her staring into a little vial of perfect darkness, that tiny amount comprising all she’d been able to acquire, as if it might hold all the secrets of the universe.

He shook himself. Lost in useless nostalgia, again. Lost in something that would drag him backwards into the dark, until he could no longer see where he’d been standing.

His head felt too light. His belt was empty.

Monomon was gone.

And the water was steaming.

His own face stared back at him from the bottom of the empty basin in his hands. Behind him, he heard the soft rustling strokes of Hornet’s brush, and the vessel’s breathing finally slowing.

Quirrel took a deep breath and steadied himself with a hand against the mantle. He cast about for what he had been doing and came up with a dented ladle, scavenged from the kitchen, apparently, and already washed.

By the time he finished dividing the water into two basins and refilled the kettle, he felt like himself again, or like the version of himself that he had come to know. Cracked and fragmented and missing pieces, with just enough dignity or desperation left to pretend that he was whole.

Not so different, the three of them. Not that he would ever presume to place his own hardship next to theirs, or claim sympathy equal to what they deserved. Only that he knew, in a way, what it was like to come to a place where you were looking down on all that you once thought you knew. To come to the realization that you could only see your past self clearly because you had left it behind, like a shell shed somewhere along the way.

He stood and approached the bed, supplies in hand. Hornet looked up and set her brush down, clearing away the pile of things she’d emptied from his satchel to make space for the basins of warm water and the stack of towels. Somewhere in the shuffle, Quirrel found himself nudged toward the vessel’s wounded side, with a cloth over his shoulder and a lump of soap in his hands.

Hesitating, he met Hornet’s eye over the bed, only for her to silently pass him a basin and aim a meaningful glance at Hollow’s side. Not the shrunken, stripped-bare cavity of their shoulder, but farther down, where the plating was intact, though smudged and cloudy with half-cleared void and yellow grime.

Sparing a glance toward Hollow’s face—which had not shifted to follow him as he stepped out of their sight, though the scales along their neck were clamped tight with tension—he laid a hand lightly on their shell. Their plates flexed the barest amount, a sub-surface flinch that he would not have noticed had he not been touching them. It was an effort not to flinch back himself, at the clear indication that they did not enjoy the contact, but unless they explicitly pulled away, it would be best to let them adjust, to come to the conclusion that this, unlike so many other things, would not hurt.

Hornet, pretending not to watch as she scrubbed at a stain on their chest, gave him a slight nod. She had shifted to lean over their arm as she worked, putting herself between him and her sibling’s talons, and he saw the wisdom of it at once; here, they had no arm to strike out with, if he was thoughtless enough to upset them.

Oh, he was a Fool fit for the Colosseum to be standing here. His heart was beating fast, his hand nearly quivering where it rested on the vessel’s massive shell. He could sensethe hitch in each breath as their lungs expanded, the shallow cracks and chips in their carapace catching on his fingertips, all the little subtleties of a living creature coming sharply into focus, and he felt… alive.

And curious. Undeniably curious. Their shell was not cold, not as their smaller sibling’s had been, only barely cool enough to register as different from his own. Their armor was smooth and faintly glossy, though not metallic in the way of scarabs. He could not help but remember that they were a masterful creation, perhaps the Pale King’s finest, the crowning achievement of decades of work from the best minds the kingdom had to offer—

—and the result had somehow surpassed them all, every plan and every theory, clinging to life when that spark should have been snuffed out a thousand times over.

He pulled back, gathered himself. Recalled what he was meant to be doing, rather than standing there, awestruck and useful to no one.

They flinched again when he pressed the wet cloth against their shell, but less so this time, enough that he felt—not comfortable, but confident that he was not hurting them. Unpleasant this might be, but he had suggested the night before that the best way forward was to work together, with Hornet acting as both a distraction and a demonstration that he was to be trusted, and she had agreed.

Slowly, increasing the pressure by degrees, he started to work away at the stains, senses alert for any change.

There was none. The Hollow Knight lay perfectly still, staring forward, with not a single twitch of their hand or blink of their eyes betraying discomfort or unease. Even that subtle flinch had died away, though the tension did not, noticeable only when he touched the soft skin below the edges of their plating to clean out the void that had dried there. He worked as carefully as he knew how, touch as light as he could make it, ever-conscious of that prickling awareness that they did not want him there.

Hornet was watching, too, and still pretending not to. Watching how he treated her sibling, watching him watch them. He had never expected to feel quite so much like a specimen under a microscope, especially when he was allegedly here to study someone else.

It might be amusing, except that the circumstances were anything but.

There was a brief pause while Hornet coaxed the knight farther onto their back, affording him a better view of their shoulder and the wounds in their chest while he worked alongside her. Their breathing grew shallower, rougher, each one tinged with a shrill hiss—from their lungs, not their throat. A bad sign, that even such a small movement winded them.

Hornet had described this to him the night before, when he pressed her to give a list of their symptoms. Shortness of breath and severe dizziness, she’d said, although the latter could be a loss of balance related to their missing arm, which he would have to observe them moving to determine. He’d witnessed their exhaustion himself, as they struggled to stay awake with him in the room. And the surprising lack of a natural chill—especially compared to their smaller sibling—added to his suspicion that, despite the soul healing and several days’ worth of rest, they were still suffering the effects of severe blood loss… or whatever passed for blood, in a vessel.

That conclusion, at least, was no surprise. It would be a miracle if they weren’t, given the extent of their wounds.

The variation in their injuries astounded him. That shoulder was the worst of it, stripped clean of shell and warped nearly beyond recognition by the pressure and heat. Between the loose, shriveled sacs of emptied cysts, the structure of their body was clearly visible, knobs of joints and ropes of withered muscle shifting as they breathed.

Attempts to drain the infection from its hosts had been few, he recalled. He had not yet been born when the plague began, but when it reached its height just before the Sealing, the method of dealing with those diseased had been as simple as it was brutal: as soon as the symptoms were clearly identified, the unfortunate individual was killed and their body burned immediately. Early experimentation had made clear that seeking to bleed the god-light from a victim’s veins only lengthened the bug’s suffering and endangered their caretakers—whether by the painful burns the fluid could cause or by the infected bug’s maddened attempts at escape.

And yet he had to admit that Hornet’s methods, though unconventional and incomplete, appeared to have achieved some measure of success. A few of the smaller cysts near the lower portion of exposed skin had managed to seal shut and refill, but they were darker than the rest, their membranes slack and thin, a marked difference from the remainder that she had not yet addressed.

At the join between chest and shoulder, where the plating was rough, twisted, but still present, the untouched infection began, a crowded mass of caustic yellow blisters, still shedding heat when his hands ventured near them. They ran between the wide pectoral plates, interspersed with multiple darkened cavities where a sharp weapon had pierced them through, a fractured silhouette of a diamond-shaped blade with a cross-section as wide as his palm.

Frowning, he looked closer. The angle of these punctures was strange. Nearly all of them entered low and from the right, slanting upward, and when he pictured the size of the nail that had dealt these blows—

“Quirrel?”

He looked up, bringing Hornet back into focus. “Yes.”

She stared him down. “I asked for the towels.”

“Ah.” He reached behind him, gathering up the dirty cloths he’d accumulated. “Right. Here.”

Hornet held his stare a little longer than necessary, perhaps a warning, or an attempt to communicate something. He could not tell. Not when his mind was hollowed out of everything but the sudden conviction that these wounds had come from the vessel’s own hand.

How were they still breathing? With these jagged holes in their chest, these scars that pierced through their frame and made a ruin of their shell? They were undoubtedly something more than some wondrous machine—any construct of metal and soul, no matter how hardy, would have wound down and ceased to function long before now. If he had still been in doubt that some invisible, ironclad will held them together, he would have been forced to reconsider.

And what machine would seek to end its own existence? What mere machine would turn upon itself and say No more?

Hornet stepped away to retrieve a new bundle of rags, leaving him looking down at the wounded knight on their pallet, wondering how he was going to explain to their sister that the greatest threat to her sibling’s life might not be within her ability to heal.

○

Taglist: @botslayer9000 @moss-tombstone @slimeel Send an ask or reply to this post to be added to (or removed from) the taglist!

[skaruresonic]

Not trying to choose sides but blocking isn't a bad thing and nothing really anyone should lose sleep over, I block idw sonic fans and I block nsfw Sonic artist, sorry, makes me uncomfortable. I also block Prime sonic fans because those fans get triggered as soon as you point out how bad it is too. XD

I'm in the fandom on my free time, I don't want to deal with negativity or annoyance and I don't want to argue hours on hours about why I like or don't like this one Sonic thing. It's a waste of all of our time. Gotte focus on the games we love right?

I'm lucky so far I have not once been bothered by Satam fans whenever I call the show a pos. :P

Again, I don't mind blocking for curation's sake. I mind when people make a big moral issue out of it, especially when A.) blocking anyone even tangentially associated with us suggests someone out there may be keeping tabs on us, and B.) they still complain that we owe them a "conversation" even after being blocked. I know they're not being good faith, they just want an excuse to lecture and stonewall you forever.

No offense, as I know you didn't mean this, but even chronic discoursers have hobbies and concerns other than discourse; just because all you see is what a person posts online doesn't mean that's the only thing they do.

Personally, I've been straying more into VN work. Spent all day yesterday creating a few ambient sounds with SoundTrap.

---

I'm lucky so far I have not once been bothered by Satam fans whenever I call the show a pos. :P

Yeah idk what it is, but some SatAM fans (note I'm not saying all of them) are the most insecure fans I've ever seen. The show's been off the air for decades, and yet if you speak about it in an even mildly negative manner, someone will roll up to your post like "SatAM gave us GREAT TELEVISION and they did their best with the crumbs the games gave them." It's weird too because Omens devs the occasional outlier notwithstanding, you don't see Sonic X fans behaving as though X was still relevant to the series. Not only is "poor SatAM creators had nothing to work with" laughably untrue given the evidence we have at this point, (evidence which includes Ben Hurst's own words btw, but somehow they're just as allergic to his words as they are toward Ian's whenever he says something that doesn't fit their narrative), I like their assumption that the game purists ought to appreciate, or at least overlook, the implication that the games are less deep and fleshed-out than the TV show.

And then they pull surprised Pikachu faces when you're like "hey could you not shittalk the core series in order to elevate your dead, obsolete, and largely niche continuity? pls and thank"

[malec-ao3feed]

you're the king and I'm your lionheart

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/OvC4r93 by la_muerta When Lilith leads her army of demons against Magnus in Edom, Magnus decides that he has to do whatever it takes to seal Edom permanently from the mortal realm and keep the people he loves safe — even if it means giving up his heart, mind, and soul. Some time later, a nephilim turns up at the door of his ruined palace, a man that Magnus thinks he ought to remember. Words: 9287, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: Shadowhunters (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: M/M Characters: Magnus Bane, Alec Lightwood Relationships: Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Post-Episode: s03e20 City of Glass, King of Edom Magnus Bane, Temporary Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rough Sex, Face-Fucking, Throne Sex, Come play, Nipple Play, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, Praise Kink, Mirror Sex, Rimming, Dom/sub Undertones, Under-negotiated Kink, Alec Lightwood Needs A Hug, Magnus Bane Needs A Hug, good thing they've got each other then :') read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/OvC4r93

[seasurfacefullofclouds1]

https://www.instagram.com/reel/C1miu-FsFdK/?igsh=MWxzZTA3dmNzN2V2NQ==

I always had this question that louis wrote some really good horny songs and he has always been like that in the band(not that am complaining, i really like that side of louis) but his writing style has completely changed.. i mean look at mr. am so sweet styles writes all sorts of sex songs but louis has done like complete 180..🤔

This is actually kind of interesting.

Louis’ songwriting for his solo career has changed a lot since 2016, partly because of circumstance (Louis realized, around fall 2017, that industry wasn’t going to support him but exactly the opposite— his former label and contacts would do everything to sink him) and partly temperament (he focused on “honesty and authenticity” with a confessional style for Walls, and then changing the focus to tour-appropriate songs to the FITF).

The switch from Walls to FITF might have come from Louis’ realization that confessional ballads don’t tour well in large spaces like arenas and stadiums. His fans showed up, of course, but the big hits on LTWT were songs like Kill My Mind, Always You.

Sonics aside, the subject of songs changed from Louis himself to the world around him. Maybe the pandemic influenced this switch, and maybe there was a broadening of friends and acquaintances beyond the boyband world.

Louis doesn’t tend to insulate himself from the world at large. He meets fans, he goes to normal restaurants and pubs, he attends football games incognito, he stands with the crowd at festivals. He goes to UK pubs to watch football games and he races strangers in the streets. The “interiority” in his songs, while describing specific and intimate moments, are like the best creative works that are both personal and universal. We recognize them because they bring out bittersweet or nostalgic, human moments. They express empathy, yearning, a longing for human connection.

Recently I was thinking about Harry’s cheeky answer to an interviewer that Stockholm Syndrome (which he co-wrote) was about “a nympho.” At the time, fandom didn’t know what to think. Was Harry describing girls as sex addicts… with kidnapping / abuse fantasies?

Then came Carolina (“she’s a good girl/ she feels so good”), Only Angel (“a devil between the sheets”), Kiwi (“Hard candy drippin' on me till my feet are wet/ And now she's all over me, it's like I paid for it”), Keep Driving (“Cocaine, side boob/ Choke her with a sea view”), Make My Day (“She asked me to choke her, I play along”), and of course, Watermelon Sugar, to name a few songs with questionable lyrics.

My objection is not that Harry depicts women as human beings with sexual needs, but that he depicts them as sexual objects— that women are the sum of their sexual fulfillment for men, for men’s fantasies, for men to portray and control. In this point of view, women love sex because men want them to love sex, and women love sex more because men sometimes pay them for it.

It’s not a great POV from a teenager, but an execrable one from a grown adult man. It’s as if this man has never grown up, never had a mature relationship, never met an adult partner in real life. It’s also a POV in which women ought to love sex, in which we are expected to be grateful for it, and being compensated should be sexual turn on… a truly dangerous philosophy.