#i cannot sit passively by and say and do nothing

[eldritch-thrumming]

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[nereidprinc3ss]

do you believe me now? | 5

in which spencer reid and fem!reader are reunited, but the worst kind of sparks are flying. you meet a man named randall. derek morgan buys you a drink (sort of). it seems that some things can't be unsaid.

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this series is 18+ warnings/tags: r goes to a bar but doesn't drink alcohol, gets hit on by weird men, dramatic, angst, sorry in advance a/n: surprise! i'll see myself out. love you! lmk your thoughts on this bad boy! i KNOW you'll have some! i'm locking all my doors and the cops are on speed dial after posting this. stay tuned for part six tho

You don’t call Spencer for four days. 

Spencer doesn’t call you for four days. 

It’s scary. 

There’s some texting—mostly him giving you updates on how things are going and when he expects to be back. Mostly you giving the messages a thumbs up and saying nothing else. 

Finally, on Thursday afternoon, his ringtone (the Bill Nye theme) makes you jump as you’re sitting on your bed staring into space. 

His caller ID photo—which is simply his passport photo, because you’d thought it was adorable—stares at you. You stare back. Contemplate not picking up. 

But you’re not quite there yet. 

And you cannot keep listening to Bill Nye the Science Guy. 

The answer button is cold under your thumb, but not as cold as your greeting. 

“Hi.”

You barely recognize your own voice. 

It seems to send Spencer for a loop as well, because his reply is halting. 

“Hey! Hi, um—how are you? I feel like we’ve barely talked this week.”

That would be because you told me my feelings for you are stronger than your feelings for me and I don’t know how to stop making every single word I say secretly mean I love you. We can’t have a conversation without me loving you. It will always be in the room or on the phone with us. To ignore the presence of it is impossible, and I don’t know if I can ignore the absence of yours, either. 

“Uh… yeah. I’m fine. What’s up?”

There’s a pause. 

“We wrapped up this morning. We’re getting on the jet here in a few minutes, and, um—I know it’s not ideal, but we missed Derek’s birthday and Penelope is insisting we all go to his favorite bar tonight. And he told me that for his birthday he wants to meet you. So… would you be up for that?”

“You want… to take me to a bar?”

“No. I mean—I know it’s not really your thing, but we missed Derek’s birthday three years in a row, and—and I understand if you don’t want to meet him tonight, but we wouldn’t have to stay very long and I really, really shouldn’t skip it. Derek has saved my life on more than one occasion.”

“You could go without me.”

More silence. Every second hurts, but you don’t understand why he wants you to come meet his best friend if he thinks the two of you are in different places emotionally. 

But maybe he’s not going to break up with you just yet. Maybe he’s going to keep inviting you to bars and foreign film festivals and bookshops. Maybe he’s going to treat you exactly the same as he always has but with this new added layer of knowledge that the way he treats you isn’t actually love, and it never was, and you’re not sure if it has the potential to ever become love. Because if it did—wouldn’t it have already? What more do you have to offer than what you’ve already given him?

Breakup or no breakup, you feel sick. 

When he speaks his tone is similarly chilly. It’s welcome. You want him mad. If he can’t reciprocate your adoration, then the very least he can do is have the decency to reciprocate your reproach. 

“I could. Is that what you want?”

No. I don’t want any of this. I need you to know me well enough to know that. And if you can’t love me then at least get angry. At least show me you feel something other than passive contentment. 

“Yeah. Sure. I don’t know.”

A pause stretches so long your heart pounds. You watch the elapsed time of the call tick by, second by second, and you wait for the anticipation to crack under the weight of silence, to give way to some terrible jump scare or to give way at all. 

But the words that end the conversation (if you can even call it that) aren’t any great relief. They’re just sad, and chalk full of defeat. 

“Alright. I’ll… I’ll call you later.”

You feel like you’ve swallowed an ice cube. All the words you’d like to say are frozen in your stinging throat. 

“Okay. Um… I’ll let you board now.”

“The jet’s not…” but he trails off. When he speaks again he sounds just as hurt as you’d wanted—and it doesn’t make you feel better at all. “Okay. Bye.”

“Bye.”

The line goes dead, and your face is burning as tears fill your eyes for the hundredth time this week. That call was terrible and poisonous and you don’t feel like yourself. 

Things have gone so wrong so quickly, and all you know how to do is ice him out so he can’t do it to you first. But it’s not going to make this better. No matter how mean you are to him, at the root of it all you feel unloved and scared and alone and Spencer knows things about love and relationships that you don’t. He’s confusing you with all this talk of feeling differently about each other and I’ll be home tomorrow I miss you and things get complicated when one person likes the other more and let’s talk in person and will you come meet my best friend tonight. All of it leaves you motion sick and ugly crying in the fetal position. 

All you have to get through this is who you’ve always been, a little of the person you’ve become, and the love you harbor for Spencer which rattles around in your chest like a nail in an empty toolbox. At the moment it hardly seems helpful. It mocks you, pointing out the pathetic hilarity of your paradox. The only person who can comfort you, the person you want more than anything, is the reason you’re so upset in the first place. But you can’t help being drawn to him. 

Maybe the love you have for Spencer is more like a magnet in a compass. 

Even if he doesn’t feel it for you, you do love Spencer. And that goes beyond just loving the parts of him that like you. To hide from that love would be a gross disservice to yourself and all the work you’ve done to get here. It’s not as if you suddenly know exactly what the answer is—but you’re sure that hiding is the most childish, cowardly thing you could do and the furthest you could get from a resolution. Even if you can’t make him love you back, you refuse to allow yourself to fizzle quietly out of his life. This relationship deserves something more than that. 

So maybe you don’t have a plan when you wipe your eyes and pick up your phone. Maybe there’s no strategy behind your actions as you text Garcia for the bar location. But if you keep running from everything you’ll never get anywhere. All you can do is show up. It seems like the next best step. 

------

The pub isn’t too crowded—but for a Thursday night, you suppose it’s a bit busy. 

Boot heels hooked onto the metal foot-beam of the stool you’re sitting on, elbows resting on the polished mahogany surface of the bar, you’re staring into an untouched mixed drink. Then you glance down the bar to your right, at the man who’d bought it for you. 

Maybe your ensemble gave him the wrong idea. 

Coming to this gathering had required bravery, and you came armored. Your ensemble projects significantly more confidence than you’re currently feeling. It was intentional, a form of self-protection—but now you’re wondering if it’s projecting a little too much confidence. 

All done up, clearly still a little rough around the edges, and sitting alone at a bar was bound to draw the wrong pairs of eyes. 

“Hey, darlin’,” the gruff man says, approaching when you inadvertently catch his gaze. “Are you gonna drink that, or should I? Otherwise I’m lookin’ at eleven dollars right down the drain.”

You avert your eyes, scanning the groups dotted here and there. 

“I’m waiting for friends.”

“Does that make a free drink less appealing?”

He takes the stool next to you, off-gassing the scent of cigarettes and leather. 

“I’m not drinking.”

“Really? I’ve never seen a girl who looks as sad as you do come sit at the bar to stay sober.”

You frown, looking back up at the man next to you. He seems like the Hell’s Angels type—tattooed knuckles, leather jacket, grey beard, and a weathered face that’s clearly spent decades with the sun. Fifties, maybe younger and just looks more rugged. What does it say about how I look tonight that this is the kind of man I’m attracting, you wonder. Maybe you look desperate and just as lonely as you feel. As he claims you do. 

“I’m not sad.”

“Alright. I’ll take your word for it. But a happier girl wouldn’t be all alone.”

“I’m waiting for friends,” you repeat, letting the words drip like venom from your tongue. 

“I’m Randall. See? Now we're friends.”

“I don’t need more friends. I like the ones I have.”

Something catches Randall’s attention long enough to catch yours. He raises his bottle vaguely, gesturing beyond your shoulder. 

“Are those angry lookin’ guys in the suits marching right over here the friends you’re talking about?”

You turn your head, brows furrowed, and immediately see the gentlemen to whom your new pal is pointing out. 

Spencer is storming across the bar looking close to furious (which for him, means an expression so placid it gives you chills) followed by Derek Morgan—a man who you’ve only seen pictures of and is even more impressive in person. 

You hate how your breath catches, how your heart is already beating a little faster than usual at the sight of him even though you’re not exactly pleased with each other right now. 

Suddenly the bubbles in your cocktail are once again fascinating.

“Those are the ones.”

“And why are they dressed for church?”

Church?

“They’re FBI.”

“Ah. My lucky fuckin’ day.”

You almost snort. 

“Hey,” Spencer says sternly, hand settling on your back as he partially fills the small space between you and the strange man. “Who’s this?”

You shrug, sit up a little straighter, and take a shallow breath—not because you’re scared of this man but because Spencer is suddenly so close to you and you can feel his warmth and the air bending around him and the scent of him is genuinely dizzying to you. 

“Randall,” you exhale unenthusiastically. But the odd thing is that you’re rather grateful for Randall’s presence. Because now Spencer is here and you have no idea what you’re going to say to him. 

“Oh,” Randall says, sipping his beer unhurriedly before using it to gesture to Spencer. “You’re the boyfriend. You know, that’s funny, because she didn’t mention a boyfriend.”

“I didn’t mention anything. We weren’t having a real conversation.”

Randy holds his hands up defensively, fingers still wrapped around the neck of a sweating bottle. 

“I’m just saying it’s in-ter-esting. Not trying to start anything.” He stands, pauses for another sip—Spencer obviously isn’t sure what to make of this man because he says nothing. “But listen, man to man—you better buy her some flowers or a real pretty fuckin’ necklace or somethin’ because a happy girl in a happy relationship does not come pout at the bar all by herself.”

“Get out of here, man,” Derek finally speaks up. 

“Yeah, yeah.” He sets his empty bottle down and fishes in his pocket for a cigarette, sticking it between his lips. “But—just for the record—I have a wife. I wasn’t gonna do anything weird. Sometimes when you’re my age you just gotta live a little. Buy a pretty girl a drink. Piss off some Mormons, or whatever the fuck you are.”

This guy sounds like a bad Bruce Springsteen song. But part of you would almost rather hang out with Randall than be forced into a conversation you’re not prepared for with Spencer. 

And whose fault is that, you remind yourself. You decided to come be mature. Suck it up. 

“Goodnight,” Derek emphasizes. 

Spencer doesn’t say a word. You can feel his eyes boring smoking holes into the side of your face, and you look anywhere else.  

“I’ll be here next week after physical therapy like clockwork,” the stranger waves as he ambles away—but not before pointing at you. “You enjoy that drink, friend. And don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

What a weird man. 

There’s silence for a moment—in which Spencer refuses to stop watching you and you refuse to acknowledge that. 

“And here I was thinking Spencer made you up.” Derek has a beautiful smile and a warm, charming cadence as he holds out his hand for you to shake. “I’m Derek.”

You take the proffered hand and shake, offering him a shy smile and introducing yourself in kind. 

“Happy birthday, by the way. Sorry for crashing your party.”

Really, he’s stunning. 

“Thank you, sweetheart. And you’re not crashing anything. I told pretty boy here I wanted to meet you the second he started talking about a friend. But nah, he just wanted to talk and talk and talk about you—” 

“Alright,” Spencer mumbles, blushing, eyes finally torn from your profile. You smile slightly, brows knitting as Derek magically melts some of the terrible tension.

“Pretty boy?”

Before either of them can explain, someone shrieks in your general direction. You startle backward in your seat, and Spencer steps closer, hand sliding up your back as Penelope, JJ, and Emily join your little huddle. For only a second you allow yourself to shrink into him—before you’re straightening your posture like your spine is a metal rod and his touch burns. It’s a knee-jerk defensive reaction for which you have no explanation. You can’t see him, but you don’t feel his hand on you again. 

“Oh my god! Look at this beautiful person who I love!” Penelope exclaims, pushing past Derek to grab your face and kiss both of your cheeks. “Oh my god,” she says again, wiping sticky lipgloss away with her thumbs, “I totally meant to ask before I did that. But your face is just so kissable. I’m so glad you decided to come!”

“Hi, Penelope,” you smile half-heartedly, incapable of reciprocating her cheery mood. Fortunately, she’s cheery enough for a standard commercial flight’s worth of people, and probably thinks of Derek’s birthday as a national holiday—so she doesn’t pick up on this. 

Emily and JJ offer you tamer although perfectly kind greetings. 

“Ooh, what are you drinking?” Emily asks, leaning closer to examine the forgotten beverage in front of you. 

“Not that,” Spencer mutters, grabbing the glass and sliding it away from you. You give him an affronted look—and immediately wish you hadn’t, since you’re meeting his eyes for the first time since he left. His words stall for just a moment as his eyes dart between yours before he’s saying, “you shouldn’t accept a drink if you didn’t watch someone make it.”

The audacity of him to be acting protective makes you scoff. 

“That guy didn’t spike my drink. He was harmless.”

“People thought Ted Bundy was harmless, too.”

It’s such a ridiculous thing to say that you don’t even have a response—your eyes simply narrow and you shake your head. A claustrophobic silence falls over the small group. 

“Okay…” JJ murmurs. “Um, do you guys want to go check out the jukebox with me? We have to play all of the birthday boy’s favorites.”

Several enthusiastic yeses go around, but you’re too busy having a stand off with your boyfriend to take much notice. 

Soon, it’s just the two of you. 

“Controlling isn’t a good look for you,” you finally say, spinning to rest your elbows on the bar once more and studying the bottles of liquor on the shelves beyond. 

“Evasive and avoidant isn’t particularly flattering, either. I was under the impression that you had no intention of coming after that phone call earlier.” 

You scoff again as your blood heats. Already the conversation is going worse than you’d expected—and your expectations were not high. 

“Do you think the cab driver was a serial killer, too? Or maybe the bartender?”

He’s still behind you and slightly to the side—but he leans down, resting his own fists on the bar right next to you and speaking lowly, directly over your shoulder. 

“Why don’t you try speaking to me like we’re adults instead of starting meaningless arguments in order to get under my skin?”

From him, that hurts. 

It’s a branch on the tree of your greatest insecurity—the fear that you’re too inexperienced with relationships and that makes you too immature and he’s been lying every time he says it’s not an issue. Because of course it’s an issue. It’s why you fell in love with him, it’s why you don’t know how to fix it, and it’s why you’re incapable of actually expressing any of your feelings to him.

“Why do you think I’m here right now?” you whisper—as sharp and stinging as a poison dart. “I’m trying to be a fucking adult. I don’t want to be here.”

Silence. 

“Then why did you come?”

His voice is so calm it burns like dry ice. 

“Because! Because you asked me to, because—”

You can’t bring yourself to say it aloud. 

Because I’m obviously still in love with you and I can’t just turn that off. I tried to do the right thing. 

Instead you bury your face in your hands and let it hang in the air, unspoken. You know he knows. You just don’t know why he’s acting like you’re so unreasonable for being upset. 

“Let me make this very clear to you,” Spencer murmurs, brushing your hair away from your ear so tenderly, speaking so softly you could convince yourself that he’ll say something kind. It’s the closest he’s been in days and now that he’s here you feel how much you missed him in your bones. And even though you sense a trap, you can’t help but sit up straighter. You’ll be complicit in your own undoing if it means you can have him close. His breath shakes slightly as he inhales and you brace as best you can. “Nobody is forcing you to be here. You told me you weren’t coming and then you decided to show up. I was ready to give you the space that you were too scared to ask me for. But I can only take responsibility for so much of what is ultimately your bad behavior and your adolescent volatility. You can only blame so much of your bad behavior on inexperience before I run out of patience because I don’t find thoughtlessness and emotional immaturity compelling. I told you that if there is a disparity in the way we feel for each other, that was fine, and I meant it. But if you can’t cope with how I feel about you then don’t let me hold you back. I am not holding you hostage. You can leave whenever you want. So don’t waste your time punishing me because you don’t want to be here. And if you do want to be here, good. I want that too. But act like an adult and make a decision. My leniency has limits, even for you. I am asking that you do not push it any further than you already have.”

You don’t know how long it’s been since your last breath by the time he finishes his address.

Long enough that you’re dizzy when you push away from the bar and shoulder through the throng of patrons as quickly as you reasonably can without outright running. 

Long enough that when you burst out the door into the biting-cold night air, and finally take a deep, gasping breath, it burns and stings and aches and so does your head and your eyes as they well with hot, furious, heartbroken tears. 

You speed-walk to the end of the block, hand clamped over your mouth to muffle your cries and all the curse words you’d love to scream. 

Part of you knows you walked away from the bar in case he decided to try and follow you—but when you look over your shoulder the sidewalk is empty. You should’ve known better than to think he’d follow you after that. But at least it means you can have your breakdown by the relative safety of the bar, leaning your back against the dirty brick facade next to the entrance alcove and sliding down until your butt hits the cold concrete and you don’t even care. 

Who the fuck was that man in the bar who looked like Spencer and sounded like Spencer but spoke to you like this is all your fault, like it’s your fault you love him and he doesn’t love you back, like it’s ridiculous that you’d be upset, like you’re cruel and petty for having feelings about it, about him—for having any fucking feelings at all? And to think that was the man who you let know you more intimately than anyone ever has. Every insecurity you’d ever admitted to him was hurled back in your face like it was nothing. Hell—he even handed you the ones you’d never mentioned. He proved every terrible thought you’ve been having about yourself right. 

How could he be so unabashedly mean to you?

Spencer doesn’t have to love you. It seems clearer now than ever that he doesn’t. But part of you wonders if he suffered some sort of traumatic brain injury because that’s the only explanation for why he could go from treating you how he did before to treating you like he doesn’t even like you. 

You feel like you might throw up. 

“Called it,” a rasping, grumbling voice says from a few feet away. 

You look up, and spot fucking Randall standing under a street light ten feet away, still smoking. 

You go back to studying the tar spots on the sidewalk through bleary eyes. Pebbles sting as they press into your palms. Another one of the universe’s terrible jokes, you suppose. Just earlier you’d thought that you’d rather talk to Randall than Spencer and now here you are and here he is. 

“That kid as much of a dipshit punk as I thought he was?”

Hearing Spencer described as a kid and a dipshit punk is so jarring you almost stop crying. 

“He’s not a dipshit,” you sniff, voice thick with tears as you find yourself explaining Spencer Reid to this stranger for no reason at all. “He has an IQ of 187. He’s a genius.”

“Ah,” he scoffs dismissively, flicking ash from his cigarette. “Dipshit-ism don’t discriminate. Anyone can be one. Even your genius punk boyfriend. As a recovering dipshit myself I know what the work of a fellow dipshit looks like. And this has dipshit written all over it.”

You sob harder. 

Randall speaks calmly around his cigarette. 

“You know, I’m sorry for whatever you got goin’ on. But I’ve never not been the asshole when I got a hysterical woman in front of me. It’s nice that I can confidently say this time it is not my fault.”

The bar door opens, letting a warm burst of jovial music and chatter into the otherwise still night. Steps that are too heavy to be Spencer’s hit the concrete next to you—you look to your left and see Derek Morgan before he looks down and sees you. 

“Hey—you okay out here?”

“Why don’t you go ask your Jehovah’s Witness buddy? He did this.”

Derek makes a face, locating the source of this interjection. 

“Sir, I asked you to leave her alone once and I don’t appreciate being made to repeat myself. Are we clear?”

“Yeah, whatever. Fuck me for making friendly conversation, I guess. Gonna have to call my wife and tell her to pick me up down the street. I don’t want her on the damn phone while she’s driving.”

Randall wanders away again, still muttering to himself and smoking. Derek watches him go, staring daggers into his back until he turns his gaze to you. 

Goodbye, Randall, you think. Great. Now I have neither of them. 

“Hey,” he softens, crouching down to your level. “You okay?”

You sniff, wiping your cheeks and attempting not to smudge your makeup. It’s impossible not to feel awkward—you just met this guy and now he’s here trying to do emotional labor for you on his birthday. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. This is embarrassing.”

“You don’t look fine. Can I do anything for you? Do you want some food? A drink?”

“You really don’t have to—”

“I know, I know. But look—Reid is always talking about you. You’re important to him, and he’s important to me. I’ve never seen him this happy and I’ve known that kid a long time. It is in my best interest that someone maintain you, and if it’s not him, it’ll be me. Call it a favor to him, if that makes you feel better.” Derek is sporting a slightly more modest Cheshire grin again by the end of his sentence. Listening to him speak that way about Spencer speaking about you, it’s impossible not to feel a teeny bit lighter. Even if you’re not entirely sure where you stand on all things Spencer related at the moment. “So I’ll ask you again. Is there anything I can do for you?”

You sniff again. 

“Sure. A ginger ale or something might be good.”

“Got it. I’ll be back. And come inside if Randall tries to run up on you again, okay?”

Despite yourself you manage a laugh at the way he says the name. His warm smile flickers warmer at this.  

“Will do.”

When Derek returns a few minutes later, the plastic cup he’s holding looks decidedly not like ginger ale. 

“Penelope insisted that this is what you would want. I don’t even know.”

You smile slightly as you take the cup, full to the brim with bubbles and thick red syrup. A cherry bobs underneath the layer of cubed ice. 

“Shirley temple,” you chuckle. “I’ll take it. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome,” he says, flashing that brilliant smile again, and you look into your cup as you drink. Maybe your face warms just a bit. You’re still shy around men, you realize. Especially attractive ones. And Derek Morgan definitely qualifies as attractive. 

“So,” he begins, and to your surprise, crouches down in front of you. “I have to be honest—I came out here in the first place because Reid sent me to check on you. But now I’m wondering what the hell he did.”

Spencer sent him. A considerate action that would theoretically signal his care for your feelings. You take another sip, staring into space and trying to digest this information, but it only jumbles with the rest to confuse you more. 

Of course, you don’t know how to convey this to Derek in a way that’s not overly-familiar for just having met the man, so you go with an old standby. 

“I’m probably just overreacting.”

“Uh-huh. I have sisters. I know what an overreaction looks like and if you were overreacting you wouldn’t be out here hiding. What’d he do?”

You can only keep up the facade of emotional stability for so long. Your chin wobbles in a horribly embarrassing way and you look down again. 

“I’m not sure—I’m not sure if he really did anything or if I’m just being dramatic and I don’t want to make him seem—”

“Why don’t you stop defending him and just tell me what he did?” Derek urges. “Trust me—I love that kid to death. But I also know he can be a dick sometimes. You don’t need to worry about making him look bad in front of me.”

Part of you is glad Spencer has such a good friend on his side. And Derek is right—Spencer is an adult. You don’t need to worry about besmirching his reputation. So you take a shuddering sigh, staring into the red of your drink. 

“He just doesn’t like me as much as I like him. Which isn’t his fault, like I said, but—he’s being such an asshole about it.”

Derek pulls a face, strong eyebrows making an impression as they knit.  

“Did he tell you that?”

“Over the phone,” you nod emphatically. “And just now he gave me this whole fucking speech about how immature and horrible I am for not being 100% happy about it. And maybe he’s partially right, I mean—I know people feel things differently and maybe he just was asking for more time. I worry I fucked it up so bad because I couldn’t handle that—but at the same time he didn’t say he wanted more time. He was really fucking unclear and vague about what he wanted, and he asked me to come to this bar like it was nothing when I’ve been worried he was going to break up with me all week. So yeah, I guess he’s right and I have been a bitch about it because I was upset that he didn’t… like me as much. And I wanted him to feel bad because I was so embarrassed, and I also didn’t want to act like everything was normal if he was just going to dump me, I…” you realize you’ve been hardcore rambling and your face heats. “I don’t know.”

There’s a pause, and you worry you’ve done exactly the thing you didn’t want to, which was overshare to this man who seems like he’s significantly more normal and well-adjusted than you. You drink deeply, swallowing sugar and the rest of your words. 

“That’s… bizarre. I don’t mean to invalidate your feelings, but… that just doesn’t make any sense.”

“Yeah,” you scoff, projecting annoyance so you won’t start crying again. “I was confused too. I thought he really liked me.”

“No, sweetheart, I’m saying—that doesn’t make sense because he does really like you. Really, really likes you, more than I’ve ever seen him like someone before. I mean, last week I finally finished that Tesla biography he’s been on my ass about for months and when I told him, all he wanted to do was talk about your thoughts on it. And then it wasn’t even about the book anymore. I have never, ever seen Reid pass up an opportunity to talk about Nikola Tesla. I’m talking never in my life. He finds a way to make every conversation about you. I can’t even follow the connections sometimes but he always finds a way.”

Your nose wrinkles. 

“Sorry you’ve had to hear so much about me,” you mumble. Though you’re not really sorry. It feels good. A twinge of joy in all the murk. 

“I’m not. Like I said, I’ve known Spencer for a long time and I’ve never seen him this happy. I’m not about to let him fuck it up.”

“If I make him so happy then why did he tell me we don’t feel the same?” you whisper, reaching into the puddle of syrup and ice at the bottom of your now empty cup. 

“Is that exactly what he said?” Derek asks, after a long pause. You bite the maraschino cherry off the stem and nod morosely, grinding a long-gone stranger’s cigarette butt with your boot just to crush something. There’s another beat of silence. “Alright. You know what I think?”

You raise your head to meet his gaze, your own wide-eyed and expectant. 

“I think you two need to have an honest conversation. You’re both confused and hurting—I promise Spencer is feeling it too. If you talk to him he won’t be unkind to you.”

“He already was,” you admit. 

“I apologize if I’m out of line here, but you just told me you’ve been icing him out all week because you want him to feel bad. I’m willing to bet you don’t realize how sharp these claws are.” Derek grabs your hand as he says it and you marvel at how much he is the opposite of you. Everything he does and says seems so natural and reasonable and charming even if it would piss you off from anyone else—and you just met the guy. You can see why Spencer and Penelope speak so highly of him. “I think you’ve probably both had your moments these past few days. But that doesn’t mean neither of you deserve any more chances.”

He puts your hand back on your knee and pats it. 

“Besides, Spencer‘s not good at mean. I bet he’s inside worrying himself sick over whatever dumb shit he said to you. He’s probably hyperventilating as we speak.”

“It was really out of character for him,” you concede. 

“Yeah. He’ll be apologizing for a long while. It will get annoying. But he sure as hell won’t be doing it again, I can tell you that much. If he does, let me know. Emily and I will whoop his ass and call it a fitness evaluation.”

“I think that’ll be unnecessary,” you laugh thickly, pulling your sleeve over your hand and wiping away the few tears that haven’t quite dried. “But thank you.”

“Anytime. Now, it’s my birthday, and as a grown man I should not be getting involved in someone else’s relationship drama. I was supposed to be on the dance floor a while ago.” His tone is so warm and sugary by the time he finishes it could rot his perfect grin. It’s futile to hide the way your mouth twists into a reluctant smile as you look down and fix your hair—praying he can’t tell how fazed you are by his kindness. “You’re going to talk to him, right?”

“I’ll—yeah. Right,” you say quietly. But the sinking feeling in your stomach knows it’s a thing easier said than done. 

“Good,” Derek grunts, taking your empty cup before pushing himself back up to his feet and offering you a hand. “Do you want me to send him out here or do you want to come find him inside?”

You balk.

“Like—right now? I have to talk to him now?”

Before he can give you an answer you think you’d rather not have, the bar door is opening. From your spot you can’t see who it is right away, but Derek turns over his shoulder and does a double take before looking back at you. 

Spencer steps out onto the sidewalk, eyes scanning for until he realizes you’re a few feet shorter than usual. Sitting on a filthy public walkway is probably his worst nightmare, you realize, as you scramble to your feet and dust the crumbs of concrete from your palms against the back of your cold jeans. He begins to say your name, and it sounds like relief and regret, but you stop him. 

“I have to go wash my hands.”

It’s monotonous and mumbled and comes out too quickly but you don’t have time to worry about that as you brush past both of the men on your way back into the bar, making an immediate beeline for the bathroom. 

Your face burns with anxiety as you shut the door behind you, immediately drowning in the yellowish lighting which is so harsh but seems to illuminate almost nothing. Who paints a bathroom red? It’s suffocating. You feel like you’re inside an aorta. 

Water runs cool over your hands as you sniffle, rinsing the bits of dirt from red indents made by pebbles and things, and the soap is too floral and powdery but you wash twice anyway. Maybe you’ll just stay in here and wash your hands forever. 

There’s a light knock on the shiny wooden door and it makes you jump. Your name is muffled from the other side. 

“You in there?” 

Quickly you wipe under your reddened eyes in the mirror, trying to fix the slightly smudged makeup. 

The door opens when you don’t respond, and there’s Spencer, looking weary and tense all at once. Is that your fault?

“Hey,” you sniff, trying to effect casualness, but it comes out too quickly and your posture is too stiff. Under his all-seeing gaze you cross and uncross your arms, look at him and look away. Your hands end up in your pockets. He’d say crossed arms are a sign of self-soothing. 

“Hey.” His is more measured, and of course makes you feel embarrassed in comparison. The door swings shut behind him as he enters the small room and makes it feel that much smaller. “Are you… hiding from me in here?”

Yes. 

The graffitied toilet stalls to your left suddenly look fascinating. 

“Nope. Just washing my hands.”

This is not what Derek told you to do, you scold yourself internally. Stop being so scared. Be honest with him. 

Silence rings. All the brutally honest things you’d like to say choke you until your throat hurts and your eyes get hot. Yet again you feel like a stupid little girl who’s too emotional to communicate. 

You cross your arms. It’s an indulgence you feel you’re owed. 

Spencer says your name again and it’s too much. He never says it this often. When he does it feels good but now it’s too formal, makes you too aware of your own inadequacy, and how he must be seeing you—a wraith of a girl in a dingy bar bathroom with clammy hands and smudged eyeliner, practically shaking with fear under an unforgiving light. Someone who is too scared and much too sensitive. 

Spencer attempts to speak again. 

“What I said before, it was—”

“Can you just take me home?” 

It comes out on one exhalation and seems to stall him with all the effectiveness of a slap to the face. 

You don’t know where it comes from, either. 

Easier said than done, you’d thought a few moments ago. All the bravery Derek had tried to instill in you is gone, swallowed down the drain like soap scum. And now you’re choosing to let your fear win—because at least that’s a known quantity. The fear will never reject you. It will always be waiting with open arms. 

Too scared. 

The end feels imminent. You try to press yourself back together, fingernails biting into palms, trying to make something feel more tangible than the terrible knowingness that you’re careening toward an end which was supposed to be a beginning. It’s stifling and you wonder if Spencer is breathing it too. 

You can’t look at his face, but you watch him pocket his hands in his pants and there is so much impossible space between you in such a tiny room. 

“Yeah. I can.”

Something breaks. It’s small, and without fanfare. But it feels final. 

It’s just a ride home. Just a ride home. 

That’s all you have left, and you don’t know how you know it but you do. 

Something so important is being left in this stupid, dingy bathroom. Something that was at one point beautiful and shiny and so arrogant in its newness that it seemed it would never become ugly. And now you’re abandoning it without dignity on the chipped tile floor and in the cobwebs on the walls. It was bigger than you, it was you—and now it’s going to be nothing. 

A vehicle honks on the street. A boisterous group laugh explodes somewhere beyond the door. Water drips from a faucet. 

“I’ll… I’ll bring my car around.”

“Okay.”

But he just stands there for another moment. Like he can’t get himself to move. 

If only time would freeze before he could walk away. 

But it doesn’t. 

He sucks in a decisive breath. 

“Okay,” he murmurs. 

It’s that fucking phone call all over again. 

Then he spins on his heels and leaves you there.

Your time is up. 

-

part 5.5

[celandeline]

in your head, on your mind // Jordan Li x Reader, Part 1

i know i haven't posted in like a year, and this is a huge shift from my usual writing, but i cannot express how jordan li has captured my heart and soul. this is definitely going to be a good number of parts, and will also definitely have some smut in there.

word count: 1912

previous part // next part

The Lamplighter School of Crimefighting is your home away from home on the GodU campus. Being Professor Caldwin’s TA is almost a full-time job, and in addition to classes and training and homework, most days you are in Caldwin’s office more than your own dorm room. Not that you mind, really. It’s the sort of job that will really set you up later in life - Caldwin knows everyone - and anything is better than listening to your roommate try and go viral on TikTok for the 30,000th time. And Caldwin’s a nice guy, in his own way.

“L/N.” The gruff call from his actual office resounds over the little foyer your desk sits in. 

Scooting back from your seat, you get up and walk the few steps between your desk and the doorway, hovering at the frame. “Professor?”

Caldwin sits at his own desk - a big, antique wooden thing that’s probably older than anything else in this building - hunched over in front of a desktop computer that’s far too sleek looking for the desk it sits on. Frustration radiates out from him like rays of the sun. Stupid fucking computer… swear they make these things difficult for people my age on purpose… snippets of his thoughts play in your mind without prompting - your superpower passively picking up his most prominent feelings. Of course, if you wanted, you could really focus and read his mind fully (even talk to him telepathically), but that was a boundary you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t cross. He is your professor - and boss - after all. 

Peering over the top of his glasses, Caldwin blinks at you, gathering a stack of papers to his left. “Bring these over to Brink, will you? If he’s busy you can just leave them with his TA, it’s nothing classified.”

You step into his Caldwin’s office fully, and take the stack of papers from him. It’s a hefty thing, so you tuck it under your arm. “Will do.”

“And while you’re out and about, get me another cup of coffee from the staff room. Two sugars-”

“Two sugars, two pumps of hazelnut, one splash of cream.” You say, already heading out the door. You’ve had his coffee order down since he hired you at the beginning of your sophomore year. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

“Thank you.” Gonna take a hammer to this stupid fucking-

His thoughts cut off abruptly as you walk out of range, heading into the halls of the Crimefighting building. Students fill the space, coming and going from classes, sitting in the chairs near the floor to ceiling windows busy on their laptops, loitering around as they chat with their friends. You purposefully focus on your own goal - Brink’s office, and then the staff break room to make Caldwin another coffee - to force the cacophony of thoughts down. The audible chatter, in addition to the telepathic noise, would have been enough to make you scream a few years ago, but classes at GodU have lived up to your expectations - they’re hard, but worth it, to get your power under control.

Brink’s office is across the building from Caldwin’s, a more luxurious room with lots of natural light and a good view of the campus green. You’d only really ever been in there on Caldwin’s instructions - Brink had only been your professor once, your freshman year, and you’d been too scared of his reputation to actually go to his office hours. Still, it was easy to find, and when you tried the door, it was open. 

The foyer of Brink’s office is much larger than the space in Caldwin’s and you find yourself a little jealous - it would be nice to sit at a desk here. You look first to the doors leading into his actual office, and find them closed. You turn to the figure sitting at the desk, and ask, “Is Brink busy right now? I have papers from Caldwin for him.”

The girl at the desk - pretty, with stark black hair that just reached her jaw and big brown doe eyes - just stares at you for a moment before responding. “Yeah, he’s on a call, actually.” Her voice is smooth, a little deep, and not what you expected at all. 

“Oh, alright, I can just-” You start, only to be interrupted by a wave of lust.

Goddamn. Smash. The things I wouldn’t do to get between those legs… wow. Those legs. How have I not run into YOU before? I mean really, surely I would have noticed the hottest person alive on campus - especially here, in my goddamn department. Fuck. 

Whatever you were expecting, it wasn’t that. You balk. “Um. Sorry. Yeah, it’s not anything classified so Caldwin said I could just leave it with you,” You untuck the stack from under your arm and pass it towards Brink’s TA. Her fingers brush over yours as she takes it, and for a split second, you can feel just how much you were affecting her - the wave of horniness hit you like a bus. The feeling lingers as you take your hand away, and you’re unable to tell if it’s leftover from her or your own reaction. Maybe a bit of both. 

She sets the papers down on her desk beside her without looking, too busy smiling at you. “I’m Jordan, by the way.” She says. “I take it your Caldwin’s TA?”

“Yeah.” You say. “Y/N.”

Y/N. That’s a nice name. Very screamable. 

You fight the urge to do anything but smile. Just looking at her, you would have never guessed such wanton thoughts would come from such a tiny girl, but never judge a book by its cover, right?

“Nice to meet you Jordan.” You continue, careful to keep your voice steady, even. Casual. Not like you can hear every piece of want cross her mind. 

I bet you’d sound good screaming my name. I need to stop - I don’t even know you. I need to get laid, my god. Down tremendous and I JUST learned your name. 

The image of you and Jordan together - tangled up in unfamiliar bedsheets, Jordan’s mouth latched onto your neck as you moaned in pleasure - crosses Jordan’s mind, and yours by extent. For, as she said, having just met you, it was a surprisingly good imaginary version of yourself. Though, she is looking right at you. It would be hard to get any details wrong when you were standing right there. 

Would you let me? Maybe if I was in the other form-

Before you had time to wonder what that meant, she’s changing before your eyes, rearranging skin and bone until an entirely different person is sitting at the desk. A man - taller, broader, but just as pretty and with the same big brown eyes. Your surprise must have shown on your face, because Jordan laughs, a smile stretching across their face. 

“Sorry.” They say, leaning forward to rest their elbows against the desk. “It’s just that I have two faces, so I didn’t want you to get confused if some random dude was waving at you cause I forgot you only met me as a girl.”

“That’s a pretty cool power.” You say, and then, with your mind, “And a pretty good reason to show it off. I mean, for something you came up with on the fly anyway.”

You watch their eyes widen as they realize that you’re in their head, and then their cheeks flush red as they remember what they were thinking about not moments before. “So you’ve just been hearing-?”

“Yeah.” You say..

“I am so sorry-” They start, shifting back into their female form. 

“No, it’s okay.” You say, a laugh on the edge of your lips. “I promise it’s fine, I mean, you didn’t know I was listening in and it’s your thoughts you can’t like, help it. And it’s not the first time-”

I bet, looking like that. Fuck. Pretend I didn’t think that. I’m sorry. Jordan buries their head in their hands with a groan. “Sorry.”

You let out a full laugh at that. “It’s okay, I promise. Please don’t beat yourself up about it, it’s fine. It’s flattering, if anything. I mean, you’re pretty good looking yourself. Not that you’re only hot, I mean - I’m sure you’re nice too.” You pause. “That came out a little wrong.”

Jordan smiles. “It’s okay. I mean, you basically get a free pass to do whatever you want to be since I’ve been…” They trail off. In their mind, …objectifying you. I’d let you do whatever you wanted to me anyway, but… fuck. Sorry.

You smile again. “It’s okay. Promise.” You lean forward across the desk a little, getting closer without getting too close - you have just met after all. The smell of smokey cologne fills your nose, and causes more butterflies to swirl in your stomach. They really are hot. “You wanna know a secret?”

Jordan leans in too. “Sure.”

“Most guys, when they figure out that I can hear them lusting after me, aren't even apologetic.” You say. “So it’s sweet that you are. Charming, even.” It’s true - which is why you don’t usually bother playing into people’s lustful thoughts, but Jordan… 

Okay. Okay, it’s not a big deal, it’s fine. “Would you want to hang out?” Jordan says, a little rushed, like they’d been waiting for an opportunity. “Sometime? We could train, or something…” Please say yes. You don’t have to say yes. I really want you to though.

You think about it for a moment. You don't usually say yes to these kinds of questions, especially after hearing the person's ulterior motives, but… Jordan seems nice, nice enough to genuinely feel bad about their thoughts once they realized you could hear them. And they are hot, objectively, in both forms. 

“Yeah, I’d be down to hang out.” You say, reaching into the pocket of your jeans to pull out your phone. “Can I-?”

“Yes. Yeah.” Jordan pulls their own phone out clumsily, handing it to you. 

You put your number in with a smile, and take the liberty to add a little emoji heart at the end of your name before you hand it back to them. “Should I text you, or are you going to text me?”

I don’t think I could stop myself if I tried. “I’ll text you.” Jordan says, glancing down at their phone. “A heart?”

“You don’t think so?”

No, no. No it’s great, I'm never going to change it. “A little fast, no?” They say. 

You smile, and inject your voice into their head. Liar. I’ll see you later Jordan. 

Before they can say anything else, you turn and leave, throwing one last glance at them over your shoulder. They don’t even try to pretend that they aren’t staring. 

Butterflies swarm your stomach as you make your way back through the halls. You can’t remember the last time being in someone’s head made you like them more rather than less, but Jordan… sweet, apologetic Jordan. It’s exciting, in a way, knowing what they were thinking about you, and knowing that despite the fact that you know, they still want to hang out. You check your phone, even though it’s not even been a minute since you left. Sure enough, a text-

what are you doing tmrw from like 2-4

You type out your reply: hanging out w u probably

You almost forget to get Caldwin’s coffee on the way back. 

[sciderman]

you know i'm kind of obsessed with the tragedy of gwen stacy in the tasm movies because she's - she's such an interesting, tragic creature. we get into it a little in tasm1, that. you know, her father is a police captain - you know, authoritative. incredibly protective of her.

and looking at it, gwen is constantly the victim of men deciding what's best for her. her father decides it's best for her that she stay away from peter. peter decides it's best too, obviously, even though it hurts. it's not a question of what gwen wants.

thinking of the scene in tasm where gwen confides in peter, as she's cleaning his wounds, that she knows what this is - every day she sees her father strap a badge to his chest and she doesn't know if he's going to make it home or not.

gwen's powerless - she has these men in her life that she loves that are constantly making dangerous decisions that put their own lives in danger, and she's constantly expected to sit by passively and do nothing and pray for them to get home safely. like her own desires don't matter. she wants them to be there, she wants to have a say in what these men do, because she loves them and they're important to her. but she has no power. she knows that what they're doing is noble and good for the world, but she is sidelined and never listened to. she has no superpowers, no badge, and no say in the matter.

and her father gets killed. doing something stupid and heroic. and she wasn't involved, and she was powerless to prevent it. and even still, after his death, he's trying to push gwen out of the way of danger. strip her of agency in her own life. she can't be with peter. she doesn't get a say in the matter.

of course that doesn't work out, and peter and gwen wind up back together - but peter is eaten up with guilt, and still thinks he shouldn't be with gwen because gwen is safer without him, yadda yadda, and gwen is sick of it. gwen is sick of men dictating what becomes of her. what she can and can't have. where she should and shouldn't be. so.

i always made fun of this bit of script - it's so, so funny.

"i break up with you peter. i break up with you."

i make fun of it all the time, but i get it. i get why it's written this way. the tasm2 script isn't subtle. gwen is pointedly telling peter that she is calling the shots. peter cannot dictate her fate. this is her choice. she breaks up with him. she is the one with power in this dynamic. she is taking the power. she is not his damsel that needs protecting. she is allowed to tell peter what she wants, and make her own decision about what's best for her.

cut to the end, where peter webs gwen to a car. he wants her out of the line of fire. even though she's proven she's helpful and capable, more so than peter. peter wants her out of harms way, so that he can do something heroic and dangerous.

gwen is SICK of it!! she's going to be heroic and dangerous too. if these men can throw themselves into the line of fire with little care for the people they leave watching helplessly in the rafters than, by god, gwen can do it too. she's not going to watch helplessly as peter fights his battle on his horse, dick swinging, swords drawn. and she's not going to passively sit by as peter gets himself killed because actually, peter's not as smart as he thinks he is.

he's just stupid enough to take the hits and scrape himself off the pavement afterwards. gwen is the one with the plan. and if gwen weren't there, peter might not have been able to pull everything off. he probably would've eventually taken them down in the end, but he would've definitely taken more of a beating, and more property damage, and potentially, more civilian casualties. it was a good thing gwen was there. female excellence. it's not always about who can take a hit.

of course, in the end up - gwen winds up in peril, and no. she doesn't have powers that can save her. and, these men who try and do everything to protect her - they're fallible. but it was her choice. her choice to do the heroic thing, despite her fragility. her choice to step into the line of fire, without super-strength or spider-reflexes. and i think it's a poetic, heroic way to go.

one thing though, that i feel is mismanaged, almost infuriatingly so – is how underdelivered on gwen's death as a heroic gesture. in the end it becomes more about peter's guilt than it does about gwen's sacrifice. because they still wanted to have the iconic "fall" scene from the comics. so, in the end, gwen becomes powerless. she's mid fall. she can't do anything. she has to wait for peter to save her, in the end.

it's infuriating because captain stacy's death is unfalteringly heroic. he dies to save peter.

gwen puts herself in the line of fire to save peter. in the same way her father did. but she's robbed of the heroic framing her father gets because in the end, she has to be saved. in the end, it isn't framed like she saved peter. it's framed like peter failed to save her.

so we get a peter parker pity party instead of actually, what should be a beautiful, heroic send-off for gwen stacy, who became a hero despite every man trying to sideline her.

tl;dr tasm gwen deserved the same heroic framing her father got but hollywood messed up again because they don't know how to do female hero stories

[acroagoraphobe]

Headcannons for living with Joshua Graham mordern AU?

Oooo.. I already have agood few so ima put em all together!

And a good few new ones too!

Ungodly amount of decorative pillows in his house, all over the couches, on the beds.

Its literally the worst, All the beds have uncomfy decorative comforters.

He doesn't really get out of the house except for church, so he just sits in his room reading most of the time.

Probably goes to book club on the weekends with the church ladies though.

Lots and lots of potted plants. So many potted plants. inside and outside the house.

Does not cook. Since even in a modern AU.. bad history with fires (His last house got burnt down at the last legion cookout.) So you have to cook for him.

He also doesn't have a microwave because he doesn't trust them.

Divorced Dad. Need I say more?

Sits on the porch reading when not at book club, church, or in his room. Sometimes he stares menacingly at passerby.

Pet Gecko he keeps in his room in a gecko tank? enclosure? whatever the hell you call the lizard storage.

You will probably hear him complain passive agressively that the dishes aren't done, yet he also doesn't do them.

Laundry though, that shit is done, dried, ironed, and folded perfectly and put up. As much as he complains about doing laundry he sure likes doing it.

there's so many crosses hung up in his house. (Reminds me of that one thing where a guy's grandma hung up a foam Minecraft sword because she thought it was a cross.)

The king of horrendous, Live laugh love things. Utensil holder, front door sign. DOORMAT.

Will constantly complain about people in the park Larping if he ever does go outside and be grumpy in the park (He used to be a larper, he's just a bitchy old man)

Can't work a computer to save his life. Somehow gets it to blue screen by opening a single tab in google. Do not let him near your computer.

He has a flip phone. No you cannot argue this. And he leaves it in the worst places and he has like the worst ringtone option possible. It's so annoying. Dear god is it annoying.

This man does not own a single pair of non-cargo shorts, or sweatpants. it's either formal or 80's dad. Yes he wears Newbalances.

The wallpaper in his house is like all like floral print and its super ugly but Joshua genuinely really likes it so you don't wanna point it out that it's ugly as fuck. But he knows deep down that its absolutely hideous snd refuses to acknowledge it like how he refuses to acknowledge his mistakes and when he's wrong in an argument and then just silently sits there and says nothing angrily.

The most inconvenient locks are broken. bathroom lock? broken when he bought the house. Bedroom lock? Broke because he slammed the door too hard and then it didn't latch and he slammed it again over snd over and he got more pissed at the door so he punched it really hard.

He gets realllyyyy pissy sometimes. Like i mean hella pissy. Like for no reason either. best to leave him to his own devices.

Just does random lore drops like "I used to be on a bowling team. and once almost killed a man with a bowling ball." then walks off back to his room.

[rudeflower]

JESS ANGST SCHOOL ANGST COMPLEX TRAUMA ANGST

In Keg Max! Principal Merton tells Jess he has missed 31 days of school. Now that makes him a chronic truant for sure, it means he's missed more than 10% of the school year, the standard school year is 180 days. Let's say there's 10 days left in the school year.

That's a LOT of school to miss. Young people improbably here, do not miss that much school

But relative to what we're being told about Jess, it's a weirdly low number? Jess never goes to school!!!! He's working 10000 hours at Walmart instead of going to school no school never heard of him!

That means that Jess attended school 139 days. Most schools I've worked with define that as a certain number of hours attended, more than half the day. So even if he was skipping that's 139 days he went to more than half the day NOT GOOD AT ALL BUT

Even after he was eighteen (early in the school year) he still laced up his boots and showed up somewhere he hated at saw no point in going to WHY!!????

First of all this is actually a ridiculously overcommitted young person let's at least acknowledge that.

He works before school at Luke's, and he works in the evenings too, closing up at 11:30 in one episode. Not just filling coffee mugs anymore. By season 3 he's closing alone, keeping tabs on the delivery schedule and capable of (furiously) running the morning rush alone.

AND he's working 45 hours a week at Walmart doing physical work, AND (poorly) maintaining a romantic relationship, AND reading obsessively, AND YES GOING TO SCHOOL! Jess starts working at Walmart in November (if you treat the air date as the canon date with the show roughly does), combined with Luke's it's probably 60-65 hours a week and still went to school 139 days!

He's making ridiculous choices because he is a tiny little fool but also has a trauma soaked brain

Jess chooses to be maxed out every minute of his life because he cannot tolerate being unoccupied, like a lot of people with complex trauma (and ADHD and Autism and more all of which could apply to Jess but rn I am talking about complex trauma)

When someone is used to chaos in their environment they actually feel less safe when things are quiet and still. It leads to someone who needs to have their RAM at 100% every waking AND sleeping moment

So they work 65+ hours, go to school most days, and they

cannot relax without extreme stimulation AKA needing the music on to sleep

Walk while reading because walking and looking ahead isn't enough is not occupied enough need more occupied

and starts reading the second he's stops talking to someone or using his hands to do something else. Reading as default in any given second.

He reads compulsively, no matter how chaotic the environment.

Reading ALSO isn't enough must be annotating and analyzing too passive reading is NOT ENOUGH

So Jess would rather show up at school for 139 days where other people are moving around, where there are fights to get into and classes to move to and from, even after he's an adult and Luke wouldn't find out that he isn't showing up. He'll show up to a test just to be in the classroom, not to take it.

This is not mentioning what I'm too lazy to screencap, that he's always doing something. that especially when he's talking to Luke Jess is constantly and doing things with his hands constantly.

There's really only one time we see Jess sitting still doing almost nothing

But not really nothing because smoking really is something.

My dude needs to be as occupied as possible from the time he wakes up all the way up to and including when he falls asleep to stay occupied and all that he's got on hand is going to a school that says the pledge of allegiance in six different languages then he will go! It's 100%%% occupation or the horror of possibly relaxing and WHAT WOULD HAPPEN THEN

[itaehynz]

Since ur taking requests, I was thinking of an angsty story where reader confesses to best friend/fwb Taehyun, but gets rejected, then spend some years away from eachother but when Taehyun comes crawling back, reader gives him a taste of his own medicine. Sorry if this makes no sense lol

⌗ smoking out the window — k.th﹒ ʬʬʬ

‣‣ pairing: kang taehyun x reader.

‣‣ genre: angst, fluff, nsfw/suggestive, fwb 2 strangers x2.

‣‣ warnings: more than a little nsfw, implications of sex, profanity, taehyun is immature at the start, kissing, lmk if i missed some!

‣‣ word count: 2.5k

it’s been a few minutes of both of you’s moans bouncing off the walls surrounding you. taehyun begins heavy panting just as he pulls out, “yn, that was amazing. wow.” he says while rubbing small yet soothing circles into your thigh.

he places a warm kiss on your lips & brings his hand to rub the nape of your neck while slowly bringing your head into his chest. “yn, i actually love you. that has got to be the best sex i’ve ever had, like truly.” you giggle into his chest, getting this sudden feeling bubbling up in your chest. you’re not sure if it’s just because of the post-orgasm relief or something else.

definitely something else.

as you let out a shaky breath, taehyun raises his head from yours & looks down at you, “baby what’s wrong? something on your mind?”, he asks before placing another gentle kiss in the crown of your head. “yeah, it’s nothing though so don’t worry hyun.” “no, talk to me. i’m open to talk about anything, you know this.” you blink away your tears & move away from him to sit up on your bed.

“it’s just, you know how we said, we can do this friends with benefits shit with no strings attached? or no feelings involved, whatever the fuck we agreed to?” he nods, “yeah well, um,” you sniffle slightly, “i have feelings for you tae.” he blinks a couple times before it hits him. “what?” he says in a passive aggressive tone, “yn, i already told you there can be no feelings involved in this shit. and, if you’re joking it’s not funny.” “tae, i really do wish i was joking but i’m not, i’m really sorry-“

“yn, sorry doesn’t make up for it! i don’t give a shit what you’re sorry for… i can’t continue this. i’ve made it obvious that i don’t feel shit for you, i don’t know how you can be so oblivious of it but yeah. i feel absolutely nothing for you & i never will.”, now you’re pissed. there’s no way he just broke your heart & insulted you in the same sentence.

“taehyun are you fucking serious? i’m oblivious? and you’ve made it obvious?! taehyun. after every fucking time we’ve had sex you bought me food, bathed me, washed my hair and even DURING SEX you’ve called me baby, told me you’ve loved me on multiple occasions and also fucking said you’d do “anything” for me. so i’m sorry if i thought you genuinely meant all of that and wanted to be with me!”

“i’m leaving.” he says while getting up & putting his clothes on. “okay but i’m not finished talking to you? you cannot be seriously walking out in the middle of this— whatever the fuck this is!” he shoots a disgusted glare at you, “i’m finished talking to you, yn. as soon as i leave, cut off all contacts you have with me. i’m done with this and i refuse to look at you right now.” he says as he begins to walk towards your front door, “goodbye yn.”

wow, your friendship with him ended just like that.

yn: you can’t be serious taehyun, are you?

tae <3: serious as ever, don’t text me again. block me.

yn: ….dude.

*this message cannot be sent.*

“fucking asshole.” you breathe out before blocking his number & flopping back down on your bed. tears begin welling up in your eyes again as you turn over into your pillow & begin to sob.

as your breathing becomes more and more rigid, you begin contemplating on every single moment you’ve shared with taehyun. the sweet ones, the unforgettable ones and the intimate ones. he’s always treated you as if you were the most beautiful person in his eyes yet he left with no visible signs of hesitation. you trusted him, you thought he wouldn’t leave you ever… but he did. all those years of friendship down the fucking drain and for what? because taehyun didn’t feel the same way you did. bullshit.

the words he said to you were completely unkind, disrespectful and unexpected, you should’ve seen it coming though… why would anyone feel that way about you? especially taehyun, he’s always had his priorities straight, his goals set, every achievement he’s accomplished is because he’s been so in sync with his emotions and his mind but, is that what he really needed? it’s okay to be reckless sometimes, which is why he started messing around with you.

you’re 100% sure he said there should be no feelings involved and everything you both do is for the considerations of your own pleasures and desires, not to catch feelings. you don’t know what came over you but you fucked it all up. but there’s no going back now, no more taehyun, no more ‘friends with benefits’ stuff. friends with benefits is what broke your heart… no. taehyun is who broke your heart.

don’t let it happen again.

4yrs later.

“fuck i need to get ready.” as you rise up from your afternoon nap, sighing at the thought of a hangover and possibly vomiting everywhere.

it’s been around two years since that whole situation with tae— (don’t remember), never mind. just focus on getting dressed.

you scroll through your contacts looking for your best friend’s name, ‘ah there we go’ pressing their contact and clicking facetime. you see they’re in the middle of getting dressed just as you’re brushing your teeth and fixing your hair. you converse with them for a while before it’s time for you to shower, you hang up the phone telling them you’ll text them when you’re almost ready so they can pick you up from your house and drive you both to the club.

it’s been a little easier to take your mind off of things ever since you last had a “relationship”, which ended poorly. that doesn’t really matter anymore because you’ve moved on, becoming a better and smarter person. making wiser decisions, being careful of who you’re dealing with and making tons more money. you have everything in order and you feel like nothing can get in your way, you’re unstoppable.

as you finish these shower thoughts, you step out and begin searching for clothes, you choose a nice outfit that seems to fit your shape well and begin texting your friend letting them know you’re almost ready. you don’t know what you have planned for tonight but you do know that you’re going to have the most fun you’ve had in a while. work’s been tiring and it’s not as if your home life has been any better, online classes, bills, and more. tonight is the night you’re going to forget all of that and party till you feel like it’s time to stop.

you grab your keys, your bag and quickly begin putting on your shoes to head out. you check yourself one more time before jogging to your door & leaving.

you’re not letting anything stop you tonight.

nothing is getting in your way.

(don’t remember, forget it all.)

you’ve arrived at the club and you’re doing exactly what you said you would. partying till your feet fall off, you’ve had a couple drinks, feeling a little tipsy but not drunk enough to not function, of course. your friend is practically babysitting you as they dance right next to you making sure you don’t get taken away by some stranger or something, but you’re not that dumb.

you’ve been seeing a familiar figure looking at you but you’re too lost in your mind to care. it can’t possibly be someone you know or someone you used to know right? no, that’s insane. anywho, you walk back over to the bar asking for another drink, ‘still too sober’ you think to yourself.

‘they’re still looking at me…’ eh, it doesn’t matter. keep drinking. you say your casual ‘thank you’ to the bartender and sit down with your friend, conversing for a minute before going back on the dance floor.

(it’s him. ignore him, yn.)

‘it’s who?’ you think to yourself, slightly squinting at the figure who’s staring back at you. the magenta and blue lights flickering and shining above them is giving you some sort of light source, but not enough to fully make out who they are.

shrugging it off and making them out to be a random stranger who just thinks you look nice, you go back to dancing with your friend with a small glass of whatever in your hand.

feeling a little bit more tipsy than before, you begin walking over to the bathroom to go pee or unleash whatever bodily fluids out of your body before you do your business in the wrong place (which would be quite embarrassing). as you walk into the bathroom, you rush over to the last stall as you feel your bladder going out of control. quickly using the bathroom, not wanting to waste any time, you flush the toilet and walk over to begin washing your hands.

not taking too long, you walk out of the bathroom and see an unknown figure talking to your friend. thinking it’s someone that they found interest in, you make your way back over to the dance floor just as a slightly familiar voice calls your name.

it’s the person talking to your friend, your friend motions you over and thinking nothing of it, you walk over as any normal person would. the person talking to your friend has familiar facial features but you can’t really put your finger on who it is… judging by their voice, it’s obviously a boy. he has pink hair, cat-like features and gentle eyes. he almost reminds you of… no. he is.

“taehyun?” you say with obvious shock in your voice, seeing him made you sober somehow. unable to form any other words you begin looking him up and down, seeing how much his body has changed. he’s more muscular now, features more defined, he’s grown up very well. the last time you saw him you were around 18, now you’re 22.

he’s more than likely the same age as you which isn’t a surprise, but seeing him stand right in front of you definitely is a big shocker. “yeah, it’s me. can i talk to you for a minute?” his voice is much deeper too. “uhh,” you look over at your friend and they catch your eyes motioning their hand in a ‘scurry off’ manner. “yeah sure, we can talk i guess…”, you both begin walking away from your friend and stand in a slightly quiet corner just a few meters away from the dance floor.

“i really wanna apologize, for everything i put you through 4 years ago. it was childish of me to handle the situation the way i did and i’m really sorry. can we possibly try again? i know i don’t really sound sincere but i really do mean what i’m saying”, he ends his sentence off with a large sigh.

you stare at him in shock but also in awe, “i forgive you tae, you know i’ve never been one to hold grudges. yes, we can try again but same rules apply okay?”, “okay, thank you for giving me another chance, i’ll be better this time”, he says with a gentle smile. “tae, i never said the sex wasn’t good… it was just how you reacted to… you know.” “haha yeah… i know, i’m really sorry for that yn, truly.” “it’s fine don’t worry about it, i’m over it.”

(no you aren’t, this is your chance to get back at him.)

taehyun goes in to hug you and you accept his embrace. you hug him back and pull away with a tight-lipped smile, “let’s go back over before my friend thinks i murdered you or something…” “ahah, okay,” you both begin walking back over and continue chatting it up for the rest of the night, catching each other up on everything that has happened in your lives.

2wks later.

nostalgic. is what you’re feeling when you and taehyun are once again in your room for a not-so-weekly sex session, taehyun wasn’t lying when he said he would be “better” but wow… this is fucking amazing. half way into your fourth orgasm, taehyun grabs your face slightly rough and kisses you.

it feels as if you’re in a relationship with him, but you’re not. this is purely for your “pleasures and desires”. you remember what you said though, “same rules apply”, you meant that. just as taehyun begins groaning into your mouth, basically giving you a signal that he’s close to his orgasm, you feel your orgasm slowly crawling up your body.

both of your moans begin bouncing off the walls of each other’s mouths, your nails clawing down taehyun’s back and his hips brutally thrusting into yours at the same pace he’s kept all this time. he’s slowly but surely slowing down, while also rubbing small but gentle circles in your hips.

he pulls out of you, also separating his mouth from yours, there’s a string of saliva when he pulls away which feels slightly intimate. he moves his hand on your hip to your stomach & rubs gentle circles into the lower part of it, “you okay?” he asks in the sweetest tone you’ve ever heard him speak in, “yes tae, i’m fine thank you.” you both sit in a silence for a few seconds before taehyun speaks up.

“yn, i have something to tell you,” he says as a feeling of remorse creeps up on him, “what is it, love?” you say looking over at him with gentle eyes. “you know how we agreed to keep the same rules from last time? well um,” he gulps, “i have feelings for you, yn.” nostalgia, this feels familiar because last time you were the one saying this.

“taehyun, i told you same rules apply, i meant that.” “i know but, i can’t hold these in anymore, i genuinely have feelings for you and i want to pursue a relationship with you.” you feel guilty for what you’re about to say but… fuck it. “i don’t care taehyun, i don’t have feelings for you and i’m not letting you try to make me feel anything for you. i told you “same rules apply” because i knew this would happen. but no, i don’t feel anything for you tae, i’m sorry.”

he stares at you with slight tears in his eyes but he knew this would happen. “it’s fine, i’ll leave,” “please do, also, we can’t continue this anymore. i said no feelings involved, i meant that.” he begins putting his clothes back on and putting on his shoes.

you let out a sigh of sadness but you don’t feel sad. you feel… happy?

“goodbye yn,” “goodbye tae, block my number when you leave please, thank you.” he nods and takes his leave. you sit there, on your bed, with your head in your hands, you feel happy. you begin smiling and think about everything that you did.

you feel a tad bit bad for him but oh… revenge is sweet.

2023 TTYUNZ.

‣‣ author’s note: i hope you enjoyed! any form of note is appreciated <3

‣‣ perm taglist: @yeofy @boba-beom @h00nerz @bucketofhiros @n0-thisispatrick

[dreaming-medium]

Animals Without Direction

Chapter Nineteen - Dance Lessons

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Masterlist

Your entrance to the throne room is entirely different today than it was yesterday. This time you’re walking in on your own two feet; albeit a tad bit painfully. But, it gets better by the minute.

Seungmin walked next to you. Both of you kept up light conversation on your way in. He asked questions about the front lines, everyone’s wellbeing.

It surprised you how many questions he asked about Jeongin; you had no idea how close the two were.

As per usual, Chan and Minho were at the back of the throne room. Both of them are talking about the war and different things they had planned.

When you limped into their view, they stopped talking. Chan stood up from his throne quickly.

“Y/N!” he exclaims. “What are you doing out of bed? You need to be resting.”

You scoff and roll your eyes with a smirk. “Attempting to keep me in bed would be the same as it would with you, my lord.”

Minho smirks and chuckles lightly, his hands clasped behind his back.

“She is correct about that one,” Seungmin mutters under his breath.

Chan sucks his teeth and meets you halfway across the room. His hands hover all along your body, trying to place them somewhere. He wants so badly to help you, hold your arm to help you walk, check the bandage underneath your pants to see if it needs to be changed.

But instead, he settles for grabbing your shoulder lightly.

“How are you doing today?” he asks gently.

“Fine, my lord.” You look down at your leg. “It is a little sore, but nothing I cannot handle. I have felt worse.”

Chan clicks his tongue. “Your Elven blood works fast.”

Hearing him say that still sends a chill through your body. The rebuttal sits on the tip of your tongue, but you swallow it. For the first time in your life, you just let a comment like that roll off your back.

“Thanks to Felix, it is only a typical stab wound.”

The grip on your shoulder tightens a bit. A cocktail of emotions fly over Chan’s face, you’re not able to read all of them. His facial muscles twitch so much with each one.

You clear your throat and look down at the floor.

“Any news of the front lines?”

Chan releases your shoulder reluctantly, his hand dropping at his sides. He shakes his head once before turning to walk back up to his throne.

Minho is the one that speaks up. “Aye, our armies successfully captured Fort Burnside.”

You and Seungmin walk up towards the throne together. 

Yes, you’re thrilled that Miroh has claimed another victory. But, why does it feel so bittersweet? What are you all missing?

“Why do you seem so upset by that?” Minho asks you.

It doesn’t go unnoticed by you that his question seems genuine. There’s no venom or passive aggressiveness to it. 

“Forgive me if I do not seem as mirthful as I should be given the victory.” You pause, looking down at the floor. “It is just… This all seems too easy.”

When you look back up at Minho and Chan, they’re both listening intently to your words.

“I began to grow suspicious after the victory at Bonereach Blockade. It was not until my journey home with Jisung that I realized we have not seen a single soldier from the Mercy Division.”

Chan’s eyes widen and he sits back in his throne.

“I believe Erbus is plotting something. They are lying in wait until our guard is down.”

Seungmin shifts next to you. “Is the Mercy Division the ones who–”

“Yes.” Chan cuts him off. “Yes, they are.”

Chan moves around on his throne and rests both of his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped in between.

“Not a single one has been at these battles?”

“Nay, not that I have seen, my lord.”

He nods a few times, looking around the room in thought. Minho watches the side of his face carefully for any reaction. He’s probably able to read him like a book at this point.

“It seems you are not alone in your suspicions, Minho,” he speaks to his advisor without looking at him.

Chan’s eyes shift to Seungmin. “Do you think that Inuin’s ambassador will have any correspondence about this?”

“Hard to be certain, but most likely. If Inuin is planning any sort of alliance with Erbus, this is how we will find out.”

The Jarl’s eyes flicker to your face for a moment before he looks back at Seungmin. His head cocks to the side a bit in a nervous twitch.

“I just do not believe that–”

“Chan, it is the only way, and you know it.” Seungmin interrupts him.

“She only just got back.”

This grabs your attention right away.

Chan continues, “The circumstances have changed due to the injury. I strongly believe that she should not carry out this mission with you.”

Once again, do they not realize you’re right there? You’re having flashbacks to your first visit to the throne room.

With one eyebrow cocked up, you raise your hand a bit and grab all three men’s attention. “Hello? I am right here?”

Chan shifts around once more. His nerves are making him too fidgety to stay still in one place for too long.

“Apologies, Y/N.” he says quickly. “I am simply… apprehensive about the mission that we had called you back to Miroh for given your current state.”

“I spent a better part of the day informing our Jarl that nothing will keep you here, injured or not.” Seungmin doesn’t look at you when he says this, he keeps eye contact with Chan.

You roll your eyes. “I can speak on my own behalf.” Crossing your arms over your chest, you look off to the side. “I would also very much appreciate it if I was told what this mission was. You have been alluding to it since before my departure a month ago.”

Seungmin and Chan stare at each other for a few more moments. If looks could kill there would be a double homicide in the room.

Neither of them answer you. 

Minho scoffs and grabs your attention. “You know of Inuin’s ambassador’s masquerade ball, correct?”

“Aye.”

“You are to attend the ball with our rogue and assist in pickpocketing the key off of the ambassador so that Seungmin can sneak up to his office and steal whatever correspondence he can find.” 

You raise an eyebrow and eye Minho suspiciously. “And how am I supposed to do this? I am no thief.”

“Nay, but you are a woman with a high appeal.”

The compliment goes right to your head and your heart stutters in your chest. Your cheeks suddenly grow hot and you can’t keep Minho’s gaze. 

Foot to foot, you shift your weight and clear your throat. 

“And?” you ask, voice a bit strained from the embarrassment of receiving a direct complement.

“ And , a man can become quite distracted when dancing with a beautiful woman.”

Your jaw drops a bit and you look at him with wide eyes. Then you look over at Chan, who has since broken his venomous focus with his rogue.

He rubs his hands together nervously, tongue coming out to lick his lips. “You can refuse.”

“It is the only way we can get those papers, Chan!” Seungmin’s voice is the loudest you’ve ever heard it. 

This man has never raised his voice once in your presence. Your head snaps over to look at him; his lip is pulled in a sneer and his eyebrows furrowed.

“I worked for weeks to get an invitation to this ball! Y/N says she is fine, the masquerade is not for another week, giving us plenty of time for preparation and travel.” His arms move about wildly to emphasize his point. “We will not get another chance like this one to get ahead on anything!”

Chan’s head twitches to the side and he sucks his teeth. His fingers pick at the skin on one of his hands.

“This war is bigger than you, Bang Chan. It’s bigger than anything. And you are apprehensive over something meaningless.”

Angrier and angrier, Chan’s expression pulls. Nevertheless, Seungmin keeps going. “It is only dancing! Do not sacrifice a military advantage simple because you harbor–”

“Enough!” Chan snaps suddenly. His voice booms out through the stone room.

Your entire body reacts; you physically flinch away from his bellow. Your shoulders come up by your ears and slump forward. 

Chan clenches his jaw so tight you see the muscles move around on the side of his face. The veins in his neck pop a bit. Seungmin remains still and silent.

A few silent moments pass. 

The Jarl looks down at his hands, collecting his thoughts. A long, heavy exhale leaves his nose before he looks up right at you.

His expression is still unreadable. But his eyebrows twitch like they want to pull together in pain. 

“Y/N,” he addresses you thickly. His throat bobs.

“Yes, my lord?” you reply weakly.

“ If you choose to complete this quest, you would be taught the ceremonial Dove Waltz. It is a tradition at formal Inuin events. During the dance, every man dances with every woman twice. You would need to successfully pickpocket the ambassador during one of these turns with him.”

A dance? You would need to learn a dance and pickpocket skills? In a week ?

Licking his lips again, Chan punches one of his hands into another while leaning back on his throne. His eyes leave yours for a moment as he looks around the room, then back to you.

“But it is entirely up to you and how you feel.” His eyes glance down at your leg quickly.

A soft ‘huh’ leaves your lips in disbelief. Tonguing your cheek, you fidget with your shirt sleeve for a moment. Then, you crack each knuckle on both hands.

“How simple is the dance?” you ask first.

“Extremely. Children learn it.” Seungmin answers immediately.

“And how easy is pickpocketing?”

Seungmin snorts. “Extremely. Children learn it.”

You can’t help but laugh and shake your head in disbelief. Glancing up at Seungmin, you raise an eyebrow at him.

“And would you be teaching me to dance?”

Before he can respond, another voice calls your attention.

“Nay,” Minho smirks. “That would be me.”

----------------------------------------------

“I did not even know that the Keep had a ballroom.” you say looking around the vast space. The ceilings are high and several chandeliers line it. Beautiful paintings cover the wall, it's a shame that they’re covered in a thick layer of dust.

“We do not typically use it,” Minho answers you.

When you had passed by in the past, you just thought it was a dusty, unused room in the back of the Keep. 

“When was the last time Miroh hosted a ball?”

Minho thinks for a moment, “I was a youngling when the last event was here.”

The door to the ballroom closes behind the two of you. 

A large fireplace was lit in the wall, different scones along the stone were alight with flames of their own. The light gleamed off of the cobwebs collecting in the corner.

“Why did we need to come in here?” you ask, glancing around the dank room.

Minho left your side and walked over to an apparatus that sat on the wall. It was about chest height and covered in a dusty, white sheet. 

“Miroh only owns one of these,” he grabs the sheet and pulls it off the instrument carefully. 

It looked like a cabinet with a horn on top. The brass curled around and got wider as the opening of the horn got bigger. A large crank sat on the side of the main body of the thing. 

“What is that?” you ask, eyeing it from a distance.

Minho behind winding the crank over and over again. Several clicks are heard inside the cabinet. While he’s cranking it, he fiddles with something on top.

He continues to ignore your question while he cranks the contraption.

You take a few steps closer to him, watching closely.

Minho stops cranking it and once he lets go, music begins to flow out of the horn opening. It sounds tinny and farther away than any live music you’ve ever heard. Your eyebrows furrowed together and you cock your head to the side.

“I am guessing the mercenary has never seen a crank music player.”

“Nay.”

Minho only smirks and steps closer to you. 

The music begins to play. It’s a slower waltz tempo, the music sounds smooth, each note flows into the next.

“Now, as Seungmin stated earlier, this dance is rather simple– children learn it.” He stops right in front of you, his head tilted down to look into your eyes. “We only have a week for you to learn it.”

“Do you believe it will take me a week to learn a mere waltz?” 

“Nay, I think it will take you a week to be able to pickpocket me while dancing this waltz.” His eyes scan you up and down. “Now, arms up.”

Both of Minho’s hands grasp at your own. He keeps your right one outstretched to the side and places your left on his shoulder.

Both of you maintain eye contact, something glints in his eye and you can’t quite put your finger on what it is.

“The steps are simple, Y/N.” His voice dips down to a lower register. The hand in yours tightens and grips you snugly. His other hand goes down and rests on your waist. “The man always leads, which means he steps forward first, you will step back. Left foot.”

Minho steps his left foot towards you and leads your body backwards, you step back with your back.

“Now, to the side.” He shifts both your bodies to the side. “Shift your weight a bit, now you step forward and to the side. It’s just a simple box that you’re stepping in.”

Your steps are a bit choppy, but you still do the steps nonetheless.

“Perfect, now we do this over and over while going in a giant circle for a bit.”

Without stopping, Minho leads you over and over again through the grand room. The music playing loudly from the player against the wall. 

After a few steps, you look down at the floor at your two clumsy feet. Minho quickly lets go of your waist to grip your chin.

“Eyes on me, mercenary.” he says lowly. Your jaw clenches and you keep his eye contact.

His hand returns to your waist. In a fluid movement, while he’s stepping forward, he pulls your body flush against yours.

Chest to chest, hip to hip, the two of you twirl around the ballroom. 

His lips are pressed into a line, that mysterious light in his eyes doesn’t leave. It only amplifies in the candle light.

Minho smells of a clean musk; like pine and bergamot. 

Since your return to Miroh yesterday, he hasn’t looked at you with venom or hatred once. What changed?

“This is not so bad,” you whisper, holding his searing eye contact. 

“This is only the main step of the dance.” Minho smirks and squeezes your hand once. “Are you ready for the next?”

You roll your eyes, “Aye.”

He stops in place.

“After four box steps, the man will twirl you out.” Minho’s hands move and he pushes your waist to encourage you to spin out. “And then he will bring you back in.”

When you spin back in, he does not come chest to chest with you, no. Minho’s entire front is pressed against your back. 

His breath is hot against your neck.

“Hold your arms like this,” he whispers in your ear. A shiver tears up your spine. 

Minho grabs your wrists and crosses your arms over your chest and has your palms facing out to both sides. His own arms wrap around your body to hold his hands like yours are against two mirrors. 

“Lean to the side,” Minho’s voice has a slight rasp to it as he’s murmuring into your ear. He pushes you slightly to the left, while he leans to the right. 

His face is right next to yours, your noses almost brushing together. 

You can’t look into his eyes, you can only stare at his perfectly plush lips. They’re slightly wet, he must’ve just licked them. They part for a split second and you can feel the shaky exhale come out of his lips and fan over yours.

“Come back to center,” he whispers and both your bodies return back to the position they were in. 

Minho grabs your right wrist, “Bring this arm up and around like this.” He brings your arm up and around the back of your head to stretch out to the right again. “Turn to me.”

Your bodies turn and meet again in the waltz hold. This time, Minho holds you even closer than before. 

“Got it?” he whispers to you, eyes searching yours. All you’re able to do at the moment is nod.

Your stomach is doing flips from his warm grasp, from the way his entire body is pressed flush against yours. All you can think about is Minho.

“One last step before you change partners.”

Minho’s hand wraps tighter around your lower back. 

“Dip back,” he hushed.

You lean back slowly, his hand remains strong and firm on your back. HIs body follows yours a bit as you bend backwards. Your chin falls back to expose your neck even more.

The hand you have up his bicep tenses.

Minho’s grip on your hand tightens even more and due to your sensitive hearing, you can hear him take a deep breath and then gulp.

When he exhales, it fans out along your neck. Goosebumps raise all along your arms.

He holds you in this dip for much longer than you think is necessary. Minho’s entire body is hovering over yours, his strong arms keeping you up as you bend backwards in the most graceful way you can imagine. 

“Then, you’ll come back up.” His voice is thicker.

Slowly, as if not to jar you, he brings your body back up to his. Once more, you’re chest to chest, nose to nose.

His hand doesn’t return to your waist, it stays on your lower back, fingers splayed out to keep you as close as possible. 

Your breathing intermingles. His scent surrounds you with his arms.

It was the closest you’ve been to Minho without a snarky word or dirty look thrown from one person to the other. 

The fabric of his thin tunic feels soft under your fingertips.

You’re unable to meet his eyes once more, you’re looking down at the collar of his shirt. 

Minho’s nose bumps into yours lightly and your breath hitches.

His lips are so warm you can practically feel them on yours. 

He gulps.

The music continues to play.

The hand in yours twitches.

His heart slams against his ribcage just like yours.

“Then what?” you murmur. Minho hesitates.

“Then,” he rasps, “you twirl away to the next partner.” A pause. “And the dance starts all over again.”

He makes no move to step away from you. The grip he has on your entire body is unwavering, if anything, it’s tighter. 

The music swirls in the air. 

“Y/N,” he whispers. His lips barely move when he says it. 

You look up at him.

His skin is so flawless in the dim candlelight. There’s a pink tinge to his cheeks that stretches all the way to his ears. His eyebrows are pulled together like he’s in deep thought, lips are pursed.

Minho clenches his jaw and licks his lips. He opens his mouth to say something and immediately closes it again. 

“Yes, Minho?” you ask quietly. 

His face twists a bit more, his eyes dart down to your lips and then back up to your eyes. His hand in yours feels a bit clammy.

“Y/N, I–”

The door opening behind you causes Minho to jump away from you a bit.

“How is it going in here?” Seungmin calls across the room.

“We only just finished going over each of the steps.” Minho answers, clearing his throat.

“Am I able to see it?”

“Aye, you’ll be one of her partners after all.” There’s a distinct tone change when Minho responds to Seungmin. If you didn’t know any better, you would say that Minho was jealous– again.

Minho reluctantly breaks away from you and struts over to the music box.

Seungmin stands along the outer edge of the dancefloor. “I will be ready to take your place as your next partner, my fair lady.” he says with a mock bow.

You scoff and roll your eyes. Your heart is still racing from your intimate moment with Minho.

The advisor cranks the music box again and resets the top of the music. He stalks back over to you. 

“Now, let us try the whole thing from the top.”

Minho nods his head in time with the music a few more times. You feel him go to take his first step forward, so you step back and to the side, like you practiced. He leads the two of you around the floor, completing four waltz box steps.

He twirls you out, then back in.

Your hands press together, your bodies lean to the side. When you look over at him, it takes so much willpower to stare into his eyes and not down at his lips.

With your bodies returning to center, you turn out and come back to the waltz position. Minho’s hand slides around and he dips you back.

The dip is quicker this time. But, you don’t miss the cool blow of air he pushes out over your exposed neck.

When he brings you back up, he assists you with spinning to the side and you’re stopped by Seungmin taking a hold of your body in the same way that Minho had.

His grasp feels different.

No less pleasant by any means. Just different.

His warm chocolate eyes stare down at you with a proud look to them.

“Excellent!” he praises you and you flush. “Now, you just need to be able to pickpocket the ambassador while you do so.”

[readinglistfics]

first time with young!thrawn NSFW

young!thrawn x chiss wife!reader

(imagine he’s blue)

gif is by @warminthewintersblog

you can count in one hand the number of times thrawn had been so expressive.

of course, after knowing him for as long as you have, you can say that you know him well enough that you can sense his emotions, even through his usually passive and stoic face.

but tonight…the night he wed you…

young cadet mitth’raw’nuru, recently graduated from taharim academy, is sweating and shaking as you sit on his lap with his back resting against the bedframe.

“are you alright?” he asks you, his hands on your hips. hands that you have held and kissed, fingers that you have held on to, that were, minutes ago, inside you. and you are. more than alright actually.

you tell him so, as you lean down to kiss his lips, to which he reciprocates all too eagerly. you’ve never kissed thrawn like this before, never this long and never this intense. you shiver as you feel your already exposed cunt becoming even more wet, unconsciously grinding yourself against his cock.

finally, after years of courtship, of chastising yourself whenever you think about thrawn in any obscene way, you are now married. and from how hard you feel him underneath you, you’re certain that he feels the same way.

you shyly wrap your hand around his throbbing cock, trying not to blush too hard at the size and how it’s even bigger and prettier than what you imagined, when you were alone at night confusedly grinding against your pillow at the thought of thrawn kissing your cheek in the most respectful way.

thrawn still looks as stoic as ever, and you’re pleased to see that his nostrils flared at your touch. he looks at you, pupils blown in arousal, lips slightly parted, just waiting. he wants you to do it whenever you want to, to take your time.

but you cannot wait any longer, not when your pussy leaks obscene amounts of juices, sliding down your thighs and down his lap.

with your eyes on thrawn, you two stare at each other hungrily as you position yourself above his cock. “ah,” you groan as the thick head of thrawn’s cock brushes against your overly sensitive clit. finally, you slowly notch him into your cunt, your wetness already letting his head slip in effortlessly. your knees shaky, you look down to see yourself on his cock, and you moan, unconsciously tightening around him. when you look up to see your husband…

thrawn’s face isn’t the usual calm expressionless demeanor. his mouth is agape now, open like he has been caught in a gasp. his arms, despite bulging, were almost slack, hands on your hips motionless. it concerned you, watching him slack-jawed and motionless.

“thrawn?” you call. his eyes are glassy almost, and you bring your hands to his face, angling to make him look you in the eyes. “are you alright, ch’eo ch’acico?”

and when he turns to you, he looks at you like you hung the stars. he doesn’t say anything, but you now notice that he is panting underneath you, thighs flexed and shaking.

“ha,” he exhales.

now alarmed, you move to get off of him, when his previously motionless hands begin to pin you where you were.

“don’t.”

his voice sounds dangerous, and you’ve only heard that tone whenever he is at work, a tone he tries to never bring around you.

“are you hurt?” you ask, now relieved that he is vocal again, “what’s wrong?” he says nothing, eyes still unfocused. finally,

“if you move,” his voice is shaky and labored, “i’m going to—”

he looks away from you as he turns a bit dark in a blush to look at where you are joined. you notice drool collecting by the sides of his mouth, touching your skin, but thrawn doesn’t even notice it. “i don’t want it to end yet.”

now realizing the implications of what he is saying, you both blush, but remain silent. you lean closer to kiss his temple, and he sighs against you. after a while, he looks up at you, “move however you like.” you nod, arms moving to wrap themselves around his neck to gently grasp his hair, you watch thrawn’s reaction in delight and overwhelming arousal as you lower yourself on his cock. you bite your lip at the slight pain and the almost tight pressure of his size, but when you finally took him all the way in, all you feel is mind numbing pleasure.

“it feels…s-so good,” you tell him, slowly raising your hips up and down. thrawn’s hands are gentle in supporting you, also moving your hips in time to meet his slow thrusts. “you feel so good, thrawn.”

he doesn’t say anything, but looks up at you reverently before pushing himself up to reach your lips. you kiss him fervently, his lips swallowing your moans as you two find your rhythm and move as one. his breaths are heavy, and the exhales through his nose are labored as he starts to pound into you.

you break the kiss first, eyes uncontrollably rolling to the back of your head when a strong sensation of something trying to come out engulfs you. “thrawn, i’m gonn— ah!” and this only encourages him as thrawn thrusts into you determinedly, loving the staccato sounds of your groans and whines and sounds of “ah—ah—ah”

and you cum, all around him, body instantly turning boneless against him as you become consumed by pleasure. you don’t notice thrawn moving his arms to support your body, nor did you notice him shifting positions to lay you down on your back. when you come to, your husband is kissing the corners of your lips, the pace of his thrusts almost frantic as he chases his high. he groans against you, planting one last kiss on your lips before moving to tuck his face on your neck, muffling his ever growing groans on your skin.

thrawn cums and his muffled groans vibrate on your skin. you can feel his cock twitching inside you, spurting copious amounts of cum as his body jerks uncontrollably. you hold his head to lift his face up, and he looks broken: face scrunched up in euphoria as he unconsciously lets out “ha” whenever his cock tries to spurt another load inside. with his eyes still closed, his kisses your temple, your nose, all over— until he reaches your lips. the kiss is languid now, but full of love nonetheless.

“is it bad if i told you this is even better than i imagined?”

despite his state, thrawn cracks a smile, “you have imagined this? our wedding night?”

“of course,” you tell him, “haven’t you?”

“almost so many times, ch’eo ch’acah, that i would be ashamed to admit it,” his smile is boyish, and you can’t help but run your fingers down the slope of his nose, eyes shining in adoration for your husband. “that is why i did not want it to end too soon.”

“now that we are married, we have a lot of time together, thrawn,” you reassure him, “and as long as you remain here with me, in the ascendancy, serving our people, i will always know that we will spend the rest of our lives here together.”

thrawn smiles, his thumb brushing your cheek lovingly, “i would not want to be anywhere else.”

-

[xr0tt3nxfl3shx]

To be human (or worse, prey)

My strange roommate fic!!! (I've never writen fanfiction before lmk what you think [be nice about it though pls])

I have felt quite different lately, a feeling I was once familiar with has taken a new shape.

I live with a man, a human man, one I should’ve eaten a while ago at that. As I walk past my roommates bedroom I resist my hunger, ‘can’t eat him yet’ I thought. I go over my pre-established reasonings for keeping myself in this less than savory situation.

I need to integrate into this society somehow, my roommate is my only frame of reference for human normalcy really. As much as it’d be easier to just eat him now, I cannot understand these people on my own. Clearly there's much to learn if I ever want to move on from merely hunting forest creatures. That's not to mention the payoff, after a long week of pretending to feel things I can't, there is nothing better than fresh meat.

As always I have made it back from “work” right before dusk, and in the same way I am preparing food that I cannot eat. Though my roommate never assigned me this task, it's a necessary part of my contribution. I’ve found humans like it when you make yourself useful, and he doesn’t have the time to do this for himself.

Maneuvering this vessel is more difficult than I thought it’d be. Humans make it look so easy, moving fluidly with every action while I find myself fumbling over every little articulation. They expect you to move even when it’s unnecessary. Apparently not taking part in their hand gestures and arbitrary body language is frowned upon.

Searing pans and mixing bowls rest at the bottom of the sink. I heard his car as it pulled into the driveway, and the lock’s click as he unlocked the door. He greets me at the entrance with a small wave and a polite smile, but only polite. How passive. He still treats me as though I am a stranger. I set his plate in front of his usual seat at the dining table.

He takes his seat and I take mine right across from him and stare as I always do, though I can’t help but get lost in my thoughts. I’ve heard him on the phone, he aspires to get a job he knows is out of reach for him. He listens to music in his room when he gets ready, he says it motivates him. He cares when other people get hurt, even though it doesn’t affect him. All things that I’m constantly reminded are normal amongst people, yet completely foreign to me. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t–

“Hey, are you alright?”

He spoke uneasily.

“You’ve been staring for.. a while now.” Yes I’ve heard of this, staring is considered rude isn’t it? He looks at me pensively, like he's trying to figure me out. It’s the same look he’s been giving me since I cooked and served him his cat last week.

I don’t understand this reaction, why would he raise such a creature if not to be eaten, perhaps he was saving it for one of those special occasions. You know how they are, humans and their special occasions.

“I’m going to watch this new movie, over on the couch,” he says.

Why is he telling me this?

“... if you’d like to join me maybe.”

Oh. This is quite unexpected, maybe I misunderstood our standing. He shifts around, seemingly getting more and more uncomfortable the longer the silence stretches on.

“I’ll uh- I will be in the living room.”

I didn’t think this far ahead honestly, I thought I would’ve eaten him by now. This offer is one I would expect of an acquaintance. Are he and I acquainted?

He’s already gotten comfortable in the living room by the time I come in. “Oh! You actually came,” He wasn’t really expecting me to take him up on his offer was he? He makes room for me to sit near him on the pillow adorned couch, more for decoration than comfort. “I mean, I’m glad. Come sit!”

I sit next to him, awkward movements every step of the way, this place is one I usually only experience in passing. There was never any reason to be in here other than to enter the kitchen. I believe I’ve spent more of my time in his room than here. Admittedly I sometimes watch him at night, controlling my gluttony is no easy feat. At least I can take solace in knowing when this is all over snuffing him out will be no issue. Besides, It's his fault for leaving his door unlocked.

I sit with my hands clasped in my lap. I never know where to put those things.

With a few clicks of the remote he’s signed into some kind of account, playing some kind of film. I am technically looking at the screen but I pay no attention. I can’t while he’s here, just across the couch yet still much too close. I watch him from my peripheral vision, only about fifteen minutes in and he seems to be entranced. It's fascinating how invested he is in this.

Maybe I can settle down a little as well.

I don’t really know when but eventually I found myself invested in the movie on screen as well, and that came with a new-found serenity. Caught in a fictional world, I think for the first time I wasn’t hyper aware of my surroundings or the people in them. Just for a moment I didn’t feel the need to stalk or hunt and it wasn’t life or death. Only for a moment though.

My roommate clears his throat, the unexpected noise was jarring to me in the state I was in. I nearly forgot he was even there.

“The movie’s almost over already, huh?” he said. He’s closer than I remember him being, it would seem we got closer as we adjusted to more comfortable positions on the couch. I don’t like that.

“This is weird isn’t it?” I have no gauge for what’s ‘weird’ and what's ‘normal’ here, but I’ll go along with it.

“Me asking you to hang out with me out of the blue like this I mean. I just had a long day and-” He sighs, sounding quite dejected. It’s not like I have anything else left to do here. it's

“None of my friends have picked up the phone either, I really appreciate you, you know, being here and all that.” I watch the corners of his lips tug into a frown, muscles I haven’t quite learned to use yet, as he runs his fingers through his hair. I scoot just a bit closer, there's this look in his eyes. Something sad, vulnerable even. I try my best to soften my demeanor, to present as something that's not a threat. It does not come naturally.

He looks away, glancing back at the screen, unsure of himself I’d presume. Maybe I can be of comfort. I place my hand on his where it rests on the couch, I try to remain non threatening. This contact feels deeply strange, I can feel every inch of his warm skin from the tip of my fingers to the end of my palm. He might agree given the look on his face. He looks me up and down with widened eyes, is this not how you comfort?

The serenity I felt is long gone but something different has taken hold of me. It's a familiar feeling, quickened heartbeat, amplified senses, adrenaline pumping through me, but how can I, in fight or flight, feel so still. “Oh.. wow. I didn’t-” Hesitance laces his voice. “I didn’t take you for a very touchy person.”

I’m stuck being acutely aware of every little twitch of his hand and every little thing he does yet unable to do anything about it. Something’s changed.

My heart pumps in my chest, there's heat running up my face, a feeling rising in me with every second our skin remains touching. Something must be seriously wrong because as visceral as this feeling is I cannot for the life of me pull away. I can’t help but feel my very life is on the line as he reciprocates my touch and interlocks our fingers.

I feel so though I am suffocating as if something is gripping my heart and lungs, the air is heavy. The silence is deafening, every sensation overwhelming but with my muscles locked in place there's no end in sight. Why does he have to look at me like that, like there's always something he’s leaving unsaid.

And the hints of curiosity in his voice like he wants to know more, he thinks I don’t notice. And why does any of it have to bother me so much? Why does he have to make me care? Maybe I’m becoming weak.

What started in a moment ends just as quickly as his hand slips out of mine. I am already growing cold without his touch. “Again, thank you for being here. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He doesn’t sound so sad anymore at least. My heart is no longer pounding against my chest so hard, though I’m still left to my thoughts, and ultimately I am left feeling empty.

I’d want him to come back and make me whole again if it wasn’t for the horrible feelings that came with. But it's no matter, it shouldn’t be long before he falls asleep and he never locks his bedroom door.

—————

I'm by no means serious about the ship but i think its neat tbh, also nonhuman characters are so real to me so theres that

Hope you enjoyed X3

[fragileizywriting]

okay, so.

marinette has a problem.

the problem is luka's hands.

no, no, that's not fair. actually, the problem is luka's entire arms— the hands are included, of course, but the arms thing. with his chest. and his shoulders. and his torso. okay, the top half of him. not really much of his legs, but those are... just as much of a problem. okay, yeah, she's having a problem. she's having a problem with him.

most specifically the arms, though.

she absolutely, positively, cannot stand the way he grips the steering wheel whenever he drives, because his hands are massive, and the steering wheel of his beatup mitsubishi is nothing but a tea-cup saucer, and she really, really likes them.

hello.

hi.

especially when he grips the wheel and his knuckles go white and it reminds her very, very much of something else.

“please,” she begs.

“no,” he responds, and he drums along the steering wheel in a delightful little pattern that she can't stop watching. tap tap tap. tap, tap, tap. tap... tap... tap... “we’re not stopping for coffee. put away the puppy eyes, kitty.” then, he adds, before she can even respond: “sorry, ‘coffee’.”

“i heard those quotation marks,” she grumbles, narrowing her eyes at him, though he doesn't meet her gaze to see it. he knows it's there. it's a sixth sense. just like he knew she was batting her eyes at him in a way he can't refuse. “are you just upset that i like good coffee?”

“good coffee," he scoffs, doing something with his palms against the wheel that has her brain starting to whirr. how is it that his hands are just so... big? "sorry, no, you mean american coffee. coffee that's just sugar and syrup.”

“and they’re right,” she argues. “please? as a thank you for coming with you to carrefour?”

“a thank you?” he laughs out loud, merging into a roundabout. hands. hands. hands, hands, hands. strong forearms. enticing biceps. she's a dog sitting outside a butchershop, waiting for someone to take pity and toss her a bone. he could crush her and she'd whimper out a thank you. “you invited yourself!”

she bites her lip. his hand is on the shiftknob so he can change gears. she's about to swoon. “i... uh—" what was she saying? "i don’t trust your yogurt choices.”

“greek yogurt is good.”

“it’s disgusting,” she continues, pointing at an exit that she wants him to take, because coffee is that way. he does. she doesn't have to give him directions, because he knows where they're going, because it's her favourite new coffeehouse. “anything that's not strawberry flavoured yogurt is a problem. what's with the adventurous streak with the vanilla flavour? coconut? are you out of your mind?”

“sometimes i wonder why your tastebuds are still so childish,” he teases. left hand in his lap for a moment. holy jesus. “sugary, strawberry—”

“let a woman live a little! i deserve treats! cute treats! big treats! cute, big treats!” she blinks at the silence, listening him tap, tap, tapping away. “hold on, hold it, i didn't invite myself, i live with you.”

“you couch surf.”

“you ass,” she giggles. “i do not. and since when do you consider your own bed a couch? pretty sure you were adamant about it being a futon when you first got it.”

he turns the ignition off before she even realizes it. here they are, in the parking lot, and she has yet to look away from that tender touch he has with his wheel.

"before we go in, look up at me for a second?"

"huh?"

he is way, way too close to her personal space when he leans over. blue eyes spark in the sunlight coming in and reflecting from the hood of the truck. "look up, kitty."

"yeah?"

god, he's gorgeous. she can't stop biting her lip, wiggling her tongue against her gums to make her canines stop humming.

"we can get your coffee. if"—a finger wag follows, touching her on the tip of her nose—"you stop looking at me like i'm a top sirloin."

she blinks passively. "what?"

"i know you well enough to know you get this look in your eye when you're hungry," he muses, thumb on her mouth. he presses in. lightly. just enough to squish her bottom lip. he's leaning over her in a way that feels like he's about to kiss her, maybe shut himself up for a little while, but he doesn't want to bridge the gap just yet. "you also do it when you're horny. i know you're not hungry because you tossed all of my offers to get beignets out the window, but you keep squirming in your seat everytime i move. you're salivating."

"i— i just want coffee," she wheezes.

"yeah? you sure?"

"y-yeah."

"so if i reach behind my seat to grab your purse, you're not going to hiss just because it makes my arms look nice?"

"i think you're overestimating how much i find you attractive."

"i am very much not," he laughs. "you're forgetting i've known you since whatever. let's get your drink and go home, you're not going to get any easier to keep still when you have sugar in you— remember that we need to pack away the groceries into the fridge before you jump me."

[fumblingmusings]

Can you tell us more about asakiku with fem England? I really adore the concept like normal asakiku hits hard, but with Evelyn hits harder

Okay so in 1910 there was this Japanese-British Exhibition in London where essentially Japan was trying to prove that A) Their products were worth buying B) That their imperialism was benevolent just like the British (I shouldn't need to put a qualifying statement here but obviously this is false on both ends) and C) That they were a worthy Great Power good enough to be on equal standing with the UK.

Japan spent an enormous sum of money on it despite being sort of bankrupt following the Russo-Japanese War. They built two gardens, sent around 22,550 square metres worth of stuff as well as parked a few ships at Kent to prove that yes, their alliance was a naval one and yes, they had the guns to back it up.

It was - I guess in Hetalia terms - Kiku being a giant simp. Get you a guy willing to build you a gyroscopically stable monorail and take you for a 1 mile round trip around the park. Just for you ~

Still can't say the 'L' word though.

What I find hilarious is the Japanese were disappointed with how it turned out - not finding aspects sophisticated enough (the model villages which were so common at the time were particularly criticised [not for the right reasons mind you]). Meanwhile Britain, who the entire thing was for, fell absolutely in love with it and like 8 million people turned up.

So... let's say Evelyn in particular adored the gardens, because she is such a green thumb, and made sure one of the gates was moved to Kew Gardens once the exhibition closed, but it wasn't until the 90s where the Japanese gardens were designed that it was properly given a home. The gate needed to go through an absolute ball ache of a restoration project but it's worth it because she loves it and him even if she isn't able to admit it just yet (a few more years maybe, then they can sit together in the garden and just breath).

She does one more big act of kindness for him, one that he cannot shake even after the collapse of their alliance, and I like the idea of it sort of haunting him for a good number of years.

There's a tree in Kew gardens - in the Japanese garden that is - of a white cherry blossom tree. It's a Japanese tree, but it had become extinct in its home by the 20s. Yes, Japan has many types of cherry trees, but still, it's one of the most beautiful versions (white, rather than the pink ones gifted to DC and such). But then in the 1930s, some English guy went 'wait a minute' and found the tree in Southern England of all places. So they took some cuttings, and gifted the tree back to Japan.

I like the idea of it really taking Kiku aback. That even when - at that point in time - they're supposed to be nothing to each other, and he maybe is still nursing a bit of a broken heart and a bruised ego and we know Kiku can be... let's say passive aggressive (like what do you mean Ludwig and Evelyn slept together in '27?!?!?!?) she still gives him a little piece of himself back. He cannot understand for a long time why.

[agentgrange]

In no uncertain terms the situation with Wizards is as bad as it can possibly get. Every time you think you've hit rock bottom and that this is the worst case scenario something else comes out about the current changes to their monetization and OGL that shocks and offense. I don't even think I can summarize how bad this is and all the knock on information that came out in the wake of this announcement or the implications it will have on the entire industry-- Things like Hasbro bullying the executives of Kickstarter to officially pair with them so they get 20% (they wanted more but Kickstarter begged them to lower it knowing that if they refused outright they would just DMCA their platform) of any "derivative works" FUNDING before a product is even produced. Or their intent to have Pathfinder bullied into a licensing agreement as a "derivative work" of 3.5, or fight them in court as breach of intellectual property due to the change to their OGL. Or the fact that any work produced every is now the property of Wizards IN ITS ENTIRETY and that creators MUST manually submit all work OLD AND NEW over the last FOUR DECADES to reach a licensing agreement. There's so so much more.

Make no mistake, this is Wizards thinking that celebrity podcasts and cameos like Stranger Things has propelled them to such levels of success they can survive this universally hated change by leaning on their immense piles of money they made since 5E. They simultaneously cut their own projects (including those of many people I've worked with) deciding that "we don't need to produce our own quality content, that costs money. Instead we can make YOU make the product for us!" This is nothing short of an attempt to bully the entire industry and fan community from the very bottom to the very top so they can make passive profits like the parasites they are, and it's ontologically evil.

I cannot feel safe making ANY D20 Fantasy content now, even at my immensely small level much less anyone with an actual following. It certainly seems that anyone who resists and intends to honor the original OGL concept like Pathfinder, Wizards will attempt to bully into compliance or have destroyed through legal action. (It's no coincidence by the way that Pathfinder, as a unionized studio, is being singled out as "subsidized competition that Wizards never intended to support" that they want to make an example of.) I can only pray that now that Wizards has acted the role of the bad guy that the rest of the industry doesn't follow the new "industry trend" letting Wizards take the blame as the industry leader. Needless to say any group or title that does, I will never touch again in my life and am incredibly thankful that H.P. Lovecraft making the mythos public domain means that the Delta Green community is able to keep a finger on the ejection seat the moment we see any sort of predatory changes so we can leave to easily produce our own work.

I'm making the choice to remove my professional time at Wizards of the Chaos from my resume. It will take time but I hope Wizards gets the Spirit Halloween treatment and gets fully dismantled for allowing Hasbro to do this once their bullying results in nothing but lost lawsuits and legal fees. I hope the property that their building sits on that I have such good memories of working in is torn down and the earth is salted forevermore. They want to make DnD a brand now and not a product? Well brands thrive on association, and the name DnD will forever be mud now. No one with a soul, myself included, should want that shit to stick to them.

[avoidantrecovery]

i love this video of venus williams being protected by her dad during her interview. because it it depicts something that is usually so hard to pin point, even if you've been through it.

the journalist asks a seemingly normal question about whether venus thinks she‘ll win and she says yes. he comments on how confident she is, which she agrees to. then he asks her why she thinks this and she begins to provide her answer, elaborating on her previous reply. he continues to prod. people who have never experienced emotional abuse, never seem to understand how banal some of it can come across as. you might even be called overly sensitive for picking up on something like this. and i‘m not saying that the journalist is emotionally abusing her, but it begins where he lets off essentially.

he is, consciously or not, trying to get under her skin and into her head, even though she is still a child. he wants a certain reply from her, maybe for her to show humility or uncertainty instead of her steadfast belief in herself. he never yells or looks angry, but he is applying pressure wants her to essentially change her own assessment and opinion of herself and her skills to suit his (needs). maybe he wants a certain headline, maybe it’s just a personal thing. and this is when her dad steps in.

and rightly so, he recognises what is going on immediately and wants to protect his daughter from limiting thoughts that might crop up in her mind due to these questions. even seemingly simple questions like that can unsettle and make someone unsure of what they just said. especially if it's a child/minor vs an adult in a conversation. and when it's done over and over again.

now imagine if instead of it being a journalist, it's your parent and there is nobody to stop the questions and interrogation. a parent who feels threatened perhaps by your youth or innocence or curiosity and naivety, things you don't have any control over and should be able to experience like everyone else gets to. every time you try to assert yourself, discover who you are as a person, start hobbies, a sport, just sit in your room, or go outside with the one friend you have, anything really...you are pummelled by a barrage of questions meant to make you doubt yourself. sometimes it's small comments, sometimes they are snide, other times passive-aggressive. you are told you are worthless, unwanted, a curse, and will never make it or survive without them. you are blamed for everything, you are attacked, you are triangulated into arguments that have nothing to do with you, even the love you still have for your parent(s) is rejected or viewed with suspicion. this goes on for hours sometimes. over and over again for years on end through your entire formative years.

as a result, your sense of self shrinks, shame begins to build and anything you associate with yourself makes you doubt and question. is it even worth it, are you able to do it, what is the point etc…? you begin to feel like an imposter, no matter how much you practise or how good you are. you feel like all love/care is transactional and since you already think lowly of yourself you the thought that nobody would ever truly value you begins to form. and if they do, you cannot handle it and you sabotage. when you‘re at you lowest and need to come up with a way to solve your problems, their questions and doubts come up to the surface, instead of what you actually need.

as children, the most important thing to our survival is our parents. so if they say something negative about us, we align our own thoughts and opinions with theirs in order to be on their good side, in order to survive. even if we know what they are saying is wrong. it is hard to hold two opposing views at the same time (also a source of neurosis according to jung) so sooner or later something will have to give.

i recently re-discovered the concept of limiting beliefs. it's essentially core beliefs that we picked up, usually in our younger formative years, that helped us get through a rough time, but still continue to influence our behaviour. this is the next thing i will look into for myself.

[dystopicjumpsuit]

Martyrs and Kings - Chapter 3

Best Bad Decision Ever

Rating: T (rating varies by chapter; mature content will be tagged)

Pairing: Kix x archivist/historian OFC

Wordcount: 2.1k

Warnings: pure, unadulterated fluff; alcohol use; Maree makes a baffling choice

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“That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day,” Kix said.

This is possibly the worst idea I’ve had in years, Maree thought. She was under no delusions that the office gossip chain would be any kinder than Denau, though it would likely be couched in passive aggressive little barbs. She doubted anyone would have raised an eyebrow if Kix had only been a client, but his appearance at the gala would certainly fuel speculation that she was pursuing him out of mercenary considerations. 

It was unavoidable now. Kix’s confrontation with Denau had undoubtedly already ignited a maelstrom of swirling rumors. Disappearing with him for hours immediately afterward would only make the pair more conspicuous. The problem was, she couldn’t quite bring herself to care. She’d been drawn to him from the moment he walked into her office, and every shred of caution flew out of her head the instant he took the blow that was meant for her. It was not so much the fact that he had protected her specifically as the unwavering sense that he would have stepped in to protect anyone who was being targeted by someone bigger and stronger. It was wildly attractive.

Besides, she rationalized, he was only staying in the Hosnian system for a few days, which meant that there was no possibility that he’d be interested in anything long-term. It was perfect. Any scandalized whispers among the staff would die down once he was gone. And Maree would be free to continue her life without interruption, just the way she always did.

They wandered a circuitous path through the garden, passing the bottle back and forth and chatting amiably about nothing in particular. By the time they reached the large central fountain, the wine was gone, and they transitioned seamlessly to the bottle Kix had carried, which turned out to be Pamarthen Port in a Storm.

He took a long drink and then passed her the bottle. She took a generous sip and immediately sputtered.

“That is some high-octane hooch,” she coughed.

“You didn’t know what it was when you grabbed it?” he asked, amused.

“Nope, that’s half the fun,” she said. “One time I made it all the way back here and found out I’d snagged a bottle of Renan Irongut. You cannot imagine the hangover.”

She shuddered delicately, and Kix chuckled.

“My feet are killing me,” she said. “Let’s sit here for a while.”

“On the ground? Your dress is going to get dirty,” Kix objected.

“So’s your suit. We’ll match!” she said.

“We already match,” he pointed out.

She looked down at their complementary outfits and laughed. “So we do. But who wore it better?”

“You,” he said immediately.

“I beg to differ.” She plopped to the ground and let out a relieved sigh. “That’s better. Whoever made those shoes should be arrested for sentient rights violations. ‘Cruel and unusual’ doesn’t begin to describe them.”

Kix sat next to her, lowering himself to the ground with considerably more grace than she had.

“Shall I give you a foot massage?” he offered.

“Uh, probably better not,” she said. “I was walking in only my stockings through the entire library. Force alone knows what’s on those floors.”

“Whatever it was, I guarantee I’ve seen worse,” he said.

“Maybe some other time,” she said.

He leaned his back against the wall of the fountain as she took another sip and grimaced. The liquor burned going down, and she was starting to feel an agreeable numbness in her fingertips.

“You ever bring other people back here?” he asked.

“Apparently it’s frowned upon to hide and drink alone, so yes,” she said. “Usually Valsi. Also Tane, a couple of times. They hate these functions as much as I do.”

“Valsi? Is that Dr. Corruss?”

“Mm-hmm,” she said. 

“I thought you said academics were boring.”

Her head was beginning to spin. Apparently, Port in a Storm worked quickly.

“Valsi and I are the exceptions that prove the rule. We’ve been best friends since university, and she’s been right by my side, cheering me on through every bad decision I’ve ever made.”

“Is that what this is?” Kix asked, passing the bottle back to her. “A bad decision?”

“That remains to be seen,” she said with a crooked little smile, and took another drink.

“What about Tane?” he asked casually.

Maree shrugged. “I don’t know him that well. He only joined the Archive a year ago. I had no idea he had such a bloodthirsty streak. We usually just argue about something pointless, like whether the DC-15A carbine or the DC-17 was the superior blaster.” 

Kix smiled. “And which side do you take?”

“Whichever side Tane doesn’t. The point isn’t really to win the debate; it’s just to get him worked up until he starts ranting,” Maree said. She shifted to face him. “Is your shoulder as comfortable as it looks?”

He quirked an eyebrow at her abrupt change of subject. “I’ve never tested it. Why don’t you find out and let me know?”

She hummed happily and snuggled into his side, resting her head on his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her and dragged his thumb in lazy circles on her hip, pulling the silky fabric of her gown between his fingers in a hypnotic motion.

“It’s an excellent shoulder pillow,” she said. “Ten out of ten, would cuddle again. I can write you a letter of recommendation, if you’d like, for your future prospective cuddle partners. I write excellent letters of recommendation. All the interns ask me for them. Half of my job is writing letters of recommendation.”

A lock of hair worked itself loose from her updo, and Kix brushed it softly away from her face.

“You’re fun when you drink,” he said.

“Are you saying I’m boring when I’m sober?” she demanded with mock offense.

“Not at all, but I have to admit I wasn’t expecting you to be a clandestine garden snuggler when I met you. You seemed so serious about your work.”

“That’s because I am serious about my work,” she said. “My work takes up all of my seriousness, so I don’t have any left over for the rest of my life. Besides, I don’t snuggle just anyone in my secret garden. Only the ones who throw themselves into danger to defend me.”

Kix snorted. “I was hardly in danger. That idiot couldn’t even land a punch.”

“Maybe not on you,” she said sincerely, “but I don’t know the first thing about fighting, and he could have seriously hurt me if you hadn’t stepped in. Thank you.”

He squeezed his arm tighter around her and leaned his cheek onto her hair.

“I wouldn’t let anything happen to you,” he said.

Maree’s heart fluttered. He said it with such confidence, as if it were the most natural and obvious thing in the galaxy. She didn’t doubt him for a moment. It was a heady feeling, and she stifled it before she could get carried away. She was definitely feeling the effects of the alcohol and the lingering pulse of adrenaline. 

“You should come back here in the daylight,” she said, steering the topic in a less fraught direction. “There are some really incredible plant specimens.”

“I’ve seen some wild plants in the Outer Rim,” he said. “Plants big enough to swallow a man whole, and they do it, too.”

“Is that where you’re from? The Outer Rim?”

“Sometimes,” he said vaguely. “I travel a lot for work.”

“What do you do for work?” she asked.

“Asset retrieval.”

“‘Asset retrieval’? As in, bounty hunting?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” he said. “At least, not yet.”

“I can introduce you to the head librarian if you’re interested in expanding into the overdue library book retrieval market,” she offered.

He laughed. “I’ll keep it in mind if I ever need a career change. So tell me about these plant specimens.”

“I don’t think they keep any man-eaters here. I could be wrong, but if they do, they’d be in a secure containment tank like the other deadly plants.”

“Amazing how something so beautiful can kill you so easily,” he observed.

“And in such creative ways,” she agreed. “There’s a rumor—I don’t know if it’s true or not, but I heard that a couple years ago, two of the botanists got exposed to a toxic pollen with some—uh—let’s say unique properties.”

He shifted to look down at her.

“What kind of properties?” he asked, intrigued.

She shot him an impish look from under her lashes, then stretched up to whisper in his ear.

“No way!” he exclaimed.

“I swear to the gods,” she laughed. “I mean, it might just be a rumor, but every time they ran into each other for months after that, they both looked like they wanted one of those man-eating plants to swallow them.”

“What happened to them?” he asked.

“That’s the best part,” she giggled. “They got married.”

Kix guffawed. “Do you think the pollen caused them to act on their existing feelings, or do you think they developed feelings for each other after the incident?”

Maree shrugged. “We’ll never know. Supposedly, the Archive director had the plants destroyed so there wouldn’t be any other incidents. If the story is actually true, that could have been a huge liability for the library.”

“All’s well that ends well, I suppose,” he said.

They talked and laughed and snuggled late into the night, and the level of liquid in the bottle dropped lower and lower until at last it was empty.

“I should get you home,” he sighed into her hair.

“Mmm, big day tomorrow,” she agreed. “It won’t be as fun as this.”

“Do you think the gala is still going strong?” he asked.

“I don’t know, but I’m not risking it,” she said. “I’ll take you out the staff entrance. It’s closer than the main entrance, anyway. We can get a taxi from there.”

She put her shoes back on and Kix helped her to her feet.

“Ugh, I should have just left them on in the first place,” she said. “I think they hurt worse now than they did before.”

“Come here,” Kix said.

“Hmm?” she asked.

“Put your hands around my shoulders.”

“Mr. Kix, are you trying to seduce me?” she giggled as she obeyed.

“When I do, you won’t need to ask,” he said.

He picked her up by the waist and swung her up onto the wide stone ledge surrounding the fountain.

“What are you doing?” she squeaked.

He turned to stand in front of her so she was facing his back.

“Hop on,” he said. “I don’t know where I’m going, so you’ll have to navigate.”

“Or I could walk,” she pointed out.

“Could you, though? Really?”

“Yes,” she grumbled. “It just wouldn’t be very fun.”

“Well, I happen to think this is very fun, so climb on my back and tell me where to go from here.”

“Fine,” she said, hiking up her skirts so she could wrap her legs around his midsection. 

He hoisted her onto his back, and she whooped with laughter as she clung unsteadily to his shoulders. He gave her a little boost to settle her more securely.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Onward, noble steed!” she exclaimed.

He carried her effortlessly through the darkened library, following her directions to the letter. She marveled at his strength. He didn’t even break a sweat, and she was not exactly light as a feather. Before many minutes had passed, they exited the building and she slid off his back as they hailed a taxi. 

“Where to?” asked the droid driver.

Maree gave it her address as they settled into the back seat. The night air was frigid, and she had neglected to retrieve her cloak from the coat check before they embarked on their garden excursion. She leaned closer to Kix for warmth, and he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her securely against his body. They didn’t speak during the ride, and Maree drifted pleasantly. When the taxi pulled to a stop in front of her building, Kix told the droid to wait while he walked her to her door.

“This is me,” Maree said.

She was sorely tempted to invite him in, but her lingering tatters of professionalism won out in the end. 

“Thank you for getting me home safely,” she said instead. “You’ve been watching out for me all night.”

“It was my sincere pleasure,” Kix said. “Until tomorrow, Maree.”

“Good night, Kix,” she said.

---

Chapter 4

Tagging: @blueink-bluesoul @secondaryrealm @spicy-clones @wings-and-beskar

[twicelivedsummer]

finding/inventing Dothraki personalities: Aggo

compilation ; Aggo ; Jhogo ; Rakharo ; Irri ; Jhiqui

I’m making a little series where I stare at everything the main Dothraki characters do and try to discern personality traits. The purpose of this is sort of “if you were to write a fanfic that actually fleshed out their characters, what’s a starting point? what is there, that we might not destroy in trying to build something larger?” It is not to claim that GRRM, um, wrote these characters well. But I do dislike rounding down to zero when it’s not literally zero.

For Aggo, let’s start with Daenerys asking him to be her bloodrider: all three of the people she asks refuse, but they give distinct reasons. The words are very close together, tightly paralleled, so starting here means we can be confident that the differences are intended. Aggo’s refusal is:

Aggo accepted the bow with lowered eyes. "I cannot say these words. Only a man can lead a khalasar or name a ko."

Compare this to Jhogo’s "this is not done. It would shame me, to be bloodrider to a woman": notice that Aggo emphasises the tradition and presents himself as passive—he is so conservative that he speaks it as outright impossible for him to break with tradition. (Rakharo’s is completely different.) If I squint I can also see it in "Blood of my blood," she heard Aggo echo—the ‘echo’, specifically.

Dany thanked him and told him to see to the repair of the gates. If enemies had crossed the waste to destroy these cities in ancient days, they might well come again. ... One of the guards that Aggo had posted saw him first and gave a shout

Daenerys knows her bloodriders, and tasks Aggo with seeing to their defences; and he furthermore posts guards... in the middle of the wastelands... ‘conservative’ pairs neatly with cautious.

Jhogo and Rakharo and their Dothraki helped those who could still walk toward the shore to bathe and wash their clothes. Aggo stared at them as if they had all gone mad

On a literal level, this is because just before this She beckoned Aggo closer. "Ride to the gates and bring me Grey Worm and fifty of his Unsullied." and so he has not been here to be shamed into helping despite "It is not good to touch the dead," said Jhogo. "This is known," Aggo and Rakharo said, together. However on a, uh, symbolic level, this is fitting to, uh, represent how he is the most conservative and traditional.

"Khaleesi," Aggo murmured, "there sits Balerion, come again."

um see he is drawing parallels to the Targaryen tradition that Daenerys just told them about

"It was her fate, Khaleesi," said Aggo.

He says of Eroeh. . . Jhogo has just described what was done to her, in terms of people taking actions; Aggo’s worldview, his filter, is in comparison passive-voice: the world is how it is and it is outright impossible to break with.

Aggo sat calmly notching arrows to his bowstring and sending them at tokars. Silver, gold, or plain, he cared nothing for the fringe.

Jhogo and Rakharo are fighting here, but adjectiveless; Aggo is calm in the midst of the battle.

I get an impression of age from him, but we’re told they’re all Her brave young bloodriders; brave warriors, but they were young, so I will settle for inventing that he’s like a year or two older and made a mountain out of it. Maybe him and Quaro (died end of AGOT) being a little older than Jhogo and Rakharo... idk.

Now we’re getting right down to the frequency analysis/pareidolia where I take tiny samples very seriously so I’ll link to the ~every-line collection;

‘Aggo and Rakharo’ appear together slightly more often than Aggo-and-Jhogo? This works for me because Rakharo strikes as mmmaybe the least ~traditional, so you could play up that contrast to get a dynamic with him changing and Aggo as backstop.

I am also assigning Aggo ‘unquestioning’ on the basis that he uh literally never asks a question. Not even once. afaict.

"The khal needs no help from women who lie with sheep," barked Qotho. "Aggo, cut out her tongue." Aggo grabbed her hair and pressed a knife to her throat. Dany lifted a hand. "No. She is mine. Let her speak." Aggo looked from her to Qotho. He lowered his knife.

In AGOT Dany VII he isn’t sure whether to obey Daenerys or Drogo’s bloodrider;

Cohollo caught her. Fingers in her hair, he pulled her head back and she felt the cold touch of his knife at her throat. "My baby," she screamed, and perhaps the gods heard, for as quick as that, Cohollo was dead. Aggo's arrow took him under the arm, to pierce his lungs and heart.

here in VIII he quickly kills one of them, protecting her. Also an example of him being very good at archery.

The trader vaulted over the stall, darting between Aggo and Rakharo.

perhaps not so quick/good with melee? let’s say it’s so. When Arstan first shows up, Aggo kicks the staff out of his hands but Jhogo does more in the same timeframe.

Rounding out the character with the all-of-them stuff: the young archers of her khas were fluid as centaurs excellent rider, Jhogo and Aggo were digging a firepit to burn the dead stallion, physically strong, Her brave young bloodriders had stared off at the dwindling coastline with huge white eyes, each of the three determined to show no fear before the other two not getting seasick but hates the sea, standard vaguely macho stoic thing, "It is not good to touch the dead," said Jhogo. "This is known," Aggo and Rakharo said together, standard Dothraki ok honestly this one doesn’t count as superstition, that’s just germ theory, Yet Dany could not bring herself to abandon them as Ser Jorah and her bloodriders urged would rather have ditched the freedmen of Astapor, They kept her khalasar together, and were her best scouts too competent at commanding other Dothraki and scouting.

To pull it all together: there’s a concept in there of which calm and conservative and cautious and defensive and traditional and passive and unquestioning are all facets; the world is as it is and maybe you can minimise your losses but there isn’t, on a deep level, really a possibility of change. He finds his place in the hierarchy of his society and is good at what he’s supposed to and. stuff. This implies he’s slotting Daenerys as a one-off-exception (and not system-breaking) really hard, I guess?

....pretty sure this concept is “an orientalist stereotype" or one millimetre away. uh. to put more distance between that, i recommend leaning into the defensive/pessimistic angle, playing up/inventing the contrast with jhogo and rakharo who i swear are different hopefully i will get to their ones soon, and of course thinking about his internality and development: making up stuff about how he got here, how it feels from the inside to think like that, how he’s assimilating his experiences over the course of the books. there’s also “character development that changes his perspective” but personally i would choose him for one-who-moves-slowest.

final random fact:

Aggo gave an urchin a copper for a skewer of honey-roasted mice and nibbled them as he rode.

choice of snac