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malibudarby87 · 6 months

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Games Men Play - short story

Content Warnings:

Body Horror

Brief mention of Mental Illness/Suicidal Ideation

Sexual Themes

Violence

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It was the sixth time I’d seen him. I’d been counting.

The first time was Leather Night, at The Pit across town. I’d thought he’d been going for some kind of leather-punk, biker-goth, 80’s throwback thing. Black string vest – low-cut to better show off a thicket of walnut hair – under a sleeveless black denim jacket; leather trousers laced at the side; a wide, flaccid black mohawk turning electric blue at the end like some exotic bird.

By my third sighting of him, at Drag Queen Bingo here at Charlie’s, I realised it was a committed style. Tonight was no different. All leather, denim, and black as sleep, save for the electric blue plumage which was now bleached a ghostly white. It caught the club lights as they flashed towards him, dancing through the rainbow in time with the music.

Each night I’d seen him on the periphery, dancing through the crowd or standing in a doorway. I’d watch for a while, weighing up if my fascination was piqued enough to make a move. By the time I came to a conclusion he’d always be gone, dropping out of view like shadow into shadow.

Tonight, he seemed content to stand vigil at the bar. Sharp blue eyes like the base of glaciers scanning a crowd of sweating, leaping bodies.

I wiped the few errant beads of my own sweat off my forehead and began pushing my way to my latest potential conquest. The bar was abandoned by patrons in favour of the dance floor, and taking a seat next to him was a deliberate move.

‘Sazerac, please,’ I barked through the din.

I waited until the drink was in front of me to turn towards him. When I did, I found him pointedly turned towards me. Pushing from the hips, leaning back like a cat. Nursing his own drink between two hands, in a way that pressed his pecs together in a masculine cleavage.

I was in.

‘Looks like I’m stood up again,’ I said, brushing my hair from my face, flexing slightly. ‘Fucking app twats, always wasting time.’ A frequently used opening gambit that paid off more than it should.

He smiled tightly and lidded his black-lined eyes. ‘Yeah, we’re not doing that.’

‘Doing what?’ I asked, innocently.

‘That tired game where you pretend to have been interested in someone else, but oh no, they ghosted me! Please, save me from a night alone!’ He tapped a fingernail on his glass as he spoke. ‘Bit sad, don’t you think?’

I thought about walking away right then, sure I’d completely fucked it. But something in the way he looked at me, a patient teacher watching his student stumble over the first answer, made me think I had at least one more shot.

I took a drink. The bitter liquor hit me harder than expected. Burning to a comfortable weight in my chest and spinning my head.

‘James,’ I said, extending a hand, which he took and turned palm down, with an unexpected delicacy. A regency era politeness in a venue where guys were getting blown in the bathrooms as we spoke.

‘Vox,’ he said, and I wasn’t sure if that was a name or some kind of old-world insult.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Vox,’ he repeated, turning to the bartender to order another whiskey with a series of simple, but unignorable hand gestures. Like carving runes into the air. Within seconds a fresh drink was placed on the counter.

‘Thank the devil you finally came over,’ he said with a lilt. ‘All that staring through the crowd. Ducking through shadows. You started to seem a little…’ he trailed off, head tilting quizzically as his eyes scanned me. ‘Stalkerish.’

‘Did it work? Do you feel hunted?’

‘Like prey?’

‘I could be the predator.’ I pushed, enjoying the banter a little too much; whiskey clouded, and straining at the edges of good taste.

‘Nah,’ he said, swirling ice cubes in the brown liquid with a sharp scraping somehow still audible over the bass. Fingernails black. Chipped lacquer that showed pale underneath. ‘That’s straight people shit. I don’t do prey.’

‘So, no games. No carnal pursuit. What do you do, Vox?’

‘I never said no games.’ A flash of teeth like a circus showman. ‘Just not the kind that bore me.’

My tastes typically leaned more towards the preppies and gym bunnies. The boys-next-door – if next door was a 24-hour gym with adjoining GAP outlet. I’d pick up a new one most every night I went out. An endless parade of stout, tan men with identikit haircuts and personalities in various shades of beige. Easy conquests. Easy prey.

This guy wasn’t my usual type. But there was something about his Doc Martins, and painted nails, his anachronistic sideburns and soul patch. A smattering of piercings on his face and ears, black ink tattoos peeking up under his collar and above his waistband, which told tale of a penchant for pain that I didn’t find unappealing.

And his name. The way it tasted as my tongue pressed to roof of my mouth. Old in a way I couldn’t place. An incantation.

‘Tell me then, Vox,’ I shifted a leg, grazing his knee with mine. He looked down at it pointedly but didn’t move away. ‘What kind of games do you like?’

‘The dangerous kind. The old kind.’ His voice was cold on heat. Icicles forming from sweat.

‘I’m afraid I don’t know any games like that,’ I said, sinking deeper into his glacial eyes. Head a fog of etiquette and desire. My words came out in slow bursts. Metered and unrhyming. ‘I’m more an Uno and Scrabble guy. But I’m a quick study and down to play. Maybe you could teach me the rules?’

The look he gave burned through me. He downed his drink in one gulp, eyes unflinching, and grabbed my wrist like an adder’s bite.

In that moment, something was decided. Something I wouldn’t understand until later. Until it was too late to take back.

He led me from the bar and into the chill of the night. A world washed in cold blue, moon thick and languid in a cloud splattered sky.

I followed behind, whiskey drunk and shuffling. Heartbeat rhythm of hook-up anticipation. A stirring in my jeans and warmth under my armpits. The few late-night stragglers disappeared behind us. The bass of the club giving way to the clop of his boots on stone.

Outside of the dry smoke and dancing lights, he seemed larger. Pulled at the edges, silhouetted in the alleyway, flanked by shadows.

The colouring of him looked different in the moonlight too. The white stripe of hair a natural warning. Skunks and poisonous frogs. Things that sicken and kill.

I was past the point of warning now.

His grip on my wrist was iron. He walked with a purpose I didn’t understand, and my head swam in the movement, lulled to a fearless resignation. A crying baby coddled by a late-night ride.

‘Hey, what’s the rush?’ The words dripped out of me in slow motion. Distant in my own mind.

He didn’t answer, leading me further down the alley without word or pause.

I didn’t recognise the street anymore. The redbrick townhouses giving way to black, soot-stained buildings. Victorian. Almost industrial. Tall windows with hidden shadows and overhanging roofs that bent in like a copse of trees.

I imagined worker children in Dickensian fashions, dragged by ears to death-trap factories. I imagined pigs, bellies distended, food drunk and stupid being led to slaughter.

‘My place isn’t far,’ I said, not sure if that was true anymore. Processions of shadows danced closer, narrowing the alleyway as he grew taller.

‘Mine is closer,’ he said, and the words hit my ears at once. An inorganic stereo sensation. I nodded grimly, and followed on, barely noticing that the narrowing darkness now snatched at my heels.

I still remember my first time with a man.

It came late, all things considered. Twenty-three and three months to the day. I lie and tell everyone I first did it when I was fifteen, with a builder who’d been helping put up an extension for my parents. The builder was real, and the extension happened, but everything else was just fevered teenage fantasy.

My real first time was with a counsellor I’d been seeing to cope with what my parents called “Post University Depression” which I suppose was partly accurate. The biggest issue, however, was that I was a fag, and a coward.

It’s cliché to say, but it really did just happen. He’d given me his number in case of emergencies, and I’d called one night, staring at a bottle of pills, and hoping to see oblivion.

He came over and a three-hour talk turned into something else.

I remember the act itself felt incredibly sudden and yet oddly formal. Showering after the first tentative kisses. Discussions of position and choice of activity. Flesh yielding to force and patience. A chorus of grunts and sighs, strange bodily scents, and a guilt-laden aching that felt like shooting up liquid sin. Afterwards, collapsing, quivering on my back, my entire body an exposed nerve.

Every night since had been a hunt to feel that again.

Something cold twisted at my naked thigh. A swift, slick motion and I awoke in fits. I thrashed and flopped like a fisherman’s catch and when my eyes came to focus in the dim light, I saw something black coiled around my leg.

I slapped it with a hand and felt soft, cool silk.

Looking around, I noticed a few things; firstly, my lack of clothing; secondly, that I was somewhere in a Meatloaf music video.

The room was palatial in scale, with high vaulted ceilings, disappearing into shadow. Chain suspended black iron chandeliers hung from the cross beams, candles bulbous and nobbled from overuse. The light generated by them – and the handful of candelabra scattered about the bed, and more near the strange, circular, curtained-off area in the centre of the room – seemed to be contained. Diffused and unable to touch the shadows that clung, heavy as blood sated bats to wood-panelled corners and beneath French provincial furniture.

Everything seemed out of scale. A dollhouse with the wrong dolls. The bed I was lying on could have comfortably held five. The full-length mirror, smoky at the edges, stretched a good fifteen feet up the wall. Next to it a tapestry, old as dirt and with a strange paper texture snaked its way around the room, disappearing out of sight behind the curtained off section, and reappearing on the other side.

The colour was faded, pictures indecipherable in the dim light.

The last thing I noticed, was him.

Vox sat at a vanity – oddly to scale for his size – back towards me, facing what might have once been a mirror but now held a scant few shards, like teeth in a screaming maw.

His back was bare, showing a tapestry of its own, scarred in black ink that spread like sickness over one shoulder. He busied himself pulling jewellery free from his face and ears that he dropped one at a time on a plate. Each piece hit the surface with a muffled, wet tap.

Fear and confusion pushed me to move and as I rose a wave of sickness gripped my stomach. A crunching twist like bad street food doubled me over, beads of sweat pricking on my back.

‘Don’t try to move,’ his voice, clear as a bell in the cavernous room.

I curled pathetically, pulling the sheets in bawled fists until I heard the tear of fabric. The pain was unbearable, stealing my breath and pounding in my blood. Something slithered inside me, contracting, and pulling at all the vital parts, making shapes no human organ should be suffered to endure.

Cool fingertips traced a pattern on my neck and the pain faded, quick as it had arrived, slipping free like a retreating invader.

I gasped and hacked; some black residue expelled into my palm.

‘Breathe,’ he said. A mother comforting a child. ‘That’s it, James. Just breathe.’

‘The fuck did you do to me?’ I hacked between sucking breaths. A hand the size of a shovel, segmented with too many knuckles tilted my face up, and I saw him. Truly saw him.

Childhood fears of grinning men. Of clowns and child-catchers and toothpaste ad teeth that sat in wide, fat gummed mouths. Skin split, liquorish blood at the corners of his rictus grin, eyes wrinkled at the sockets so deep they sank into dark pits, where glacial blue stars twinkled and faded in a grim mockery of blinking.

‘I’m teaching you the rules,’ he said, mouth unmoving. Fingernails like bevel edged chisels curled under the flesh of my cheek and gripped me in place. ‘We��re going to play that game now. You remember. The dangerous one? The old one?’

I blinked a response. A plea, I suppose. Choosing not to form words for fear of my face being torn from my skull.

His hand receded, each nail pulling from the meat of my cheek with a sickening pop.

‘It’s a simple game. One of the first, but not the first,’ he strode to the curtain in the middle of the room, back hunched and legs bowed in strange angles, the white streak of hair stretched and ragged, hanging like a tattered banner over one sinewy shoulder.

A hand still dripping with my blood snatched at the curtain, pulling it into the shadows and revealing a large circular area.

It was stone. Old and porous. Grey in the way only ancient things can be. Colour stolen by millennia. Hollows and tiles swirled into the centre in a checkerboard pattern that formed a large, coiled snake.

The Vox thing circled it with hands flourishing. A ghastly gameshow model presenting my prize.

‘You make it to the mouth of the snake, and you make it back. Can’t get much simpler than that.’

I wiped tears and blood and stared at it. It was hypnotic, seeming to move and shift in my vision. Slowly spiralling in place. An optical illusion, surely, but one accompanied by the sounds of grinding stone.

‘I don’t want to play,’ I said, eyes downcast for fear of its response. I expected screaming. I expected death.

‘Well, I’m sorry, but that’s just not good enough,’ it said. The offence in its words was jarring. ‘A couple of hours ago, you were falling over yourself to play with him.’

I raised my head and saw him. The man from the bar, stood naked next to the Vox thing. He eyed me with a look of seduction, painted nails stroking at his chest. Lip bite and a widening stance.

‘You can have him, if you want,’ the Vox thing purred through its unending grin. ‘Wouldn’t that be nice? All the things you could do. Use him up until you’re bored like all the others.’

The man shivered and split, briefly flickering to shadow before reforming as two. One the man I met, the other different. Tan skin with a hairless chest, the suggestion of abs beneath a slight paunch. They pressed against each other, lips, and tongues on flesh in a stilted eroticism that felt like theatre.

‘I could get you more. As many as you desire. That could be your prize.’

Would that be so bad? I thought. My life had been just that, so far. A string of men. Conquered and won, used, and discarded until the next and the next and the next. It was something I was good at, the hunt. But would I be happy without it? If they were handed to me like packaged meat? No danger of defeat?

I shook my head, dismissing the thoughts. Willing a civilised mind to prevail over base desire. ‘I don’t want to play I just want to leave.’

‘Enough!’

With a swipe of its hand the Vox thing rent the men into pieces, blood heat and pink flesh cascading into shadows that hit the ground and scuttled away into dark places.

‘You don’t seem to understand, James. You’re already playing, sweet. And the longer you wait to make your move…’ its voice trailed off, head tilted. ‘Well, let’s just say you’re not the only piece on the board.’

A morbid wave of inevitability hit me. Sudden clarity of what the Vox thing meant. I had been playing. Longer than perhaps even it knew. It was all a game, in the end, wasn’t it? Snakes and ladders. Snakes and men. Men and snakes and ladders and each one with its own unique poison.

There was death waiting out there as much as it was in here. Different guises, yes, but death the same.

I walked towards the board, knowing somewhere deep that it was not the first time. Late night hook-ups. Fumbling in the dark with strange men just to feel the thrill of life and the danger of it too. It was all a game. Get to the snake and get back safely.

I was good at that game.

My foot found the first divot in the stone. I looked at the board. There was no difficulty to the path. A few tiles marked with symbols immediately recognisable as warnings in some deep, ancient way that lived in the blood of man. A few pits that sunk deeper than the others. The route was clear, and no danger of getting lost when the path was so singular.

I could do this. I had done this.

Bare feet found purchase on the porous stone, one after the other and in my mind, I saw images of a lion and a gazelle. Sat around a board like this, nudging pieces with hoof and claw.

A game as old as man, and older still.

The gazelle placed a winning piece and the lion, incensed at the move, sunk rending teeth into yielding flesh.

It never once occurred to me that I was not the lion.

Outside the board something in the darkness laughed.

I looked back, the path I had taken stretching out like time. Something crawled up the snake’s back. Something large, and black. Body of lion, mane thick with shadow and a head of long, snapping jaws. It padded across the tiles, following my footfalls, bounding across time like an approaching comet.

The second piece.

I turned and ran like prey.

#lgbtq writer #lgbt fiction #horror fiction #short story #queer writers

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sophie-i-guess13 · 1 year

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From the list "70's and up." 'I remember when she used to make a lot of noise/ hopping and bopping with the corner boys' maybe a Soda x Y/N who notices how Y/N doesn't come on that side of town anymore, as if her name had been wiped, turns out she's hanging with socs, and that's got Soda all fucked up, cause he trusted Y/N, and doesn't know what she's said to them. Now however, he finds out...this wasn't by choice.

Creative freedom, my friend. Go wild. <3

I still remember when she used to make a lot of noise / hoppin’ and a-boppin’ with the street corner boys [ I knew the bride when she used to rock ‘n’ roll - Nick Lowe]

Sodapop Curtis x Fem!Soc!Reader. Y/N is in her villain era and I am so sorry

CW : sad sad sodie pop :(

I follow her through the hall and down the steps, backpack swinging on her shoulders as Y/N forces her legs to stay at least a good four steps ahead of me. I don’t wanna believe it- I can’t believe it. Even as the truth walks away from me, all dolled up in a pale blue blouse and white poodle skirt. “Y/N!” I call out again. She dodges my words and bodies as she pushes through groups of greasers and Socs alike, making a beeline for the sidewalk at the edge of the schoolyard. I lunge forward as her shoes tap against the concrete, my fingers hooking around the strap of her book bag.

“The hell do you want, Sodapop?” She scolds. I lose my words the second I see her; face painted in makeup she never wore when she ran with me and the guys. Her hair, curled to perfection, shifts on her ironed shoulders with each breath she takes, manicured nails tracing the line of pearls along her throat.

“What is this? You stop comin’ ‘round for weeks, then Two-Bit tells me ‘bout you comin’ into the cafeteria on some Soc’s arm? That you’ve been gettin’ cozy in the front seat of his Mustang?” She takes a step back, yanking her backpack from my faltering grip.

“Don’t say it like that,” Y/N snaps again, “God, you’re just like the rest of them! Don’t go playin’ the victim now, Sodapop, greasers are just as bad as Socs. Maybe worse.”

“You know that ain’t true,” I say desperately. I didn’t wanna believe Steve, or Two-Bit, not even my brother. But now that I’m looking at her, all I can think about is how Y/N’s slipping away. Swapping her life and memories for a couple expensive trinkets and the quarterback. “What’s goin’ on with you, Y/N? T-this ain’t like you-,”

Her eyes, as beautiful as ever, are narrowed into slits; burning with angry tears. “What’s not like me? The fact that I’m actually focusin’ on my future? That I’m not out gettin’ loaded every Friday night?” She takes another step back when I reach for her, dragging her hands through the air and shaking her head. “I wouldn’t expect you to know, but some kids outta take care of their parents when they grow up, Soda. You think I’m gonna be able to do that if I keep livin’ on the east end?”

I ignore the sting her words leave in my heart. She isn’t thinking straight- this isn’t her. She’s confused, scared even. She has to be- she… Y/N wouldn’t just say this. Not to me. “If it’s money that you’re worried ‘bout, Y/N, we can help you-!”

“Right,” she laughs bitterly, “you’re gonna take care of me and my parents, Sodapop. All on that salary you’re gettin’ at that gas station, right? Just you, me, couple babies, livin’ with your brothers ‘cause you can’t afford to move out.” I wanna say something, but my mind turns up empty. All I can do is watch uselessly as Y/N straightens out her skirt and turns her teary eyes up the street, where that damned Mustang has rolled to a stop. “Face it, Soda, kids like us need the money if we wanna make it past eighteen.” She traces her pearls again as my heart drops to my stomach. “We’re talkin’ ‘bout gettin’ hitched after graduation. He’s gonna take care of me. Better than any of the boys on our side o’ town could.”

I take her wrist when she turns to leave again, just in time to feel my own eyes sting with tears I didn’t deserve. All I wanted was for her to be happy- to be safe. So why was it so damn hard to let her go? “Please, Y/N,” I plead uselessly, “we can talk about this- we can fix this-,”

I’ll never forget the way she looked at me then, the harsh edge she used on her words when she shoved me back before climbing into the passenger seat of that Mustang. “Get off me, grease.”

#soapie’s stuff #asks!#silver!#the outsiders #the outsiders fanfic #sodapop curtis #sodapop x reader #x reader #socs

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windhamsrotunda · 2 years

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BURNING WITH THE SAINTS - BRAY WYATT

Pairing: Bray Wyatt (aka Windham Rotunda) x Female! Reader

Summary: Bray makes his shocking return at Summer Slam since his WWE release in 2021 of last year, Bray makes things for the better, and not for the worse.

Rating / Warnings: Teen, Angst, Visuals, No Warnings!

Word Count: 800+

Authors Note: This one is very short, but I still hope you guys enjoy reading this one <3 – Shar?

The cinematic white lights in the arena for over 40,000 fans in presence had fluttered down like butterflies landing on their nest. Everything was dead silent in the arena holding 40,000 fans. The atmosphere grew heavy with pondered wonders, wondering: ‘’What is going on?’’

We’re really glad that you’re our friend, and this is a friendship that’ll never, ever end.

Haven’t heard that sound in a long time, you thought. It was probably a joke ---- but it wasn’t once you knew the reaction from the crowd.

‘’What!? Could it be!? It’s him! It’s The Fiend, Bray Wyatt, what in the hell is he doing here!?’’ Michael Cole exclaimed from the announcer desk, not believing what he saw with his own eyes.

The intensity of Bray Wyatt’s return filled the air, fans jumping out of their seats as they cheered for him.

You covered your mouth from gasping aloud to draw attention from an older couple sitting next to you, eyeing at you and rolling their eyes. A younger person with ‘’The Fiend Will Outlast Them All’’ sign was shocked as you, dropping her sign onto the ground.

‘’I-it’s him...’’ She pointed at Bray walking casually down the ramp towards the ring in his fiend costume, with her mouth hung open.

Seth Rollins, the one who had a mystery opponent for the night ever since he had injured Riddle, stood in the ring not backing down.

How brave of Seth, you thought, watching the chaos go down between Bray and Seth Freakin’ Rollins.

‘’And a sister Abigail to Seth Freakin Rollins! And just like that, The Fiend has made a historical return at SummerSlam!’’ Pat McAfee said, cheering.

Bray let out an helious laugh, the camera panned in to show Seth laying motionlessly in the ring as his blood red themed lights went out again in a matter of seconds, disappearing from out of the ring. Then and there, when you were about to leave, the younger girl who was known to had dropped her sign next to you earlier tapped you on the shoulder.

‘’I uh, wanted to say have a good night, and drive safe.’’ She said, rubbing the back of her neck awkwardly and pushing her glasses up to the bridge of her nose.

‘’Oh, you too.’’ You gave a smile to her before awkwardly walking away down to your car.

You pulled your phone out and tweeted:

‘’Best SummerSlam yet. We love you, @windham6.’’

Smiling, you hugged your phone closely to your chest, letting out a sigh of relief. How much you missed your idol, Bray Wyatt was so emotional, that night was emotional for you. The last time you had seen him wrestle live was in 2019 before The Thunderdome Era. You walked over to a nearby elevator, and entered it before anyone else could. Seconds from closing the elevator doors, a man who was about 6’3 with dreads and tattoos had stopped the door from closing.

‘’Hey, do you mind if I can ride the elevator with you, young lady?’’

‘’B-Bray? Oh my god!’’

You froze up, not knowing what to do. Okay, do not be awkward about it. Just be cool.

‘’Y-yeah, you can, anything for you.’’ Your smile turned into a sly, yet shy smile.

‘’Thank you. I’m in a hurry, I got to catch the plane back home. Did you enjoy the show?’’ Bray asked, smiling at the fangirl within you.

You nodded; you couldn’t believe this was all real. How in the hell can you keep your posture under control with Bray Fucking Wyatt in the same elevator as you?

‘’Yeah, I really did. It was nice seeing you again, we fans missed you.’’ You stated, biting your cheek from flushing up in embarrassment on the way you were acting.

The elevator had come down to the first floor to a dead stop, once the elevator doors opened, you shook his hand and thanked him once again.

‘’I know you are in a hurry, but can I please get a photo with you?’’ You blurted out, getting the courage out of you as Bray accepted the offer as a gentleman.

‘’Sure! Let’s do it.’’ You pulled your phone out again from your back pocket, and then snapped the photo in one click.

‘’Thank you, it was nice meeting you.’’ You smiled, he waved goodbye as you were admiring the photo the two of you took, he was out of plain sight.

*Windham6 liked your tweet*

The notification dinged on your phone from Twitter, this was a moment that you’ll never forget for the ages.

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francesackerley · 2 years

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🧦 for a dorm room headcanon [I'm a sucker for these]

[sometime after this and this]

"There.” Frances handed back Archie’s phone without looking. Now with a hand free (the other held a wineglass nicked from Fenton’s, the food was variable but the drinks were always excellent) she was able to type in the accesscode for the flat. “You’ve entered the modern era and can read Judith’s texts undetected. Mind your head.”

They stepped into the entryway, Frances kicking off her heels and heading straight up the stairs without waiting to see if Archie followed.

She drifted over to the freezer in the kitchen. Opening it sent goose pimples across her shoulders, exposed in a slinky black dress. “A photo of us together should satisfy her for the month at the very least. Send her the one where we’re seated, you can’t see the length of my hem but you can see my necklace.” She pulled a container of gelato from the fridge and nudged the door shut with her foot. “‘An Almack’s girl is always in pearls’,” she sing-songed on her way to the living room. “Grab spoons, will you?” He knew where to find them.

They settled on the couch, shoulder to shoulder and alternating scoops of gelato, Frances adding in sips of wine here and there. The comfortable silence that blanketed the flat could only be the consequence of obligation fulfilled. Pretense slowly fell away with each bite; Frances’s feet ended up on the coffee table, Archie’s bowtie came undone.

Frances set her empty wine glass aside and picked up her phone instead, scrolling idly, nose wrinkling or eyebrows lifting from post to post. Photos from the White’s formal were slowly rolling in. Every now and then her phone would twitch over to like an image.

She switched over to her own photo album, scrolling through snapshots of the night. Posed photos to send to Judith and her mother, less family friendly ones taken with the other girls in the bathroom, a few candids. Mid-swipe Frances stopped and went back several pictures.

It was a candid taken during just before dinner. Archie was gesticulating, hair slightly disheveled and cheeks a touch pink from too much brandy before eating. She was watching him with a smile on her lips, chin lifted, clearly pleased at having provoked a response.

All the, hrm, good girls are being taken.

She tilted the screen so Archie could see. Blue eyes smoked out at the edges studied him, gauging his response as she asked: “Should I post this one?”

She stuck her silver spoon in her mouth to free up both thumbs and refocused her attention on the screen after a beat, moving back over to instagram, selecting the photo and then running through various tags. Hair by Salon 64, dress Alex Perry Pagett Midi, lipstick Charlotte Tilbury Kiss & Tell, and so on until she had fully taken herself apart piece by piece.

A quick caption, can neither confirm nor deny the occasion, and with a final tap the photo was catapulted out into the world.

She watched notifications pop up one by one, waiting for a username that mattered.

@grscmb1 and 2 other people like your photo

She pulled the screen down. The refresh wheel spun.

@vfletch and 20 other people liked your photo

Click, and the phone was locked. Frances tossed it to the other end of the couch. Her toes slipped from the edge of the coffee table and landed firmly on the floor. “Lucy isn’t here you know. You could stay over.” She leaned over, all casualness, and scooped up the last bit of gelato. “It’s been awhile.”

#*answered #*uni au

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daggerzine · 2 days

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Pernice Brothers- Who Will You Believe (New West)

It’s been five long years since the last Pernice Brothers album. I had the pleasure of hearing some of these songs performed at Kiki’s House of Righteous Music in Madison last November. I’m still amazed I was finally able to check off another artist on my bucket list, especially in such an intimate venue. But back to the new album. Joe wrote and produced all of the songs on the album. He’s joined by Michael McKenzie, Liam Jaeger, Patrick Berkley, Michale Belitsky, Peyton Pinkerton, and we can’t forget brother Bob Pernice. The album kicks off with the title track, “Who Will You Believe.” Jangling guitars, beautiful harmonies, and soaring guitar solos that seem like a track right out of early REM’s songbook. “So, don’t cash out ‘cause some rumor says it’s over. Look here, I stagger, but I swear to God I’m sober. Who will you believe? Who will you believe?” Next up is “Look Alive,” my favorite on the album. It’s a beautiful, upbeat piano-driven, indie-rocker complete with strings and horns! ”At best a shaky maybe. Strumming the old banjo, baby. Snuffing out a torch that was held for me. I wish I could sing that song... The one that makes the ordinary extraordinaire.“ Track 3, “Not This Pig,” is a short foot-tapping number complete with dreamy keyboards and howling guitar solos. Next is “What We Had.” A slower, sad acoustic guitar number with trickles of echo-laden guitar bits. And the lyrics add an extra punch to the sorrow. “I can see the way it’s playing out. It’s a comedy of errors, but it’s sad. I think of what we had. It’s hard to watch good love go bad.” In comes more explosive guitar jams that eventually leave as the song drifts off. Track 5, “December in Her Eyes,” if I recall, Joe introduced as a 60s Motown song that he said to imagine strings and horns. It’s a beautiful, sad song, and yes, those gorgeous strings and horns are way upfront on this one. “We’ve been friends for so long, I would tell you that I might break down and cry. I hope you can find her and find out ‘cause I swear I don’t know why she’s got December in her eyes.” “A Song for Sir Robert Helpmann” is a short, highly orchestrated instrumental dedicated to the Australian ballet legend. “Hey, Guitar” is the fastest rocker on the album. Searing guitar solos and a bopping rhythm section highlight this one. Next up, “A Man of Means,” is a flashback to Revolver-era Beatles. I’m thinking “Taxman” with its heavy bassline and chiming guitars. Track 9, “I Don't Need That Anymore,” features another Dagger favorite, Neko Case. When I first heard this performed at Kiki’s, Joe, strapped only with an acoustic guitar, did a hilarious version by tilting his head when he sang “the Neko part.” Couldn’t wait to hear the full-blown version with Neko, and it surely doesn’t disappoint. Next up, “Ordinary Goldmine,” also captures the vibe I felt at Kiki’s. Not sure if he sang this at our set. Love the repetitive ending. “Tell me where. I swear I’d be on-time.” Track 11, another acoustic beauty, “How Will We Sleep” is one to move any listener to tears. It’s not just the beauty of his acoustic guitar, the lyrics really grab you, especially me. “Growing old seemed like death to me when I was young. Now I want to grow old. And I want to belong. Oh, how will we sleep to the crash and the clang, as the hell-bent hell fires burn on in our names? How will we live: By the dove or the blade? Will we keep our eyes closed as the dream slips away?” The album ends with “The Purple Rain.” Dedicated to the loss of his cousin to cancer. The emotional lyrics say it all, “Here’s a man one heartbeat from a ghost. Here’s a vein, it spiders coast to coast. One thousand quiet cuts, and I do believe we’re close. Been bleeding out for years and years and years.” Dedicated to one of the many people close to Joe that left this earth recently. Joe’s heartfelt vocals, acoustic guitar, swelling strings, and gorgeous choir truly add to the sorrow of this piece. ERIC EGGLESON

https://www.pernicebrothers.com/

#Bandcamp

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sweetdreamsjeff · 17 days

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Bedsit Disco Queen and Jeff Buckley at Glastonbury

January 9, 2014 No Comments

I’ve just finished reading Bedsit Disco Queen, the music memoir by Everything But The Girls’ Tracey Thorn. I’m not really an Everything But The Girl fan but I have a fondness for random bits of their catalogue and even knew Rob Peters, the drummer on their 1986 album Baby, The Stars Shine Bright. But as soon as I saw the book in the library, I knew it was going to be a fascinating read for anybody who lived through the era. The paperback is released on January 16 and I heartily recommend it.

There’s one story from the book I’d like to share, which concerns Jeff Buckley. Thorn was a fan of Buckley and in April 1995, EBTG played a low key gig at Sin-e, the New York cafe where he had recorded his 1993 mini-album. Ben Watt (other half of EBTG) randomly met Jeff while they were having their hair cut at an East Village salon, they discovered they were both playing the Glastonbury Festival and Jeff suggested they do a song together. This is all forgotten until an hour before Everything But The Girls’ midday Glastonbury set.

And now, without warning or preamble, at eleven o’clock in the morning here is Jeff Buckley standing in front of me in my workman’s hut of a dressing room, and he has come to remind me that we have agreed to do a song together. We are due onstage in about half an hour. ‘Bloody hell, isn’t it a bit late now?’ I ask. He doesn’t think so. With a kind of gauche enthusiasm that makes him seem like a spectacularly gorgeous younger brother, he produces a guitar and begins to throw ideas at us.

They decide to cover The Smiths’ I Know It’s Over and the peformance is chaotic but enjoyable. Fast forward to late afternoon when Jeff Buckley is playing the main stage and Tracey and Ben are watching from the wings.

At the end of one song he looks over to us, catches Ben’s eye and starts beckoning him onstage with furious jerks of his head. It’s the scene at the end of Spinal Tap when the band reunite onstage! Ben picks up a guitar, gamely ambles on and plugs in. ‘OK,’ yells Jeff. ‘ we’re gonna do “Kick Out The Jams”. One-two-three-FAWH!’ Now Ben may well be the only guitarist in rock music who had never heard MC5’s punk anthem, let alone played it. Still, he’s nothing if not a quick learner, and after about eight bars he has sussed it and is off and running.

And that’s why, at the end of the song, Jeff Buckley says ‘Uh, thanks Ben.’

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#jeff buckley #everything but the girl #Bedsit Disco Queen #tracey thorn #rob peters #ben watt #kick out the jams #story

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everygame · 4 months

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A Christmas Adventure (Apple II) Developed/Published by: Chartscan Data, Inc. Released: 12/1983 Completed: 11/12/2023 Completion: Couldn’t get Rudolph to drink his bloody milk.

Well, it’s been two years since I thought I’d “have a look at the earliest Christmas games” and I managed to play… one of them. And then last year I was sick for most of December so I didn’t really play anything other than tapping miserably at Marvel Snap. But I’m back, baby!

First up, I owe almost all understanding of this game to Joe Pranevich over at The Adventurer’s Guild who has written an insanely detailed post on it which I highly recommend reading, but I’ll summarise some of the findings here.

A Christmas Adventure is generally considered online to be the second Christmas-themed video game ever released commercially, following the somewhat bizarre Santa’s Sleigh Ride, but I’ve since discovered that there’s several ZX Spectrum games with a 1983 date (including one, potentially lost media, called A Christmas Adventure as well???) so there’s probably more out there for like… the Dragon 32 and shit. But let’s talk about this one anyway. What makes it more interesting than just potentially being the second Christmas-themed video game ever is that it isn’t just, as you might expect, a Christmas cash-in, but an attempt by a French Canadian fellow named Frank Winstan to make video games that acted as greeting cards. Mind how for a while personalised children’s books were all the rage, and you got this crappy book where a jpeg of your child’s face was awkwardly stuck on the main character? Like that basically, with the idea that they’d start with this Christmas “card” and then do… well probably Easter, and then branch out to like… “Happy 43rd Birthday: the adventure” or “Sorry Your Grandma is Dead: the adventure” I guess!

Unfortunately (or not) due to time pressures they never quite managed to get the company off the ground, with this selling poorly its first Christmas, although Winstan would continue to work on it through 1986(!) updating and improving it. As far as I know, I’m playing a version from the same era ion Pranevich did, which seems to be a later version than the one you can watch on Youtube.

Anyway. A Christmas Adventure is an early graphical text adventure; originally released in 1983, it would be contemporary with the very end of Sierra’s Hi-Res Adventure line before they’d go on to make the more sophisticated King’s Quest, and surprisingly, very few other examples, making this… sorta cutting edge?

What does feel cutting edge actually is the opening cinematic, which you have to flip the disk to see, which includes an animation where you fly to Santa’s Ice Palace. Sierra’s Hi-Res Adventures have insanely terrible art (well, apart from Dark Crystal I’d say, which has a near stained-glass window approach) so getting something that generally looks like it’s had a bit of effort put in is rather nice.

Telling that classic story, “Santa’s been kidnapped and only YOU can save him” after the intro you’re dropped in his house and have to wander about picking things up and using them to save him. I very quickly hit the issue that has stopped me bothering to play any of Sierra’s early output: the parser is terrible. Doing literally anything is a nightmare, and I will fully admit I had to use Pranevich’s article to walk me through the game, and he had to hex edit it just to understand how to solve it!

It’s confusing, because this is a commercial concept based on greetings cards. Now, I imagine nowadays you can probably get “escape room” greeting cards where you have to like, solve a fucking cypher or whatever to see something that says “We’re getting divorced” (and if there isn’t, I should get on that) but in general, if you’re giving someone a gift like that you want them to… enjoy it? I really assumed that this would be very simple. You know, for kids. I mean you’re saving SANTA. Not Santana (ft. Rob Thomas) which would of course be for cool adults only.

I suppose I’ve said it before, but maybe people in 1983 were made of sterner stuff; less likely to give up. I guess some puzzles in this are easy, like dressing up like Santa to fool his safe, or the disk that tells you the password right on it (Santa’s Jewish???) But then like… there’s a time machine. And there’s just so much wrestling with the parser to get anything done. Typing “HELP” gives you a list of words that the parser understands which is, 100%, a lie, because almost all the words don’t work.

Ultimately, it’s the reason I couldn’t finish this. In his article, Pranevich was able to feed Rudolph, but despite having stuck the “was’bask+mlk” in the fireplace I could not feed him. I went through every possible thing I could imagine, really tried to get Martin Luther King out of that was’bask, but I’m starting to believe the archive.org version of this is just bugged. It is what it is, and I watched the ending on youtube (and for good measure used the HELP to see the message as well.)

Feels a bit harsh to say this isn’t good despite the fact it it is, er… not good, just because it’s an interesting attempt at something that just seems to have come at the wrong time and with some rather wrong-headed ideas about how challenging it has to be. Also: it didn’t make me feel christmassy at all!

Will I ever play it again? I have a save. If anyone can tell me what to type to get Rudolph to eat I’m making that bastard eat.

Final Thought: It’s worth noting that you can really feel the developers–at least Frank Winstan?--cared about this project because it’s full of little touches. I love that Santa has a poster of Bob and Doug McKenzie’s backdrop up (as Canadian a reference as you’re going to get) and there’s non-sequiturs like Pac-Man showing up for a hot minute.

Support Every Game I’ve Finished on ko-fi! You can pick up a digital copy of exp. 2600, a zine featuring all-exclusive writing at my shop, or join as a supporter at just $1 a month and get articles like this a week early.

#video games #gaming #games #txt #text #review #christmas #a christmas adventure #1983 #apple ii

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jedifarmerr · 2 years

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When Javier Met....(Series)

Chapter 9: Laredo

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Javier Peña x F!Reader/OFC (no y/n & no physical description)

Chapter Rating: E!!!! (18+ blog)

Word Count: 8.7k (This is the longest chapter I've ever written, so I think it makes up for how long it took me haha)

Warnings: Language, Drinking, Mentions of Parental Loss, Pining, Sexual Situations, Sexual Thoughts & Smut.

“Hey…hey…wake up,” Javier’s lowly voice slipped through your dozed state.

The summer sun bled through the bug-stained windshield, it’s golden heat bubbling against your skin.

Slow and resistant, you blinked awake from the impromptu nap to find the scenery changed from highway towns stuck in the Wild Wild West era to industrial yards.

“How long till we’re there?” You asked - groggy - kneading the area between your neck and shoulder. Why does sleeping in a car have to be so uncomfortable?

Javier tapped on the steering wheel, checking the dash and the road marker before answering. “About - 15 minutes or so.”

“What?” You startled upwards, fumbling around to grab the travel-size makeup bag from the backpack at your feet while simultaneously flipping down the visor. Popping your head up, you winced seeing the tiny reflection - totally disheveled and topped off by crusted drool strings.

It horrified you to imagine the what if of him not waking you up; Chucho’s first impression of you squashed against glass with a ring of fog around a wide open mouth.

Giving a quick tousle to your hair and scrubbing the dry dollops away, your focus shifted to your wilted-looking eyes. With quick circles, you attempted to restore them back to life but to no avail. You pulled the mascara from the bag and pumped the wand along the tube, completely banking on a coat or two to work some magic.

“Are you tryin’ to impress, Pops?” Javier smirked, watching your slack jaw focus as you wiggled the wand up and blinked.

“What can I say?” You said - throaty and mumbled. “He is a cutie.”

“Better not tell him that. He’ll get cocky.”

You scoffed. After a repeat on the other eye and a smidge of tinted lip balm, you thumped the visor back into place.

Johnny Cash’s syrupy voice fit the aesthetic of the scenery, cattle grazing along the straw grass. Hawks perched on the fence posts. It was probably peaceful. Serene.

But you felt nothing of the sort.

Your jackhammering heart, the rushing of blood drowned out all sights and sounds until all your focus centered on the looming question.

What exactly did this trip mean for your relationship?

Anyone else, and you’d never give it a second thought. But Javier? No. All week, you spent contemplating, gnawing at the bit. You tried to tell yourself he was just being a good friend, but something about the explanation fell short. There had to be more, right? Or maybe you were just projecting, making this into something more than it was.

“Well, here we are,” Javier said as he turned onto a copper dirt road marked by a lone mailbox with Peña decalled on the side.

The tires crunched along the path lined by cedar elms and a worn-down wooden fence, a red-brick modest ranch, well-cared for, sitting at the end. Lush emerald shrubs, petunias bursting in an array of bright pinks and oranges framed the front steps that led to the stark white front door.

You peered over to observe his reaction, his lips curling into a sentimental smile, shoulders loosening as he warmly looked upon the home of carefree days. He appeared younger in the moment, lighter.

The sheer cream curtains of the front bow window swayed, an older gentleman with a thick mustache and an oversized pearly cowboy hat - Chucho - whistled as if it was happenstance that he wandered out onto the skinny front porch at the same time you arrived. His eyes blew wide with the act, an O turning into an infectious smile as he gripped his hips in a stance that mirrored his son’s.

Before exiting the car, you checked over your shoulder one last time; Javier nodded, reassuring you with a smile.

“Hey, Pops,” Javier yelled over the slam of the door. His voice sweet and silvery, a tone reserved for only his father. “Stay where you are, I got it,” he added before Chucho could shuffle over to help with the bags. Popping the trunk, he introduced the two of you, a formal meeting that beat out the technical one on the phone.

“Hi, there,” you said with a charming smile that covered your nerves. “It’s so good to finally meet you.”

Chucho looked you up and down, but not to analyze, more to take in. It seemed that Javier didn’t just inherit the round shape and dark brown color of his eyes from his father, but the emotive quality. The twinkle in Chucho’s gaze expressed his appreciation, his happiness for your presence here, more than any words could express.

“Well, you just gonna stand there?” Chucho’s warmly teased at your frozen state a foot away from the car.

The trunk slammed, and Chucho waved you over. “After you,” Javier said, adjusting with one hand the strap on his shoulder, as the other gripped the handle of your bag.

Chucho opened the creaky storm door that led to a new threshold; a tile entryway that carried a distinct homey scent - one that still lingered on a handful of Javier’s items - and a family portrait of the Peña’s on the front wall, coordinated in navy and burgundy tones that complimented the solid mauve background.

The picture had to be taken when Javier was approaching puberty, his head resembled an overfilled balloon on his lanky body, the striped collared long-sleeve wasn’t helping the matter. It was nice to know that even someone like Javier suffered an awkward stage, even if it only lasted a few months.

A twinge of sadness settled in your chest when your attention drifted to the warm and wide smile of his mother, the sharp bridge of her nose and tall lean stature, the features that provided a daily reminder of her when he looked in the mirror.

“So, how was the drive?” Chucho asked as he led you out of the cramped space and around the corner into the main living area.

“It wasn’t bad at all,” you chirped back.

“Easy for you to say, you slept the past two hours,” Javier huffed from the rear.

“Exactly,” you said over your shoulder innocently, “It wasn’t bad.”

Chucho warmly chuckled, he plopped himself down in the recliner and then swiveled to face you.

“Well, is there any chance you kids are gettin’ hungry?”

“Pops,” Javier looked down at his watch as he fiddled with the strap digging into his shoulder, “It’s only 5:30.”

“And? You’re father’s getting old, Javi. It’s my dinner time.”

“Well, I guess I’m gettin’ old too,” you added. “I’m starving.” Chucho shimmied into his chair, boasting in the tie breaker with a sly smile at his son. Javier sighed in defeat, knowing this was his life for the next couple days.

“Fineee. Let’s set this down, then we’ll figure out where we wanna go.” Javi turned on the balls of his feet, with his back turned you threw Chucho a wink that made him stifle a giggle before following him down the narrow hall scattered with pictures of the family. Their wedding day. A very angry looking baby. And a picture of them at Javi’s high school graduation.

The first of three doors on the left wall was the guest room, Javier set down your over-packed bag as you quickly glanced around. A queen sized bed was situated between golden oak night stands. Each with a table lamp, their shades matching the burgundy comforter. Rounding out the room was a mirror in the corner and a small dresser in the same stain that sat underneath the window. Following his lead, he showed you the bathroom that separated your room from his, which just so happened to be the last stop.

It was simple. A desk, dresser, and queen size bed crafted in hickory oak filled the space. The walls were pale blue and marked from ripped down posters and taken down photos. All that seemed to remain of his childhood bedroom was the cluttered built-in shelves above his desk.

Upon closer examination, you realized they were filled with baseball trophies, shiny ribbons hanging from the edge, and you thumbed the blue and green satin. “First prize in the science fair? First place in the Southern Texas Spelling Bee? Are you serious?”

“What can I say?” He leaned against the door frame, “I’m a man of many talents.”

“Or a dork,” you retorted at his cocky attitude with a tiny laugh.

He smacked his jaw at the quip, and offered no response. Too entranced by the way you moved around his room. “Whaddaya think?” He finally asked, “Everything you imagined?”

Realizing you were gawking at the room as if it was a display at a museum, you immediately stopped and turned to him.

“Bold move to assume I spent my nights imagining this,” you twirled your finger around the room, leaving the question unanswered as you walked towards. “Now come on, we can’t leave pops waiting.” You drummed the center of his chest as you slinked into the hallway.

---

After a quick dinner at Javier’s favorite restaurant - a quaint Mexican place at the edge of town - Chucho took what he considered to be a small detour on the way home, as he put it, just a few stops to show off Laredo.

By Laredo, he meant Javier’s life, and the first stop was his elementary school. Pointing to the front steps, Chucho told you all about a little boy in striped overalls and a fresh bowl cut, bawling his eyes out on the first day of kindergarten.

The next location was a park at the center of town, the red windy slide - now a safety hazard - that Javier ruined his whole summer on by jumping off the top and breaking his arm.

Every location in between had a story. The ice cream shop he frequented in the summers, spending hours under the red and white striped umbrellas with John, trying to pick up girls. A theatre where his parents took him to see his first movie - 101 Dalmatians. Even the location of Javier’s first job - a busser at a chain restaurant.

Rounding out the tour was the baseball field, Chucho proudly pointed at the dusty plate, the exact place where he hit his first home run.

By the time Chucho arrived at the lamp-lit ranch, the cicadas were in full song. Javier needed a shower, but he felt somewhat reluctant to leave the two of you alone. Both mischievously smiling and all too eager - but he didn’t have much choice as you shoved him into the bathroom.

Each time he heard your laughter drift through the steamy water, he thought about all the photos his father prepared for the visit. Definitely a couple of classics, like cheesin’ in a bubble bath and t-ball days. Those weren’t his main concern, the embarrassing ones you’d never let go were, for instance the time he was the donkey in the nativity play at church and when he and John dressed as James Bond, equipped with finger guns.

Remembering a few others, he turned off the water and rushed a towel through his damp hair, stepping into a pair of loose sweats before tugging on a plain t-shirt. Your snickering filled the hall, he peeked around the corner to glimpse at what awaited him.

Sitting on the couch, engrossed in the album placed in the middle, Javier stared at your matching grins, the picture of happiness right in front of him. It dawned on him that Chucho finally had someone to tell all the stories about Javier, never having the opportunity to do so with a stranger that cared deeply for him, that drank in every detail like it was water in a desert.

A salty taste began to well in his throat as he secretly watched, thinking back to the times his father daydreamed about a bigger family, long ago when Javier’s plans still involved Lorraine. The grandchildren he imagined running in the same fields Javi once did, the holidays and get-togethers spent with more than just two.

Once again, the world offered him a glimpse of what could have been and just like before an ache settled inside him. He wasn’t sure if he could fill Chucho’s wallet with grandchildren. But for a fleeting moment, a scary second, he wondered if he could fill a picture frame with a bride and groom.

Just then you looked up to see him. “Javi,” you beamed, “Get over here,” you patted the seat next to you. With no resistance, he settled beside you, his father shooting him an approving glance.

“Oh. My. God,” your head dropped back in laughter as you pointed to his prom picture. Taken right on the steps, in a powder blue suit with thick black lapels and a massive bow tie, his arm swung around Lorraine’s waist with a feeling himself smile.

Chucho sounded like a bad engine as he held the laughter in his throat.

“Okay, Pops. Really?”

“What?” He feigned innocence, “I think it’s a good picture.”

Javier shook his head. He mentally prepared himself for a long night of laughter, all at his expense.

---

The next day, he awoke from the intruding light that slipped through a crack in between the curtains. Judging by the tone, he knew Chucho was awake and preparing a big breakfast. The thought of pancakes and coffee made his stomach grumble, his feet moving towards the door.

The sound of your fan - the one you never slept without - echoed through the walls as he brushed his teeth. With a soft pad, he made his way past your door and into the kitchen.

“Hey, dad. Need any help?”

Chucho turned from the oven, dough dripping from the spoon onto the hot range with a sizzle. He was dressed and ready for the day with a chipper attitude. “No, just sit down, coffee's hot.”

Javier reached for a mug, “You sure? It’s your birthday -”

“My birthday isn’t till tomorrow, and besides, I’m turning 70. The last thing I want is people waiting on me hand and foot when I can still do everything. Now go sit.”

Javier poured himself a cup before he took a seat at the breakfast table, a piece of furniture they hardly used when he lived at home, it was too small for two people. “Your friend still asleep?” He accentuated the word friend with a disbelieving tone. Javier nodded as the dark brew warmed his throat. “I like her,” he added, ready to discuss the topic now that you weren’t around.

“Yeah?” Javier dragged a coaster over, setting his mug down, “I thought you would, she’s pretty easy to like.” The last part slipping out in the comfort of his own home, his father, Javier took another sip, avoiding his father as he glanced behind his shoulder.

“She is,” Chucho said knowingly as he slid a pancake on top of a large stack. Just like when he was growing up, Chucho always made far too much food when they had guests. “Very easy to like. She’s polite, sweet… and makes you happy.”

“Dad…” he shook his head. Did everyone see it? Steve. Chucho. Would everyone at the party tonight? Would Joe? He felt his feelings overflowing, growing each day. Did they seep from his pores for everyone to see? Everyone except for you. “It’s not-”

“I know,” Chucho said, his soft voice barely audible over the oven fan. “It’s just nice to see you -“ The sentence abruptly ended once he heard the sound of your door opening, much to Javier’s relief. “Wanna help me get this on the table?”

Javier moved the dish of bacon and eggs from the counter to the already set dining table. Chucho brought over the pancakes and syrup, and Javier brought over an extra sauce bowl. “What’s that for?” Chucho asked.

“She’ll want her syrup on the side,” Chucho creased his brows, “Trust me.”

---

The afternoon flew by. After breakfast, Javier offered to show you around the ranch, which you gladly accepted. Dressed for a part, you wore jeans shorts and a suede button up with the top two buttons undone, the crimson color matching the boots you borrowed from Marie.

Javier led you from the barn, through the dandelions and chickweed to the creek behind the live oaks. He talked about his mother, how she used to bring him out here and hum Bible hymns while he picked out weeds and offered them to her like a bouquet.

Javier knew his mother would’ve liked you, he wished he would’ve told you that.

After returning, you went to shower and get ready while he helped Chucho with ranch projects that required two-hands. Covered in dirt and sweat, both men cleaned themselves up. Running a quick comb through his damp hair, Javier threw on a flannel - rusted orange and navy blue - and a pair of jeans, with one last look in the mirror he went to check on you.

Using a two-finger knock, Javier waited to enter until you yelled all clear. With your brow drawn together, mouth tight, you swayed from side to side in the mirror. Your floral sundress flared on the sides as you assessed, four others laid out on the bed, waiting in the wings.

Stalled in the doorway, Javier looked you up and down, calves up to the inch past mid-thigh cut, round ass covered in baby pink and robin blue flowers. Gulping down the thoughts of fucking you in the mirror, he offered a shaky compliment that made your head dip and body twist with a different emotion as he led you out to the car.

Magnetic. He felt himself being pulled to you, needing to see you. Angling the rearview mirror on the backseat, he glanced back and forth. His heart clenched in your unknown grip; your laughter at Pop’s stories a symphony to his ear.

He needed to touch you. Once parked and out of the car, he reached for you, instantly cooled by the drag of cotton on his fingertips. When you smiled up at him, the golden hour reflecting in your eyes, bathing you in light like a message from above, his breath caught in his throat, punched back once the crowd yelled surprise.

Friend. The word burned his tongue like cheap, black coffee - hot and bitter. By the tenth introduction, the lip of his beer was glued to his lips, taking a swig by the time he uttered the last letter of your name.

Everyone gawked at you. His unmarried cousins. The ladies luncheon posse. Others he never met. They leaned in, whispering to each other with what Javier assumed to be either shock or want depending on the person.

After making the rounds with his family, Javier’s stomach grumbled and his attention turned to the dwindling line of the buffet. He filled his plate with tamales, birria tacos and stuffed peppers; this was one of the things he missed most when he moved to Austin, his aunts cooking.

“Your family did a great job, this place looks amazing,” you said, looking around the room as he zig-zagged around the tables towards Chucho. Too focused on you to stare around the room, he nodded once he looked around at the stone walls and bantering decorations.

The party was being held at a popular bar in downtown Laredo, an attached wide open back room that was reserved for parties. It wasn’t a place that Javier regulared during his time living here, it lacked that stale cigarette air and sticky whiskey floors. This was a far better place for Pop’s birthday.

“Hey, Pops,” he smacked him on the shoulder, pulling out the two chairs next to him. Chucho acknowledged him with a smile before turning back to finish his discussion. Chucho was a staple around Laredo, born and raised in the city, watching the city grow throughout the years. So, while Laredo wasn’t small, he seemed to know everyone somehow.

“Hey, Javi. It’s good to see ya again,” One of Chucho’s oldest friends said, his wife smiling as they got up from the table. His mouth full of tamale, he nodded with a stuffed smile.

“How’re you enjoying the party?” You asked Pops before taking a bite. “Holy, this is amazing.” Chucho and Javier laughed as you shoved another bite into your mouth.

“I can’t really complain, it’s a party dedicated to me,” Chucho laughed, pleased with the turnout as he looked around the room at all the guests. He pushed his empty plate aside to rest his elbows on the table. “From what I’ve heard, you’ve been quite a hit,” Chucho not so subtly glanced at Javier.

“Really?” Your eyes lit up, fist covering your mouth.

“Mh-mmm, his cousins haven’t stopped talking about you,” Chucho nodded his head over to a group of three in the corner, stealing glances every now and then. Javier smacked his lips together before finishing off the rest of his drink.

“I’m gonna get another,” Javier said, abruptly lifting from the chair “Want anything?” Chucho shook his head, and you asked for another. Javier caught his cousin's eyes when he turned to head towards the back wall with the bar, their faces lighting up at the prospect of getting some time alone without him around.

Weaving through the crowd of hi’s and how are you’s, each met by the same answer - a plastered smile to conceal the war in his mind. It wasn’t jealousy. Per say. Sure, he hated the idea of watching you flirt with his cousins. Not that he had any right to, you weren’t his girlfriend. Besides, shouldn’t he get used to it? If he stayed in your life, if you remained friends, seeing you in a relationship was inevitable.

He had been lucky that you seemed to be taking a break from dating these past few months, spending time with him instead of on dates, he was able to ignore the future. But the little bubble you existed in wouldn’t last forever. He suddenly felt sick, the idea of seeing you with another, walking down the aisle to someone else as he just stood there. Javier gripped the edge of the bar top, launching himself forward to rest his elbows on the smooth wood. Scrubbing a hand down his face, he stood in wait for the bartender.

“Javi?” His head shot up at the familiar voice - Victoria’s voice. Her plump lips were stained in the usual red, body cut-in half by a bar top, her hair still that soft brown, but cut to her shoulders.

“Vic? What - what’re you doing here?”

“I work here now, have for a few months,” she emphasized the last point, pointing out how long it’d been. Tucking a loose strand behind her ear, she grabbed for a glass and poured the whiskey, sliding it towards him. “How’ve you been?”

The scratch of crystalline glass against wood made his brain finally catch up to the moment. “Good, good. How’re you?” He asked - earnestly - remembering the last time he saw her.

“I’ve been good, actually.” She nodded. The air stalled in an awkward pause as Javier tried to think of the right words to say, but before anything came, she leaned forward and spoke again. “So, is that the girl?” His brows creased, and she scoffed. “Come on, Javi. Everyone’s been talking about her. Javier Peña bringing a girl to Laredo is big news.”

Javier gulped, he didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry, Vic-“

Victoria rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on. I knew what our relationship was, now tell me. Was I right?”

Javier took a long drink, once again at a loss of words. How could he tell her? You were the reason, but you were just a friend. Oh, it sounded pathetic.

“If it makes you feel any better, I’ve been dating someone. Jason, down at the auto shop on 13th. Yep, 3 months now.”

“I’m happy for you, Vic.” He felt relieved that she held no ill will towards him, never intending on hurting her or using her. “But, we’re…we’re not together,” swirling the liquid in his glass, he notched his head to the side.

“Really? Hmmm.” She scrunched her face together, clearly taken aback by the information. “Well, Chucho seems to like her,” she nodded behind his shoulder. Peeking behind him, he saw you and Chucho at the desserts table, grabbing a piece of cake.

---

The rest of the night was much of the same. Their table was a revolving door of family and friends, a few brought up Javier’s time in Colombia, getting all shiny eyed at the hometown hero. Every time, Javier smiled with his lips, turning to his whiskey - which switched to water two hours ago. When his cousins stopped by for a second time, you swore Javier tightened his grip on the back of your chair, the men turning more sheepish in his presence. But the highlight was definitely Chucho’s two younger sisters, their fun personalities mixed with shot after shot. Suddenly, you were one too many deep and Chucho was snoring in the seat next to you.

After that, Javier decided it was time to call it a night, the party was already dwindling and the hour late. With the help of his aunts, Chucho was buckled into the backseat and fast asleep. Both of them wrapped you into a hug, telling you that you were welcome anytime.

Bright-eyed, but loose-limbed, you sunk into the passenger seat with a wide smile.

“Did you have fun?” Javier asked, driving through downtown - sidewalks bustling, bar signs lit up on the warm summer night.

“Are you serious? I had a blast,” your voice was higher-pitch, fluctuating and exaggerated from the alcohol. “Watching your cousin’s husband robot all night was the highlight. What about you, did you have fun?”

“Yeah, but I think Pops has us beat.” You peered around the console and giggled; his body slack, mouth wide open with the cowboy hat in the seat next to him.

“The birthday boy is plum-tuckered.” Javier chuckled at your attempted old western movie voice.

You propped your elbows on the console, palms cradling your face. Dull orange spilled from the street lights, igniting his silhouette in dwindling embers.

“Javi,” you marveled, buzzed on the remnants of his cologne, “I don’t think I told you earlier - you look very handsome tonight.”

“Don’t go overboard,” he scoffed, a smile slipping through; he wasn’t great at accepting compliments.

“I’m not!” You playfully slapped his arm, “If anything, I’m downplaying it,” chin tucked down, last part mumbled, you traced the hard plastic console. Missing the way his eyes lingered a second too long at the crown of your head. “Also, thank you for bringing me.”

“Don’t mention it,” he glanced over, face shadowed. “Did it do the trick?”

You nodded, “Like I said earlier, once the initial shock went away, I was fine. Honestly. It was just… a lot to take in. Like, seeing him again and then to meet her - his fiancé. Like - fuck.” Your body bounced against the seat back. “I’m sure if I was alone, at home today I wouldn’t be great, but I haven’t thought about it…like at all. Probably, because I’m with you.”

The leather steering wheel twisted under his grip. “Glad I could help,” he said, voice strained. Pulling into the drive, Pops jolted awake as the car wrestled along the path. Slow and steady, Javier shuffled Pops to bed, leaving a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin on the nightstand before joining you in the bathroom.

“Hmm?” His toothbrush hung from his mouth as he lifted the tube of toothpaste in offering.

“Yes, please.” You smiled up at him, bare faced as he squeezed a dollop onto the pink bristles.

Humming toothbrushes provided background music to the domestic scene playing out in the oval mirror. Lips shifting into odd lines and exposed teeth. A dribble of white foam slipped from his lips, down to his chin.

After a succession of spitting and water swishing, Javier and you stood in cramped space. Neither of you quite used to departing for the night in the same house. His hand rested on his hip, the other gripping the edge of the tile vanity.

“Well, I guess this is good night,” you said - reluctant - squeezing the cosmetic bag to your chest as you peered up at him.

His dark eyes were steep, full of - Desire? Friendship? Longing? Hope? Too tipsy, the emotion tingled the tip of your tongue, but couldn’t quite be placed.

He dipped down to your mouth, holding you breathless as he teased his petal-pink lips with his tongue. Bathed in crisp white bath lights, his eyes shiny and pupils blown wide, you took a baby step closer. Wide-eyed and inviting, you never left his intense gaze. His fingers tightened around the cold navy blue tile. The unspoken lingered on the seam of his parted lips.

Your lids fluttered in anticipation, but before your neck craned he looked away. “It’s late,” he said - pained - mouth twitching flat, tongue pressed against cheek. Stung by the rejection, your body jolted back. Gaze dropping to the bath mat, too embarrassed to look at him. “We should get to bed.”

The walls were closing in, the room suffocating. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Why couldn’t there be a rewind button? You only needed to go back a few minutes, just to skip off to bed instead of wishing and hoping for whatever the fuck that was. What’d ya think he was gonna do? Fuck you on the sink? God, you needed help.

You tried to look at him, but stopped at his chin. Too scared for the pity you were sure was swirling around his dark eyes, the same ones you convinced yourself were full of desire mere moments ago.

“Night, Javi.” You spun around, basically running out the door and into the bedroom.

---

The next morning you awoke to the bird chirping. Slamming the pillow over your head, you attempted to sink into the bed - hoping it would somehow teleport you to another dimension or back home.

You weren’t mad at Javier for rejecting you, just dreading the outcome of the event. Would it be awkward? Would he say something? Had you messed everything up?

After a few minutes of wallowing in self-pity, you returned to the scene of the crime, brushing your teeth alone and trying to eavesdrop on the conversation in the dining room, the only words you could make out were Paula, tequila and snoring.

Deciding the best course of action was to act like it never happened, you greeted the birthday boy and Javier with a plastered smile. Filling your plate with biscuits and fruit, as you sat down across from Javi.

Your nerves and tendency to overthink were to blame for the initial awkwardness, but it washed away after a few minutes, the night forgotten, much to your relief.

With it being Chucho’s birthday, Javier and you spent most of the day in Laredo. Running a few errands and getting an early dinner. Bags packed, Javier went to load them into the trunk as you turned to Chucho.

“Thank you so much for having me.” Chucho couldn’t help himself, he pulled you into a hug.

“You’re welcome anytime,” he said as he pulled away, looking you dead in the eye, “You’re good for him.” You glanced as he hurled the stuffed bag in. “He probably doesn’t tell you much, if ever, but I know you mean a lot to him.”

Your cheeks tightened at his words, a smile pulled at your lips. “He means a lot to me, as well.”

Chucho nodded, he saw the way you looked at Javi, the way he looked at you. He wanted to scream at both of you, but it wasn’t the time. Not yet.

With a slam of the trunk, Javier slapped the dust off his hands, and onto his jeans. Hugging his father and wishing him a happy birthday, you waved goodbye and settled into the jeep. Taking one last look around at the ranch and at the man, sitting on the porch.

---

The Austin skyline lit up the night, the stars disappearing in favor of light pollution as you reached the final stretch.

“Would you rather have a third nipple or an extra toe?” You lounged in the reclined chair, bare feet tapping on the dash.

“How big’s the nipple?” Javier never expected a question like that to come out of his mouth. “And where is it?”

“Quarter size,” He shrugged, “And let’s say, it’s in the center of your chest.”

“So, like a line of nipples?”

You cackled, “Precisely.”

“What about the extra toe? Is it just on one foot? Or both? How big is it?”

“Holy, I’ve never met someone that asks this many questions during would you rather,” you teased, “I guess, let’s go with an extra pinky toe - on both feet.”

Javier thought about his answer for a moment, “Extra toes.” You nodded in agreement, then looked at him expectantly. You’d been playing the game for the past thirty minutes or so, and he was running out of questions. “Would you rather fly or be invisible?”

“Booo. That’s so boring.” Your head rolled around the headrest, pouting.

“Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t realize an extra toe and three nipples was so interesting.” You looked out the window to hide your smile, but the reflection of dash lights in the mirror gave it away. “Why don’t you go again?”

“Fine, I will,” you boasted, sitting up in the seat. “Would you rather, be able to speak with animals or speak every foreign language.”

“How do you come up with these so fast? You play this game a lot?” Javier asked - honestly curious. You shrugged, an embarrassed smile pulled down the sides of your lips. “Well, that one’s easy, speak every foreign language.”

“No way!” His neck snapped, expecting you to be looking out the window, but your mouth was wide open, staring at him in shock. “You’d give up the ability to speak to animals?” His brows creased, he slowly nodded. “Why?”

“Are you serious? Speaking every language is a useful skill-“

“And speaking to animals isn't?” You interrupted.

“No. Not really. Maybe if you’re a vet.” You rolled your eyes. “What’d you use it for?”

“Everything?!” Your head shook with the implied duh. “You could talk to dogs and cats. Lik, if saw a deer or something on a walk. You could be like hey what’s up? It’d be like, just trottin’ around.”

“No offense,” he shifted the gear into park outside your place - an old tudor home turned three-plex. “But that’s useless.” He concluded the statement by shutting the door.

“That was just one example, there’s other uses.”

“Okay. Name one.” Javier kept his hand on the open hood, holding your bag at his side.

“You could use them as witnesses for crimes.”

“Ah, so you’re an animal interpreter.” Javier slammed the trunk, “That’ll stand in court.” Your face dropped. With nothing left to argue, you stomped away, Javier in tow.

“Guess that means I win.” Javier said, as you slotted the key into the red wooden door.

“This time, Peña,” you smiled over your shoulder. “This time.”

A ray of moonlight shot down the middle of the pitch black entryway hall, casting a shadow of the console table and lamp on the wall. With your massive bag, it would be a tight squeeze to fit both of you, Javier ventured inside first, flicking on the lights at the end of the hall - illuminating the living room and entryway. Your keys clinked in the bowl as Javier dropped your bag by the couch.

Reaching your arms above your head in a stretch, you leaned against the propped door. “Well, I guess it’s officially over.”

Javier wanted to nail his feet to the ground, toss away the key to the empty apartment awaiting him. Even after 48 hours straight with you, he found himself craving a little more time, even if it was only a few more minutes. Looking down, he searched for an excuse, but he reached the entryway mat empty-handed.

“Honestly, I can’t thank you enough, I had the best time. Who knew that Laredo could be so fun?”

He chuckled, shoving on a smile as he forced himself to do the inevitable - to say goodbye.

The words lodged into his throat at how angelic you looked under the soft yellow lights, eyes clear - sparkling like the night sky on glassy water - your smile glowing, a beam of light straight from heaven and directed up at him, only him.

His heart stuttered, triggering the alarms to ring, the voice inside his head awakened, screaming at him to leave, to walk out the door before he ruined everything he fought for. The silence weighed heavy on him, built with bricks of suppressed want. He tried to force the words out, but your gaze seemed to be beckoning him closer. His restraint was so thin and threadbare - torn and tattered from last night and all others before.

Suddenly, he moved a single creaky step closer. He could smell your shampoo. Fruity or flowery? He didn’t know and he didn’t care. It was his forbidden fruit. Sweet. Intoxicating. And fuck, it made his mouth water.

No.

He knew he needed to fight harder. Now wasn’t the time to make a rash decision, not when he felt so confused about his future. It embarrassed him to admit at his age, he didn’t know if he wanted or even could be a boyfriend, let alone one you deserved.

But fuck. He wanted - No. More than that; he longed for you, to touch your soft skin, hear you moan his name as he fucked you over and over again, even if it was only for a night.

“Javi.” It was breathless - wanting - and it crashed into him like a tidal wave that scrambled his thoughts and consumed him entirely.

Suddenly, he crowded you, palms flat to the door, fingers splayed along red wood. He dipped down, his lips skimming your ear, “Say it again.” The husk of his words ignited your tender flesh in goosebumps.

“Javi.” The needy obedience made his cock surge, he hadn’t even touched you yet and you sounded wrecked.

His lips trailed with whispers of your name along your supple cheek; he savored the sharp inhales and whimpers it drew from you. “Tell me, you want this,” the desperation, the year of restraint, stained his every word, he dragged the tip of his nose along your bridge. “Tell me, this is okay.”

“I want -” you stammered, his nails dug into the wood - forehead resting on yours, breath mingling together. “Ja-,” you squeezed your eyes shut, trying to roll your hips against his jean-clad thigh. “I want this - I”

Javier cupped your cheeks and crashed his lips to yours; you stumbled back, nails digging into his shoulders as the door boomeranged off the stopper.

With a steel grip, he tore you away from the door, the tips of your toes dragging on the wood as he grabbed the edge of and slammed it shut with one hand. He would’ve taken you right there, but if he only had one night, he was going to do it right; spread you out and worship you.

The shuffle scoot to the bedroom was a mixture of discarded shoes and hasty kisses; you worked in tandem at his buttons, leaving a cotton blue puddle on the living room floor.

Cradling the back of your head, he shoved you flat to the door with a messy kiss - tongue brushing the seam of your lips and eagerly licking into your mouth. Your fingers combed through his hair, and he went dizzy - all the practiced moves vanishing in the intense hunger for more.

With a gentle suck to your tongue he slotted his thigh between your legs, the moan that vibrated off your tongue made his knees almost buckle from the toll it took on his aching cock.

Fuck, he should’ve masturbated in the shower earlier, he could feel a pre-cum stain forming in his jeans.

His free hand stroked the side of your neck, down the center of your chest; he bunched the soft cotton hem, grazing his fingers on the fiery skin of your stomach. You broke the kiss to discard your shirt down the hall.

Wild eyes stared back into his - pupils blown with lust. His hungry gaze wandered to the top of your breasts, he groaned low in his chest as his pointer finger traced the cups of your black bra - down to the center band. You shuddered under him, head rolling back with a thump on the door.

His lips settled back onto yours, fervently kissing you as he wrestled with the knob - he guided you inside. The palm of his hand skimmed until he reached the edge of the switch and flicked it up.

“Not that light,” you said in between kisses, the room darkened once again. “The lamp.” He smiled against your lips, even in the heat of the moment the details mattered to you. He couldn’t care less as long as he was able to see exactly what he did to you.

With a chaste kiss, you pranced over to the nightstand and twisted on the lamp. You sat on the edge of the bed, hands skimming the comforter, legs crossed - nervously swaying your foot back and forth.

He leisurely strided over, a devour of the other’s newly exposed skin; you lingered on his soft tummy and him on your breasts - his imagination running wild. Soon, he soothed himself, staring down as your gaze leveled with the bulge in his jeans.

Sweeping your lashes up, you innocently blinked and carefully pinched the zipper between your fingers. Heaviness pulled at his lids and his body begged to buck into the touch - but he fought. Enjoying your hungry gaze even as you dragged away the denim friction.

“May I?” After his small nod, you fixed yourself on the notch by notch reveal. “Oh. No boxers,” you seemed pleasantly surprised at the dark coarse hair.

“Personal preference.” He spoke through his teeth as if his arousal wasn’t evident and about to smack you in the face. He caught the edges of your lips curling into a proud smile, pleased with the reaction you caused. With a little assistance, you tugged down his pants.

Your eyes crossed as he stepped out of his jeans. His long, thick cock bobbing in your face - a fresh bead leaking onto his belly from the angry red tip. It was his turn to hide his pride as you licked your lips.

As much as he wanted to feel that pretty pink tongue wrap around him, he desired something else even more. Taking advantage of your analysis, he dropped to his knees before you could even touch him. Instantly, your legs parted, dropping to prop yourself on your elbows as if it was an automatic reaction.

His palms ran up and down your thighs, teasing the seam of your shorts as his mustache scratched the same path. It was euphoric, finally feeling your skin on his and he moaned.

He moved upward, applying a hint of pressure at the apex of your thighs with his thumbs. You let out a pitiful moan with a roll of your hips, he hooked his thumbs into the elastic waistband.

“May I?” He peered up - smug. You eagerly nodded - eyes dangerously low, breath held on your parted lips. “Words, baby.” Your eyes shot open at the pet name, but fluttered shut again as a kiss landed on your thigh.

“Fuck, Javi.” He placed a kiss on the other, tracing your hip bone with his thumb. “Yes - God - Yes - Please. Oh -“

His hips surged into the mattress, he could’ve cum from your begging alone. Quickly, he took off your shorts and panties and threw them behind his shoulder. Gripping your thighs, he spread them apart.

“Fuck, baby,” he soothed, breath hot on your glistening slit. “You’re so wet, so fucking wet.” He marveled as he teased your swelling clit, drinking in the sharp sinful moan that escaped you.

“Fuck, I gotta taste you.” He licked his lips, drawing circles on your clit - slick pooled around your entrance. “Shit. Can I taste you? Please, fuckin’ please.” He didn’t even recognize his own voice - it was pathetic.

“Javi, oh yes. Yes - ahhh!” He dove in, frantically licking around your slit, mapping all of you with his tongue. He memorized the spots that made your hips jerks and breath catch. The tangy taste tantalized his tongue and he snapped - smothering his face into your cunt with a depraved moan.

Your hands flew to grip at his hair, nails scratching at his scalp as he devoured you with his tongue. Babbling moans electrified his spine, pre-cum smearing his purpling tip. He never felt this - untamed - adrift in someone else’s pleasure.

He was about to burst. Unable to take the shame of cumming untouched, he fucked his own fist; hips bucking into the mattress.

“Holy - God. Are you - Are you touching yourself?” He peered up through your thighs with shameful - big - eyes and nodded into your pussy.

Your head dropped back with a lewd moan at his confession, and he buried himself further into your folds - growling. He was close. So so close. Sparks of pleasure shot up his spine, his pace quickened and with one final tug his hips jerked against the squeaky bed.

“Oh fuck - did you just -“ His eyes were pussy drunk, release dripping on his fingertips and stained on your comforter - the image sent you over the edge. He drank in every last drop - craving more.

Cum-covered fingers glided up your thigh - a mark that led to your belly. “You taste so good baby, so good,” he slipped his finger from your clit down your sensitive folds to tease your entrance. You mewled as the tip of his finger dipped inside, the needy sound shot straight to his cock - already twitching back to life.

He drew his finger back to admire the wetness in the lamp light, he hummed in approval and watching his thick digit slowly work in and out of your pussy - adding a second.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he gritted - two fingers knuckle deep and circling your pulsing walls. “You think you can give me one more? Can you do that?”

Javier looked up, his heart stuttered - he’d never seen anything so beautiful. You were nodding eagerly, staring down at him with glossy bright eyes. There was no shame in your display, legs wide open and his gaze level with the most perfect pussy he’d ever seen. Your hips surged - impatient for more. But he didn’t give in. He flattened his palm on your stomach, pressing you into place as he spent his time admiring you - everything about you.

This time, he wanted to slow things down - worship you like he intended. The world outside disappeared between your thighs. He swirled your clit with his tongue, offering teasing and tender flicks here and there. Dragging his fingers languidly through your soaked walls - your pussy molded to him.

“More - more.” He obliged with a steady buildup. Lips latching to your clit with a suck that matched the pace of his hooked fingers.

“You’re so fucking wet. Fucking soaking my fingers.” Each word was accompanied by an audible thrust into your soaked cunt. You grabbed the back of his head, smothering his face into you; his guttural moan vibrated against your clit and you spun into a breathless chant of his name.

After working you through your orgasm, he stood with a pop and crack of his knees. The slight ache was worth it to see you blissed out and boneless on the bed. Your puffy folds shimmered with wetness and spit. In his tunnel-vision, he’d completely forgotten to discard your bra and lavish your tits. The thought had his hard cock twitching.

“Are you gonna fuck me?” The question snapped him from your body, to your face and he watched you shift to lay against the pillows - legs spread wide in an invitation. The visible strain of his cock made you smile.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” He asked, crawling on top of you. You handed him a condom from the nightstand.

“Mh-mmm. Do you wanna fuck me?”

Ripping the wrapper, he rolled the rubber on. “Of course, I do,” he whispered in your ear, and he heard you sharply inhale. He kissed your collarbone, over to your bra strap “but first, let’s get this off.” He thumbed the strap, and you quickly tore it off.

“Fuck,” he said - very eloquently - as he cupped your breast. With the soft, full flesh in his hand, he surged down and kissed you hard on the mouth - swallowing your pitiful moans as he teased your hardening bud.

His hips rocked, the tip of his cock sliding around your folds and bumping against your dripping pussy. You lifted your hips, catching the tip inside.

When he pulled back to look at you, your gaze pierced into him. He couldn’t remember if anyone looked at him like you did. So full of adoration - care - like he was delicate, precious and worthwhile. It physically pained him, the way it stirred something inside him - it was like his body was burning with you.

His cock delved further and further into your soaking wet heat, and he couldn’t get enough. It left him greedy. He wanted more. More of you. Or this.

You consumed him, legs wrapped around his waist and cupping his cheek and he gasped at the feeling. Every neuron in flames with you. He wondered if this was intimacy, true and raw and real.

Whatever it was, he was lost in it. Basking in every part of your skin. He kissed your face - cheeks, chin and jaw - down to your breasts; he lavished each nipple with attention, his forehead rubbing along the supple flesh. It was heaven, bliss at his fingertips.

Whispers of your name accompanied each thrust, spearing his cock into the spot that made you see stars. You clamped around him again, latching onto the base of his neck - holding him impossibly close - as you caressed the shell of his ear with praises mixed with his name.

It overwhelmed him; he felt like he was drowning in it all. Your words - the squeeze of your silken pussy - the finality of giving in. There it was. Three frightening words building in chest as his thrusts turned sloppy. They seared his throat, and he wanted to say them, but he lost them as he crushed his lips to your neck and groaned as his body erupted with a peak he never knew existed.

---

Your room was bathed in pale gray, the sun had yet to fully rise as you stirred awake. The warm tangle of limbs you fell asleep in was gone and you reached for it back. Only to find the other side of the bed empty and a stirring in the living room.

Something was off, there was a pit in your stomach as you swept around the warm empty side of the bed. You kicked off your covers and jumped out of bed.

He wouldn’t. He wouldn't leave without saying goodbye. Maybe he’s thirsty or was going to the bathroom.

Wrapped in a big puffy robe, you peeked around the doorframe. Your worst fear came true. He was hopping on one foot, putting his other shoe on, his pants still unzipped and shirt thrown over him - unbuttoned.

“Javi?” His name sounded different in the morning light compared to the darkness. You winced at the memory, at the small sound of your voice.

You caught that his back straightened immediately, like your voice sent a shiver down his spine. Suddenly, you felt self-conscious in his presence and you pulled the robe closer - not wanting him to see a hint of skin.

“Where’re you going?” He didn’t have to answer the question, it was written all over his face.

A/N: I'm sorry this took forever. Between overthinking it and being sick, it was not going hot. But I hope you liked it! Also, I tried to keep the kids topic open to interpretation since this is reader insert. Thank you again for reading!

Taglist: @seasonschange-butpeopledont @furious-rogue-stuff @catchallfangirl @honeyofthegods @athalien @peoniarose @phandoz @littlemisspascal @0celesteisthebest0 @hnt-escape @nymphwriting @adriiibell @snowqueen09 @whatodair @oliviajdjarin @iblogtopassthetime @paintlavillered @hotchlover @bruxasolta @southotheborder @kirsteng42

#pedro pascal #javier peña fanfiction #javier peña #javier peña x reader #javier pena x reader #javier pena #pedro pascal fanfiction #narcos fanfic #javier pena x f!reader #Javier Pena #Javier Peña

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mishasminions · 3 years

Text

Here’s why the Supernatural Series Finale Sucked

(AND IT REALLY ISN’T JUST BECAUSE CAS/MISHA WASN’T IN IT)

First of all, I’d like to state, that this perspective is coming from someone who has watched, invested in, and dissected this show for 15 years. I’ve tried to rationalize and justify every single decision each of the main characters made throughout the years, and I’ve always tried to make sense of each of their story arcs from a “bigger picture” standpoint as each season progressed.

Anyway, before I can properly explain why the finale sucked, let me quickly take you through 15 seasons by segregating them into 3 eras, because you can’t really comprehend what Supernatural is about and what it’s become without going through how it tried to expand its universe.

SEASONS 1-5: THE KRIPKE ERA

Now, we all know that Kripke was always set in wrapping up Sam and Dean’s story in 5 seasons, and he did just that.

So, in this era, Supernatural is about two brothers who set out on a journey to fulfill “the family business”. They hunt mythical monsters that terrorize the world, while battling the monsters within themselves. Their ultimate “big bad” is an apocalypse.

Towards the end of this era, we find out that Sam and Dean are actually a parallel to Biblical characters who are brothers turned rivals. And that Sam and Dean’s destiny is to go up against each other.

However, as a dynamic, they have always been about making their own choices, choosing free will, and having a brotherly bond that can power through against any obstacle at any given day.

So, this era is neatly wrapped up with its finale. The characters grow, and get justified endings.

Dean, a man who thinks of himself as two things: 1. Sam’s older brother and protector; and 2. Daddy’s blunt little instrument.

He’s spent his whole life believing that that was his only purpose, and he knew that the only ending he’ll get would either be a bloody death fulfilling his duty to the family business; or laying his life on the line to save his brother.

Dean gets the ending he thought was never possible for him, something he thought he could never deserve. After years of living and dying for his family, he gets a shot at having an apple pie life--to settle down with a nice girl, raise a kid in a house with a white picket fence. With Sam gone, Dean’s responsibility now is to himself.

Sam, on the other hand, never wanted any part of it, because he wasn’t groomed the way Dean was, and because thanks to Dean, Sam wasn’t traumatized or forced into growing up too quickly the way Dean was.

So Sam aspires for a normal life, and works the cases with Dean so he can maybe get some semblance of it, when everything they set out to kill are laid to rest.

Ultimately, Sam performs a selfless act for his brother, who has given up everything for him, and for their cause--to save the world.

The journey is this: Dean sacrifices everything to save Sam, and Sam sacrifices himself so Dean could live.

Apart from being Dean’s “savior” and guardian angel, Castiel’s role in this era is to serve as a mirror to Dean’s journey. Castiel goes from being heaven’s foot soldier, following “God’s orders”; to an angel who learns to choose and feel for the first time in his existence.

After they realize that they’re both daddy’s blunt instruments, Dean starts choosing his own path for himself, and convinces Castiel to join him. Castiel stops following heaven, and starts following Dean.

In the end, with his newfound understanding of the world thanks to Dean, Castiel goes back to heaven to reform it.

We’ve resolved the biblical arc, and the character journeys.

SEASONS 6-10: THE SPIN-OFF ERA

So this is where the show realizes how vast its universe can be, so it tries to expand it by tapping into uncharted lands and experimenting with it.

They take on heaven, reform hell, explore purgatory, have the angels fall, turn Dean into a demon, and kill Death.

Dean and Sam recognize their codependency, and try to rise above it.

They go back and forth between which brother will risk it all for the greater good every other season.

Dean and Cas strengthen their relationship by recognizing the impact they have on each other’s lives.

Cas structures his life and decisions around Dean (Seasons 6-7), and Dean learns to trust and fight for Cas (Seasons 8-9).

Sam and Cas bond (mostly over Dean) because of their shared rationales in decision-making.

Dean, Sam, and even Cas also forge relationships with the people they work with. The concept of “found family” is introduced here.

This era was heavy on the plot while establishing, reinforcing, and solidifying relationships and dynamics.

At this point, it wasn’t just about the brothers anymore.

If Supernatural had ended in Season 10, the logical finale would’ve been Team Free Will, along with the family that they’ve found, going up against the latest big bad (Death or whoever). Maybe they lose them along the way, maybe they all make it out alive, or maybe they go down swinging, but at least the show recognizes and supports the message they keep saying, “Family don’t end with blood”

SEASONS 11-15: THE REWRITE ERA

This is where the show runs out of ideas and decides to invalidate the seasons that came before it.

From bringing Mary back (basically rendering their whole journey pointless because they’ve literally started hunting because of her death), to changing the stipulations in being Michael and Lucifer’s vessels (another character struggle rendered useless), to God himself breaking the fourth wall by saying that the Winchesters get away with everything because “they’re the main characters in his story and everything they’ve been through was just part of a badly written narrative”.

But what we’re getting from this era is that Sam and Dean, along with Cas (who has also deviated from the story) ARE trying to escape a badly written narrative.

That’s the “big bad” in this era. The writer.

At this point, the characters have picked up so many strays (including those from alternate universes), and have settled into their roles in their “found family”. Dean, Sam, and Cas all become surrogate dads and uncles.

They’ve also graduated from the whole “we’re on different sides” and “going behind each other’s backs” drama. And they just want the whole family together.

They’ve all resigned themselves to the cause, but they’re also tired. Dean allows himself to contemplate about wanting more out of life or at least getting a vacation. Sam, on the other hand, realizes his capabilities as an effective leader. Castiel learns to love another being that isn’t Dean (spoiler: it’s Jack).

However, they also realize that they’ve just been puppets on a string all this time.

So what they want now, is to write their own story, and make their own choices knowing that God/the writer isn’t the one fueling their narrative.

So here’s why the finale sucks:

Andrew Dabb, the current showrunner, said that there would be two finales.

15x19 - The finale to wrap up Season 15, and 15x20 - The finale to wrap up the series by “resolving the characters’ journey”

In 15x19 the boys find a way to de-power God/the writer. For the first time in their whole lives, they are free from the story. Their lives are completely theirs now. They can make their own decisions. There are no more “big bads” to fight

And here’s what happens in 15x20:

Immediately after being freed from their story arc, Dean and Sam go back to hunting the monster of the week.

Dean eats pie, gets nailed (literally), makes a 10-minute speech to Sam because he knows he’s dying, then he goes to heaven.

Dean is greeted by Bobby, his surrogate Dad who he hasn’t seen (fully alive) since Season 7. Bobby’s expository dialogue comprises of him explaining that he got out of heaven’s jail, that John and Mary are next door, and that Jack and Cas fixed the dynamics of heaven off-screen.

The first thing Dean decides to do is go for a long drive in his Impala (as if he hasn’t done enough of that already).

Meanwhile, Sam decides to stop hunting after Dean dies, he gets the apple pie life he hadn’t wanted since Season 8 (while Dean was in Purgatory), and names his kid “Dean” for effect. He grows old and dies.

Dean drove around in heaven for so long that Sam catches up to him.

They hug. The end.

Great, right?

After 15 years of struggling to battle their own respective destinies, going up against big bads and even bigger bads, then finally being able to take charge of their own stories, Dean and Sam regress to hunting the monster of the week, and get killed off by a nail and old age. Okay.

Sam gets to retire and have a family, sure, but they still focus on him and the kid he named after his dead brother. Still just “Sam and Dean” through and through. Nothing to do with found family. Just lineage. Just blood. And it ends there.

See, the problem here is that this ending would’ve been passable in The Kripke Era. But we’re 10 years down the road since, and while Sam and Dean are the original main characters, the show isn’t just about them and their codependent relationship anymore.

So you see, even if you take out the whole “Castiel deserves to be in the finale because he’s also a main character with an unfinished story arc” argument, the finale still does no justice to the series it tried to “wrap up”.

But anyway, now I’ll make the case for the problem with Castiel not being in the finale:

In 15x18, we get a 5-minute rushed confession from Castiel to Dean. The context of which are as follows:

1. Earlier in the episode, Dean had wounded Death with her scythe. We later find out that this wound is fatal.

2. Their friends start to “blip out” in a Thanos-like snap, and Dean thinks that Death is causing it, so Dean seeks her out, and Cas goes with him.

3. Dean and Cas anger Death, apparently for no reason because she didn’t even do the thing they thought she did. She chases them to try to kill them

4. Dean and Cas lock themselves in a room. Dean starts a pity party.

5. As Dean goes through hating himself out loud, Cas decides to inform Dean of the deal he made with The Empty. He then proceeds to explain the stipulation of the deal (that he would get taken once he experiences a moment of true happiness), then discusses his newfound happiness philosophy. Dean is getting whiplash.

6. Cas goes on to imply that the one thing that he wanted that he knew he couldn’t have is Dean Winchester reciprocating his romantic feelings for him. (Don’t even try to fight me on this because Cas already has Dean’s platonic love, and he knows that Dean thinks of him as a brother, so if he really meant this in a “familial” way, then why would he think that he couldn’t have the thing that would make him happy?) So Cas’ realization is that telling Dean about his feelings is enough to make him happy.

7. Cas tells Dean all the reasons why he loves him (thereby combating Dean’s self-deprecation tirade), and all the reasons why he’s worthy of his love. Meanwhile, Dean is still winded from the fact that Cas is about to sacrifice himself for him again.

8. Dean never gets to process anything, because Cas is shoving him out of the way, as he and Death (who busts through the door) get taken by The Empty.

After this episode, Dean never speaks of it. Misha Collins supposes that Dean doesn’t reciprocate. Jensen Ackles says that Dean didn’t really get to process it because it was too much, too fast, and that Dean, still dense as ever, thinks that Cas, a celestial being, doesn’t interpret human feelings the same way.

So what was the point of this confession?

Politics and sensitivities of a 2005 network television aside, what does this do for the story?

Cas proclaims his romantic feelings to Dean, but Dean never acknowledges it, doesn’t even give it a passing thought afterwards. So Cas’ big declaration goes unheard.

Cas cashes in on his Empty deal to kill Death (who was dying anyway), in order to save Dean who dies two episodes after.

Dean makes no effort to save Cas (despite being really broken up about his previous deaths, or even spending a whole year in Purgatory looking for him), even after they’ve beaten God, not even asking Jack (who has all the power in the universe) to bring him back (when Jack has already done it before, with less mojo).

Dean moves on to fight the monster of the week. Somewhere off-screen, Jack rescues Cas from The Empty, but Cas uncharacteristically doesn’t even bother to go to Dean? (Every single time he comes back, Dean’s always the first person he goes to)

And Cas, who apparently helped craft and reform the new heaven, isn’t the one who welcomes Dean and explains the new dynamics of it?

Sure, Jan.

Supernatural, you’ve created a finale that only your casual viewers and people who dipped out after Season 5 can appreciate.

Just goes to show how much you actually valued the people who actually invested in your story and characters, and consistently helped keep your show on the air.

[RT this on Twitter]

#SUPERNATURAL #DESTIEL #15X20 #I KNOW I SAID THAT MY LAST LONG POST WAS MY LAST ON EVER BUT I REALLY DIDN'T THINK THE FINALE WOULD BE WORSE THAN I THOUGHT IT WOULD BE #INSIGHTFUL INSIGHTS #UNTAGGED #PERSONAL

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omg-just-peachy · 2 years

Text

one more chapter | rhodeytony

prompt #14 from this prompt list (old bookstore on a cold day)

MIT era rhodeytony my beloved <3 for the james rhodes/war machine square of my @tonystarkbingo

also on AO3

****

Tony ducks around a corner, nearly knocking over a rogue pile of paperbacks that comes up to his waist and finally, finally spots Rhodey. While Tony roamed the maze that is Rhodey's favorite bookstore, Rhodey had managed to find an armchair in a secluded corner of the store. He’s got his coat off and his feet pulled up beneath him, a book in his lap: he looks utterly content.

“Thank God,” Tony whisper-shouts. The store’s mostly dead today, but it still feels weirdly illegal to speak at anything above a whisper.

“What?” Rhodey blinks up at him from his book like he’d just woken up from a nap, dazed and a little out of it. It’d be adorable if Tony hadn't just spent most of the last hour roaming through teetering stacks of books, being glared at by a rather unfriendly bookstore cat, and asked countless times if he needed help finding anything by the surly-looking owner.

“Not unless you happen to know where my boyfriend is?” Tony had finally said. The elderly shopkeeper didn’t look particularly amused at this, however, and so Tony had scurried back down the aisle, shooting him a grin and a wave over his shoulder. For a guy who owns a bookstore in a college town, he didn’t seem to care much for college kids.

“Do you know how long I’ve been trying to find you?”

“I’m sure you’re about to tell me,” Rhodey says. He sticks a finger in his book to hold his place, taps it shut, then uses his other hand to push his glasses up his nose.

Unfairly adorable, Tony can no longer deny it.

“Forty-five minutes! How’d you even get back here? This place is like, the bookstore equivalent of a clown car. I don’t think it’s physically possible for all these shelves to be in here, Honeybear, I really think—“

“Shh,” Rhodey shushes him, looking around as if they might be chased out of the store. It’s quiet save for the soft shuffling of pages somewhere a few aisles over, and the creaks that come with an old Bostonian building like this one. “You found me, Tones, I think we’re gonna make it through this,” Rhodey says, voice teasing.

Tony looks at his boyfriend, his heavy winter coat laying across his lap, and the hood of his MIT sweatshirt bunched up around his neck. His face is the picture of calm, sitting there reading like that, and Tony is struck with the sudden urge to curl up in his lap, like a friendlier version of that cat downstairs.

“I'm dating a nerd,” Tony says fondly.

Rhodey snorts. “You’re one to talk. You spent twelve straight hours in the robotics lab the other day. You smelled terrible by the end of it.”

“That’s different,” Tony says innocently. “So, what book is that?” he asks, swiftly changing the subject.

Rhodey holds up the cover, showing off his find. “I, Robot,” he says.

“Such a nerd,” Tony repeats, though the cover and the title intrigue him just a little, he has to admit.

Rhodey just rolls his eyes and starts to tug on his jacket. “I take it you’re ready to go,” he says.

Tony looks at him, then out the window behind him. It’s just starting to snow, flurries swirling around in the January wind, and suddenly, being in here, watching Rhodey read his book in the warm, quiet nook of the bookstore doesn’t seem so bad.

“Nah, we can stay a little longer,” Tony says. He smiles when Rhodey shifts over on the chair, making room for Tony to squeeze in beside him while he reads.

Definitely not so bad.

****

Two weeks later, Rhodey’s third and final class of the day gets canceled, and he comes home early to find Tony sprawled across his bed, the battered, used bookstore copy of I, Robot in his hands instead of on the bedside table where he'd left it, and Tony completely absorbed in the story.

“Nerd,” Rhodey says, crossing the room in two quick steps to join Tony on the bed, kissing him before he can argue the point.

#ironhusbands #rhodeytony #tonyrhodey #my fic #tonystarkbingo #i looooove them

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daryl-dixon-daydreams · 3 years

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Words: 6,377 Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader Reader pronouns: she/her Era: Alexandria Warnings: Language, violence, gore, death, sexuality, nudity, typical TWD A/N: I didn't do nearly as many read-throughs with this one so there are probably typos. And this part was getting HELLA long, so I ended up cutting it in a different place buuuuut that means you'll probably get the next chapter a little sooner! A/N: This is part of a series! Find the previous parts on the Masterlist! Summary: The communities strike at The Saviors.

Your name: submit What is this?

“Everybody knows what they’re supposed to do?” Rick glanced around one final time at all of you gathered together. The air was tense and silent. He nodded. “Alright. Then let’s get this done.”

The crowd broke up a little chaotically as everyone headed to their positions. You watched with some apprehension, wondering just who was leaving now and wouldn’t return… Your reverie was broken by Aaron who ran up and grabbed you into a tight hug. Eric appeared shortly after.

“You be safe,” Aaron said, squeezing you tight. You wrapped your arms around him and returned it, shutting your eyes and hugging him back extra tight.

“You too. Both of you.”

Eric grabbed you next and seemed to give you an extra-long squeeze. “Go be your badass self, okay?” he said as he finally broke apart from you. “And we’ll see you back at home.” You nodded and gave his shoulder one last affectionate pat.

“Take care of each other,” you said, drinking in the sight of the two of them, your brow furrowed with worry.

They nodded earnestly and you exchanged a few more words of parting before they headed to their assigned cars. You watched them climb in, your stomach turning with anxiety.

You felt gentle fingers on your lower back and knew immediately that it was Daryl. You spun to face him and your worried expression was reflected on his face. “This is it,” he drawled.

“Yep,” you agreed with a nod.

Daryl chewed on his bottom lip. “Wish we didn’t have to be apart for it,” he said quietly.

“I know. Me too. But we both have to play our roles, right? We’ve got jobs to do.”

He nodded before glancing around briefly and grabbing your hand. “C’mere,” he said, tugging you a little way away from the crowd to a more secluded spot. When he spun around again to look at you, you could truly see in his blue eyes how uneasy he was. He clasped your face and drank in the sight of you, trying to draw strength from the way you were looking up at him. He pulled you in against him with the other hand, light on your lower back. He gave you a pointed look. “I’ll see ya after,” he said vehemently.

You nodded again, gulping at the tightness in your throat. “After.”

Daryl leaned down and heatedly pressed his lips to yours, setting you ablaze. His tongue flicked across your lower lip and you parted yours to allow entrance for him, kissing him back feverishly, your arms looped around his neck as you arched into him. When Daryl’s lips finally softened, he didn’t pull away completely. You both were out of breath and off-balance from that kiss and he pressed his forehead to yours, his eyes shut, just breathing you in for a moment longer, feeling you solid beneath his hands.

His blue eyes finally opened and met yours again and now he felt braver, stronger.

“Daryl,” you said, not meaning for it to come out in a whisper but it did. “I love you.” Your eyes flickered between his.

He couldn’t help how his lips curved into a small smile when you said that, every time. He clasped your face again in both hands, looking deeply into your eyes, memorizing the flecks of color. “I love ya, too.” He’d gotten better at hearing it and at saying it. He pressed one more urgent kiss to your lips and then laced his fingers with yours. The two of you headed back out to depart for battle.

Rosita strode over and held her hand out to you for a fist bump. “Ready, chica?” she asked.

You nodded and gave her a small smile as you bumped her fist with yours. You had your game face on now. Any trace of worry or fear in your expression was gone. “Let’s do it.”

“Hey—ya watch out for each other, alright?” Daryl said to both of you.

“We’ve got this,” Rosita said. “Don’t worry.”

Daryl nodded and gave you one last look before heading to his bike.

You caught Rosita’s eyes. “Alright. Let’s go.”

Soon you were behind the wheel in the vehicle with Rosita riding shotgun and all the supplies loaded in back.

“Alright, let’s run through it again,” you said, clutching the steering wheel much harder than necessary.

Rosita laughed a little dryly. “We’ve been through it a hundred times!”

“I know, but—it calms me down,” you muttered, glancing over at her.

She gave you a knowing look and nodded. “I know. Okay. We set the charges—all ten—main highway and the side roads that would lead to Alexandria. Then, we get the hell out of Dodge before any potential Saviors come our way and hopefully get blown to pieces... You drop me to rendezvous with Carol and you head for clean-up duty and assistance at the outpost. After, everyone meets back at Hilltop.”

You let out a forced exhale. “Okay. Okay. We’ve got this.”

You pulled over as you arrived at the first spot you were going to wire up and both of you hopped out to grab the devices you’d built. They’d trigger if something heavy enough, like a vehicle, tripped the pressure hose you laid across the road. By the time you had them assembled and armed you were already dripping with sweat. Rosita looked about the same as you climbed back into the SUV.

You wiped a hand across your brow and glanced over at her. “One down,” you said.

“Nine to go,” she said, clicking her seatbelt and let out a nervous breath. She glanced back at the supplies stacked in the back. “Can’t believe we’re finally doing this. About damn time,” she said. “That bastard and all his assholes deserve to pay for everything they’ve done.”

You felt her eyes on your face and glanced over.

“I just want you to know that you’re one of us. Family. Totally and completely,” she said.

Despite the situation, you couldn’t help but smile at her. “Thanks. Feel like we won the lottery with Aaron finding all of you,” you replied.

“Especially, Daryl, right?” she said knowingly, laughing at your expression.

You could feel your cheeks burning with a blush. “Shut up,” you said, rolling your eyes at her and turned them back to the road.

“You’re really good for him though, you know. In all seriousness.” Rosita watched as you just chewed on your bottom lip a bit nervously. “I’ve never seen him so happy. And that’s even with us all being right in the middle of this goddamn shitstorm.”

“Well… I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy either,” you said, feeling your cheeks redden again. You cleared your throat and laughed a little bashfully. “Alright, enough distracting me. I’m trying to keep my game face on. We’re almost at the next point,” you said, slowing the vehicle. You and Rosita repeated your set-up at all the assigned locations. At the last one she extended a fist to you again and you happily bumped it.

“See you back home,” she said. “Be careful.”

“I will.” You waved and were turning away to move your gun onto the center console when you felt a tap on your shoulder and turned to see Carol behind you. “Everything alright?” you asked her. Rosita was waiting by Carol’s vehicle.

Carol grabbed you into a hug and you let out a small surprised noise. “Oh—th—thanks,” you said, managing to hug her back.

She gave you a fond look when she pulled back. “Come back in one piece, alright? If something happens to you—Daryl—”

“Hey. You, too,” you said seriously. “But nothing is happening to any of us, Right?”

Carol simply nodded, still looking apprehensive, and rushed back to Rosita and her vehicle to take off to their next position. You forced out an exhale as they sped off and climbed back into the SUV. Alone.

You were feeling extra anxious now. It was agonizing without any way to keep contact with everyone and you kept having flashes of almost overwhelming worry. Enough time had passed that everyone would be in the thick of things and if things were going to go sideways, they almost certainly had by now… But the revving and hum of the engine was somehow comforting as you sped toward your next location. Your plan was to a help at the spot where Aaron and Eric would be with a big group, clearing out an outpost. You had some other homemade IEDs in the back in case they were needed, but mostly you just wanted to be another gun and set of eyes.

You pushed the gas pedal down to the floor as you cruised down the highway. You were making good time when you suddenly felt the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. You squinted up ahead and could see some obstacle in the road. You pressed your foot to the brake to slow a little, and eventually you could finally make out that it was an unfamiliar vehicle almost completely blocking both lanes. you noticed there were a few people standing on the side of the road with weapons. Saviors.

“Shit,” you swore under your breath. Your mind was racing as you tried to figure out what to do. You thought you could scrape through on the edge of the lane if you were going fast enough to make yourself a hard target to shoot at or stop. But if they shot out your tire or something… “Fuck it,” you said out loud, and you moved your foot back to the gas pedal and depressed it to the floor again. The SUV leaped over the concrete, the engine roaring to life. “Come on. Come on…”

You were almost to the group of Saviors when you registered some object flying through the air, hurled by one of the men on the side of the road. You watched it as if in slow motion and by the time you realized what it likely was it was too late. All you could do was brace yourself as the grenade exploded just in front of the hood of your vehicle. The shockwave from the fireball was strong enough to blow and roll your vehicle back and on its side into the ditch in the middle of the highway. You vaguely registered the sound of screaming metal tearing against concrete, deafening cracks and crunches, and shattering glass as the SUV rolled over and over before the vehicle came to rest in the grassy ditch on the driver’s side.

Move. You have to move. Move. You couldn’t hear anything but a high-pitched ringing in your ears and your vision was splotchy and blurred with dark and red spots as you tried to keep your eyes open. Your vision seemed to go in and out, blurred and then sharpening, and then blurring again. Somehow you managed to get your bearings and struggled until you could undo your seatbelt. You registered that the windshield was completely busted and you maneuvered until you could kick it out. There was so much adrenaline coursing through you that you didn’t feel any pain, even though you were vaguely aware of a decent amount of blood on your body and hands. You saw your rifle laying down by the pedals and felt for your pistol with the other hand, making sure it was still in its holster on your leg. It was.

You vaguely heard shouting coming from the direction you assumed The Saviors were in. And it was then that you suddenly remembered the IEDs in the back of the vehicle. “Oh, fuck. Fuck!” You scrambled to climb out through the kicked-out windshield. “Shit, shit, shit!” The devices hadn’t been completely assembled or armed, but a violent car crash like the one you had just experienced definitely was enough to fuck them up and make them unstable. You let out a groan as you climbed to your feet, keeping bent over low and trying to shelter behind the turned over vehicle even as you struggled to put as much distance as possible between yourself and it. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!”

The crack of a gun was shortly followed by a bullet whizzing past you and you threw yourself flat to the ground and rolled over on your back so you could look back in the direction of your attackers. The tall grass in the ditch concealed you fairly well, but it also prevented you from being able to see how close they were. You were panting from exertion and the growing trickle of pain that was coming back to you now that the initial wave of adrenaline was waning made it hard to think straight. You sat up and barely peered over the tall grass, the stock of your rifle pressed into your shoulder, ready to be raised completely.

The Saviors were moving cautiously toward the vehicle, all doing their signature whistling which still sent chills through you. One was out ahead and moving in your direction. Where a moment before you had been rushing away and hoping that the explosives in the back of the SUV would remain stable, now you started wishing for the opposite. “Come on, you piece of shit. Blow the fuck up,” you muttered under your breath. You raised the rifle to your shoulder and took aim at the leader moving toward you as best you could without revealing yourself. It was still hard to see from your low vantage point on the ground, but you weren’t about to stand up and draw fire from all of them at once if you could help it.

You didn’t think they knew who you were yet, because they had shot at you seemingly to kill. Negan’s ominous words rang in your mind again, about wanting you alive.

“Why don’t you come on out?” the leader yelled, sweeping his gaze side to side as he slowly moved away from the SUV. “You’re all alone out here and you’ve got no way to get anywhere! You’re probably hurt! If you surrender now we’ll treat you reeeeeal nice. Promise!”

You heard faint laughter from the other men hanging back by the vehicle, apparently still trying to pry a door or something open to more closely inspect what was inside.

“Run, run, little rabbit! Come on!” The leader shouted again.

You were just about to shout something back, getting ready to squeeze off a rifle round, when there was another tremendous explosion and you felt the shockwave run right through you, throwing you back flat to the ground as the hot air and concussive blast rushed past. Smoke drifted over you as you stared up at the blue sky and you could hear the raining of some debris falling back to the ground.

You knelt in the tall grass and cautiously looked over at the blackened skeletal remains of your vehicle, flames still licking out from the interior. The bodies of the Saviors that had been closest to the explosion were still and maimed on the ground. You paced cautiously closer, looking for the leader, and you finally found him on the ground, flat on his stomach, apparently still disoriented from the blast, but largely unhurt.

He tried to get up as he suddenly registered your presence but you pushed the muzzle of your rifle into his back. “Where are the fucking keys to your truck?” you demanded. “Hands up! Where I can see them!”

He complied.

“Keys!” you demanded again.

“My back pocket!” he said.

“Don’t fucking move,” you growled again. You bent down and patted his pants pockets, feeling something in the left one and reaching in to pull out the keys. Just then the Savior made a quick move and pushed himself up off the ground onto his hands and knees. The movement knocked you slightly back as he bumped into your rifle. He was spinning around and reaching for a pistol at his hip when you instinctively shouldered your gun and fired. The round struck him squarely in the chest and he fell back to the ground, landing hard and lying still after a brief moment. Your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath. You bent down again and grabbed the keys you had dropped.

You stood over the dead Savior’s body and unsheathed your knife, cringing as you plunged it into his temple so he wouldn’t turn. You went to do the same to the others killed in the explosion. As you moved, you started to register that your entire body felt bruised but you stopped yourself from really looking for injuries yet. Not here. Time to go.

You rushed over to the Savior’s truck and peered in the bed, looking underneath a heavy tarp. There were boxes and boxes of ammo and a couple crates of automatic weapons. Obviously, these guys were moving merchandise to a new place when shit started to hit the fan. They’d probably just been told to watch the main road when you came along. You breathed a sigh of relief and tried to get your heart rate and breathing to return to normal. “Okay… I’m okay…”

Climbing hastily into the driver’s seat, you inserted the key and the truck rumbled to life. You turned and headed in the direction of the outpost, again pressing your foot almost to the floor.

By the time you arrived, you could tell that things were apparently over. There was no active shooting and you could see your people moving around methodically, dealing with the casualties so you weren’t adding any more walking dead to the world. You immediately shut off the engine and forced the truck into park even before it had really stopped moving. You rushed out into the maze of barricades, searching desperately for anyone you recognized. You felt people’s eyes on you as you passed them and had a sense from their expressions that you looked pretty rough. “Aaron!” you yelled. “Aaron! Eric!”

You couldn’t explain it but you felt suddenly frantic and your stomach rolled with nausea. “AARON!? ERIC?” You rushed through the debris and searched urgently. You rounded barricade after barricade but weren’t finding them and the hard pit that formed in your stomach just got heavier and heavier, until finally you rounded one last truck and saw them. You stalled and the air was ripped from your lungs.

Aaron was on the groun and hunched over Eric who was leaning up against a tree. With even a brief glance it was easy to tell that Eric was already gone. He was dead. Gone. Just like that. “No. No… No, no, no. No!” Your feet propelled you forward but you fell to your knees still a short distance away, your legs suddenly giving out. You crawled the last few feet to Aaron’s side. You didn’t want to look at Eric’s vacant expression and the paleness of the skin on his face but you couldn’t tear your eyes away from it for a long time. You could feel hot tears streaming down your face and the saltiness stung. You gathered yourself enough to glance over at Aaron who was just hunched over and sobbing in agony, clutching to Eric’s hand like it was a lifeline, like maybe if he just didn’t let go then this wasn’t real. You gently pressed a hand to his back and he startled a little at the contact, apparently realizing you were there now for the first time. He straightened up slightly and the questioning look and disbelief on his face were the same you were feeling. “Aaron,” you managed to croak out. “Aaron, I’m—I’m sorry.” You could barely get the words out. You shook your head, whirling from the ramifications of Eric’s silent and still form lying there heavily. “I’m so sorry,” you whispered again, now completely breaking down like he was. Tears streamed faster down your face and you felt your throat constrict with emotion. You felt like you couldn’t breathe. “Aaron—”

Aaron’s crying began again as he looked at you and you grabbed him and pulled his head to your shoulder. The two of you were clinging onto each other and you did your best to pull yourself back together as he went to pieces. There was nothing you could tell him… You couldn’t tell him it would be okay. You didn’t know that. What could you possibly say? The love of his life was laying dead beside you.

_ _ _ _ _ _

Daryl arrived back at Hilltop and hurriedly parked his bike. The community was in chaos with the wounded being rushed for care, people searching for their friends and loved ones, and many just standing around in a daze. Daryl spotted Rosita and Carol and stalked hurriedly over to them. He accepted a relieved hug from Carol before turning to look at Rosita. “How’d it go? Any problems?” he drawled.

Rosita shook her head. “No. No problems. We got everything set up like clockwork. Only—”

Daryl’s stomach twisted. “Only what?”

Carol stepped forward again. “Y/N isn’t back yet and we were expecting her by now. And we haven’t seen Aaron or Eric either.”

Daryl felt his heart drop into his stomach. “Well, is anybody from that outpost back yet? Maybe we need to send another group up there.”

“Some of them are back already,” Rosita said. “But nobody seems to know—”

“I’m goin’,” Daryl growled, immediately turning on his heel and heading straight back for his bike.

“I’ll come with you,” Carol said, starting after him.

“No! Ya stay here and help! And if ya see Rick tell him where I went!” he roared over his shoulder.

Daryl pushed his limits on his bike, racing to follow the path you would have driven after Rosita split off from you. He spotted a column of dark smoke rising up into the air ahead and felt like a knife had twisted in his heart again. He urged his himself on even as terror about what he could find made it hard to breathe.

All he saw when he first arrived was what was left of a vehicle he knew to be yours on its side, smoldering in the ditch. Daryl gulped and tried to stop bile from rising into his throat. He climbed off his bike and grabbed his gun, cautiously and fearfully moving toward the vehicle. He stopped a short distance away, his heart pounding, and had to pace a few times, reeling, steeling himself, before he had the courage to move closer. He felt shaky as he approached the bashed-out windshield and peered inside.

He heaved a momentary sigh of relief when he saw no body inside. You weren’t in there.

But where were you?

Daryl began to look around and found some trails in the tall grass. He followed them and discovered the bodies of four men. Each of them had a stab wound in their temple, obviously to prevent them from turning.

Okay. This looked like your handiwork. The archer breathed another sigh of relief. However, he knew you’d likely been in your vehicle when it had crashed and he had no way of knowing where you were and whether or not you were badly injured. There was also still the possibility that more Saviors had arrived and grabbed you. He headed back to his bike and climbed on, deciding to drive the rest of the way to the outpost you were supposed to be heading to, keeping his eyes open for any sign of you.

He rode in strenuous anxiety the rest of the way, searching the road ahead and each side as he went, but seeing nothing that pointed to your whereabouts. When he finally made it to the outpost and parked his bike, he was relieved to see that the battle was over and clearly the Saviors had lost. There were still a few of Alexandria and Hilltop’s people milling around and Daryl started his search for you, his stomach twisting every time he came upon a body, worried he would look down and see that it was you.

He finally rounded one of the armored trucks and froze. His heart sank back into his stomach. You and Aaron were on the ground. You had your arm around Aaron and Daryl could tell he was sobbing against you by the hitched, uneven breaths he was gasping in and the way his shoulders were shaking. The reason why was perfectly clear. Eric’s pale and still form was leaned up against the tree and there was a shockingly large stain of deep crimson on his stomach.

Daryl forced himself to move closer to the scene and lightly touched your other shoulder. You straightened up and looked up at him, your expression one of pure agony and your wide eyes filled with tears.

You were battered, bloody, and bruised, and Daryl was pretty sure there was glass in some of the flecked wounds on your face. Your arms were cut and bleeding, but Daryl knew you weren’t feeling any of those injuries right now.

There was nothing to say, so Daryl just stood there silently looking at you for a long moment, feeling a sharp ache between his lungs that seemed to grow the longer he stood there.

You sniffled and cleared your throat, turning back to Aaron and clasping his face in both hands, making him look at you. His eyes were red and puffy and there was a constant flow of tears down his cheeks. “Go with Daryl,” you murmured to him. “Aaron. Listen to me. Go with Daryl, okay?”

Aaron’s eyes frantically moved back to Eric’s body and his expression was desperate.

“Come on,” you said, climbing gingerly to your feet and pulling Aaron up with you, even while he refused to tear his eyes away from Eric. “Go with Daryl,” you said again. You nudged him away and he finally complied, stepping back. Aaron wandered away toward the nearest vehicle in a daze.

You stared down at Eric’s body, feeling suddenly numb, and Daryl watched as you unsnapped the loop of the sheath that covered the hilt of your knife.

Daryl stepped forward again. “Y/N. Ya ain’t gotta—I can—I can take care of it,” he said gently.

“No. I need to.” You turned and looked at Daryl again and renewed tears flowing down your cheeks. “I need to. I—I want to. I can do it.”

Daryl nodded, his chest aching, and he slowly retreated to stand with Aaron.

_ _ _ _ _ _

Later that night, once you had finally returned to Hilltop with Aaron and Daryl, you insisted on digging a grave and burying Eric yourself. A small group of Alexandrians who had known him gathered to pay their respects, but they finally all drifted away. Maggie was able to convince Aaron to come away to be looked over by the doctor. The archer found you alone, sitting in a cloudy daze on the ground, staring at the newly erected grave marker. Daryl anxiously chewed on his bottom lip and knelt down beside you, gently putting a hand on your back.

His touch seemed to bring another swell of emotion in you and you gasped in a shaky breath and tried not to fall to pieces again.

Daryl’s blue eyes whirred over you and studied all the injuries you’d sustained that day, but none was hurting you more deeply than the loss of one the people you cared the most dearly about. You were exhausted and defeated and Daryl knew it was going to be his job to get you back on your feet. And he was going to do it.

He wrapped his arm around you and spoke gently. “C’mon. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You simply stared straight ahead at the grave, still seemingly lost in the veil of your grief.

“Y/N. Hey. Look at me,” Daryl urged you. “Look at me.”

You finally turned your eyes back to him and they seemed dark compared to the light he was used to seeing in them. Daryl gently clasped your face and you closed your eyes at the contact, falling against him the next moment like you had nothing more to give. Daryl wrapped you against him tightly and smoothed his hands lightly over your back. “I know. M’sorry. M’so sorry.” He left a kiss in your hair and held you for a long time. Finally, you pulled back and looked up at him, your eyes still glistening a little. “C’mon. Let me patch ya up.”

You finally nodded and Daryl helped you to your feet. He kept an arm looped around you, his hand resting lightly on your lower back, and you followed him back to the familiar trailer you had shared before. Daryl sat you down on the couch and went to his pack and dug out the first aid kit. He returned and sank down on the edge of the coffee table in front of you, his lips pulled in between his teeth.

He grabbed the pair of tweezers and gently turned your face so he could see where some glass was still embedded in your forehead and cheekbone, apparently from your head hitting the side window and shattered debris when the vehicle finally came to rest. He plucked a several pieces out and you barely flinched. He found a few more bits of glass in your shoulder and arm as well as the palms of your hands. You sat frozen as he tended to you, a faraway look in your eyes. Daryl grabbed a few alcohol swabs and opened them, dabbing at the cuts and scrapes on your cheekbone and forehead. He gently clasped your chin and examined the other side of your face. Your expression was vague and disconnected and it was worrying Daryl immensely.

He shifted his attention back to your arms, cleaning off the dried blood and wounds the best he could, some of which began bleeding freely again. There were angry red marks on your wrists from the chemicals in the air bag.

“Hey,” he said, moving your hair away from your face. “Ya wanna take a shower? Should look the rest of ya over too,” he said gently.

For the first time since he’d sat you down you looked right at him and seemed to really see him. Your expression was still desperate, but you nodded.

Daryl nudged his nose up, returning it. “Alright. C’mon,” he said, standing up and helping you to your feet. You winced a little as you moved again. Your whole body felt like it was bruised and stiffening. Daryl left you standing in the doorway of the little bathroom as he ran the water and tested the temperature. “Alright,” he said, stepping out. “I’ll be right out here if ya need me.” He started to slip past you but your hand floated to his chest and landed lightly there, freezing him instantly.

He easily read the request in your eyes. You didn’t want to be alone. You needed him.

His arms circled around you again and he nodded. “Alright. S’okay.” You collapsed against him again. You shut your eyes and focused on the steady sound of his heart beating. “I’ve got ya,” he said softly. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere.” He pressed a kiss to your hair.

You allowed Daryl to gently move you into the bathroom. He shut the door softly behind you and his hands landed lightly on your hips. He studied the bruising and cuts on your face in the brighter light and this time felt a hot swell of rage. Thank God you were alright. It was too damn close… “Let’s take a look at ya, alright?” he said gently. He hesitated before grasping the hem of your dirty and bloodstained shirt and pulled it up over your head. You couldn’t stop the sharp intake of air between your teeth as you struggled to raise your left arm. As you were free from the fabric, Daryl saw the dark bruising from the seatbelt that started at your shoulder and cut across your chest.

He clasped your face again lightly before sweeping your hair back. “How’s yer neck? Sore?”

You nodded. “A little.”

The first words you’d spoken since you’d told him you would take care of Eric… Daryl was quite sure it was more than a little.

You undid the holster with your pistol still in it that was strapped to your thigh and you pulled your knife in its sheath away from your jeans. Daryl’s eyes took in the bumps and bruises on your bare skin, the cuts and abrasions on your arms, as you undid the clasp of your bra and let it fall carelessly to the floor.

Your fingers found the buttons of his shirt and Daryl helped you slip it off him. The range of movement in your shoulder was limited by the swollen and stiff muscles around the joint and you winced a little with every movement. Your eyes hungrily drank in the sight of his broad chest and shoulders and you pressed your hands to him immediately, like you wanted to be certain he was real in front of you, grounding, safe. Daryl’s arms gently wrapped you against him, skin to skin. When you broke apart again, you leaned back against the counter and Daryl unbuttoned and unzipped your jeans. He helped you slip out of them, still feeling a little nervous as all of you was bared to him, but your hands found his button and fly and soon he was all skin too, and he stepped into the shower beneath the warmth of cascading water and beckoned you in with a simple tilt of his head.

You were drawn to him and the comfort and safety he gave you like a magnetic. You shut your eyes and let the stream of hot water wash over you. It stung all your wounds but you didn’t care. The sharp sensation was better than the numbness you’d been feeling since— Daryl gently smoothed his hands over your wet skin, his fingers light over every little bruise and cut. He washed the remaining dirt and blood away and you gave into the sensation of being cared for, pushing away the emptiness and nausea that was overwhelming you. Daryl swept your wet hair to one side and kissed your shoulder and your neck so lightly and tenderly it raised goosebumps on your skin despite the warm cloak of the water. He traced his fingers down your spine, letting them wander over the graceful curve of your back before he looped his arm around you from behind, holding you securely against him. You leaned your head back against his chest and tried to convince your muscles to release the tense grip they had on your skeleton.

Daryl thought he felt you soften beneath his hands finally, and the next moment you turned, the water running in rivulets over your collarbone and down your chest, and you looked up at him. He loved the way the water droplets clung to your eyelashes.

“Thank God you’re alright,” you said softly, tears in your eyes again. Your smoothed your hands over his strong chest, your fingers tracing the scars on his skin. “Thank God,” you said again, looping your arms around him and leaning your head on his chest.

“Thank God you are. When I first saw your SUV, I—” Daryl’s hands smoothed over the curves and angles of you again. “S’alright,” he drawled quietly. “We’re alright.”

The pattering of the shower reminded you of the calming sound of rain and you did your best to fill yourself up with this strong man, replacing the empty hole that seemed to have taken hold in your chest since your eyes first landed on Eric’s pale face and Aaron’s anguish.

A short time later, your towel still wrapped around you, Daryl finished patching you up with a gauze pad here and a bandage there. His eyes kept catching on the deep bruise from your seatbelt that cut across your chest. When he was satisfied you were taken care of, you grabbed the kit before he could put it away and tended to some abrasions and wounds he had sustained himself. You lightly rested a hand against his cheek, leaning into him.

“You’ll tell me how today went?” you asked.

Daryl nudged his nose up in a couple nods. “Mhm. Tomorrow. Ya need rest.”

“So do you,” you said, running a wavy strand of his brown hair through your fingers. Your eyes flickered between his for a moment and then shut as you leaned in and met his lips with yours.

Daryl pulled you more tightly into him and tangled his fingers in your hair, kissing you back softly but with a neediness you felt straight to your core. You ran your thumb along the edge of his strong jaw and kissed him with a warmth Daryl felt spread to his chest instantly and bloom outwards.

“C’mon,” he said gently, tilting his head toward the bed. “I ain’t lettin’ ya go all night,” he said earnestly, smoothing your hair away from your face again.

There was a tinge of sadness in your eyes again. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

#daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon twd #the walking dead #twd fanfics #daryl dixon drabbles #daryl imagines #daryl dixon x reader #fanfics #writers of tumblr #twd drabbles

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junicai · 3 years

Text

tackled.

| summary | Mark hasn’t been in a group without Aria before. He doesn’t know how he’s going to manage without her there.

| word count | 2.4k

| warnings | none

| era | circa. December 2018

n/a: to the anon who requested more superm stuff, i hope this is to ur liking~ a little bit of background before i start writing some actual scenarios for the team :)

Aria wasn’t quite sure how to function; or how to deal with the fact that she was sitting, legs crossed, back ram-rod straight, in one of the smaller conference rooms with Lee Sooman sitting across from her looking a world more comfortable.

Taeyong on her left and Lucas on her right, Ten a seat down and Mark beyond that. The plastic seats were less than kind to her aching tailbone, but Aria was mildly (read: incredibly) more preoccupied with the thought that she was wearing a faded hoodie and black workout leggings that were old and worn, sitting in a conference room with Taemin, Baekhyun and Kai.

She was pretty sure the day couldn’t be going much worse. That was until Sooman's voice snapped her from her inner turmoil and she looked up at the CEO, raising a bottle of water to her lips with a lightly quivering hand.

“Aria, you’ll be joining as their eighth and final member.”

Water rushed down the wrong way in her throat, the muscle spasming as Aria choked and banged a closed fist against her chest. Taeyong’s hand flew to rub circles in between her shoulder blades, patting gently as she heaved, trying to re-catch her breath.

She takes it back. It just got worse.

“Sir?” Aria wheezed out, taking in a stuttered breath as she looked up from the table to meet the CEO’s eyes.

“SuperM is a concept group designed to take those that excelled in their respective groups and use that as the foundation to create something bigger. You’ve all made a name for yourself; both within the group and individually.” Sooman took a breath, lifting his hands to drum his fingertips across the wooden table. The dark oak was glazed, and Aria belatedly realized that this conference room was so small as it was the CEO’s personal room. His name was imprinted on the front of the door, gold paint enhancing the grooves made.

He continued talking, focusing his attention on each individual member from his seat, explaining their ‘roles’ so to speak. Aria caught small snippets, chest still rising a beat too quickly for it to be ignorable and her racing mind building up a cascade of thoughts that were rising up in tandem.

Baekhyun you will be the leader - Taemin as - I think it’s important, no crucial that you remember - this is not a time for - you’ll understand my expectations in time - a common ground for those that - merging the eras -

Aria flinched violently when her name was called, head snapping away from where it was boring holes into the wall just over Taemin’s shoulder. She had yet to make eye contact with a single one of her seniors, having taken a single glance around the room upon arrival and dropped herself into a near 90 degree bow.

“What with the incredibly - albeit unexpectedly - positive response that came with your inclusion in the various NCT units, myself and my team think it fitting that you’d belong in a group such as this one. Obviously your English speaking skills are a benefit, although I am not so sure that your accent will be as tolerable to the American media as Mark’s here would be. But I’m getting ahead of myself, we can circle back to that in due time.” Sooman leant back in his chair, resting his arms against his sides.

He looked satisfied with how the meeting had gone - given that all but one member of the newly established team had signed their agreement into another contract, having handed out a thinly spaced document a few minutes prior.

Aria sat back, pen cradled in her hand as Sooman shuffled through her contract in his hands, as he had refrained from giving hers out with the others. The CEO dismissed the other members, calling for Aria to remain seated for another few minutes.

As the seven boys stood from their chairs with muffled screeches from the rubber capped legs on the chairs, Taeyong let a hand brush over Aria’s shoulder once. His face was pinched into something, lip caught between his teeth but Aria waved him off with a smile that didn’t lift her eyes.

Exiting the room, Mark glanced back over his shoulder catching a glimpse of Sooman already leaning forward in his chair and Aria sitting up straight. Attentive. And then the door swung closed, clicking shut with a soft snick and Mark couldn’t see either of them anymore.

It had been a week.

Mark had meant to ask Aria what Sooman had wanted to discuss with her privately, he really had. But between schedules and commuting and a million other things that had appeared on his ‘To-Do’ list overnight; he hadn’t found the time.

Either he crept in to the dorms a few minutes prior to the clock striking twelve with barely enough energy to take a shower, or it was Aria slipping in on light feet, sliding in to her bedroom with a quiet goodnight.

She had been disappearing more often; despite the fact that Mark was near certain that she didn’t have anymore schedules than the rest of them. Not even Donghyuck had been gone as often as her, and the two of them were prepping for NCT Dream’s next album together.

The thought settled bitterly in Mark’s stomach, so he brushed it aside. A million other thoughts filled the space left; equally as acidic.

Had she signed in to the group? Had she declined? Was there something else going on that Sooman needed to talk to her about? Was she going solo? Was she leaving them? He knew that she’d been offered the opportunity before - it nearly decimated her and Donghyuck’s friendship - but had she accepted this time? Is that where she was going? Why hadn’t she talked to anyone else about it? Why hadn’t she talked to him?

His head was full of these thoughts running on a cycle. He tried his best to shake them out.

The dorms were never full anymore - someone was always gone doing one thing, or practicing another, or discussing something else.

Mark thinks that this was his least hectic day in the last seven. But it was definitely the most stressful.

His hands were sweating and he rubbed his damp palms against the black material of his joggers, an anxious bounce in his knee. Lucas was leant against the wall beside him, tapping a finger against his thigh.

Scanning around the room, Mark saw his seniors - his groupmates, as odd as it was to acknowledge - in various degrees of unrest. Taeyong appeared relatively calm, although Mark could recognize the tense set of his jawline and he made a note to remind the leader that he had to stop grinding his teeth unless he wanted to do some damage.

Ten had his phone in his hand and an earbud in one of his ears, seemingly engrossed in watching a video. Mark could see the dangling headphone jack; unconnected to the phone. The video was paused.

As for a first practice together, Mark assumed that this was not how it was meant to go. How were they meant to perform together if they couldn’t even start a simple conversation?

None of the NCT boys had seen the choreography for their first single yet, Mark hadn’t gotten around to asking had his seniors managed to get a sneak peak or not. He didn’t think he ever would, at this rate.

The practice room was quiet, filled with an unsettled air of anxiousness although that may have just been the younger boys projecting, as Taemin looked entirely unbothered, with Kai leaning over his shoulder.

Baekhyun’s head snapped up as the door to the practice room was closed, shifting up from his seated position on the floor to greet their choreographer.

“Ah, hello,” He began, nodding his head in a greeting bow.

“..Hi?” Came a smaller voice than he was expecting.

“Riri?” Lucas said, pushing himself off the wall. “Hey, you alright?”

Aria was shifting from her left foot to her right foot, hands twisting the fabric at the end of her hoodie. Taemin tilted his head, and noticed that it was the same hoodie she had been wearing the week previous.

“What’cha doing here, Ari?” Ten asked, moving to stand closer to the girl.

“I’m here for - for practice? Right?” Aria turned the questioning on him, glancing at Ten and then turning her gaze on Taeyong. “Right?”

“For SuperM?” Mark was confused.

“Yeah?”

Aria had her eyebrows pulled together neatly, staring at Mark, who’s face had crested through about eight emotions in the last second, finally settling on a rather odd mixture of relief and pure, childlike excitement.

“Mark wha-” She cut herself off with a yelp, hands flying to grip Mark’s shoulders as he tackled her around her middle. “Mark!”

The boy in question only squeezed her tighter, lifting her off the ground a little. Aria squirmed in his grip, but as soon as Lucas’ arms were added to the equation she went lax, knowing that her chances of escape had just dropped to zero.

“Dude- oh my god,” Mark was laughing, a light breathy laugh. “Dude I thought you didn’t sign it? What was all the secrecy about?”

“What... secrecy?” Aria wheezed out. “Mark I can’t breathe-”

“Oh, sorry sorry.”

Aria was put back down on her feet, but Mark’s arms didn’t leave her middle, choosing instead to tug the girl into a hug. “You kept disappearing, I thought-”

Mark hissed in pain when Aria pinched his hip. “You’re such an idiot.”

“What?”

“You know you can talk to me?”

His cheeks flushed pink.

Luckily, Lucas saved him from the conversation, pulling Aria out from Mark’s arms and into his own. This hug was more violent, and Aria was lifted and swung around in a circle once, twice, before demanding to be put back down.

“We’re in a group together!” Lucas was beaming down at her, and Aria couldn’t help but to grin back. “Yeah we are!”

“Group hug!” Ten yelled, and suddenly Aria found herself in a tangle of Mark and Taeyong and Lucas and Ten’s arms, the four boys hugging her tightly.

Aria laughed, trying her level best to fit them all in her own hug. They stood there for a minute, arms entangled in a rather terrible mimicry of a knotted ball of yarn.

“Ah hyung, they’re so cute.”

Taeyong coughed, and the five-person cuddle unraveled quickly.

Aria spun around to see Taemin, Baekhyun and Kai all standing together on the opposite side of the room. Taemin had a fond look on his face, while Baekhyun had his tongue caught between his teeth to stave off a smile.

“Not to ruin the moment or anything, but does anyone know where our choreographer is?” Jongin peered down at his phone. “It’s been twenty minutes, are we in the right room?”

Aria cleared her throat.

“Uh, about that bit.”

Mark’s head snapped over so quickly he might have given himself whiplash. “Ari?”

“I might? Be your choreographer?” The statement came out more like a question, and Aria spread her hands out in front of her. “Believe me, I’m not quite sure how that one happened either, but if it’s going to be a problem I really have no issue with, like, not doing it? I know I’m the youngest and I don’t want to be rude or anything I-”

Mark tackled her in another hug. Aria was pretty sure her ribs were going to be bruised after this.

“Literally shut up.”

“But!”

“Shut up!”

“You’ll do a great job, Aria.” Baekhyun smiled over at the younger girl. “Do you have anything prepped, or have you heard the song yet?”

Aria shuffled awkwardly. “I have something? It’s only a rough draft really, and obviously its subject to change because, well you’re all here and whatever suits you best is the best option so,” She took a breath. Taeyong slid over to put a hand on her back, but said nothing, still waiting for one of the older members to take the lead.

“Can you show us? None of us have seen the demo yet, just Jongin.” Taemin grumbled, poking the boy in question in the stomach. Jongin flicked him back.

“Uh, yeah? Yeah, I can do that.”

“Wait wait, Ari. Is that what you were talking to Sooman about?” Mark caught her wrist to stop her from leaving the practice room. She had lost the hoodie a few hours ago, and her hair was pulled back into a sad looking ponytail. Tired and weary, all she wanted to do was take a hot shower and spend the next three hours with her face buried in her pillow.

But Mark’s question made her stop. “Uh, yeah. Yeah he just wanted to talk to me about my, responsibilities in the group, so to speak.”

If Mark was a little less exhausted and a little more alert, he would have caught the odd phrasing, but he was a lot more exhausted and a lot less alert than on a regular day, so it flew right over his head.

“Ari, that’s incredible. I’m so proud of you.” He went to pull her into another hug.

“No! Ew get off what’s with you today! Why’re you so cuddly, get off get off you’re gross and sweaty.” She knocked her hands against his chest to try and get him to move away.

“I’m just proud of you~” He sang, swaying her back and forth. “Was gonna miss you if you didn’t sign with us. ‘Dunno what to do without you in my team.”

Aria’s protests died down slowly, and her fists stopped to rest on his chest. She snorted once, poking him in the chest. “Don’t lie, you just didn’t want to be the maknae, you can’t fool me.”

“No~” Mark continued to whine. “Really, was gonna miss you.”

“Okay, okay, you big baby. I’m not going anywhere - you’re going to have to try harder than that to get rid of me. Now let go, I want a shower.”

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spencers-renaissance · 3 years

Text

I found my way home

Summary: After Spencer tells Hotch about his recent autism diagnosis, he expects that to be the end of it. Somehow, though, it keeps coming up, and Hotch keeps proving himself to be the best father figure he could have asked for.

Tags: autistic spencer, protective hotch, hurt/comfort, fluff, paternal hotch, team as family

TW: mentions of ableism, one small instance of ableism & homophobia

Pairing: Gen

Word Count: 4.1k

Masterlist // Read on AO3

This was borne from my conversations with @criminalmindsvibez about the lack of autistic spencer fics and her amazing headcanons. While I'm not autistic, Emily is, and helped me to portray Spencer's autism as accurately as possible. That said, please feel free to correct me on anything I got wrong :)

Spencer had made an effort to get into work even earlier than usual today. He’d ridden the metro through the city, dipping his hand into his messenger bag every few minutes to compulsively check that the slim letter he’d received in the post the other day is still in the front pocket where he’d safely placed it that morning. He brushes his fingers over the paper once more as he enters the near-empty bullpen, the letter cool from the winter air.

It’s still so surreal to him that this is where he works. After years of dreaming of working for the FBI he’s finally here, and even though it’s been his place of work for almost two months now, he’s still not used to it. The warm offices are a nice reprieve from the wintry December wind, and he can feel himself relaxing as he heads to his desk. Leaving his coat and messenger bag on his chair, he pulls the letter out of the front pocket and runs his index finger along the edge. He finds himself biting his bottom lip as he tries to work up the courage to go and see Hotch.

Sucking in a deep breath, he marches determinedly up to Hotch’s office, entering as soon as his knocks are answered.

“Reid,” Hotch says pleasantly as he takes a seat opposite his desk, realising belatedly that he probably should have waited until he was invited. “You’re in early. What can I do for you?”

Nervously, Spencer hands him the letter he’d couriered across the city so carefully. He’d taken care to open it neatly with his letter opener but the return address on the back has been stamped at a crooked angle, and it bothers him every time he notices it. He can’t stop looking at it now as he taps his fingers anxiously against his leg in the pattern of the Fibonacci sequence, a safe and familiar reassurance played out by his nervous fingers. He watches apprehensively as Hotch pulls the letter out of the envelope, unfolding it and skimming his eyes down the page, taking in the news Spencer’s been so anxious to share with him.

Diagnosis: Asperger’s Syndrome

God, it had been a long process. He’d had to seek out a doctor in DC who diagnosed adults, paid for all the consultations and diagnostics himself — his insurance certainly wouldn’t cover it, not that he’d feel comfortable using his cushy FBI insurance for something so personal anyway — and the whole process had taken far longer than he’d expected. Finally, though, the envelope had arrived in the mail, and he officially had a diagnosis.

Of course, he’d had his suspicions for years, especially after one of his professors during his second PhD had casually asked whether he’d ever been tested, planting a seed in his brain that led to many late nights in the library, reading all the literature available to him. It’s why he’d found it strange that it had felt so validating to finally receive that letter in the post. But it had.

The label made sense, and now that he had a diagnosis from a medical professional he felt comfortable to share it with others; he’d been far too paranoid about being questioned, not being believed or lectured about the evils of self-diagnosis no matter how he was confident in himself. He didn’t tend to be an insecure or self-conscious person, but after years of bullying and trauma surrounding what he now knew for sure to be his autistic traits, he couldn’t help but feel almost protective of his affirming label.

Now though, it’s an irrefutable statement. Dr Spencer Reid has autism, and the first person he wants to tell is Hotch.

“I had no idea you were getting tested, Reid,” Hotch says, a hint of surprise bleeding into his voice. “Is there any specific reason you wanted to share this with me?”

“Well… I felt like someone on the team should know,” Spencer starts carefully, afraid to give too much of himself away, “and I thought that someone in a leadership position was the best option. Gideon has never been very… supportive of my autistic traits or behaviour, so I thought that you— that you would be the best option.” He feels awkward, fidgeting in his chair as he watches Hotch’s serious face and kind eyes absorb the information.

“That trust in me means a lot, Reid,” he says, a rare smile making its way onto his face. In that moment, Spencer knows he made the right decision. “How can I make things easier for you? Is there anything you need me to be doing differently?”

“Uh—” He hadn’t really been anticipating that question and it catches him off guard: he’d predicted a quick nod of acknowledgement, a request to photocopy the letter so it can be put on file followed by a swift dismissal, but the letter is now sitting on his side of the desk: clearly, Hotch intends on keeping this between them. This is far from what he expected.

“Why don’t you start by telling me about autism and how it might affect your work?” Hotch corrects himself, recognising quickly Spencer’s need for specifics. “I’ll admit I don’t know much beyond some probably rather unhelpful stereotypes.”

Spencer nods. He can answer that question. “As everyone knows I often go off on tangents,” he begins, “and that’s because my special interests — or hyperfixations — often coincide with our work, so I know a lot about the topics we’re investigating. If I do that, just redirect me to the case and I’ll be fine. It’s also really hard for me to have to present myself in a certain way all the time. Vocal stims and gestures are the most satisfying to me but I often have to mask them, which I’ve never been very good at anyway, and it’s fairly exhausting. That’s why I often excuse myself; I go to the bathroom or a secluded hallway and stim on my own. My doctor also told me I tend to overcompensate in social situations and over-perform emotion. Those are the basics, I guess, but it’s a very complex disorder and since it makes up me as a human being, I can’t exactly explain all of it in one conversation.”

“No, that’s fine, Reid, you’ve given me a good picture of what to expect, thank you.” Hotch smiles at him, fondness in the crinkles around his eyes and the softness invading his usually stern expression. “First of all, you never have to feel like you need to excuse yourself to stim. Do you think it would be helpful if we told the rest of the team so they know what to expect? I’m assuming vocal stims are saying certain words or making sounds…?”

Spencer nods.

“Okay, so if you needed to do that we could just continue the conversation while you get it out of your system. Gestures certainly wouldn’t be a problem. How do you feel about that?”

He hadn’t really considered telling the rest of the team but it seemed sort of intimidating, like he’d be opening a vulnerable side of himself to people he didn’t even know that well. On the other hand, they’d all been so understanding of his quirks and odd behaviour so far without even knowing the reason behind it. He’d never once been made to feel the way he used to at school, forced to either pretend to be someone else completely or be isolated and ostracised.

He settles for, “I’ll think about it.”

“That’s fine. There’s no pressure,” Hotch assures him. “I’m very happy you told me, Reid. I hope you know you can come and talk to me about anything, whether it’s about this or something completely different.”

Spencer leaves his office with the letter back in his hands, no notes or copies having been made, feeling almost elated. Never in a million years would he have expected that to go so well.

⭐️

He doesn’t really expect it to come up again. He’d told Hotch so that he could understand him a bit better, and also because Hotch had quickly assumed a protective, almost paternal role in his life and he wanted to share the piece of news with him whether he was leading his department or not. That was supposed to be it, though, he didn't think anything would materially change, especially since he decided not to tell the team about the diagnosis just yet.

But almost immediately after he’d told Hotch his diagnosis, his rambles began to be gently redirected back to the case, sometimes without him even noticing. He wasn’t rudely cut off by anyone anymore, Hotch always steering him back on course before anyone else can jump in and hurt Spencer’s feelings. It’s so… kind that it almost feels foreign, and he finds himself gravitating towards the older man more and more, sitting next to him on every jet journey and staying glued to his side during cases.

His newfound protectiveness over Spencer is only demonstrated more clearly a few months after their conversation in Hotch’s office when they’re on their way to New Mexico for a case. The second he spots that the murder victims had all been found with different Fitzgerald quotes scrawled on sheets of paper found in their own personal notebooks, ripped out and left for investigating officers to find, he launches into an info-dump to rival info-dumps.

He can’t help that literature is a special interest of his, made all the more intense by the fond childhood memories of reading to his mother in her bed. Fitzgerald had been her favourite author of the Modern Era, and he’d spent hours analysing significant passages in his novels as a child, so he starts explaining the literary merit of each of the quotes left at the crime scenes.

Apparently, he doesn’t hear the first two times Hotch tries to direct him back on topic, but he hears it when Gideon shouts, “Spencer! Long and unnecessary tangents are not conducive to actually solving these cases. Get back on topic. Now.” He’s loud enough to briefly knock him back several decades to memories of his father screaming at his mother’s schizophrenic babbling, when she’d become convinced that the villains of her favourite novels were trying to break into the house.

Spencer stops mid-sentence and stares at Gideon, who is staring right back. Everyone’s watching the two awkwardly, but the short moment of silence is quickly broken by Hotch. “There is absolutely no need to be that rude, Jason,” he says disapprovingly, while he lays a hand on Spencer’s arm in a light, absent-minded sort of touch. “Reid may have been off-topic but he deserves respect just like everyone else on this team. Nobody needs to be shouted at like that.” He directs his attention back to Spencer. “Why don’t you tell us how those Fitzgerald quotes could help us solve the case, Reid?”

He gives him an encouraging look, and when he looks around the jet, everyone else is, too. Carefully, he starts speaking again, a little afraid of being cut off again, but after a few sentences of relevant explanation he regains his momentum. It’s more than a little vindicating when it’s his ‘unnecessary tangent’ that ends up being the key to cracking the case.

⭐️

Soon after Hotch’s split from Haley, he approaches Spencer one evening when they’re the only two left at the office with a dinner invitation. Within the hour, they walk into a nice, low-key Italian place in the city and take a seat in the far corner of the restaurant.

“Is everything okay?” Spencer asks a little uncertainly, confused as to why his boss is suddenly taking him for dinner.

“I had this idea almost as soon as you told me about your autism,” Hotch explains, knowing by now that preambles and niceties only frustrate Spencer instead of setting him at ease. “I wanted to take you out for dinner every week to try and give you a space to ramble about all your special interests and not feel like you have to mask around everyone. But when I was with Haley, all my personal time was obviously spent with her and Jack. Now, I have the time to dedicate to you and all the incredible knowledge you’re hoarding in that brain of yours.”

“Really?” Spencer asks excitedly. The idea of uninhibited space to talk about the recent knowledge he’s acquired and not have to feel insecure or worry about performing social skills he doesn’t see the point of is everything he’s ever wished for, and something so wonderful being provided by Hotch only makes it better.

“Really.”

Spencer wastes no time. He dives right in. “I was just watching a documentary the other day about volcanoes and their ability to trigger lightning storms with their voltage,” he begins. “Basically, magma rises toward the volcano’s surface, its water rapidly turns to vapor, which shatters the molten rock into tiny particles and creates charged particles. When the ash plume erupts into the atmosphere, the densely packed particles collide, driven by momentum. Friction then affects their electrons, becoming electrically charged. Positively and negatively charged electrons separate in the ash plume which creates a charge imbalance that builds an electric charge strong enough to trigger a lightning storm.”

“That’s incredible.”

“I know,” Spencer says excitedly. “If the ash plume rises high enough in the atmosphere ice forms, and when ice, hail, and supercooled liquid droplets collide, the rates of lightning explode, it’s crazy.”

They’re briefly interrupted by a waitress taking their orders, but as soon as she leaves, Hotch gets him to jump back in. “What about that lecture you attended last week… the literature of 18th Century England or something?”

“19th Century English Lit, yeah!” He’s so eager to finally share this with somebody who will genuinely listen to him, and he can’t help it when his arms start to flap excitedly. Remembering where he is, he doesn’t try to mask it, pin his arms to his sides and simply deal with and suppress the innate urge to stim, he lets his body do what it wants to. Instead of eliciting a strange, sideways look, Hotch just smiles fondly.

“The lecturer had this fascinating theory on Dickens. I’ve always seen him as a pretty straight forward author of picaresque fiction, obviously combined with facets of melodrama. And it’s common knowledge that he was inspired by the novel of sensibility, of course. But I’d never thought about the stylistic and lexical choices in his works beyond standard analysis, and this lecturer went on a deep dive into his use of collocation and it opened my eyes…”

He spends the whole evening stimming to his heart’s content while detailing every current interest of his to Hotch, who simply listened intently while eating his meal slowly, dragging out the meal for as long as Spencer needed. “Let me give you a lift home,” Hotch insists after footing the bill, leading him out into the warm evening air.

“Oh, I don’t mind taking the metro,” he replies truthfully.

“I know. But it would make me feel better to drop you home safely. It’s late and seeing you into your apartment building would give me peace of mind.”

“Sure,” Spencer agrees happily, he’s still buzzing from such a nice evening and the least he can do for Hotch is let him rest easy tonight, so he climbs into the passenger side of his car. A few minutes into the car ride home, he realises he should probably actually verbalise just how much he enjoyed dinner. “Thank you, Hotch. I don’t think anybody’s ever done something so nice for me before.”

“Don’t mention it, Spencer,” Hotch replies, smiling even though he doesn’t take his eyes off the road. Spencer very much likes it when Hotch uses his first name, and he’d been doing it all evening. He doesn’t really understand why it feels so nice, just that it makes him feel… special, maybe.

“Don’t mention it, Spencer,” he repeats, before freezing as he realises what he’s said. He’s got so used to not masking all evening, he’s not in the right rhythm and mindset to suppress the urge to repeat Hotch’s words. He’s been so nice the whole evening, the last thing Spencer wants is for Hotch to think he’s mocking him.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Hotch reassures him, tapping his arm lightly as he smiles encouragingly.

“Don’t mention it, Spencer,” he says again, repeating it a few times in relief before the itch is satisfied. He really does have the best boss/friend in the whole world. There’s no doubt about that.

⭐️

Rossi’s initial reaction to Spencer had admittedly been a bit rocky, and having Hotch undeniably on his side was the only thing that made those first few months bearable. He never let them go off on their own; never put Spencer in a position where he’d have to be alone with him. Gradually, though, Rossi adjusted to his quirks and he became almost as protective of Spencer as Hotch.

That doesn’t bode well for the local sheriff when they’re on a case in North Carolina. He’s been prickly since they arrived, being as stubborn and uncooperative as possible, slowing down their progress on actually solving the case, and Spencer’s noticed him being a little extra rude to him in particular. It doesn’t massively bother him — it’s not exactly like someone’s aversion to him is a novel concept — but he can feel some sort of tension coming from the others. It happens a lot more now that they know about his autism and are more aware of themselves and others.

He tries to ignore it the best he can; he puts his head down and focuses on the geographical profile, going wherever he’s sent. Besides, the sooner they solve this case the sooner they can get out of North Carolina and back to DC. On their third day on the case, he’s working quietly in their designated corner of the police department alongside Hotch and Rossi while the others are out investigating in various different places. It’s a nice environment, and even though both men are his superiors, he feels more relaxed in their company than in anybody else’s.

It’s a relatively pleasant morning — considering the whole trying to catch a brutal serial killer thing — until they need to ask the sheriff a question. He saunters over, a tense and angry expression on his face, and Spencer can’t help but feel a little off, the confusing tension in the air that Spencer can’t quite identify making him anxious in his inability to properly decipher it. “Gentlemen,” he says, already frustrated. Spencer suspects it’s a pride thing; not many police departments like being shown up enough to have the FBI called in.

Eager to know the answer to their question, Spencer’s the one to jump in and ask. “Sheriff, we were just wondering whether the town gets much traffic from the local university or—”

He’s cut off by the sneering, towering man. “I’m not taking any questions from your kind,” he says aggressively.

“I’m sorry?” Spencer squeaks as Rossi and Hotch both prepare to say something in response.

The sheriff cuts them off before they can get their likely diplomatic and calming words out. “Homo retards aren’t welcome around here.”

“Hey!” Rossi shouts as he leaps out of the chair, grabbing him by the collar as he’s helped by the element of surprise. “You don’t fucking talk to Spencer like that, you hear me? Weak, cowardly men like you—”

“Dave,” Hotch says placatingly, putting a hand on his shoulder and diffusing the situation. “Listen, Sheriff, we are only here to help you. But if you can’t respect my agents then we’re going to have a problem. Either you’re civil to Dr Reid, or I’m reporting you to the NC Sheriff’s Association. You hear me?”

The sheriff’s pride is clearly wounded, but he at least nods before giving them all a scornful look and walking away.

“We didn’t even get to ask the question,” Spencer says anxiously, suddenly feeling out of his depth, like he can’t quite get enough air.

“Dave, try and get an answer,” Hotch directs, taking charge of the situation. “Spencer, come with me.” He takes him into a secluded hallway for a little privacy, sitting him down on the cool linoleum before sinking down next to him. “You’re okay.”

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” Spencer whispers over and over to himself as he rocks backwards and forwards, trying desperately to self-soothe.

“Do you want me to touch you?” Hotch asks. He’s been in enough of these situations with Spencer to know he’s usually in two very different headspaces: he either longingly craves the grounding touch of a hug or a hand on his back, or he needs complete space. He’s also learned that asking outright is the only way to get an direct answer.

“Yes,” Spencer replies, before repeating it over and over again as he’s wrapped up in Hotch’s arms, head pressed against his chest, his hand pressing gently against the back of Spencer’s head. He starts to calm down as he manages to breathe to the heat of Hotch’s calm, steady heartbeat, the comforting touch of someone he trusts with his life also helping to bring him back down to earth. A good ten minutes after the altercation with the sheriff, he’s feeling much better and brings his head out of it’s safe cocoon between Hotch’s chest and hand.

“Come on,” Hotch says kindly. “Let’s get back to the case, yeah? You can just sit and work quietly until you’re ready to hold a proper conversation again. How does that sound?”

Spencer nods tiredly, knowing that work will perk him back up again, and being surrounded by his team will make him feel safe, asshole sheriff or not.

⭐️

Over the years Hotch helps him through any hurdles that come his way, learning the exact nuances of Spencer’s characteristics and requirements, making sure to accommodate him in every way possible.

He brings an extra, super-soft sweater in his go-bag in case Spencer ever forgets his and needs something gentle on his skin but tight enough to make him feel secure. He buys him stimming toys, dropping them on Spencer’s desk before he even arrives at work and lets him use his office whenever the lights and noise of the bullpen get too much, drawing the blinds and giving him the space he needs. Rossi doesn’t even question it anymore when Hotch shows up with a stack of paperwork and moves into his office for the morning.

It wasn’t until Hotch made a concerted effort to make his life easier that Spencer realised how hard it had been fighting through life on his own. So when he realises Hotch’s birthday is coming up, he decides he wants to show his gratitude. It’s never been easy for him to express emotions, especially since he’s never really found it rude when people don’t thank him, but he knows that for most neurotypical people, appreciation is important.

So he talks it over with Derek and on Hotch’s birthday, he comes into work to see Spencer waiting in his office with balloons, a cake, a card, and a present. He’d spent hours trying to find the right words to explain how he feels, to find the right words to show Hotch just how much everything he’s done for him means, but eventually he’d settled on something simple:

Caroline B Cooney wrote: “I found my family. I found the right thing to do. I found my way home.”

I found all of these things when I joined the BAU, but more specifically when I walked into your office, hands shaking, clasping a letter I’d been waiting for all my life. Thank you.

Hotch reads it with tears in his eyes before taking in the cake, a classic birthday cake Spencer had bought at the store, the words “Happy Birthday Dad” written in blue icing. He didn’t really understand why the cake had stood out to him, or why he associated the word ‘dad’ with someone who wasn’t related to him at all, but he’d trusted his gut and with Derek’s cheerleading, he’d bought it.

“Oh, Spencer,” Hotch says tearfully. “Can I hug you?”

Feeling only mildly uncomfortable at the visible display of emotion Spencer doesn’t know what to do with, he nods and steps into Hotch’s comforting embrace. “This means the world to me,” Hotch murmurs quietly as he stands, hugging Spencer for as long as the younger man can stand it.

Spencer’s still not completely sure why he’s managed to make him so emotional, but at least he can trust that it’s a good thing, that Hotch is happy and pleased and reassured. And if he can make him feel even a smidgen as happy as Hotch has made Spencer over the years, well. He’ll consider his long and boring trip into the city to buy the cake, present and card worth it.

Quick Note: Spencer is diagnosed with Asperger’s because that part of the fic is set in 2005. These days he would be diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD)

taglist: @criminalmindsvibez @strippersenseii

#criminal minds #criminal minds writing #criminal minds fic #spencer reid #aaron hotchner #hotch & spencer #spencer #hotch #my writing #autistic spencer reid #autistic spencer #dad hotch

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