#listen I had something INTERESTING with them

[sunspotpony]

I am very much of the opinion too that unless your execution and justification to use the terms as we use them in our modern world is done with profound skill, it ultimately weakens a piece of fantasy, makes it feel shoehorned in, and gives shitheel conservatives who want to yell about “woke bingo” a thing to point at and make those who are, unfamiliar, but not part of the far right crowd, more likely to listen to the far right crowd.

If you have a nuanced explanation that fits within lore as to why those words are used, then it actually has the opposite effect.

I’m of two minds, two, because, on the one hand, cool fantasy words and narrative justification for things is excellent, on the other hand, having the Specific Words in there, might literally just save somebody’s life.

It gives them not just a concept from a story to latch onto, but gives them a piece of culture that they can look up and find the history and community in, or if they already identify with those words, to see it spoken or written unabashedly in media, can be deeply validating and healing.

So I do think in many cases, the best of both worlds is to have it explained, in narrative, why they have chosen the [modern words] they have chosen, both because of the above effect, and also because by giving an explanation, you are removing the risk of a particular piece of work being extremely dated.

Sadly I cannot recall the book it was from, as it was long ago, but to introduce the reader to current real world events that were taking place in the 60s (when the book was written, as well) the protagonist walked in on her brother and his friends sitting on their shitty couch arguing about current events. It this simultaneously placed the book in time, yes, but also informed the reader

1. About the characters.

2. About what was going on in the world.

3. About what the community cared about.

Such that, as a result, the story wasn’t dated at all, but instead the reader was invited in to that place and time, regardless of where they were from, and made to see cultural context that may otherwise have been jarring.

I will say, an example of, what at first glance seems to be done quite poorly, but after looking into it, I’m actually willing to give some of its clumsy writing a pass, is Dragon Age 4’s nonbinary character, whose story is about being an outsider to their own culture, not being initially accepted by even their mother, and their anger at not having a concept of their own identity and how they fit into the world. They are surly and childish until they realize how they fit in, that the things they have been saddled with as expectations because of the when, what as, and to whom they were born. and while the writing could have justified the use of “nonbinary” more effectively, there’s enough good context that it’s actually probably fucking saved some lives. The slop dialogue quality is still hamfisted and makes me a little angry, but, probably saved some lives.

Now, fuck EA and BioWare. Don’t give them any money. But, it was an interesting example case where we see the modern words used in a fantasy setting in a nuanced and valuable way, albeit with questionable dialogue used to express it.

If there’s no way to KEEP a modern term from seeming out of place, another solid approach is to have a character use the term, be met with some confusion about such an oddly specific and “academic” sounding phrase, possibly receive some good natured ribbing from their peers, and then have them explain that, they had to pick SOMETHING, and that it’s important to them that, other people understand them and have SOMETHING, to have SOME WORD for it.

Because that’s actually also an echo of the experience of many modern day queerfolk, where it’s, there’s not necessarily a graceful or cool sounding word for what they are, but they NEED a word. A word is an anchor that possibly saved their lives or helped crystallize their understanding of the self, and other people might not understand, but the good ones don’t NEED to understand— they just respect.

Anyway, Hideo Kojima is responsible for the first case of the word “bisexual” explicitly appearing and being acknowledged n a console game and further, being spoken aloud by a video game character. And that, again, probably saved some lives.

I think there is some power and value in using The Words Themselves. But there’s a time and a place, and it must be done elegantly.

And sometimes indeed it’s just FUN to explore world building, because it also helps cast into clear view the arbitrariness of our concepts of gender and sexuality for example, and gives people who might not have otherwise been given the opportunity to think beyond what we have right now.

TLDR we need both. Both are cool and good for different reasons.

I have autism, adhd, and am tired as fuck, so there’s your fuckin ramblepost bc I’m too damn fucked up to write shorter.

Deal with it.

It's very #problematic of me I'm sure but if they must do either I really desperately prefer authors coming up with fancy always-italicized elven words for being gay or trans than having preindustrial warrior aristocrats and barely-socialized monsters have a vocabulary that casually includes 'demisexual' and 'enby'.

This is only slightly a principled stance (queernorm fantasy worlds are very obviously not trying to have any sort of realistic political economy of gender, which I only slightly judge them for), mostly just painful aesthetic mismatch.

[prythianpages]

Jealousy, Jealousy | Eris x Reader

Eris x Reader | Eris finds himself comforting you after a failed attempt at a courtship.

a/n: This takes place before Down to You and also before UTM. I forgot UTM was a thing lol. A little over 4K words. I had no idea what to name this one and Olivia Rodrigo's song came on and I said, you know what...hell yeah. Also, Autumn Court gives me Bridgerton vibes so I kind of wrote a crossover of that in here (hello Lord Debling lol.)

warnings: courtship politics, mild angst, eris does his best at comforting

The Forest House was always its brightest this time of the year.

Amber light flickered from thousands of lanterns strung between the ancient trees. Crimson leaves danced through the air like confetti with every breeze. The air was rich with many scents– roasted nuts, cinnamon, and sweet wine. The start of the fall festival had always been a week-long celebration, but the opening ball was its jewel. 

A lavish affair that promised happy stomachs, dancing, gossip, and opportunity.

You tugged at the bodice of your dress, the one your mother had bought you just for tonight. It was cut a touch too low yet still modest enough to pass Autumn’s standards. The color was a deep shade of red that glimmered when you moved, accentuated by the gold jewelry you wore. Your mother claimed it brought out your eyes. Your father, on the other hand, had not been so happy to splurge on the dress.  

"You're not getting any younger, girl. Best catch someone before you're left to rot in the library with your old books,” he had muttered.

So you smiled, lifted your chin, and straightened your spine—just as you were taught in etiquette class. Despite the weight of tonight’s expectations, court events like this have always been your favorite. You spent them mingling with noble ladies, exchanging gossip while quietly collecting information, and dancing with Autumn’s eligible bachelors as you surveyed your ever-shifting pool of prospects.

Your eyes scanned the grounds. You weren’t looking for him but your eyes found him regardless.

Eris Vanserra.

He was leaning against a table in conversation with one of Autumn’s lower ranking generals. His expression was unreadable. Of course it was. It always was when out in public. It was only when you were tangled together in secret that you’d catch glimpses of the real Eris.  

But this wasn’t a night for Eris. No, tonight you were the daughter of a noble lord and you were determined to find a potential prospect. Your head turned and your gaze landed on an older male. 

Lord Debling. 

He had been married once, years ago—left a widower far too soon when his young wife succumbed to an illness not long after their wedding. She hadn't had the chance to give him an heir, something you knew he wanted, given his rising age. Though much older than you, he seemed pleasant and kind-eyed. You’d spoken with him before, listened to his stories of his travels across Prythian and his love for studying birds.

He smiled at you as you made your way toward him. The look he gave you was detached but impressed. Still, it was one of the kinder, more respectful looks you’d received tonight. You’d danced with him at other balls, charmed your way into his good graces by asking thoughtful questions about all his interests. With all the gossip swirling around Autumn, gathering information on him had been laughably easy. Piquing his interest? Even easier.

He always asked you for a dance if he saw you. You probably danced with him more than you had with Eris or any of the Vanserra brothers. You shook your head at the thought, not wanting to cloud your thoughts when you had a game to play. Even if Eris was—

No.

Focus, you told yourself, willing a smile to your face as you politely greeted Lord Debling.

”You’re breathtaking tonight, Lady y/n.”

”Only tonight?” 

Lord Debling’s dark eyes widened in mild panic. “No—that’s not what I meant. You’re always beautiful—you’re—“

“Thank you,” you said, voice gentle and sweet so as to not offend the interruption.

His eyes eased, a blush on his face. You liked how easy he was to fluster. “Would you honor me with a dance, my dear?” he asked, much more confident, offering his arm.

“How could I possibly say no to your Lordship?” you replied, slipping your hand into the crook of his elbow. “I was hoping you’d ask. I find myself enjoying your company.”

He chuckled, guiding you to the floor. “You say that now, but wait until I start detailing the mating rituals of the bowerbirds. Fascinating creatures. The males can be quite creative when it comes to attracting their mates.’”

“Creative, are they?” you said, tilting your head. “How so?”

Lord Debling’s eyes lit up, the two of you continuing to dance. “Well, the males spend days building elaborate structures. They’re called bowers, hence the name. The males decorate them with anything shiny or colorful they can find. All to impress a female.”

“Shiny trinkets and elaborate displays to woo a mate? Sounds awfully familiar, don’t you think?”

“You think the males of our courts are comparable?”

“Oh, hardly. It seems the bowerbird at least puts in the effort.” You leaned in just slightly, voice lower as the song slowed down. “Some lords think a title alone should do the work.”

Lord Debling laughed, the sound low and genuine. Just as you suspected he would. He spun you around as the song came to an end. Then, he leaned in with a small smile.  “And what would impress you, Lady Y/n? A tower of pretty pebbles? A hall of flowers?”

You pretended to ponder, lips curving. “Mm, perhaps—”

“Pardon me, Debling.”

A new voice slid between you like a blade.

Jayce Vanserra.

He stepped forward just as the orchestra transitioned to a new song, not even bothering to look at you. “May I?”

It wasn’t a question. His tone was clipped with that familiar Vanserra command. Lord Debling hesitated for a blink but then, he dipped his head and stepped aside with a polite, if somewhat tight, smile.

You barely had time to say anything before Jayce's hand claimed yours and his other settled on your waist with a grip just a touch too firm. He swept you into the next dance with ease.

“I wasn’t aware you were in the market for a husband,” he said, voice low but pointed.

“A lady of my age and standing is always in the market for a husband,” you responded with a slightly tense smile. “I find it wise to keep good company at events such as these.”

Jayce let out a laugh and your stomach twisted with unease. “And you consider Debling good company?”

“I consider him kind,” you replied, your words genuine. 

“Kind?” he repeated, as if tasting the word and finding it bland. “That’s what you’re after in a husband? Kindness?”

His gaze flicked toward where Lord Debling now stood, politely nodding as a cluster of noblewomen swarmed him. You followed the look and frowned faintly, feeling your heart sink a little. You’d worked to build a window with Debling, and now you worried it was closing.

Jayce noticed.

He leaned in just a little, his breath grazing your temple as he steered you into another turn. You were keenly aware of every inch between your bodies, how he narrowed it on purpose. “How terribly sweet,” he said. “Though I’d imagine a woman like you would want… more.”

You tilted your head, meeting his gaze with careful composure. It was strange. He shared Eris’s calculating gaze but none of the practiced control or subtle restraint in his eyes. How could two brothers share something in common yet be so different from one another.

“More?” you echoed softly, teetering on the edge of a dangerous game. 

One you hadn’t expected to play tonight. Sure, you had shared some words and dances with Jayce before. But they had always been curt and polite, formalities given your father’s position in his father’s inner circle.

“Kindness is what you settle for,” he said, voice dipped in disdain. “Debling’s a weak-hearted male who is more interested in feathers and bird chirping. He gives away smiles and flattery like sweets. Me? I don’t hand out crumbs of affection.”

You didn’t respond, didn’t trust yourself to speak. His presence pressed in, too close for your comfort. And though he must’ve seen the discomfort in your eyes, he didn’t stop.

“I don’t waste time on flowers or flattering lies,” he went on, his hand flexing ever so slightly on your waist. “I take what I want and I know how to keep it.”

Your feet stumbled, breath hitching in your throat. He caught you with ease, pulling you steady, almost as if he had been expecting it.

“Kindness doesn’t win wars. Doesn’t keep a woman safe or warm or fed. What I can offer, the security, the name–” he leaned closer, the heat of his words brushing your skin. “… is actually worth having.”

He paused, letting that implication hang in the air. Panic rippled through you. Jayce Vanserra was not a male to be courted and definitely not one you wanted to entertain at all. He was charming to a point but overall, dangerous and unpredictable. The least favorable of the single Vanserra brothers. 

You gathered yourself. Just barely. “Pardon if this comes off as rash, my Lord,” you said with forced grace, “but I wasn’t aware you were in the market for a wife.”

Jayce’s lips curled up into a smirk, smug and slow. “I suppose I am on the same page as you. A male of my age and standing is also always on the market for a wife.”

The song finally came to an end.

Jayce released you but his hand lingered at your waist just long enough to make your skin crawl. He stepped back with a shallow, almost mocking bow. You returned the gesture, much more graceful and polite, despite the fear coursing through your veins.

”Thank you for the dance, my Lord,” you murmured, gaze low.

“You should be careful, Lady Y/n,” he said and you could hear the sickening smirk in his tone. “Pretty things attract attention…but not all attention is safe.”

You turned, desperately needing a breath and some good distance between you and Jayce. As you made your way toward the refreshment table, your heart still skittering, your eyes met a familiar pair of amber ones.

Eris.

He stood across the room, half-turned in conversation. His gaze was already fixed on you. There was a flicker of concern there. One that held you still for a heartbeat and then you were blinking, turning your head away.

You feared if you kept gazing into those eyes, it’d be your undoing.

**

You were seated in the breakfast room, the clink of silverware the only sound breaking the stiff silence every now and then. Your father didn’t bother looking up from the morning dispatch, letting out a small exhale that had your mother’s teacup pausing in mid-air.

“Well,” he said curtly, “it seems you’ve lost Lord Debling.”

Your stomach sank. “What?”

Your mother set down her cup slowly. “Lady Selene’s daughter has managed to secure his attention. And quite swiftly, too. I imagine he didn't waste time once he heard you were otherwise occupied.”

“Occupied?” you repeated, barely able to keep your voice steady.

Your father folded the paper and finally looked at you, his expression unreadable but not kind. “Word is, Lord Jayce Vanserra has shown interest. But more importantly, there are rumors you’ve returned it.”

“That’s not true,” you said quickly, heat rushing to your cheeks. Your mind whirled back to memories from last night. Had you somehow led him on?  “I—”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s true,” your mother interrupted, her tone sharp and gaze hardened in disappointment. “Selene’s daughter made use of it. She claimed she’d heard from you yourself. Debling, of course, took the hint.”

You stared at them, wide eyed for a moment. You then looked down at the poached egg on your plate, no longer having the appetite for it.

Your father’s eyes narrowed and you felt them boring into you.  “Honestly, if you were going to entertain a Vanserra, couldn’t you have picked the right one?”

The blood drained from your face. “The right—?”

“The heir,” your mother said bluntly, not even bothering to look up from buttering her toast. “If you’re determined to aim for a Vanserra, at least let it be one who comes with a greater title. Not the reckless younger son with no sense and worse impulse. I’d say even the one with a rumored gambling addiction would be a better option…”

You swallowed hard, mouth dry. They didn’t know. Of course they didn’t, you and Eris were discreet.

They didn’t know that the “right” one had already been yours in secret. That his hands had already memorized the shape of your hips, his mouth had kissed you like a man starved and his voice had gone hoarse when he whispered your name into the hollow of your throat–

You cleared your throat, keeping your gaze low. “I’m sorry,” you said softly, swallowing the ache blooming in your chest. “I’ll be more careful with those I entertain dances with next time.”

**

You stood in the center of one of the less frequented courtyards within the Forest house. One arm wrapped around yourself, the other holding a warm apple turnover. You bit into it hard, chewing furiously as you stared at the stone fountain long since run dry, eyes burning.

You couldn’t believe the turn of events. How for one moment, you had the prospect of a courtship. Something steady, something safe. And then the next, it was gone. Slipped through your fingers like sand, like so many other things in your life you weren’t allowed to hold. It stung more than you’d expected. Not because you had feelings for Lord Debling. Cauldron, no. It was that he offered a future you could live with.

And now, the only prospect you had at the moment was the wrong one.

You didn’t even want to think of his name, didn’t want to give it any power, as if that might make the idea go away.

Your thoughts, as they so often did when in need of a distraction, drifted to Eris.

The older brother. The heir. The one your parents would’ve been more inclined to accept, had he shown interest in you. And in some ways, he had… but only in secret. What existed between you and Eris had always been physical. A mutual need for release, a mutual understanding. There was an odd comfort in it, even a strange sort of friendship that had formed. 

Though, never anything more. It couldn’t be anything more.

Eris didn’t love. He didn’t court or make promises. You knew he had lovers before you, females who kept his bed warm at night but they were just…that. He’d leave when they’d start to get attached. You weren’t special and you would be no different. He gave you his body and company. 

But his future? You’d learned not to expect it. That would never be on the table.

So you’d often remind yourself not to get attached, not to hope for anything more. Because whatever it was you currently shared, it was…good. Good enough to keep craving, to keep wanting more. Even though, sometimes, you hated yourself for craving it.

Footsteps approached from behind, pulling you from your thoughts. They were too familiar not to recognize now. You didn’t turn. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be inside planning your wedding to my brother?” came Eris’s smooth, irritatingly amused voice.

You sighed, jaw tightening. “So you heard too, huh?”

You glanced over your shoulder and you couldn’t stop it–the way your heart fluttered at the sight.

Leaning in the shadow of the oak trees that bordered the courtyard’s edge, Eris looked every inch the heir to Autumn. Wearing red-and-gold armor, the polished breastplate caught the golden light of the late afternoon. His long red hair was damp with sweat, pushed back from his brow, a few stray strands curling where they brushed the metal of his shoulder.  

His gaze burned into you as he said flatly, “you’re not marrying him.”

You don’t know why you said it, why you got so defensive all of a sudden. The words slipped before you could think twice. “That’s not your decision to make.”

Eris arched his brow, amber eyes glinting in challenge. He moved closer, casually closing the distance until you could feel the heat radiating from his skin. His gaze flicked to your lips, and before you could react, he lifted a hand to brush a crumb from the corner of your mouth. 

“It can be,” he said quietly, his fingers lingering at your face.

Your brows furrowed in question, a sense of apprehensive relief taking hold over you. He must’ve sensed it himself because he added: “Don’t worry. Jayce likes pretty things as much as I do. But he gets bored easily. Just make sure not to outshine everyone at the next ball and he’ll forget he even offered you a proposal.”

You shoved his hand away and shot him a look. A half-glare, half something else entirely as his words stirred something in you. They brought some relief but they also made something tighten low in your stomach, your mind choosing to focus on the subtle compliment instead. And then, you cursed at yourself for letting that get to you. 

“Oh, come on,” Eris said with a grin. “Are you really moping over Lord Debling?”

“Why?” you snapped, heat rising to your cheeks. “Are you jealous?”

**

Eris chuckled. “No.”

A lie.

He had no claim to you. Still, the jealousy stirred in his chest all the same. He’d watched as you danced with others, as your smile lit up the ballroom in ways that made his throat tighten. He could’ve asked you for a dance. He’d done so before. But last night? Last night, in that new red dress of yours, you were stunning and radiant. He hadn’t trusted he’d be able to hold back if he got close to you. Another truth he would not give voice to.

“I don’t understand why you see it as a loss,” he said, tone casual and a bit careless. “An absent husband? Not much of a good life there.”  

What he meant was: What was so special about him anyway? 

And somewhere, deep down, a part of him also asked: what does that wretched male have that he doesn’t?

“It would’ve been a good life for me,” you replied quietly. “Maybe not perfect, but good. He would’ve traveled often, left me to manage his estate. I’d have the freedom to do as I pleased—read, plan and host household festivities. I’d give him an heir or two… or four.”

“Four?” Eris echoed, blinking.

“I can have the family I want,” you continued. “All sharing the same first letter to their name and close in age range so they’d look coordinated in family portraits.”

Eris nearly laughed. It sounded absurd. Delusional, even. And yet, there it was again, that same prickling jealousy.

“You’d be raising them alone,” he said, more bitterly than intended. “Doubt a male like him would halt his travels long enough to be a father. He’d probably love his birds more than his own kin.”

Lord Debling only wanted someone to carry his legacy as all males did. Eris couldn’t see the appeal. What legacy? Golden eggs?

“It would’ve worked,” you murmured. “I would’ve made it work. It wouldn’t have been love but it would’ve been safe.” You shrugged, a gesture of nonchalance that dug under his skin. “A small price to pay.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s small.”

You shot him a look and he met it with one of his own. The corners of his mouth tugged into the ghost of a smirk.

“How’d you find me anyway?” You asked.

“I can scent you anywhere.”

It wasn't just the sweet and rich perfume of your skin but the presence of you. The way the air shifted when you were near. The way the world felt… less dull.

There was no ulterior motive or reason for him to find you. It was still daylight and most of your endeavors occurred at night. He simply wanted to see you.

“Should I be concerned?”

His eyes swept over you, slow and unhurried.  “Only if you want to be,” he said, letting the words stretch. “Though, it’s safe to assume you find my company invigorating and…pleasuring.”

Something Lord Debling would never be able to give you, he wanted to add. Though, he worried the bitterness of it would give his jealousy away to you.

Your breath hitched, head turning away toward the old stone fountain, before huffing out an exhale. He caught the faint flush rising to your cheeks and he held onto the sight greedily, reveling in the way you didn’t deny it. It brought forward that strange, warm flutter in his chest that only ever seemed to occur when you were near.

The two of you stood in silence for a moment, the breeze stirring leaves around his boots and the bottom of your dress. He watched the way the breeze moved your hair, brushing it against your cheek. Something in your gaze softened and he wanted to reach out.

But then you spoke, your words catching him off guard. “What about you? No plans to marry? To have a family of your own?”

He tensed before he could stop himself. “No.”

Another lie or as he rather put it, another truth he chose to withhold. Either way he put it, it was complicated. 

You turned your head back to him and looked at him. For a moment, he worried you might see through his armor and catch a glimpse of the ceaseless war within.

Because a part of him wanted it too. A wife, a family. Something soft, something entirely his. Something built on love, something so different to what he grew up with.

Yet, another part of him feared it. He had been raised in a house of pressing silences and cruel words. His parents were bound not by affection but by alliance. There had been no warmth, only duty and the sharp edge of disappointment.

He didn’t want that.

Some twisted, broken part of him feared it was inevitable. That no matter how deeply he wanted to be different, he would fail. So he buried the dream again, smothering it like embers in ash.

“It’s not your loss but Lord Debling’s,” he said quietly. “Someone better will come along for you. I’m sure of it.”

It was his turn to look at you–really look at you. You were a treasure, more than you realized. You deserved more than a lukewarm marriage with a male who'd treat you like an accessory to his legacy. You deserved better than him too, if he were being honest.

“That’s kind of you to say,” you replied, eyes glistening.

"Don't get used to it."

Without warning, as if to prove his words, he reached for your hand—the one still holding the remains of your apple turnover. He snatched the pastry, popping it into his mouth with ease.

“Hey! That was—”

“You weren’t finishing it,” he said, savoring the new glare you sent his way the same way he did the pasty. He finished chewing and swallowed it quickly, licking a smudge of filling from his fingertip like he was sampling something divine.

“That was my favorite part," you insisted. Though, he doubted your words. No sane person would favor the hard end of a pastry.

Eris leaned in, the corner of his mouth curling. His hand came up to your neck, thumb grazing your jaw as he tilted your face toward his.  “Well,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips before meeting your eyes. “If you’re so inclined for a taste…”

It was a tease, of course. A distraction meant to draw your attention away from the ache that had settled within your eyes. You didn’t kiss him.

Instead, you laughed, your head dropping forward against the cool metal of his armor. Yet, it was strange the way he felt the pressure in his chest ease. 

Eris stood awkwardly still, suddenly aware of his hand still resting at your neck. He hesitated and then, he slowly slid his fingers into your hair, combing through it gently. He couldn’t care less that you hadn’t kissed him. He let you lean against him, let the echo of your laugh absorb into a place he didn’t often let anyone into. 

He wouldn’t say it aloud…but he was relieved things hadn’t worked out with Lord Debling. He knew Jayce would find another pretty female to focus on soon enough. And though he meant what he said—that someone better would come for you—he hoped it wouldn’t be too soon.

Even if that hope was selfish.

a/n: Little does Eris know that, that person would be him...

Like I said, this was meant to be a comfort fic & then it turned into this lol. Hope you still like it regardless. Also added that bit with Jayce for a reason as we will come back to it in a future part 👀

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[rikiws]

꩜ BE CAREFUL WITH MY HEART. ♪♫

▸ non-idol!heeseung x fem!reader ┆ first date!! , awkward... [fluff]

꩜ Heeseung likes you. Like, he really likes you; so much that it’s embarrassing. So embarrassing that it’s kind of ruined your date. Well— to you, it just made it even better.

ps : BROO HOW DO YOU MAKE SPOTIFY EMBEDS SMALLER... the huge embeds pmo so bad I js put the song as a link...anw I love rocco

[. . . 1.0k WORDS]

If you flashed that smile at him one more time Heeseung swore that he’d vaporise on the spot.

But he didn’t have the confidence to say that; so instead, he dropped his fourth fork of the night on the ground, a tired waiter scurrying to pick the utensil off the ground and replace it again. Heeseung didn’t dare look at you, he’d humiliated himself in front of you enough times already.

It wasn’t his fault his mind turned to mush the second he saw you approach his car in that pretty dress of yours, as if you weren’t already dangerous sauntering across campus half-asleep and with your hair messily tied back. This was new, and Heeseung could have never prepared himself for this.

So it really wasn’t his fault when he tripped over his feet on his way to open the door for you, only to realise that you had let yourself in already, or when he finally started the car and caught a touch of your perfume and didn’t realise he had been leaning on the horn for a good minute by then– or when you sat on the opposite side of the table, asking him so many questions about himself that he couldn’t get a word out about you at all.

You had always been his favourite thing to talk about.

“So, what do you do in your free time, then?”

Think of you? What was he supposed to say? Heeseung stammered for a moment, nearly choking on his steak– god, he didn’t even like steak, he only picked it to seem more put together in front of you. “Well, uh. I like watching movies”

“Really?” You smiled, again, and Heeseung could see the waiter near them nearly lunge for the fork Heeseung threatened to drop again. “Me too! What’s the last one you watched?”

Look at you. Didn’t even break a sweat. You were a natural at talking to people; you could lure someone deep into conversation through witty jokes and interesting questions– at least that’s what you did to him. And here Heeseung was, trying to play off the bead of perspiration he felt dripping down his neck that he was absolutely sure that you had noticed; you were just too much of an angel to point it out.

“The last movie I watched,” While he was busy mentally complimenting you for speaking a whopping two sentences without stuttering over something like he did, Heeseung had only now come to the realisation that he hadn’t actually watched any movies in a while because he’d recently gotten into tv shows instead– so he panicked. “I forgot.”

And you laughed. You laughed as if he had just told the funniest joke in the world, as if he wasn’t sitting here about to melt in a puddle of self-doubt while you, like the god-sent angel that you were, thought he was being funny.

No wonder he was a mess around you.

The way your hair danced around your face, the way your face shifted from expression to expression– each prettier than the one before. It was the way he nearly fell on you trying to ask you out to dinner that weekend, now sitting in a shirt just a little too small on him because he’d completely forgotten to pick out an outfit while trying to give himself multiple pep-talks in the mirror, the slight crease between your eyebrows when you furrowed them, the very same he had to resist kissing away right then and there, or the way you patiently waited for him to answer your question–

Wait.

You asked him a question.

“Hey, ‘you listening?” 

Heeseung panicked, again.

“You look really pretty.” 

And for a split second, he saw you mimic the same look he had given you the entire night, widened eyes, darting around to look at anything but him, mouth opening and closing like a fish as you thought of something to say– to no avail.

“I got distracted.” Heeseung sputtered, shoving a piece of steak into his mouth as if that would help to shut himself up. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

“I was saying, maybe you could share some of your favourite movies with me next time.”

What did you just say?

Next time. Like, a second date. With you. You, whom Heeseung had been horrendously fumbling for two hours by now. You, who must have just accepted to go out with him because he ended up putting you on the spot when he asked you out in front of all of your friends. You, who had been talking about him the entirety of your date because that was your favourite thing to talk about.

He looked at you as if you’d grown a third head, watching you with his mouth agape while you quietly gushed about how long you’ve wanted to get to know him for, how nervous you were feeling, the number of embarrassing things you had done throughout the date, while he was here losing his mind wondering if you thought he was an idiot.

And then you just sat there, hands sitting on your lap, fingers drumming your knees, wearing a sheepish smile that seemed to be his favourite look on you, looking at him like you hadn’t just leaned over the table just to place a short kiss on his cheek.

Heeseung dropped his fork again.

꩜ want to read more? check out my masterlist

[ollyissleepy]

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐞𝐟 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲: 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫

pairings: platonic yandere!batfam x uninterested!male!reader summary: After being caught red handed stealing, (name) finds himself in the Wayne Manor, surrounded by his new family. (Name)'s disinterested in bonding is met with equally not caring siblings and father. As he spends his days alone, (name) realises his new family might care much more than he originally thought the did. cw: stealing, swearing, underage smoking, forced vomitting, drugging (kind of?), mentions of dying (like once) a/n: I know I am like days late but I started taking new medicine and the last few days were rough. Do I like this part? No. Am I capable of making something better? Also no. Anyway please enjoy and so sorry for the delay based on this idea I had

m.list • part: one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight

I would like to dedicate this part for @/robinvomit and all the other writers who were falsefully accused of using ai for their writing. I'm so sorry it happened to you and please remember that you are loved <3

(Name) makes another lap around his room, trying to come up with an excuse to not eat with the entire family. All of them, including Alfred, haven't bothered him to join the family dinners since the one where there wasn't space for him at the table.

He knew he wouldn't have the heart to tell Alfred no, not after seeing him so excited about the teenager participating in dinner with the entire family. Pretending to be sick is off the table; he didn't want to risk getting more attention from the family while being made to stay in bed.

"Brother, the dinner is ready. Let's go." Damian knocked on his door before creaking it open.

There was no point in trying to run, as the youngest Wayne would probably catch him before (name) could get far enough.

The two of them walk down to the dining room in silence. Damian looks pleased about being the one to bring his older brother to his first dinner with the entire family. (Name), on the other hand, looked like a prisoner walking to his execution. Although a part of him wishes he was said prisoner.

Walking inside, the teenager notices that he has two choices on where he could sit: between Damian and Bruce or Damian and Dick.

(Name) sits down closer to Bruce, knowing his 'father' won't be interested in talking to him. The boy would also rather have the man stare at him than listen to Dick run his mouth the entire dinner.

The teenager ignores the look Bruce sends his way as he sits down on the chair. His eyes are focused on the table in front of him, not interested in being included in any small talk.

The meal itself goes rather smoothly, ignoring the burning sensation Bruce's stare left on the side of (name)'s face.

(Name), however, didn't dare to look up for the duration of it. A part of him was scared of what the man's expression could be. Was he mad that the teenager was sitting at the table? Or was it the fact that he's sitting right next to Bruce? Did he want Damian to sit next to him?

The teenager dashed out of the room the second Alfred started to gather empty plates. He ignored everyone's, including Duke's, shouts for him to stay a little longer.

The next day, after (name) had finished his breakfast and just returned to his room, when Bruce knocks on the door. The man opens it slightly, poking his head through it.

"Good morning, (name). Would you join me for breakfast?" Bruce asked, stepping inside the room.

"No, I already ate," the boy declined, trying to get himself comfortable on the bed.

With his arm behind his head, (name) watched Bruce closely. The way the man was clearly thinking of something to say, to drag the interaction on for longer. He knew that nothing came to his 'father's' mind when Bruce just nodded and left the room without another word. 

(Name) didn't have much time to dwell on the situation for the rest of the day, as most of it was occupied by Timothy. Something about how he, as a Wayne, needs to know more about technology.

By dinner time, the teenager forgets about the whole situation entirely. This meal, he had more chairs he could choose from, as the only people who were eating were the ones living in the manor full-time.

(Name) makes sure to choose a chair next to Duke, even though the teenager was acting a little off these days. He decides to ignore the way Duke seemed to be just as persistent in spending time with him as the rest of the family. For now that is.

Everyone at the table is silent, the only noise being the clicking of the utensils against the plates. The teenager doesn't get to enjoy the meal for long, though, before Bruce breaks the silence.

"So, (name), are you enjoying your stay at the manor?" Bruce asked, stabbing the food on his plate.

"I'd enjoy it more if I didn't have to eat with all of you," (name) murmured, tossing the food around.

"(Name)—" Alfred was about to scold the teenager for speaking for his father like that.

"It's alright, Alfred. Maybe we should spend some time together, bond with each other," Bruce suggested, using his hand to let the butler know he got this. "Maybe then you would enjoy a meal with me."

(Name) doesn't say anything, hoping for the subject to be dropped. He keeps on playing with his food, the idea of spending one-on-one time with his father making the boy lose his appetite.

"I believe it's a great idea, Father." Damian agrees, glancing over to where (name) and Duke were sitting. "I would like to join as well." Bruce smiled.

"If he's going, I want to take Duke with me," (name) tried to bargain. With the teenager as company, he might've been able to survive the outing.

"No. I believe you should bond with your blood family," Damian argued, not wanting Duke to take up his brother's attention. Again.

"Damian's right, (name), besides you spent a lot of time with Duke already; it's not fair for us," Bruce insisted, the fork stopped midway to his mouth.

(Name) sighed, glancing over to Duke. The teenager next to him looked just as displeased by Bruce's reaction as he did. The teenager makes a call to not argue with his 'father'. He hoped that by dropping this subject, the two of them would simply forget about it.

By the next day, (name) had forgotten about the 'plans' Bruce and Damian made entirely. The teenager was heading towards the library to read yet another book when his 'father' found him. 

"Great! It looks like you're ready to go." Bruce's voice came from behind him.

(Name) turned around, his head tilted slightly. He couldn't possibly mean…

"Brother, don't tell me you forgot." Damian pops out from behind Bruce. "We're supposed to spend the day together."

The teenager groaned. Of course they didn't forget.

Before he knew it, (name) found himself in a mall with his father and brother. This mall was different from the one he and Duke frequently visited. Everything about the mall he's inside screamed, 'I have so much money I make the pope look poor'.

With each store they go into and each uncomfortable piece of clothing he's forced to try on, (name) grows more and more tired. The constant music playing in the background and the too-bright light along with the suffocating smell of all of the other customers around them were giving him a headache. By the time they leave a third store, the teenager starts thinking of a plan to cut the outing short.

As the three of them walk towards another too-stuck-up store, (name) spots a bathroom. It sparked an idea on how to cut the outing short. (Name), on cue, wrapped his arms around his stomach, hunching over slightly.

"I don't feel too good. I'll stop by the bathroom," (name) pointed towards the bathroom, trying to look as pitiful as possible. "I'll be right back, I promise."

(Name) doesn't give his father and brother a chance to say anything, already walking towards the bathrooms. Once he's inside, the teenager locks himself in one of the stalls, in case one of them followed him.

He knew he made the right call when the bathroom door opened and he heard footsteps walking from one stall to another.

"(Name)? Father has asked me to check on you." Damian's voice echoed through the empty bathroom.

The teenager turns himself towards the toilet, trying to think of something that could make the youngest Wayne believe he was actually sick. His eyes land on the toilet, and before he really thinks through it, (Name) sinks two of his fingers deep inside his mouth. He touches the back of his throat, and that was enough for the stomach fluids to leave a sour aftertaste in his mouth.

He lounges himself towards the toilet, throwing up the remains of his last meal inside of it. His hands grip the toilet tightly as the convulses shake him repeatedly. He barely manages to register the knocks on the door and the worried voice that belonged to Damian, promising to grab their father.

(Name) takes a shaky breath after his stomach is empty. He stands up, leaning against the stall. Staring down the toilet at what was once the food in his stomach, the teenager wonders what went wrong in his life that he had to do shit like that. A swear escapes his lips as he's flushing the vomit.

The teenager leaves the stall after a few more deep breaths. As he's splashing his face with cold water, both Bruce and Damian rush inside. His father pats his back, apologising for noticing (name) not feeling great sooner. His brother stands to the side, his arms crossed, mumbling about how he should be more observant of his older brother.

During the ride back to the manor, (name) tries his hardest not to blow his cover. His head is pressed against the window, his eyes closed slightly. He doesn't talk, just shakes his head 'yes' and 'no' when asked questions. 

Back in the manor, (name) is ordered to lie down by Alfred as he prepares something light for the boy to eat before taking any medicine.

The teenager fully expects to be brought back to his room when he's stopped by Bruce.

"You should lie down in my study so I can keep my eye on you while I work." His father puts a hand on his shoulder, guiding him to the room despite all of (name)'s protests.

(Name) stood in the middle of the room and watched as Bruce set up a sofa for him to lie on. His father laid out a few pillows and unfolded a blanket. Then, Bruce asked the boy to lie down as he tucked him in. When Alfred came over with soup, the man insisted on feeding it to him. After that, without any warning, he made (name) swallow a weird-tasting medicine. It didn't take long for the substance to start working, and before he could ask any of the men in the room to be moved to his own bedroom, he had fallen asleep.

And that's how (name)'s next few days went by. Every day, after eating some light breakfast, Bruce fed him a spoonful of the medicine. Each time the teenager tried to protest, he held (name)'s face still, forcing the medicine down this throat. After that, the boy would sleep for the majority of the day on the sofa in Bruce's study, only waking up for meals. 'Everything for his child,' Bruce told the butler at one point.

With the medicine from the previous night wearing off, (name) eats his breakfast. Both Alfred and Bruce watch him closely, making sure the boy finishes his food.

"Master Bruce, I believe more medicine won't be necessary," Alfred declared, scanning over (name)'s face. "He looks quite healthy; I believe the sickness has passed."

"Are you certain?" His 'father' makes sure, glancing over at the butler. Alfred nods his head. "If you say so."

"It would be good for him to spend some time with his siblings, Master," the butler said, earning only a sigh from Bruce.

(Name) was relieved to find out he no longer had to take the weird medicine and was once again in some control of who he was spending his time with.

Instead of going to any of his siblings, however, he hid himself in the library under a few blankets. He needed some time away from all of the members of the family.

Coming down for dinner, he was displeased to learn that the manor is once again full of people. All of them were somewhat happy that the boy was now feeling much better, though some of them complained that (name) didn't seek them out to hang out. 

At some point during the meal, Dick suggests for all of them to have a movie night to 'make up for the lost time'. And much to (name)'s dismay, everyone, including Duke, agrees with the idea.

There go (name)'s plans for a peaceful night in his room, by himself.

The teenager chooses a seat at the end of one of the couches, dragging Duke to sit next to him. Ignoring everyone else in the room. He curls up on the couch, his head resting slightly on top of his brother's shoulder. (Name) hears a snicker somewhere to his side followed by silent scolding from Dick about how they should leave him alone. 'He's probably tired from being sick, Damian; let him rest,' the eldest scolded the boy.

The next day it became apparent that spending an evening watching movies in the same room as the teenager wasn't enough for Stephanie, who dragged (name) to something she referred to as 'girls day'. The girl did that despite his protests about how the teenager didn't want to interfere with their day.

By the end of the day of face masks, silly movies and snacks, (name) managed to fully relax and start enjoying spending time with the three women. Walking into the dining room, he no longer felt like he was walking into a death sentence. 

Sitting down, (name) knows his happiness won't last much longer, especially after noticing Damian staring at him oddly. The teenager doesn't address it, brushing it off as the jealousy problem the younger boy seemed to have.

(Name) waits for the butler to give out food before starting to eat it. He doesn't look up, knowing that the youngest Wayne glances at him from time to time.

"(Name), why do you have a calendar in your room? And what does that date you circled in mean?" Damian questioned, staring directly at (name). The food on his plate was barely touched.

"It's so I can count down to my birthday," the teenager explained, looking directly into the younger boy's eyes. "I promised Alfred that I'll stop running away and wait till I'm eighteen to leave."

"Well, now that the situation has changed, you probably don't need it," Bruce intruded, the rest of the family agreeing with him.

"I do need it; I'm still leaving the moment I turn eighteen." (Name) tried to keep his cool, no longer looking at any of the people at the table. He plays with his food, hoping for someone to change the subject.

"I'll make sure to plant a tracker on your phone to make sure you won't be able to go that far," Tim joked, earning a laugh from everyone at the table.

(Name) didn't feel like laughing. To the teenager, it wasn't a laughing matter. There were some parts of him that wanted to ask, 'What did he mean by that?' the phone in his pocket suddenly felt heavy. A different part of him didn't want to know. Ignorance is bliss, especially in situations like this.

That night, staying in his room, (name) snuck out to the gardens. He walked to the back, where his favourite spot, an overgrown pond, was located. There he met Jason, whose company the teenager didn't really mind. Although, he didn't really seek it out. The two of them don't exchange any words that night, just smoking in each other's presence.

The subject of (name)'s birthday wasn't brought up for another week. The teenager forgot all about it, including the joke about a tracker in his phone.

With each coming day, his freedom is closer and closer. (Name) makes sure not to show how happy he truly was about leaving the place. The teenager didn't want anyone to stop him.

The boy spent his days slowly preparing for his departure from the manor, exchanging his old clothes in the backpack with the ones bought during one of my trips to the mall with Duke. He also stashes away a pretty big sum of money he took from his 'father'. 

(Name) spends yet another night smoking with Jason. The two of them smoke their cigarettes in silence for a while, watching the fireflies fly around.

"Heard your birthday is soon," Jason spoke up, putting out his cigarette. "Do you want anything for it?"

"Yeah, some peace and quiet." (Name) rolled his eyes, taking a last puff of his.

"I don't think it's possible; B already started planning a big party just for you." Jason watched (name)'s movement stop at his words. "You'll get used to it." Jason nudges the boy with his elbow.

"Not planning to," (name) mumbled, throwing the rest of the cigarette in the jar they claimed as their ashtray.

Jason watched as the teenager walked back to the manor with a smirk. He remembered telling Bruce that (name) might not be happy with his idea for the boys' birthday.

Sitting down at the table the next morning, (name) found himself wishing to eat the meal with just the butler one more time. Watching the family members take their places at the table one by one, the teenager wonders what went wrong in his life to find himself in such a position. Surrounded by vigilantes, people who made Gotham just a little bit safer, feeling trapped, suffocated by their obsession.

The boy missed his old life. It might've been unbearable sometimes, but at the very least, (name) was free.

Freedom. The words now left a sour taste in his mouth. During moments like this, smushed between Duke and Damian arguing who will spend time with him today, he wondered if he would ever be truly free again.

The breakfast started as usual. A small talk between the family, which the boy tried to tune out, was followed by the sounds of utensils. All was well, until Bruce used his fork to clink against his glass, grabbing everyone's attention.

"(Name), I have decided on your birthday celebration," Bruce announced, his lips twitching as a few family members showed their approval.

"The only celebration we'll be having is me leaving this haunted place." (Name) propped his chin against his hand, staring back at Bruce.

"You are not leaving. I've decided on a party with all of the important people in Gotham," Bruce stated, his voice showing no signs of emotion. "You need to be properly introduced."

"We're not doing that," the boy argued, clenching his fists.

"Yes, we are. My word is final." Bruce finally looked away from the teenager, picking up food with his fork.

"Your word is final?! You can take your word and shove it up your ass, Bruce." (Name) stands up so quickly, the chair behind him falls to the ground.

Before anyone can really process what just happened, (name) is standing right in front of Bruce with his fist inches away from the man's face.

"I will leave!" (Name) shouted.

"Don't you dare raise your voice at me!" Bruce stood up, trying to intimidate the boy. "I'm trying my best."

"I never asked you for shit," the teenager spat, mentally ready to fight the man if he had to. "I don't want you or any of your fucked-up family!"

"(Name), calm down—" Bruce reached over, trying to grab the boy by his shoulders.

"I'm done being calm." (Name) moved, making sure the man's hands don't come near him. "Every day I wish that it was you that died instead of Mom."

"Don't talk like that to Dad," Dick scolded the boy.

"He's not my dad. He would never be my dad." (Name) yelled towards the eldest of the siblings. Then, he turned back towards Bruce, venom coating his words as he spoke: "Just an arsehole that happened to fuck my mom."

A noise cuts though the dining room, followed by the burning on (name)'s left cheek. The teenager's head fell to the side due to the impact. For a moment, nobody moves, trying to process if their father really just slapped (name) in the face. 

Bruce takes a step towards the boy, trying to apologise for what he just did. He's not given the chance to, as the teenager bolts out of the room.

(Name) hears multiple voices call out his name, some running right behind him. He doesn't dare to look back, focused on creating as much of the distance as possible. Running into his room, the boy shuts his door in Dick's face, locking it.

Dick, along with a few other siblings, kept knocking on his door, begging for (name) to open it. He doesn't listen, waiting for them to leave.

The siblings only stop knocking after Alfred suggested that the teenager might need some time to cool off and asked them to leave (name) alone.

The teenager spends the rest of the day in his room, the silence of it only interrupted by the knocking from one of the siblings. Sometime during his time in the room, (name) makes a decision to leave the manor tonight no matter what. Even if that meant dying.

Hours later, when the sun had been replaced by the moon, (name) heard Alfred's voice from behind his door. The man was asking the boy to let him inside.

(Name) stands up with a sigh, pushing the bag back under his bed. He unlocks the door, opening it slightly to make sure there wasn't anyone accompanying the butler.

"Don't worry, (name), the family had to leave early for patrol. There was an emergency in Arkham," Alfred explained, walking into the room. "I brought you some dinner; you must be hungry."

The boy sits back down, eating the food silently. Alfred watches him for a moment, wondering what to do.

"I know nothing I say would make that situation better. Master Bruce shouldn't have hit you," the butler started, sitting next to the teenager. "And the emotions you must still feel are valid, even if I think you could express them better."

"I just want you to be happy, (name)." He continued, placing his hand on (name)'s shoulder. "Even if that means you'll be away from me, from us."

The teenager sends a forced smile towards the butler. He knew that there was no way he could stay in the manor. Even if leaving the butler made his heart break a little.

When Alfred finally leaves, hugging the boy as if he knew this might be the last time they saw each other, the teenager doesn't waste any time. (Name) grabs the sheets, tying them together to create a robe. He tied the robe to his door, throwing it out the window. The teenager put on his bag, glancing towards his bedroom door one last time.

With a heavy heart, the boy swings both of his legs out the window. Getting out of his room turned out to be the hardest part, not only due to the height but also because the sheets gave his legs little to no support. The rest of the trip was rather easy, as (name) used the same path he had used the previous times he snuck out of the manor. He walked away a good distance before stopping.

(Name) looked back at the manor. He needed to get away from here. Away from Gotham and the Waynes.

m.list • part: one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight

taglist: @amber-content @bellethesleepypotato @leeiasure @sleepdeprivedcrappywriter @tenthmilo @eyeless-kun @holyfishbailiffpeanut @cuntiesweet @jsprien213 @marsmabe @cssammyyarts @ilovecoffe0 @phoenixgurl030 @esposadomd @alittlelostmoonchild @stargirl404 @xnutz0 @s4raahi @reeyy0-2@ironsaladwitch @chemicalwindexbottle@ityourguy @im-so-goddamn-tired@dirtydiavolo@etern1tyxxx @whognuthis @verypersonadazzel

[drdemonprince]

you know i kinda get it, what underlying issue it's a manifestation of, you go through life feeling like you lack something, and come across someone who *listens* to you. a balm to the weary soul.

i've gone through long bouts of deep isolation, so i'm not unfamiliar with how nice it is to talk to someone who pays attention. where they differ and go wrong tho, is thinking this is a Sign of some deep connection. nah dog, that's on you. it's just someone who's good at it, and if you keep in mind that they're a person first and foremost too, and put that same energy back in it, you can cultivate that relationship. but they don't realize that. or don't want to. because the one thing i've noticed is that it's so often men taking a women listening to them as A Sign, when it's just, a culturally enforced skill in women. (painting with broad strokes here, but generally benefiting from the work marginalized people had to).

so few people are practiced in the art of active listening, and it is honestly really sad. i mastered this stuff young because i read a lot of corny self help books as a teen to perfect my masking, and i honed it further by studying mid century manners and pretending to be trudy campbell on mad men, and it is one masking strategy i do not at all regret developing. listen well and an entire person blossoms up before you. where it gets sad is when you can find almost no one who listens as actively to you as you do them. a conversation where a person only goes off about whatever they feel compelled to discuss is more often than not a lonesome and irritating one to be a part of. i dont expect the guys on grindr to have gone to finishing school, i'm speaking more generally. but, if you want to leave a lasting impression and score easily on the apps (sometimes to the detriment of having a manageable inbox), learning how to really listen is a skill one can always improve! it can make a person rapidly fall in love with you. or entrust you with really juicy secrets.

what are the fundamentals of active listening, some might ask? here are some of the most valuable sub-skills

1. Non-verbal mirroring of the person's body language and facial expressions

2. Visible attentiveness. If not eye contact, which truly is optional, then nodding, careful thoughtful expressions, small vocal and facial responses to rising action and complicating details in the story they are telling, and so on.

3. Asking questions.

4. Drawing connections to details from earlier in the story, or information you already know about the person.

5. Showing genuine enthusiasm and interest in what is being told.

6. Projecting emotional warmth and involvement: becoming noticably more subdued if the story they are telling is sad (and remaining that way for a while), laughing and repeating punchlines to yourself if it is happy, and so on.

7. Providing a response when the story is done that shows you understand it and have insight into how the storyteller felt about it. Perhaps with more questions or an appropriate personal share.

I am not equally good at all of this, for instance my memory is terrible and I get lost in my own thoughts due to anxiety, but doing even 50% of this will have people telling you that they never get to have conversations like this and they feel really seen etc. and then theyll talk your ear off forever

[frenchkisstheabyss]

i have such an idea for like mingi fluff ,,, like a small lil blurb about cute dates n stuff he takes u on

♡ dates w/ mingi ♡

♡ Pairing: boyfriend!mingi x reader

♡ A/N: Thank you my sweet anon for giving me something fluffy to write during my writer's block. I hope you like what I came up with.

boyfriend!mingi who went through life pretending not to be a hopeless romantic until he fell head over heels for you and just couldn't hide it anymore

boyfriend!mingi who agonized over your very first date to the point that the other guys kept teasing him to finally make a decision but he couldn't because he knew it had to be just right

boyfriend!mingi who pays attention to every little thing you say, keeping mental notes of everything you're interested in so that he can surprise you with it in the future

boyfriend!mingi who buys you tickets to the prettiest aquarium in the city only to spend all of his time staring at you. you'll be standing by a tank, the serene glow of the water illuminating your face as the fish swim by, and he'll be right by your side holding your hand in his, eyes lit up with so much admiration you can feel it warm your skin.

"I thought we came here to watch the fish" you say, trying and failing to hide how hard you're blushing.

Mingi will just bring you closer, whispering softly in your ear, "But you're so much prettier to look at."

boyfriend!mingi who ends practice early to take you to the carnival, making sure that there's enough time for you to hop on every ride your heart desires. if you even seem like you want a snack he's already buying it for you. the same goes for prizes at those cheesy game booths. you want that cute stuffed chick? he'll stay at the booth forever if that's what it takes to win it for you. it doesn't matter if it wears him out more than dancing ever has, seeing your face light up when it's finally in your arms is well worth it.

boyfriend!mingi who plans a picnic for the most gorgeous summer day. it'd be easy to order food from somewhere but he thinks it's more special if he does it himself. so he wakes up early in the morning, whipping up all your favorite foods and packing them carefully in a picnic basket. he even takes care to choose the most picturesque spot, setting you up by the water under the shadiest tree. as always he's not really focused on the food or the scenery. his head's in your lap, your fingers threaded through his hair as he listens to you talk about your day.

"I'm probably talking too much" you might say after a while, not wanting to hog the conversation, but Mingi won't have it.

He'll smile up at you, readjusting to get more comfortable. "No, keep going. I love to hear you talk."

boyfriend!mingi who involves you in as many schedules as possible. a brand's sending him out on a fancy dinner? there's no way he's going without you. in fact, he doesn't even give you a say in coming or not. your outfit's already waiting for you when you get home. he's going to an after party for fashion week? you're by his side the whole night. these are special moments for him and there's no one else he'd rather spend them with.

boyfriend!mingi who doesn't really care what the date is at the end of the day. it could be a date to the eiffel tower or a quiet movie night at home. all he wants are the soft cuddles and the sweet kisses. the stolen glances and whispered words of admiration. it's all about seeing you smile or hearing you giggle. just knowing that he's done anything to make you feel as good as you make him feel inside is more special than anything.

[trashytracktales]

I’m surprised nobody has asked this yet but GIRL CAN WE TALK ABOUT FREAKY CHARLES LIKEEEEEEE

I mean, people have been interested in the topic. I’m just too slow 😔

Before we begin, I would like to summarize this, because I went a little crazy OOPSIES. So, pretty much all you have to know about Charlie is that he’s a freak in the sheets, but too classy to admit it.

Enjoy 💋

𝗧’𝗦 𝗙𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗞𝗬 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗟𝗘𝗦 𝗔𝗚𝗘𝗡𝗗𝗔

𝗜𝗻 𝗯𝗲𝗱

✦ Charles is the type of man who feels everything, and he’ll die to make you feel it, too, mostly because he can’t always find the words. He is tender, dominant, and passionate.

✦ Takes his time undressing you.

✦ Lots of eye contact, but not to see the way you react. He’s using it to communicate clear messages like, “I am making you feel this. You see what I’m doing to you?”

✦ He thrives off connection. I reckon if you’ve got his heart, you’ve got all of him.

✦ He’s focused on every little sound, twitch, and breath, and he uses them as fuel.

✦ The kind to edge you until you’re pleading, then finally gives you everything. Does it because he wants to own your pleasure.

✦ Soft-spoken, but commanding.

✦ He expects to be obeyed. Can’t really elaborate on this, but see how he’s entering daddy mode when Leo doesn’t listen? Hihi ^^

✦ Insatiable; doesn’t stop at one round. Or two. Or three.

✦ That ☝🏻 being said, insane stamina.

✦ Teasing. Teasing all the time. Fingers brushing your inner thigh, lips ghosting over yours, cock pressed on your clit or right at the entrance, but not in. Not until you beg, anyway.

✦ Bedhead and sweat-slicked curls after!! Ah, he’s glowing. And you’re glowing. And the bed is ruined.

𝗧𝘂𝗿𝗻-𝗼𝗻𝘀

✦ Confidence. Likes a partner who knows what they want, and isn’t shy to say it. Well, maybe a bit shy, but still saying it while blushing.

✦ Subtle public teasing.

✦ Wearing his clothes. The sight of you curled up in his stuff? Instant jaw clench.

✦ Lip gloss. That moment when you’re reapplying it and he’s just watching you, imagining things. Messy things.

✦ Eye contact during oral. Whether he’s giving or receiving, it makes him so hard and wants to see it all.

✦ Hear me out, watching you dance. Doesn’t matter if it’s at a party or at home, if you're moving your hips, he’s thinking about how they’d move if he had you pressed up against his.

✦ Call him a good boy and it’s lights out in his pants. This is not secret info anymore, not after Monaco 2024, when Bryan praised him in front of the entire world. Charles plays confident and cocky at times, but praising has him by the scruff of his neck like a kitten.

✦ When you get genuinely flustered, stumbling over your words, cheeks flushed, and thighs squeezing. Because of him. Yes.

𝗞𝗶𝗻𝗸𝘀

✦ Mentioned praise. Just tell him how good he feels, how deep he is, and how much you need him.

✦ Mirrors. He knows he’s a good looking man, and likes to watch himself while tearing you apart.

✦ Oral fixation that goes both ways. But honestly, something tells me he likes it more when he’s eating you out, and will go down on you like he’s honoring a royal decree. Hands locked around your thighs, low groans against your core, slow teasing tongue etc. Because judging by that pretty mouth, he’s so good at it, and he’ll stay between your thighs until you’re crying.

✦ Soft!dom energy; loves holding your wrists down and putting you in whatever position he feels like in the moment.

✦ Dirty talk in French. The accent alone is devastating, but when he lets full French slip in it’s game over. It’s like pressing the power button on his car.

✦ Slow burn, because Charles has patience (almost 7 whole seasons with Ferrari and still going). Will tease you until you’re squirming, brushing his thumbs over your nipples and not committing on purpose. Just because he likes seeing you desperate.

✦ Partially clothed sex. Something about you still wearing your bra, or your panties pushed to the side while he’s fully undone, gets him going. It’s the in-between moment of urgency that drives him wild.

✦ Low-key voyeuristic tendencies. Slightly exhibitionist too, because I just know he’s turned on by the risk. Balcony sex, car sex... you name it, he’s down.

✦ Possession in the sweetest way. Calls you “good girl” and “mine” almost interchangeably, and tells you how beautiful you are while ruining you.

✦ Scent kink. Yes, he’s a nose-burier, I’ll tell you that for free.

✦ Hands kink. He uses them with intention. Gripping your jaw while kissing you, tracing over your stomach before dipping down, holding your hips in place as he thrusts deep. He knows his fingers are long and skilled (plays piano for a reason), and he’s not shy about showing off just how much he can do with them.

𝗙𝗮𝘃𝗼𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗲 𝗽𝗼𝘀𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀

✦ Missionary is never boring with Charles. He loves to pin your hips down and being close to your face, kissing you between moans, asking you to look at him as he rolls into you deeper.

However, he’s a bit unconventional when it comes to positions, so let me just:

✦ The Vienna waiter, with you laying on your back, legs resting on his shoulders while he’s standing or kneeling and holding your hips up off the bed. Likes it because it’s deeper than missionary, and is pretty sure you feel him in your ribs deep.

✦ Reverse cowgirl in front of a mirror. One of the few times when he sits back and watches your body bounce at your own pace. Might have one hand lazily trailing down to your clit, the other cupping your chest like the smug prince he is. The only certainty is that he loves watching everything: your movements, his cock disappearing into you, and definitely your flushed face in the mirror.

✦ Flatiron, with him on top, pushing in from behind very, very slow. The slow burn I mentioned earlier. Deep, full-body contact. Every breath syncs. His weight holds you down just right.

✦ Standing split against a wall, one leg hiked around his waist, your back pinned to the surface. There’s little room to move, so he grinds in deep and intentional, his face buried in your neck, panting, whispering things like, “You like being mine, oui?”

✦ Seated, with you on top. Loves having you straddle him, on a chair, in bed, or even his sim rig. Your arms looped around his neck, his hands full on your ass or waist, spreading and guiding.

✦ Doggy for the visual and the grip. This comes with a warning, though. He will grab a handful of your ass and give it a slap or two if you’re teasing him or clenching too hard, because he knows you’re doing it on purpose. That’s why he won’t stop until your legs give out and you’re trembling underneath him.

✦ Laying on your side, spooning you from behind, hiking your leg over his thigh to slide in. Hand on your chest or between your legs, to make sure you’re feeling him everywhere.

𝗘𝘅𝘁𝗿𝗮 𝘀𝗽𝗶𝗰𝗲

Surprising facts.

✦ He LOVES lingerie.

✦ Despite his gentleman vibe, he’s got a filthy mouth during sex and is very vocal. In French. In English. In Italian.

✦ He loves being told what to do while he’s at it. Faster or right there makes him physically shudder.

✦ Hyper-fixates on one part of your body per session. It’s always slow and agonizing.

✦ Gets so turned on when you touch him. If your hands are in his hair, under his shirt, unbuckling his belt like you can’t wait… cut the show.

✦ Loves the sound of skin on skin. The wet sound of your bodies moving together has him feral.

✦ Post-nut clarity hits like a poet.

𝗔𝗳𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗲

✦ Depending on how intense it was, you can get soft!Charles or possessive!Charles. Either way, he is the kind to clean you up and kiss you all over, making sure you’re okay.

Soft!Charles

✦ Immediately pulls you into a cuddle.

✦ His hands are everywhere, gently stroking your hair and back.

✦ He hums a lot if he’s satisfied, and everything is slow and warm.

✦ Falls asleep with your boon in his hand, because it helps him relax.

✦ Gentle teasing until he drifts away.

Possessive!Charles

✦ Lingers inside after he comes.

✦ He can’t stop touching you. Fingers ghosting the marks he left or the mess you’ve made for him.

✦ He can’t shut the fuck up, low-key. Mine. You’re so good to me. So perfect.

✦ Moves you to lie on his chest.

✦ Hand tucked under your thigh or ass.

✦ Last instinct before falling asleep is to protect.

[vampishnes]

Sanguine Hunger: Soft Skin

Chapter one, Chapter two, Chapter three, Chapter four Pairings: Platonic!Thunderbolts & Fem!Reader, Bob x FemThunderbolts!ExAvenger!Reader Summary: Duty calls. Tags: No use of ‘Y/N’. Female reader. Slow burn! Found family, 'slice of life', Hurt/Comfort Warnings: Graphic depictions of blood, graphic depictions of violence, alcohol usage, references to past trauma, self-harm (Reader uses a knife to prick their palm and draw out alcohol using her powers.) Word count: 4.0k A/N: This one took a little longer because I wrote 2,000 words of it and realised I did not like it! This chapter is a hefty one, but we are officially halfway done. This slow burn is killing me! But the payoff will be great (for those who are interested, there will be a smut chapter, probably in chapter 8 or 9; if you're not interested, it will be easily skippable).

You felt the alcohol surge through your veins, seizing the part of your brain that held common sense. Normally, you controlled every inch of your blood, but tonight, there was something mind-numbingly peaceful about surrendering to the alcohol’s slow burn and feeling lighter. Freer.

Which is exactly how you ended up seventy-five percent done with your own bottle of Jack Daniel's, your body hanging upside down from the Avengers tower couch, just one wrong move away from collapsing onto the floor. 

Bucky sat across from you, tilting his head in comical concern. It gave you a perfect view of his exasperated expression. 

The room was spinning before you. Just barely in your peripheral vision, you caught Yelena lining up and shooting down another row of shots. 

You felt like a teenager again, the only difference was the people in front of you (and the legality of your drinking). But beneath the buzz, something prickled, a reminder that this lightness was temporary. 

Someone knocked over a can, and the sticky sound of the liquid meeting floor made the group collectively groan, though no one moved to clean it up.

The bass thumped in your chest. You couldn’t tell who had control of the playlist. You weren’t even really listening any more. But someone clapped along off-beat. Probably Alexei.

The room swelled with life, and for once, you didn’t feel on the outside of it. You didn’t feel like a monster, or a relic, or a weapon that needed to be caged. You were just another body in the mess of it all. Surrounded by people who were too cruel for kindness yet too merciful for true monstrosity.

Yelena slumped on the couch beside you, her face flushed with tipsy satisfaction. She bumped her shoulder into you, hard enough to jostle your balance.

“Careful,” she said, smirking. “You fall? I’m not helping you back up.”

“I’ll take you down with me,” you slurred. You gave a little kick with your legs before squirming around to settle them across Yelena's lap, your shirt edging upward with the motion.

You twisted your head and saw Bob crouched on the floor, fiddling with the speaker, his cheeks red. He glanced up. His eyes held that soft, familiar worry he always wore when looking at you, like you were something fragile. He turned his head to face you as he rose. His gaze held yours a beat too long, tightening something in your chest. You looked away first. 

You reached for your bottle, only to find it empty. Then came the critical mistake: your eyes met Bob's again. Silently, he lifted a water bottle toward you in offering. You rolled your eyes but snatched the bottle anyway. With exaggerated flair, you unscrewed the cap and took a deliberately loud gulp. Yelena latched onto your ankle and gave it a shake as she flashed you a mocking thumbs-down, her verdict on your 'responsible' drinking. 

“You’re boring now,” she declared. “I thought you were cool and dangerous.” 

“She still is,” Bob’s voice, quiet, came from behind you, prompting a snort from Yelena. You twisted just enough to glance back. He stood by the speaker, watching everything unfold from his usual place — on the sidelines. Always observing, only loud when it mattered.

“Bob, come sit down,” Yelena said. She patted the open space on the couch behind your back. He moved slowly, careful with his long limbs as he settled beside you. The couch dipped under his weight, and the shift made your back fall naturally into his side. Without thinking, you let yourself lean into him, head brushing his collarbone, his familiar scent settling around you.

Across the room, Walker huffed. “You guys are ridiculous. This is why no one takes us seriously.” 

You snorted and turned toward him. He was sprawled on the seat beside Ava, drink in hand. You blinked at him for a moment, brain buzzing from the alcohol, and a question played in your mind. When did he get here? 

You remembered the door sliding open, and Walker standing there like he was about to scold all of you for drunken behavior. He'd taken one look at the mess; half the team already drunk, the other half super soldiers who were just partaking in the drinking on instinct and immediately frowned and crossed his arms over his body. 

“No, thanks.” He'd said stiffly, tossing his hands up and turning to leave.

But then Yelena had raised her shot glass like it was a challenge. “What’s the matter, Captain?”

Walker had muttered something under his breath, and then you remembered it: Ava, tossing him a beer.

He’d caught it on instinct.

She’d said, “Drink or leave, I don’t care. But we’re not stopping.”

You remembered the way he’d hovered by the door after that. Like someone waiting to be invited in even after saying they didn’t want to be. Then, he’d cracked the can and sat down. Didn't say much after that, but he stayed.

You blinked yourself back to the present, gaze landing on him again. He looked grumpy, yes. Like someone who’d never admit he belonged here, but didn’t want to leave. 

Before you could say anything, before anyone could, really. It happened. 

BEEP. 

One sharp, electronic tone sliced through the room, severing the music and silencing the chatter. The comfortable atmosphere ruptured. In response, Yelena let out an exaggerated groan and flung her head back against the cushions.

“Nooo,” she whined. “I’m off the clock.” 

“I don’t think the Avengers get to be ‘off the clock’.” You said as you sat up, or at least tried to. 

Your body protested the sudden lurch, but Bob’s hand was instantly there, a solid anchor at your back. Around you, the room snapped into action.

Yelena fished out the tablet from under an empty box and squinted at the glowing screen. Her brows pulled together. “Some black market warehouse,” she read aloud.

Walker stood up slowly, his beer can forgotten. “Party’s over.”

The warmth turned heavy. Like the buzz was starting to wear off. Your breath faltered as you leaned into Bob’s side. You felt the warmth radiate off his body. “I’m gonna sober up,” you muttered. 

You peeked over your shoulder as you stood, watching the rest of the team take their own leave to prepare for whatever came next. They knew the drill. Fun never lasted long.

You reached the kitchen mostly by muscle memory, even as the world spun. The fridge light bathed you in a glow when you opened it, you scanned over the contents before pulling out a bottle of water.

Bob stood a few paces behind you, standing in the doorway, arms crossed.

He didn’t ask if you were okay. He never did. Which was good, because you weren’t and if he did, you wouldn’t know how to answer.

You took a long sip. Then another, until you came to terms with the fact a whole bottle of Jack Daniel’s would need more than just water to filter out

“God, I do not want to fight today.” you grumbled between sips.

“If I could fight for you, I would.” Bob said softly. You let yourself want it, before cold clarity struck: Void or Sentry fighting for you would unleash far worse problems than it solved.

You smiled at that, small and strained. Trying to ignore the sharp pang curling deep in your chest. 

The kind that comes when you realize being seen is scarier than being alone. 

You pivoted toward the drawer. The one you weren’t supposed to use for this any more. Fingers brushing aside utensils, grabbing the one thing you knew would work.

Steel met skin. You hadn’t even lifted it fully before Bob’s breath caught behind you.

He crossed the room in an instant. He moved toward you without hesitation, reaching out to gently cover your hand. His eyes flickered between yours, searching for your intent.

You rested your hand over his, then slowly attempted to ease it away from your grip on the knife.

“I just need a prick.” Your voice cracked, fingers tight around the knife’s handle. “I can draw the alcohol out like that.”  

His gaze dropped to your palm. You knew what he saw. The constellation of scars left by desperate nights and poor decisions.

“I don’t want you to hurt yourself.” His words came out hoarse, like they’d scraped his throat raw on the way up.  

“I’ll hurt either way,” you said, not looking at him. “At least this way is fast.” You pressed the blade’s tip lightly against your skin, but his hand didn’t budge.

“Can I?”  

“What?”  

“I can do it.” His eyes locked onto yours. “I’ll go slow. I’ll—If I do it, I can make sure it’s just a prick.” His voice cracked, the fear beneath the calm slipping through.

You stared at him. He wasn’t just scared for you. He was terrified of what you were willing to do to yourself.

You nodded, the movement jerky. Your fingers loosened, and you let him take the blade.

You led him to the sink, he moved behind you, your back pressed to his chest, his heartbeat frantic against your spine. His left hand cradled yours, palm upturned, while the right hovered with the blade. 

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, his breath stirring the hair by your ear. “You can tell me.”

“I trust you.” You whispered.   

You hissed, but his thumb was already there, circling the sting before the blood could well. His heartbeat steadied yours, breath matching breath, until the knife clattered softly into the sink.

The pain was sharp. Controlled.

A drop of crimson beaded from your palm, then flowed as your powers flared. The alcohol bled out with it, burning faintly as it fled your system.

You turned your hand over slowly, palm still tingling. The crimson drop traced down your wrist before you wiped it away on a paper towel. The sting was fading, but the ache in your chest wasn’t.

Bob stayed behind you, close but not touching now, like even that moment had cost him something.

“I should go get ready,” you mumbled, eyes still on the sink. He didn’t stop you. Just nodded once and moved his body to let you have space. 

Your boots echoed faintly against the tile as you slipped out of the kitchen, leaving behind the hum of the fridge and the ghost of Bob’s hands on your skin. You didn’t pass anyone, just the sound of people hurrying to sober up and get ready in their own rooms. Plus the sound of your own pulse, still erratic.

By the time you reached your door, the weight of it all had settled in your chest.

You peeled off the remnants of comfort: your oversized shirt, the feeling of warmth from Bob’s chest pressed to your back. For a moment, you stood there in just your underwear, letting the cold air of the room kiss over your bare skin.

Then you reached for the suit.

It waited at the end of your closet, folded: matte black lined in deep crimson. You stepped in legs first, the fabric clinging tight as it slid up your thighs. You adjusted the knee guards, then pulled the upper half over your shoulders. The polo-neck wrapped around your throat. Reaching behind you, you found the zip and drew it up your spine. The torso zipped up smooth, sealing you in, chest compressed beneath the armour-mapped ribbing.

The deep V-cut that peekaboo’d across your chest left the barest section of skin exposed. You used to be a seductress, you thought, a vampire of the night. But now you were an Avenger again. You should probably start dressing like one.  

You shook the thought off as you reached for your gloves.

Fingerless, open-palmed. You flexed your hands through the fabric, you could already feel the hum of power waiting beneath, blood stirring in your fingertips. 

You slid a holster on each leg before thrusting a curved blade into the right, and two smaller ones into the left. You walked over to the mirror and saw the black, calf-high boots beside it. Thick soles built to absorb impact. Reinforced for breaking ribs. You crouched, the suit tightening across your joints as you reached for one. You slipped your foot in and tugged the boot up over your calf. 

You rolled your ankles, flexed your toes. Everything fit. 

You caught your reflection in the mirror as you fastened the final buckle, and quickly decided you were missing something. You crossed the room in three strides and dropped to your knees by the dresser, yanking open the second drawer with a strong tug. Your fingers closed around the small makeup bag at the back.

You skipped the mirror entirely. Just popped open the eyeshadow pot, and dipped a finger into the metallic pigment and swept it across your lids in swift strokes. You blended it in with the edge of your finger until your eyelids gleamed like shiny metal. 

Then came the lipstick. Glossy crimson, so dark it was almost black. The colour of blood that had sat on your tongue countless times before. You dragged it over your lips, then dabbed the edges with the tip of your finger. With a quick swipe of mascara, you were finished. 

You glanced one last time in the mirror and then turned away from the ghost in the glass. No more time to hesitate. 

You strode down the hall, the light at the end of the corridor blinked red. Urgent. Urgent. Urgent. 

The elevator ride up was brief. As the doors slid open, the rooftop's frigid air hit you like a slap. Simultaneously, the Quinjet gusted wind, whipped your hair across your face. 

Yelena already sat inside, boots swinging, and her hair gelled into a slick back. Bucky and Walker were locked in a heated argument, likely another debate over mission plans. Bucky stood behind the pilot's seat, bracing one hand against its headrest while pinching the bridge of his nose. Eventually, he crossed over to the copilot seat, the discussion raging on.

Off to the side, Ava scanned over the mission brief on the tablet in Yelenas hands. 

Bob was sat on the furthest away seat, body tucked into the straps of the aircraft seatbelt. His eyes scanned the skyline but when you stepped into the Quinjet, he turned. His gaze met yours and lingered.

“Finally,” Walker barked, readjusting his grip on the yoke. “Let’s move.” The door hissed closed behind you and the rest of the world shut out. 

You dropped into the seat next to Bob. Buckling in, your elbow nudged his bicep. The fleeting contact sparked a sudden, unsettling question: Since when did his every touch pull in your focus like this?

The Quinjet lurched, engines roaring, before settling into a steady cruise. You sat in silence, staring out at the evening sun stretch out in the sky. Bob didn’t speak, his shoulder bumped yours with every subtle tilt of the aircraft. 

“Alright, listen up,” Walker called over his shoulder as he reached cruising altitude. "ETA to site: thirty minutes. We’ll scope the place out before blowing up shit.”

“I’m actually going to blow shit up just to spite you.” Yelena said, lounging in the row across from you. 

Bucky let out a tired sigh“Let’s just keep it clean. In and out.”

Alexei snorted. “Where is the fun in that? I say we storm the place.”

“Yeah, and get killed by black-market tech,” Ava replied, setting the tablet down beside her. “We don’t even know what they’re transporting.”

The voices faded to a low hum around you, background static to the thoughts spiralling in your own head. You anchored yourself in the thrum of engines beneath your feet and the crisp air from the vents, until the warmth radiating from Bob’s arm against yours pulled you in, undeniably soothing.

You didn’t speak, but at one point, he shifted slightly, angling himself just enough so your knees brushed.

Thirty minutes passed in a blink.

A dull warehouse compound came into view, no lights and roof panels rusted and uneven. No external movement. 

You unfastened your seatbelt as the Quinjet touched down with a soft jolt, the momentum pulling you forward slightly. Beside you, Bob was already rummaging into the pack he’d stashed, searching through its contents until he pulled out a familiar, worn book.

You smiled. Of course, he brought it.

You didn’t need to ask why he wasn’t coming with you. The risk of calling on his powers, the risk of him becoming something else, was too great. The Void. The Sentry. Whatever name it took, it wasn’t worth unleashing.

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t part of this.

Even if he couldn’t step onto the battlefield, he was still one of you. Still an Avenger. Still family. And you’d make damn sure he knew that.

You watched him flip the book open, thumb brushing the folded corner of a page. He didn’t look up.

You leaned in, voice low, just for him. “Be good.” 

His eyes flicked to yours. “I will.” 

You swallowed, nodding once and patting him lightly on the shoulder before stepping out of the Quinjet to join the rest of the team. 

Bucky was already moving ahead, crouched low near a stack of rusted shipping containers. You swept your eyes over the compound. It was quiet. Too quiet. No patrols, no guards. Walker’s, who had split up with Alexei, voice crackled in your ear from the comms. “No signs of movement from this angle.”

Bucky’s voice came next. “Go in, grab the tech, and get out. If anyone starts shooting, you know what to do.”

You approached the side of the warehouse, now separated with just Yelena. Every step synched with your breath, your pulse steady beneath the suit. It was different now, no hunger fogging your mind.

At the wall, Yelena pulled a thin blade from her side and wedged it under the lockbox on the side door. It sparked once, then clicked open.

“You’re up,” she said, tilting her head at you.

You moved in silence, slipping past her and into the dark with practiced ease. Inside, it smelled of mildew and dust. 

You crouched behind a column, eyes adjusting. Two figures paced near a crate stamped with a Stark Industries logo caught your eye. One held a bulky rifle across his chest, the other dragged a wheeled cart stacked with glowing tech components. Great, tech enhanced mercenaries. 

A sharp pulse rippled through the air. You staggered slightly, your balance shifting as something inside your chest twitched.

You hissed through your teeth, gripping the beam as the vibration clawed at your blood. It didn’t hurt, but your control wavered for just a second. Enough to feel the sound stabbing through your brain.

You clicked the comm on your ear down, voice a sharp whisper: “Ava, status?” No response, you looked behind you expecting to find Yelena, but it seemed she’d gone out on her own path.

Time to do this yourself.

Your body kicked into training as you crept closer, quiet and low. The thrum of the ultrasonic hum still echoed in your bloodstream, but it wasn’t enough to slow you down.

You lunged.

The first merc never saw you coming. Your elbow smashed into his temple, and as he staggered, you followed with a swift sweep to the back of his knee, dropping him like dead weight. You slammed your fist into his throat before he could call out, and he went limp with a groan. You resisted the muscle memory urge to finish him off with a quick slice to the throat.

The second turned fast, rifle raised. You ducked under the barrel, spun, and drove your boot into his ribs. Blade drawn, you darted forward and slashed across his thigh, just enough to draw blood. 

You could feel it. The pulse in his leg, the blood leaking. With a single thought, the blood coiled up like smoke, you pulled it toward your hand. The red strand twisted in the air between you.

You stepped toward him slowly, the blood still hovering in midair. Then you closed your fist. The blood lashed forward, crushing into his head with enough force to crumple him to the floor, out cold.

“Two down,” you said into the comm. “Room is—”

Pain.

White-hot, searing pain.

It hit you from behind. Your body arched forward instinctively as the heat carved across your back, spreading like liquid fire. Your knees buckled, a broken scream tearing out of your lungs.

You rolled onto your side, gasping. The world tilted around you. You caught a glimpse of the attacker, another merc, armour thicker than the others. 

He stepped forward with intent. No words, just another beam charging at his wrist.

You moved on instinct, rolling behind cover as the next blast hit the floor where your head had been. Everything smelled like burning flesh. 

Your comm crackled.

“Report!” It was Ava.

You couldn’t answer, the pain was too strong, and her voice was muffled over the sound of your beating heart. 

A second blast clipped your shoulder, and this time it was worse. The beam carved through the edge of your suit, searing the exposed skin beneath. 

With a grunt, you twisted and slashed at the air behind you. Your power responded instantly, blood rippling from the cut on his thigh.

The blood twisted midair and shot backward in a sharp arc, wrapping around his weapon-hand. He shouted in surprise, stumbling back, trying to raise the cannon again.

You were already pushing yourself up. You were shaking and panting, but upright.

He swung wildly, but you ducked under it and brought your blade up. Another cut, chest this time.

More blood.

You reached out with your non singed hand and closed it into a fist. His blood locked in his body and stilled before constricting around his lungs like a noose. He gasped. Then gagged. You released him and he slumped forward onto the concrete floor.

You staggered back, the floor met your side hard, jarring your wounded shoulder. You groaned as your vision dimmed at the edges. Once you opened your eyes again, you could see a pair of legs beside you.

“Hey, hey. Stay with me.” The voice was low and urgent. Familiar.

“Bob,” your head rolled to the side. His face swam into focus, pale with worry, his blue eyes wide. You coughed out a weak laugh, hysterical with pain or blood loss? You didn’t know. “Hi.”

He shook his head in disbelief, arms attempting to cradle around you in a way to anchor himself. “You’re okay, I’m here.” 

You coughed up a clot of blood from your throat, feeling the clump dribble down the side of your lip. “You shouldn’t have come,” you said quietly, voice ragged.

“I could see your vitals on the Quinjet, I wasn’t going to watch you die.”

Ava’s voice chimed on the comms: “Someone check on Vamp!”

“She’s here,” Bob replied. “I’ve got her.”

The silence on the other end of the line was brief, but heavy. Footsteps resonated nearby. The others were close.

Bob looked up and called out. “Over here!”

Yelena appeared first, crouching beside you and giving you a once-over. Her brows furrowed. “Jesus. You smell like burnt toast.”

“Do I look hot?” You managed a bloody, fractured smile. Bucky crouched beside you, his head bowing as his gaze swept your wounds. 

“Let's get her to the Quinjet. Now.” The tremor in his voice was a silent plea. Don’t die here. Not like this.

TAG LIST: @non-anonymous-anon @ara-a-bird, @navs-bhat

[stormblessed358]

I'd reblog this just plain but begging for asks doesn't work on the internet and I know I'd never get responses anyway, so I'm just going to fill it out for one of my newest OCs by way of introduction and you are all going to have to deal with it.

This is Alexei, and I'm going to need to be very careful answering these because their story is rife with spoilers if ever I actually get around to making it.

what would their halloween costume be?

They'd match costumes with their two friends, Miriam and Ethan, because those two have undoubtedly been matching far longer than they've known Alexei.

what would their password be?

A very long, random string of numbers, letters, and symbols because they're really good at memorization and really paranoid about security. Think something like AlkjJ58&5a;gjk54Chth(ab*l;);kjh658&6%89)*7. Each one is unique.

if they met their first design, how would they react?

They'd probably be jealous because their first design had far fewer distinctive traits and, as mentioned, they're really paranoid and would prefer to blend into the background.

what would their birthday party be like? where? with who? what kind of food?

Miriam and Ethan would have to plan their party because they hate having attention on them. It would be the three of them plus Miriam's kid and Ethan's mentor. It would most likely be a pizza party where they watch Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure after learning Alexei has never seen it (the horror.)

what's their way of showing affection? whats their love language?

They are 110% a service kind of person. They're reserved and struggle with showing affection in an obvious way, so Miriam and Ethan have learned that when they find something randomly repaired or cleaned, that was Alexei saying "I love you."

if you and ur oc switched places (your oc went to the real world, and you went to the story) what would you both do first?

They'd be pretty devastated at losing the life they'd worked for, but this wouldn't be their first time with a major relocation. I'd be pretty jazzed about all the superheroes flying around but distinctly not too happy about the high levels of organized crime going on.

if your oc were to make a podcast, what would it be about? would you listen to it?

She doesn't talk much, so she'd more likely get roped into a podcast Miriam would start about the superheroes around the city because Miriam's a big fan. I'd listen if I had the time.

whats their most controversial opinion?

They hate ice cream because it's too sticky. Ethan and Miriam don't understand why Alexei would ever think this.

where would they sit in class?

If there's someone they know, they're sticking to that person like a barnacle. If not, the seat with the clearest shot to the exit.

what would they write about in the AITA reddit?

If they weren't concerned about the huge security risk social media presents, they'd write about very small events that they've overthought about - for instance, they accidentally gave one extra ketchup packet to a customer when working at the register at their job and their boss walked by and offhandedly remarked, "Pay attention, Alexei." Did they do something wrong? What should they have done instead? Have they permanently lost their boss's trust?

what do they smell like? what do they look like they smell like?

They smell like absolutely nothing. This is actually brought up in-story at some point. They look like they'd smell like the fast-food place they work at because most of their clothes are stained.

how would they describe themselves? how would their friend/love interest and how would you?

Alexei would describe themself as "efficient." Miriam would launch into a whole paragraph of praise that concluded with "I mean, there's a lot they're hiding, but they're still just the best person ever, okay?" My elevator pitch for Alexei, leaving out the spoilers, is that they're always on edge, scared out of their mind that the life they've built for themself is going to collapse out from under them, but they decide that doing good things for the people around them is worth the risk.

how would they do the “how many aura points did I lose when…” trend?

I have no idea what this is so I'm going to skip it.

how would you think they’d die if you didnt know already?

I have two, and they're both spoilers. Alexei's an enigma in the story for a very long time. However, they sarcastically proclaim that Ethan's rowdiness is going to be the death of them eventually.

whats the first thing you would notice about them if you saw them walking in a street?

I'd notice how weirdly they move - completely smooth, even steps, no unintentional movement. If the street is quiet enough, I'd note how they don't make any sound.

whats in their fridge?

Almost nothing. It gets more full when they're going to have people over, but otherwise they just have the essentials.

how well do they remember their childhood?

Perfectly. Their memory is really, really good (mentioned under the password question) and that extends to the events before they became who they are at the start of the story.

whats their best childhood memory?

[Redacted]. As mentioned, they're an enigma in the story and answering this question here will be far less interesting than when it gets answered in the actual story.

do they like answering questions?

Absolutely not.

are they left handed or right handed?

They're ambidextrous, but paranoid enough that they pretend to be right-handed in order to blend in. Miriam and Ethan know, and reassure them that ambidexterity is a perfectly normal thing that happens sometimes and that nobody would take notice, but they're needlessly worried.

whats in their google search bar right now?

"What is deodorant?" Long story.

whats on their wishlist?

Christmas presents for Miriam and Ethan. For themself, new pairs of sturdy jeans.

whats their most used emoji?

They don't use emoji because that's not the way they're used to typing. They have, however, started using :) after being exposed to Miriam.

would their fans assume they were written by a woman or a man?

Probably a woman? I don't make assumptions like this when I look at characters so I've got a bit of myopia when it comes to my own.

what would their reposts be about?

They are frankly scared of social media because of the massive security risk, but when they're looking over Miriam's shoulder they tend to have strong feelings about people being kind to each other.

what would their dating profile look like?

Again, dating apps are a security risk they would be unwilling to take, but in a world where circumstances were better, it would be so terse and clean that whoever looked at it wouldn't find anything interesting.

what is their "RIP (character) you would've loved (thing)"?

"RIP Alexei you would've loved The Murderbot Diaries by Martha Wells." (Did I do this right? I'm unfamiliar with this concept.)

do they give good advice?

Absolutely. They're observant enough that they can give specific solutions to specific problems whenever needed, but they're so blunt they run the risk of hurting feelings sometimes.

what do their hands look like? bracelets? rings? nails? veins? tattoos? scars? dirty/clean?

Their hands are usually at least a little bit dirty even though they wash them more than any other person Miriam knows. They're smooth and even, with no visible veins, marks, jewelry, or moles.

can they fight?

Yes. They're terrifying if pushed to that point.

would they kill a spider or let it outside?

They let it outside. They're always the one other people call to deal with spiders because they're utterly unfazed, no matter how big and/or venomous they are.

if they had to make wish that will surely come true, what would it be?

They'd wish that all the organized crime targeting people in their neighborhood would stop.

how would you spend a day with your oc?

I'd get them a library card and let them go for it. Alexei's in desperate need of some relaxation and the library would be much more comfortable for them than anything else.

how would your oc describe themselves in 3 words?

Efficient. They would not be able to come up with two more in a reasonable amount of time.

how do they define love?

When Alexei would sacrifice their own security for another person's, they consider it love.

if they had a mlp cutie mark what would it be?

A pair of roller blades.

how do they text/write?

Perfect capitalization, grammar, spelling, and punctuation, but very terse and to-the-point. They're really fast and never make typos.

what would be the worst crime theyd commit?

Depends on the context. At worst? Homicide.

what could they talk about for hours?

Something that Ethan or Miriam likes. They'd almost never start conversations about themself or be able to keep one going, but they share an interest in many things Ethan and Miriam do and know that the two of them like talking.

describe them as "he/she is a 10 but..”

They are a 10, but good luck getting them to open up to you.

do they believe in a higher power?

No. They're supportive of their religious friends, but can't share those beliefs.

what kind of first impression do they typically give? are they likeable from the get go?

It depends on the impression that the person approaching them gives. They're utterly neutral and cold if approached casually, such as by a customer at their workplace, but can come across as somewhat hostile if approached with questions.

what emotion is hardest for them to express?

Pain. Whether physical, mental, or emotional, they won't express it even to their friends. They value efficiency, and expressing pain detracts from that, in their mind.

are they a good liar? how often do they lie?

They are an extremely good liar, and if the rest of the answers didn't give a clue, they lie by omission almost constantly.

how quickly would they fall in love?

Alexei would like to think that they wouldn't fall in love easily whatsoever, but the opposite is actually true. They started to love the people in their community almost as soon as they arrived. In terms of romantic love, though, they'd take quite a while to even realize that's what they're feeling.

what kinds of dreams would they see?

They would dream about their past, from which they'd wake up with a cold sweat.

what was the darkest time of their life like?

It was right before they escaped and arrived in the community they are in at the start of the story. They didn't realize exactly how bad it was until they had the benefit of hindsight, and now a lot of the worry they hold is about never returning to that time.

𓏵QUESTIONS FOR DEVELOPING OCS

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

what would their halloween costume be?

what would their password be?

if they met their first design, how would they react?

what would their birthday party be like? where? with who? what kind of food?

what's their way of showing affection? whats their love language?

if you and ur oc switched places (your oc went to the real world, and you went to the story) what would you both do first?

if your oc were to make a podcast, what would it be about? would you listen to it?

whats their most contriversial opinion?

where would they sit in class?

what would they write about in the AITA reddit?

what do they smell like? what do they look like they smell like?

how would they describe themselves? how would their friend/love interest and how would you?

how would they do the “how many aura points did I lose when…” trend?

how would you think they’d die if you didnt know already?

whats the first thing you would notice about them if you saw them walking in a street?

whats in their fridge?

how well do they remember their childhood?

whats their best childhood memory?

do they like answering questions?

are they left handed or right handed?

whats in their google search bar right now?

whats on their wishlist?

whats their most used emoji?

would their fans assume they were written by a woman or a man?

what would their reposts be about?

what would their dating profile look like?

what is their "RIP (character) you would've loved (thing)"?

do they give good advice?

what do their hands look like? bracelets? rings? nails? veins? tattoos? scars? dirty/clean?

can they fight?

would they kill a spider or let it outside?

if they had to make wish that will surely come true, what would it be?

how would you spend a day with your oc?

how would your oc describe themselves in 3 words?

how do they define love?

if they had a mlp cutie mark what would it be?

how do they text/write?

what would be the worst crime theyd commit?

what could they talk about for hours?

describe them as "he/she is a 10 but..”

do they believe in a higher power?

what kind of first impression do they typically give? are they likeable from the get go?

what emotion is hardest for them to express?

are they a good liar? how often do they lie?

how quickly would they fall in love?

what kinds of dreams would they see?

what was the darkest time of their life like?

[1bisschenmelancholie]

Fault Lines || Emily Prentiss x Reader

Oneshot

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶

You didn't want to believe that. But when you finally met her, you understood. There was something about Emily that clashed against your skin like sandpaper. She walked into rooms like she already owned them, and when she looked at you, it wasn't with curiosity. It was with a distant, almost annoyed interest, like she was cataloguing a threat she wasn't quite ready to confront.

And from the very beginning, you clashed.

It started small. A look. A correction. A disagreement in the middle of a briefing over a suspect's psychological profile.

"Your theory is a little... optimistic," she'd said once, while Hotch looked on with tired neutrality.

"And yours is bordering on cynical," you replied, trying not to let your voice bite the way you wanted it to.

You had expected a raised brow, maybe a flicker of amusement. But instead, she just stared. Cool and unreadable.

"Realistic," she said. "That's the word you're looking for."

From then on, it was war.

Not the kind with slammed doors or raised voices. You weren't that immature, and neither was she. No, this was colder. Sharper. Like two swords meeting in silence, over and over again, every time you were forced into the same room.

The worst part? She was brilliant. You couldn't deny it. She saw patterns in ways you didn't. She picked up on behaviors you missed. And when she called you out, it wasn't petty—it was always right. And that made it worse. Because even when you hated her, you couldn't stop... admiring her.

And maybe that was the most infuriating part of all.

⸻

It was during the Boston case that everything shifted.

A string of disappearances. All young women, all gone without a trace. By the time you were flown in, the team was already fraying at the edges—too many variables, not enough patterns. The local PD wasn't cooperating. Hotch was tense. And you? You'd barely had three hours of sleep in the past two days.

"Maybe if we focused on the locations, not the victims," you argued, standing by the whiteboard, red circles drawn around each abduction point.

"We've been over the locations," Emily said without looking at you, flipping through a file. "There's no pattern there."

"You said that three days ago. But what if you were wrong?"

Her head snapped up.

Rossi muttered something under his breath and stepped out for coffee.

"I'm sorry," you added quickly. "I just mean... things change. And maybe we missed something."

Emily walked toward you slowly. Not threatening. But not relaxed either. Like she was measuring you.

"You think I missed something?" she asked.

You hesitated. "I think we all could've."

A pause. And then, softer: "Show me."

That surprised you.

You walked her through your theory. Slowly. Carefully. You expected her to interrupt—she usually did. But this time she just stood there, one arm folded across her chest, the other holding her chin. Her eyes tracked everything you said. She asked questions. Pushed back once or twice. But mostly... she listened.

And at the end of it, she said, "You might be onto something."

You stared at her.

She gave you a half-smile. "Don't look so shocked."

And just like that, something cracked. Something subtle. But it was there.

⸻

The truce didn't last long.

By the next morning, you were back at it again—arguing over the suspect's psychological profile. But it was different now. Not quite hostile. Competitive, maybe. Like something in both of you had woken up and was now testing the air.

Then came the motel.

You were sitting on the edge of the lumpy bed, files spread out like fallen leaves. Emily leaned against the dresser, her arms crossed. You were both exhausted, both frustrated.

"He's escalating," you said. "The last victim was left in a public space. He's not hiding anymore."

Emily didn't answer right away. She looked at you, eyes narrowing slightly.

"You know, I used to think you were just defensive for the sake of it," she said. "But you're just... stubborn."

You looked up. "That's rich, coming from you."

Her lips twitched. "Maybe we're both stubborn."

You looked at each other for a beat too long.

And then she said, "You have a good instinct for this. Even when you're wrong, it's not because you didn't think it through."

You didn't know what surprised you more—the compliment or the fact that it felt sincere.

"Thanks," you said, too quickly.

Silence. You felt it settle between you, thick and strange. Your heart was beating too fast for no reason at all.

"Don't let it go to your head," she added.

There it was. The familiar edge. But now it was laced with something else.

⸻

The shift was slow. Painfully slow.

You started noticing the little things. How Emily always brought you the stronger coffee when you looked like death. How she'd glance at you when the suspect started talking, like she was waiting to see your reaction. How she'd challenge you, yes, but never cruelly. Never to humiliate.

You caught her watching you once, in the middle of a late-night debrief. The others were talking, exhausted, their voices blurred. But her eyes were locked on you, sharp and quiet and thoughtful.

When you looked back, she didn't look away.

You didn't either.

⸻

It was storming the night you cracked the pattern.

The air outside was thick with rain, thunder rolling in the distance. You were sitting on the motel floor, laptop on your knees, the others half-asleep or checking out.

Emily was in the corner, flipping through case files. The only light came from a desk lamp, the glow soft and warm.

"Emily," you said, suddenly. "Come here."

She looked up, slightly irritated, but stood anyway.

You walked her through your findings. One of the abduction sites had been overlooked—a small alley between two storefronts, off the main grid. There were surveillance cams. A timestamp. A man in a red hoodie.

Emily's face changed as she processed it.

And then she smiled.

"Nice catch."

You didn't smile back. Not yet. The moment was too heavy for that.

She sat beside you, cross-legged on the floor, her shoulder brushing yours.

It felt like fire.

You didn't move away.

Neither did she.

⸻

You didn't talk about it.

You didn't talk about the late nights spent reading files inches apart. The growing electricity between every glance, every too-long silence. The way your arguments were starting to feel like foreplay, like you were both pushing and testing and daring the other to break first.

No, you didn't talk about it. But it was there. In every word you didn't say.

And when she brushed past you at the precinct and her hand grazed your back, you didn't imagine the way your skin burned after.

And you didn't imagine the way her fingers lingered just a second too long.

⸻

It came to a head the night they found the body.

She was young. Blonde. Folded neatly in a construction site just outside city limits. It was raining again. Always raining.

You stood beside Emily in the field, both of you soaked to the bone. The others were behind you, murmuring, documenting. But you two were quiet.

"She's the last one," Emily said. "I can feel it."

You nodded, teeth clenched. The cold was biting, but it wasn't just that. It was the sight. The brokenness of the girl. The way her limbs had been posed like a doll. You felt your throat tighten.

And then Emily touched your arm. Barely. Just a gentle brush of her hand over your sleeve.

You didn't look at her.

But you didn't pull away.

⸻

Later that night, back at the motel, you couldn't sleep.

You sat in the lobby, alone, a coffee in your hand and the storm still raging outside.

Emily found you there.

She didn't say anything at first. Just sat down beside you, her coat draped over her arm, her hair damp.

"Can't sleep either?" you asked.

She shook her head. "Too much noise."

You weren't sure if she meant the storm or the thoughts in her head.

Silence stretched between you again. But this one wasn't awkward. It was full. Heavy.

"I was wrong about you," she said quietly.

You turned. "About what?"

Emily looked straight ahead. "About thinking you didn't belong here. You do."

The words hit you like a breath you didn't know you'd been holding.

You swallowed hard. "Thanks."

"And I was wrong about thinking I didn't want you on this case," she added. "You've been... good."

You smiled faintly. "That's as close to a compliment as I'm gonna get, huh?"

She looked at you then. Eyes dark and unreadable.

"No," she said. "It's not."

Her hand brushed yours on the table.

You froze.

But you didn't move away.

The moment passed.

Or maybe it stretched. Maybe it tangled itself into the air around you, twisting and catching on your breath. Emily didn't say anything else. Neither did you. But her hand remained close. Too close. You could feel the heat of her knuckles like they were pressed against your own.

You wanted to say something—anything. To crack a joke. To ask her why she'd suddenly shifted so far from distant and cold to... this. But your throat had gone dry.

And then her phone buzzed.

She looked at it, and the spell broke.

"They found a print match," she said. "Let's go."

⸻

The suspect's name was David Callan. Mid-thirties. Lived alone. Previous assault charge buried in a sealed juvenile file. The match came from a partial print found on one of the victims' shoelaces—faint, but there.

You and Emily took the lead on the arrest, riding in silence through Boston's soaked streets, the sirens distant behind you.

When you arrived, the house was dark. Too quiet.

Your heart was racing, but you focused. Emily was already in motion, gun drawn, stance solid.

You followed her in.

The house smelled like mildew and something metallic. Old blood, maybe. Your flashlight cut through the darkness. Each step echoed.

"He's not here," you whispered.

"Basement," she said, her voice barely audible. "There's always a basement."

You didn't ask how she knew. You just followed.

The stairs creaked under your weight. Every sound felt louder in the dark. At the bottom: rows of boxes. A stained mattress. A workbench with zip ties. Photos pinned to the wall—each victim, labeled and catalogued.

He'd been watching them.

He was meticulous.

You felt bile rise in your throat.

Emily moved toward the photos, her hand brushing one of the pins.

That's when the trap sprang.

You didn't see him at first—he was hidden behind the shelves. A blur. Then he was on her.

You heard the struggle before you saw it—Emily's grunted curse, the crash of a shelf tipping over.

"Emily!"

She was on the ground, fighting him off. His arm was around her throat, his knee on her ribs.

You aimed your weapon but couldn't get a clear shot.

Emily twisted beneath him, trying to grab the pepper spray from her belt. He slammed her head against the floor. Once. Twice.

You didn't think. You dropped your gun and lunged.

The tackle was messy. You grabbed his collar and yanked him off her, throwing your weight backward. You hit the floor hard. He scrambled up, but you were faster. You drove your elbow into his ribs, felt the crunch of bone or cartilage.

He swung a fist, caught your cheek. Your vision blurred.

You kicked him—hard—straight in the knee.

He fell.

And Emily was on him in an instant, dazed but fueled by something furious and sharp. She wrestled the cuffs from her belt and pinned him, panting, blood dripping from her mouth.

Silence followed.

Then her voice, ragged:

"Don't ever touch me again."

⸻

They took him away.

And you took Emily to the ER.

She protested the whole time, of course. But her ribs were bruised, her lip split, and you'd seen the blood in her hair.

"Concussion," the doctor confirmed. "Not too severe. But she'll need rest."

You sat in the waiting room while they bandaged her up, adrenaline slowly draining from your limbs.

Your hands were still shaking.

When she emerged—tired, pale, hair pulled back into a loose ponytail—you stood.

"You saved my life," she said.

You blinked. "You would've done the same."

"Maybe," she murmured. "But you didn't hesitate. You didn't even think."

You smiled faintly. "Guess I'm not that cynical after all."

Emily stepped closer. Her eyes searched yours.

"You scared me."

"You?" you teased, trying to lighten the mood. "You don't scare easy."

"I'm not talking about the fight," she said.

And suddenly the air was thick again.

She was close. Closer than she needed to be.

You felt her breath against your cheek.

"You came for me," she whispered.

And then she kissed you.

It wasn't desperate. It wasn't soft, either. It was precise. Confident. Like a line being drawn—this was happening, and you both knew it.

You responded instantly.

All the tension, the arguments, the friction—it spilled out in that kiss. The fire of months of biting remarks and narrow glances. Her hands in your hair. Yours on her hips. She pulled you closer like she'd wanted to do it for weeks.

And maybe she had.

When you pulled back, both breathless, she didn't smile. She looked serious. Flushed. Alive.

"I don't know what this is," she said.

"Neither do I," you replied. "But I don't want it to stop."

She looked at you like she was trying to memorize something. Like she was seeing you, not just studying you.

And then she said, "Me neither."

⸻

Back at Quantico, things didn't change immediately.

You didn't hold hands in the bullpen. You didn't show up to work together. You didn't even text that much.

But things had shifted.

Your arguments were softer. Your glances lingered. Your silences said more than your words.

Garcia noticed first.

"You two have a weird energy," she said one day. "Like, enemies who got stuck in an elevator and had to reevaluate their entire dynamic. Did that happen? Because I feel like that happened."

You didn't answer.

She gasped. "It did happen. Oh my god."

"No elevator," you muttered. "Just... Boston."

Garcia looked between you and Emily and made the world's most dramatic exit.

You and Emily laughed about it later. Together. On your couch. Her hair was wet from your shower, her legs tucked under yours.

"I used to hate you," she murmured.

You smiled against her shoulder. "I know."

She looked at you. "Do you still?"

You kissed the corner of her mouth.

"No."

A beat.

"Me neither."

⸻

It wasn't perfect.

You still fought. Still clashed in meetings. Still got under each other's skin.

But now there was something else. Something quieter. A balance.

She brought you coffee with just enough sugar. You kept Advil in your desk for her migraines. She read your reports first, always, and gave feedback no one else would.

You stopped seeing her as an enemy.

You started seeing her as the only person who ever really kept up with you.

And maybe that was what you'd both been waiting for all along.

⸻

One night, weeks later, she asked:

"Did you know?"

"Know what?"

"That this would happen. That we'd end up here."

You looked at her, the way her hair curled around her jaw, the way her shirt was rumpled from sleep.

"No," you said honestly. "But I think I hoped."

Emily smiled. The kind of smile she didn't give to just anyone.

"Well," she said, crawling into your arms, "you were right about something, then."

You kissed her slowly. Deliberately.

"I'm right about a lot of things," you whispered against her skin.

She laughed softly.

"God help me."

And you held her close, the way you'd wanted to from the very beginning—long before either of you had the words for it.

Even now, you didn't need them.

She was here.

You were home.

And the fault lines between you had finally settled into something whole.

[chocobje]

Hello I bring you smol writing of Blot.

—

Blot keeps a good eye on things. Someone has to, when you happen to be friends with two overly energetic toons and you’re someone who has barely any energy. A victim of the extrovert adopting the introvert, as Dandy would call it sometimes.

He's always kept silent and prefers to simply listen and observe. That’s something he's good at.

It was no wonder why he noticed whenever Looey seemed to be forcing a smile on his face, or whenever Yatta felt drained from their performances. Being a member of the circus troop wasn’t an easy job. It required a lot of energy. Both mental and physical.

Blot always had more of the former than the latter, while his two friends were the opposite.

Point is, he knew when they could not take being around others anymore, when the balloon was running out of helium and simply grew small, and when the piñata had no more candy to give and grew empty.

Blot loves his friends. He does, really. So he wants to be a good friend.

It’s why he always brings them their favourite snacks that he had his Blot Jr. (or his copy, according to that overgrown shrimp) steal from the kitchen. It’s worth getting scolded by Sprout and Cosmo if it means his friends smile.

It’s why he clears Looey's room from thumbtacks that Shrimpo would maliciously place, instead letting his inky body absorb them. Sometimes people would ask why Blot Jr. felt pricky to the touch. He didn’t answer. Not like they would understand.

It’s why he uses Blot Jr. to cheer up Yatta, helping her wipe those tears made out of confetti from her face. It’s worth seeing her smile even if the tears sting against his skin.

Blot adores his friends. He'd do anything to make them smile.

AW BLOT WRITING?? BLOT BEING A SWEET FRIEND??

This is so sweet omg I genuinely love this 😭 I adore the circus trio so much.. But Blot pls learn your own boundaries owh..

Thank u for sharing this, I like writing like these especially when it comes to characterization.

It's an interesting take on Blot, I only read a few of his dialogue (Cause it's hard to read it) but he truly fits right in with the other two, just wanting to make ppl smile including his friends.

[fashionteahouse]

hiiii i LOVEEE all you writtinngggs

i was wondering if you could do a paul lahote story where she’s human and unaware of everything but still friends with everyone (except paul)

she lowkey has a crush on him bc of the imprint pull but he’s always been rude to her and never spent much time around her, one day she’s hanging out with the pack and paul gets jealous + angry so he says some unkind words to you like “i wish i never met you” or something along those lines

she runs out of the house to drive home and the pack hears there was a huge car accident and it sounds like it’s her, she’s not picking up her phone

obviously it’s not her and it took forever (like until the next damn day) to find her but the feelings that paul felt make it a happy ending story

hiii thank you ! and sure i can 💜 hope you enjoy :)

fucking fucked up - paul lahote x reader

It started with one joke that flew out of your mouth. All it took was one of the guys to look over in your direction and laugh. You didn’t expect them to hear you. You watched them play an intense match of football at the beach. You lounged on a broken log as you listened to a tune that was enjoyable for your ears.

You knew one of the guy’s name.

Paul.

You heard things. You didn’t know how true they were.

Seeing him around, made your stomach be filled with butterflies each and every time.

It drove you crazy. There had been times where you had tried to find him on social media. No trace. The mysteriousness of him enticed you. His bold nature made you confident that he wasn’t hiding anything. The type to wear his heart on his sleeve.

He told people how it was, not caring if they could take to it or not. He’s never spoken to you, but now, he abandoned the football taking steps towards you and his mouth moved.

You move your headphone off of one ear.

“Huh?”

“I said, since you know about plays, why don’t you get off your ass and show people how it’s done?”

“Come on, Paul. Don’t be like that.” A guy called over. He seemed to be the leader of the friend group. He looked to be the oldest out of all of them.

“Sorry. I was just making a joke.” You say apologetically, even offering a friendly smile. He didn’t return it. He instead gave you a hardened gaze. “A shitty one at that.” He says finally and turns.

Your smile deflates like busted balloon.

Your feelings weren’t hurt, you just watched him as he abandoned both his friends and the game.

“Sorry about that. He might speak to you recklessly again but just don’t take it to heart. It’s just how he is.”

“Did I offend him?” You ask to the deep voice and friendly gaze.

The brawny man shrugged, “He’ll yell at the sky just for it being blue.”

You look down a bit with a soft chuckle and take your headphones all the way off.

“Well, thank you….”

“Jared.”

“Jared. Nice to meet you, I’m Y/N….Those are your friends?”

“In the flesh.”

“Cool.”

“We can play catch if you want?”

“Sure. I have nothing better to do.”

You caught nothing, but the fact that they made you laugh so hard throughout the game made you forget that you pissed Paul off in the first place.

You found out how funny they were. The oldest of the group was Sam. He had such a strong sense of overlooking things. It was Embry who was a great catcher. Quiet confidence. Jacob and Quil’s banter kept your interest.

Waving a goodbye, you couldn’t believe that you had such a great time with a group of strangers. They weren’t strangers now, but you didn’t know them hours prior.

You saw them when you were at the beach after that. You would sit on a rock or would join.

In the middle of chuckling under your breath at Seth’s tumble, Embry suggests something.

“Wanna go to Emily’s?”

“Yeah.” Seth answered.

“Come on, Y/N. I’ll show you the directions.” Embry invited. You jump off of the rock with your car keys in your hands.

Your stomach ached with hunger as soon as you walked closer to the front door that Seth was holding open. A wide dining room was filled with the friend group that you had made. You’re drowned into hugs and you’re unable to focus on which conversation to pay attention to as each boy tried to get your attention.

All except one.

He sat in a puddle brooded aura as he ate a plate of food quietly.

You met Emily, Sam’s fiancée.

“Wow. This is really good.”

“Thank you!” She beamed at you.

“Might have to start coming over here to help clean your fridge out.”

“Oh, I have plenty of help with that.” She laughs as she pointed at every guy at her table who currently had their cheeks stuffed.

She told you to help yourself to something to drink. You turn with a jug of juice and splashed Paul’s chest, soaking his shirt.

“Oh! Im sorry.” you exclaim as you set the jug down and grab some napkins.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” he groaned nastily. He snatched them out of your hands and tried to wipe his chest before just pulling off of his wet shirt.

“My bad.” you stress with your heart pounding in your ears.

“Yeah. Your bad.” he says as he threw the napkins down.

After eating, Quil pulled you outside to play catch. You both tossed a foam football back and forth as you two teased each other. The back door slaps shut and you look over to see a Paul with his arms crossed.

“We should play an actual game of football.” Quil suggests.

“I can’t play no regular game of football. You would squish me.” you laughed a bit.

“What’s wrong with squishing you?” he teases and tossed the ball back to you but it bounced off of your hands as you chuckled out a, “Shut up.”

“You suck ass.”

You look up at a scowling Paul. You roll your eyes a bit.

“Roll your eyes too much, they’ll get stuck in the back of your head.”

“My god…I wish you would stop ruining the vibe.” You mumble as you held your hands open for Quil to throw it back to you.

“My god, I wish I never met you. Good for nothing and just taking up space. Anyway, who even told you that you were welcome here? Like seriously.”

You clench your jaw as it felt like a hardened blow to your chest. You tried to swallow the big knot in your throat as you threw down the ball, you swing the door open with force you never knew you possessed, ignoring the calls of your name to come back.

You stormed through the home and fling your car door open.

“Don’t worry about Paul, Y/N. Let’s go back to our game.” Quil ran out to you trying to cheer you up.

“No. I’m going home. I’m done. With this.” you circle your hand and close your car door. You roared your engine to line and Quil watched as you pulled away from the home.

You lie on your back as you peered up at the ceiling. Your phone was blowing up. You groan and power it off.

Finally getting peace and quiet, you allowed your mind to settle and relax.

The next morning, you munched on cereal as bangs on your front door sounded out in your home. A confused expression was painted on your face as you didn’t know anybody who would knock that loudly and rapidly.

Your first thought was the police but they would’ve announced their prescribed.

“Who is it?” you asked through the door.

“Open the door! It’s Paul.”

Your eyes widen and he knocks again pleading for you to just open the door.

You open it but he rushed in and almost knocked you over by a hug.

“Whoa. I almost fell over.” you say as his arms were right around you but they felt nice. You found out his embrace was your guilty pleasure.

“What’s wrong with you? You haven’t answered the phone.”

“I was falling back.” you answer in a deadpanned voice. He pulled back as he overlooked your face and body. It made your stomach flutter with nervousness.

“You’re not hurt?”

“No..Just my feelings.”

He pulled back and pained expression washed over his face. He looked unrecognizable.

“I went overboard with what I said. I’m not asking for forgiveness.”

“It’s alright. I just know your true feelings.”

“My true feelings is that I was worried. You left so abruptly and there was an accident not too far from the direction where you drove. It was the same car and everything. I was- We all were worried sick.”

“Oh..Yeah…Maybe I shouldn’t have ran out so quick. They did tell me that’s just how you are.”

“What’s how I am?”

“Your unrefined nature.”

He relaxed his stance.

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings…I saw you fumble the ball and couldn’t believe that you didn’t catch it. It came out nastier than intended.”

“Instead of making fun of me, you should’ve just showed me how it’s done.”

You earn a heart stopping smile.

“I got you the next time when you come over.”

“So, I’m welcomed back?” you tease.

“Of course. I’m telling you that you’re welcomed back. And I’m telling you that I’m glad I met you. You helped me realize how fucking fucked up I can be.”

You nod and walk back to your table. You groan a bit as you poked at your bowl of cereal with your spoon.

“It’s all soggy now.”

“You seriously eat these?” he asked out as the box was gripped in his hand, he stared at the back of them. You look at him and he looked at you.

“Yeah. Shoo.” you wave off as you steal your box back.

“Hurry up so we can go to Emily’s.” he says as he sits down.

“Yeah, yeah.” you say as you lifted your spoon.

You ate as you studied his actions discreetly.

“Why did you hate me when I first met you?” you ask.

He was quiet for a moment.

“I did…Because of how much I wanted you.”

“You’re an enigma. It hard to trace you. You’re hard to read.”

He gives you a kind smile that lit your heart on fire.

“Good.”

[delusionalbitchinthehouse]

Aether calls Dew. With a twist.

Aether smiles when Dew answers the facetime so quickly it barely has time to ring. It's a strange new routine, calling him to get to hear him talk about his day instead of simply slipping under the covers next to Dew and listening to him, but they make do.

"You won't believe it," the fire ghoul starts the second his face popsup on the screen. The lighting is kind of shit, hotel room lights dimmed down to the point where Aether kind of struggles to make out Dew's features, but it's always better than nothing. The quint chuckles fondly, watches as his favorite fire ghoul tugs at the collar of his sleep shirt with an annoyed huff. His cheeks look a bit flushed, he's probably just out the shower.

"I always believe you, firelily. What happened ?"

Dew rolls his eyes, shifts a bit.

"I'm rooming with fucking Phantom."

Aether cannot help the way he snorts. Dew's dramatic streak is showing, the way he huffs and puffs for so little.

"Come on, I don't understand what your problem is with him. He's sweet, and he rocks on stage."

Dew shrugs petulantly, glaring down at what Aether assumes are his shoes, eyes so scalding he could probably burn a hole through them and the hotel room floor. He opens his mouth to answer, but immediately clicks it shut, jaw working as he shifts again, brow knitted.

"He's- so fucking cheery, what the fuck is there to be so happy about ?"

Aether openly bursts out laughing now. Dew doesn't look too upset about it, though. If anything, he looks a bit distracted, fiddling with the phone and adjusting his position once more. From the angle, the quint can only see him from the top of his head to the middle of his chest, but even so, Aether notices his strange body language. Like Dew is holding something back. The quint's laughter dies down, replaced by worry.

"Dew, is everything alright ?"

The phone is shuffled around again, unidentified noises reaching Aether's ears, too muffled and distorted by the poor sound quality of his own phone for him to recognize it. Dew licks his lips, the way he does when he tries to appear casual.

"Fine, Aeth, don't you worry your pretty head."

Alarm bells ring in Aether's mind. Now that he's more thoroughly paying attention to it, Dew's whole demanor is strange. He seems twitchy, restless.

"Are you sure-"

"I'm fine, Aether. Now can I go back to bitching about Phantom ?"

The quint sighs in defeat, more than aware he won't get anywhere if he keeps pushing. Fine. Let's hope Dew will open up throughout the conversation.

"Alright, alright. Still. you should give it a rest, he's a great ghoul."

Dew scoffs, and now there is nothing on this earth or below it that will keep him from ranting, complaining about clinginess and overzeal. Aether vaguely wonders where Phantom is for Dew to speak his annoyance so freely, with no visible fear of getting caught by the subject of his exasperation. Probably out to get post ritual drinks with Swiss and Aurora, if Aether had to guess.

"-and it's not like he realizes it eITHEr-"

The quints' musings are abruptly interrupted by Dew's loud voice crack. The fire ghoul freezes, looking mortified, red flush crawling up his neck. He's about to say something, when his eyes roll back and his whole frame tenses, fangs sinking into his bottom lip.

"Shit," he pants, swallowing thickly. Oh. Aether knows that tone. Knows that reaction. The noises from earlier are back, louder, much clearer. Wet, incriminating noises. The quint facepalms.

"Are you- fucking hell, Dew."

The fire ghoul groans, eyelashes fluttering.

"Sorry, Aeth. Just...fuck."

Aether tuts, but he's chuckling.

"'m talking to you, and you're getting blown. What, thought I wouldn't realize ?"

Dew snorts, though it morphs into a low moan.

"Was betting on you being too tired. Wanna see ?"

Aether's dick twitches in interest at the thought. He grins, arching an eyebrow.

"You have to ask ?"

Dew fumbles with the phone, holding it high until Aether has an upward view of him, head thrown back against the chair's headrest, legs widely spread to accomodate the ghoul hunched between them. The fire ghoul's hand is burried in an oh so recognizable mop of white and purple streaked hair.

"Dewdrop ghoul, you fucking fiend," Aether huffs increduoulsy as Phantom pulls away from Dew's cock just enough to grin at him and mumble a "Hi Aether" before the fire ghoul is pushing him back into his groin. "You were shit-talking him while he was giving you head ?"

Dew groans at something Phantom does, taking his sweet time answering. Aether wishes the light and image quality was better, the sweet noises coming from the two ghouls so enticing.

"Mmh, he likes it," Dew finally huffs, playfully tugging on one of Phantom's curl. Whatever the quint does in retaliation nearly has the fire ghoul arching off the chair with a sound they're sure to get noise complaints about.

"Well," Aether chuckles while fishing his cock out of his boxers with a relieved sigh, "looks like you're warming up to him."

Oh how he loves the laugh that answers him.

[ploompkin]

Some platonic father/son head canons for Elliot and Harley because I’m so normal about them

Harley and Elliot in the YGP:

(Realistically the members of the YGP were probably like 10+ or something but I’m ignoring that in favour of the cuteness that is a 5 y/o Harl)

— I’ve already talked about this with @/deaddreamweaver, but Harley point blank REFUSES to take nap time with the other kids. He grew up in an abusive household so is naturally distrustful of others, kids and adults alike. THE ONLY conditions in which Harley takes his nap is if Elliot holds him on his lap, or carries him around. Yep, even if Elliot has meetings! Luckily the investors find it cute. Harley has no idea, but his napping habits actually result in additional unplanned funding for Playtime Co.

— Harley likes to info dump to Elliot about his interests, because he’s the only one who’ll listen. At first Harley keeps stopping and starting, trailing off and warily eyeing Elliot, but the more interested Elliot appears, and the more he encourages him, the more comfortable Harley gets with sharing. For his birthday, Elliot gets him a book on neuroscience (something Harley has shown interest in) which is what puts him onto the path of becoming a neurosurgeon.

— Panic attacks aren’t an uncommon occurrence for little Harley. He usually masks them as angry outbursts, so it’s not always apparent when he’s having one. Elliot eventually figures out what’s really going on though, and soon after he becomes the only person who can talk Harley down from an attack. Some methods that have proven effective are getting Harley to list all the muscles in his body… and then the ones he uses to breathe. Also, leaning against Elliot’s chest and listening to him breathe, helping the little guy to remember to regulate his own breaths.

— Harley doesn’t like to hang out with the other kids. He doesn’t really ‘get’ them, and nor do they ‘get’ him. Instead, whenever they have break times and Elliot’s available, he likes to play chess with him. Harley usually wins. When Elliot is busy however… Harley will spend his time reading the books Elliot got for him, or drawing up some random design for a robot or something to show him later.

Adult Harley and Elliot:

(In my AU where Elliot invites Harley back to the factory. Also— less fluff and more angst).

—Harley still sees Elliot as a traitor. There’s no overstating how much his dismissal from the YGP hurt him, especially since that meant going back to his abusive household. (I think that Elliot overlooked or missed the signs of abuse altogether because 1) Harley didn’t like talking about his home life to begin with and 2) the man had just lost his daughter, so was grieving as well as developing an obsession over resurrecting her). Because of this old wound, Harley is very short tempered with Elliot, frequently having angry outbursts towards him. For the most part, Elliot quietly endures them since, with hindsight, he’s realised that he might not have made the right decision by expelling Harley and feels no small amount of guilt for it.

— Despite this resentment though… Elliot is still the closest thing to a positive father figure Harley has ever had/has. As such, Harley often finds himself subconsciously seeking Elliot out. Walking past his office, standing closer to him than what is strictly necessary… he becomes very irritated and embarrassed when he realises what he’s doing. Elliot’s presence still calms him, and his approval still makes Harley light up. Sentiment… such a folly, right guys?

— Elliot is still the only person who can talk Harley down from a panic attack, though now he’s grown he rarely has them, and is uncannily good at disappearing as soon as one begins to set in. Elliot is also uncannily good… at sensing when an attack is about to happen, and finding Harley to comfort him. Harley hates it. …He also loves Elliot for it, although he wishes he didn’t.

— Elliot will often check in with Harley. How he’s doing, is his work load manageable, did he see that adorable cat outside the factory today? Sometimes if he has time, he even brings the younger man coffee, or lunch. All this fussing irritates Harley. It makes him feel special, which he used to enjoy… but nowadays it just makes him feel on edge.

— Because of his guilt as well as his deep adoration for the boy, Elliot is more lenient with Harley than he should be. Which, ironically, would be his second mistake :)

Lemme know if you want more of these idk

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

also, speaking of remy, i'm curious about the what's going on with the witch trying to possess him? is she evil just for fun, does she have a tragic backstory, did she just have a really bad Wednesday and decide to blow up the world? what going on with her? how is she? on a scale of 1 to batman how bad is she with kids/teens or is this just a remy specific situation? your blorbo has me obsessed with him

YAY love for Remy and his awful witch

I don't know a TON ton about her because it simply hasn't come up (maybe if I wrote more, idk, who knows), which is largely because Remy doesn't care and doesn't want to know. they're not roommates, they're contestants in a 24/7 grudge match for his body and he is WINNING. mainly because every time he feels her getting feisty he puts on his bigass headphones and turns on some CRAZY loud edm, which makes her curl up and sulk at the back of his skull for a while.

I think her name is probably Prudence, because I think that's a funny name for an old-timey evil witch to have, and like. listen. I have to assume SOMETHING happened that made her want to pick "evil witch" as her job. and like, you know, she was alive something like 350is years ago, it's not like I can't imagine ways in which a woman might have had a bad enough time to want to be an evil witch. pretty bad for women back then! but also I'm not really interested in every antagonist having a deeply sympathetic backstory; some people are just assholes because they're assholes and more than anything I think Prudence got into magic because she wanted the power to do whatever she wants.

which isn't actually blowing up the world, mind you. she doesn't mind the world being how it is, as long as she gets to be comfortable within it. ideally she's love to be living it up in her own penthouse somewhere, magicking up money and seeing what the 21st century has to offer. it's just that the body she tried to take over didn't work out and now she's stuck and she's PISSED about it, and she'd have absolutely zero remorse shredding Remy's consciousness like some strawberries in a blender if it meant getting a body of her own to run around in.

she doesn't really have any particular animosity towards kids or teens - she'd be mad at Remy or anyone else in this situation no matter how old they were - but she also doesn't feel sentimental towards them. if you want to know who on this team of villains if most down to hurt a child, it's the witch ghost who's not technically part of the team.

[isles-of-man]

He moved toward her, his steps quieter now, softened by the presence of something precious. She looked up, smiled, and stood with a grace that made him forget, for a moment, how many hours he’d spent in the sun shouting over clashing swords. “You’re a sight I’ve needed all day,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead before letting her guide him to the table. His training tunic had been swapped for a clean linen shirt, though the weight of his leather belt and boots still marked him as a man never quite off duty. Still, with her, the edge dulled. He could breathe.

She asked him about his day, and he gave her the truth—not just the bloodless version. “Grueling,” he admitted with a dry smile. “Two recruits couldn’t even lift their blades properly. One tried to parry by closing his eyes. The others are coming along, though. A few of them will make proper soldiers, if they stop trying to impress each other long enough to listen.” He paused, shaking his head, the humor in his eyes not quite masking the fatigue. “I swear, I’ve fought quieter battles than that yard today.”

But even as he spoke, he was watching her. The way her hand reached instinctively to pour his cup. The way she leaned forward, genuinely listening. The way her presence filled the space so completely that he hardly noticed the ache in his shoulders anymore. “What about you?” he asked, voice lower now, meant only for her. “You seem like you’ve been spoiled in all the right ways.” His gaze wandered to the tea, the silk at her waist, the soft flush in her cheeks. “You deserve it. All of it. And more.”

Dinner came, but Jorah found himself more interested in the conversation than the food. The clatter of cutlery, Rosie’s quiet footsteps in and out, the murmur of wind against the window—it all faded into the background. What mattered was this: the calm in her eyes, the curve of her smile, and the peace he hadn’t known he’d been longing for until he found it sitting across from him.

kate smiled when her husband entered the living room, standing in her brand new dress and looking at him with perky hues. her heart raced as she approached him and blushed lightly at his compliment. she turned her head and looked at rosie, who made a small curtsy and shook her head. "oh, sir mormont, it was my pleasure. your wife is a sweetheart and i will always be here for her." kate smiled back at the maid before looking back at jorah.

"i am... and it eases my mind to know you are now home." she caressed his face tenderly before kissing his lips and humming at the feeling of her body now complete and against his. as she pulled away, the woman chuckled and nodded. "well go get changed, i will wait for you, don't worry."

she wasn't starving, she was simply eager to have this dinner with jorah. as she parted from him, the woman sat back by the fireplace and reopened her book to read it. she was peaceful, a little smile coming across her face as her green hues read the novel that she found. rosie brought her some tea and smiled at her. "thank you, rosie. i will wait for my husband to join for dinner."

her smile grew as she then waited quietly, reading her book peacefully. she was finally safe, in a place that she could call home and with a man that she truly loved. what else could she wish for at this stage?

as she finally sat by the dinner table, ready to share this meal with jorah, kate asked him: "how was your day?"