#so many times thought i was moving forward | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

azzibuckets · 2 days ago

Text

spoiled

vote paige as a wnba all star

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

a/n: paige spoiling azzi. that’s it. wrote in all lowercase bc im lazy. also rough ending bc i didnt know what else to add lmao

word count: 5k

main masterlist | oneshots masterlist

when it works

paige typically isn’t very observant, per se, but with azzi things are somehow always different. noticing things about her best friend comes like second nature to her—like how she’ll always slip a couple of bottles of coconut water into the cooler, or how during sad movies she suddenly has the urge to go to the bathroom every five minutes, blaming it on said coconut water but it’s really so that she can cry without her family making fun of her. or, more relevantly, paige notices that no matter how many dresses azzi looks through, her eyes keep flicking back to the sparkly one in the corner.

it was the first one azzi had looked at when they’d entered the small boutique store. eyes widening, she’d smoothed her hand over the satiny chiffon with a quiet sort of reverence before flipping over the price tag at the top. both paige and azzi’s jaws had dropped at the same time; azzi had brought the slip closer to her face, as if squinting at it would change the amount of zeroes. “didn’t even know dresses could sell for five hundred,” the dark haired girl had muttered before swiftly moving onto the next aisle, not daring to linger with something she knew she couldn’t have.

azzi had liked other ones—a black gown with a slit on the side that paige thought her long legs would look great in, and an emerald green sheath dress that dipped to show cleavage and hugged her curves a little too well. both articles fell within her budget, and it’s not like they were ugly; paige thought that azzi would look just as stunning in them—although it might be a biased opinion, considering that paige also thought azzi could wear a trash bag and still be the most beautiful girl at prom—but nothing compared to the smile she’d had when admiring the first one.

so while azzi was trying on her budget-friendly dresses, paige had went back and snagged the sparkly one. “hey, azzi.” she knocked on the door of the fitting room. “you all done?”

rustling, and then—“yeah. still tryna choose between the black and green.”

paige rises on her tippy toes to heave the dress over the door. “don’t come out yet. put this one on first.”

“paige.” azzi laughed breathily. “this one’s a little too pricey. my mom would implode.”

“i know, i know.” she shakes the dress emphatically. “just give it a try, yeah? i just want a look.”

hesitantly, the dress slips slowly over the door and into azzi’s hands. paige waits patiently outside, foot tapping against the floor. “paige?” azzi’s voice floats out after a few moments. “need help with the zipper.” the door opens a crack, and brown eyes peek out.

“you can’t get it yourself?” if the dress fits anything like paige had imagined, then she doesn’t think she can handle being in a small room when azzi looks like that. if she’s honest, being with azzi always sort of dims her logic, and she doesn’t trust that she won’t do or say something stupid that will expose her more than friendly feeling blossoming of late. but azzi nods adamantly, and paige stifles a groan as she steps into the room.

paige doesn’t let her eyes linger, immediately positioning herself behind her best friend. focus on the zipper, she reminds herself. ignore everything else.

but even from the backside, she’s a traitor to her own thoughts. she zips up the dress slowly, fingers brushing against her back. azzi’s somehow both curves and muscle, and paige resists the urge to trace her thumb along the path of her spine. azzi shivers. “sorry,” paige mutters. “my hands are cold.”

the zipper goes up easily, but paige doesn’t let go. her hands slide down azzi’s shoulders, tracing down to her waist, and she eases forward until they’re flush against each other. heart skipping a beat, paige burrows her chin into the crook of azzi’s neck as her hands slide around her hips. “looks fuckin gorgeous, azzi,” she whispers into the nape of her neck, breath tickling against the younger girl’s curls. she presses a kiss to the underside of her jaw, just for good measure.

a delicious shade of pink blooms across azzi’s cheeks. “i like it,” she says quietly, touching the neckline a little self-consciously. paige’s hold tightens on her.

this time, paige doesn’t have the willpower to avoid azzi in the mirror. the younger girl shifts in front of the glass, studying the dress from all angles. it’s only then that paige notices that this dress too has a slit. it’s subconscious, the way her thumb strokes across the exposed skin of azzi’s thigh, where the gap begins, and she doesn’t even really know what she’s doing until azzi’s breath catches, legs spreading a little as she pushes into paige, who groans. fuck. paige thinks she might faint with the feeling of azzi’s warm skin against her own. she clears her throat. focus. “this might be the one, mama,” she says as normally as possible.

“i can’t.” azzi shakes her head and reaches for the zipper, almost eager to take it off. “i told you, it’s too expensive.”

“nah, you’re getting this dress.” paige pushes away azzi’s hand and takes over, unzipping the dress carefully, one hand planted on azzi’s waist, not so much as to steady her but to feel. “i gotchu.”

“paige,” azzi says indignantly. “it’s half a thousand dollars.”

paige stuffs her hands into her pockets, averting her eyes as azzi steps out of the dress and starts to put her clothes back on. “honestly, az, it would be a crime against humanity for you to not wear something you look so good in.”

“i don’t care. i’m not letting you pay for that,” azzi says firmly.

“baby, you’re doing me a favor.” paige picks up the dress, shaking free the wrinkles before threading it back on the hanger. “it’s not even for you, it’s for me. i wanna see you in this dress.” when azzi stays silent, she adds, “it’s blue and pink which is basically purple and purple is my favorite color.” her logic doesn’t make sense to even herself, and paige doesn’t know why the hell she’s rambling, just that being so close to a half naked azzi is muddling her thoughts more than usual.

but they’re best friends for a reason, and some of that logic seems to work its way into azzi’s brain. “you’re ridiculous,” azzi says fondly, hand pushing paige’s chest a little.

paige grabs her waist so that she can kiss her forehead. “forgot how short you are,” she mumbles. “gotta get you some high heels too.”

“i’m not short,” azzi grumbles, but she has to look up at paige to say this, which doesn’t really help her point.

paige doesn’t hear her, merely grabbing the dress and leading azzi out of the fitting room. “pink sound good?” she asks, bending down to examine the first rack of heels they come across.

“i have heels at home,” azzi says resolutely.

“black heels.” when the younger girl’s eyes narrow, she says softly, “come on, baby. you know i got some nil deals. it’s really not a big deal.” in all honesty, paige has more money than she knows what to do with. becoming the first freshman to win national player of the year came with more media attention than ever, and she’d signed multiple brand deals that left her bank account constantly growing. sure, she’d used some of it to fund charities and donate to certain causes, but there was still an abundant leftover—more than enough to spoil azzi, which was quite possibly her favorite thing to do.

azzi’s eyebrows shoot up. “a five hundred dollar dress and hundred dollar heels isn’t a big deal?”

“not for you.” paige holds up two pairs of pink heels, one a light bubblegum and the other bright neon. “which one?”

“paige.”

“azzi.”

“paige. my mom’s gonna murder you.”

“i’ll just throw away the receipt and we can lie about the price.” paige looks down at the heels. “come on, azzi, if you don’t choose, i’m buying both.”

“fine.” azzi points reluctantly to the neon ones. pleased, paige grabs the lid and boxes it up. “remind me to never go shopping with you again,” the younger girl mumbles. “else you’re gonna go bankrupt.”

“wouldn’t mind going bankrupt,” paige says mindlessly. “long as you’re happy.”

azzi doesn’t know what to say to that, so she takes paige’s hand instead, who manages to hook the dress to the inside of her elbow and hold the shoebox and her wallet with her left hand so she doesn’t have to let go of azzi with her right. they check out, and paige is positively glowing at the look in azzi’s eyes.

as they emerge from the store, they spot azzi’s family milling about at the food court. but azzi isn’t ready just yet to share paige with them, so she tugs the older girl’s hand, halting their steps. paige turns around with questioning eyes.

“i just—” azzi sighs, and reaches for paige’s hand and squeezes it. “i don’t even know what to say. thank you, paige. you didn’t have to do that.”

“i know.” paige squeezes her hand back. “but i wanted to. someone’s gotta spoil the princess.”

azzi rolls her eyes before leaning in to kiss paige’s cheek. then her nose, then her forehead, and on her chin, until she’s peppering paige’s entire face with perfectly platonic appreciation kisses. “thank you, thank you, thank you.”

paige is grinning like a fool once azzi is done. “you forgot a spot,” she jokes playfully, tapping her index finger against her lips, but then azzi freezes and paige starts to sweat, because where the fuck did that boldness came from? she steps back hesitantly, thinking azzi might just about start yelling at her, but azzi steps right along with her. the dark haired girl touches her face, palm cupping her cheek, thumb swiping her bottom lip, and pulls her in. their lips meet, tentatively and softly.

paige groans a little, because azzi’s lips are soft and pillowy, just like she’d dreamt of, and taste a little like the chocolate milkshake she’d had earlier. as azzi breathes into her, paige can’t think of anything but more, more, more. unfortunately, the younger girl pulls away after a few seconds, and looks up at her with hooded eyes. biting her lip, paige realizes that azzi’s hands have somehow made their way under her hoodie to palm her ribs, and she thinks she has approximately five seconds before she actually, for real passes out.

“thank you,” azzi whispers, forehead pressed against paige’s.

paige’s heart stutters. “you’re welcome,” she says shakily, head spinning.

as the reality of their situation starts to set in, azzi giggles. “you just paid $600 for me to kiss you.”

“aw, shut up.” paige pushes her away, but her eyes stay glued to azzi’s mouth, and azzi laughs even harder.

truth be told, it hadn’t been entirely selfless on paige’s part. lord knows the amount of hours she’s spent stalking azzi’s date on instagram, sizing him up. but no matter how many good things she hears about him, about how he’s amazing at football, even better at baseball, a good brother and student, it’s not enough. not for azzi. it’s a bitter feeling, to know that no man is good enough for her best friend. but, as paige slips her wallet into her pocket, she thinks that maybe seeing azzi pose with someone else will sting a little less if she knew that she was the one who’d dressed azzi from head to toe. a twisted sort of satisfaction floods through her, because azzi may dance with another person, but at the end of the night, she’ll come home to her.

༉‧₊˚✧

when it backfires

azzi yawns. it’s barely past midnight, but her legs are still sore and aching from lift, and she’s about ready to knock out. she finishes off her cocktail before sliding a hundred dollar bill across the bar. “you can keep the rest,” she tells the bartender as she hops off the stool and grabs her purse, but he doesn’t even look at it.

“your tab’s already been covered, ma’am,” he replies, continuing to pour drinks.

azzi’s eyebrows furrow. the bartender nods his head at where the team is clumped together in one of the corner booths. “one of your friends got it. think it was the white one with the black shirt.”

and yeah, azzi might be tired, but she’s not tired past the point of letting her ex-girlfriend get away with her bullshit.

“you don’t get to do that.”

paige stares up at her, and azzi wills herself to keep her glare focused on bright blue eyes and not the girl who’s half in paige’s lap, arm looped through the blonde’s and thighs settled onto paige’s like they’re fucking glued together. “do what?” paige asks, taking a slow, unbothered sip of her beer.

“beg for my attention with your stupid money.” azzi throws the bartender-rejected benjamin on the table. it falls into a pool of condensation, wilting in the dampness, looking a lot like how azzi feels. “buying me things won’t change the fact that you’re a complete asshole.”

paige scoffs. “i bought the entire team drinks, azzi,” she says coldly, waving her off. “you’re not as special as you think you are.” the entire table falls silent, all the other girls pretending to not see war unfolding. it’s not that strange of a sight to see these days—the two star players of their team, always having been poised, supportive, leaders, now throwing grenades at each other like it means nothing. they’ve learned by now not to question it, not to dig too deep, to not ask azzi why she’s ignoring paige or ask paige why she won’t look at azzi, or else azzi will go back to her room and paige will get into her car and disappear for the rest of the day.

paige picks up the bill between her thumb and forefinger like it’s dirty, not worth her time. then she tosses it at azzi, as if it’s nothing more than trash, and azzi takes a step back as she realizes that she’s not worth paige’s time. not anymore.

eyes stinging, she turns around quickly, but it’s not fast enough to hide the tears already pooling at her eyes and slipping down her cheeks. paige softens, regret coloring her cheeks—she hadn’t meant to say that, to embarrass azzi, especially not in front of the stupid girl on her lap, and especially not in front of their team. “azzi,” she calls out, reaching for her, but she’s already gone.

a glass slams down on the table, and it’s like the entire room falls silent. “way to go, paige,” caroline says dryly. “making my best friend cry every day this past week wasn’t enough for you? now you gotta ruin the one good day she’s had?” it’s only now that paige remembers why they’re even at the bar—azzi had dropped thirty two points against one of the top ranked teams in the country, had been all smiles for the first time in a while. the taste in paige’s mouth turns sour as she realizes that she hadn’t even said congratulations. as much as she hates to admit it, azzi had been right—she’d drunkenly thought that paying for her drinks would be congratulations enough, that she could make everything up to azzi without ever saying a word or doing anything hard. her stomach sinks.

caroline stands up, brushing off her jeans as she moves to follow. “she was right. sometimes you are an asshole.”

paige can’t even argue back. she likes that azzi has someone who stands up so fiercely for her—she just never imagined that it would be against her. she only has the energy to move the girl off of her, who—paige can’t even remember her name, only that her dimple resembled azzi’s, but was nowhere near as cute, and that her hair was curly, but nowhere near as pretty as azzi’s—grabs the hundred off the floor, eyes gleaming. “i could use this,” she giggles.

without hesitation, paige slaps the money from her hand and puts it into her own pocket. she’s sure as hell not going to keep it, but she’d rather die than let it fall into the hands of someone else. “don’t fucking touch that.”

“your team’s right. you are an asshole,” the girl snaps, and she marches back to her group of friends, who all send a collective dirty look to paige. all the fight leaves paige’s body, and she slumps into her seat and groans.

nika pats her hand sympathetically. “rough night.”

“shut up, nika.” paige allows herself a moment of self-pity, burrowing her face into her arms. “do you think i’m an asshole?” she asks quietly after a beat.

“um.” when she lifts her head to fix nika with a warning glare, the brunette shrugs. “a well-intentioned asshole,” she offers.

“fuck my life.”

“hey, i don’t wanna hear you complaining.” nika shoves her, but it’s affectionate. “i’m still confused on why the hell you ever broke up with her in the first place.”

the question of the year, paige thinks dryly to herself. but she can’t really answer that when she doesn’t know why either, so she grumbles, “i said shut up, nika.”

༉‧₊˚✧

things never really go back to normal after that night. it hadn’t even been the worst things they’ve said each other (when you know someone for so long, fights are inevitable, and when you’ve known someone since you were teens, well, let’s just say every teenage girl has said something terrible at one point). it was the way azzi had walked away, and paige had let her. it was the fact that they’d both made an active decision to just give up, which is probably the breaking point for two girls whose entire relationship had been built on fighting for each other—through distance, pressure, expectations.

amari wipes the sheen of her forehead with her shirt. “spot me?” she requests, and azzi nods dutifully. lift ended half an hour ago, but amari wanted to squeeze in a few more sets, and azzi doesn’t want to be alone right now, so she’d lingered.

“did you see paige’s story?” amari asks, arms trembling as she lifts up the barbell.

azzi stiffens, but she keeps her face neutral. “nah.”

“i heard she dropped like, six hundred dollars at the mall the other day. was on a double date type of thing with the soccer girls.”

azzi’s not sure why amari is telling her all this—they’re pretty close, but azzi’s only ever opened up about her relationship with paige to caroline. she knows paige is the same with nika, stemming from an unspoken place of mutual respect to try and not let whatever’s going on between them affect the rest of the team by limiting who they tell.

“that’s cool,” azzi says, hands hovering over amari’s as she struggles on the last rep. amari flops onto the ground, breathing hard, and azzi lies down next to her as they both stare at the ceiling.

“i’m just saying.” amari rolls over to look at her. “she spends a shit ton of money, but that’s the only thing she does.”

azzi is slowly losing her patience. “what are you getting at, amari?”

“like, i’m not even gonna lie, it’s easy for her to drop a bag. she has money. minimal effort, you know? what’s hard for a D1 athlete with a busy ass schedule is using her time and efforts.” when azzi squints in confusion, amari takes that as a sign to continue. “like, i know you see her spoiling all these other girls, but shit, azzi. you’re the only one she ever set aside time for and did all the extra cringy shit for.”

azzi flops onto her back. she takes a second to debate on whether or not she should continue to engage amari—it feels like a mini act of betrayal to paige, but technically, amari was the one who started it. it couldn’t hurt to ask a couple of questions. “how do you know she’s not taking these girls on romantic beach dates and stuff?” she asks, contorting her voice to sound casual.

“i room with her, azzi. i know,” amari deadpans. “i also know that she’s definitely still in love with you.”

azzi falls silent. a door slams in the background, and there’s a faint sound of balls dribbling.

“can i ask you a question?”

“mhm.”

“why’d you break up with her? she’s hopeless for you, and you’re clearly not over her.”

azzi looks at amari, puzzled. “huh?”

“why’d you end it if neither of you wanted it?” amari prods.

“i didn’t.”

“you didn’t?”

azzi throws an arm over her eyes. she feels like crying again, and breaking down in the middle of the weight room is not her ideal way to spend the morning. “she broke up with me, amari,” she says, voice muffled.

her teammate snorts. “i don’t believe that.”

“then i don’t know what to tell you.” azzi sits up suddenly. “she came to my room, ended things, then left and never spoke to me again after that. she ended it, and it’s over, and i can’t even fucking look at her anymore without feeling like i want to die.” tears are dripping down her cheeks now, and she curses under her breath. she hadn’t meant to say all that. “i gotta go,” she tells amari, who looks more confused than ever. “i’ll see you at practice.”

azzi doesn’t want to believe amari at first. hope is a devastating thing, and for all she knows, amari could’ve been lying out of her buttcheeks. but a week later, when she wakes up hungover and head aching after a night at ted’s, she finds paige in her kitchen, and her friend’s words come back her in a sudden and dizzying rush.

more exactly, azzi wakes up to the smell of omelettes. which is peculiar to her, because nobody on the team likes omelettes but her. when she pads to the kitchen, still in her pajamas and glasses, she double takes at paige standing in the middle of the kitchen, eyeing the pan on the stove like staring hard enough will undo the burnt mess.

“what are you doing in my apartment?” she asks harshly. startled, paige jolts a little, and she curses loudly as her hand comes into contact with the surface of the pan.

“jesus, paige.” azzi grabs her hand, more rough than she needs to be, and paige winces. softening, azzi guides the older girl’s hand under a steady stream of cold water. it’s quiet, only the sound of the running tap and paige’s labored breathing filling the air. azzi can feel the blonde looking stubbornly at her, but it’s 8 AM in the morning and she can’t deal with all that right now, so she doesn’t look up.

she applies some ointment onto paige’s hand, not trusting that paige would do anything more than just stick a band-aid on it and call it a day if left to her own devices. she rummages through the cabinets to find some gauze. paige is wordless the entire time. “geno’s gonna kill you,” she mutters, breaking the silence as she slowly wraps the bandaging around paige’s fingers. “what were you even tryna do? you don’t even like omelettes.”

paige gestures gloomily to the rubbery mixture of eggs and tomatoes and other roasted, indecipherable ingredients. “i chose the recipe that said super easy.” she shakes her head. “i shoulda known when the first step said sauté.”

“sautéing is super easy,” azzi says. “what, you run out of pans at your own apartment or something?” she lets go of paige’s hand. “what are you doing here?”

“‘m tryna learn how to cook better.” the blonde scratches the back of her head sheepishly. “and i know you like omelettes even though they taste gross, and you’re always hangry as hell when you’re hungover, and, well.” she shrugs, looking hopeless.

“how’d you know i’m hungover?”

“nika said some of the girls were going out to ted’d last night, and i didn’t get an invite, so.” paige shrugs. “i assumed you were going.”

that makes azzi a little mad. “we promised to keep the team out of it,” she says. “don’t act like i told them not to invite you. you were invited. everyone was invited in the group chat.”

“i’m sorry.”

azzi snorts out an exasperated breath, and paige licks her lips, nervous.

“why’d you break up with me?”

paige blinks, the question clearly throwing her off guard. “what?”

“you heard me.”

paige turns away, starting to clean up the kitchen, and that gets azzi even angrier. “don’t do that. don’t turn away when it gets hard.” when paige continues wiping down the counters, azzi says harshly, “i know you fucking lied to me.”

paige stills.

“i’ve always been honest with you.” azzi says, voice breaking. “we promised each other that.”

paige’s head bows, but her back remains turned. “who said i lied to you?”

“god, paige, i know you’re still in love with me.” she spreads her arms, hoping to god she’s not wrong. “i see it, everyone else on the team sees it. you broke up with me, giving some lame ass excuse that the timing wasn’t right, that we should focus on basketball.”

“you didn’t want anything serious,” paige says lowly. “i can’t not do a serious relationship with you, azzi. i can’t—i can’t have a little bit of you while wanting all of you. i can’t have some of you knowing eventually i might have none of you. it’s not fair to you or me.” she sniffles. “if you didn’t see us going anywhere, then what was the point of us being together?”

“that’s not—that’s not what i meant.” azzi grabs paige’s elbow, and finally, she turns around. “god, paige. you think i didn’t want serious with you?”

paige runs her hands through her hair, frantic. “you said you weren’t ready for anything more beyond just going on dates! how else am i supposed to interpret that?”

“i wasn’t ready yet, but that didn’t mean i was never gonna be ready.” azzi furrows her eyebrows. “we’ve been just friends for so fucking long, i thought we needed time to adjust to being more before we threw ourselves deeper into everything.” she searched paige’s eyes. “we’ve never been good at taking it slow. or thinking.”

“well, you didn’t say that.” paige laughs bitterly. “so i thought you didn’t see a future in us, azzi, and that fucking broke me.”

“well.” azzi crosses her arms, not so quick to forgive. “you did move on pretty fast.”

“i was tryna distract myself from thinking of you.” paige’s throat bobs, and her voice falls quiet. “it didn’t work.”

“dropping six hundred dollars didn’t work?” azzi provokes, mouth twisted.

paige scowls. “it was three hundred. and who told you that?”

“she’s a gold digger, paige,” azzi says, ignoring the question.

“never said she wasn’t.” paige lifts her hand in surrender. “but it was nice knowing she didn’t want anything but money. i didn’t want her to get invested.”

“how chivalrous of you,” azzi says dryly.

“i know what it looked like.” paige’s hand hovers over her waist, and azzi shifts closer, giving the older girl permission to pull her in. “let me prove to you that you’re the only one for me.” paige kisses her shoulder. “besides, i didn’t hear you complaining when i dropped five hundred on your prom dress.”

azzi scoffs, twisting away but paige’s hands are insistent. “that was so long ago.”

“i know. maybe we should work on our communication skills.” paige presses another kiss to the pulse on azzi’s neck, feeling the flutter beneath her lips. she tastes a little like sweat, and paige loves it.

“and take it slow,” azzi emphasizes, fighting back a smile as she pushes paige’s head away.

“right.” sheepish, paige wipes the spit from her neck with the pad of her thumb. “slow.”

“i better never see you dropping a bag on anyone else again,” azzi warns.

“swear,” paige promises.

“that was the worst month of my life,” azzi admits.

paige nods in assent. “i should’ve talked to you,” she murmurs. “instead of just walking out.” her head falls on azzi’s chest, and azzi holds her.

“caroline’s gonna be jumping for joy when she finds out,” she snorts.

paige winces. “think she’s still mad at me for the bar thing?”

“definitely.”

“i’m sorry about that too. that was wrong of me to say, especially in front of everyone, and—”

“apologies later,” azzi interrupts, makes a start for her room. “first, hold me until i fall asleep because your horrible cooking skills woke me up way too damn early and i’m exhausted.”

paige smirks. “whatever you say, princess.”

༉‧₊˚✧

it works again

“i actually have to get my own gas now.” azzi stares at her fuel gage in disbelief. the red tick is dangerously close to the empty line.

“your life must be so hard,” sarah mocks.

“fuck.” azzi starts her engine. “you’re coming with me.”

“bro, let me go home.”

“don’t think we can even make it back to storrs with this.” azzi drives to the nearest gas station. as she waits for the tank to fill up, she snaps a quick photo of the pump and texts paige.

azzi: can’t even remember the last time i had to do this💔

paige: i’m sorry baby

paige: wish i could be there ☹️

Apple cash payment: $100

azzi: for?

paige: gas

paige: and having to pump it yourself

paige: it’s a cruel world we live in

azzi: sometimes i feel like u think im poor

paige: naaa

paige: you know i love to spoil you

azzi hops back in the car, ten times lighter. tank full, lunch paid for, loved up by her perfect, hot girlfriend. we’re so up, she thinks.

“we can go home now?” sarah asks brightly.

“nope.” azzi pops the p. “we’re getting lunch. paige’s treat.”

“no way.” sarah snorts. “she’s like putty in your hands. bet you could ask her for a thousand and she’d immediately send it, no questions.”

“na, i’m sure she’d say something,” azzi replies. “she knows i don’t need her money.”

sarah’s eyes gleam. “i’ll bet you fifty that paige will send it with no hesitation.”

azzi hesitates. a thousand is a lot—surely paige would ask what it was for, if she even sent it. “alright,” she agrees. “fifty.” she pulls out her phone, sarah huddling over her shoulder.

azzi: P can you send $1000

azzi: please

they wait for a couple seconds. text bubbles pop up before they disappear again, and an apple cash message appears on the screen. Paige Bueckers sent you $1500.

paige: have fun baby

“well, well, well,” sarah snickers. “pay up.” shaking her head, she mutters under her breath, “i should’ve bet a hundred.”

azzi groans and sends $1450 back to paige.

#paige bueckers #azzi fudd #pazzi #uconnwbb #fluff #angst #paige x azzi #paige bueckers x azzi fudd

624 notes · View notes

hope-for-the-planet · 1 day ago

Note

Perhaps it's just me. But right now, with the rapid global transition towards green energy, reforestation and conservation efforts, laws, genuinely crazy and huge innovations that can help us adapt to the changing world... it feels like we're on the right track.

Perhaps it's just me. But the geopolitical insanity that I see and learn from my peers all over the world, doesn't feel like the end. No, it... it feels like change. The last horrible and panicked gasps of the dying old, because it refuses to accept that it is not sustainable anymore, and the world is moving towards the better, through protests and unity and human goodness. I've seen this before - in stories from the older generation, and in history books.

But I also feel terribly guilty whenever I start thinking like that, for some odd reason? I feel guilty whenever I try and rationalize that despite it all, the world will continue existing, and even in the worst case scenario (which we already have avoided), there would be forests and oceans and species and biodiversity and ecosystems and people and cities and countries to see and love, because after all, nature is resilient and adaptable - just like our species are.

I feel guilty for feeling this cautious curiosity about what the future might hold for us, the bad and the good. Because I feel like I am obligated to be grieving and panicking and angry, like many people are - but that's just... so tiring.

Hi Anon,

This is going to be a long one because I think your ask gets at something difficult that I have a lot of thoughts about.

Your phrase “cautious curiosity” made me think of psychology researcher Jamil Zaki’s idea of “hopeful skepticism”. Which is not assuming that everything will inevitably get better, but open to the possibility that it could and curious to see the paths it might take to get us there.

Our society tends to view a cynical outlook as more intelligent or even more moral, but research shows that a cynical outlook actually makes people worse at predicting outcomes, worse at cognitive and problem-solving tasks, less likely to vote or protest, and even measurably harms their physical and mental wellbeing.

I think the guilt you describe is likely coming from the feeling that while we have been significantly improving conditions for humanity on this Earth and will likely continue to do so in the long run, in the present there are many real humans suffering--it can be hard and uncomfortable to hold these two truths together.

Even if this last dying breath is temporary and brief, it is destroying real people’s lives and many more live in fear that they will be next. The fact that child mortality has absolutely plummeted even just in my own lifetime is both a miracle of humanity and means little to the parent who has lost their child to a preventable death. To quote the philosopher Max Roser, “The world is much better; the world is still awful; the world can be much better.”.

You don't need to feel guilty for having hope for the future. Carrying feelings like hopelessness, grief, and fear all the time is entirely valid, but like you said it is also exhausting—and there is nothing inherently moral about emotionally suffering particularly if it’s harming your ability to live your life or take positive action.

You are right that we are still making progress in the correct direction in many ways. You are right that history is rife with examples of forward momentum provoking a reactionary backtracking but that the forward momentum usually ultimately prevails.

The key here, is to understand that the future path you describe is possible—even likely more probable than a lot of people think—but it is not inevitable. We still have to take action to make it happen. The arc of history bends towards progress only because so many millions of mostly unnamed unknown people have put the work in to bend it in big and little ways.

I’ll end with one of my favorite quotes from Rebecca Solnit: “Hope is not a lottery ticket you can sit on the sofa and clutch, feeling lucky. It is an axe you break down doors with in an emergency. Hope should shove you out the door, because it will take everything you have to steer the future away from endless war, from the annihilation of the earth's treasures and the grinding down of the poor and marginal... To hope is to give yourself to the future - and that commitment to the future is what makes the present inhabitable.”

Reminding others that progress is still happening and that there is hope for a brighter future is important work in getting members of your community to pick up their own axe and make that future happen. Hope in dark times is not just ok or reasonable--it is a precious, vital tool.

#ask #anonymous #hope #cynicism #doomerism #climate change #global warming #climate anxiety #future #inspiration #climate action #hopepunk #hope for the future #hopeful skepiticism #optimism #radical optimism

395 notes · View notes

dollyswishingwell · 2 days ago

Note

Can we have a fic about the guys dealing with reader getting mad at them and refusing to eat? It’s okay if you can’t 💕💕

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Open up

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ flufff, i really leaned into their brat tamer side cause i’ve been getting so many of those requests too.

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ You refuse to eat

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The princess of the seaside estate was furious.

And Rafayel, beautiful menace that he was, was very aware.

He watched from the doorway with his arms crossed loosely, the sea breeze toying with his purple hair. You were curled up on the daybed near the sun-drenched balcony overlooking the beach, face in a pout, body wrapped dramatically in your prettiest pastel throw. The untouched tray of lunch sat beside you: cucumber sandwiches, egg tarts, and a carved fruit rose centerpiece… all cold now.

“You’re not eating,” he said simply.

You didn’t answer. Only turned your head away, nose tilted in the air, lips sticking out in a defiant little pout that had no business being so cute.

He sighed. “So we’re doing this today.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. The pout grew deeper. You even scooted an inch away from the tray as if the food had personally offended you.

Rafayel rolled his eyes, slow and deliberate. “Let me guess,” he murmured, sauntering forward, hands still in his pockets. “Because I left you alone with thomas for ten minutes and he made a comment about the dress I bought you. And I didn’t verbally eviscerate him on the spot.”

You flinched.

Busted.

You sniffed. “It’s not just that…”

“No?” He was at your side now, voice velveted but stern. That dangerous lull. “Then tell me, baby. Use that spoiled little voice and tell me exactly what you’re mad about.”

You stayed silent.

He leaned down, and the softness in his body vanished, melting into cold, terrifying precision. He tilted your chin up with two fingers, eyes narrowing, his tone slipping into that low cadence: calm, slow, deadly clear.

“Listen to me, pearlie. You can be mad at me all day if you want. Tear my shirts. Scream at the ocean. Cry and pout and throw every pillow in this house. I’ll buy new ones. But what you will not do is starve yourself over some petty tantrum. You’re not skipping a single meal in this house, not even this dainty plate of food that you call lunch. Do you understand me?”

Your lashes fluttered. The command in his tone sent butterflies fluttering straight through your stomach. You squirmed. “You don’t get to use that voice. I’m still mad..”

“Oh, I get to do whatever I want,” he said, low and dangerous, tucking a lock of your hair behind your ear. “Because you’re my pretty little wife, and when you act like a brat, I remind you exactly who you belong to.”

You glared at him, then your stomach betrayed you with the tiniest growl.

He smiled. Smug. Triumphant. Awful.

“Mm. That’s what I thought.”

You huffed. “I don’t want the sandwiches anymore.”

He crouched, then plucked one up and held it near your lips. “Fine. You want me to hand-feed you? Say please.”

“…no.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“…please,” you whispered.

“Good girl.”

You flushed.

He fed you slowly, bite by bite, dabbing the crumbs from your lips with a napkin like he was wiping the chin of royalty. Because to him? You were.

And as you finished, pouting and quiet, he pressed a final kiss to your cheek.

“There,” he murmured, “you can go back to being bratty after dessert. I’ll even let you throw your lemonade at me. But you eat every single day, sweetheart. Understood?”

You nodded, cheeks warm.

“Good,” he whispered again, this time with a softer smile.

“Now finish your tarts, or I’ll call Thomas back here and force him to compliment your dress.”

“RAFAYEL.”

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

The kitchen was quiet.

Too quiet.

Zayne could hear the silence the moment he walked in, jacket slung over one shoulder, stethoscope still around his neck. Your lunch was plated perfectly on the marble island, lobster bisque, buttered bread rolls, the salad he had explicitly asked the estate chef to prepare with your favorites. But where were you?

The answer came quickly.

You were in the sunroom. Seated at your little vanity, arms crossed in your frilliest lounge set, lips pursed and pouty, face angled away like he didn’t exist.

He stepped in. Calmly. Methodically. His tone didn’t rise. It never had to.

“You didn’t eat.”

No response.

“You’ve been like this since this morning,” he added, eyes sharp as scalpels. “Because I told you not to show up unannounced at Akso Hospital again in your backless dress. Is that it?”

Still, nothing. Just a twitch of your pout. He could see your chest rise with a deeper inhale.

Ah. So she was mad.

Zayne’s fingers tapped once against the vanity.

“You’re not five,” he said coolly, moving behind you. “You can be upset. But you will not skip meals to prove a point, sweetheart. You know what starvation does to the body? You know what skipping even one meal does to your blood sugar?”

You bit your lip.

He leaned down slowly, resting one hand flat on the vanity, the other gently gripping your chin and tilting your head to meet his eyes in the mirror.

And then, there it was.

That voice.

Stern. Clinical. Low and final, with that faint undertone of danger that only came out when you pushed just a bit too far.

“You will eat, sweetheart,” he said softly. “Or I will sit you down in my office chair and feed you bite by bite myself between every patient consult. You think I won’t?”

Your breath hitched.

You opened your mouth.

“Good girl,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your cheek before stepping away.

You followed him back to the kitchen silently, every footstep a little shuffle of surrender.

He pulled out the chair for you. Sat you down.

And then?

He fed you himself. Fork in hand, voice quiet, calm, and terrifyingly loving with every bite:

“One more. Chew slow. I’m not going to say it twice.”

You were still pouting halfway through, so he added,

“If you don’t finish your lunch, I’ll cancel our hospital gala RSVP and spend the evening making you drink electrolyte packets while you cry about your gown going to waste. Up to you.”

“…I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he said, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Now eat your salad, princess.”

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

You were lying on the couch in Xavier’s penthouse, dramatically tucked under a velvet blanket, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Your untouched lunch tray sat on the coffee table. Lavender tea. Fluffy pancakes shaped like stars. Whipped cream swirled into perfect roses. A pastel pink fork that he had picked out from your collection of cute cutlery.

You hadn’t taken a single bite.

And you hadn’t said a word since this morning, when he’d gone off to his meeting with Jenna.

Xavier had barely stepped through the door when he noticed it.

Quiet.

No kiss. No “welcome home.” No clingy arms wrapped around his waist. Just you, pouting in the blanket with glassy eyes and an air of dignified punishment.

“…You didn’t eat.”

Your silence was intentional. Your tiny pout? Calculated.

He walked over slowly. Calmly. That silver hair slightly tousled from the breeze. His expression unreadable.

But there was something… off about him.

He didn’t kneel. Didn’t bend to cuddle you like he normally would.

Instead, he stood at the edge of the couch, looking down at you with those dispassionate blue eyes. His tone was low. Cold. Almost… sterile.

“Get up,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “…What?”

“Get. Up.”

You flinched.

His voice hadn’t risen.

But it had shifted. Into that rare, rare register, the one he only used in missions. The one that meant: don’t test me.

Xavier crouched at the table, picked up the fork, cut the pancake, and held it out to you, calmly.

You refused to move.

So he tilted his head.

“Starligjt,” he murmured. “I don’t care if you’re mad. I don’t care if you pout. You can cry, hit my chest, or throw your slippers at the window. That’s fine. But if you keep starving yourself out of spite—”

His voice lowered further. Barely audible. Measured and frighteningly neutral.

“—I will have to call Lumière. And he will deal with you.”

Your breath caught.

You knew what that meant.

You whimpered. “That’s not fair…”

“No,” he said, softly. “What’s not fair is you skipping food because I didn’t let you accompany me to the meeting. You’re not a hunter anymore. You’re my wife. You stay home. You wear cute socks. And you eat.”

Tears welled up in your eyes. You sniffled. “You’re so mean…”

He set the fork down. Crawled beside you onto the couch. Pulled you gently onto his lap.

“You don’t mean that,” he whispered, finally soft again, kissing your jaw. “You’re just hungry.”

You whimpered again. Buried your face in his chest.

Then, shyly, you mumbled, “Feed me?”

He reached for the fork, the ghost of a smile touching his lips.

“Now you’re being good.”

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

“Let me get this straight.”

Sylus stood at the edge of your dining room, hands in his pockets, silver hair perfectly tousled from the afternoon wind. His red eyes flicked over the untouched lunch, plated to perfection by estate chefs. Roast chicken. Herbed rice. Blush-pink lemonade in a crystal goblet. A silver spoon with your name engraved on the handle.

You sat on the velvet settee beside the table, not at the table, with your chin lifted, face sulky, arms crossed.

“You’re mad,” Sylus drawled, “because l didn’t want to take you to the auction cause it’ll be dangerous.”

You stayed silent. Nose in the air.

He smiled.

Not a kind smile. A Sylus smile. The kind of smile that said, go on, dig yourself deeper.

“And now,” he added, moving closer, voice dropping low, “you’re refusing to eat your lunch like a pampered little housewife who thinks starvation is a valid negotiation tactic.”

Still, you didn’t answer.

He stepped closer, leaned over, and tilted your chin up with two fingers.

That smug glint in his eye? Dangerous. Mocking. Too calm.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured. “You don’t seriously think this ends with me apologizing, do you?”

You blinked, lips parting to retort, but he spoke first, tone switching with clinical smoothness:

“Let me explain how this works,” he whispered. “You can throw your tantrum. You can cry. You can go storming through my armories in your lace socks threatening to burn down the entire Eastern front. But you don’t skip meals. Not here. Not in my estate. Not under my roof.”

You flushed. “I’m not hungry”

“No,” he cut in, tone clipped. “You’re pouting. There’s a difference.”

His eyes narrowed, and suddenly he was crowding you back against the cushions, his gloved hand braced beside your head.

“You want to make a point?” he murmured. “Fine. But you do it with a full stomach and glowing skin. Not hollow cheeks and blood sugar crashes.”

He reached for a fork, cut a piece of chicken, and brought it to your lips.

You stared at it.

He stared at you.

His tone dipped lower.

“Open that mouth, sweetheart, or I will strap you to my office desk and feed you like a hostage until you’re crying over how delicious every bite is.”

Your thighs clenched together.

“…Sy—”

He smiled again, slow and cruel.

“There she is.”

You opened your mouth.

He fed you with infuriating satisfaction, wiping the corner of your lips with a linen napkin, before casually sipping your lemonade himself.

“You’re cute when you act like a brat,” he murmured against your cheek, “but you’re even cuter when you realize it gets you nowhere.”

You scowled. “You’re such a jerk.”

“And you’re such a spoiled little thing,” he replied smoothly, brushing your hair back from your face, “which is why I’m still feeding you instead of letting you faint and ruin my schedule.”

You huffed and took another bite, because you knew better than to test him again.

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

Caleb stepped inside after a full day of briefings, buttons undone, jacket draped over his shoulder. He was exhausted. All he wanted was to come home to you in your usual spot on the lounge, arms outstretched, eyes shining with dramatic stories and spoiled affection.

But you weren’t there.

What he did find was the lunch tray.

Still covered.

Still warm from the heating plate.

Untouched.

And then he found you.

Curled in the corner of the window seat. Wearing his favorite soft nightgown. Legs pulled to your chest. Gaze turned toward the glittering Skyhaven skyline. Silent. Cold.

He froze in the doorway.

“You didn’t eat.”

Nothing.

“I saw the footage. You were here the whole time. You didn’t even take a sip of water.”

Still nothing.

His jaw clenched. The room felt… smaller.

Then he said, quietly,

“Why.”

You glanced at him, pout on full display. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Why,” he repeated, the edge slipping into his voice. “What did I do.”

You looked away again. “You snapped at me this morning. Said I was being a distraction.”

He exhaled. Once. Slow. Controlled.

And then?

He crossed the room.

One moment you were on the window seat, and the next, you were scooped into his arms. He didn’t ask. Didn’t wait.

You squeaked in protest, but his grip was steel.

“I was on a secure call,” he said, voice low and bitter, “and you walked in wearing nothing but my shirt and asked me to put on your anklet for you. Do you have any idea what that did to me? I wanted to cancel the entire day.”

You wiggled in his grip, grumbling. “You still called me annoying!”

“I never called you annoying,” he snapped. “I said you were distracting. Because you are. Always.”

He set you down at the dining table.

Then his tone changed.

It dropped. Into that voice.

The one you almost never heard anymore—cold, clipped, military.

“You don’t get to starve yourself just because I was harsh.” (He barely was)

You flinched.

“I don’t care if you hate me,” he said, stepping close, “I don’t care if you rip up the bed sheets or throw my rank badges out the window again. But you do not go hungry in this house. Not after what I’ve spent my entire goddamn life building just to make sure you never have to struggle again.”

You stared up at him, lip trembling. “I wasn’t trying to punish you…”

“No,” he murmured, “you were trying to punish yourself.”

His voice cracked, just barely.

“I didn’t marry you and take you away from the world so you could treat yourself like that, pips.”

Your chest squeezed.

“I’m sorry…” you whispered, tears in your eyes.

He pulled you into his chest. Kissed the crown of your head.

“You want to be mad at me? Fine. Be mad. Scream at me. Throw your heels. I’ll let you win.”

“But you eat. You drink. You take care of yourself. That’s not optional. That’s not a game.”

“…okay,” you sniffled. “Feed me?”

He exhaled softly. Kissed you again.

“I thought you’d never ask, baby”

He fed you slowly. Carefully. Slicing your food into perfect bites, setting your water near your hand, wiping your lips when needed. Like you were something precious he’d nearly lost. Because to him? You were.

305 notes · View notes

lmaowhatt · 2 days ago

Text

DONT STRAY TOO FAR

requested by: anon

can i request loverboy! jj and how he is protective he is of reader during like morroco and barbados since they’re not used to their homebase

pairing: lover boy!jj x gf!reader

warnings: nothing??

if theres any others feel free to let me know!

lover boy!jj masterlist | main masterlist

jj is always the worrier. he's protective of those closest to him because they're all he has in a world that always seems to be against him. he would do anything and everything for those he loves, even if he doesn't get the affection back. that being said, he's always protective of the pogues, especially you.

in the obx, he’s not as protective, mainly because you’ve both grown up on the island. he doesn’t worry about your ability to get around or stay situationally aware of who to avoid, mostly because you keep a tight circle of those closest to you. the only times he does worry is when he's reminded about the type of people that live and work on the island—more importantly, how they work.

but, when the group is in a place they aren't familiar with, jj never settles. just the thought that something could happen to you at any time lingers in the back of his mind. and no matter how many times sarah assures the group that she knows her way around barbados, or the group swears the map will help them around morocco, jj never lets you out of his sight.

- in barbados, jj is on even higher alert than usual with kiara getting taken. he holds your hand almost any time he gets to, so much so that you're sure your hands will be stuck together permanently by the time you leave. still, you don't complain because if you weren't so surrounded by your friends, you'd act the same towards jj.

he will constantly mutter reassuring words into your ear when he thinks you're asleep. one night, you'll be cuddled up next to him, your head on his chest and eyes closed, listening to the steady beat of his heart along with the faint sound of the north atlantic waves crashing against the shore. just as you feel yourself drifting, you'll catch the soft murmur of his voice against your hair, "i got you, sweet girl. always have, always will."

he always had to hold some form of physical contact with you. he will hold your hand as you two walk the long roads of barbados, tuggin' you forward gently when he feels you slow down. if the group ever gets a chance to rest, which is rare, he'll let you curl up into his side. and sometimes, he'll move you to sit between his legs, pullin' you as close as humanly possible when necessary. he hugs you every once in a while to make sure you're real. to make sure you're still there.

- in morocco, however, things are a different story. he's more protective because not only is the group an entire ocean across from home base, but more so because of the fact that there are bigger things at stake. there's more to lose. and as if adding fuel to the fire, rafe, who he has yet to get used to being around, is there.

on the boat ride to morocco, he never once leaves your side, and you make it your mission to never leave his either. you notice very early on how he's using alcohol to drown out his thoughts, and you don't want him to fall further by any means. so, you're there. "no matter what," is what you tell him when he asks, "y'ain't gotta follow me around, baby. so why d'ya do it?" he smiles, very faintly, but it's there.

in morocco, he stays by your side constantly. the physical touch thing continues, mainly because he needs to convince himself—truly believe—that you're there. the hand holding becomes consistent, the hugs turn into arms wrapped around your shoulder just because of the head he keeps on a swivel.

forehead kisses become a new normal for the two of you, a silent reminder that you're both there, and you're not going anywhere. jj even lets you place a couple kisses to his forehead randomly. he claims you do it because he does it, but deep down, he wants your touch to linger in case something ever does happen.

the one thing that does feel like a curveball, are the 'i love you's' he whispers into your hair, or your neck, or your cheek, depending on where he kisses you. still, you always turn your head up to kiss him back in that exact same spot he kissed you, following his whisper with one of your own. "see you later, promise," as you two interlace pinkies before separating, which again, is rare and only happens when necessary.

if anything is proven to be a constant in jj's life, it's how far he will go to protect those closest to him.

a/n: i feel like some of this is more about obx jj but thats just how he IS.

108 notes · View notes

transboyswitchytales · 3 days ago

Text

Danger in New Horizons

“And the danger is that in this move toward new horizons and far directions, that I may lose what I have now, and not find anything except loneliness.” - Sylvia Plath

You have a sketchy dark past when you stumble into Wanda's hex hell. With the strange 50's attire and sitcom laugh track. You want to leave, but find yourself in the clutches of a nosey neighbor Agnes. Or Agatha rather, and she isn't sure if letting you go is in her best interest. Is it in yours?

Request by @rubyblue02 - Series MasterList

Warning: Enemies to Lovers/ House Arrest /Not Eating/ Agatha tries to kill you first/ But then it's cute?/Book Worms being cute/ Gifts/Misunderstanding / Agatha can flirt but she doesn't get how to get you out of your room yet/ WandaVision Starts but we aren't staying here/ Pre-AAA/ Stuck in the 50's first/ BloodWitch/ Chronic Pain/ Agatha is self con on her darkhold fingers and it's cute/ Darkhold issues / Grey R/ Flirting and Tea/ Books are from the 50's even/ M&M's are from the 50's even /Agatha is spying on R but like it is cute?/ MDNI 18+

Part 1 Agnes and House Arrest

“And the danger is that in this move toward new horizons and far directions, that I may lose what I have now, and not find anything except loneliness.” - Sylvia Plath

Change was never a friend of yours, but you also had a tendency to leave before you found any sort of comfort in a place, or it’s people.

At the age of 210 you thought of Sylvia Plath’s quote as you drove through New Jersey.

You didn’t mean to stay in New Jersey, you unlike Agatha, didn’t go in search of the hex, the Scarlet Witch, or any kind of prize.

You were simply running away from yourself.

And the shitty thing is, after you rented the room/apartment/studio. After you bought the first potted plant for the window. Some time between the stage you get acquainted with the best take out food, a startling yet consistently unwanted realization hits you square in the chest.

You ran away from yourself and you took yourself with you.

Not just some shitty self help quote, no it was true.

You could wear a new name, a new fake ID. A different job, a state with a welcome sign may flash before your eyes as you drive by.

But the truth was the same no matter where you went.

Your trauma, demons, the past you wished to forget with all it’s people in the shadowy shapes of monsters to you, it was too deep to run from.

It lingered under your fingernails, and it didn’t matter if you cut them, or scrubbed.

They found you.

You could run away, and reinvent yourself as many times as you wanted.

You were still there.

And that was fucking awful.

So it was the year 2021, you still, like a madwoman, were trying to run away.

You hadn’t meant to fall into the hex.

It wasn’t even a trap meant for you, a spell created for your kind of witchcraft.

But as you stopped in New Jersey at a little gas station off the freeway, in a town you didn’t care about.

A red vibrated all around you, and the people screamed.

(You knew Wanda didn’t know this, but she should).

The people screamed as their minds fell, and the 1950’s warped the town.

Cars changed to black and white classic’s with their white wall tires.

Parents screamed as they ran towards their children, but the red hex cast took them before they could think to save their little ones.

You braced for impact, unsure what it was.

When you looked down to see yourself in a 50’s dress you laughed, in your hand the gas pump that was there was now a magazine on how to ‘Attract Mr. Right’ which was hilarious.

Your skin was grey, and you looked over to the movie theater to see it was now showing ‘All About Eve’ and ‘Vertigo.’

Not a bad choice for films, but not 2021 movies that’s for sure.

As you studied the towns people it was like a strange fever dream, their smiles plastered on and they walked with determination for where they were going, yet their eyes looked vacant and troubled.

“Okay dokey.” You reached forward to your now 50’s car, only for it to not open.

Right, this was interesting.

It took four days for you to figure out.

But for the first time in a century, you weren’t going to be able to run. The border of red sizzling magic was toxic and strong. It crackled like the static of an old TV.

You felt the magic emulating from one house, and you were not going there, not until you had more information.

What you hadn’t expected, as you found a vacant house four doors down was a third witch.

‘Miss Agnes the Nosey Neighbor’ as you could tell the type cast was working for this sitcom. Wanda and Agnes walked around like they’d practiced their script together.

And you morphed your clothes into more…of a greaser look. But it just flipped back to that of a domesticated Lucile Ball. It took a minute to get your magic to work in the space, and it was wonky to say the least. Nothing came out the way it was supposed to, and you wondered if Wanda could feel you changing her enchantments.

You had avoided both witches until the fifth day.

“Hya Hon! Agnes' voice broke your stride, you were about to go to the grocery store, as you’d been unable to conjure food in this strange warped hex. And you’d been living off of corn flakes and glasses of milk from the milkman.

“Hi,” You tried to pretend, but you hadn’t been social in so long, much longer than this complex 50’s nightmare.

“You live a few doors down,”

“Yup!” You smiled fake, and Agnes head tilted a tad to the side, and you could tell she knew something was off.

“Come over for a glass of lemonade! Or I make a mean Martini! Don’t tell Ralph I drink before noon! Or he’ll join in!” Agnes tone was so very plastic, and you wondered what the fuck she was even talking about.

You were gonna have to try harder, you took a big breath and matched her voice now.

“Ya know, I have some crossstitch that I just can not tare myself away from! My cutie patootie just loves my throw pillows! Maybe another time dear!” You fake it and you actually think it sounds pretty good but Agnes turns to look over her shoulder to make sure Wanda isn’t around.

She reaches out quickly with purple coming out of her fingertips and you step back and slap her hand away.

“The hell are you tryin to do lady!” You yell, breaking your fake facade, and Agnes laughs now but looks both ways to the side of the street before grabbing you and you teleport to her home.

At least you think it’s her home, it’s dingey and your gaze is quick to see runes glowing purple.

“Fuck.” You snarl and turn quickly in circles to see where she went.

“Smart witch, but not a great actress sweetheart.” Agnes says and you try to find an exit.

“Come out here and fight me, don’t play with your food bitch.” You snarl and a witch cackles from all around the room making it impossible for you to tell where she is.

“Not very 50’s talk honey. Besides, you are pretty cute, perhaps I’ll play with you and then gobble you all up. Wanda doesn’t even know you are here.” Her voice echoes like a villain on a movie.

“Great, let’s get it over with then.” You turn just in time for Agnes to step out, only she looks very different now. Her hair more frayed, her fingers black, a purple sweater with a broach. She looks much more like a witch now.

But you stop and really take her in, she’s gorgeous.

Fucking stunning from head to toe.

“Aren’t you sweet.”

“You don’t need to read my mind, it’s rude, if you want to kill me let’s fight. But I don’t need all this foreplay.” You step back as she matches you and steps forward.

“You don’t like foreplay baby?”

“I’m not your baby, you don’t know me.”

“Do you know me, do you know who’s basement you are in?” Agatha cuts you off wondering what she’s messing with, if you know.

“Your aura is from Salem with trial days…your fingers only turn that shade after fun with a particular sort of dark magic. The broach, the purple, I’m gonna take a stab in the dark and say Agatha Harkness, seeing as you are the last witch sighted with the book of the damned.” You step back again and Agatha steps forward.

Like you two are dancing to a song you can’t hear.

“Smart little witch indeed.” Agatha’s eyes flash purple every now and then to float in and out of your mind, though she isn’t creating any illusions which throws you off a bit.

“Thanks but I don’t like fake compliments anymore than I like whatever type of bra Wanda was making us wear for the 50’s.” Your hands are clammy.

You stalked back for every step Wanda stalked forward.

“Aw the cone shape not doing it for you, why don’t you take off your shirt. I’ll tell you what Mama Agnes thinks of it on you.” Agatha plays with you now and you are about to run out of basement to step back in.

“I don’t sleep with my captor, at least not anymore.” You smile with your teeth out to show her you aren’t her prey and Agatha giggles again. She seems to be enjoying this after days of playing her sitcom role.

Finally someone she doesn’t have to play pretend with.

“Perhaps just one kiss will change your mind.” Agatha’s magic pushed against your body and you slammed into one of the pillars. She came close and grabbed your jaw and yanked it to the side to see what magic you were concealing.

You waited for her to take, or for her to tell you to blast her so she could feed off of you.

For her to do….well anything.

But Agatha’s grip loosened and her hand caressed your face and turned your chin gently.

“You’ve been cursed.” She said gentler now than you had ever thought the witch could talk.

“Took you long enough.” You glare now, but Agatha just looks conflicted.

“You are…A Blood Magic witch?” Agatha’s grip moves to your neck, though she doesn’t choke, doesn’t squeeze, she’s scanning you with her glowing purple fingers. Understanding what you are for the first time.

“You get points Harkness, not a lot of Blood Witches. You didn’t think you were the first to check the Darkhold out of the library did you.” You sneer but Agatha doesn’t bite at your condescending attitude.

“There’s a chapter in the book…there has only ever been three of your kind.” Agatha isn’t really speaking to you, but rather reliving her studies out loud.

“Did you read why?” Your eyes shift to the ground now and Agatha doesn’t speak for a moment.

“The pain…”

“Yeah, the pain.” You murmur and push your tongue to the side of your cheek. Experiencing a mixture of annoyance and embarrassment now.

Blood magic was rare and extremely powerful, yet the other two witches who wielded it before you….went insane from the endless pain and…it didn’t end well for them.

You snapped on your best mean mug, and found your fight again, to return your face to face, stand off with Agatha Harkness infamous witch killer.

“So, you still want it. You want my power? Go on, take it. You can carry the pain for the rest of your life. I got nothing left to lose. Nowhere to go, nothing else to experience. You want my power, kill me, go on, do it.” You goad the witch, knowing she won’t do it. But your play of insanity hopefully makes her throw you back into the pond, not a fish worth keeping.

Agatha’s gaze on you was something you hadn’t ever had expressed for you.

She waited a minute before stepping back and releasing the hold on your body with her magic.

You didn’t scramble away, simply leaned back on the pillar still.

Agatha seemed to be in deep thought on what to do next.

“I didn’t think so, coward.” You sneer and Agatha once again, doesn’t fight back, seeming to think of you now in a different light.

“You want Wanda’s Chaos Magic to heal your pain?” Agatha tried and you chuckled darkly.

“Of course not, I didn’t even know the Scarlet Witch was here. I was stopping for gas, and yes that sounds like a weak excuse but look into my mind. I’m not lying!” You shout and Agatha’s eyes turn purple and she roots around before the blues return to her irises.

“You can’t leave.”

“But you can, you walk in, you could walk out. Just walk me out! I won’t tell anyone, I don’t care about this! I just want to leave!” You sound like a broken record and Agatha isn’t jumping at your idea, and that freaks you out.

“Even if I believed you. The government is surrounding the place by now, you walk out and you’ll be held in some facility. Which you know our people just do so well behind bars. Because once they pick up that you aren’t a normal civilian they’ll either think you helped Wanda or they’ll try to recruit you into a spandex suit. Baby you can’t leave this place yet, I’m your only option out, but I’m not leaving until I’ve drained her.” Agatha states and crosses her arms over her chest.

Her rune stop glowing but neither of you move.

“So what, you gonna keep me in the basement against my will?”

“I was sort of hoping you’d behave and I could keep you upstairs against your will.”

“Or I could hide out in that creepy empty house.” You want out, you want out now.

“Wanda can’t know you are here. She’ll react first and we won’t have the upper hand anymore.”

“Who’s we, there is no we! I am not helping you! We aren’t in a coven for the catching of chaos magic. And what do you care of Wanda hurts me? I’m nothing to you, you were about to kill me.” You attempt to reason with her, not understanding this new plan Agatha seems to have for you.

“Things changed.” She says like it’s nothing.

“Bullshit.” Your foul language really doesn't’ fit this sitcom, but Agatha doesn’t seem to mind your colorful vocabulary.

“Believe what you want, until I’ve drained Wanda it’s in both our best interest that you stay here. I will keep you safe in the wards of this house. So long as you play by my rules.” Agatha tosses her hair over her shoulder, and you aren’t sure which part of her is acting now.

“You want me to cross stitch for real then?” Your sarcasm doesn’t even phase Agatha.Agatha puts a finger up to instruct you, and you think of how her dark fingers looked like yours once.

“You stay out of sight, in the house at all times. You don’t go out, and you don’t communicate with anyone under the spell. When this spell starts to really break down, you can’t be out there for it.” Agatha’s tone was stern and you wondered what she was planning.

“And if I say no? If I go to escape?”

“It won’t be me, you have to worry about my pretty little plasma.” Agatha said the words slow and let her lips pop as she punctuated the P’s.

“How long will this take?” You tried to think of this logically, and not like the scared animal you felt like.

“No idea, could be days could be months or years. It’s chaos magic honey, the darkhold doesn’t even know.” Agatha shrugged like the facts didn’t bother her.

“Fuck that! Fuck this! What am I supposed to do sit and do while I wait that long? Are we gonna play Monopoly, pretty sure that came out this decade!”

Your voice gets louder and louder.

“I’m working towards messing up fragments of the illusion. But it is going to take time. Time is not the part of this you have to really worry about.” Agatha’s words are fucking mysterious and it does nothing to soothe you or help you understand what the hell her plan is. In fact it only further aggravates you, and you get even more enraged using jokes and quips to try to break through to your fellow witch how asinine this whole thing was.

“What should I worry about Agatha? Pretty sure feminism isn’t in swing yet, the National Organization for Women doesn’t exist this decade! They start in 66’ so I guess I could start painting signs now? They’ll surely dry in time!” Your creative jabs of dry sarcasm doesn’t have its desired effect and Agatha bites back a smile, but you see it.

“I do require a Ralph, you could always slick your hair back and help me carry appetizers over to dinner parties with Wanda and Vision.” Agatha’s lip twitches and you feel rage now. “Pretty sure there is a stamp collecting club starting this week in the community, or hey you could always pick up neighborhood watch with Vision.”

You gape at Agatha’s jokes.

Aware now of what is going on.

She’s entertained by you.

That’s even worse than threatening, you want to go back to her trying to take your power. It was like she was finding this whole thing cute!

“STOP ENJOYING THIS!” You reach down to your hideous slip on shoes and yank it off and chuck it at Agatha’s head, but she ducks it easily and rubs her lips together to stop the next round of laughter from escaping. “WHY ARE YOU ENJOYING THIS!”

Agatha doesn’t answer you that night.

And you spend the next week avoiding her like chicken pox that this generation will get in an episode you are sure, she gives you a bedroom next to her own.

You hear her rustling around in the day and the night, but you avoid her like your life depends on it. You wait for her door to close or for her to leave the house to go to the kitchen and get bits of snacks. You hide out in the small bedroom that luckily has some books that aren’t gardening magazines .

You read books that have just come out, for the 50’s standard, knowing they will one day be taught as ‘classics’ but have yet to be called such.

You finish ‘The Invisible Man,’ ‘On the Road,’ and ‘Giovanni’s Room,’ and you’ve read all three of them before, but they are the best out of the pile of discarded books pressed into ugly grey book cases.

It’s the second week that you accidentally bump into Agatha as you thought she’d left, you are walking downstairs with the aged paperback of ‘Giovanni’s Room’ pressed between your fingers, spine cracked open with your nose stuck in it’s creases.

You walk down the steps and stop realizing you aren’t alone in the space, Agatha, well Agnes as she is dressed now, is baking and she’s got her hand on her hip as she studies you.

Like she’d been waiting for you to emerge.

“Shit, I didn’t realize you were here, sorry.” You panic and turn to walk back up the steps.

“Wait, I need to talk to you.” Her voice is even, though you wonder if you can detect some eagerness for you to not walk away that goes beyond friendly.

Your barefoot stops on the wood step and you sigh audibly upset, but turn around to your house arrest friend and walk towards her slowly.

“Have I been a bad roommate?” You try the joke but it sounds snide and anxious, which is how you feel about all that is Agatha.

Agnes’s hair is perfect and her dress is crisp and pristine and you miss the way Agatha looks as you gaze at her, Agatha must have read your mind because her right upper lip pulls just a tad at the side in enjoyment.

“Yes actually, when I said you had to stay inside. I didn’t realize you were going to hide from me the whole time.”

“I don’t see why that’s a problem, I don’t get in your way, I stay in the room.”

“You have been living off of black tea and Peanut M&M’s. You don’t leave your room until you are sure I’m not around, which yes I pretended to leave so you would come downstairs. And you read morning noon and night.” Agatha puts on an oven mitt and uses her free hand to move to the tea kettle and you notice she’s put out a place setting.

“Have you been spying on me?” You quickly realize.

“Please, don’t be so dramatic.” Agatha brushes it off but you glare at her more.

“How else would you know what I’ve been up to! We haven’t seen each other at all! And screw you lady, M&M’s taste different in the 50’s they didn’t use the same food dye. So this is the time to fucking eat them.”

Agatha blinks at you a few times and you scoff at her lack of answer and go to walk back upstairs.

“I made you tea!”

“Not thirsty you bat shit crazy ancient hag! Go back to your black and white girlfriend nextdoor!”

“I’ll stop buying M&M’s!” Agatha threatened and you stoped on the third step and turn around and lick your lips, before usign the book to point at the witch who looks a little alarmed by you now.

“I don’t want your M&M’s or your tea party! You and I aren’t friends! You tried to kill me and take my magic! What did you think was gonna happen when we decided on my house arrest? That we’d share darkhold notes, you want me to help you make quiche, have TV tray dinner’s together and plot Wanda’s demise? Harkness, leave me alone!” You yell the last part and you wonder if Agatha’s had anyone tell her no like this.

Because she’s scanning you look she’s trying to figure out your currency and she won’t get it.

“Do we need to do this? Do you have to hate me? Can-” You cut her off quickly snapping the book closed dramatically.

“I’ll not leave my dishes out, and I’ll be quiet as you play with your cursed book in the basement. In turn, stop spying on me, and stop trying. You are a covenless witch right? Well so am I. Let’s keep it up, worked for both of us before, right?” You turn back up the steps and take them two by two.

Ignoring that Agnes timer went off for something that smells sinfully good.

Later that night the front door closes and you groan and open your bedroom door. Checking now around the corner to make sure this isn’t another attempt at conversation.

When you get to the kitchen there’s a note and a plate.

‘Be happy we are in the 50’s and not the 40’s, there’s a microwave. No I didn’t poison you. Eat it, you can’t live off of M&M’s even if they do have peanuts in them.’

You look down to see a bowl of witch’s stew and your stomach growls.

You dont’ want to give Agatha the satisfaction actually, and you fucking won’t. Fuck her, and her sweet gesture, you didn’t need a friend, no matter how gorgeous she looked in her plum jumper.

You leave the food untouched and open the fridge to steal the orange juice carton and go back upstairs to read ‘Giovanni’s room’ for the third time this week.

The next day Agnes has some kind of early thing with Wanda and so she leaves mid morning and you are glad, you need tea badly.

Your bones ache, part of being a blood witch. It just happened and you weren’t exactly giving yourself a balanced diet.

But you were used to the pain, if only your hands didn’t cramp like they were, it made it hard to hold the book.

You sigh and stomp down the stairs and once again stop at the kitchen counter to see a breakfast of eggs, toast, bacon, and white bread lightly toasted and buttered.

The note reads in perfect script.

‘You are being ridiculous, just eat something, it doesn’t mean anything. You have to eat something though.

Ps: You need a new book.’

You look under the plate of food to see a small purple ribbon wrapped around a stack of paperbacks.

‘East of Eden,’ by Steinbeck, ‘MacBeth’, and ‘Last Night at the Telegraph Club.’

Agatha had picked a book with moral dilemma and the idea of good and evil. She picked shakespeares most powerful depiction of witches. And she picked a queer book that came out in 2021 but is about the 50’s.

You turned the queer book by Malinda Lo over and over, wondering how Agatha had gotten it, or had she brought it? Did she break a rule to get it to you?

And what kind of strange present was this, what did these books mean? Was Agatha trying to tell you something?

You groaned looking at the stack of books, at breakfast, and then back to the note.

You left the food and carried the books upstairs, turning on your foot last minute and snatching the purple ribbon off the counter.

You swore you didn’t know why, but you wanted the ribbon.

That was stupid, but you took it anyway.

Two days passed and Agatha continued to leave food by your door and on the countertop.

You lived off of tea and saltines you found in the back of a cupboard.

Finally one morning you woke to the banging on your door so loud and powerful it made you jump and throw open the door.

“Morning.” Agatha said, like she hadn’t expected you to open it.

“The fuck? Is the house on fire? The only reason I can imagine you slamming your darkhold fingers against my door like that is if the hex has set the entire community on fire. What the hell!” YOu snap realizing nothing is on fire and Agatha is bothering you again.

“I made you food.” Agatha throws her thumb in the direction of the stairs and your face contorts in confusion.

“Have you given I given any reason to believe I have enjoyed your food so far? Perhaps one of our long discussions made you think I liked raspberry jam for our morning tea? “

You grab the doorknob to slam the door in Agatha’s face and one hand slams against the door to stop it from closing.

Agatha grinds her teeth together in annoyance and you try not to find the act sexy.

“You HAVE to eat, and I’m done with whatever this is. You are not Boo Radley, I read about blood witches. If you take care of yourself, and you do the right rituals, the potions, the ritualistic baths, the blood spells, you won’t be in as much pain. If you would stop being so damn stubborn for two seconds, I can help!” Agatha shouts the last part and you stare at her like you think this is a dream.

“Boo Radley.” You state back at the witch.

Agatha straightens her spine but keeps her black palm against the wooden bedroom door.

“Right.”

“Harper Lee.”

“Yes, so?” Agatha’s face morphs into irritation once more.

“Just didn’t take you for a bookworm.”

“You can’t take me for anything. You haven’t spoken to me in weeks! You don’t even know me! And you haven’t even-” Agatha stops and bites her bottom lip and looks down at the floor once more. Like she’s trying to gather patience and she never has had any before.

“You did try to kill me.”

“I know, I do, and I…I can’t apologize for that. I don’t do that. But I…Listen I’m trying okay.” Agatha states and your expression must look disgusted because Agatha moans like this was a stupid idea and her face falls back like she’s looking into the stars for the divine mother to help her out now.

“How about this, you and I. Let’s do this, for ten seconds we just be honest with each other. Complete honesty, no lies for ten seconds, you tell me what the fuck you want from me. And for ten seconds I’ll answer one of your questions or whatever.” You give and Agatha’s chin snaps down to look at you like you’d just given her something truly fascinating.

“Ten seconds?” Agatha looks to the side like she’s considering this.

“Ten seconds.” You repeat like a bird.

“Why ten and not thirty?”

“Because it’s a small number that seems like not a big deal but could dramatically shift everything.”

“Meteors…” Agatha murmurs looking over your shoulder to what you’ve done with the room and you try not to lose your extremely short temper now.

“Harkness why did you just mumble meteors, do you want the ten seconds or not? I’m not really a morning person.”

Agatha’s face quickly changes and you wonder what she’s thinking but she studies your face and then makes a fast decision.

“Meteors entering the Earth’s atmosphere…they only take a few seconds, sometimes up to ten seconds. You said something small but a dramatic shift, meteors.”

You regarded this ancient witch killer now like rain man, wondering who the fuck this witch really was, and what made her tick. Why the fuck was she acting like NASA right now?

“Ok, well do you want your meteor moment or not?”

“Yes, I do.” Agatha answered a little too fast and you don’t hold it against her.

“Ok.”

“I have to go first?” She arched an eyebrow and her tone dripped with sass and defensiveness.

“Oh my god! I need tea for this. I can’t do this with you without some tea.” You push past her shoulder and the purple wielding witch follows you into the kitchen and you easily move around her space. Not used to having someone watch you make the tea. But you put the kettle on and stare at the huge breakfast she made for you.

“What is that?” You point to the plate she’d made for you.

“Blood sausage,” the witch said like that was a normal thing for the 50’s and it was fucking not.

“What’s in the bowl?” You questioned and it actually smelled good.

“I made a lentil dish with spinach and carrots, it’s an old recipe.” You don’t understand how Agatha is the barefoot contessa. But perhaps after centuries on the run, one learns to cook. Or maybe she used to have someone to cook for, and then she didn’t.

And now here you are.

You nodded slowly while processing this, and you can’t help but regard Agatha with suspicion.

“You did your homework Harkness.” You say offhandedly and you don't’ mean it as a compliment but it sure sounds like one outside of your mouth.

“You…You are a blood witch and you need a high iron diet…and you are in pain.” Agatha says the last admission like she isn’t sure how you’ll take it.

“How do you know that, maybe I’m really loving and living for house arrest.” Your snotty comment is delivered in a lower volume and it’s too raw, and it doesn’t scare this witch. As she coined sarcasm and snark. If anything Agatha looks like she enjoys your creativity with her medium.

“You…you cry in your sleep. You yell and cry, and..”

Your face pales now, and you feel your ears turn red from embarrassment.

“I didn’t realize I still did that. Sorry for the inconvenience…” You mumble and stare at the kitchen floor.

“I..I don’t mind. I don't’ sleep much…” Agatha admits and you wonder who the fuck hurt this witch.

She was infamous, and yet she looked so broken here.

“You don’t have to do that.” You say as the kettle whistles for the hot water, and Agatha looks confused. You lift the tea kettle and hold the handle.

“What?” She looks around wondering if you mean a food she put out.

“You cast a glamor when I walked down the stairs, your fingers aren’t black from the darkhold now.”

“I just figured…it puts some people off….”

You don’t let this go, and you don’t like how she assumed this about you.

“It puts some people off or it makes you feel self conscious over what you’ve done for the darkhold?” You challenge a little too harshly and Agatha grinds her jaw and looks at a corner of the room away from you.

“Will you eat?”

“I will try the lentils, I don’t eat meat.”

Agatha’s face snapped to yours now, like she was happy with a fact about you, a small morsel.

You see a cup with a tea bag already in it.

“What is that?” You point to the cup and Agatha considers you for a moment.

“It’s a mix of a few things, I read dandelions help iron boost. I put a few things in for the pain, for the body ache…”

“You didn’t learn that from the Darkhold.” You accuse, knowing what the book says.

“No, someone I cared for hurt…”

“Is that why you can’t watch me…hurt?” You don’t believe it’s about you, this kindness.

“No.” Agatha answers and you wonder what the fuck she’s thinking but you take the kettle and you pour it into the tea cup she’s prepared, willing to try it. It looked like Agatha had gone to a lot of trouble, and you weren’t sure how to handle that.

It had been a long time since anyone had done anything out of kindness for you.

“Sit with me, and we can figure this out.” Your hand goes in the air to waive to her and the house.

You both sit and you eat the lentils down so fast you are almost embarrassed. But Agatha doesn’t comment, just let’s her interest in your bowl fall through her features and then back out.

“I’ll go first. I’ll just tell you stuff I guess.” You sigh thinking it’s the least you can do for her making you this food.

“Ok.” Agatha says tentatively though her body has an eagerness that doesn’t match her tone.

“I am 210, um I have a dark past too. So I don't’ trust people, and I don’t mean to be mean. I mean I do, but it’s not entirely your fault. And I know you have been trying to be cordial ever since you imprisoned me with runes in your basement and tried to kill me….But I don’t actually hate being here like I thought I would. I mean I really like the M&M’s, they don’t come in color yet, but when they do. The red ones completely rock. Um…and I guess thank you is in order. For the food yes…but the books were….That was nice. I like books, and um.. reading. I guess this sounds stupid but uh- I’ve been on the run for so long, it’s nice to just sleep and read….like a vacation or something.” You shrug and finally look at Agatha.

“That’s it?” Her tone is dry as hell.

“I’m sorry, what did you want me to say!” You shout and Agatha actually laughs now and you can’t believe her.

“That was, that was terrible. You didn’t even tell me anything about yourself! I didn’t get to ask a question!”

“Oh I’m sorry I wasn’t clear this was a first date! Did you want to know my astrology sign and my favorite color? Or shall I wait until the second date for that!” You snap and Agatha laughs even harder now.

And you want to be upset, but it didn’t resonate in your chest, Agatha is something else.

Her laugh is so…witchy and melodious, and it makes you want to laugh along. But you won’t give her that pleasure.

Agatha doesn’t cover her mouth when she laughs, she whips her head back and cackles too. Finally she wipes her thumb under her eye to stop the tears.

“Your turn Atticus.” The venom just doesn’t produce from you like it did before. And Agatha smirks at the name.

“Atticus.”

“That’s what I said.” You bite back.

“Finch.”

“That is the one I’m referring to yes.” You tilt your hand.

“As in…” Agatha ‘s hand waives through the air for you to finish your joke.

“Atticus Finch as in the lawyer in ‘To Kill A Mockingbird’ aka Agatha Harkness favorite book. And it’s fitting really, because you are acting pretty accusatory like a lawyer right now.” You explain your joke which takes the fun out of it for you, but not for Agatha it seems.

She puts an elbow on the table and leans her head against it with more comfort in front of you than ever before.

“That’s not my favorite book.”

“Oh?” Your voice squeaks in interest and you hate yourself at this moment.

“But I’ll wait until the third date to tell you that.” Agatha flirts and you choke on your tea and she seems to like that too.

“You think too highly of yourself.” The lack of bite makes you frustrated, what are you doing? Don’t flirt with her!

Agatha just regards you like a lover does after finding something cute. You realize now that look, that look Agatha has given you a few times now and it makes your stomach flip flop.

“Alright stop that, what do you want to say then, your Meteor moment or whatever. Since mine sucked so much, go ahead then.” You challenge and Agatha enjoys this even more, never one to back away from a challenge.

She was very competitive.

“I’ll go, but I want you to go again after, and I get to ask the question.”

“Fine.” You sipped your tea and waited as Agatha got a dreamy expression on her face. As if she was recalling things she hadn’t allowed herself to ever say out loud, much less remember in the day. Only the night, where she could punish herself in the shadows.

“I am an infamous witch killer, but no one actually ever asked me why I did any of it. Not that it condones it, but I think it’s easier to hate what you can’t possibly understand. Or take the time to. I am older than you, but how I caught you gawking down my cleavage in Agnes dress the other day tells me you don’t mind that one bit. I loved someone very much and they took…everything from me. I came here because I wanted power, knowing full well it will never give me back what I have lost. Nothing could ever do that, and my fingers remind me…that I am not….That I can’t be that again. I was happy when I learned you were trapped here. Wanda is endlessly boring and in a constant state of domestic denial. You are the most interesting thing to happen to this town…or to anything… in a long time. I can’t recall the last time someone got under my skin like this, fought back, and….stimulated me intellectually. I don’t know how to feel about that. To be honest. I also don’t think I’ve been this honest for the last two centuries. This is the most honest I think I may have ever …been….” Agatha trailed off and looked at her hand where her fingers held a glamor and you waited, letting her admission, her confession breathe between you two.

Like it was giving life to something new and beautiful.

She drops the glamor and you like this better. Her charcoal stained fingers aren’t a lie, and she doesn’t need to do that here.

Agatha regards the cat themed clock as if pretending she had more time, but really you wondered if she was just so relieved to speak.

To not lie for once.

So she adds more and you are grateful for it all.

Agatha takes a breath and you wonder if it is for courage, and you wonder what Agatha looked like as a girl falling in love for the first time. Before she had all these walls and rules for what she could and couldn’t say to another soul.

“My guilty pleasure, that I never admit to, is honey in my tea. I watch the sunrise every morning. I don’t like the 50’s music that Wanda insists on the radio. I miss the smell of lilacs in Massachusetts and cedar from a tree I used to read under. I enjoy books more than TV. I’m an old fashion witch, I suppose because I detest technology in general even before we were sent to the 50’s. I…I pick up river rocks for someone who isn’t here anymore…I found after my heartbreak I can’t seem to grow herbs….I despise spirits and can’t begin to tell you how silly Tarot is….My mother taught me to draw a pentagram before she taught me how to write my name… and I can’t wait to not wear Agnes fake niceties around these morons…But I am glad I am here….I am…glad I met you.”

This feels far more honest than you were expecting and you are sure her ten seconds are up but you are hanging on her every word.

Agatha blue eyes fall to you now and you feel naked, completely bare to her, caught ogling her. As if she knew what her words had evoked deep in your heart now.

You clear your throat and put the cup of tea down.

“Well, you sure showed me how it’s done.”

To be continued...

AO3 MasterList

#fanfic #fanfiction #kathryn hahn #ao3 fanfic #kathryn hahn x reader #agatha all along #agatha harkness x reader #wandavision start #agatha harkness #agatha x witch reader au #enemies to lovers #tumblr story requested #Spotify

110 notes · View notes

therobotsarestuckinmyhead · 3 days ago

Text

♡ [TFA] GRIMLOCK HCs!

i wrote this eons ago on ao3 and is one of my first few HCs for this fandom so yay! also where my tfa grimlock fans at???

scenario: you're a nerd stuck with your insufferable excuse of a Space-Bridge Repair Crew on an organic planet and you're the only one happy about it.

— You were a part of Optimus Prime’s space bridge repair crew and ended up being the defenders of the planet called “Earth”, fighting off the Decepticons. Megatron and his goons were causing quite some havoc on this primitive organic planet that you’ve grown attached to.

— Most of the others liked Earth as well. You especially. You were fascinated by its rich history and its numerous organic creatures. It was far more diverse than Cybertron, you hadn’t seen a single planet with so many unique varieties of creatures. More specifically, you grew really fond of Earth’s prehistoric creatures.

— Which is the main reason as to why you felt so enthralled when you first met Grimlock. A cybertronian(?) that was a Tyrannosaurus, you’d read quite a bit on the mighty creature. It was like a dream come true for you in a way given you were about 66 million years too late to see them. it was a nightmare for Optimus who kept getting his skid plate handed to him.

“Me, Grimlock, will crush puny autobots!” His roar shook everything around him. Honestly, you didn’t want to hurt him, he was WAY too cool to get terminated and it's not like you could really do anything against him in the first place. Thankfully, despite how ruthless the T. Rex seemed, you thought that maybe you could reason with him. The fighting against the Dinobots is causing some collateral damage and that human named Fanzone might pop one of his 'blood vessels'.

“But why would you want to do that, Grimlock!?” You shout out to him. Something deep down in your spark told you that maybe, just maybe, Grimlock could be reasoned with. He was a sentient being after all and he did possess some kind of intelligence.

Grimlock turned his snout and walked towards you. The whiplash from his erratic change of movement causes his tail to swing and it swats Optimus back into the stratosphere for the fourth time this solar cycle. He lands with a loud crash, thumping onto the floor backside first and his back shooting up from the pain. Ouch. But currently, you cant bring yourself to focus on Optimus as the gears in your helm turn to somehow get this Bot to calm down.

“Because, puny Autobot...” Grimlock paused, he almost looked confused. “Because, Me, Grimlock… Uhm… Uhhhh…” Grimlock stopped moving and pondered for a second. It was evident he was not very smart and you couldn’t help but frown slightly out of a strange sdndd of concern. This Grimlock character didn’t seem to have any malicious intent. Was he running on instinct? Or... was someone controlling him? If so who? Grimlock certainly didn't look like a criminal mastermind and he most definitely didn't just spawn out of Earth's soil.

Within the time you and the Dinobot took to think, Prowl lunged forward onto Grimlock. “Thanks for distracting him!” This wasn’t what you intended. Prowl tried to throw an attack onto Grimlock only for him to...

— HOLY SCRAP HE CAN BREATHE FIRE. Can this bot get any cooler? Honestly, you were way more mesmerised by him than you should be at this point at this point. He's dangerous but you can't help but marvel at his abilities.

— After your little skirmish with the Dinobots, Commissioner Fanzone presented the idea of melting down the Dinobot for extra parts and that made your spark drop. That was too harsh! For all you know, they were programmed yesterday! Of course they wouldn't understand collateral damage yet. Thankfully, you weren’t the only one who thought Fanzone’s decision was too harsh. Prowl felt bad for them too. Even if Prowl got a few burns here and there...

— So, you, Prowl and Bulkhead secretly team up to save the Dinobots. It was against Optimus’s orders but you didn't care, Optimus could go ahead and suck your shiny metallic-

“Why puny Autobots saving me, Grimlock and Dinobots?” He inquired, his voice laced with an uncharacteristic lack of confidence. Honestly, Grimlock was surprised that you guys were willing to save him and his friends. The King is confused even. Why would you do such a thing even after all the damage he's caused? Even after he nearly sent you and your friends to a long trip to Ratchet's?

You thought for a second, careful about your words.

“Well, cause we care about you! And I personally think that you’re really cool, Grimlock. Besides, I don't think you’re just some mindless brute. ” You replied, whispering out the last part to make sure that Prowl and Bulkhead couldn’t hear you. He might’ve not been bipedal (or so you thought) but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a mecha like you. The thought of being cared for, the thought of being seen as cool was all unfamiliar to the Dinobot— He didn't exactly spend a lot of time on his emotions after being made by the funny looking helm but...

You thought he was cool? And you cared?

Grimlock was speechless, he didn't know what to say or have any idea on what would even be appropriate to say in such a situation. He felt something in his power core, something… that he could only describe as nice. Your words kept ringing in his head but in a pleasant manner. Like a song he didn't want to turn down. Meanwhile you look over to Prowl and Bulkhead, the coast was clear and you lean closer to Grimlock.

“Hey, is it alright if I visit you guys more often?” You ask in secret with a hushed tone, Prowl and Bulkhead seemed to be engaged in some conversation. You didn’t want either of them hearing this knowing they'd reprove.

Grimlock tilted his head slightly and thought about it for a second, contemplating your words and considering it heavily.

“Of course, puny Autobots can visit Grimlock and Dinobots anytime.” He replied in a low, almost soft tone, as if he was somewhat uncertain but willing to give it a try. You couldn’t really make it out as his helm was that of a T-Rex but you swore you saw a smile.

— You had been visiting Grimlock and the gang regularly after missions. None of the other crew was aware of your friendship with Grimlock, Swoop and Sludge. You just told Optimus that you were ‘exploring’, thankfully, the Prime bought it since he's known you to be the curious type but never the reckless kind.

— But Prowl didn’t. Prowl knew damn well what you were doing. He just didn’t want to interfere. It wasn’t hurting anyone so he really didn’t see any reason for interference. However, Prowl was growing concerned about the extensive amount of time you spent on Dinobot Island. And he did often privately vocalise his concerns.

— You were the first to see Grimlock’s bipedal form! This confirmed your previous theory that they might be of Cybertronian descent. However, their biologies remained a mystery considering their frames weren’t built with the usual minerals and metals Cybertronians were made out of. Maybe they were the result of Sari’s Allspark key? Either way, it narrowed the possibilities. You have a datapad dedicated to figuring out the origins of the Dinobots.

— You taught Grimlock, Swoop and Sludge about Cybertron and how you were from there. You told them stories that they greatly enjoyed. Grimlock loves your stories and hearing about your life. You told him what a spark was, some of the things you told him did confuse him but he would just nod and pretend to understand while the other two look at you blankly.

— After two or three days, Grimlock will eventually reach the grimm conclusion [ba-dum tiss] that he wants to be with you after you told him what romance is and what love was. He'd always felt it but never knew how to label it. But his pride makes him feel embarrassed that a puny, tiny Autobot wiggled their way into his spark.

— Grimlock prefers to hang out with you in his T. Rex as it allows him to carry you on his back as he roams around the island and talk. Scaring the local wildlife and laughing at the way they run away while you glare at him for a moment. He doesn’t get why you don't find it funny!

— Now, Grimlock isn’t the best conversationalist out there but he is a good listener. He will listen and give his own commentary. Sometimes you rant about Bumblebee being stupid or how you fucked up. He honestly doesn’t have much to say as he’s confined to Dinobot island, nothing’s really going on in his life.

— Grimlock can be a real asshole. He will tease and joke about you, this happens mostly because he doesn’t get how to express love. Grimlock gained sentience like three days ago, give him a break. He really isn’t ready for such complex emotions, he’s brutally blunt and doesn’t usually care how blunt he is. So he will end up coming off as insensitive. He's new to this relationship stuff!

— He will try to find some other way to annoy you if you tell him that his teasing is annoying or if you don’t like it. Grimlock is smug.

— The second he sees your drooping expression in response to his words of mockery, he will freeze. Grimlock was just being playful! He didn’t mean to make you sad! He doesn't understand the weight of his words and he's still new to empathy.

— Grimlock will laugh at your fuck ups. He will laugh at anyone and everyone’s fuck ups. You’re no exception unfortunately. Grimlock would fearlessly laugh in the face of Primus without any hesitation. He’s just that kind of bot. He does not give a fuck. He doesn’t know how to hold back a laugh either

— It should be noted that his sense of humor can be bubbled down to Tom and Jerry or Oggy And The Cockroaches. He's immature. People accidentally hurting themselves, childish irony and bad puns make him laugh out loud. He would watch children's cartoons and laugh at them but then immediately smolder and stop laughing when Sari tells him that they're for children. Now he doesn't want to watch them. He cannot fathom higher forms of comedy like sarcasm, he will try to get it but it just doesn't tickle his funny bone..

— He’s a tsundere. Big fucking tsundere. But instead of blushing like an anime girl, Grim just grunts and his voice goes in a slightly higher pitch. He does get all nervous like an anime girl though. You can see him blush slightly if you look really closely onto his faceplates when he’s in his bipedal form, what really gives it away is his click of his cooling fans and the not so subtle steam from his vents.

— Despite his tsundere nature, Grimlock will do whatever you want him to. Grimlock is a simp (we saw that in the Blackarachnia ep), no questions asked. He will not hesitate to do whatever you want him to. Especially if he’s fallen for you hard.

— If you tease him back, he will pout and protest. Won’t admit it but he likes being commanded around by you. Grimlock can be really adorable without ever realizing it. Wait. Did you call him… adorable? Are you falling for a fragging metal dinosaur? Tch. Tch. Tch. What would the others think?

— The first sign that shows that Grimlock is deeply in love with you, is that he stops referring to you as ‘puny Autobot’ or by your alt. mode with robot as a suffix but rather by your name. 'Car robot', 'truck robot', 'jet robot'... depends on your alternate mode but he will stop calling you that.

— Grimlock, unlike Predaking, has no restraint when it comes to jealousy. He will openly fling himself onto Swoop or Sludge if they are taking too much of your time and attention away from Grimlock. You’re unaware that the conflict is because of you, you just think that Grimlock has some weird spontaneous battle instinct. You look clueless and confused, trying your best to diffuse the situation if it's getting out of hand. You wouldn’t be surprised, Grimlock and the others do have play-fights with each other. And when they do, you always cheer for Grim

— He hates that you can’t spend all the time you have with Grimlock here on Dinobot island. Grimlock desperately wants to spend more time with you. he kinda wishes that you were also a Dinobot, he hates knowing that you spend more time with the others.

— Sludge and Swoop are completely aware of Grim’s huge crush on you but they shut up about it knowing that Grimlock would throw them into the sea if they ever revealed it. But they do tease him. A lot. It would go like "Hey, [name] ! Did you know that Grim has a-" *ding* *ding*, Grimlock has KOed the opponent!. Flying punch to their faceplates in his bipedal.

— You were also quite attached to Grimlock which is why, when you ventured to the island and saw Meltdown, you quickly informed Prowl all panicked.

— Grimlock seethes with jealousy knowing that you’re under the command of Optimus and not him. He constantly tries to put up displays of strength by lifting up stuff like boulders or heavy weighing items or heck, you to show you how much cooler he is than Optimus. Honestly, he just hates Optimus. Optimus does not understand why Grimlock dislikes him so much when the two meet up once again because of Meltdown. Once Meltdown was defeated, an terribly embarrassing exchange of words took place.

“Listen, Grimlock, I don't understand why you don’t like me. If it's about-” Grimlock rudely cuts off a stern and angry Optimus. “No! Me, Grimlock don’t like you not because you put Grimlock and friends into cement!” He snarled, irritated. Grimlock was easily annoyed and the way Prime was so persistent on an answer bothered him. You, Prowl, Sentinel and the rest of the Dinobots went silent as all of you watched this exchange.

The tension withered away as awkwardness crept into the empty space left for words as the T. Rex figured out what to say next, a hint of vulnerability as he looked down, trying to articulate what was on his processor. Grimlock switched to his bipedal form, facing away from you and Optimus. Optimus looked confused, very confused. He was almost certain that was the reason.

“Well, then… Why do you hate me?”

Grimlock grumbles something, incomprehensible to Optimus which makes Optimus' temper flare, he's in a bad mood and the Prime only just wants to resolve this mystery dispute he has with Grimlock and he doesn't even have the slightest clue over what Grimlock is being so aggressive over. “Come on, Grimlock! I can’t do anything if you don’t tell me what’s wrong!” He exclaimed with a hint of exasperation, the Prime was extremely frustrated. Optimus wanted to right whatever wrongs he did to Grimlock, he’s certain that Grimlock could prove to be a powerful and useful ally, given how he helped out with tackling Metldown. Only if he weren’t such a difficult mech!

“You have what Grimlock wants.” He speaks, hesitant. His tone was low and uncharacteristically soft, almost as if he was embarrassed.

”Well, what do you want?” Optimus asks, completely dumbfounded now. He questioned if Grimlock even had the capacity to have interests other than wrecking things and fighting. What could he possibly have that Grimlock would want? Was it oil? Energon?

“Grimlock wants… Grimlock likes…” He’s simply too embarrassed to say it out loud, his optics fixated on the ground as if he was some overgrown sparkling. He sighs and lifts a single digit, pointing at you. Helm to the floor as his faceplates are practically on fire, steam puffing from his vents as his dermas are pursed into a thin line.

“...”

“Pfft- reall- OW.” Prowl bonked Sentinel’s head.

— After the whole extremely awkward confession, Optimus agreed to let you hang out more often on Dinobot Island but now the aura between you and Grimlock is also extremely awkward. Bumblebee is teasing you. Sentinel on the other hand thinks its pathetic, he isn’t even a proper Cybertronian for Primus’ sake. Prowl isn't sure how to feel and Bulkhead is sort of supportive? He thinks it's sweet.

You and Grimlock were sitting on the floor, Grimlock was in his bipedal form with his legs crossed, you sat in a similar posture next to him, both of your optics averted from one another as you stare into the grassy ground below you.

“…” Grimlock began as he leaned close towards you. “Me, Grimlock, am sorry for…”

You cut him off as you hesitantly turn towards him. “You don’t need to be sorry for anything, Grim.”

You cupped his helm between your servos and he's frozen, you've never really touched him so tenderly but he immediately loves it. “I… kinda like you too.” You muttered out with embarrassment, your own faceplates on fire as you look away for a moment.

Grimlock felt like the happiest mech alive at that moment, his faceplates flushed and his jaw slightly parted as his optics went wide, of course you wouldn’t notice his optics due to his visor. You know what, maybe truck robot isn’t so bad after all.

— Grimlock lets you hold his flame sword but he’s extremely cautious about the whole thing to make sure that his sword doesn’t even bring the slightest harm to you. Grimlock doesn't want you hurt. He cares deeply about you.

— Grimlock is the type of guy to try and fight the sun if you start complaining about how hot it is. He might not look like it but he’s willing to go across the universe for you.

— One time, you caressed his helm when he was in bipedal form and his head literally caught on fire. You were extremely concerned after that. Grimlock had to convince you that it was a natural response to affectionate touch.

— The thing Grimlock likes the most about you is the way that you treat him. Everyone else treats him like an idiot, even his fellow Dinobots sometimes but you don’t see him as a brainless brute. You treat him with patience and respect and that makes him swoon.

— He will give you rides on his back in T. Rex mode.

— Grimlock is a huge cuddle bug. He craves your physical touch and affection and attention constantly. Grimlock can be real childish some(most)times.

— If you won’t give him the attention he so desperately craves for, he will just loom over you and follow you around in his alt. mode until you do. He’s like a puppy but a really stubborn one. He demands your attention. He will even swoop you up into his servos at one point with pleading optics.

— If you threw something, Grimlock will fetch it for you out of pure impulse. Running after it in his T Rex alternate and walking back to you in bipedal with the item in his servos. As I mentioned before, he’s like an over-grown puppy that can breathe fire.

—When it comes to romance, Grimlock is probably one of the most coy mechs out there. Grimlock tries to be stoic but it doesn’t work, he falls apart fast. Simplest words of affection like “I love you.” or “I missed you.” is enough for him to go from confident to shy in an instant. Interfacing would probably kill him from embarrassment.

— But once he gets used to your words (which he will at some point), he will just be incredibly smug about it. Like you missed him? Hah! Of course you would! He's the Grimlock. There's a lot to miss about him.

— Grimlock adores rubs, neck scratches and just being caressed in any way. He hates getting tickled though. Grimlock is really ticklish and you have used that to your advantage on multiple occasions.

— Grimlock loves it when you fawn over how cool he is and he will get jealous of whoever else you find really cool, the poor bots that are on your ‘cool people’ list are the sworn enemies of Grimlock. They are his tackling practice dummies.

— P r a i s e t h e m i g h t y G r i m l o c k. Feed his ego and tell him how amazing he is. He will be cocky afterwards so brace yourself for the consequences. The other dinobots will damn you for that because now they have to put up with an even more ego inflated Grimlock.

— He might not say it outright but he’s actually sort of embarrassed at his way of speech. Grimlock just doesn’t know how to speak outside of in third person and he won’t show it but he’s sort of insecure about it. He’s insecure about lots of things and he needs your constant reassurance. Grimlock is well aware that everyone thinks that he’s just a big dumb brute and he doesn’t want you of all people to think so about him. He usually doesn’t care about what other’s think but what you think means the world to him.

— He’s a sucker for headpats.

— Since he can breathe fire, sometimes he takes the liberty of being a walking talking heater. You rest on his chassis, face against his chest as he warms himself up and the two of you drift off into recharge.

— He will get all flustered over the smallest bits of affection. Yes, even hand-holding. Holding each other’s servos is probably his favourite thing to do with you. Yours are very nice to hold onto and he likes how it feels to have your digits intertwined. He loves you servos in general because you use them to touch him.

— One time, you smothered Grimlock’s faceplates in kisses while you sat on his lap and his whole frame went rigid. He swore that he almost passed out from overheating. The confident leader of the Dinobots turned into a stuttering mess. Just don’t do it in front of the others... please.

— Grimlock pretends to hate pet names but he actually kind of likes them. Its a love-hate relationship.

— Grimlock loves it when you bring back things for him from your missions. He revels knowing the fact that he’s always on your mind. His favourite things you bring back for him are probably the weird dinosaur keychains. Grimlock is flattered that the humans make merchandising of him and it sort of makes him more chill around humans.

— Now, the love of his life is an Autobot who’s here on Earth to take care of the Decepticon pest so naturally you have to engage in the field and he won’t say it but he’s worried. You’re so puny and small... the Decepticons are so much more deadly! He knew that especially since Megatron basically made him. Speaking of which, you came to learn you were dating the enemy’s technical ‘son’. You didn’t know how to feel about that.

— Speaking of Decepticons, he will without hesitation tackle down a Decepticon if they are a treat to your life in any way whatsoever with Swoop and Snarl joining in. They will literally jump the Decepticon which ends up giving the rest of you time to prepare yourselves.

— Grimlock will gladly accompany you on a mission if you ask him to tag along. Him falling for you has made him far more complacent with the Autobots as a whole so Optimus is a bit more approving of your relationship. You're like Cybertron's ambassador to Dinobot island.

— You had to introduce him and the rest of the Dinobots to hygiene. Like, none of them cleaned themselves until you came along.

— He really really really loves you, he’s your number one simp and fanboy. If anyone insults or makes jokes about you when he’s around, he will start a fight. Only Grimlock is allowed to tease you. Bumblebee once joked about how shitty your aim was when Grimlock was present and Grimlock began rambling on in grammatically broken sentences that would’ve made any English teacher’s head explode about how amazing you are then and there. Anime fans can’t compare to the way he defends you from such horrendous accusations.

— You’re probably the only person who’s able to make Grimlock form a sentence without using less than fifteen words.

— Grimlock love love love loves when you come to him for protection from something. He loves knowing that you rely on him and yes, he will be smug about it. He’s just like that.

— In private, he will be slightly bolder and give you soft chaste kisses on your faceplates.

— Rest of the crew teases the fuck out of the two of you, except Ratchet. Sentinel is on your case 24/7 and Optimus… doesn’t know how to feel about it. On one hand, your relationship is cute and helps repair his and Grimlock’s weird enemy-friendship but on the other hand… It's Grimlock. He’s like the most arrogant mech the Prime has ever met. Bumblebee calls you a ‘Xenophile’ as a joke while Sari teases you, asking you where your dinosaur boyfriend is (you had to do research to understand what a boyfriend was). Prowl is like 'i know what kind of bot you are' with a knowing smile and Bulkhead is lowkey very chill about it, he's given you his thumbs-up.

— This mech is willing to give you his life. He really loves and cherishes you. Grimlock is a good boyfriend. For a ruthless fighting machine. Golden retriever but really possessive.

also, if it does interest anyone, a friend of mine decided to use these HCs to make a fanfic series on ao3! please check it out, it's titled Dino Lover!

#transformers #transformers x reader #cybertronian reader #reader insert #tfa #transformers animated #tf animated #tfa grimlock #grimlock #tf grimlock #grimlock x reader #tfa grimlock x reader #i wrote this ages ago #hes such an idiot dum dum what a himbo #i didnt know if i wanted to be blackarachnia that one EP or be grimlock ngl #but personally i wanna be grimlock #blackarachnia full on homewrecking gng </3 #fighting for your man on the daily ‼️

62 notes · View notes

kuriri9 · 2 days ago

Text

Summer Job

shanks x fem!reader

synopsis: reuniting with your high school crush while looking for a summer job in town wasn’t something you expected. but it seems like he also holds a secret within himself, something similar to yours. *college au

author’s note: this is the first time i’ve written something in a good few months!! my writing skills might’ve declined but i swear i’ll get back at it soon! >_<

Summer break for college starts much earlier than it does for high school, even so, finding a summer job was always a challenge. No stores would want to hire a worker that’s going to leave in two months, maybe besides the ice cream stores that only open during summer. You learned that the hard way.

This being your first summer back as a college student, your mom had been nagging you to get a job or an internship, but no matter how many cover letters or resumes you have submitted online, nobody would give a response. So here you are, walking on the streets of your town, fingers picking and scratching at the new mosquito bite on your arm that grew swollen and red, going store to store in hopes you could at least get a part-time. But barely any stores needed more workers, and you just know the ones that accepted your resume would never contact you back.

Cicadas screaming in your ears just seemed to make everything worse. You walk towards the last store you had in mind— the ice cream store in town that only opened during summers, people say they’re always hiring.

Ding.

The bell on the door rang as you walked into the small shop. The cool air from the AC washed over you and you swear this is the first time you’ve felt this relieved since you got your college acceptance letter a year ago. But that feeling quickly went away when you spotted a certain redhead behind the counters, working with another man.

Shanks.

Your upstairs neighbor, classmate, as well as…

Despite the AC being on, you felt like it was as hot as the weather outside. Fingers wrinkling the resume they’re holding, and heart pounding in your ears, perhaps nothing else could be more embarrassing than this moment.

You forced your legs to move forward.

“Hello, I was wondering if you are hiring by any chance?” You spoke up to the middle-aged man, presumably the person in charge of the shift.

In the corner of your eyes, you see Shanks staring at you, and you bet your whole face was red right now.

“Ah, sorry. Our last spot was just taken not long ago.” The man gave an apologetic smile, his head subconsciously gesturing to the redhead that was working next to him, wrapping up for an online order.

No way… your mouth agape, you slowly turned to Shanks. Maybe he felt a little guilty, his head snapped away immediately, focusing on his current task. Despite the store being cool, you could see the few drops of sweat on his forehead.

“Okay…” You sighed with defeat, “Thank you.” Thanking the man, you turned away to leave.

Stepping back into the summer heat, you genuinely felt like jumping off a bridge at the thought of walking back home. You sighed again, giving it a thought, before turning back into the ice cream store. Surprisingly, this time, only Shanks was seen behind the counters. Did his manager seriously go on lunch break 2 seconds after you left?

“Hey,” Shanks was the one who spoke first, flashing you a big grin like he always does. “What can I get for ya?”

You looked at him, he hasn’t changed much since the last time you saw him at graduation. “Uh, I’ll take 2 scoops of the strawberry flavor… please.” You requested, smiling awkwardly, gazing down at the ice creams below the display glass. You and Shanks have known each other for a long time, going to the same school district basically all of your life. However, as time went on, people got sorted into different classes and found their own friend groups. Most people started distancing from their original friends, you and Shanks were one of the examples. But it was funny how you still liked him anyways, despite going from friends to acquaintances, you’ve always liked him more than anyone else.

“Cone or cup?” His question brought you out of your trance. You look back at him, accidentally making eye contact. Your heart skipped a beat.

“Cone would be fine.” You say.

After paying at the register, you watched as Shanks picked up a cone from the stack and grabbed the ice cream scoop. You came outside today to find a job, but ended up spending money, what the hell is wrong with you. You cursed at yourself in your mind. But you had to admit, the sight of Shanks’ biceps were indeed a treat to the eyes.

“I didn’t expect to see you around town.” He spoke as he handed you your cone. “How was college?”

You paused for a second, and then smiled a little, “Yeah, my mom was nagging me to find a summer job. College was fine, by the way, I made some new friends. What about you?”

Maybe you spent a little way too long having a conversation with him, you only left when his manager came back from lunch break, and he somehow tricked you into saying that you’d come visit often during the break as you said your goodbye. You scratched your head after stepping out of the store.

Even though you couldn’t get a job from any of the private business owners in town, you successfully secured a position at the park district, for a whopping $13 per hour pay. At least your mom would stop nagging at you, you thought as you read the employment text they sent you, the spark gone from your eyes (joke). Summer seemed to be going well, you occasionally visited Shanks’ shifts and would sometimes see him at the park too. Until one night, you received a call from the redhead. He asked you if you would want to go see a summer musical the high school was hosting, and there was no reason for you to decline.

The date came faster than expected, you sat in the audience next to Shanks as you watched some familiar faces of underclassmen perform on stage. The loud music rang in your ears, but Shanks would occasionally whisper to you about the singers, you would feel his hot breath fanning your ear, and his strong arm that was pressed against yours. As the show ended, you both left the building, he stopped you on the front stairs of the school, and brought you to the side entrance so you guys wouldn’t block people from leaving. You look at him, confused. He seemed a little fidgety during the musical too. You wonder what could be bothering him.

This place sure brought back some memories though, you thought to yourself. It was the last day of school last year, the front schoolyard was filled with seniors, signing each other’s yearbooks and hugging each other goodbye. You stood in this exact spot, reading the messages written on your yearbook and crying like a baby, because you genuinely thought you were never going to see your friends again. You thought you were never going to see Shanks again. You remember him jogging over to you when he spotted you a few feet away, and when you realized it, you were already in his warm embrace. That was the first time he hugged you since elementary school, his scent rushed into your nose and you couldn’t care about anything else at that moment, you gripped onto his white shirt and sobbed into his chest. You should’ve told him your feelings back then, and you wonder if he still remembers that day. You laugh a little, thinking back at your stupid behavior. The words came out of your mouth before you could stop yourself. You saw Shanks pause for a second, and then his shoulders relaxed, accompanied by his laughter. He says of course he remembers, and you laughed with him.

“But that isn't the reason why I brought you here.” He tells you. You stare at him as he pulls out 2 tickets from his pockets, he’s gripping onto them so hard you can see his fingers turning white, wrinkling the corners of the papers. You gave him a look of confusion before taking the tickets and reading the words on them. It was for a pop star you’ve always wanted to see live. Your eyes widened as you snapped your head back up at him. His hand subconsciously went up to scratch at his nape, “I always see you posting about this… sorry for taking the last spot at the ice cream store, but I was so close to saving enough money.” He explained, the tip of his ears bright red. “I mean, I just wanted to ask you if you’re free to go to this concert with me.”

You look at him in shock as he continues to talk.

“But maybe not as friends,” He stared into your eyes, “maybe as… lovers?”

#one piece #one piece x reader #one piece fluff #one piece fanfiction #shanks x reader #shanks #akagami no shanks #shanks x you #shanks x y/n #red haired shanks #shanks fanfic #kuri's unopened journal

60 notes · View notes

seitmai · 2 days ago

Text

Many thoughts

“If you tell me my truck is overcompensating for something,” he warns, narrowing his eyes at her in a playful way. “I’ll prove you wrong right here and now.” There’s a moment where he thinks she’s actually considering it, but then she shrugs and buckles herself in with a devilish little grin on her face. Jake watches her for a second longer, taking in the cheekiness she’s trying to hide. It’s just there, just barely under the surface, and he knows she’s trying so hard to bite her tongue.

What a way to start the date🤭

He’s determined that the moment she’s mean to him, he’s gonna kiss her.

It gets him all riled up 🤭

When he moves to take his hand away, she stops him –her hand resting on top of his, back on her knee. It’s not subtle by any means, but the way she’s smiling tells him that she isn’t trying to be. Subtlety isn’t his thing anyway; especially when he squeezes her knee gently and grins at her.

Ahhh that's so cute, it's feels like they finally are on the same page, or at least getting there 🥰

“I can’t wait,” she says, and it sounds like a confession. Soft, a little unsure, but there’s an underlying excitement that tints the statement.

🥰🥰🥰

Their first stop is one of his favorites –Balboa Park. He’s sure she’s been here; anyone that’s lived in San Diego long enough has been, he’s certain. But it’s not specifically the park he’s taking her to; it’s the little Japanese cafe that he refuses to tell anyone he goes to. And when she gets out of the truck, she seems surprised –looking around her like she was expecting something over the top. She’s even more surprised when the lady at the counter greets him by name.

Truly not something that I would not expect from him

“California sweet tea is the worst,” she agrees, leaning forward. “I’m from Georgia –nothing compares.” “Thank you!” He laughs, leaning back in his chair with a bright grin on his face. He can tell that his cheeks are going to hurt by the end of the night. “No one else seems to understand that there is a significant difference between iced tea and sweet tea.”

Common ground between them? Who would have thought

He’s staring. He knows he’s staring, but he can’t help it –she’s laughing; genuinely, fully. And Jake thinks it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard. And when she looks up at him, and he doesn’t look away, she immediately looks back at the menu –but he can see it. The little quirk in her lips, like she’s trying to not smile at him.

He is all smitten 😍🥰

“Yeah,” he nods, glancing over the menu for a second before he smirks at her. “Maybe somethin’ with a little bite that’s actually sweet at the end.” She stares at him for a moment, and that little quirk of her lips breaks into a sheepish smile, like she can’t help it. “That was…that was good, I’ll give you that.”

Let's keep that humor up!

But every time he looks at his watch, she feels a twinge of anxiety; like he’s trying to wrap this up and get out of here.

Understandable

Jake puts his hands up, and brows raised with obvious confusion on his face. And once again —she feels like an asshole. “I just —I’m sorry,” she back tracks, dropping her hands and wringing her wrists. “You keep checking your watch. And that’s…that’s like body language 101. I just —if this isn’t going as well as I hoped it was, I’d just like to —,”

I'm glad she just said what's nagging her

Her rambling is cut off by Jake taking her face in his calloused hands and kissing her hard. There’s a little surprise, but instead of pulling back, she melts into the touch, hands finding the belt loops of his jeans to anchor herself to him. He’s smiling into the kiss, she can feel it, and she’s stuck between pulling away to see the smile or pulling him into the damn truck.

Ahhhh 😍🥰

“Has anyone ever told you that you overthink things?” He asks, but there’s a teasing hint in his voice and his eyes. “Every person I’ve ever dated,” she admits —not really on purpose, because who admits that? But because she’s too flustered to think of anything else.

Mood haha

“I’ll accept your apology if you get in the damn truck, sweetheart.” She nods quickly and hops in, feeling his hands hovering just in case she falls. Then he’s in the truck himself, peeling out of the parking lot with a grin on his face.

Those little moment between them get more and more 🥰

He likes that she’s about to argue, but he shuts the door and half jogs around the back of the truck, opening the tailgate. Everything is back there already, but he hops up and pulls out the comforter and pillows he stuffed into the tool box. She’s turned around, and he knocks on the window, pointing at her with accusing eyes and a smirk. She rolls her eyes and turns around.

Who would have thought that Jake is quite the person for romantic surprises?

Jake’s going to count that eye roll as a mean comment, so he’s going to have to kiss her again soon.

And he can't wait 🤭

“You’re cutting it really close,” she jokes as he pulls her to the back of the truck. “I don’t know why —,” But Jake cuts her off by lifting her up, setting her in the bed of the truck with a chuckle. She looks a bit surprised —he assumes because he lifted her up, but she’s looking around the truck bed as he climbs up and situates himself against the pillows. He gives himself a mental pat on the back –and notes that he needs to thank Bob’s future wife for her advice.

He went to the right people for advice 😌

“Wow, Jake,” she breathes out, running her hands over the blanket for a moment before her eyes land on the wine and the flowers. “Jake —just wow,” she repeats, finally looking up at him. “You keep sayin’ my name like that and we won’t be here to see the sunset.”

And he means it with all his heart

She blushes but rolls her eyes, throwing her head with a laugh. Jake decides that he’s going to make her laugh any chance he gets, because it is really music to his ears.

🥰🥰🥰

It’s a comfortable silence as the sky melts into pinks and oranges before the sun finally drops below the horizon. Even as the stars start coming out, and the night starts to take over the last remaining hints of the day, they don’t move. He’s set down his wine at some point, resting his other hand on her knee that’s practically in his lap, and he absently rubs circles into her skin.

Them being able to enjoy the silence together is a good sign imo

“Thank you,” she finally says, and there’s a softness in her voice he hasn’t heard before –like she’s letting him in. Finally letting go of…whatever she thought of him before. It’s unguarded, and sincere. And he thinks she’s not just thanking him for the date, but for proving her wrong.

🥹🥹🥹

She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t have to, because they both know the answer. There’s a pause –not an awkward one, but full. Like they’re waiting for someone to make the first move. Like they’re challenging the other to do something. And he takes that challenge, leaning in. No rush, no cockiness. Just close enough to give her the chance to meet him there.

Ahhh 🥰🥰🥰

It’s not like the kiss he gave her earlier, when she was overthinking. He’s not trying to get her to stop thinking too much or distract her. No, this kiss…this kiss is to get her to fall for him just as hard as he’s fallen for her, he’s decided. And nothing about this kiss is quick –not as he brings his hand up to cup her jaw to deepen it; not as one her hands wraps around the back of his neck and pulls him closer. Or when her tongue traces along the edge of his bottom lip, and he has to stop himself from groaning.

He put his all in that kiss

When he tastes her on his tongue finally, like pomegranate and black tea, Jake knows he’s done for. But when she’s the one pulling away, he chases her to kiss her again and she laughs softly against his lips.

He is officially addicted to her and her kisses 🤭

“There’s an implication there,” he points out, pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re gonna meet my friends?” “I’ve already met them,” she reminds him with a grin. “Not as my girlfriend you haven’t.”

“You’re a dork,” she teases back, laughing again as she does. “I can’t wait to tell your team that the infamous Hangman is actually a romantic.” “As long as I get to keep kissin’ you, I don’t care what you tell them,” he promises, but he’s smiling down at her so hard that his cheeks definitely hurt a little. “None of them will believe you though.”

He is totally gone for her 🥰

And he can't wait to change that 🤗

Sources of Strength | j. s. | 4

Jake Seresin x school counselor!reader

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: Tooth rotting fluff. A little bit of anxiety but not much else

Author’s Note: Jake is a softy deep down I can feel it in my fucking BONES okay. Also I was gonna make this smutty but decided that Bob Floyd is who fucks and Jake Seresin is just a romantic idiot deep down

Masterlist | Talk to Me! | AO3

“Now how did I know you drove a pickup truck?” She asks as she climbs into the front seat, smirking at him.

“If you tell me my truck is overcompensating for something,” he warns, narrowing his eyes at her in a playful way. “I’ll prove you wrong right here and now.”

There’s a moment where he thinks she’s actually considering it, but then she shrugs and buckles herself in with a devilish little grin on her face. Jake watches her for a second longer, taking in the cheekiness she’s trying to hide. It’s just there, just barely under the surface, and he knows she’s trying so hard to bite her tongue.

He’s determined that the moment she’s mean to him, he’s gonna kiss her.

“So where are you taking me?” She asks, and Jake is only a little disappointed that it’s not snarky. “Can’t be dinner, since it’s only two. I didn’t really take you as an early bird.”

“Can’t diagnose me again?” He teases, grinning at her. She rolls her eyes as hee gives a casual shrug, pulling out of her driveway. “Here and there.”

“You have no idea, do you?”

He scoffs, reaching over to pat her knee playfully. “Oh, I know exactly what I’m doin’, sweetheart. But that’s for me to know and you to be very pleasantly surprised by.”

“I can’t wait,” she says, and it sounds like a confession. Soft, a little unsure, but there’s an underlying excitement that tints the statement.

She’s even more surprised when the lady at the counter greets him by name.

“Do you come here a lot?” She asks as he pulls out her chair.

“Couple times a month, probably,” he admits, sitting down across from her. “They have a curry bowl I like, and pretty much any kinda tea you’d like.”

“I didn’t take you as a tea drinker,” she teases, glancing over the menu as she does.

“I grew up in Texas,” he explains, grinning at her as he does. “California sweet tea is…awful, honestly. But I like a good excuse to try different things ‘til I find a little taste of home.”

“California sweet tea is the worst,” she agrees, leaning forward. “I’m from Georgia –nothing compares.”

“Thank you!” He laughs, leaning back in his chair with a bright grin on his face. He can tell that his cheeks are going to hurt by the end of the night. “No one else seems to understand that there is a significant difference between iced tea and sweet tea.”

“Oh my god, I know.”

“What’s your favorite then, cowboy?” She asks, just glancing up slightly at him. Like she’s hiding from him.

“Depends,” he offers, leaning forward now to get closer to her. He pulls the menu from her hands, and she’s forced to look at him now. She can act all mean all she likes, but Jake can see through her just as much as she can him. “I like my coffee black, but my tea sweet. So I try to find somethin’ between the two here,” he points at the menu. “Also depends on the weather. If it’s cold, I’ll get a hot tea. If it’s hot, I’ll get it iced. Might try somethin’ new today though.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” he nods, glancing over the menu for a second before he smirks at her. “Maybe somethin’ with a little bite that’s actually sweet at the end.”

She stares at him for a moment, and that little quirk of her lips breaks into a sheepish smile, like she can’t help it. “That was…that was good, I’ll give you that.”

By the time they finish up at the cafe, and meander their way back to his truck, Jake has checked his watch at least four times.

She thinks the date is going well –she’s having a great time. And she kind of thought he was too, given that he’s got his arm around her shoulders, and he’s still holding her hand at the same time, as they walk through the Japanese gardens. Their little tea date was the best thing she’s experienced in a long time, and the way he kept looking at her –keeps looking at her, honestly –is enough to drive her a little crazy.

But every time he looks at his watch, she feels a twinge of anxiety; like he’s trying to wrap this up and get out of here.

When they’re back at his truck, he opens the door for her and smiles.

Then glances at his watch.

Just a quick, “probably didn’t even see the time” look.

“Oh my god,” she snaps, turning to face him. She’s refusing to get in the truck, putting her hands out to…block him? She’s not even sure what she’s doing. “Why do you keep checking your watch? Was this really that bad?”

Jake puts his hands up, and brows raised with obvious confusion on his face. And once again —she feels like an asshole.

“I just —I’m sorry,” she back tracks, dropping her hands and wringing her wrists. “You keep checking your watch. And that’s…that’s like body language 101. I just —if this isn’t going as well as I hoped it was, I’d just like to —,”

But he’s the one that’s pulling away —and she’s disappointed twice over because he’s not smiling —he’s smirking at her. As she stands there flustered and confused —he’s smirking.

“Has anyone ever told you that you overthink things?” He asks, but there’s a teasing hint in his voice and his eyes.

“Every person I’ve ever dated,” she admits —not really on purpose, because who admits that? But because she’s too flustered to think of anything else.

“Yeah, that checks out,” he laughs, pulling back to show her his watch. It’s 4:33 and she’s confused by what he’s trying to show her. “Sun sets at 4:53. We got twenty minutes to get somewhere that’s seventeen minutes from this spot.”

“Oh,” she sighs, covering her face with her hands. “God, I’m sorry.”

“I’ll accept your apology if you get in the damn truck, sweetheart.”

She nods quickly and hops in, feeling his hands hovering just in case she falls. Then he’s in the truck himself, peeling out of the parking lot with a grin on his face.

“Stay here,” he warns after he backs into a little pull off that’s really only big enough for one car (two, really, but his truck takes up more space than it should). “Don’t peek.”

Jake’s going to count that eye roll as a mean comment, so he’s going to have to kiss her again soon.

He opens up the cooler bag in the tool case and sets out the wine and two glasses, then pulls out a bouquet of wildflowers. A little wilted but still pretty as he sets them with the wine. He glances at his watch; one minute. Then he’s hopping down and opening the car door.

“C’mon, beautiful,” he orders softly, taking her hand and helping her down.

“You’re cutting it really close,” she jokes as he pulls her to the back of the truck. “I don’t know why —,”

But Jake cuts her off by lifting her up, setting her in the bed of the truck with a chuckle. She looks a bit surprised —he assumes because he lifted her up, but she’s looking around the truck bed as he climbs up and situates himself against the pillows. He gives himself a mental pat on the back –and notes that he needs to thank Bob’s future wife for her advice.

“Wow, Jake,” she breathes out, running her hands over the blanket for a moment before her eyes land on the wine and the flowers. “Jake —just wow,” she repeats, finally looking up at him.

“You keep sayin’ my name like that and we won’t be here to see the sunset.”

She blushes but rolls her eyes, throwing her head with a laugh. Jake decides that he’s going to make her laugh any chance he gets, because it is really music to his ears.

Once she’s settled in, he hands her a glass of wine then leans back against the side of the tool box with the pillows behind them. She mirrors his position, but she pulls her knees up and rests them against his thigh. When they’re both comfortable, and watching the sun lower against the horizon, Jake shifts closer. So does she. Neither of them are subtle by means, which Jake thinks is a blessing when he wraps his arm around her shoulders and she immediately rests her head on his.

“You don’t need to thank me,” he says and he knows he’s trying to keep himself from smiling like a fool. “Unless this is your way of admittin’ I’m not the worst date you’ve ever had.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s no heat behind it –just that smile that he’s been trying to get out of her all night. “No comment,” she counters, but she doesn’t look away from him.

Neither does he. The smile he’s trying to hold back breaks through, but he doesn’t hide it anymore as he leans in closer. “I’ll take that as a yes?”

She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t have to, because they both know the answer.

There’s a pause –not an awkward one, but full. Like they’re waiting for someone to make the first move. Like they’re challenging the other to do something. And he takes that challenge, leaning in. No rush, no cockiness. Just close enough to give her the chance to meet him there.

And she does.

God, she does.

“I need to breathe,” she whispers as he presses his lips to the corner of her mouth, trying to coax her back in, but she’s pushing him back just slightly against his chest.

“Breathin’ is overrated,” he jokes, but is almost embarrassed by how breathless he sounds as she presses her forehead against his.

“You’re a dork,” she teases back, laughing again as she does. “I can’t wait to tell your team that the infamous Hangman is actually a romantic.”

“As long as I get to keep kissin’ you, I don’t care what you tell them,” he promises, but he’s smiling down at her so hard that his cheeks definitely hurt a little. “None of them will believe you though.”

“We’ll see about that,” she warns, pulling back and looking up at him properly now. Her lips are kiss-swollen, and he wants to do it again.

“There’s an implication there,” he points out, pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re gonna meet my friends?”

“I’ve already met them,” she reminds him with a grin.

“Not as my girlfriend you haven’t.”

----

Taglist: @theladybiers

120 notes · View notes

ahrianee · 1 day ago

Text

Rena's first concept and how Rena ended up ⤴️

At first I only thought of her being an Eldar Astropath, and from the beginning I made her thinking of Roboute

I really like Greco-Roman aesthetics, so I would definitely like to make a design like that with loose fabrics.

Since I was just drawing about Elden Ring, I admit that Malenia had a lot to do with me giving she a prosthetic arm... And also the issue of using gold pieces as armor... Since I love and hate Malenia in equal measure...

Rena also has a design similar to an OC I created back in high school.

First time I tried to draw it and the most recent drawing I made of him ⤵️

Although many things have changed, I basically brought Roboute into my style as much as I could.

My crush on Roboute was quite curious, my partner was slowly introducing me to the universe of Wh40K, initially because I liked the design of the Adepta Sororitas

The first Primarch I met was Sanguinius and honestly I really liked the design and his story here the great but my partner began to explain to me in detail about Roboute

By the time I realized it I was already looking for everything about him, art, stories, books, anything that would give me some crumbs about him

And so far I can say that yes, I really like Roboute Guilliman, as a Primarch and as a person with so much weight on his shoulders and still trying to move forward.

I don't even know why I made this post, but I really wanted to talk about this, I admit that the more I discover about the Wh40K Lore the more I like it.

Even if my artstyle is different from what you expect from this fandom, I will still continue drawing!

💕✨

#ahri talking #vent post #?#wh40k #warhammer 40k #warhammer oc #rena caeruleun #roboute guilliman

44 notes · View notes

basedonconjecture · 2 days ago

Text

wip wednesday

thanks for the tags @flowersforthemachines, @mythals-whore, & @beachhotdog it did actually inspire me to get some words down today. peer pressure works, kids 😔✌️ in that spirit, I shall gently tag: @introvertedfangrl, @ofcrowsanddragons, @biowaredisasterbisexual, @thedissonantverses, @skullypettibone annnnd anyone else who hasn’t been tagged yet and wants to

I come offering more modern mafia au. I have no idea who a crime-and-courtroom drama is even for besides me but isn’t that the point of it all? Alas, alack, I do not know, but have Selora, Illario, and some minor media manipulation.

Even expecting it, she nearly jumped out of her skin when her phone vibrated against her leg, a message flashing across it.

Illario Dellamorte: Showtime 😜

Selora loosed a breath, feeling a twinge of annoyance at the message. Viago had given her the man’s number for emergencies. She thought she’d been doing the polite thing in letting him know. Instead, he’d used it to pester her—mostly questions about her job and her bosses—none of them relevant. While she’d amused herself giving him absurdly wrong answers, this text was a semi-important one. If he was going forward with the plan, he must not have heard anything from Viago, either. No news is good news, she told herself. Or, at least, it’s not bad news. Still, her body was tense as she quickly opened up the link he’d sent. It took her to a live feed streaming on a social media page—one dedicated purely to gossip, it seemed.

If the swarm of media around Lucanis had seemed like a feeding frenzy, the mob that followed his cousin outside the gates of his family’s villa was about a hundred times worse. A smaller crowd, by the looks of it, but much more audacious in the way they shoved cameras and microphones in the other Dellamorte’s face. Unlike his cousin, Illario kept his head bent as he moved along the lane outside what appeared to be his family’s villa, struggling against the crush of people, his suit jacket draped casually over an arm. His deep bronze skin somehow looked perfect even under such duress, the camera flashes setting his gold-tinted highlighter sparkling. Every so often, he raised his head to respond to a question or speak to the man at his side, tossing the waterfall of glossy raven hair out of his face like he was auditioning for a shampoo commercial.

Her lips pursed. He’s enjoying this too much.

She recognized the pair of sharp cheekbones and close-cropped platinum hair at his side as Felix Ovidius, a model from Tevinter who’d branched out into making music. Ovid, he’d styled himself. Selora didn’t pay much attention to what was popular, but she knew Felix had recently gained quite a bit of popularity on the indie scene. Personally, she’d found his particular brand of dark electronic pop (with lyrics nearly incoherent for their figurative nature) unappealing, but there was no accounting for taste. Especially when it seemed his physical attractiveness was the primary draw.

What she didn’t know was that he was apparently dating Illario Dellamorte. Though, to be fair, it seemed like a surprise to the media as well, who were currently hounding Illario about this recent development in his love life. It was astounding how easily they could flip between asking serious questions about Lucanis, and his release, to pestering the seemingly new couple for details on their romance with very little in between.

Parasites, she thought, lip curling as one managed to sidle right up to Illario.

Cornered, Illario’s expression was partially obscured by the large sunglasses resting on his face, but the smirk that appeared in every one of the photos she’d seen was plainly visible. “Please,” he held up his hands in surrender. “I’ve already answered so many of your questions today. There is nothing more I can tell you.”

There’d been a press conference scheduled for today. They’d planned for Illario to act as his family’s representative in hopes of tying up the Antivan news networks during the release, splitting the attention while they worked to get Lucanis out of sight of the press. That’s what she’d expected to find Illario doing when he’d texted her. Not whatever this was.

“You must have thoughts on your cousin’s release,” the woman refused to relent, raising her voice above the others. “You’ve never gone on record whether or not you believe in his innocence. In fact, it seems you’ve taken a bit of advantage acting like the only Dellamorte heir. Celebrating in advance, only to have that taken away by what seems to be a mistake in paper work…”

Selora’s brows rose, surprised at the audacity. While questions about Lucanis’ questionable innocence were unavoidable, they had not planned for speculation about Illario to come up. There’d been some speculation—gossip rags and tabloid fodder—but none of the big players had seemed interested much in Illario beyond whatever potential part he’d played in Vyranitum last summer. When he’d been let go after questioning, while Lucanis had been arrested, most people seemed to forget he’d been there at all. She watched the smirk drop from his face in real time, holding her breath as he pulled himself up to his full height.

“My thoughts?” Illario shifted his jacket from one arm to the other. She couldn’t say why, but something in the movement felt dangerous. “My thoughts are that my family has been through enough in the last year of this madness. My cousin most of all.”

He started to turn away, but the woman wouldn’t let him. Selora peered closer at the screen. The journalist, if that’s what she was, had her back to the camera so her face was obscured. Only dark hair secured by a peculiar serpentine hair stick, and the shoulders of what would have been a very practical trench were it not a striking teal color, could be seen from this angle.

“Was it your family you were thinking of in Ventus last month, then?” The woman asked, her voice harder than before. “Had a grand old time there, didn’t you? Rubbing elbows with Tevinter’s wealthiest…and striking up a romance, it would seem.” She paused a beat. “Did you know Titus Ovidius was a member of the Magisterium?”

Illario froze—and so did Selora from hundreds of miles away. Suddenly, where the journalist was leading was clear, but, like watching an explosion in slow motion, all she could do was sit with her horror while it all came burning down. Chance leaned in to peer at her phone, having overheard, and just in time for the kill shot.

“Did you pay your new boyfriend’s father to get your cousin off the hook for Ambrose Forfex’s murder?”

#i’m going to start calling this my emotional support modern au #wip wednesday #dragon age fanfic

28 notes · View notes

bottmless-pitt · 2 hours ago

Text

I'll be right there. 1/2

CONTENT WARNING: Mentions of suicide, talks of self-harm, Reader attempted suicide. Jack Abbot x F!reader, Neighbor!Reader, Medical inaccuracies, blood, car trauma, mentions of Abbot's time in the military, brief descriptions of bruising, blood, and stitches. Angst with an ambiguously happy ending. Summary: Jack Abbot's new neighbor ends up in his Trauma rooms for all the wrong reasons. Can he break through to her before it's too late? Author's Note: Some real self-indulgent angst. I highkey love a reader insert with a tragic backstory to lean into. This is part 1, I'll be posting part 2 later this week! Part 2 will definitely be more fluff and smut than this, so no hard feelings if you'd like to read it later. Let me know your thoughts. All the kindness from the other piece is keeping me upright. Enjoy the self-indulgent angst!!!

The lights were too bright. It was stale in the cavernous halls of the PMTC’s emergency department. The smell of blood and cleaning fluid never fully left your nose, and the sounds of someone’s lowest moments seemed to echo out eternally.

Jack loved the chaos that working in the Pitt brings him, it’s grounding. After spending better part of a decade on the front lines, returning to civilian life was more than monotonous, it was dehumanizing. Jack had understood himself well in the thick of the battlefield, he worked quickly without hesitation or fear. He had a carefully built self-image that hinged on his ability to be useful to someone in crisis.

After losing a portion of his leg, being honorably discharged, and sent back to retire he had lost the only structure he’d ever known. He couldn’t figure out how to be useful in the stillness, where no one was crying out for loved ones or God-like figures to save them. He was aimless without the chaos.

So, he loved The Pitt, and its never-ending line of incoming traumas. He appreciated his role in the machine that cogged overhead, happy to do his part and keep moving. Some days were harder than others, some cases left him feeling threadbare and worn thin, but the silence that greeted him when he walked home left him more haunted than anything he’d seen at work in the past few years.

So, all in all, Jack didn’t complain about the work the way the rest of his team did. He never minded the patients that would kick and scream at him, nor did he care much when there were far too many people packed into the waiting room. Yes, in a perfect world none of this would happen, but he enjoyed that it kept him moving forward. He needed the momentum desperately.

On an off night, however, he can’t seem to get the itch scratched. They had breezed through most of the day-shift’s leftover cases, discharged who they could, and moved onto the next. All of his cases were being monitored, the chairs had slowed down significantly, and it was approaching the Night-shift lull.

He was starting to get antsy, and after the third lap checking in on his team, he collapsed into a chair next to his Charge Nurse, Bridgit.

“Don’t get too comfortable soldier.” She looked down at him from the top rim of her reading glasses. Jack only smirked, she quirked an unimpressed eyebrow back at him.

“Oh, you know me,” He leaned back into the chair, putting the lumbar support to the test. “I’m not comfortable unless I’m elbow deep in traumas.” He passively spun his chair side to side, looking less like the Emergency Department Attending and more like a teenage boy stuck at the family barbeque.

“More like elbow deep in trauma, period.” She shoots back, tapping him with her clipboard the way a teacher would readjust a student. That was Bridgit, she was the one really running this place, and Jack had no issues submitting to her power when she pushed him around a little. She opened her mouth to say something, when the phone behind her lit up. It only took a few hushed words before turning back to him, “Look alive kid, we have incoming, ETA 3 minutes.”

Jack springs up, walking away as she finishes gathering the troops. He’s outside in a flash, prepped and sterile before the sirens could even be heard in the distance. Ellis not more than three steps behind him, already gloving up ready to take on whatever she needs. Jack tilted his head back and gave a calm thumbs up as they see the flashing lights come up and over the horizon.

When the ambulance pulls up and the gurney is wheeled out, he sees a young woman, bloodied, bruised, but semi-conscious. He begins his medical assessment and taking the reins from the EMTs. He doesn’t get a glimpse of her face before he begins spouting orders.

“Let’s get her set up in Trauma 1, I don’t like blood loss here, prep to intubate but let’s see if we can’t assess the head trauma before we sedate her.” He led as Ellis trailed along the other side, following his orders exactly. “Hi there, I’m Doctor Jack Abbot, I’m a doctor at the Pittsburg Trauma Medical Center, we’re going to take good care of you.” He heard a small groan as the patient slowly turned their head towards him.

He saw you then, he’s shocked he hadn’t recognized you sooner, on the gurney laid out before him. His sweet, albeit quiet, neighbor who had never given him any trouble. His breath caught in his throat as your eyes seemed to recognize him, before rolling back in your skull and everything went dark.

Pittsburg was a bitch in February. The weather was unrelenting, and frost bitten. No one wanted to be outside for more than five minutes, let alone lug box after box up the small stairwell into the dusty old apartment upstairs.

So, when Jack, who snagged a rare weekend off, noticed his new upstairs neighbor was moving in he had no excuse not to help. That’s just the kind of guy Jack was, he wasn’t going to let a new neighbor move in without at least offering. He was thankful you had sense enough to hire movers, rather than try and do it yourself the way the last tenants had. (He had the pleasure of trying to sleep through three college aged guys try to carry a sectional up the stairs two Septembers ago.)

He didn’t fancy himself too much help, but the next trip he saw you coming down he poked his head out.

“Oh!” you squeaked, nervous to catch one of your new neighbors off guard, “I’m so sorry I didn’t see you come out.” You clarified.

“it’s no worries.” Jack stepped out and extended a hand, “I’m Jack, I’m in 1B.” He pointed his thumb back at the door that was clearly labeled behind him. You only smiled shyly and let out a polite laugh offering your name in return.

“I’m 2B, so I guess I’m right above you.” You spoke softly. “Is the moving too much noise? I’m so sorry, it was the only time slot the movers had left.”

Jack shrugged, he hadn’t really thought about it, with his sleep schedule being as backwards as it was. This was early for him if he was being honest.

“Not for me, no. I’m night shift at the hospital down the road.” He noticed your fidgeting, trying to keep an eye on the movers without being too rude. You were young, far too young for him, but it didn’t stop him from admiring your face. He especially noticed the crease that developed between your eyebrows when you saw the movers drop a box boldly labeled fragile.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to keep you, just wanted to see if you needed any help.” He conceded. Your head shot back to look at him, wide eyed, and a flush creeped up your spine.

“No, I’m sorry, I’m so distracted. The move’s been pretty chaotic.” Your shoulder slump, letting the weight of the moment hang heavy before taking a deep breath and regaining composure. You shoot him a smile, but he notices how it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “But I think we’re ok! And I don’t want to steal your night away.” She brushes off the comment.

He doesn’t reasonably believe you, but hey, moving can be tough and he doesn’t want to keep you longer than necessary. So, he throws a friendly smile, catching your eyes with an open intensity. “No problem, but if you ever need anything I’m down here.” He watches his words land, and you pause a moment before nodding again.

“Thanks Jack, and uh- “you peak back through the open front door to watch the movers for a moment, “same here. If you ever need anything at all.”

And that was the first and last time he’d spoken to you, until now. Until you were wheeled into his trauma room, covered in blood, multiple broken ribs, and an unidentified head trauma.

Jack was a talented doctor, a master at compartmentalizing in high stress environments, and acting fast in situations going south. He was a steady hand in an earthquake, proving his actions time and time again, both in the field and out of it. He was a good doctor, but seeing you laid up before him had his throat dry in an instant.

He couldn’t reconcile the shy neighbor he met only a few months ago is the same girl bleeding out on his table, and the last thing she heard was him promising to take good care of him.

For a moment, half a moment maybe, as your eyes slide shut, he lets the chaos around him rumble away, it couldn’t touch his shock. He let the nurses bark SATs and Ellis call out questions.

For a brief moment he allowed himself to be Jack Abbot, 1B, who just wanted to make sure his new neighbor was safe. Jack Abbot, 1B, who would always take her mail dropped into his box by accident up to her door and ring the bell. Jack Abbot who wanted to get a second chance at a first meeting, because he’s sure that if he could just be slightly more charming, he’d have gotten a chance to carry a box up the stairs and into your new home. That he would have a chance to leave you better than he found it. The Jack Abbot that was selfish, wanting a woman who was younger than him, who’d only ever spoken to him the once, but had never left his mind.

It wasn’t until one of the nurses brushed past him with a bag of O-Neg that he snapped out of it.

“Fuck, we need to get her intubated-“He announced, reaching for the tube, and before he can allow himself to think any further about what could happen to you, his mind shuts and he becomes Dr. Abbot again.

The first thing you feel when you come to, is a dull ache in your left side. Everything hurts, actually, but your left side outranks the rest by far. Your eyes don’t open right away, too heavy to try lifting them. You let the sounds of the monitor to your right keep time, beep… beep… beep. It would be comforting if the sheets didn’t itch, and your feet weren’t so cold, or if there wasn’t the sounds of people dying outside the doorway to your room.

When you opened your eyes, you immediately regretted it, your head blooming in fresh pain from the intensity of the lights. Immediately shutting them closed and letting out a groan. The lights shining overhead had you spinning, sending waves of pain down your body. It was never supposed to end here.

If you told yourself a year ago you ended up in the emergency room tonight, she’d probably laugh in your face.

It all started with your fiancé, or ex-fiancé, who couldn’t seem to decide if they loved you or not. Or at least that’s what they told you last December while you were picking out wedding cake flavors. It wasn’t that they didn’t love you, per-se, the reality is they didn’t love you enough to stop fucking their coworker. So, wedding is called off, which you lament but move on.

It's not until he kicks you out come January, with nothing but enough cash to stay at a shitty motel for a few weeks that things start to weigh you down. The small attic apartment in a townhouse in the heart of Pittsburg is a refuge. It takes most of your paycheck every month, and you have barely enough furniture to call it livable. It’s completely yours, though, and that’s not something you’ve ever had.

So, you keep going through the motions. Then you get fired from your job. Budget cuts, layoffs, restructuring is uttered. You suspect it has more to do with the Senior Manager that’s sporting the engagement ring that was yours just a few months prior. That’s when the spiral really begins.

You reach out to whatever family you have left and are met with cold indifference. They’re not unsupportive, but you aren’t the only one with problems. Any attempts to reach out to old friends lost to time are met with similar tepid support.

The dismissal is enough to keep you firmly bottled up for years.

You’re not really sure what the final straw was but looking up at the steep steps of your apartment building, you can’t bring yourself up the steps. Not when you know the only thing waiting for you is a stuffy apartment devoid of all life. You contemplate, for a moment, knocking on the downstairs neighbor’s door, but decide against it. You’re not sure what kind of doctor he is, but he always looks so tired when you catch him coming up the sidewalk in the mornings.

But after a long shift at your new dead-end job, you just decide it’s not worth it anymore. You couldn’t spend another night thanking your lucky stars to be living a life you despise. For the first time in a long time, you feel nothing at all. No sadness, no pain, just intense clarity. You turn on your heel, walk out into the cold, and hardly flinch when you take a step out into the busy street. The last thing you remember is the bright light of the oncoming traffic consume you.

You were never meant to end up here. You never meant for any of this. You open your eyes again and reach out for the call button.

You were by no means a medical expert, but you thought the button was more for Nurses rather than doctors. You hadn’t expected for Jack to poke his head into your room, but of course he had. Of course, Jack was an ER doctor, and of course he was in your room. Lest we forget what sick karmic luck exists.

“Hey there sleepy head.” He was calm, but you could feel his eyes racking down you with medically trained precision. How mortifying for your neighbor to be your doctor after a night like this. You want to curl up and hide, he reaches out for your hand.

“How are you feeling?” he tilts his head down at you.

“Hurts.” You manage to choke out, throat sore and rough, like sandpaper. He presses his lips in a tight line and nods his head gently.

“Understandable, you were in a car accident.” He reached over, fiddling with the equipment. “I’m adjusting your meds. You should feel less pain here in a minute.” You resist the urge to let out a chuckle, the physical pain was hardly the main concern, and you had a feeling by the unwavering gaze jack was giving you- he already knew that.

“Thank you.”

“No need to thank me.” He takes a seat on your bedside. “I spoke with some of the officers on the scene,” He fiddled with the thin paper sheet below you. “And they’re pretty concerned about you, kid.” He dropped his hand on top of yours, and you felt your whole body react.

His eyes boring holes into your skull as you try to squirm out from under his gaze. The pain meds slowly trickling in your system do little to help as you try to adjust. You cry out in pain when your skin, bruised and swollen, is stretched to its limit along your side.

“Easy there, you’ve got stitches.” Jack, Dr. Abbot, has his arms around you in an instant. He helps you turn until you’re lying on your side, and you allow yourself the comfort of curling up in protest.

“That better?” He asks, and you only nod. “Good.”

Jack makes no motion to move, he just sits with you, watches you like you’ll disappear any second. He opened his mouth a few times but ultimately spent the next few moments watching you.

It was a shameful feeling, to know your low got that low and now you’re sitting with your neighbor who probably thinks you’re totally insane for walking into oncoming traffic. He was some hotshot ER doctor. You were just some random person who’d come swan diving into his life headfirst and knocked themselves out on the bottom of the pool.

You couldn’t bear the agony of waking up without meaning again, and you don’t understand why this man, who owed you nothing, was sitting here with you. Your body begged you to say something, do something, anything, but your mind was numb.

You burrowed deeper into your own hands, and it wasn’t until you felt Dr. Abbot’s own hands petting your hair, that you realized you were crying. You felt your whole body sink into the thin mattress below you, like a faulty tire finally siphoning the last bit of air. Your body shook and your muscles ache around the constricted breaths.

“I know, let it out.” He encouraged, scooting closer to you.

“I can’t do it anymore. I don’t want to do this anymore.” You finally admit. In a strange way it feels better saying it to someone other than your own reflection. You can’t look at him, you don’t want to see the look in his eyes when he thinks it. You’re completely insane.

You don’t know how long he sits with you, letting your body heave its sobs. He stays, ignoring other patients, to sit with you. One hand on your head the other fiddles with the chain around his neck.

“I lost a leg, in Afghanistan in 2009,” His voice is calm, almost matter of fact, but waivers off like he’s reliving it. “And I thought that would be the hardest thing I ever had to experience.” He moved his hands away from you.

“I moved back home, thought about retiring, thought about working at a college as a professor. I liked teaching enough. I thought, the worst is behind me, just gotta move on.” He clears his throat, and you peak through to look up at him, lost in his own story. “I had a wife, I was going to settle down and figure out how to be there for her, but it wasn’t that simple. I had lost myself completely over there.

“I was a soldier my whole life, I trained to be a soldier first, medic second. I don’t think I remembered what civilian life really was. We used to sit around at base camp, talking about what we’d do when we got home, but once I was there it meant nothing to me anymore.” You took a shuddering breath, and he looked down at you, “I came back, and I had some really dark nights. I couldn’t move, I had no purpose, I was a soldier first, medic second, person third. I couldn’t be a soldier, I wasn’t cleared to be a medic, and I had no idea how to be a person anymore.

“There more than a few nights where I begged for everything to stop. I prayed for there to be an end to that feeling. So, I get it. Hey, I really do, but this is not the way out you think it is kid.” He put his hand on yours, and you felt his fingers curl around yours tightly, like he was holding onto something that was just on the brink of slipping him by.

“I don’t have anything,” You admit to yourself, “It’s not just things, I don’t have a life, I don’t have anything.”

He lets out a shaky breath, “You have me.” He tilts his head again trying to catch your reaction. Your breath gets caught in your throat, and distantly you hear the heartrate monitor increase. He only chuckles and reaches past you to turn the monitor off. “I mean it, I’m here, I’m not going anywhere.”

“You don’t know me at all.” You sound like a petulant child, but he lets you get away with it.

“But I want to.”

And when Jack puts it that way it’s so simple. He makes life sound easy to rebuild, and you want to yell and scream that it isn’t that simple. You want to shake him until he understands the wreckage he’s standing on top of isn’t just a broken-down building, it’s a radioactive wasteland.

“Here’s what I want to do, and you tell me if this is alright.” He stands, crossing his arms, then looking down at you. “I’m going to have a doctor come talk to you, and he’s going to set you up with a therapy program that’ll be a good fit for you. Might even get you on some medicine if they feel like it’s the right fit. I’m also going to give you my phone number, and I’m going to check on you before I leave for work and when I get home for a few weeks. I’m going to give you the number for my charge nurse as well, in case you can’t reach me.” He runs a hand down his face, and you can see the exhaustion pulling him down. You don’t offer an argument.

“I know it’s scary.” He admits to you, “To choose to get better, but you can, and I’ll be right here, alright?” He nods, and you nod with him.

“Okay,” you concede, exhausted form your own emotions.

“It’s rude,” He pats your shoulder, “to end up in a trauma on your friend’s shift you know.”

“Are we friends, Dr. Abbot?” You question.

“We are now.”

#bottomless-pitt #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x you #dr jack abbot #angst #sh trigger #tw sui ideation #the pitt hbo #jack abbot fic #jack abbot would probably be able to fix me faster than i could fix him so this is that #part 1 of 2 #self indulgent

24 notes · View notes

honeyhour · 1 day ago

Text

“oh please, i don’t think you’ll ever get bored of that. i’m surprised you don’t use me as an armrest half the time.” eyes roll at the idea that honestly doesn’t sound too far out of the realm of possibility before she responds to his question with a simple shrug. he already knows the answer anyway. “yeah, i think a couple more might be nice. i’m not sure if you’ve met me, but i can be pretty competitive. i’m not entirely satisfied yet.” how could she consider stopping before accomplishing the biggest goals that she’s been set on for so long now? she’s got to keep working towards them while her body is still in its prime. there will be time to rest later. “fun stories? uh…” moving forward to join him, este tries casting her mind back to the day she won each trophy and struggles to find many anecdotes that could be specifically described that way. “i don’t know, i’ve probably had more mishaps than anything else. with this, part of my dress tore like, maybe thirty seconds before my name was called.” a hand gestures towards one from when she was around eighteen resting on the lower shelf. “i thought i was gonna throw up. my coach had to try putting it back together with a few safety pins and i spent the whole routine convinced they would fall out and i’d accidentally flash the whole audience. i'm pretty sure that’s frowned upon.”

"you didn't even look! but fine..." of course he doesn't keep her hoisted up off the ground for very long but she should really think twice about always taking his words to heart. he's just as likely to say something in jest as he is to reminding her of their height difference so it's in her best interest to never trust him. "i should start spacing stuff like that out... the novelty of being taller than you is just going to wear out quickly otherwise," if it hasn't already. "just remember — you're not just anyone's baby. i think all of that looks great. sheesh, look how many you've already won... and you really think you need more than this?" if she shared even a fraction of jesper's competitive spirit and drive to excel in her field (which she obviously does and likely eclipses him at this point), nothing but that final trophy at the end will satisfy. he takes a few steps forward so the engravings come into focus and, one by one, jesper finds the time to internalize each to the best of his abilities. did her parents ever attend any of these competitions? her sister? where did the timeline begin to fray? how did that change her professionally? "do you... have fun stories about any of these?"

#script / este lastra.#threads / este & jesper.#inkshadow

77 notes · View notes

idunnomannn · 2 days ago

Text

Brother's at Odds

- In which Tim confronts Dick about his past actions. It goes about as well as you'd think.

Yet another rough draft fic that I never finished and left to rot in my docs. Enjoy.

══════════════════════

Somewhere between Dick's attempts to reassure Tim and Tim's clear declaration that he wanted nothing to do with him outside of their vigilante duties, the audacity of the older man infuriated him. How could Dick act as if the last time Tim up and left was somehow not his fault?

“Tim, come on,” Dick urged, his voice a mix of desperation and frustration, but Tim turned away, determined to walk off and leave the conversation behind him. He felt the tension coiling tighter in his chest with every step he took. Just as he thought he could escape, Dick's words cut through the air, landing with a heavy thud.

“Don’t do this, don’t walk out on us again; we're a team. Let me help—”

Tim snapped, spinning around to face him, fury igniting his expression. “Help?” he scoffs. “Is that what you're calling it now?” The hurt reflected in Dick's expression is lost on Tim even as he continues his verbal lashing. “You think you can ‘swoop in’ like nothing ever happened? That you can play your role as ‘big brother’ whenever it's convenient for you?” The raw emotion in his voice echoed in the space between them as even now, Tim is still trying to make sense of his brother's thought process and the weight of Dick's misplaced intentions until eventually he realizes that not even that matters now. Nothing will save what's left of this broken family.

The anger boiling inside him threatened to overflow, fueled by mixed memories of betrayal and disappointments of a time long since past. He lashed out, his voice trembling bitterly as he confronted the man he had once seen as an older brother.

Not anymore.

Dick had ruined that prospect many times over, and stupidly Tim forgave him each time because that's what family is supposed to do, right?

Wrong.

He'd stupidly let him in and allowed himself to get hurt the moment he'd been shoved to the side like a stranger—a mere passerby on the street rather than someone of any significance to anyone else.

The bridge between them wasn’t just broken; it was a smoldering wreck, engulfed in flames, its remnants reduced to ash and char.

“You turned your back on me, not the other way around!” He shouted, his voice echoing heavily in the silence, one hand pressed flat against his chest to emphasize his being in this world, lest the other be so quick to forget. “If you're so hellbent on getting my attention, well, now you’ve got it. So what is it? What else could you possibly want from me?” Incredulity is the only thing fueling him at this point, with Tim continuing to gode Dick for some kind of response, a chance to finally speak his mind.

“Go on. I'm listening.” Tim waits now, leaning forward and clasping his hands with his elbows pressed against a work desk. He actually pauses too, and when Dick does nothing but gape at him like a fish out of water, Tim is laying into him once again, signature Janet Drake scowl etched into his features like it's just an everyday expression. “Oh, don't clam up now; you seemed so eager to talk, so let's talk.”

Again, he was met with silence, but this time it felt suffocating—so thick that even the bats in the cave dared not to chirp. Tim let out a laugh, a sharp, hollow sound that echoed off the stone walls. ‘Really,’ he thought, ‘isn’t this just so funny?’

But the laughter dropped away almost immediately, replaced by a bitter chill that settled in his chest. Pushing himself off the desk, he moved closer to Dick, determination fueling his steps. “Here’s what I think,” he said, leaning in just enough to ensure the older man could hear him clearly, the tension between them palpable. “I think you’re a hypocrite.”

He watched Dick’s expression shift slightly, but he pressed on. “I think that despite your constant preaching about how we all need to get along and be this big happy family that you seem to want so badly—for all of that? You don’t actually care.” Tim’s words hang in the air, a simple shrug, but they don't cease. “Why would you?”

“You’re selfish, Dick.”

The words were laden with accusation as Tim’s voice fluctuated throughout the cave. “All you do is take and take, and when there’s even the slightest pushback, you fall into this state of tunnel vision. You don’t consider anyone else’s feelings; you just do what you think is right, even when it’s bound to hurt someone else. At least you get your way, right?”

His tone dripped with scorn, the words spilling out like a torrent of pent-up resentment while giving Dick no room for denial. The air crackled with tension as he stood there, waiting for Dick’s response. When all he received was a put-off gaze, Tim pressed onward. It was his turn to speak now, and by God was he going to use it.

“I needed you, you know? I needed you, and you weren't there.”

“Tim,” comes his brother's attempt at protest, only for the younger to cut him off with a scowl.

“I came to you for help…and you know what I got in return? You tossing me aside after threatening to send me away to the loony bin. So tell me, where did that care for my well-being start exactly?” Each reflection on his past actions felt like a dagger aimed straight at the heart for Dick. A gnawing feeling that there would be no coming back from this. Not this time.

“Where the hell was your care when you looked me dead in the eyes and told me he—” Tim’s finger jabbed toward his supposed little brother, Damian, who stood a few feet back, deliberately avoiding eye contact and maybe even the entirety of the confrontation since it had all come to a head long after coming back from a late patrol.

“Needed you more because he was just a kid hurting for guidance? I’m seventeen, Dick, seventeen! The only guidance I had was a mentor I dragged back from the so-called dead, but you brushed that off like it was so unimportant. Like you couldn't care less.”

His voice crescendoed, his face screwed up with the effort of his outburst, echoing in the cave’s oppressive silence. “I’m just a kid too!” The weight of his words hang heavy in the air, demanding recognition and understanding.

“I am—!” he yelled again, his voice cracking now due to all the mounting distress he'd only let himself feel until now. “So where’s your excuse now? After everything, you want to sit here and bullshit your way back into my life like you didn’t do a goddamn thing? Like you're entitled to my time?”

Tim scoffed, incredulous. It was astonishing how Dick had managed to stay silent long enough for him to vent his frustrations. When Tim turned his gaze to his brother, he was met with a look of saddened resignation. But that remorse felt empty; there was no real action or effort to back it up. The sight only ignited Tim’s irritation with his older brother further, but instead of lashing out again, his fury seemed to deflate, leaving behind a hollow ache.

His expression shifted to something so lifeless that it was almost haunting. Gone was the fire of his anger, replaced by a profound exhaustion that seeped into his bones. He felt utterly spent, as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders.

“I’m so tired I can’t even look at you,” he said even as exhaustion pulled like shackles and chains, weighing him down as obvious as the droop in his shoulders. “Just… stay away from me. You weren't worried those three months I was missing—don’t start trying to concern yourself now after everything is already over.” It's the kind of finality that offers no room for protest, and Dick makes no attempt to even as he observes how his little brother just walks away from him to sit at the bat computer without another word.

══════════════════════

#tim drake #batfam #dick grayson #batfam fanfic #tim drake angst #dick grayson angst #im sad so you have to be sad too #damian wayne #not a ship

28 notes · View notes

clementineinn · 9 hours ago

Text

band on the run

abstract: a long drive to nashville, a playlist full of old favorites, five agents in one SUV, but somewhere between the music and the miles, something soft begins to shift between two people—hands brushing, glances held too long, a slow-burn affection neither of them can quite hide anymore.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (usage of Y/N)

genre: fluff!

note: just been writing like crazy lately because i’ve had so many ideas and i feel like i have to get them all out before they disappear — hence why i’m posting so much right now. thank you for reading, as always. enjoy!

Morning lay quiet over the Quantico parking lot, a breath caught between night and day. The sky hung low and uncertain, clouds stretched thin across a muted canvas of gray-blue. The air was cool, heavy with the hush of hours too early for conversation, too soft for anything hurried. Dew clung to the glass of parked cars, silvering the windshields, blurring the shapes beneath.

The black SUV sat waiting beneath it all, engine humming faintly in the stillness—windows glazed with the faint shimmer of dawn, the interior dim and untouched, as if the day itself hadn’t quite begun. The kind of morning where time seemed to move slower, as if the world was holding its breath for something yet to come.

Y/N approached first, travel mug in hand, her steps unhurried but assured. She wore a fitted black long-sleeve top that transitioned neatly into a pair of mid-rise bootcut jeans that hugged just right through the hips before flaring out at the ankle—faded denim with the kind of shape that made even a quiet morning look a little cinematic. Her hair was down, long and loose and just the slightest bit windswept, like she’d let it air-dry on the drive over. Just that low, effortless kind of pretty that always caught Spencer off guard.

She looked like she hadn’t slept much. None of them had.

Behind her, the quiet shuffle of boots on damp concrete signaled the others trickling in—low conversation floating on the cool air, the unspoken rhythm of teammates too used to early starts to complain. Morgan yawned loud enough to wake the birds, stretching his arms behind his head like he’d just rolled out of someone else’s dream. JJ trailed behind with her overnight bag slung casually over one shoulder, blonde hair tucked into the collar of her coat, eyes already scanning the sky like she could read the forecast. Emily walked beside her, clutching a folded file packet to her chest with both arms, as if the weight of it grounded her. She looked awake in that sharp, deliberate way she always did. Focus already coiled beneath her skin.

And Spencer was already there.

Leaning against the passenger door, half-silhouetted by the muted orange glow of the overhead light, curls slightly tousled from sleep. His scarf was a little uneven, like it had been pulled on in the dark, and the worn spine of a leather-bound book sat open in one hand—his thumb holding the place, even if he hadn’t turned the page in a while.

He looked up when he heard her footsteps.

“You’re early,” he said, voice soft and rough at the edges—like gravel smoothed under water.

She didn’t answer right away. Just stepped forward and handed him a coffee—still warm, cream already stirred in, three packets of sugar, just the way he always liked it. There was even a little “S” scribbled in black marker near the lid, the curve of the letter slightly smudged where her thumb had pressed.

She raised her eyebrows. “So are you.”

Spencer blinked down at the cup, then at her, caught somewhere between touched and mildly stunned. He didn’t smile exactly—not yet—but the corners of his mouth twitched like the thought was there, hovering just out of reach. He looked away first.

Then, without ceremony, Y/N twirled the keys once around her finger like she’d been waiting for the moment all morning. “I’m driving.”

Morgan froze mid-step, expression flat with disbelief. “You’re what?”

“She’s what?” Emily echoed, pulling her coat tighter as she caught up.

Y/N popped the driver’s door open with an easy grin. “I asked Garcia for the keys last night. Told her I didn’t want to die somewhere off I-40 in a fiery testosterone-fueled blaze.”

“That’s cold,” Morgan muttered.

JJ, stifling a laugh behind her coffee lid, chimed in gently, “She’s not wrong.”

“She’s absolutely not wrong,” Emily agreed, swinging her bag into the backseat.

Morgan scoffed, sliding in after them. “I’m an excellent driver.”

“You once reversed into a snowbank outside a diner in Wisconsin,” Spencer said, matter-of-fact, as he stepped toward the passenger door.

“That was a strategic maneuver,” Morgan said defensively. “Snow traction. Tire positioning. Physics.”

Spencer sighed, the soft kind of exhale that meant he’d already done the mental math and found everyone else ridiculous. “Statistically, flying is still safer.”

“Statistically,” Y/N said, shooting him a look as he climbed in beside her, “you say that every time we get in a car.”

“And yet,” he murmured, book now resting against his thigh, “you still drive like you’re trying to disprove it in real time.”

She reached for the console, fingers brushing lightly past his as she adjusted the temperature dial—just the faintest touch, skin to skin, gone almost before it happened. Neither of them acknowledged it. Not directly.

But he looked over at her as the engine came to life beneath them—soft hum, dashboard lights flickering on—and for a moment, it felt like something had already started.

“You’re navigating,” she said. “And no detours to see any Civil War battlegrounds, I’m serious.”

He smiled faintly and opened his book—not to read, but to hide the way her voice always managed to undo him just a little.

Outside, the sun began to edge over the horizon. The others chattered behind them, Morgan already giving Emily grief over her music taste, JJ passing around a pack of gum like a peace offering.

But for a moment, it was just them. Two people in the front seat, the road unwinding ahead.

And something between them neither of them had spoken aloud.

The highway stretched open in front of them—two slow lanes, a scattering of tractor-trailers, and nothing but miles of low fields and rising sun. Y/N had the windows cracked just enough for the breeze to sneak in, tugging at the ends of her hair and the cuff of her sleeve. She tapped the steering wheel once, then reached for her phone.

“Alright,” she said, glancing at Spencer. “We’re doing this properly.”

He didn’t look up from his book. “Doing what properly?”

“The music,” she said, unlocking her phone with one hand. “You’re not allowed to spend five hours in a car with your coworkers and not listen to the greats.”

In the back seat, Morgan leaned forward between them. “Did she just say the greats like we’re in a record store in 1978?”

Emily kicked the back of his seat lightly. “Be grateful she didn’t say ‘the canon.’”

Y/N ignored them, though the faint curve at the corner of her mouth betrayed her amusement. Her thumb moved easily over the screen, queuing up the playlist. “Hits Only, curated by me, tested by JJ, and argued about for an entire flight to Portland once.”

“I remember that,” JJ said from the far side. “Emily almost threw your phone out the window when you played Cher three times in a row.”

“Justice for Believe,” Y/N muttered.

Morgan snorted. “What are we starting with? Marvin Gaye? Queen? Prince?”

“Actually,” Y/N said, glancing at Spencer with a mischievous little smile, “I thought we’d open with something digestible. Something he can’t dismiss as ‘structurally repetitive.’”

Y/N reached for the auxiliary cord tangled in the console. With a practiced flick of her wrist, she slid her phone into the cradle, thumb moving through a familiar list of playlists. The opening chords of Stevie Wonder’s “Signed, Sealed, Delivered” burst through the speakers.

The first bright burst of sound filled the car, warm and full, notes spilling easily through the quiet like sunlight through glass.

Spencer startled, just slightly—a small jump in his seat, the book slipping from his hands to rest, forgotten, in his lap. He blinked, eyes flicking toward the stereo, brow drawing faintly.

“You’re going to play music this loud the entire drive?” he asked, voice still rough with sleep, a thread of disbelief woven beneath it.

Y/N only smiled, slow and unbothered, and with a casual twist of her fingers, nudged the volume up another notch—not enough to overwhelm, just enough to make her point. “Only the good stuff,” she said softly.

From the backseat, Morgan launched into song without shame, voice rich and theatrical as he sang along to the chorus. Emily joined in half a beat too late, purposely off-key, grinning behind her cup of coffee. JJ, still curled by the window, hummed the harmony beneath them, voice low and sweet.

And Spencer?

He folded his arms and turned toward the window, jaw set with practiced neutrality—like the very idea of rhythm had somehow slighted him on a personal level.

But the music carried on—steady, insistent, warm.

And after a few more measures, when the bridge came slipping in, his fingers—just two, quiet and deliberate—began to tap against the doorframe. Barely there. But there all the same.

And Y/N, eyes still on the road, caught the motion at the edge of her gaze.

She noticed. Of course she did.

The next track slipped in without pause, warm vocals spinning into a steady groove. In the back, JJ perked up, already leaning over to scroll through her own iPod.

“All right,” she said, voice light with mischief. “We’re adding Whitney. It’s not a road trip without Whitney.”

Morgan grinned. “Now you’re talking.”

Emily kicked the back of his seat lightly. “And Bowie. Don’t even start. We’re not making it to Tennessee without Heroes.”

“Prince,” Morgan countered, one hand already reaching for the spare aux cord. “I’m calling it now.”

Y/N laughed softly, a low, genuine sound that slipped easily into the hum of conversation. “You guys are ridiculous,” she said, shaking her head. “Good thing you’ve got me behind the wheel to keep this circus on the road.”

Spencer watched the exchange, arms still folded, fingers now idly tracing the fabric of his sleeve. The corner of his mouth twitched—just faintly, as if he couldn’t quite help himself.

“Should I be concerned that we haven’t defined any criteria for what qualifies as ‘the hits’?” he asked, voice light but edged with curiosity.

“That’s the beauty of it,” Y/N replied, eyes on the road. “Pure chaos. Group consensus. You’re just going to have to trust us.”

Morgan leaned forward again, arm draped across the seat. “You hear that, pretty boy? You trusting us yet?”

Spencer lifted a brow. “You’re asking me to place my auditory experience in the hands of a group that once argued for twenty minutes over whether ABBA was foundational.”

Emily, dry as ever: “Because it is.”

“Because it is,” JJ echoed, with a grin.

Y/N just shook her head, lips curving softly. “Don’t worry,” she said, glancing sidelong at him, voice pitched low so it barely rose above the music. “I’ll protect you from any egregious offenses.”

And there it was again—that flicker of warmth beneath her words. The quiet way she made space for him without making it obvious. The same way she’d handed him that coffee. The same way her fingers had brushed against his on more than one long flight or late night at the office.

Next up was Whitney Houston, followed by Bowie, then A Tribe Called Quest, The Supremes, and—just to keep things dynamic—Radiohead’s “Weird Fishes”, which JJ swore counted as a “modern classic.”

“You’re just making up categories now,” Spencer said as the track played.

“You’re just mad you’re enjoying it,” Y/N replied, smiling without looking at him.

And for a long moment, there was no arguing. Just the road humming beneath them, the music filling every corner of the SUV, and the faintest smile tugging at Spencer Reid’s mouth.

The sky had deepened to a soft pewter by the time they pulled off the highway—clouds thickening again, the light settling into that low gray that made colors look richer somehow, more lived-in. The road curved past a long stretch of empty fields before giving way to a gravel lot, half-swallowed by creeping weeds.

And there, at the edge of it all, stood the diner.

A squat little building washed in faded teal, its roofline sagging slightly at the corners, the windows fogged with years of grease and condensation. A battered neon sign buzzed weakly above the door, one letter flickering in a tired staccato rhythm—EAT. No more, no less. The kind of place that had once seen better days, but never minded the fact.

Inside, the air was thick with the smell of coffee and frying butter, a faint undercurrent of burnt toast and something sweeter—maple syrup maybe, or old pie warming on a back counter. A jukebox sat dusty in the corner, its chrome edges dulled by fingerprints and time. The glass cover blinked erratically, caught somewhere between two tracks that would never play again.

The booths were cracked vinyl, deep red faded into a kind of bruised rose, the padding inside flattened and torn in places. Tabletops gleamed dully beneath their laminate, the surface worn smooth by countless elbows and coffee cups. An old ceiling fan turned lazily overhead, stirring the air in uneven waves.

A place that had existed long before them. The kind of place that would be there long after.

They slid into a booth by the window, the table still damp from a hurried wipe-down. Morgan first, sprawling out like he’d been here a hundred times, his back against the wall. JJ beside him, tucking her bag onto the seat and smoothing the sleeve of her sweater absently. Emily across from them, folding herself into the corner, long fingers curling around a chipped mug of coffee before the waitress had even taken their order.

And Spencer—

He hesitated for a breath longer than the others, then moved to the empty space beside Y/N, the faintest tug of some unspoken gravity pulling him there. She didn’t glance at him as he sat, but the smallest shift of her knee beneath the table brushed softly against his. No accident.

Above them, the buzz of a fluorescent light hummed low and steady, like a background note too familiar to notice.

Menus slid into their hands—laminated, smudged, corners curling at the edges. House Specials scrawled in faded marker over half the listings. Everything came with a side of hash browns. Everything seemed designed to be ordered without thinking too hard.

They hadn’t spoken much since getting out of the car. The long stretch of road had left them loose-limbed and a little quieter, words settling beneath the surface, easy in the way that only came after years of traveling together.

Morgan broke the silence first, tossing his menu down with a satisfied nod. “Okay, so real question—who actually changed music forever?”

Emily didn’t miss a beat. “Prince.”

“Wrong,” JJ said lightly, eyes flicking over the list of teas. “It’s Aretha. And it’s not even close.”

Spencer, who had been absently tracing the edge of his water glass with one long finger, spoke without looking up. “If you’re asking who statistically altered the trajectory of modern composition, both in terms of influence and cultural pervasiveness, the answer is The Beatles. Specifically their work post-1966.”

Morgan groaned, dropping his head back against the seat. “Oh man. You really can’t help yourself, can you?”

Y/N bit back a smile. “Define ‘altering the direction,’ genius.”

Spencer didn’t miss a beat. “Use of nonstandard instrumentation, complex harmonic structures, studio effects, genre fusion, and lyrical evolution. Their transition from formulaic pop to conceptual—”

“You just don’t like dancing,” Morgan cut in.

“I like dancing,” Spencer said defensively.

“You do not,” JJ and Emily said in unison.

Y/N laughed, soft and easy, her palm sliding up to rest beneath her chin. “He’s right. But also—he’s never going to admit that sometimes fun is the point.”

Spencer finally glanced at her then, something dry and faintly amused in his eyes. “Fun is… subjective.”

Emily raised an eyebrow. “You sound like a sociology paper.”

JJ, grinning, leaned across the table. “Come on, Spence. Admit it—you liked something on that playlist.”

He hesitated, fingers still at the rim of the glass, shoulders pulling slightly inward, as if considering the risk of agreement.

Y/N leaned in, close enough that the space between them narrowed, her voice a soft murmur. “Too smart not to enjoy it. You can’t fool me.”

And there—just the faintest shift in his expression. Not quite a smile. But something close.

Spencer flushed, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I’m not judging anything.”

“You’re literally doing it right now,” Morgan said, pointing at him.

“I’m not judging,” Spencer repeated. “I’m just saying—statistically speaking—most pop music from the last three decades has been built on recursive chord progressions that—”

“Oh my god, let the man eat his toast,” Emily groaned.

The waitress appeared then, pen poised above her pad, looking only mildly interested in the debate at hand. “What can I get you folks?”

Menus folded closed. Orders went around the table in easy rhythm—coffee, eggs, extra toast. No one bothered with anything complicated.

When it was done and the waitress moved off again, conversation drifted. A little lighter. A little warmer. The way it always seemed to when she looked at him like that.

And under the low thrum of the old ceiling fan, Spencer let himself lean back into the booth—closer, just barely, to her shoulder beside him.

He picked up his coffee. Took a sip. Then, without looking at her, said quietly, “I don’t dislike all of it.”

Y/N blinked, caught off-guard. “What?”

“The music,” he said. “Some of it’s… better than I expected.”

She tilted her head, watching him carefully. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me all day.”

He shrugged. “I liked that Lauryn Hill track you played.”

Y/N softened. “You’re welcome.”

She didn’t say anything else. Just bumped her knee against his again. And this time, he didn’t pull away.

The sun had begun its slow descent, casting the world in honey.

They were somewhere between nowhere and Nashville, coasting along a two-lane highway that cut through stretches of quiet farmland and faded barns. The trees along the roadside blurred in and out of focus, tall shadows stretching long across the fields. Every few miles, the world dipped into silence—the radio static filling in the spaces between cell towers and signal loss.

The breeze was warm now—sticky with the kind of early spring air that clung to your skin. A cicada buzzed somewhere in the trees. Emily had nodded off with her sunglasses still on. JJ was half-asleep beside her, one hand curled around a crumpled receipt. Morgan had his earbuds in, iPod balanced on his knee, thumb sliding over the worn click wheel, pretending not to be singing quietly under his breath.

But Y/N didn’t seem to mind. She just drove.

One hand on the wheel, her posture easy, relaxed in a way that rarely surfaced when they were working. The wind threaded its way through the open windows and into her hair, lifting it in soft, tangled ribbons that caught the light like silk. The air smelled like warm grass and pavement and something sweeter—maybe whatever perfume clung faintly to the collar of her shirt.

Spencer sat beside her, turned just slightly in his seat, one knee bent up, elbow resting on the windowsill. His book sat forgotten on his lap, fingers curled loosely around the cover. He hadn’t read a single page in over an hour. The music playing was soft, low—a steady rhythm that didn’t ask for attention but settled into the space between words. Something mid-tempo and wistful. Maybe Sade. Maybe something older. It didn’t matter.

What mattered was this: Y/N’s hand on the steering wheel. The wind playing with her hair. The light catching on the curve of her cheek.

Spencer looked at her like he was trying to memorize it all.

There was something about her in this light—in this hour—that made him ache in ways he hadn’t figured out how to name. The way her lashes brushed against her cheek when she blinked. The curve of her mouth, calm in concentration. The way her knuckles flexed just slightly on the wheel, how her shoulders moved when she shifted lanes, the way she hummed under her breath without realizing she was doing it.

It was unbearable, the softness of it all.

Their hands rested close on the center console—close enough that Spencer could feel the warmth of her, steady and quiet like a heartbeat just beneath the surface. He wasn’t looking at her. Not directly. He didn’t need to. He felt her in every inch of space between them.

Then—

He noticed the way her fingers shifted. Just slightly.

She tapped her thumb once against the console, like she was thinking something over. Then, slowly, deliberately, she turned her hand palm-up beside his.

An offering. An unspoken question.

For a second, he didn’t move. Couldn’t. His heart pounded against his ribs, sudden and disorienting. His hand hovered above hers, fingers tense with the weight of the moment. And then—gently, reverently—he lowered it into hers.

Their palms touched. Her fingers curled. And he let himself hold on.

It wasn’t dramatic. No grand reveal. No sudden gasp or confession.

Just the simple, sacred truth of her hand in his. Her thumb brushed the side of his, soft and steady like she meant it.

And he—he turned his head back toward the window, chest tight with something he refused to examine.

Outside, the road stretched on beneath a sky blooming with color—sunlight pouring through the windows like something divine. Fields blurred past in soft golds and greens. A song played low on the radio, all rhythm and memory and longing.

Oh, how he wished he could press pause.

On the song. On the road. On the way she felt next to him.

He didn’t know the words for this. But he thought maybe it was love.

By the time the Nashville skyline began to rise in the distance—low-slung and luminous, a river of gold humming beneath the soft velvet haze of city lights—Spencer still hadn’t let go and neither had she. Their hands rested together on the console, fingers loosely twined, palm to palm in a hush of warmth that neither had spoken aloud but both had folded themselves into. A small, steady tether between them. A quiet defiance against the pull of the road, the hum of the world beyond the glass.

The music had faded to a slow undercurrent now—soft notes blooming and falling in the hush of the cabin, the playlist running long and low, almost forgotten. Neither of them reached to change it. They didn’t need to. There was no room for anything louder than this.

The breeze slipping in through the cracked window had cooled with the night—damp with the scent of rain on sun-warmed pavement, sweetened faintly with something green and living from the trees that lined the highway. It touched their skin with a softness that felt almost deliberate, almost human, like invisible fingers brushing past. The sky outside unfurled slow and syrup-thick in the deepening dark, clouds low and brushed in violet, stars held just out of sight. Far ahead, the city lights pooled across the horizon, blurred and shimmering like reflections in water, beckoning them closer.

Y/N eased the SUV into the hotel lot, tires gliding smooth across the slick, dark pavement. The headlights cut long, liquid streaks through the shallow puddles, painting ribbons of gold and silver that shimmered beneath the weight of the night. Overhead, the clouds hung low—brushed in deep gray, soft-edged, the sky still thick with the breath of rain not yet fallen.

The engine clicked softly as it settled into park, the hum of the drive dissolving into a deeper quiet. The dashboard lights faded one by one, casting them back into the hush of the cabin, broken only by the faint, distant echo of a passing car and the low thrum of the city beyond.

In the backseat, JJ stirred with a slow, catlike stretch, sweater sleeves pushed to her elbows, her voice still caught in the rasp of sleep. “Mmm… tell me there’s a real bed in there somewhere.”

Emily blinked hard against the weight in her eyes, the heels of her hands pressed to her temples. “Only if the hotel gods are kind,” she murmured.

Morgan yawned, deep and unbothered, already pushing his door open with one foot. “Forget the bed. I just want a burger and a bourbon.” He glanced toward the front seat, grin tugging lazy at the corners of his mouth. “Come on, Reid. You surviving back there? That playlist didn’t melt your brain?”

Spencer didn’t answer—not right away. He was still looking at Y/N, caught in the soft weight of her gaze as she glanced at him from beneath her lashes, her mouth curved in a quiet, knowing smile that belonged only to him.

And something in his chest—not logic, not analysis—answered for him.

Y/N’s voice came light and easy as the others shuffled out, her words pitched low between them. “Told you he’d make it.” A small flash of amusement in her eyes, warm and golden in the dim. “He’s tougher than he looks.”

“Debatable,” Emily teased, stepping out into the night.

“Completely debatable,” Morgan echoed.

The doors closed one by one behind them, boots scuffing against wet pavement, voices fading toward the lobby. The team moved ahead in a loose drift, half-tired, half-running on adrenaline and habit. Familiar in every way.

But Spencer and Y/N lingered a breath longer—still in that small pool of stillness the car seemed to hold around them.

When they finally stepped out into the night, the air met them like a sigh—warm and velvet-thick, heavy with the breath of rain yet to fall. The scent of wet pavement and spring-green leaves lingered beneath the streetlamps, whose soft halos wavered in the rising mist. The sky overhead pressed low and close, clouds stretched thin as silk, the distant hum of the city a steady thrum beneath it all—alive, breathing, waiting.

Ahead of them, the others had already drifted toward the lobby, boots scuffing over the slick concrete. Through the tall panes of glass, their voices rose in soft echoes—Emily laughing, low and wry; JJ murmuring something over her shoulder; Morgan gesturing broad with one arm as he held the door open for them both.

Even in the late hour, even in the weariness of a long day folded behind them, there was something warm at the heart of it. A rhythm. A comfort that ran deeper than words—woven through miles and years and the simple knowing of one another.

Spencer and Y/N trailed behind by a few slow steps—not for any reason they could name, only that neither of them seemed in a hurry to cross the distance.

The lot shimmered faintly beneath them, rain-beaded asphalt catching the light in soft dapples. As they passed beneath the low awning, the space between them narrowed—fingers brushing, deliberate now, no pretense of accident.

Without thinking, Spencer turned his palm up, an instinct older than thought. Her fingers slid into his—light, certain, as if they had always belonged there. For just a moment they held like that, warmth threading quietly between them, breath rising in the soft hush of the hour. And then, as they reached the lobby doors, her hand slipped free again, the touch lingering in its absence like the last note of a song.

The lobby greeted them with a hush of cool air, touched faintly with lemon polish and old carpet. Lamps glowed soft in the corners, their golden light caught in the glass of picture frames and long-forgotten travel brochures. The city’s hum fell away beneath the quiet here, wrapped in the thick stillness of the hour.

Morgan’s voice broke through first, low and warm as they stepped inside. “All right—bedtime for me. You two,” a glance between Spencer and Y/N, sly but not unkind, “don’t stay up all night reorganizing playlists.”

JJ smiled, soft and tired. “Breakfast at eight? Hotch said we’ll meet at nine to prep.”

Emily gave a mock salute, stifling a yawn behind her hand. “Tell him I’ll be awake in spirit.”

The group drifted toward the elevators, shoulders brushing, laughter light and easy in their weariness. Even at the edge of exhaustion, the fondness between them held—woven through the hours and the miles, steady beneath every glance and word.

In the small hush of the elevator car, they rode in easy quiet—companionship thick as velvet, no need for chatter. Morgan leaned against the mirrored wall, arms crossed, head tipped back. JJ rested lightly against Emily’s shoulder, half-asleep, her voice a low hum.

Spencer stood beside Y/N, close enough that their arms nearly touched, her warmth pulling at him like gravity. Too tired to think his way out of it. Too far gone to pretend he wasn’t drawn to her every breath, every small shift in her body beside his.

The weight of the day hung heavy between them—but underneath it: that steady thrum of something more, something that had only grown stronger on the road. A thing neither of them had spoken aloud, but both had carried between them like a secret note folded close to the heart.

When the elevator chimed and slid open onto their floor, Morgan called a low, “Night, kids,” before heading off down the hall, keys jangling in his hand. JJ and Emily followed, their quiet goodnights slipping back through the hush.

And then it was just the two of them—Spencer and Y/N—left standing alone in the gentle spill of light from the elevator, the hallway stretching soft and empty before them.

They walked side by side, footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. Her shoulder brushed his once, a light touch that neither of them moved to correct.

Her room was the third door down, the keycard cool and thin between her fingers. But instead of unlocking the door straightaway, Y/N paused—leaning back lightly against the frame, the line of her body loose with exhaustion, eyes finding his in the dim, quiet hall.

A breath caught low in Spencer’s chest—tired, yes, but deeper than that. Something warm and fragile and painfully alive.

“Hey,” she said, voice soft, meant only for him. The hour had thinned their careful edges; there was no hiding in it now.

Spencer looked up, heart stumbling in his ribs, too full to answer quickly.

Y/N tilted her head, hair falling soft over her shoulder, a faint curve to her mouth that was nothing like her usual teasing—gentler, truer. “You know…” she breathed, eyes never leaving his, “you can come with me. If you want.”

The air between them tightened, sweet and breathless, the quiet humming beneath their skin like a second pulse. Neither of them pretending now—too late for that, too far past the moment when it might’ve been simple.

Spencer swallowed, pulse fluttering at the hollow of his throat. Words rose and caught there, unspoken. He stepped in closer, each inch deliberate, gaze caught fast in hers.

“You really want me to?” he asked, voice low, edged in rough warmth. Honest.

Y/N’s smile didn’t waver. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”

And that was all it took.

A soft breath left him, shaky but sure. He reached out—slow, reverent—fingers brushing first at the hem of her shirt, knuckles grazing the soft dip of her waist. For a moment, he simply held there—light, testing, as if the world might still tilt beneath him. But when she didn’t move away—when she leaned, subtle and certain, into the space between them—he let his fingers curl more fully at her side, drawing her in until her body fit easy and close to his.

A laugh slipped out between them—quiet, breathless, rising from somewhere deeper than words. The kind of sound that came when something too long held finally cracked open, soft at the edges.

Spencer’s inhibitions, always his armor, lowered with her now—softened by the hour, by the warmth of her gaze, by the simple truth of her hand finding his side, fingers tracing lightly up beneath the edge of his jacket, catching faint at the fabric of his shirt.

He felt her breath against his jaw, her closeness dizzying and sharp, and still—still—he wanted more. Not rushed. Not hurried. Just more.

“Come on,” Y/N whispered, voice brushing against his ear like silk. “Before one of them circles back to find us out here.”

That earned a breath of laughter from him—soft and real, the sound warming his throat. “I’m not sure I care,” he managed, surprising even himself.

She grinned at that, brighter now, tugging him gently by the hand toward her door.

The click of the keycard. The soft push of the door swinging open on a quiet hush of air.

And then they were inside—warm light spilling low across the carpet, the door falling shut behind them with a muted thud.

She toed off her boots near the wall, shaking her hair loose with a small sigh. “So—still think flying’s safer?”

Spencer huffed a laugh, softer than before, tension gone from his shoulders as he watched her, eyes bright with something he couldn’t quite hide. “Not anymore.”

Another small laugh between them, easy and warm. He stepped in again, hand finding her waist once more—this time without hesitation, without a second thought.

And when she smiled at him, soft and certain, he knew: there was no going back from this.

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer fic #reid fic #spencer reid fic #spencer x reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fic #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff

38 notes · View notes