#(and even then neither of them are really sure what to do)
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do you believe me now? | 6
in which spencer reid and inexperienced!fem reader are finally honest with each other. complete with tears and more than a few make-up kisses.
series masterlist
this series is 18+
warnings/tags: angst but mostly fluff, i think this qualifies as hurt/comfort, HHEHHEHHEH, lots of kissing, so cheesy, you jokingly imply he's a slut, i need him expeditiously
a/n: thank you guys for being patient with me!! ilysm!! i edited this until i hated it but i hope it's satisfactory for YOU guys..... as always please please let me know what you think!! and i already started the next part hehehe
The car ride is the worst of your life.
Neither of you speak.
And you find yourself wishing, pleading to god that one of you will say something to fix this—but each minute ticks by and the streets get familiar and a quiet song ends and you realize you were silly to ever think a twenty minute car ride would change anything.
Spencer was the luckiest you’d ever been and your relationship is floating away like a balloon you forgot to hold on to—nothing more than a red dot lost to the vast blue.
Maybe for him it’s easier. You’re pretty sure it is, as you risk one or two glances at his unreadable profile that turn into lingering, obsessive looks because you’re panicking and realizing you’ll maybe never see him this close again. It’s funny and terrible how quickly you’re remembering what it was like to see him at the coffee shop for the first time—how he was nothing but a beautiful stranger, completely unknown to you and worlds away. Now you’ve had him, sort of, and you’re turning into the girl who could never have him all over again.
When he turns onto your street reality begins to sink in. Your heart is a short fuse inside your chest as he pulls into a spot and parks the car. The rumble of the engine cuts. The headlights stay on.
For a moment, everything is quiet. You wish you could insert your own reality into the silence—one where you’re simply enjoying each other’s company and there’s no sense of impending doom to take your breath away.
“Do you want to talk?” Spencer asks, looking pointedly ahead where the lights shine off the back of some other person’s car. A wayward moth dips and swirls into the high beams. You watch Spencer track it with his eyes.
“I’m not sure what to say,” you admit quietly. The weight of everything you’d like to say sits in your stomach like lead, too heavy to divulge. It’s only been a few weeks of having to carry the truth around with you and your muscles are already fatiguing. The idea of carrying it around indefinitely makes your eyes sting. You’re already exhausted.
Maybe a stronger person would find that last bit of energy to make a final push, to save the relationship just before it falls apart.
But you never claimed to be strong.
Deep down, you must’ve known you weren’t ready for a real relationship. You can’t handle all of this pretending to be okay with things that hurt. Even if that's the grown-up thing to do.
“I tried. I really did, I’m sorry—I’m—”
Before you can get the words out your throat tightens around them and you bury your face in your hands.
The sound of his seatbelt unlocking and whirring back surprises you—but you’re even more surprised when he undoes yours. Still, you move your arm so it can snap back into place and then he’s pulling you into him.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs, one hand on the back of your head as you lean over the small gap between the seats, unable to stop yourself from shedding more tears. “It’s not your fault. I’m sorry.”
He’s sorry.
For not loving you?
If it’s not your fault he doesn’t love you back—then whose fault is it? Who’ll take the fall?
But still, he’s holding you so carefully, like you’re made of porcelain. Something to be protected. Or at the very least, something to be mourned even after it’s in pieces.
As you lean against him, lulled by the slow in and out of his breath, the inverse of yours, and the way he slips his thumb over the back of your hair in silence for a few minutes—you wonder what’s missing. Why he’s not satisfied.
“I don’t understand you.”
The words come out flat, muffled by his coat, garbled with leftover tears.
“What was that?” Spencer asks gently, still playing with your hair. You sniffle, adjusting your head so your cheek is to his shoulder and your lips are no longer smushed.
“I just… I want you to explain it to me.”
“Explain what?”
You sit up just enough to meet his eyes. The movement seems to take him by surprise, but he keeps his hands on you—one slipping to your cheek and the other still loyal to your back. He brushes his fingers over the delicate skin beneath your eye and you cover them with your own in an effort to get him to stop treating you so kindly. But even now, when you’re mad at him for being so gentle in the way that he hurts you, you can’t help but seek the familiar callus on the side of his trigger finger. It’s an odd thing to anticipate missing, but you’ll miss all of him. You can’t imagine holding a hand without that familiar anomaly—a cairn to show you where he’s been and who you’re holding.
He curls his warm hand around yours and you hold your joined fist out for him in emphasis, speaking louder than either of you were prepared for.
“This! You! I understand that we don’t feel the same way about each other and maybe I can’t change that. But then you do this and I don’t understand why. I don’t understand why this isn’t enough for you, because it’s enough for me, and I just—I don’t know what else I can give you. I don’t know what else there is. I don’t understand why I’m not... enough.” The tears are back and flowing freely, but you forge breathlessly ahead, because you’ve finally found a way to be honest and you’re not going to stop now. Spencer is frowning, lips parted and clearly confused or shocked or something, but you continue your confessional before he has the chance to interrupt. “I want to be enough, but you didn’t even give me the chance, and I don’t think it’s fair that we’re breaking up when you didn’t let me try. Maybe if you just told me, if you explained what’s missing I could fix it and you could love me back, and—please. I just want to try. Please, Spencer.”
A car engine revs somewhere far away, echoing down the street. It reverberates for several seconds, unimpeded by any other noise. Any word, any breath.
His voice is thin when he responds a moment later, still studying your face with a kind of scrutiny that is so indecipherable you don’t know how you expect him to respond.
“Love you back?”
You blink.
Your stomach drops.
For all that you’d revealed, for all that you’d willingly humiliated yourself with your pathetic supplication—you’d meant to keep that four letter word to yourself.
What a way to make an exit from your relationship.
Spencer is still looking at you, keeping you pinned to your seat, and as much as you wish it wasn’t the case he’s not going to let you off the hook this time. He’s going to demand an answer, and you have a 0% chance of bursting into mist before you have to provide an explanation, so you have no choice but to say something.
What, exactly, you’re going to say—you don’t know.
“I didn’t…”
“You didn’t mean it.”
The response comes so quickly, sharp as a slap, that you jump back slightly, a deep frown twisting your brow. Spencer makes no effort to keep his hand in yours as you slip from his grasp.
“That’s not what I was—”
“Just say what you mean.” Silence. “Tell me.”
It’s like he’s got an ice pick to your chest. It’s like he wants you to humiliate yourself even further, to punish you for your messy indiscretions.
“Spencer…”
It’s a warning. You’re giving him a chance to stop this before he hurts you sadistically. Before he becomes unrecognizable.
He swallows.
“Please.” And then, a second later, when you’re still trying to process the quiet pain in his voice and suddenly faced with the unexpected question of who is hurting who, “please, just… tell me if you meant it.”
For the first time tonight, you notice how exhausted he looks. Slightly gaunt, even paler than usual. Shadows pool deeper in the hollows of his face. His eyes look glossy, dark crescents below awaiting to catch tears you realize you’ve never seen fall. The tonal shift has you so disoriented, so out of your body like you’re seeing yourself in his own injuries—the truth becomes the only humane answer. Even if it hurts you.
“Yes. I meant it. You know I mean it.”
“I don’t know that,” he says on a shaky exhale. “How would I know that?”
And he’s got the ice pick back at your sternum. It’s tipped in poison. The mallet trembles in the air. So does your voice.
“You told me you didn’t feel the same. You said it was new for me and different and I was going to make things complicated and you treated me like I was a stupid kid, and—and it doesn’t even matter. This was dumb. I’m sorry I said anything, I don’t… I don’t know what I’m doing. I just.. I can’t do this.”
You’re about to open the door, every muscle tense as you wonder what the hell is wrong with you. What reduced you to the weepy, pathetic girl, begging a boy to love her despite knowing it doesn’t work like that—the same girl you’ve looked down your nose at in every film and TV show and in every high school and college hallway since you learned what self-superiority meant. Before you knew exactly what it felt like to be her.
“Wait.”
He says your name.
And of course you pause.
You want a reason to stay. If you had more self-respect, you wouldn’t. But you know you’ll give him as many chances to give you an excuse as he’s willing to take. You knew that before your fingers met the metal of the door handle.
“Just—hold on a second. Can you look at me?”
You sniffle and wipe your eyes with the heel of your palm before turning around to face him once more. You wonder if anyone will ever have the kind of power he has over you ever again.
The despair leaves only wisps of itself on his face—mostly he looks like he’s thinking hard about something. It’s jarring.
“You’re talking about our phone call on Sunday, right?”
You nod petulantly with a quick teary eye-roll because obviously that’s what you’re talking about.
Something lights in his own dark eyes as he inhales, parts his lips as if to speak, and stops himself again. Like he’s got news that he’s not sure how to break.
“The things I said, on that call… I wasn’t talking… about you.”
Your insides feel like tangled yarn as you stare at him uncomprehendingly.
“I mean, I was. I was talking about us. But not in the way you think, it was—” he stops, rubbing his eyes and taking a frazzled breath. “I know what it’s like to be the one who cares more. I have to assume that I’m the one who cares more because when I don’t, I ruin things. And with you, I felt like—the stakes were so high, and I thought it’d be safer for me to not say anything until I knew you felt the same. But I know that’s not fair to you so I tried to tell you over the phone that if you didn’t feel the same way it was okay. And now I’m—I’m realizing the way I phrased it was incredibly unclear and misleading, and somehow I fucked it up in a completely new way. But I wasn’t referring to you. I just didn’t want you to feel stuck with someone who can’t give you casual when you have so much ahead of you. I had no idea you felt that way about me. And I am so, so sorry that I hurt you. I never meant for that to happen.”
You blink.
And for some reason, begin sobbing.
Spencer freezes for a moment, then tells you to stay there and you barely have the capacity to wonder what he means as you hear his own door opening then slamming shut again. A moment later he’s on the passenger side, opening your door and leaning in.
“Hey,” he whispers, gently pulling your hands from your face and making you turn your head to look at him. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. But that’s good news, right? Why all the tears, lovely? What’s wrong? Please talk to me.”
You take a shuddering breath.
“This is all my fault, I ruined everything because I was too scared to tell you before and now—and now—”
Stroking your cheeks to wipe away the tears is a futile effort because they just keep coming, but Spencer does it anyway, and he speaks so kindly, so evenly it somehow hurts deeper.
You were terrible to him. And he had been prepared to accept that. He thought you didn’t love him, and he was still willing to be the subject of all your cryptic frostiness and inexplicable cruelty.
“It is not your fault. You didn’t ruin anything. I’m still right here. We’re okay.”
“But we’re breaking up, and—and I was so mean to you. That’s not okay, Spencer.”
You finally look at him. He’s close, eyes warm and wide as he looks directly into your own teary gaze, shaking his head earnestly.
“You were confused, honey. So was I. It was just a misunderstanding. But… I know I was unkind to you. I cannot express how sorry I am for that, and the last thing I want is for us to break up, but if you think that’s what’s best, I’ll… I’ll understand.”
His voice is dangerously thin by the end, strained with impending tears of his own. But he’s eternally kind—backlit by the streetlamps and beautiful like an angel. Whatever you want, he’ll give you. Even if it’s this.
“I don’t want that. I don’t.” You sigh, closing your eyes briefly against the world as you realize the impending breakup had been a delusion all along. That you were going to let your insecurities and some sick pride end the relationship for you. All that despair had been for nothing. Or—maybe not nothing. You realize he still hasn’t said it back. But you won’t be a coward. It’s not worth losing him. You open your eyes. “I just—I want us to be on the same page. And if you don’t love me yet or if you don’t wanna say it, or if you can’t, I get it—it’s okay, but if you don’t could you maybe just tell me? So that I’ll know—”
Before you can process it Spencer is leaning in, head angled to accommodate you, pressing his lips to yours so softly your breath catches and your stomach flips. Maybe softer than he ever has before, and it’s like taking a deep breath after holding it through a dark tunnel. You exhale a tentatively soft sigh against him, releasing air you don't have along with the fraught tension in most of your body. All too quickly he’s pulling away, hands still cupping your cheeks and thumbs stroking over your skin. When he speaks it’s not quite a whisper, but secret-soft.
“How could I not be so in love with you?”
Suddenly you can feel the world turning underneath you. Or maybe you’re just dizzy from lack of oxygen. Either way it feels good. A drop of warmth makes a splash in your stomach and slowly spreads through every vein and capillary until you’re sure you’re glowing gold.
“Really?”
“Of course really. I’m—” he takes a breath of his own, and you realize how difficult this must be after what happened the last time he professed his love for a girl. Your chest aches for him. His voice is low and solicitous, but it wavers slightly. “I should have told you sooner. I wanted to, but I was worried—I was worried the way I felt for you was… too much. I am so in love with you it scares me. I still don’t know what to say or how to act around you. When I’m gone, sometimes I imagine quitting my job, just so I can come home and see you sooner. When I have a gun in my hands, I start thinking about all the things I would do to keep you safe, or—or just because you asked me to. And if what you wanted was for me to leave you alone, I would have done that. If you wanted me to drop everything and everyone to be with you I would have done that. And I know you’d never ask those things of me. But any of them, I’d do in a heartbeat. Which is… it’s a little scary, huh?”
The final sentence is a nervous self-effacing chuckle, which you can match in sound only—one breathy attempt at a laugh from your slackened jaw.
When that’s the only response you can manage, he clears his throat.
“Too honest?”
You shake your head as if in a fog.
“No. Not too honest. But I’m just… I’m trying not to cry again.”
He smooths over your hair fondly. His own eyes are shiny and full of wonder as he studies you for a short while, like you're doing something much more awe-inspiring than sniffling in the passenger seat of his car. Then one hand is dropped to your shoulder and the other braced against your seat back. Finally, he pulls back to a more reasonable distance with a shaky sigh. It’s a sound of relief. You want to hug him, and all the past hims who have ever been hurt by anyone.
“You, um—you need to rehydrate. Do you have anything that will rebalance your electrolytes? If you don’t I can go to the store—”
“You don’t need to do that,” you assure him with a small, watery laugh, loosely grabbing the wrist that brushes your shoulder.
“But you need to take care of yourself. And I know you haven’t been drinking enough water because you never do.”
There’s a lingering overwrought shakiness to his voice, but it’s still the most relaxed he’s sounded since he came home, and you realize that the worst is behind you. The storm that you’d been so sure you couldn’t weather is somehow clearing up.
“I can’t believe we almost just broke up.”
He hangs his head, dropping it to the curve of your neck and groaning.
“Don’t say that. Let’s not think about that right now. Just—” when he raises his head again, and shakes it slightly to get his hair out of his eyes, they’ve cleared, like he’s on a mission to change the subject. “Let’s go upstairs. Will you let me take care of you?”
You give him an exaggerated nod, still sniffing, and the smile that grows on his face is like seeing the sun rise above the ocean. You love his smile. You love him.
Spencer kisses you on the cheek.
“Okay. Let me lock the car and then we can go up.”
As soon as you get into your apartment and turn on the light Spencer goes to the kitchen. It’s a small unit, but antique and nice enough, though you prefer Spencer’s. There’s still some tension as you observe him filling a glass with water, kicking your boots off by the door—but not necessarily the bad kind. You’re not sure exactly what it is.
“Where are you going?” He asks as you pass the kitchen area to turn on a standing lamp in the opposite corner of the room.
“I don’t like the big light.” A warm glow emanates through stained glass as you flick it on.
“I know that. I just didn’t realize it was a higher priority than your wellbeing.” His tone is sardonic but he’s already switching off the overhead lighting for you. You give him a wry smirk as you finally approach and take the proffered glass from his waiting hand.
“Ambience over everything, baby.”
His brows pinch at the cavalier sentiment—you never call him baby, so you're sure he knows it’s a joke—and he shakes his head with a humorous little huff of air through his nose, watching as you drink deeply. Your hand is shaking. Spencer notices and covers it with both of his, taking the half empty glass with one and grabbing your hand with the other.
“Adrenaline,” he murmurs, kissing your knuckles. “It’ll go away soon. Did you get enough?”
You nod, smiling small but genuinely. Emotionally exhausted or not, you’re happy.
Spencer strays, not far, to set the glass on the counter. Then he turns to face you, bracing his palms on the ledge and just watching you for a moment with the kind of smile that makes you nervous in the best way.
He beckons you to him with nothing more than a quick tilt of his head, and you shuffle across the floor in your socks til you’re toe to toe. Without your shoes on, he feels much taller. Still he just watches you for a moment—not that you mind. Your view isn’t half-bad. The faint warm glow from the lamp casts shadows over his face, highlighting all the perfect angles, deep brown eyes framed by dark lashes, and lips that still make you feel like a girl with a crush when you look at him. His hair is getting long. You’re unreasonably glad you still get to look at him like this.
“Hi,” you whisper—something about the intimate dark of the room feels like a place for secrets.
“Hi, pretty.” Spencer tucks hair behind your ear, eyes soft wherever they focus on your face like if he even looks at you too sharply you might break. “Have I told you how much I missed you while I was gone?”
He knows he hasn’t.
“Even when I was being a heinous bitch?”
Spencer laughs and it makes you smile too. The way his smile changes the landscape of his whole face will never feel any less like observing a natural phenomenon. It’s unfair how beautiful he is, and how you’re keeping him all to yourself in the dark on the fourth floor of an apartment building in DC.
“Even then. Not sure that’s the wording I would have used.”
“I missed you too,” you admit softly.
He maps your face with wandering eyes like he’s done a hundred times. Vaguely you wonder if he sees the same kind of beauty in you that you see in him. If he sees landmarks in your flaws and stars beyond the observable universe in your eyes.
Spencer sweeps your hair over your shoulder, fingertips grazing your neck.
“Can I kiss you?” He murmurs.
Butterflies fill your stomach and you nod shyly, unsure of what would come out if you tried to speak.
His free hand settles on your lower back and brings you into him until you’re chest to chest. With his other on your jaw, he bows his head, and you angle yours up, allowing your eyes to flutter shut.
Spencer kisses you so gently it aches in your chest, still cupping your face and stroking your cheek. You can’t help wrapping your arms around his middle—before he’s pulling away far too soon.
And he’s laughing.
“What were you drinking?”
You frown, flustered and trying to remember a time before his lips were on yours.
“Water.”
“Before that, baby. At the bar.”
You think back even further, head muddled even more by the endearment so that it takes you a moment to recall.
“A Shirley Temple. Derek brought it to me. Why? Is that bad?”
“No,” he says, still smiling as his lips brush yours. “You’re perfect. You taste like candy. It’s cute.”
Oh. You feel warm as he presses another kiss to your lips—and this time you insist on him staying awhile. He’s happy to oblige.
Spencer kisses you soft and careful at first, and then deeper, but still so slow, until you can’t help the way you’re bunching the fabric of his shirt between your fingers and rising on your toes to try and get impossibly closer. He kisses you the way you’ve been needing him to since he left, long and unhurried and sweet—and takes everything you give him, siphoning away all your leftover turmoil and angst until you’re weightless. You’re deprived of oxygen, you’re dizzy, and you don’t care at all.
“I love you,” you breathe against him before he captures your lips again with a hum that flips your stomach, his hand rubbing over your hip.
“Say it again,” he mutters against your mouth a second later, brushing hair away from your face.
It comes out a little mumbled this time between kisses, but it comes out all the same.
“Love you.”
He sighs into you—relief that mirrors your own.
“I love you.”
It seems like the kind of thing that will never stop sounding perfect from his lips.
A final deep kiss shortens into a series of smaller ones, and then he’s pulling away slowly, brushing the corner of your mouth affectionately.
Both of you require a few deep breaths—a moment to let your sparkling eyes wildly chart each familiar curve and convex and shade and shadow of the other’s face—before either of you can speak. Spencer breaks the silence first.
“I’m sorry.”
You frown, stirred from your brainless bliss by his unexpected apology.
“For what?”
The fiery glow in his eyes dampens slightly.
“For what I said at the bar.”
Oh.
That.
It feels like a lifetime away—memories seen through someone else’s eyes. Words like blows from a less familiar mouth.
You look away. For a while, you’d forgotten about that. Ideally he wouldn’t have reminded you.
At least he doesn’t make you look at him. He just strokes your hair, watching you examine the tiled counter. His voice is soft and soothing, like he’s appealing to a scared rabbit. Or maybe something angrier and with more teeth.
“You’re not immature, or badly behaved, or thoughtless. I was having an emotional reaction, I got defensive, and I lashed out. It was unfair and unkind of me to throw those things back in your face when I know how much trust it takes for you to be vulnerable with me. There’s nothing I can say or do that will adequately make up for that, but I want you to understand that I didn’t say any of it because it was the truth. I said it because I didn’t understand how you were feeling and I was hurt. I was insecure and I acted juvenile. I am so, so sorry, honey. You don’t have to forgive me, but you do need to know that none of it is true.”
Once you bite your lip long enough to be sure you won’t cry again, you speak.
“It’s okay,” you insist with a cheerfulness as natural as hard plastic, something in your chest twinging. “I was mean too. Like you said, we were both confused.”
“It is not. I made you cry.”
Sometimes you forget that he’s not like other people. He’ll never accept anything less than the barest truth. So you look back up at him and speak with a level of honesty that you hope satisfies him.
“I forgive you. You didn’t mean it. And I have insurance because Derek said he and Emily would kick your ass if you’re mean to me again.”
You hear the sad humor in his voice. His hand runs up and down your back.
“If I’m ever mean to you again, I personally invite you to kick my ass. And then let Derek and Emily have their turn.” He thumbs at your cheek, studying you in silence for a moment. “I can’t tell you how much I wish I could take it back.”
You stand up a little straighter. Spencer tracks you with his eyes, noting the way you smile slightly.
“You’ll find a way to make it up to me.”
“I’ll do anything for you,” he admits, barely a whisper and the truth of it so heavy you can feel it too.
But for tonight you can’t contend with more weight.
“You know what you could do right now?”
The mischief in your tone is obvious, and he hesitates, like he’s not sure he wants to let you move on from this so quickly. But eventually he plays along, pressing his thumb into the dip of your back and speaks lowly, just as you’d hoped he would.
“What’s that?”
You smile slyly.
“You could kiss me again.”
“Hm… I don’t know, three times in one night? Sounds a little excessive.”
“Do you want to be forgiven or not?” You huff. He smiles lazily, already dipping his head to press his lips to yours.
“I thought I was already forgiven.”
“Apologies can be retracted.”
“Ah.” His next words are mumbled as his lips ghost yours. “Well we wouldn’t want that.”
Spencer puts you out of your misery, not bothering to warm you up to it before he’s kissing you with a deep need. It’s still languid, and not hungry, exactly—it’s more like an aching, mind-numbing thirst. It’s all-consuming, overwhelming to have all of his burning focus pinpointed on you like this. Both hands come to cup your face and you wonder if he wants you in ways that he doesn’t entirely understand, just as you want him. You wonder if anything could possibly sate this desire to possess him completely and for him to possess you, to trade corporeal forms—or if it’s just something you’ll have to live with like a metaphysical itch you can’t scratch. As he forces you to tip your head back for him, using his height to his advantage, breathing deeply against you and attempting to push himself impossibly closer, you begin to think he understands exactly how you feel.
As soon as you’d sensed he wanted it, your lips had parted for him. He knows he could have any part of you. He knows how eager you are to give yourself to him. You’ve done everything to prove it, and yet you’ve never needed him quite like you do ask he pushes off the counter and slowly backs you against the wall, protecting your head with a hand as the paintings rattle ever so slightly. You gasp into his mouth and he kisses you greedier still, but his hands don’t stray from your cheeks.
Not until, that is, you hook your right leg around his left, and he catches it, fingers wrapping under the bend of your knee.
Never in your life have you regretted picking jeans rather than a skirt more than you do right now.
But to your disappointment, Spencer slows down to a halt—pulling his lips from yours like they’d been stuck by molasses until he’s far enough away to study you wildly, panting just as you are. His hair hangs over his smoldering eyes. He’s disheveled. It’s sexy.
“What?” You whisper, voice surprisingly hoarse.
He looses a dry, abashed laugh. The flush he’s sporting is incredibly charming.
“I’m supposed to be playing nice with you.”
Spencer says it like it’s a mild hindrance. Something frissons in your core. You smile a little wider as you continue to catch your breath, which seems to please him.
“Playing nice?”
“Being gentle. I’m not supposed to push my favorite things against walls when they’re delicate.”
Your face heats at the way he speaks of you—if it weren’t Spencer, if you didn’t know he really doesn’t think of you as an object, you’d be pissed. But instead all you can think about is how good it feels when he calls you his.
“According to who?”
His eyes dart between yours and then down to your lips several times before he averts them to the wall beside you with an intensity that could burn holes through the plaster. Is that how he looks at you?
“According to me. I think… god, you're going to hate me for this. But I think I need you to kick me out.”
You drop your leg at the same time as you do your heart.
“What?”
“I know,” he says, over-apologetically, “I know, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let that escalate. But we can’t… do anything tonight.” Before you can protest, he rushes to explain himself. “It’s just that it’s been a long day. It’s been a long week, actually, and I doubt either of us have slept very much, and I think you’re really drained, and probably not thinking super clearly. I don’t think you’re in the best place for decision making.”
You look pointedly down to where he still has you pressed to the wall.
“I think I’m in a great place.”
At that he steps back, but lets his hands find yours and pulls you away from the wall—just not quite as close as before. His nose bumps against yours as he speaks low and sweet.
“I understand that you want me to stay right now. But it’s not a good idea to associate fighting with physical pleasure. That can set some really dangerous patterns.”
“We’re not fighting,” you plead, matching his tone as you look up at him with big eyes. His fingers lace with yours.
“You’re right. Maybe fighting was the wrong word. But we had some pretty intense conversations today, didn’t we?”
Reluctantly you nod.
“Right,” he agrees. “Same premise. We need to be able to have those conversations without getting distracted.”
In a last ditch attempt to get him to change his mind, you give him your best approximation of the imploring, wide-eyed gaze he sometimes uses on you. Something not entirely smile and not entirely smirk twists the corners of his mouth. When he ducks down to kiss you quickly, you reciprocate, but you lack the enthusiasm of earlier.
“Hey.”
“Hm,” you respond, dejectedly.
“Don’t get all grumpy because I don’t put out.”
That puts a disgruntled little smile on your face as he probably knew it would.
“I guess you just gave it up easy to all those other women.”
He grabs your chin and gives you a final peck.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never been with other women.”
“Mhm,” you grumble good-naturedly, pushing away from him and going to the door to undo the deadbolt. “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”
“Wow. I really must have overstayed my welcome if that’s the goodbye I get.”
You turn back around, brows raised.
“Oh, I was prepared to be very welcoming. This is your doing.”
“Uh-huh. Come here.”
Happily you skitter back across the few feet of wooden flooring and wrap your arms tightly around him one more time, pressing your cheek to his chest. He’s ready, winding his arms over yours and rubbing your back. It’s eerily similar, you realize as he presses his face into the concave of your shoulder, to when he’d left on that most recent case.
But at the same time—everything’s different.
And you won’t make the same mistake twice.
“Hey,” you smile, resting your head on his shoulder. Spencer pulls back to look at you, a similar grin on his face.
“Hey what?”
“I remembered what I was gonna say.”
The grin widens. He knows exactly what you’re talking about.
“Tell me.”
“I was going to tell you that I love you. And—I hope you’re not one of those people who’s uncomfortable being told that often. Because if that’s the case I’m really going to annoy you.”
“I’m not that kind of person,” he assures. “Tell me as often as you can.”
“But you should say it back. It’s more polite that way.”
“I love you,” he murmurs, in a voice more serious than your teasing tones had been but still soft and sweet around the edges. “You know, people talk about love as if it’s completely irrational and illogical. But with you… I think the world actually makes more sense than it used to. I understand things I never did before. You’ve taught me a lot.”
It’s like a lightshow in your stomach. You wonder if he has any idea the effect his casual musings have on you.
“You already knew everything.”
“Not everything,” Spencer whispers. “Not about the things that matter.”
And you’re fresh out of teases. All you can do is look up at him with big eyes again, in awe of the fact that you get to keep him after all.
“Will you text me when you get home?” You request, voice reverent in the wake of an admission you could never hope to top.
“I will. I’ll see you tomorrow?”
You nod, because it doesn’t even matter if you had other plans tomorrow. They’re as good as cancelled.
Spencer kisses your cheek, and you get the sense that things are still being left unfinished. There’s an unresolved tension that you can’t shake, even after all the apologies and kisses and sweet words. Still, he made a point with his talk about not mixing argument with pleasure, and you’d like to respect those wishes because you respect him—even if every atom of your being shakes with desire to keep him locked in your bedroom, hidden away from the world together, for as long as you can possibly manage.
Eventually, you loosen your hold, and you let him go. He lingers at the door, hands in his pockets, just watching you and mirroring your small smile as you hold onto the counter with an iron grip to keep yourself in check. After he finally peels his gaze away from yours and silently closes the door behind him, you stand there, staring at the wood for at least a minute.
Once you manage to shake yourself from your revery with a deep breath, you grab your glass from earlier and stand in front of the sink, watching it fill with a white jet of water. It’d be a shame to admit it to him, but maybe Spencer is right. Maybe you do need time to emotionally digest today. After all—that was technically your first argument. It seems to have left you sort of wound up. Not in a bad way, per se—maybe you just need to take a shower, let the hot water roll over your shoulders and wash away the frenetic energy that clings to you.
Still, something tells you that you won’t be getting much sleep tonight, even if you do take the world’s longest shower. You’re simply too high-strung. You wonder if having Spencer here would fix that or make it worse. But ultimately, he’d made the call that it was a bad idea for him to stay, and you’re generally inclined to trust his judgement.
The thought makes you laugh into your cup as you drink. Even after the debacle that was the past week, you trust him to know what he’s doing. Maybe you need to rethink that, at least temporarily, until he’s had a chance to redeem himself.
Just then, your front door is opening with absolutely zero warning and slamming shut again before you can finish whipping around. Your heart threatens to choke you and you almost drop your glass, clutching your chest.
“Jesus, you—”
But the words die in your throat as Spencer storms toward you, shrugging his coat off with a white-hot chill in his eyes. It’s enough to freeze you in place, heart drumming against the confines of your ribs.
“You really need to start locking that door,” he breathes, tossing his jacket on the counter before grabbing your face and crashing his lips into yours, palms pressed to your jaw and fingers pushing into your hair. You stand there, hands hovering in air before you gain the wherewithal to blindly set the glass down behind you. Your heart is pounding as you immediately submit to the kiss, whining softly against his lips and cautiously seeking stability in the fabric of his shirt. Spencer pulls away only briefly, allowing you to gasp for much-needed air. His brown eyes are like molten gold on you, pupils blown wide and wild as he scans your face, taking heavy breaths of his own. “Anyone could just walk in.”
#spencer reid#spencer reid fic#spencer reid fanfic#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid fanfiction#spencer reid imagine#spencer reid x fem!reader#spencer reid x self insert#spencer reid angst#spencer reid fluff#criminal minds#criminal minds x reader#criminal minds imagine#criminal minds fic#criminal minds fanfic
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Hello! I wanted to know if you can make a request for kuai liang mk11 and his wife that have newborn twin babies?
Relax Mama
Yip notes: I love old men….
Pairing: Kuai Liang (MK11) x Afab reader
Warnings ‼️: I don’t want baby fever
Giving birth ain’t easy. But giving birth to twins, ah good luck.
Thank goodness your baby boys were healthy. You were stuck in labor for about fifteen hours so you were beat. So was your husband, you crushed his poor hand.
And to think you thought with Kuai Liang’s old age there would be issues with getting pregnant. Hah! Jokes on you, you get two. Never doubt him again.
You knew the struggle wouldn’t end even after you pushed those babies out. They are needy little things. But Kuai Liang was determined to let you rest as much as you could. If the babies woke up in the middle of the night he would be the first to get out of bed to deal with them. If the babies were hungry he just brought them to you. You’re responsible for the breastfeeding part.
He tries his hardest he really does. No one taught him how to be a parent he is going on pure instincts or what he can remember from his childhood that wasn’t so messed up. He was doing his best so that you could get rest and he could prevent any mental stress. He has the strength to carry these baby around all day, he’s got this.
What a sight to see for everyone in the Lin Kuei. Seeing there grandmaster who is always so serious and gruff carry around two sweet, cuddly babies. The twins immediately fall asleep in Kuai Liang’s arms. One of them was even drooling on his uniform. People are just melting at the sight of your husband holding onto those babies. That is until he yells at them to keep training. The babies have gotten used to the yelling at this point.
Motherly instincts won’t let you sit down at all. You’re still tired but you want to tend to the babies even though they are in safe hands. You walked over to Kuai Liang, your movements a bit sluggish.
“Why are you out of bed? You should not be up while in your conditions.” He warned you.
“I know, I know. I just feel like I need to check on them.” You replied.
Kuai Liang could see that you were worried. He knows you want to help out since they are your children too. You don’t want him doing this alone and neither does he. You’re new parents and this can be exciting yet also scary. Perhaps it’s time that you both get some outside help. Any help would do and Kuai Liang knew the right person to call.
══💤══╡°˖✧🦊✧˖°╞══💤══
A tall man with tan skin and yellow attire stood before you in the doorway. He had swords and a chained kunai with him.
It’s Hanzo.
It’s freakin-it’s freaking Hanzo! YOUR HUSBAND CALLED HANZO FOR HELP.
“I was unaware that you had a wife and children.” He said to Kuai Liang.
“Did you doubt my ability to find a partner?”
Hanzo didn’t say anything because, yes, he did doubt that Kuai Liang would ever settle down. Hell you thought the same but look where you are now.
You informed Hanzo that the babies were only four weeks only. They still got that new baby smell. You handed over one of the boys to Hanzo to hold onto. Your baby looked up at him in confusion, unsure of who this man was.
“You have been feeding them well, I can already tell. They do not seem that fussy. You are incredibly lucky.” He stated.
Hanzo bent down and began to put your baby on the floor. Kuai Liang did the same with the other one. He was not too sure why he was doing that until he saw Hanzo put the baby on their stomach. Oh right, it is best to start helping them grow some strength in their neck and limbs.
Your sons didn’t seem to like that. They kept trying to roll over but then Kuai Liang would roll them back on their stomachs. It looked silly but they really do need tummy time. When you asked Hanzo if there was anything else you done were not doing right he asked you simple questions.
“Are you feeding them?”
“Yes”
“Are you changing them?”
“Yes”
“Are you bathing them?”
“Definitely.”
“Do you love them?”
“Absolutely.”
“That’s all you need to do for now.”
If you think about it, it makes sense. They are new to the world and although they are needy there isn’t much they truly need. You and Kuai Liang absolutely adore your sons. They are the cutest things ever that will eventually turn into honorable warriors. But for now all you need to do was give them your attention and love.
A few minutes passed and that was enough tummy time for your boys. You and Kuai Liang picked them up. They stopped being fussy the moment they were in your arms. This whole time you and Kuai Liang have been doing the right thing. You were worried about nothing. Your babies are doing fine. You are doing fine, mama! Kuai Liang took hold of your hand and squeezed it gently as a sign to just relax.
Kuai Liang thanked Hanzo for his help. Though he didn’t do much anything was still helpful. The only thing Hanzo asked of him is to not ask him to babysit, they ain’t that close.
Once Hanzo left you two seemed to be in a better mood knowing that you both were parenting well. For some reason others in the clan took that as a signal to approach you two with wide smiles. They seemed giddy about something.
“Since you both are more comfortable…does that mean we get to hold them?” One clansman asked.
Even the toughest warriors can’t help but to gush at a pair of well-behaved babies. But your husband will tell them to,
“Get back to training!”
Yap notes: I’m sorry if this is too short I tried. You legit can’t do much with newborns because they are like potatoes, they don’t even know they exist. I would like to do more with mk11 Kuai Liang and im just sad I might have botched this. If you want me to try something else with him or possibly redo this I understand.
#mortal kombat#mk1#mortal kombat 1#mortal kombat1#mortal kombat x reader#mortal kombat x you#mk x reader#mk x you#mk fanfic#kuai liang x you#kuai liang x reader#mk11 kuai liang#kuai liang#kuai liang mk11#mortal kombat kuai liang#sub zero x you#sub zero x reader#sub zero
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꥟ luke castellan x f!reader
꥟ angst. based off of “a house in nebraska” by ethel cain. also kind of “loml” by taylor swift because that song plays a part in every piece of angst i write. :)
꥟ notes: idk guys i was feeling really sad for some reason so here’s this. i don’t love it but i was playing around with a different writing style and i really like it… let me know what yall think tho!!!! also the next installment in dancing with our hands tied is in the works as we speak
꥟ W.C: 2.1k
꥟ m.list
You’d met Luke on a muddy mattress on the floor in the middle of an abandoned house in Nebraska.
It’d been by complete coincidence. Two run away half-bloods seeking refuge anywhere they could, even if it was in a cold, dirty house.
“I didn’t know anyone was staying here.” A then fourteen-year-old Luke had mumbled, brown eyes darting across your body suspiciously. You swallowed, slowly standing and doing your best to discreetly wipe the leaves off of your shorts.
You’d studied him. Taking in the numerous cuts all over his body, all the way to his worn-down backpack filled to the brim, waying on down his shoulders. “Neither did I.”
Luke sniffed, but didn’t make any moves to leave. Neither did you. Instead, you just leaned against the wall, arms crossed over your chest.
“What are you running from?” You eventually drawled out. If the question surprised the boy, he didn’t show it. Instead, he slipped his backpack off and let it drop to the floor. “I don’t know.”
You snorted. How ridiculous was that? Running from something you weren’t even sure of.
Yet, you understood.
“What are you running from?”
The question doesn’t surprise you. Honestly, you were expecting it. You just shrugged, allowing your head to slump against the wall. “I don’t know.”
Maybe it was fate, maybe it was the God's doing—some cruel joke they used as a stress relief, or maybe it was just pure coincidence. But if there was one thing you knew, it was that meeting Luke Castellan had been the start of something you’d never be able to understand.
Something beautiful, pure, and just so right.
Something devastating, dirtied, and just so wrong.
“Guess we’re not so different then.”
You smirked, eyes filled with mirth. “I guess not.”
Luke studied you for a moment, searching for something you weren’t sure of. But, then he reached down and unzipped his bag, pulling out various items. A hoodie, some comic books, a dark blue water bottle, and then finally— a bag of white cheddar popcorn.
He popped open the bag, then stuck his dirtied hands into the bag and pulled a handful out. He tilted his head back and let them fall into his mouth, and then threw chews he said, “Want some?”
You pushed off the wall, stomach growling and desperate. “Hell yes.”
You and Luke spent three days inside that house. Just the two of you, with no Gods and no quests. No parents and no monsters. Just two kids, running from something they weren’t sure of.
And maybe that was how it was always supposed to be. Just you and Luke in that house in Nebraska. But, then Grover had found you and told you about the Gods and Camp Half-Blood. And devastatingly, you had chosen to leave.
—
At some point, you’d come to terms that Camp Half-Blood had been the thing you’d been looking for. Whether it was subconsciously or not, you’d always been meant to end up there.
And not just because of your Godly parents, but because it meant you’d be with Luke.
Luke, who’s become your best friend somewhere along the way. Luke, who’d seen you at your lowest and you his. Luke, who you’d somehow fallen in love with without ever meaning to.
Luke, who’d left you without a single word.
There were no words to explain the pain that constantly weighs down on your heart. The never ending nauseousness. Never ending tears. Never ending grief.
There was a hole in your heart, one that’d been so viciously ripped out without an apology and still dripped with blood.
“How could he do this?” You whimpered, knees pulled into your chest as you stared out at the lake, stars hanging in the sky like patterns.
Annabeth sighs, her braided hair pulled back into a ponytail. Despite the darkness of the night, you can still see the heavy bags that hang under her eyes. “I don’t know.”
There’s no way to respond, not when your throat begins to ache and you can feel the familiar warble forming in your unspoken words. You look out at the water, and you remember your last conversation with him.
He’d looked the same, though you’re not sure why you expected him to look any different. You remember the smile on your face when he’d dragged you out here, how the darkness had made it feel like you were the only two left in the world.
Now, it just reminded you of how alone you were.
“Luke, why did you drag me out here?” You’d asked between giggles, cheeks flushed and eyes wide. You’d looked up at him as if he’d hung the stars over your head, and sometimes, you were sure you’d thought he had.
He’d just shrugged, leading you to the edge of the lake and grabbing your hand. The touch had been so familiar that it didn’t even phase you. He’d sat down, and you’d followed him without so much as a word.
“Do you remember the first time we met?” He asked, and you’d nodded. How could you ever forget that house in Nebraska?
“I could never forget.”
Luke smiled, looking out at the water with an indescribable look in his eyes. Maybe that’s when you should’ve known— when you couldn’t read him. You’d always been able to read him. But you’d stupidly chopped it up to you being tired and never thought anything of it. Maybe if you had, things could’ve been different.
“Do you ever miss it?” He asked.
Your eyebrows furrowed, and you shrugged. “Miss what?”
He sighs, leaning back on his hands and letting his head fall towards you. “When it was just us in that house and… we didn’t know about all of this? When we were just kids running from something that we had no idea even existed?”
The question had surprised you, but you did your best not to show it. Honestly, you didn’t ever really even think about that. You had everything you needed at Camp Half-Blood, why would you ever miss a place where you’d felt the most confused?
But, at the same time, the thought of it leaves an ache in your heart that you can’t quite understand. The place had been the beginning of something you’d never thought you’d deserved to have, it’d been where you'd met Luke.
Maybe you should miss it.
“Now that I’m thinking about it, yeah. But, I’ve never, like, lost sleep over it.”
Luke didn’t say anything. Didn’t even make a noise. He just stared out at the lake.
“Why are you asking?” You finally asked.
Luke sighed, shaking his head softly in a way that made him look older than he was. As if he’d seen things no one else had. “It’s just been on my mind lately.”
Your lips curled up into a small smile, and your hand found his in the grass, laying over it in a comforting manner. “Why?”
Luke looked at you like he wanted to say something. Like he had a million things on his chest that he desperately wanted to let spill out. “I’m not sure.”
You just hummed, thumb tracing shapes into the skin of his hand.
Luke leaned up suddenly, his brown eyes searching yours and smile lines prominent. “Let’s swear that one day we’ll live there. We’ll get real good jobs so we can fix it up and everything.”
You giggled, but not in a mocking way. More of a surprised way. “What about when we get married? Are we just gonna live there with our spouses?” You asked. You’d discovered long ago that you loved Luke in a different way than he loved you, and had come to terms with it. So asking questions like this didn’t hurt you as much anymore.
But, Luke just looked confused. His eyebrows furrowed and his head slightly tilted. “What do you mean?”
You picked at the stems of grass in the ground and shrugged, suddenly embarrassed. “Well, I don’t think your future wife is really going to enjoy living in the same house as your best friend.”
Silence followed for a few moments before Luke laughed. Actually laughed.
You rolled your eyes, pushing his shoulder and crossing your arms over your chest. “You’re such an ass.”
Luke took a moment to catch his breath, before finally, with red cheeks and slightly glassy eyes he said, “I’d always thought my future wife would be my best friend.”
At first, his statement hurts you. He’d always planned on replacing you? It leaves a sickening feeling in your stomach.
But then you look at him. Actually look at him. And you realize what he meant. “Oh.” You murmur.
Luke snorts, “Yeah. Oh.”
Your mouth goes dry, jaw dropping in shock. What were you supposed to say? Was Luke admitting feelings for you, or was this just a platonic thing?
Luke must’ve been able to read your thoughts, though you aren’t sure why you ever thought he couldn’t, and through a widening grin he says, “Don’t overthink it, okay? Just… let’s just be us for a second. Without The Gods and Chiron and camp. Just us. Like it was in Nebraska.”
You just nod, because what could you even say to that? And, besides, you’d take any moment alone with Luke that you could. Because you loved him, and maybe he loved you too.
You leaned your head on his shoulder, knees pushing into your chest as you looked out at the lake and stars.
Luke Castellan was your best friend. Luke Castellan was the love of your life. Luke Castellan was yours, and nothing would ever change that.
Until it did.
You wish you could remember that day better, but you can’t. It had seemed so mundane- a normalcy you had come to miss.
You and Luke, together like always. Percy, Annabeth, and Grover had returned from their quest, and you’d been so happy for them.
You think you remember Luke being happy too, but now… you weren’t sure.
You remember wandering around camp looking for him, and sometimes, you wish you’d never found him. Had never stumbled across it, had never been scarred with seeing the boy you loved like that.
Had never felt the gruesome hands of betrayal wrap around your throat.
“Luke, what are you doing?” You remember saying, watching as he pointed his sword at Percy like he was an enemy.
Luke had stiffened, that much you know. You think there was a flash of regret in his eyes, a flash of unsureness.
“This doesn’t have anything to do with you.” He’d said, eyes never looking away from Percy.
Percy, who looked so hurt and shocked.
“What are you doing?” You had cried again, taking a step closer. Finally, his gaze ripped away from Poseidon's son and to you, and sometimes in your nightmares, you can still feel the way it burned into you.
“Y/N, please, leave.”
His hands shook as he said it, but the sword never faltered from Percy’s neck.
You think it was here that you realized something bad was happening. That this wasn’t some sick joke. This was real. Luke was really doing this.
You remember the tears more than anything. The hot, fat tears that ran down your cheeks like a never ending storm.
But, Luke’s face morphed into something you’d never seen. He looked angry— no, he looked furious. At what you’d never know, but he turned to Percy again and said, “Last chance.”
But Percy turned down whatever it was he was asking of him again, and then Luke glanced at you for the last time.
His brown eyes, once filled with love, were now empty. Dull. Something you had never seen in him before.
And he didn’t say anything when he left. He just did. Running away from Percy, from camp, from you.
From that house.
You don’t remember screaming, you just know that you had. You’d felt the rawness in your voice the day after.
And even now, after a week, you sit out at the lake with Annabeth and wonder why. Why did he do it? What could’ve been more important than the future he’d planned with you days before?
“Annabeth?” You murmur, eyes searching hers.
She just hums, and it’s then that you understand. Why he had reminded you of the house, why he’d planted the dream of living in it in your head.
“Do you think when all of this is over you’d want to live in Nebraska with me?”
#luke castellan x you#luke castellan x reader#luke castellan fanfic#luke castellan#percy jackson and the olympians x reader#percy jackson fanfic#percy jackson and the olympians#charlie bushnell#charlie bushnell x reader#a house in nebraska#angst#luke castellan angst#kat thinks 🙋♀️#kats works
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“Do you feel weird?” Jen says, the car window rolled down at the wind whipping her new hair back from her forehead to reveal the smear of dye along her hairline.
“No, it’s just another normal summer,” I reply. The road to Wexford stretches out ahead of us and the sky looks big, vast, flat, like porcelain.
“Without your family.”
“Yeah, it’s a relief. Can you imagine Chris and Colette in close quarters like that? Howling at each other all summer? I think I’d drown myself in the sea.”
“Well, I think you’re a fool to let the Shane and Joe stay.”
I pull a face, “Why?”
“Because they’ll ruin the place. They won’t clean up after themselves.”
“Neither will I,” I grin at her as she scrunches her face up in disgust, and I mess up her hair, subtly checking my hand in case any of it came off on me, “You chose this, Jenny, a summer with the boys. It's days of playing PlayStation and leaving our dirty dishes in the sink.”
“Wouldn’t you have rather we'd gone to Italy or something?”
“What? No. I love the beach house. It’s going to be fun.”
She eyes me sceptically, and I know that she can tell that I’m putting on this positive attitude to disguise the weird, empty feelings left since the breakup. That version of me, the sad, longing, regretful one, though, is not for Jen, it's for me alone, in the lonely hours when night spills into morning, and my thumb hesitates on Michelle’s number.
I’m always on the brink of calling her and taking it all back, because I miss her, and being with her again is a guaranteed way to make this rotten heartbreak disappear, or even just to postpone it until the last moment, until I really have to leave.
It’s never felt like this before. I never walked away from a relationship with this cocktail of tumultuous emotion swirling around in me, like anger, sadness, grief, longing, yearning for her and the way it felt to touch her, while at the same time practically shuddering with relief that it’s over. When I think about the bad things, the shouting and ranting and the throwing and the silent treatment, it’s easier for me. Easier than remembering the good things, like right now as I grip the steering wheel and visualise that series of moles on her hip that looks like a constellation of stars. I relive the moment I kissed them one by one, the way that she laughed as squirmed as my lips tickled her skin and I threw my arms around her to hold her captive.
I refocus. Jen is saying something.
“Kelly?” I repeat, plucking one of her words out of the air, “um, sorry, what did you say again?”
“Yeah, about Kelly and her friends,” she says, “I said Shane is driving them down tomorrow.”
“Oh, surely they’re not staying with us too, are they?” there’s only so many rooms at the beach house…
She snorts, “No, they’ll be in the Healy’s mobile. Their parents are letting them use it.”
I pause, “I didn’t know Kelly had friends.”
Jen slaps my leg and I flinch away, cackling.
“You have to promise me that you’ll be nice this summer,” she warns, still holding up her hand like she’s ready to smack me again, “you have to promise that your days of bullying Kelly are in the past.”
I gasp in mock outrage, “she bullies me!”
“She clearly has issues. You have to stop provoking her. And Liam too!”
“I do not provoke Liam.”
“No, but you’re… generally not nice to him.”
“Not true.”
“You are! You and the boys, you become this nasty little mob when you’re all together, and you’re not as funny as you think you are.”
“I’ll be perfectly nice to everyone this summer,” I insist. “I won’t put a foot out of line.”
“I don’t believe you,” she says, but I can tell she’s done talking about it.
She slumps back in her chair and turns the radio on. Again, it’s Jason Derulo.
“You know this song is growing on me?” She says, and I just groan.
We let it play.
youtube
Beginning // Prev // Next
#lucky boy 2010#JASON DERRUUUULO#non ironically listening to this and everything else on the billboard top 100 2010 to get into the mood#I feel 16 again#Youtube
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96 for cadina?
96. “Can’t you stay a little longer?”
Cady starts spending a lot of time with Regina after the spring fling dance.
Despite no longer being in the neck collar, Regina still isn't able to do all that much without needing to take breaks, and she can't drive with the pain medication she's taking. Everyone seems to be tiptoeing around Regina, like she's both fragile and dangerous at the same time, and Cady doesn't think anyone else has visited Regina since she came home from the hospital.
So they watch a lot of movies and TV shows in Regina's cozy home theater—things Regina has already seen but Cady hasn't, so when Regina falls asleep in the middle, exhausted by her medication, she doesn't miss anything. It's a good system.
What is not a good system for Cady is the way Regina cuddles up to her, falling asleep on her shoulder or occasionally in Cady's lap entirely. They always start with a respectable foot of space between them, but the more tired Regina gets, the closer she gravitates.
Cady's heart has been pounding so hard so often lately that she suspects she might be entirely indestructible, the world's first immortal person, because this surely should have killed her by now.
It's a Saturday afternoon and they're watching the second or third Bring It On movie—Cady honestly doesn't remember which. Regina seems particularly tired today, and Cady remembers her mentioning that she had a physical therapy appointment yesterday after school.
About twenty minutes in, Regina's eyes started to droop. It's a domino effect: Regina gets sleepy. Regina starts leaning into Cady, softly at first and then resting her head entirely on Cady's shoulder. Regina shuffles around, trying to get comfortable. Cady, like a person who is capable of handling this, guides Regina to lie down with her head in Cady's lap.
And that's how Cady winds up running her fingers through Regina's hair, so much affection swelling in her chest it's almost painful.
She's always had strange reactions to Regina, from the day they met. Regina's always made her nervous, but the more time they spent together, the less Cady felt genuinely anxious, and it turned into... something else. Butterflies in her stomach when Regina laughed and touched her arm. The heady, lightheaded feeling she would get when she got a whiff of Regina's perfume. The way her brain slowed down and then ceased processing new information when Regina flipped her hair and smiled at Cady.
And now, this... whatever it is they're doing. Cady is certain Regina doesn't view her as anything more than a person who is nice to her when no one else is and also doubles as a good pillow—while Cady spends more of the movie watching Regina than the screen.
When the movie ends, Cady checks her phone. It's starting to get late, and her mother will probably be calling soon. Despite every bone in her body aching to stay here with the gentle weight of Regina in her lap and the softness of Regina's hair under her fingers, Cady starts easing herself out from under Regina.
Regina stirs, eyes blinking open slowly. Cady thinks she looks particularly adorable sleep-soft and groggy.
"Where're you going?" Regina complains.
"It's almost eight," Cady says apologetically. "I should—"
"Can't you stay a little longer?" Regina cuts in, voice soft.
It's like Regina reached inside Cady's chest and squeezed her heart. She's always gotten a little thrill out of Regina explicitly asking Cady to hang out with her—the feeling of being wanted, even if only as a friend.
"I..." Cady relaxes back into the couch. "Yeah, for a bit."
Regina makes a pleased sound as Cady resumes stroking her hair without even really thinking about it, and for several minutes neither of them speak.
"Cady?" Regina says quietly.
"Yeah?" Cady asks.
"Thanks," Regina says, looking up at her, eyes kind of sad, "for coming. And for staying."
It takes Cady a moment to find her voice, to dig it out from under the heavy tangle of emotions in her chest.
"Always," Cady promises.
Regina smiles up at her, and Cady thinks she'd endure a million more torturous movies just to see Regina smile.
#cadina#mean girls#mean girls 2024#mean girls the musical#mean girls broadway#cady heron#regina george#ask#anonymous#prompts#soft hours ig
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another reason i dislike the way this conflict is written is because it opened the floodgates for certain parts of the fandom to really mischaracterize others—namely, sokka and zuko.
some of it is light-hearted and, i think, not ill-intentioned. jokes about them being more okay with killing abound in the fandom, though, and while there’s a kernel of truth to them, i think they often ignore context.
and of course, there are people i feel speaking in much worse faith, criticizing them both for “bullying aang” over it and insisting they’re morally wrong to suggest aang needs to kill ozai.
but once again: context. they are harsh because the situation demands it. neither of them know another way (and by the way, neither does aang or the audience at this point) to defeat ozai, and if they don’t defeat ozai, the earth kingdom will be destroyed and the world will collapse.
people talk about zuko and sokka like they’re bloodthirsty killers, just, a-okay with killing no matter what the situation, but they’re not.
sokka is a pragmatist. he has never been a killing for killing’s sake guy. when he wanted to leave zuko to die back in the siege of the north, sure, he hated him, but that’s not why he wanted to leave him. zuko kept chasing them. it would simply be less dangerous and make their lives easier to leave him behind. sokka killed combustion man because he wouldn’t back down even when the guy who hired him was trying to get him to stop, so there was very clearly no reasoning with the guy, and they would have died if they hadn’t stopped him. likewise, sokka kills the soldiers who are approaching him and toph as they hang from the airship in order to protect himself an to protect toph. he kills in situations where he and his friends would have died if he didn’t. and it’s frankly uncomfortable that the rhetoric here is the main dark-skinned boy in the cast is unnecessarily violent when that’s never been his MO.
for his part, the narrative actually goes out of its way to show zuko is not someone who has the stomach for killing, whatever he tries to tell himself when he’s still a villain. as early as episode three, he can’t even being himself to burn zhao at all during their agni kai, let alone kill him. similarly, after attacking zhao in the siege of the north, he chooses to offer his hand. in his fight in zuko alone, most of what’s doing is fighting defensively, and even when he gets back up in a flurry of flame at the end, he doesn’t strike to kill gow, only incapacitating him. even hiring combustion man, while absolutely wrong of him to do, shows him not having the stomach to go through with it himself. and despite having every reason to hate ozai, when ozai tries to kill him in the day of black sun, zuko doesn’t strike to kill him as he redirects the lightning, instead aiming below him because he believed it’s not his place to kill ozai and because he’s learned not to be goaded into violence, which is powerful in itself. him advocating for aang to kill ozai is because he doesn’t see another way out (and, as established, how could he?) not because he’s out for blood in general. it’s complicated, of course, given his history of abuse with ozai, but that’s why zuko is so determined, because he’s finally realized who his father is and how much harm he’ll do if he’s not stopped.
as frustrated as i am by the fandom rhetoric around zuko and sokka when it comes to this, though, at least they get to express their misgivings and perspectives.
interestingly, i’ve not often seen katara get quite the same treatment—not that i want her to, but it’s interesting because katara tries to express her concerns, and aang and the narrative don’t really let her.
she says, “aang, we do understand, it’s just—“ but gets cut-off before we can hear her perspective at all. if i had to guess, though, it would have been something like “it’s just that we have to stop ozai no matter what”, which is, in essence, what zuko and sokka are also saying.
but katara doesn’t get to. at once, the creators makes sure she isn’t allowed to verbally disagree with aang (despite showing she wants to) here in a way that has a lasting impact on how people remember her own perspective in this conflict, while also making sure she gets interrupted, yelled at, and blamed for not having an answer aang also doesn’t have. it’s just… it’s very frustrating.
#atla critical#long post //#ask to tag //#aang critical#atla rewatch ‘24#fandom critical#sozin’s comet#sokka#zuko#katara#racism //#misogyny //
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Tachi fic time!
Michizou didn’t like talking to his parents on the best of days. And today was a far cry from a good day.
It was his own fault really. He’d gotten ahead of himself, so confident in his abilities that he’d gotten sloppy. Although, realistically, even if the plan had gone off perfectly, this still probably would’ve been the result.
Still, sitting in front of the family he hadn’t seen in months with a man he’d met only a day ago wasn’t ideal. Especially when that man was currently staring at his parents like they’d told him to kill someone.
And technically they had.
“…only to show up out of nowhere with an escort from the military police! Honestly, I can’t imagine where we went wrong! If your brother were here-“
“My brother is dead.”
“And it should’ve been you instead!”
“That’s enough.”
The man didn’t yell. He hadn’t yelled once since Michizou had met him. Even after Michizou had pointed a sword at him. The man’s own sword, to be specific.
His mother had the decently to look a bit embarrassed, though she made sure to level her son with a look reminding him whose fault it was that she was scolded.
“This is the second time you’ve made such a comment in the four minutes since I’ve been here. Surely you, a mother who has already lost a son to war would know the pain that comes with losing a child.”
“With all due respect, sir,” his father practically spat, “you know nothing of our family. Our lives. We’ve been grieving our son for a long time.”
“And forgetting about the son that still lives.”
His mother grabbed a napkin off the table.
Michizou couldn’t help but roll his eyes, knowing exactly where this was going. She kicked him under the table.
“You don’t understand how hard it’s been.”
She dabbed at her, very much still dry, eyes with the cloth napkin. “Every time I look at him, I see Shunzen’s face. Having him here, it’s just painful. And he’s so difficult! Always running off and getting into trouble! Dragging our family name through the mud! We’d all be better off without him!”
Michizou crossed his arms. He could see the man next to him tense up a bit at the statement.
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do! I mean it with all of my heart!”
She turned to him.
“I wish you were dead.”
And there it was.
She could only bitch about him for so long before reminding him how little she wanted him.
The man in the uniform stood up, pulling out the sword from his belt and turning to the young teenager. He held the tip to his throat, emotionless.
“H-hey wait!”
“If I were to kill him right now, would your words still hold true I wonder?”
Neither of his parents flinched. In fact, they seemed completely neutral. Detached.
“I said I’d return the stuff! Y-you’re not actually gonna kill me, right?!”
None of the adults looked at him, busy with whatever pissing contest they were having with each other.
Maybe he could take this chance to escape? The man was strong, abnormally so, but he was distracted. And his weapon was really only metal. If Michizou could disarm him quick enough…
He sheathed the blade.
“…understood. We’re leaving.”
“Huh?”
The man fully turned to him. “We’re not wanted here. Therefore, there’s no point in us sticking around.”
He practically pulled the thirteen year-old out of his chair, dragging him to the door.
“Thank you for the tea.”
His voice remained even, his words polite, but there was a quiet rage in his eyes.
“Good riddance!”
Despite the years of hearing the same words over and over, it still stung just a bit. He’d come so close to being killed in front of them, and they couldn’t even pretend to care?!
The man stopped suddenly on the stoop.
“Tachihara.”
“Michizou.”
“Tachihara.”
Michizou glared at him. “That’s my brother’s last name.”
“It’s yours too.”
“It’s not. They don’t like me using it.”
The man spared a brief glance back at the door. “Do you really care what they like?”
Fair point.
“…fine. Tachihara.”
The man nodded. “I don’t like people like that.”
His grip tighter a bit, causing Tachihara to wince. Seriously, just who the hell was this man?!
With a muttered apology, he let go, patting the boy a bit too hard on the back instead.
“People like what?”
He’d never actually been arrested before. The police nearby knew him and usually let him off with a warning. He wasn’t a fan by any means, but he was at least a bit grateful, even if it meant stomaching the pitying looks when they learned he was caught stealing things like bread or bottles of water.
“People who sit and look down on others. They don’t know what it’s like, being on the frontlines, watching your men die, yet they claim to have it worse. Like the world revolves around them. That’s what they do. The ones on top.”
He began walking down the driveway. Confused, Tachihara followed him. He had a pretty strong feeling this was about more than just his parents.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m taking you to meet the others.”
As if that explained anything.
Still, the man was waiting now. Watching him with those intense eyes that bore into his parents just minutes before.
He took a few hesitant steps after him. He was expected to follow, right? Or was he getting ahead of himself?
“What others?”
The man smiled warmly, though the coldness in his eyes wasn’t entirely gone, along with a hint of something Tachihara couldn’t quite place.
“You have a strong ability. With my help, you could be incredibly powerful.”
“So…”
“I’m offering you a job.”
“…and if I refuse?”
“Well, I could always make good on my word and kill you for real.”
Tachihara stared at him, eyes wide. None of this made any sense. Seriously, just who was this guy?
The man’s gaze was cold as the steel Tachihara controlled. He took a few large strides over, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder.
After a moment of intense eye contact (and the youngest Tachihara almost forgetting to breathe), the man grinned once again and let out a loud laugh. His unpredictability was consistent, the boy would give him that.
“Relax. I’ll give you time to think about it on the way over.”
Thus, thirteen year-old Tachihara Michizou found himself in a car with the famed war hero Fukuchi Ouchi, driving outside the city limits.
For what it was worth, Fukuchi was kind- in a strict, try-hard step dad kind of way. Though, somewhere in the back of his mind…
He never actually said he wouldn’t kill me.
(@starlightshadowsworld bc I had abt an hour on the train earlier)
#bsd#bungo stray dogs#bungou stray dogs#bsd tachihara#tachihara michizou#tachihara#bsd fukuchi#fukuchi ouchi#bsd hunting dogs#hunting dogs#fic#bsd fic
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It's weird how often Catelyn's virginity comes up in the books (LF telling the entire court for years that he took her maidenhead to the point where the Lannister brothers use it to downplay her vritue and honor .... disgusting man). I wonder how that is going to come into play with Sansa, since she now knows that Baelish believed he slept with Cat but actually took Lysa's virginity. Also crazy that one man's word has this much reach :(
What I find interesting is how irrelevant it ultimately is. No one is running a big smear campaign maligning the morals of the Tullys and the North or laughing at Ned. The biggest leverage that Littlefinger gets out of it is underscoring the level of trust and influence he may have over them. Catelyn is aghast at the moment Tyrion brings it up but doesn't spare it much thought beyond that.
So GRRM is introducing this idea not for itself but for the overall concept.
Sansa isn't shocked when she hears this or reflects on it later, either.
You said it was my mother you loved. But of course Lady Catelyn was dead, so even if she had loved Petyr secretly and given him her maidenhood, it made no matter now.
(ASOS, Sansa VI)
Really, it reveals something about the flexibility of social mores in the right context. If pregnancy isn't an issue, a lady's virtue is mostly a matter of individual opinion. If everyone agrees it doesn't matter, then it doesn't matter. If someone takes issue with it, it gains importance. The same subject comes up for Sansa with Mya Stone, for whom this lost virtue is more of an issue because of her bastard status and how public she was about her attachment to Mychel Redfort.
Brune would be a good match for a bastard girl like Mya Stone, she thought. It might be different if her father had acknowledged her, but he never did. And Maddy says that she's no maid either. [...]
Mychel Redfort was the one. [...] Mychel was the best young swordsman in the Vale, and gallant . . . or so poor Mya thought, till he wed one of Bronze Yohn's daughters. Lord Horton gave him no choice in the matter, I am sure, but it was still a cruel thing to do to Mya."
This is, incidentally, the exact same scenario that Cat knew would come to pass back in AGOT, also not judging Mya. Cat never judged Lysa for her mystery affair, either. And, fittingly, neither girl withholds sympathy for Mya in this. Nor does Sansa judge Myranda for her affair with Marillion. Love and pleasure both are justification enough.
(Meanwhile, she doesn't make the argument to Littlefinger's molestation that it's immoral in terms of sexual conduct, but that he's a) married, and b) could have been her father, and c) pleading to be left alone.)
I think this is less important in and of itself than in what it implies about Sansa's view of sexual virtue, which is a great deal more liberal than some might expect in a world where physical virginity is officially prized and the mere act of copulation has the legal power to determine the validity of a marriage.
This is the same book where Margaery is subjected to a physical examination of her maidenly status - which everyone understands to be ridiculously devoid of sense, as a "maidenhead" is vulnerable to all kinds of physical activities, such as horseriding. But it becomes evidence in a case of high treason (adultery) where physical virtue is tied to matters of state.
The tension between official and legal expectations of virtue and tacit acceptance of indulgence - duty and love/desire - is likely to continue to play a role in Sansa's arc, and both in the sense of temptation and indulgence, and in the sense of hypocritical legal technicalities rearing their head.
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Neither movies talk about Feyd’s darlings very much. Does he have any personal connections with them?? Does he take pleasure in having sex with them?? How often does he interact with them??
i see them as trophies. in my humble opinion, i think they’re the wives of his toughest opponents in the arena. he’s killed their husbands, left them as widows, and has taken them as concubines to further humiliate their family. i think they’re fairly new, he would have collected them one after the other forming his own little harem. feyd wouldn’t know anything about them other than the fact that he had beaten their late partners, and he wouldn’t be interested in trying to get to know them personally. now he doesn’t collect the wives of every guy he fights, that would be a bit too much. instead he only takes from those that got the closest to permanently maiming him.
i think he would have enjoyed having sex with them a lot, especially when he was a little bit younger. when he’s fresh off the adrenaline from killing someone, the guards would bring them in (sometimes only one, other times all three) and he would fuck them in front of whoever he’s just killed; doggy style with his pet’s head in the sand near the body so she can lap at the blood. fucking them in front of people especially is a sure-fire way to insert his dominance and his control over his pets and those around him. feyd doesn’t go out of his way to pleasure them though. he goes to them for his pleasure. he’d let them suck his cock, bounce on it; he’d use their holes however he wanted, drag sharpened knives down the harsh planes of their bodies. but he wouldn’t go down on them. he wouldn’t offer them the softness of his touch. the pets wouldn’t care for it either way; he’d hardened them, turned them into monsters that thrive off of blood and cum alone. he prefers positions where he doesn’t have to look at them. i think feyd would also use them as an intimidation tactic. ‘oh you won’t give me what i want? guess i’ll just get my harpies to eat your wife’s brains,’ or ‘obey me or i’ll let them have their way with you,’ (which doesn’t mean anything good trust me; his pets are borderline more fucked up than him)
if he were to interact with them on a daily basis i think feyd would go insane and slaughter them. they’re for fun. for pleasure. not for everyday. they have their own little room, and he’s given them the autonomy to kill whoever wanders too close to their quarters. he feeds them plenty of blood and bodies and that keeps them satiated enough until he needs to fuck something. feyd only brings them out in public public when there’s a particularly strong message he wants to convey. i also think that he doesn’t really enjoy fucking his pets. while yes they do everything he says, they were a bit boring. he only fucks them every couple of days, even if it means he’s more pent up and aggressive because he hasn’t been able to cum in a a wet hole.
#feyd rautha#feyd rautha harkonnen#dune#feyd imagine#feyd smut#feyd x reader#feyd x you#dune imagine#feyd rautha smut#dune smut#feyd headcanon#feyd rautha imagine#feyd oneshot#feyd fanfiction#feyd rautha oneshot#dune fanfiction#dune part two#dune part 2#dune 2#dune blurb#feyd blurb
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The car drove smoothly and silently, a dark shadow on the dimly lit streets of Bludhaven. The interior was muffled—Dick couldn’t hear any of the city noises, or the car, or the driver and the guard sitting up front, neither giving him a second glance. It left him along with his mind, which made it really hard to pretend like he didn’t know what was going on.
He’d been accosted on his way back from the corner store. They’d taken his grocery bags too, the driver slipping the two recyclable cloth bags from his hands like a poised valet while the guard opened the door for him, dropping the bags in the trunk like that wasn’t where Dick’s body was going to end up. Politeness masking threat.
They hadn’t even flashed a weapon at him. They hadn’t needed to. Slade Wilson’s name was enough of a loaded gun.
Dick had thought things were getting better. He’d made a new life for himself, a quieter one, less concerned with the shifting flows of power in the city. He’d thought that if he left them alone, they’d leave him alone. He was a fool.
The dread sitting in Dick’s gut grew larger as they passed through the wrought-iron gates of the Kane family home.
The drive up was a familiar home, the sight of the front door a looming omen. His first step inside felt like something was strangling his lungs, wrapped tight and squeezing like it wouldn’t let go.
He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be here. He’d quit the police force, he’d squared his debts with the Kanes, there was absolutely no reason for him to be dragged back here.
Except for one.
Dick wasn’t led to the parlor he’d visited last time but down, into the basement. They were stopped outside a guarded door. “Mr. Wilson wishes to see Richard Grayson,” his escort said.
The pat-down was impersonal but thorough. Dick’s wallet, phone, and keys were all taken from him. Even a couple of empty candy wrappers were yanked from his pockets. Dick’s stomach twisted into knots as his belongings were taken away, leaving him standing in front of the door with no weapons and no help. He felt uncomfortably bare.
There was a knock before Dick was motioned inside. The room was another parlor—bigger, with groups of armchairs by an electric fire, light dim and intimate. A bar spanned the back wall and shadowed mirrors gave the impression that the room was larger and more maze-like than it actually was. A smoking room, though Dick could smell no smoke. Where men of a certain affiliation could drink and play cards while they discussed business.
The room was nearly empty. Guards at each corner, silent and still, like statues in the darkened room, and Wintergreen, sitting by the fire, watching Dick with a solemn expression. And, of course, Wilson himself, leaning against another armchair and watching Dick approach, his face so rigid it could’ve been carved from stone.
“Grayson,” Wilson said, voice cold and sharp, like a blade of ice scraping down Dick’s spine. His eye glimmered in the low light, his gaze searing. There was no scowl, no raised voice, no narrowed eyebrows, and yet all Dick could sense was burning fury.
Wilson was not a man inclined to rage.
“Mr. Wilson,” Dick said, as evenly as he could manage, resisting the urge to cross his arms. He didn’t ask any questions. He wasn’t sure Wilson’s control would stretch that far.
“I had to visit the hospital yesterday,” Wilson said, steady and even. “Do you know why?”
Dick swallowed. The sound felt obscenely loud in the silent room. Dick wasn’t sure if anyone else was breathing—he certainly wasn’t.
“Rose,” Dick said quietly. “Rose broke her arm during class yesterday.”
Working at a gym was a breath of fresh air and Dick loved teaching. Even the addition of Rose Wilson to his class, signed up by her fiercely glowering older brother, hadn’t rung the warning bells. Rose was a kid, after all, and Dick didn’t judge children for their parents. The Kanes made no motion to interfere at the gym and Rose was treated like any other student, albeit one dropped off and picked up by an armed driver in a bulletproof car with a bodyguard lurking in the lobby all session.
“Mm. At a class we send her to for her enrichment and entertainment. A class we’re certainly not expected to being contacted by to relate a major injury.” Dick winced as Wilson straightened fluidly off of the armchair, his presence a black hole of fury. “What. Happened.”
“It was an accident,” Dick said weakly, trying not to flinch back as Wilson strode towards him. The man’s hands were empty but that didn’t help the shrieking klaxons in Dick’s head. “A couple of girls got tangled up when they were practicing on the mats. It’s no one’s fault.”
“No one’s fault,” Wilson repeated in a tone of polite skepticism, like he was giving Dick the opportunity to correct himself.
“It was an accident,” Dick said again, for a lack of anything else to say. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Wilson, but there’s always an element of risk in practicing—”
“Give me your arm.”
“What?” Dick asked blankly.
Wilson didn’t repeat his question, merely held out his hand, waiting. Dick swallowed, the knot in his stomach a living, growing thing, and offered his hand to the man.
The grip was firm but gentle, not bruising or twisting. “Rose broke her right arm,” Wilson informed him, as though Dick didn’t know, as though he hadn’t been there, consoling the crying girl as he called for her bodyguard and an ambulance. “Clean break. At least a month in a cast.”
Wilson eased the cuff of Dick’s shirt up past his elbow and observed his arm, turning it from side to side. Dick let him, heart pounding his ears, not daring to put up any resistance.
“Have you broken an arm before?” Wilson asked conversationally.
“Yes.”
“Remember what it felt like?”
“Yes.” His throat was as dry as sandpaper.
Wilson traced lightly across the skin, finally gripping Dick’s elbow in one hand, his wrist in another. “It takes somewhere around a hundred and fifty pounds of pressure to break a human bone,” Wilson informed him. Dick didn’t move. Dick didn’t breathe. Dick didn’t dare. “An injury here would hobble you for a month. Are you right-handed?” Dick mutely shook his head. “I suppose it won’t cause too much hardship then.”
Wilson’s grip tightened—and let go.
Dick took in a shuddering breath. He choked on it when Wilson stepped past him and behind him, fitting himself against Dick’s back. He could see the man in the mirror opposite them, looming behind Dick, his expression shadowed and his stare dark.
“But here—” a finger jabbed at Dick, low on his spine—“here, a fracture would do considerably more harm. Leave you lying on a bed for weeks. If the bone doesn’t displace further and slice the spinal cord. Then you’d never be able to walk again.”
Dick stared at himself in the mirror, ashen, wide-eyed, and utterly still.
“Up here,” the finger traced its way up his spine, stopping mid-back, “it’ll destroy a lot of voluntary organ signals. Things like pissing and shitting.”
Wilson spoke with the kind of unconcern one would use to talk about the weather.
“And up here,” Wilson murmured, voice dropping to something low and gravelly as his finger traced up to the base of Dick’s neck, “you’d never be able to twitch a finger again.” Dick’s fingers jerked. “What a shame that would be, for such a star acrobat.”
The lump in his throat was too big to swallow. Too big to speak. Wilson wouldn’t, he couldn’t—but he could. No one could stop him. Dick was all alone in the lion’s den and no one was interested in saving him from being mauled. He couldn’t even turn to look at Wintergreen, to beg him with a beseeching gaze, still transfixed by the sight of them in the mirror.
He looked small, standing in front of Slade. Fragile. Breakable.
Wilson met his gaze in the mirror. “Who caused the incident?” he asked evenly. His fingers curled around Dick’s neck, thumb pressing in at the top of his spine.
Dick distantly registered his mouth opening. “It was an accident,” he said, hollow and faraway.
“Give me the name.”
Wilson was scowling now, visible anger to match the obvious fury. Dick remembered the stories of what happened to the people that hurt Joey. The darker rumors that they all pretended didn’t happen. The lengths Wilson would, could, and had proven to go to when his family had been harmed.
When Dick blinked, a tear traced its way down his cheek.
“No.”
It came out strangled, but still it came out. Dick wanted to close his eyes, to turn away from the impending violence, but he was frozen in place by nothing more than the threat of a single hand, watching the predator at his back.
He couldn’t twitch a single finger.
“Excuse me?” A hint of fury. An out. Offering the opportunity for Dick to change his answer, to throw himself on whatever mercy the mobster possessed by selling out another.
“No.” This time it came easier.
Wilson held his gaze, a long, unbroken moment that felt half like a dream. Like Dick was already dead and this was what his mind had clung to to stave off the realization. The world was reduced to Wilson’s single burning ice blue eye and the intent in them.
The fingers uncurled. Dick didn’t fully register they were gone until Wilson stepped back, turning away from him and heading to an armchair. “Make me an Old Fashioned,” he said curtly, joining Wintergreen near the fire.
Dick turned to look at him, still rooted to the spot. “What?” he scraped out hoarsely.
“The drink,” Wilson clarified.
Dick stared at him a moment longer before he forced his legs to move. The first one felt like walking through toffee, his limbs jerking like they were attached to puppet strings, but he managed to head towards the bar. The thought of it was slightly ludicrous—Dick was going to be tortured, but goddamn if Wilson had to make his own drinks—and Dick clung to that as he stumbled to the bar with shaking legs.
It was an additional barrier between him and Wilson, as paltry as the protection was, and Dick gripped the wooden tabletop tight. He tried to slip into a breathing exercise, taking the pause to reorient himself. There had to be a way to change Wilson’s mind. He couldn’t let Wilson do whatever he’d planned to that poor girl. It had been an accident.
Dick found the sugar, the bitters, the glasses and the muddler, plotting furiously, and he was searching for the ice in the freezer when Wilson spoke again.
“Annalise Stryker.”
Dick hit his head on the underside of the bar trying to scramble back up. “What?” he asked, chest squeezing tight again.
“Annalise Stryker is the girl that fell onto my daughter,” Wilson said, watching Dick. “Or at least, that’s how Rose tells it.”
Of course Rose would tell her father what happened. Of course he already knew. The whole thing was—what? An attempt to see how much Dick would volunteer? Whether he would give him a different name? Dick just—there was too much information swirling around his head, combining with panic, lending terror and adrenaline to his muscles.
“It was an accident,” Dick said. He made no attempt to confirm or deny the name. “It was an accident, Mr. Wilson, it was unfortunate, they mixed up a movement and tumbled into each other, that’s all it was. There’s no one to blame.”
“There’s always someone to blame.”
“Mr. Wilson—”
“My drink,” Wilson said, already turning away from him. Dick cursed under his breath and dropped a sugar cube into the glass, his hand trembling as he splashed bitters in after it. The muddler wasn’t a proper weapon, but Dick felt slightly better with it in his hand.
“Please, Mr. Wilson, no one intended to hurt your daughter,” Dick tried again. The sugar cube was breaking apart rather forcefully under his shaky grip. “They’re just children—”
“I was sixteen when I murdered my father,” Wilson responded, not looking back at him. The sugar cube was in as few fragments as Dick’s strained nerves could bear, and he hunted for ice. “It was entirely premediated.” There was a tray with ice blocks and it took him four tries to pry one free with shaking fingers. “Children can be capable of cruelty, Grayson.”
“It was an accident,” Dick repeated, staring at Wilson, willing him to understand.
“Is my drink done?” Wilson asked, disinterested.
Dick’s fingers contracted around the glass. He turned to stare at the wall of bottles, scanning over labels and distantly noting that most of them cost more than a single one of his paychecks. He grabbed the first bottle of whiskey he found.
There’s always someone to blame.
More whiskey sloshed into the glass than he expected, but it didn’t matter, the drink didn’t fucking matter. He dropped a cherry inside and stuck an orange slice on the rim before carrying it to Wilson. Not, altogether, one of the better products of his mixology skills.
Dick waited until Wilson took the glass from him before he spoke. “If you need someone to blame,” he said quietly, “blame me.” Wilson’s gaze tilted back up towards him. “I’m the teacher. It’s my responsibility to watch the class. It’s my responsibility to keep them safe. If someone gets hurt, it’s my fault, not anyone else’s.”
He didn’t know if Wilson had already gone after Annalise. If any of his kids were safe. If this would be enough. But he had to try.
Wilson took a slow, measured sip of the cocktail. “Not bad,” he said.
Dick closed his eyes for a moment, balling his hands into fists before loosening them. “It’s hard to mess up an Old Fashioned,” Dick said tightly.
“I wasn’t talking about the drink.” Wilson was smirking now, amusement lurking in his eye as he leaned back in the armchair. “I know full well that accidents happen, Grayson, and especially during athletic training. But a good teacher minimizes risk. A good teacher protects their students.” He considered Dick, gaze wandering all over. “Even at the cost of themself.”
Dick didn’t understand. The mood in the room had shifted and it didn’t make any sense. Wilson no longer looked like a stalking wolf but a satiated one, indulgently watching the others take their fill. The aura of threat that had hung over Dick like a weighted cloak was abruptly gone.
“I’m not going to harm a single hair on Stryker’s head. Or yours, for that matter. It does Rose some good to see firsthand the price of not being careful enough.” Wilson shrugged lightly. “Children will never learn if you wrap them in a bubble.”
There was no air in the room. Or at least there was none in his lungs. Dick’s legs wavered and Wilson’s eye narrowed when Dick knocked into a side table stumbling back.
“This—this was a test,” Dick said numbly, trying to square together actions and words, trying to fit the terror-inducing fury with the milder amusement. “You were—this whole thing was a test.”
“You might want to sit down,” Wilson said, voice still amused but expression narrowing further.
Dick hadn’t been in danger. The threats weren’t real. Wilson wasn’t going to cripple him, wasn’t going to rend him into little pieces for the affront. Or at least, not since he passed the test.
His hand found the side of an armchair and Dick let himself collapse into it, heart beating violently and fingers still trembling. They were getting worse, in fact, and Dick buried his face in his hands and took several shuddering, choking breaths, each higher and sharper than the last.
He didn’t know when he started crying, but hitched tears masked any sign of footsteps and Dick startled out of his skin when his hand was tugged free and wrapped around a glass. The drink he’d made. “You look like you need it,” Wilson said.
Dick knocked the drink back in one long swallow, sugar crystals crunching in his mouth as the ice kissed his lips. It didn’t make him feel any better, it just added a slow burn to the twisting in his chest. Dick’s next shaky inhale dissolved into fresh tears.
“You’re safe.” Wilson took the glass from his hands and gently set it down on the side table. “No one’s going to hurt you here.”
Dick almost choked on the ridiculousness of it, of being reassured by the man that had him brought to his dungeon and intimated slow, personalized torture. “Says the wolf to the sheep,” he muttered.
Not quite under his breath, apparently.
“You’re hardly a sheep, Officer Grayson,” Wilson gave him a languid smile, thumb settling on Dick’s jaw and nudging it up. “You have claws.”
“I’m not a cop anymore,” Dick pointed out. Strangely, the hand on his face was grounding, settling him in place.
“I’m aware.”
“Then why?” Dick asked, waving a hand at the room. “Why do all this? Why the inquisition?”
Why me?
Wilson’s thumb drifted higher, until it was brushing his lips. The look on Wilson’s face was a threat again, dark and predatory and full of desire, the kind that sent a thrill down Dick’s spine.
“Because you interest me, Richard Grayson.”
Dick swallowed. Watched Wilson follow the movement. “I don’t think it’s a good thing.”
A slow, wicked smile. “Probably not.” He pulled on Dick’s chin and Dick followed the movement, rising up to his feet, transfixed by Wilson’s gaze. “I’m not a good man.”
Wilson kissed gentler than Dick expected, firm but not demanding, languorous and attentive, like he was trying to taste every drop of whiskey still clinging to Dick’s lips. Dick’s legs felt weak again, his grip on Wilson’s shoulders feeble, feeling not unlike a leaf being tossed by the raging current.
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Imagine being victim in stick!noogai au
This guy creates and tries to kill you so you trap him with in the computer and he is actually a very scared kid. No idea how to fight, backing away from you and panicking. Completely baffling and probably even makes victim angrier at first.
And if he never draws Chosen then victim is just stuck with this kid that is straight up sobbing
honestly the awkwardness was mostly outdone by the anger of chosen punching them (chosen just has a habit of punching people in this au i think) but without Chosen showing up it's really just a situation of 'wow, we're really both stuck here now. this is kind of pathetic huh'
#stick!noogai#tommy's foolery#victim takes some sadistic joy in it initially but it wears off pretty fast once it realizes this just means they're BOTH stuck here#even worse than that: stuck TOGETHER#neither of them like each other but they're really the only thing the other has#so it's. kind of necessitated cooperation until they can get out#(and even then neither of them are really sure what to do)#tommy's aus#tommy's stickmen tag#tommy's stick!alan
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YEAH
#oh i just love this arc i love the bosco episodes so much i really do#there's so much to them there's so many things to enjoy there's such a wealth of silly little things to think about but even just this#it's just - bosco was never going to LIKE jane! because of professional dislike/distrust towards him (and also because of the lisbon thing)#and jane was never going to LIKE bosco! because he 'took' red john from him (and also because of the lisbon thing)#(and both of those lisbon things are different things i could talk about for so long but they're also the same thing deep down)#neither of them wants to lose what they have with lisbon (and neither of them are in a position to take the next step they may want to)#meanwhile lisbon is faced with this - unspoken; implied; hinted at; blatantly said; and then right back to implied - choice#between bosco('s strict by the book way of doing things) and jane('s flexible more than a little unscrupulous methods)#and she chooses jane. multiple times. explicitly.#(because he will always choose her but she'll always choose him right back)#and watching that play out? fantastic incredible amazing and that's not even touching on all the other implied shit that goes on#like it's one of the times i'm most like 'i get what you say you were going for here but i'm not sure YOU get what you actually did'#(also when you add in that they're still coming off the craziness of the s1 finale.....like 16 more layers to consider...time of my life)#tm
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#dang it do i have a new oc now
Sounds like!! I'd love to hear more if you've got it!
(referring to my tags on this post)
You will meet a stranger, sometimes, if you make a habit to frequent taverns, inns, halls for game, or even the one tree where the young Bracegirdle cousins sneak off to play marbles. Well, you will like as not meet many strangers, except in the last case, but this one will be different. Or perhaps you get lucky, and don't frequent such places, but find yourself in one unexpectedly, and meet them regardless.
Everyone in Gondor knows someone who knows someone who met Lady Luck, no one has met her themself. If you do, starry-eyed romantics say, you'll be blessed with good fortune for all your days. The pragmatists tell you you'll be blessed with the good sense to discern a scam.
He may smirk at you after winning a bet, some dark-haired man, using his earnings to buy a round for the bar. It's always a different man, but it always goes to Alwed's tab. It keeps the crowd from getting too rowdy, even if the more superstitious get on edge.
No one remembers meeting them the first time, but dwarves with common sense avoid Audr's shell games and silver-toothed smile- you always win, but it's never worth it.
A woman with greying-gold hair and stiff fingers might call herself Eadrun, and challenge you to a game of dice. Few decline, and far fewer win.
For as few elves remain in Middle Earth, the one who calls himself Herendil and laughs as though his name is a joke should be recognizable. He seems young and lighthearted in a way most have lost, but he will play you cards, win just as much as he loses, and disappear, never recognized.
A hobbit-lass may giggle, red curls gleaming in the sun, and introduce herself as Peony Sandheaver, her family is visiting from Bree, and she wants to see how Shire-hobbits play Jacks.
Sometimes an orc prays over a set of knucklebones, knowing that at least one god will hear one prayer. Orcs have little luck in battle, but uncanny luck with dice.
There are countless stories, just as many true as not. Countless names, far more unnamed figures, always just out of place enough wherever they are to be interesting and promise new tales, never enough to provoke suspicion, not at first.
Even those in the Blessed Realm may find this dark-eyed stranger. Always dark-eyed, like bottles of dark glass. They stop by Aulë's workshop on occasion, to learn and suggest and play new games. They never win the first round, but most have the sense not to bet anything they aren't willing to lose on the second.
Oromë's people call them Umbarnica with a laugh and a toast in welcome. They thrive in the drunken revels after a successful hunt, sharp as ever as they dance from game to game, cackling at ill-advised propositions offered as collateral for or against a bet. Usually this means them winning to avoid it, a frequent enough occurrence as-is, but every now and then they'll decide to let someone get lucky. The bragging rights are the real reward.
And there are no guarantees with this stranger. No way to ensure their favor, though many ways to get their attention, few good. They like irony, take pleasure in hubris reaching its fall. They love superstition, even if they don't always honor it, and they love stories. There are gods that can be mistaken for kind, they are not one of them, created to serve the king the Dark Lord could have been. Their favorites are fickle, their grudges subtle but long-held. They love cheaters, unless they're at the end of the attempt. They will always catch you, and you will always regret it. They slink through candle-shadows and pipe-smoke, grinning, dance in town squares turned to faire grounds, curl up on comfy chairs indoors on rainy days.
But sometimes, in these days, you won't meet a stranger at all. Sometimes your storyteller will get a bright-dark glint in their eyes, and some dice will roll strangely high and some dice will roll strangely low and either way the story will be better for it. And if the next time the group meets you need to take a moment to remind the storyteller exactly what happened last session, well. That's why you take notes.
So pray to the dice-god, card-master, quick-sighted. It might do you no good, but they love superstition, and they love stories. And when you play a dark-eyed stranger, don't cheat at cards.
#ask#cuarthol#umbarnica#my writing#my ocs#they play favorites with the orcs because they feel like they have bad enough luck as is so they throw them some bones#and they like the Narrative of it all#i had fun writing this#they're very amoral not in the sense of being Evil and Bad they just. don't have morals.#they're kinda like a trickster god i think. and they like underdogs but not as much as people think#in my headcanon a lot of powerful maiar were intended to serve melkor before he went all evil but not all of them also went evil#and that leaves a very interesting crack for them to fall through because they just don't really. fit. anywhere#my arien is also a case of this (sibling of the balrogs)#and ultimately the deciding factor in turning evil is mostly if they are able to find support and a purpose with people who care about them#even if they still don't quite fit in#so umbarnica is also a case of this but instead of arien who found her niche by following the formula as closely as possible#(find a vala- take a role under her doing something directly related- oh whoops Fate called so i'm going to be a good maia and do my duty)#(if i don't do everything right i'm going to go insane and then go evil. please for the love of eru let me just do my valar-damned job)#umbarnica went 'yeah you can't tell me what to do. if you try to keep me stuck here in aman i will go insane and then go evil.'#'is that what you want? no? then let me cause nice low level chaos and fun wherever i want and i'll stay out of your hair'#i think they like dnd a lot for the sheer novelty of it#a lot of their domain is gambling or adjacent so to have a game of chance that seeks to tell stories and build community is intriguing#namo is probably the one who has official jurisdiction over them? but mostly in the sense that fate and luck are tied up#he does the bare minimum to make sure they don't get out of hand. neither *likes* this arrangement but they're content with it by now#but yes i'm gonna be calling them umbarnica#is that their name? sure as much as anything can be.#i just thought that 'little doom' would be a really funny euphamism tbh
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My mom just sent a message to the family group chat suggesting that my siblings download the 'For the Strength of Youth' magazine on their Gospel Library app and talked about how much the youth magazines helped her testimony growing up and like, cool. Fine. Don't know why the 'sending random spiritual thoughts in the gc' thing started out of nowhere when it hadn't been a thing for a decade but this is just another one of those, and you're ofc allowed to talk about things that are significant in your life.
I don't think sending the 'What I Did When Someone Close to Me Challenged My Faith' article right afterwards was strictly necessary though 🙃
#hi bg mutuals 👋 i'm gonna vent about this from time to time. if any mutuals dont want to see it block the 'apostake' tag#trying not to read too much into it b/c I think I did last time something like this happened#and i dont want to make an ass of myself even if neither time would actually be in front of my parents#but like...i know that they know that one of my sisters is clearly PIMO#they went through her phone a couple weeks ago and i have no idea if they read my texts w/ her#but if they did they probably saw the conversation i had with her about some of the really common shelf-breakers#and telling her to take looking into it at her own pace b/c it's scary and overwhelming#(a conversation SHE started btw)#and when i talked to my parents about the larger context of that whole situation i talked about not having space to step back#and their response was that they give plenty of space b/c they dont make her go to seminary???#that's not the same thing as letting her openly question & potentially leave the church idk what to tell you#like. besties i dont know for sure what caused it (which is NOT making things better. it just feels potentially passive aggressive)#but from my end? it sure looks like it might be a reaction to that. probably not JUST that (friends exist) but.#if you think I'm whispering anti-mormon rhetoric into my siblings' ears just ask me. i'm very much NOT doing that#i'm just. talking? to them? when and if they come to me with questions?#and not making my answer 'well there's a reason our parents raised us in the church! ☺️'#(an actual argument given in the article my mom sent)#hate it. thanks#apostake#jay rambles#ok to interact#im not challenging anyone's faith. my patience though? INCREDIBLY challenged#gotta figure out how to work my way around a 'hey please dont send spiritual thoughts to the gc *I'm in*' talk tactfully#they've been pretty chill about me leaving over-all?? at least to my face#haven't pushed me to go to church w/ them; was fine with me not visiting for easter; didnt try to convince me to not drink coffee; etc#it's just. frustrating that they're not giving my siblings that still live with them that same grace#my sister's 17 ffs#it's very possible im way overreacting to the article. but what is tumblr for if not screaming into the void#religion#mormonism
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only good thing abt the vous situation is that it lets me experience tecteun calling 13 the child that im 100% convinced she actually would bc shes the only one who uses tu for her
#what language do you think theyre actually speaking#bc like on top of all the other um disconcerting stuff abt the whole situation on that spaceship for 13#iamgine walking into that tree room and refinding that woman there and then she starts talking to you in like. this ancient gallifreyan#like old high gallifreyan hours#a language you only kinda learnt at school a couple millennia ago#im a big believer of the doctor and the master speaking gallifreyan when theyre alone i have fun with that in fic#(i dont think they speak entirely the same native language i think gallifryan is a diglossia but not the point)#but neither of them Speak old high like thats a dead language#i think 13 would drop into gallifreyan after opening in english#'hello im the doctor' in you know good old sheffield english#and then tecteun responds with 'i know' but in like....fucking latin#latin is probably not the best analogy but i dont know the history of english#old english i gues but we dont really learn that in school#anyway imagine how disconcerting#and i imagine she'd switch to gallifreyan sure but like. her modern mountain gallifreyan from lungbarrow right?#that vs tecteuns fucking classical dead textbook gallifreyan#or thats how it would feel to the doctor bc tecteun is pre-timelord. this is just her language#or....her language would be what would later become old high#so maybe she speaks to her Child as she used to actual eons ago#and to the doctor the closest this sounds like is old high gallifreyan bc she doesnt remember this language any more than tecteuns eyes#it's close-enough-sorta-dead-gallifreyan-???#so she switches to the closest shes got. which is just. lungbarrowian#tecteun trying to rewrite history and the doctor not-entirely-on-purpose re-establishing the one she has/knows/remembers#holding on to her actual history#which tecteun tries to rewrite/unwrite/dig out from under known history with this old old gallifreyan#anyway. more language thoughts of this evening
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billions could only have a gay man, who was married, and died by the end of that season; only deal with taylor's upending of presumed cishettery by having everyone who's not terrible be automatically down without putting some crisis about it on them, as the better approach to trying to have people talk about it (true, certainly in this case); extent of its room for rian's latent nonbinariness being "never wearing skirts/dresses, always wearing makeup though"....all that is to say, even with neither of them allowed to be "truly" cishet, b/c that's the rewarded realm for superior people, billions could never do winstuk. but they could be kissing right now
#winston & tuk: cannot be cishet in a way that matters (billions means this as an insult. i mean it as a testimonial)#sure convincing that winston's own ideals are like ''wow im the straightest in the world'' after One alleged official dating experience#and Two crushes on nonbinary people. and being the One person who's a) supported tuk b) without telling him to Stop Being A Loser#the one way other characters can Elevate(tm) tuk more than winston: not Really support him; just tell him to Become worthier#while winston: does not do this#anyway nobody at all gets to be ''truly'' ''ideally'' cishet; just like other inventions re the Correctest body/mind's look & behavior#tbt yrs & yrs ago some random lady talking abt ''queering'' her marriage by having a cellphone or smthing like ma'am i agree nowadays fr#winston Cannot have a ''correct'' sexuality even if he's supposedly ''at least'' cishet with it#neither can tuk; next most loserest dumped no gf nerd! neither Unglasses'd; neither Thin; winston's autistic; tuk isn't white....#show goes ''well just look at & listen to him XD'' towards winston on occasion; usually doesn't ''overtly'' do this; doesn't re: tuk....#meanwhile the idea that well Non Hot(tm) people who have no place in ideals & fantasy of Correctness & what's most desired?#they can get with Each Other :) that doesn't threaten things haha don't know how wrong they are. or have accepted All They Deserve (less)#billions is so proximately capable of letting these two be Involved in this way lmao. but it also Isn't#can barely handle taylor & just avoids addressing as much outright as often; again: one gay man; neatly married; neatly deceased....#iconic total hc's: supplementary dynamics the ladies who are also friends they hooked up w/in 6x11 having a fourway abt it#no anxious negotiating of what must be done & must not be done to keep it all cishet ''enough'' lol. congrats to them all#winston billions#winstuk#was already thinking winston could be dating someone we don't know abt till billions tried to reassure us oh he hasn't Of Course lol right#same is true for tuk ofc but he gets the same treatment (ft. ben's utter mysteriousness re: Any mention of past dating history....)#riawin could've been great & was completely welcome; issue became how the abusiveness there would just also manifest re: sex / romance#totally won't find resonance / overlap b/w ableism & homophobia in how winston's sexuality is seen as mere sex drive that's also gross btw#tuk's really also framed the same way like Of Course You'd Be Rejected; and Any desires would become repulsively Too Much#b/c the superior parties have to want it for it to be correct! & they'd never want You! you're just completely wrong & outside of it all#winston talking at all? Too Much. he must be talked To; & that is so usually begrudging & nonideal#other ppl being horney like well of course. pretty epic really#like w/e winston's sucking & fucking & [Saluting] if he isn't dating at all. like good for him. he can make out w/tuk one way or another#''winston can go fuck himself'' (like one bg dialogue person straightup says) Okay. He Is. party for one? this too can be Sex
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