#and the fact that we had so much of a focus on the operative this episode but never saw his face

[anghraine]

I was just wondering with all the weirdness about Númenorian pregnancy and childhood how you think Denethor fits with this. Do you think he was considered a strange child? Was he especially ‘difficult’ for his parents? How does this in turn relate to Faramir?

Oh, interesting!

One of the finer points of the bizarre Elvish/peredhel/Númenórean pregnancies is that much of the difficulty derives from the nature of the child or children, rather than just being a characteristic of the parents. The idea is that there's something so remarkable about these people that biologically producing them involves significant physical and (especially) spiritual strain for both parents, though more for the mother.

(Thus, Fëanor drained Míriel's spirit more than Finwë's, while with Arwen in NOME, the emphasis is on the strain her power and uniqueness put on Celebrían despite Celebrían's relative youth. Even Melian bore the chief strain of producing Lúthien and was apparently like "never again, this is Too Much Materiality and Gender.")

So the logic is that the direct transmission of the parents' special qualities to the child(ren) is itself difficult, and in addition, the more exceptional the child, the greater the difficulty and impact of creating them on the biological parents.

And there are repeated suggestions that among Elves, peredhil, and on Númenor, this variable but always-present spiritual cost of producing such beings is so much a fact of life that they have established cultural institutions for accommodating the higher difficulty of reproduction among their peoples.

(Tangentially, I wonder about how relatively low reproduction rates coupled with extremely low child mortality rates would operate culturally on Númenor itself ... like, are there orphanages? Is there a need for them when disease and even injury are so rare, lifespans so long, medicine so sophisticated, and children so valuable?)

But anyway, Denethor! The point of all this is that I suspect this variable spiritual/physical strain on the parents, beyond the natural strain of childbirth, would have somewhat diminished by the late Third Age. But it's pretty clear from LOTR that there are still distinctive qualities being consistently transmitted to Númenórean children from their parents, and thus the strain of Númenórean reproduction would still occur.

We know, for instance, that Denethor showing signs of old age in his 60s struck Gandalf as alarming for any Gondorian Dúnadan, though particularly one from Denethor's family. But it would be unusual anyway; it's not just that Denethor is uniquely strange, though he's certainly exceptional (Gandalf: "He is not as other men of this time" / Appendices: "a proud man, tall, valiant, and more kingly than any man that had appeared in Gondor for many lives of men").

Tolkien also explains Gandalf's "whatever be his descent from father to son" remark about Denethor as indicating that Gandalf doesn't know the particulars of the Stewards' genealogy but he can tell they're Elrosian. Imrahil's Númenórean-Silvan ancestry is also extremely visible to Legolas, who similarly doesn't know their family history but can see the sort of imprint of it on Imrahil (and now I'm thinking about Legolas's struggle with sea-longing, his rapport with the distinctly Elvish Imrahil, and Imrahil's sister longing for the sea...).

Okay, Elizabeth, focus. The point of all this is that you'd expect a certain difficulty with the gestation and delivery of ANY Gondorian Dúnadan even this late, and we continue to see the characteristic small families and general signs of Númenórean low fertility/low mortality. But Denethor is a markedly unusual child even by these standards. And he's implied to be the third of either three or four children, but is pretty clearly the only one who is that weird in his family, and possibly in the entire country, when he's young.

(The potential fourth child, a younger brother, is so comprehensively out of the picture by the WOTR that I suspect he was retconned out, but theoretically he could have been killed in battle without having children, or might be ineligible for war and inheritance for some other reason. To me it makes the most sense that he was retconned out, leaving Denethor as "the baby," but sometimes I imagine the younger brother does exist, and has a disability that keeps him out of both war and the succession according to the practices of Númenórean elites. I could believe that Gondorians would suspect that something "went wrong" with Denethor's brother specifically because Denethor is so exceptional, etc.)

I think Denethor being, in Tolkien's phrase, "almost purely Númenórean" would ensure that he seems normal by the standards of Gondorian Dúnedain at birth, but soon would head into full uncanny valley Númenórean child vibes (per NOME). On Númenor, there's a cultural expectation of children just being like that, but I suspect it would not be normal at this point, at least not to nearly so great a degree. And since Denethor is the third child, the contrast with the two older ones would make it all the clearer that something different is going on with him.

For all of Gondor's records, I suspect there's a lot about ye olde Númenóreans that has simply been lost by this point. I imagine Denethor became ultra-learned in lore both for its own sake, and to understand his own experience of the world, which would only diverge more and more markedly from other people's as he grew older. There's a lot of knowledge that simply has never been recovered and he would have had to figure much of it out by sheer strength of will.

I imagine that Denethor's parents, older sisters, and caretakers did love him, but he was strange and off-putting, and they couldn't give him ... it feels very therapy-speak-ish to say "scaffolding." But there used to be a common framework for understanding the development of Númenórean children as they once were that has largely dissolved. I think the people around young Denethor did their best, but it wasn't enough for anyone concerned.

It's come up a few times on my blog that when it comes to the "powers of mind" type of Númenórean abilities, it's a bit difficult to compare Aragorn with Denethor and Faramir, because Aragorn is so much subtler and more adaptable. He can turn the eldritch strangeness off and pass unnoticed when he wants to. Denethor and Faramir's own eldritch strangeness may not be as "remote," but with them it seems like it's always on and there's no missing them or their capabilities when they're present.

Maybe this just has to do with the particular abilities they favor, the bleedover of temperament and nature, etc. But it's also possible that part of the unobtrusiveness of Aragorn when he wants to be vs Denethor and Faramir's neon "Númenórean" sign blinking at all times is that Denethor and Faramir weren't raised by Elrond amidst a community of Elves who would be familiar with both a long line of Elrosian Númenórean children and with the oddities (and even cultural protocols) that Númenóreans mostly share with Elves in the first place, even if the pace is different.

But Denethor and Faramir have never been normal in their context. There was no Elrond for them. And while young Faramir at least had Denethor himself to instruct him and perhaps even model Númenóreanness for him, however fraught that instruction may have been, it's possible that Denethor didn't really have anyone at all.

(The fact that Denethor married late and specifically married and dearly loved the Elvish-coded sister of notable Weird Cool Guy Imrahil seems perhaps significant.)

I think that while Denethor values his own abilities and is very proud of who and what he is, this experience of the world would have been incredibly isolating even amidst the oddities of Gondorian Dúnedain in general. I suspect Gandalf is actually spot-on when he says that Denethor loved Boromir all the more because Boromir was unlike him. I also suspect it would be clear quite early, especially to Denethor and Finduilas themselves, that Boromir was very different—the "strain" would have been fairly light.

(Boromir is distinguished not only from the high-octane Númenóreanness of Denethor and Faramir and even Imrahil, but from Gondorian cultural norms in general. He is a Dúnadan without question, but as a "type" he has more in common with the Rohirrim and seems to have an especially strong rapport with them.)

I also suspect that if Faramir had been born first, he might well have been an only child. As it is, the actual process of his gestation and birth was likely an ordeal for Denethor and Finduilas to begin with, even if her physical health was not in question at the time (which I actually presume, given that she lived for five more years and her early death is in no way attributed to Faramir ever). But Denethor would have known from early on that Faramir is special in the way that he himself is special, that the weird isolating experience he's had, that it was such a relief to see Boromir spared from, will happen to Faramir. And I'm guessing they also would have understood that Faramir being so exceptional ensured there would be no other children.

Sometimes I wonder if Denethor's knowledge of the experience Faramir was facing actually contributed to their fraught relationship. He could be about as normal a parental figure to Boromir as the ruler of a desperate nation could ever be to his heir. He could have something that looked like the lives of other people in that specific context. But his relationship with Faramir was never going to be normal, could never be.

There was probably a really peculiar period for Boromir and Faramir as brothers when Boromir was maturing normally while Faramir was the weird kid absorbing information from lore, from Denethor, from true-dreams, from other people's minds. I can even imagine that the young Boromir's role as "protector" of Faramir was not just his powerful elder sibling energy but related to child Faramir being genuinely strange. But by this time there would at least be a framework for understanding Faramir's development and more bizarre qualities—he's like Denethor, oh, okay. Any way that he's not like Denethor could probably be attributed to Finduilas's own peculiarities.

The tension between Denethor and Faramir is so profoundly shaped by their commonalities despite their somewhat different philosophical conclusions etc that it's difficult not to see that as a factor. They love each other and resent each other and see through each other in some ways but not the basic fact of their mutual love. Denethor is anxious about Gandalf stealing Faramir's love and loyalty from him while Faramir likes Gandalf but presents his influence as distinctly minor and calls for Denethor as he's dying, etc. They're two of the most Númenórean people alive and their perspectives on Númenor, Gondor, the war, their political situation in general are extremely shaped by it.

But I kind of wonder if Denethor also saw a bit of Thorongil in Faramir—someone akin to him, with such strikingly similar abilities and appearance, who even thinks similarly to him in many ways, but whose circumstances ensure he's always had a context and framework for understanding why he's so different and guidance in handling it. Yes, it's Denethor's choice to provide that guidance, but still, it does mean that Faramir is never quite as isolated as the young Denethor likely was.

To us it can seem obvious that Ecthelion's favoritism of Thorongil above even Denethor is unconsciously replicated by Denethor with his own sons (with Boromir as "the Thorongil" and Faramir as "the Denethor" to Denethor's Ecthelion). But I suspect it looks very different to Denethor.

#note: i wrote this while rather sleepy so apologies if it's unclear (i know it's rambling...) #bretwalda lamnguin #respuestas #long post #anghraine's meta #anghraine's headcanons #legendarium blogging #húrinionath #jewel of the seashore #denethor #ecthelion #faramir #boromir #team dúnedain #númenórë #ondonórë blogging #jrr tolkien #lord of the rings

[wayward-wren]

So anyway came up with the theory that i don't want to be true but won't leave me alone that the Operative is Cody. Because he survived and seemed significant and we never saw his face but we know he's a clone.

And the last we saw of Cody he was going to defect and you'd think he'd have found his way to Rex by now if he did. And if the Empire found a clone commander defecting they would have done exactly what they tried to do with Crosshair--turn him into an operative and wipe his identity

anyway I hate it but it COULD BE TRUE

#wren rambles #star wars #the bad batch #commander cody #the bad batch spoilers #i hate this idea and want Cody to live long and happily away from the empire #but the fact that he hasnt found Rex yet seems damning #and the fact that we had so much of a focus on the operative this episode but never saw his face #uguguhg #anyway #WOLFFE MY BOYYYYY I LOVE YOU SO GLAD TO SEE YOU #oo what if the operative is bly? we could have some fun angst about him willinging having his identity erased #after what he did to aalya then!! #sobbing #i do not know how this show can end happily #and my brother loves it so much i dont think hes gonna be able to process a tragedy

[rxttenfish]

tbh tho this is EXACTLY what merfolk relationships look like

and they just keep track of this. in their heads. all the time.

#all the care guide says is 'biomass' #they dont have gendered pronouns but they do have tone modifiers for every other fucking word depending on their relationship to the other #and their mood. and if theyre referring to multiple people at once or just one person. and often layered on top of each other too. #merfolk have poor vision but they DO inherently think of things in a more ''three dimensional'' way than we do #considering they live underwater and youre operating with another axis just to move around anywhere #which then gets applied to the rest of their everything #ESPECIALLY language because theyre nerds who went hard into the sound focus #their visual art in comparison has simpler elements than ours (but a lot more focus on light/movement) #this is why merfolk have some very unique spellcrafts and theyre notorious for complicated and detailed spellwork #like yes a part of it is the fact that theyre older than the other species and have had more time to work on it #but also they can just DO really unique things compared to other cultures because they emphasize layered detail in this way #this is also why - from the outside - so much of miranda's job looks like parties and balls and attending to the courts #because again. its all about the emphasis on who has what relationship with who and how to operate within that. #legal agreements are multilayered and come with terms and conditions a mile long and you need to have a very careful hand on the pulse #of all of this #even moreso because royal families go even harder with treating the lineage as the individual and the merfolk #as just limbs and organs of this equation #this is why it was so important that miranda be good at manipulation and speaking and just *charismatic* #literally making people do what she wants or needs them to do is just what makes the merkingdom GO and operate #and why she (and the other royals) occupy a space a little like a public performer does as well #and why royals showing personal favor and having close personal relationships is frowned upon as #mixing pleasure and business #since those relationships ARE their business and so much of the underlying politics #if youre showing undue favor to someone because you personally just like them then you aren't judging them based off of actual talent #merfolk complicated! merkingdom complicated! #(the merkingdom is also SUPER fucked up but thats tangential from this tangent)

[vadlings]

Represention of Autistic Frustration in Laios Dungeon Meshi

Like many other autistic people, I related strongly to Laios Touden while reading Dungeon Meshi. This post isn't going to spend time disputing whether he displays autistic traits or not—while I could do that, I want to focus on why specifically his portrayal struck a chord with me in a way the writing of most other autistic-coded characters has not.

Disclaimer: as the above suggests, this post is strongly informed by my own experiences as an autistic person, as well as the experiences of my neurodivergent friends with whom I have spoken about this subject. I want to clarify that in no way am I asserting my personal experience to be some Universal Autistic Experience. This post is about why Laios' character feels distinct and significant to me in regard to autistic representation, and while I'm at it, I do feel that I have interesting things to say about autistic representation in media generally. This also got a bit long, so I'm sticking it under a read more. Spoilers for up to the end of chapter 88 below.

The thing that stands out most to me in regard to Laios' characterisation is the open anger he displays when someone points out his inability to read other people. This comes up prominently in his interactions with "Shuro" (Toshiro Nakamoto):

The frustration pictured above (Laios continuing to physically tussle with Toshiro, using crude language toward him) becomes even more notable when you remember that this is Laios, who, outside of these interactions, is not easily fazed and often exists as a lighthearted contrast to the rest of the cast. Then we get to Laios' nightmare.

In Falin's words: "Nightmares love emotional wounds. Wounds you hold in your heart. Things that give you stress, or things that were traumatic for you. They aggravate memories like that and cause the dreamer to have terrible dreams." (chapter 42, page 10.) (damn. i'm properly citing for this post and everything.)

Thus, Laios' nightmare establishes an important fact: even if he is unable to recognise social blunders while he's making them, he's at least subconsciously aware that other people operate on a different wavelength to him, and that he's an outsider in many of his social circles (both past and present). His dream-father's disparaging words stress the impact this has had upon his ability to live up to the expectations set out for him, and we also get a panel of kids who smirk at him (presumably former bullies to some degree). Toshiro's appearance only hammers home how much Laios is still both humiliated and angered by his misunderstanding of their relationship.

I've thought a lot about anger as concomitant to the autistic experience. When autistic representation portrays ostracization, it's generally from an angle of the autistic character being upset at how conforming to neurotypical norms doesn't come easily to them; as a result, they express a desire to 'get better' at meeting neurotypical standards, a desire to become more 'normal' (whether the writing implies this is a good thing or not). In contrast, not once does Laios go, "I need to perform better in my social interactions, and try to care less about monsters, because that's what other people find weird." His frustration is directed outward rather than inward, and as a result, it's the people around him who are framed as nonsensical.

The Winged Lion starts delineating Laios' anger, and Laios' reaction is to think to himself, "It can sense all my thoughts, huh?" (chapter 88, page 16.) This is the scene that really resonated with me. I'm not saying I have never felt the desire to conform to neurotypical norms that is borne from insecurity, but primarily, I know that I don't want to work toward becoming 'normal'—I don't want to change myself for people who follow rules I find nonsensical. It's the difference between, "Oh god, why can't I get it," and, "WHY CAN'T YOU GET IT?" (phrasing here courtesy of my friend Miles @dogwoodbite). And for me personally, Dungeon Meshi is the first time I've seen this frustration and the resultant voluntary isolation from other people portrayed in media so candidly. Laios' anger is not downplayed or written to be easily palatable, either.

The culmination of Laios' frustrations in this scene wherein we learn that Laios has fantasised about "a pack of monsters attacking a village" drives home just how alienated he really feels. I need not go into his wish to become a monster himself, redolent of how many autistic people identify/have identified with non-humans to some degree as a result of a percieved disconnect from society (when I was younger, I wanted to be a robot. I still kind of do.)

Obviously, wishing death upon other people is a weighty thing, but the unfiltered nature of this page is what deeply resonated with me. The Winged Lion is laying Laios' deepest and most transgressive desires bare, and they are desires that are a product of lifelong ostracization by others (whether intentional or unintentional). This is the brand of anger I'm familiar with, and that my neurodivergent friends express being familiar with, but that I haven't seen portrayed in writing so explicitly before—in fact, it surprised me because most well-meaning autistic representation I've experienced veers toward infantilisation in trying make the autistic character's struggles easy for neurotypicals to sympathise with.

Let's also not neglect the symbolism inherent to Laios' daydream. "A pack of monsters attacking a village". Functionally, monsters are Laios' special interest—he percieves everything first and foremost through his passion for monsters. His daydream of monsters attacking—killing—humans, is fundamentally a daydream of the world he understands (monsters) overthrowing the world that is so illogical to him, that has repeatedly shunned him (other people). I joked to my friends that it's an autistic power fantasy, and it actually sort of is. And in it, his identity is aligned with that of the monsters, while his anger manifests in a palpable dissociation from the rest of humanity. This is one manga page. It's brief. It's also very, very raw to me. I think about it often.

To conclude, I love Laios Dungeon Meshi. This portrayal of open frustration in an autistic character meant a lot to me, and I hope I've sufficiently outlined why. Also, feel free to recommend media with autistic representation in the notes if you've read this far—I would really like to see if there is more of this nature. Thank you for reading. I'm very tired and should probably sleep now.

#dungeon meshi #dunmeshi #laios touden #shuro #toshiro nakamoto #the winged lion #autistic #autism #clay writes #i GUESS #this was so spur of the moment. im so busy right now i dont have time to be analysing laios touden #i wuont angry autistic rep..

[thebibliosphere]

"But you're so successful without it."

Content warning: This post contains mentions of suicidal ideation.

I got a message earlier tonight that I'm not going to post, but I did ask the person involved if I could talk about what we subsequently ended up talking about in DMs because I feel it's important.

Basically, it was along the lines of "My kid got diagnosed with ADHD and really wants to try meds. I know from reading your blog that correct treatment for ADHD can be really beneficial, but I just don't think she's severe enough to need them."

The message then went on to ask me, as someone who is unmedicated with ADHD, for some tricks and tips on how to be successful without medication because clearly, look how well I'm doing without them. I mean, look at my blog, look at my book(s)! Surely if I can do all that without ADHD meds, other people can too. Surely there's a trick. A skill. Something you can learn if you just try hard enough...

This is not the first time I have received a message like this. In fact, I probably get about 2-5 messages like this a week.

Usually from other people who also have ADHD/suspect ADHD but don't want medication because they don't think they need it/don't want to need it, and yet can't figure out why they're struggling so much, and ask me how do I do the thing(s) and cope so well and get so much done, etc., etc.

So I'm going to tell you what I told this person tonight in case it helps someone. Yes, I have ADHD. No, I am not medicated due to severe health complications, and yes, I get a lot done. From the outside, I am sure it looks incredibly productive and successful. But I'm going to let you in on what that success feels like.

It feels like dying.

It feels like my brain is on fire; every nerve in my body scraped raw; every part of me wired and exposed to the noise of the world. There is no quiet; there is no calm. And even when my brain does fall silent, it's another kind of death. The inside of my head is sludge, flowing uphill like treacle, weighing me down, pulling me under in the riptide of my inability to focus. I can see what needs to be done, I can see it so clearly, yet sometimes it's like I don't control my own body. Not enough dopamine. Not enough brain chemicals for the message I'm screaming in my head to make my limbs do the simplest of tasks. Like, feed myself. Take a shower. Answer that email. Text my friends back. Go to bed when I'm tired. Write a best-selling novel...

A novel that almost killed me and not because of my other ailments, but because of my unmedicated ADHD.

I didn't realize it at the time, but I was already operating at critical mass when I went into final rewrites/edits. Every coping mechanism I had fell apart. Like training wheels falling off a tricycle, leaving me to wobble unsteadily until the main wheels fell off, swiftly followed by the handlebars until all that was left was me peddling frantically trying to keep my balance and not getting anywhere. I didn't realize it then, but I was heading towards a complete mental collapse. And even when I dragged myself across the finish line with the above and beyond help provided by my friends and editors, I was so burned out I couldn't enjoy my success. Worse, my success made me suicidal.

It took me until very recently, almost two years later, to be able to read Phangs without feeling suicidal. My brain associated it with the trauma of experiencing complete ADHD burnout but having to complete a monumental task anyway.

I had to go into intensive therapy to recover. I am still in intensive therapy for it.

It took me even longer after that to be able to sit down and write without harming myself. I still struggle with it, and I tell you this in all honest sincerity in the hope it makes you realize what it costs me to be "successful" and unmedicated.

And this wasn't the first time I've had to deal with this, either.

I struggled all through high school, all through college, all through every career job I ever had, knowing there was something wrong, but not quite being able to put my finger on it because hey, I still got stuff done, so it couldn't be that bad, right? Surely everyone went through life feeling this way? Right?

...right?

It wasn't until I got my ADHD diagnosis as an adult that I realized what was happening. Why I struggled so much. Why life was so hard. In many ways, it was like the sun coming up. An internal dawning of realization and acceptance, but also rage.

So much rage.

Rage at how much I'd had to struggle because no one noticed because I was quiet and undisruptive. Rage at a system that forced me to learn in ways that were not intuitive to my brain. To always being told, "doesn't apply herself" while it felt like I was clawing my brain apart trying to do what people wanted from me. To a work-life balance, that rewards all the things that make ADHD actively worse. Rage. So much rage it hurts. And to top it all off, I can't be medicated for it. I finally know what's different, I finally know why my world feels raw and turned inside out, and I can't take any of the medications that might help me.

Do you know how angry I wake up every day that there is a possible solution just within my grasp, but my health conditions prevent me from trying them? Do you know how much it hurts? How much I grieve for the person I could be if I was able to have help beyond therapy and coaching? How much happier I could be...

Not productive. Not successful. Happy.

So ask yourself, what do you want more? A child who has to go through all of this and resents you for prolonging their suffering? Who winds up hating themselves by internalizing the false concept that if they just try hard enough, they can do whatever they set their mind to.

Or do you want to help them?

Or if this is you, why are you afraid to help yourself?

Please, don't use me as an example to harm yourself or others. Yes, I am successful without medication. But the toll is high. Too high.

Rid yourself of the idea that you need to suffer more to be allowed help. You don't. They don't. No one does.

#adhd #adult adhd #actually adhd #chronic health tag #suicide mention #suicidal ideation #long post #mental health #I am not for you to bludgeon other people with #kindly desist

[haunted-xander]

I think one of the (several) reason for why Shadowbringers is so good is because the narrative is more about the individual characters than it is the Greater Conflict.

Like, the Greater Conflict is definitely there, obviously, it's what keeps the story going, but the focus is always on the people, much more so than the other expacs. HW and STB also have some level of character focus ofc, but it's very selective and even then the focus is based on them in the specific context of the current conflict.

But in SHB, the story bends around the characters' narratives, rather than the other way around. The story forms to put them in situations that challenges their flaws and limitations, by forcing them to confront it and actually deal with it. Even just at the very beginning, you see the twins being dealt a terrible hand that very neatly clashes against their faults.

Alisaie is confronted with a situation that she can and could never do anything about. She has no means to help the patients (at the time at least). The only way for her to help them is by eradicating the source of the affliction itself: the Light. But the Light isn't just some Big Bad she can kill and be done with. Even when all the lightwardens are down the Light is still there, it's just more manageable. Alisaie learns to not only see the bigger picture, but to care for it for her own reasons. For all that she has participated in Big Operations, it has always been because that's what others were doing, what others cared for to be done. She feels for the people of Doma and Ala Mhigo, but she didn't set out to liberate their homelands because she has any personal investment in it. But other people do, and she cares about what other people- be they strangers or friends- care about.

Caring about other peoples feelings and opinions isn't a flaw by itself of course, but doing things without any sense of personal purpose, is. This is what SHB helps her fix and confront, because it is personal now, she does it because she cares.

Alphinaud is forced into a situation where diplomacy and negotiations does and would never work. He can't talk himself into Eulemore, and he sure as hell can't convince Vauthry or the free citizens to let go of their life of ignorant luxury. The problem here also isn't as straightforward as a corrupt ruler, because even after Vauthry is revealed for the bastard he is, it takes considerable effort and convincing to get them to get off their asses and get to work. It's one thing to change the minds of people who wanted the same outcome just in a different way (like Ishgard- they rejected unity with the dragons, but they still wanted an end to the war), but it's another thing entirely to convince people that another way of life is even worth it.

And this is what SHB teaches Alphinaud, that words and deeds can achieve much, but that there is much more to diplomacy than appealing to their wants and/or sensibilities to convince them of an alternative outcome. His development may not be as immediately noticable as some of the others (largely bc he had a lot of it already from HW), but it is still very much there.

Urianger's development had already been build up and sort-of started already, but we don't really get to see it until it near explodes in his face after we kill Vauthry. Even after he swore off secrecy, he's forced to confront his morals when the Exarch bids his assistance. Urianger has always been looking at the greater picture, to the point he'd almost lose himself in it if it wasn't for the overwhelming guilt he feels. He works with the Exarch, because he knows he's the only one capable of it, and he hates the very fact that he is. When the climax of the plan is about to be executed, he is pained to the point that even he can't mask it anymore. He has betrayed their trust once more and once more it will result in the death of a friend.

But it doesn't, and that's what's needed for him to confront himself. As terrible and unexpected as the circumstances around it was, it did show him that there are other ways. There is no one way to solve a problem, the first choice doesn't need to be the only one. And he would find those other ones of he had just talked to the others.

The pay-off doesn't quite come until EW, where we see him actively make the choice to go against his first instinct of acquiesing to the Loporrits' plans, and instead chooses to consult us, but that scene wouldn't have made sense or even happened had it not been for his development in SHB.

Now, Y'shtola is a bit of an odd one because while she does get her due focus, she doesn't quite get the same amount of development as the others. Rather, it shows how she thrives when not held back by others interests and (often somewhat needless) bounderies. Her intelligence and charisma have the chance to shine, her independence and confidence now rewarded rather than punished. In ARR, she is constantly annoyed by the Maelstroms way of dealing with things, and how no one bothers to actually listen to her. Her advice and reprimands are almost entirely ignored until the problem blows up in their faces and they have no choice but to concede that she was right.

Being independent and confident aren't flaws by themselves, but her sometimes aggressive approaches to telling others off does her few favors. In SHB, she has the Night's Blessed who actually heed her word and respect her, they listen to her and actually take what she says- be it advise or reprimand- to heart.

She does also, however, have to deal with Thancred who, much like the Maelstrom, ignores her reprimands and doesn't listen to her. The difference here is that her bluntness actually serves a purpose. In ARR, her bluntness lacks tact and meaning, simply a result of frustration. The Maelstrom won't listen to someone who doesn't come up with fleshed-out arguments and solutions, but Y'shtola doesn't bother giving them any until she knows they'll listen. But with Thancred, she does give him the solution. It's just that the solution is him. His words, to be precise, and his acceptance. And he needs to be reminded of that, and she does. It doesn't automatically solve anything, but that's simply how it is with complicated situations like that.

Speaking of Thancred, his narrative is probably the most important of all for SHB. He's always been shown as a capable, but ultimately self-destructive man who genuinely does not know how to deal with himself in a healthy manner. Theoretically speaking he knows, he recognizes that he is self-destructive, but he still has no idea how to actually fix it. It's been shown as early as ARR when it results in him getting possessed, but it's not really made a point of until it almost ruins his relationship with Ryne. Up until now he could just ignore his problems, but with Ryne he can't because now The Problem(s) aren't just his anymore. Anything that would hurt him now would also hurt her, meaning that if he wants to continue doing the one thing he actually cares about (protecting his loved ones) then he needs to get his shit together.

But Thancred doesn't know how to. And for all that his friends try and try to help him, he doesn't know how to. He's paralyzed. Thancred is so deep into his self-destructive habits that it takes the threat of both his and the person(s) he loves the most in the worlds deaths to get him into action. He doesn't know if it's Minfilia or Ryne who will return, and I'm not sure he expected to survive Ran'jit. He only has this chance, and if he wants to die without (as many) regrets he has to do something now.

And he does. He does and what it is he does is tell Ryne that whatever happens, it has to be her own choice. That he will accept any outcome, that he will still care about her no matter what, that as long as she lives or dies as she wants to, that he still loves her. He still loves her. And it works, because that's what he's needed to do all this time, to be able to just tell her that she matters. That he cares.

He tells her to live her own life, and he learns to live his own too.

#had to put a cut bc this got WAY long lol #replaying shb as you do. goes insane. as always. it has me in a chokehold #the story primarily focuses on thancred & ryne but EVERYONE gets character development. yes even y'shtola. its just not as apparent w her #OOUUGH *explodes* #i have many more thoughts still but if i start rambling in the tags ill never stop so i will spare you. this time #alisaie leveilleur #alphinaud leveilleur #urianger augurelt #y'shtola rhul #thancred waters #ryne waters #shadowbringers #final fantasy #final fantasy 14 #final fantasy xiv #ff14 #ffxiv #xander rambles #xander being insane about ryne #SHES INCLUDED SO IT COUNTS

[nellywrisource]

A writer’s guide to the historical method: how historians work with sources

In this post, I provide a brief overview of how historians engage with different types of sources, with a focus on the mindset of a historian. This insight could be valuable for anyone crafting a character whose profession revolves around history research. It may also prove useful for authors conducting research for their book.

Concept of historical source

The concept of historical source evolves over time. 

Initially, the focus was mainly on written sources due to their obvious availability. However, as time has progressed, historians now consider a wide range of sources beyond just written records. These include material artifacts, intangible cultural elements, and even virtual data.

While "armchair historians" may rely on existing studies and secondary sources, true professional historians distinguish themselves by delving directly into primary sources. They engage in a nuanced examination of various sources, weaving together diverse perspectives. It's crucial to recognize the distinction between personal recollection or memory and the rigorous discipline of historical inquiry. A historical source provides information, but the truth must be carefully discerned through critical analysis and corroboration.

Here's a concise list of the types of sources historians utilize:

Notarial source

Epistolary source

Accountancy source

Epigraphic source

Chronicle source

Oratory and oral source

Iconographic source

Diary source

Electronic source

Example: a notarial source

These are documents drafted by a notary, a public official entrusted with providing legal certainty to facts and legal transactions. These documents can take various forms, such as deeds, lawsuits, wills, contracts, powers of attorney, inventories, and many others.

Here we are specifically discussing a lawsuit document from 1211 in Italy.

A medieval lawsuit document is highly valuable for understanding various aspects of daily life because in a dispute, one must argue a position. From lawsuits, we also understand how institutions truly operated.

Furthermore, in the Middle Ages, lawsuits mostly relied on witnesses as evidence, so we can access a direct and popular source of certain specific social situations.

Some insight into the methodology of analysis:

Formal examination: historians scrutinize the document's form, verifying its authenticity and integrity. Elements such as structure, writing style, language, signatures, and seals are analyzed. Indeed, a professional historian will rarely conduct research on a source published in a volume but will instead go directly to the archive to study its origin, to avoid transcription errors.

Content analysis: historians proceed to analyze the document's content, extracting useful information for their research. This may include data on individuals, places, events, economic activities, social relations, and much more. It's crucial to compile a list of witnesses in a case and identify them to understand why they speak or why they speak in a certain manner.

Cross-referencing with other sources: information derived from the notarial source is compared with that of other historical sources to obtain a more comprehensive and accurate view of the period under examination.

Documents of the episcopal archive of Ivrea

Let's take the example of a specific legal case, stemming from the documents of the episcopal archive of Ivrea. It's a case from 1211 in Italy involving the bishop of Ivrea in dispute with Bongiovanni d'Albiano over feudal obligations.

This case is significant because it allows us to understand how feudal society operated and how social status was determined.

The bishop's representative argues that Bongiovanni should provide a horse as a feudal service. Bongiovanni denies it, claiming to be a noble, not a serf. Both parties present witnesses and documents supporting their arguments.

Witnesses are asked whether the serf obligations had been endured for a long time. This helps us understand that in a society where "law" was based on customs, it was important to ascertain if an obligation had been endured for a long time because at that point it would no longer be contestable (it would have become customary).

The responses are confused and inconsistent, so witnesses are directly asked whether they consider Bongiovanni a serf or a noble. This is because (and it allows us to understand that) the division into "social classes" wasn't definable within concrete boundaries; it was more about the appearance of one's way of life. If a serf refused to fulfill his serf duties, he would easily be considered a noble by bystanders because he lived like one.

Ultimately, the analysis of the case leads us to determine that medieval justice wasn't conceived with the logic of our modern system, but was measured in oaths and witnesses as evidentiary means. And emerging from it with honor was much more important than fairly distributing blame and reason.

Other sources

Accounting source: it is very useful for measuring consumption and its variety in a particular historical period. To reconstruct past consumption, inventories post mortem are often used, which are lists of goods found in households, described and valued by notaries to facilitate distribution among heirs. Alternatively, the recording of daily expenses, which in modern times were often very detailed, can lead to insights into complex family histories and their internal inequalities - for example, more money might be spent on one child than another corresponding to their planned future role in society.

Oral source: in relation to the political sphere, it is useful for representing that part of politics composed of direct sources, that is, where politics speaks of itself and how it presents itself to the public, such as a politician's public speech. However, working with this type of source, a historian cannot avoid hermeneutic work, as through the speech, the politician aims to present himself to a certain audience, justify, persuade, construct his own image, and achieve results. This is the hidden agenda that also exists in the most obvious part of politics.

Iconographic source: it concerns art or other forms of "artistic" expression, such as in the case of an advertising poster. They become historical sources when it is the historian who, through analysis, confers upon them the status of a historical source. Essentially, the historian uses the source to understand aspects of the past otherwise inaccessible. The first step in this direction is to recontextualize the source, returning it to its original context. Examining the history of the source represents the fundamental first step for historical analysis.

Diary source: diaries are a "subjective" source, a representation of one's self, often influenced by the thoughts of "others," who can be close or distant readers, interested or distracted, visible or invisible, whom every diary author can imagine and hope to see, sooner or later, reflected on the pages of their writing. Furthermore, they are often subject to subsequent manipulations, and therefore should be treated by historians only in their critical edition; all other versions, whether old or new, foreign or not, are useful only as evidence of the changes and manipulations undergone over time by the original manuscripts.

Electronic source: historians use Wikipedia even if they often don't admit it out loud.

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#writing advice #writing help #writing reference #writing tips #creative writing #fantasy worldbuilding #fantasy writing #worldbuilding #worldbuilding tips

[hotchnisslvr]

how do we carry on?

pairing: hotch x bau!reader

rating: m

word count: 4.8k

genre: angst, hurt no comfort

summary: emily was your confidant, your best friend. when she dies at the hands of ian doyle, you find comfort in your boyfriend, aaron. when you find out that she’s alive and that hotch had known all along, your world falls out from under you. can you and hotch come back from the decision he made for the good of the team?

*if this gains enough traction i might follow up with a pt.2 to give it a happy ending*

The criss-crossed lines of the tile floor blur together as you stare blankly between your feet. The tops of your thighs have gone numb from digging your elbows into them, using your cradled hands as a pillow for your forehead. You couldn’t go home, not until you knew.

Rossi had offered to go on a walk and get a coffee, but shitty lukewarm hospital coffee was the last thing you needed. You hadn’t meant to write him off, you just couldn’t justify doing anything to distract from the fact that she was on that operating table, that Emily’s life was literally hanging in the balance.

The rest of the team was no better off than you are right now. Penelope’s knitting needles clack relentlessly, the scarf inside of her purse growing as her hands keep busy so her mind doesn’t focus on how hard she’s trying not to cry. The last time you’d poked your head up, Derek hadn’t moved from the waiting room windowsill where he’d been standing still as a statue staring out at the cityscape. If Spencer didn’t stop shaking his leg, you feared he would wear a hole straight through the tile. JJ exits the waiting room as often as she returns, her liaising days quickly coming back, making her their only link to the operating room. Hotch’s behavior is no different. His cell rings every ten to fifteen minutes, no doubt the Bureau wanting to know how the hell this could happen. It’s the only sign that time is actually passing and you’re forced to accept that you’re not stuck in some fucked up purgatory-esque hellscape where time stands still, torturing you as your dear friend’s life teeters between worlds.

What you wanted, what you needed was for him to hold you; to place a kiss against your temple and tell you that everything would be alright. It had to be alright.

He couldn’t show favor to you though, not now. The team didn’t know about your relationship with him, though you believe a few have their suspicions. You’re all too observant for your own good. Not much goes unnoticed by anyone. So when JJ walks back into the waiting room, everyone shifts toward her to try and get a glimpse into her facial expression and body language for any sign of an update regarding Emily’s condition.

Instantly, you know something is wrong. JJ’s eyes flit from one person to the next, not lingering very long on anyone. Spencer is the first to stand and you follow suit. You close in, forming a small half circle. Behind JJ, Hotch stands in the doorway, brow straight as he folds his arms across his chest.

“JJ?” Her name is an anxious plea on Penelope’s lips.

JJ’s eyes drop to the floor as she presses her lips together. She takes a deep breath and lifts her eyes, yours the ones they land on as she speaks. “She never made it off the table.”

A choked sob echoes from Garcia as she falls into Derek’s arms, his features fixed as he stares ahead though his knuckles flush white as he holds tightly onto Penelope. Rossi pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes closed as he mutters something to himself; a prayer, maybe. Spencer envelopes JJ in a desperate embrace, as if clinging to her will somehow make her words any less true. Afterall, how can they be? Emily can’t go down, not like this; not after all she’s survived.

Someone says your name. Your brow dips, but you don’t respond. You need to see Emily. Your feet move of their own accord, guiding you through the waiting room. Someone grabs your arm and you tug away from their grasp, set on pushing onward and finding the OR.

Someone repeats your name, and you can’t help but latch on to the deep tenor that belongs to Hotch. You halt in your tracks and close your eyes, tears leaking over your eyelids and down your cheeks.

“I need to talk to Emily,” you say, your voice small.

The way Hotch says your name is laced with pity and you hate the way it sounds on his tongue. He pulls gently on your arm in an attempt to reel you into him, but you resist. You bite your lip to still its trembling. Yanking your arm free, you press on into the hallway and stumble toward the double doors that read in bold letters: Authorized Personnel Only. Fuck that. You’ve got a badge, that’s authority enough. Before you can push through, firm hands twist around your arms.

You push back, but their grip tightens. “Stop,” Hotch urges authoritatively. You turn into him and pound your fist against his chest, a sob cracking free from your mouth. “She’s not gone,” you cry. “She’s not gone. She’s not—” Your legs tremble with the wave of grief that crashes over you and you can’t hold your weight as it does so. Falling to your knees, Hotch reacts. His arms fold around your waist, catching you as you collapse into the wide plane of his chest. Your ribs ache as your lungs inflate with each rapid, sobbing breath. Your vision turns fuzzy at the edges as you try and fail to slow your breathing. It feels like you’re dying as the waves of grief assail you over and over again, battering you, body and mind, in an unrelenting tumultuous current of sorrow and pain as the wicked reality sets in. Emily is dead. You barely feel Hotch’s hand in your hair cradling you against him. As he murmurs apologies and sympathies in your ear, you don’t see the weighted look he exchanges with JJ.

•

The funeral comes and goes. The day is too beautiful for Emily not to be there to see it. You sit on the porch at Hotch’s house, breathing in and out as you watch the daffodils dance in the afternoon breeze. You smooth the fabric of your dress down over your knees, the satin wrinkled from the way you clenched it during the service.

Your phone buzzes in your purse. The number of messages and phone calls you’d ignored continues to rise, but you can’t bring yourself to express any gratitude for their condolences. You can’t bring yourself to feel anything except the crushing weight of grief.

You picture Emily sitting beside you on the wooden porch swing. Last Summer, you’d sat here with her as the team gathered for a Fourth of July Barbecue. Jack had made invitations and delivered them to the team at the office. He’d been so excited and so were you. It was around then that you and Hotch had begun to toe the line between colleagues and something more; a morning coffee dropped off at your desk here, an extra visit to his office there. You’d sat here with Emily watching as Rossi backseat barbecued Hotch on the grill. She’d caught you smiling at him alongside the fondness in your gaze. She’d clocked you from a mile away.

“Oh, you’ve got it bad.” Her laugh had tinkled from lips, ringing like a morning bell.

“What are you talking about?” you’d asked, trying and failing to school your features into a mask of indifference.

“I’ll tell ya, it’s a big swing, but if you hit it, that’s a home run for sure.”

You’d nearly choked on your lemonade, coughing and gasping; drawing the attention of the others.

“Wrong pipe!” Emily had called while pointing at you and clapping a hand against your back. “She’s good!” In a low voice she’d added, “Though I’m sure with him, it’d be just the right pipe.”

You’d elbowed her in the ribs and bust out laughing together. For the longest time after that, she’d been the only person that you’d confided in about your burgeoning feelings and relationship with Aaron. Through that, she’d quickly become your closest friend on the team.

A couple of kids shout at one another, laughing, as they ride past the house on their bicycles; shattering the memory. You dip into your purse and withdraw your phone, pressing a button and powering it down. The screen door creaks on its hinges and Hotch steps down onto the porch, the planks shifting beneath his weight. He sits beside you and offers you a mug. The scent of coffee reaches your nose and you accept it, thanking him quietly. Aaron had taken his suit jacket off and loosened his tie. He stretches an arm around your shoulder and draws closer to you. He kisses the side of your face and stares out at the yard.

“It was a beautiful service,” he offers.

“Aaron, don’t.” You close your eyes and take a breath. You hold the coffee with both hands, rubbing your thumbs up and down the warm ceramic. “Please don’t make small talk with me about this like it’s all so fucking normal.”

He sighs and apologizes. “I just wish I could make all of your hurt go away.”

A shudder runs through you and you nestle in closer to him, taking a sip of your coffee as you do so. “I don’t think it’ll ever go away.”

•

Her brown eyes stare back at you, though the photo paper could never capture the light that flared within them when she was alive. Of all the faces you could have seen up on this wall, you’d never anticipated hers being one of them.

Every day you stop by her portrait on the wall of fallen heroes. People talk about her less and less around the office. The team doesn’t stop, though your conversations are stilted and often end in awkward silences; no one really knowing how to carry on once the conversation slows to a natural end. You speak often with Spencer about the ways in which you’ve been grieving, the sleepless nights and early mornings. Derek is reserved. He’s angry above anything else. He feels betrayed by Emily and a part of you understands that. She’d not told any of you after all. You’d be remiss if you’d not also spent some of your time grieving in anger. Of all the times you’d stayed late after work, gotten together to hang out on weekends, or gone out for drinks, she had never indicated anything was wrong. You had told her everything, confided every one of your fears and hopes into her and you’d thought that the street had been going both ways. God, you’d never been so wrong.

“Conference room in fifteen,” Aaron says as he walks past you, hand grazing your back as he does so.

You smile tightly and nod, glancing once more at Emily’s photo before making your way to your desk in the bullpen, ignoring the fact hers still sits empty and unoccupied beside yours. How has it been three months already?

•

“Emily!”

Your eyes dart around the room frantically searching as your heart thunders in your ears. You feel the organ pounding against your ribcage, threatening to break free of it. It only takes a second for you to realize it had been a dream.

Aaron rolls over and sits up, threading an arm around your back and rubbing your hip with his fingers. “Another nightmare?” he asks, words tinged with sleepiness.

You nod, yawning as you rub your eyes. The dreams are further apart, but at least every other week her face haunts your subconscious. You can’t help but wonder if it’s some sort of self-punishment as life goes on and the days get easier.

In reality, you don’t know if it’s easier or if you’ve just forced yourself to become numb to it all, compartmentalizing the pain of losing your best friend because if you didn’t you don’t think you’d be able to leave the house and do what you do day after day.

“Are the appointments with the therapist helping?” he asks.

Another question you don’t know the answer to. On some level, yes. Talking to someone who knows nothing about you or her or anyone else on the team is good. You don’t have to walk on eggshells, worried you're going to dig open a wound the others are equally fighting to heal by talking about her or how much you miss her or wish she was here. On another level, you don’t open up fully to the doctor. There are some layers of this injury you don’t want to see heal and scar over. If you do that, it’s like you’re telling Emily that you’re over her death, as if it’s something as easy as that, something you just get over. No, some things need to stay fresh, to serve as a reminder that Ian Doyle is still out there. The man who took your best friend away from you and your BAU family is breathing and she’s not. You clench your fists, the sheets balling up in your hands as your resentment burns deep inside you. Yes, that’s it, the idea of him walking around thinking he’s gotten away with this is enough to stoke the flames simmering deep inside you.

You take a deep breath, mentally imagining the flames subsiding, and they do. They dial down, but they don’t disappear. You glance down at Aaron, who snores softly beside you. His fingers still curl around your hip and a faint smile graces your lips. He tries, you know he does, but this is exhausting for everyone. He bears the brunt of it at the office. He fought to be the one to meet with the team and conduct the grief interviews, not wanting a stranger to come in and sift through your friends’ and colleagues’ pain over what happened. God knows how much bureaucratic red tape he had gotten tangled in right after the fact, the higher ups demanding how such a blunder could occur right under their noses. Aaron had put out the fires though, as he always did. Reaching around his back, you withdraw his hand from your hip and tuck it by his side, not before pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

You glance at the clock before lying back down. 4:15AM blinks back at you on the digital clock face. In forty five minutes the alarm will go off and it’ll be another day at the office. Settling down into the pillows, you press your back into Aaron’s body, yours molding against the planes of his as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

His arms slinks around your waist and pulls you in as if you can get any closer than you already are. He tucks his chin over your shoulder and his lips brush against your jawline.

“I love you,” he whispers and you relax into the safety of his embrace.

“I love you, too, Aaron.”

•

Nights are hard when Aaron is gone. Pakistan is nine hours ahead and all Hotch has to communicate with anyone is a satellite phone, the number for which you don’t have access to. Whenever Hotch calls, the caller ID flashes the word ‘Unknown’ across your screen. There have been several times you’ve missed him due to being asleep or at work. Each call missed feels like being sucker punched. Every time you talk, a part of you worries it’ll be the last time. You didn’t use to have this fear, not until Emily. Despite staring death in the face on a week by week basis, most of the time playing Russian Roulette with the Grim Reaper himself in each unsub you cross paths with, somehow you never thought he’d actually take someone you love from you; that he’d take down one of the team. You never thought there’d be a last conversation with Emily, and now she’s dead.

Dead. The word is a heavy stone, sinking from the cusps of your mind to the pit of your stomach. It sits there, a persistent ache idling deep inside of you. It never relents and it never allows you to forget.

There are nights you dream that Aaron is dead too, that somewhere far away and beyond your control, he’s dying on the ground, bleeding out, and no one knows. You don’t even know what he’s working on and he can’t say; despite your relationship there are still levels in which Hotch’s clearance supersedes your own and the need-to-know red tape keeps you out. Afraid to close your eyes and dream of his unseeing, you stare at the blades of the ceiling fan whirling lazily overhead of the bed you usually share with him.

“I miss you,” you whisper to no one; and you don’t know who you’re talking to anymore.

•

“He’s back?” your heart flutters in your chest, equal parts excited and anxious at the prospect of Aaron’s sudden return. You push off your desk and swivel in your chair to stand, rushing down the hall and leaving Reid behind as you make your way hastily to the conference room.

The door is cracked and a gleeful sound eeks past your lips as his tall frame comes into view. You slip in before anyone else arrives and throw your arms around you. Inhaling deeply, his familiar teakwood scent envelopes you just as his arms do. You move to pull away, but his arms tighten around you.

“A second more,” he whispers, and there’s an edge to his voice.

You write it off to jet lag and sink into his embrace, though you notice how slight he feels against you. Finally, you pull back and cup his face in your hands. The scruff of his beard is prickly and you laugh as you take in his rugged appearance. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with this much facial hair.” You swipe your thumbs over the hair on his lip and he tilts his head, kissing the inside of your hand. He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply before lifting them to meet yours. It's then you realize how tired he looks. The bags under his eyes are puffy and purple, almost as if they’re bruised. His forehead is creased, brow furrowed; definitely not how you pictured him upon reuniting.

“Aaron is everything ok—”

“I need you to know I would never hurt you,” he says quickly, interrupting you.

You purse your lips, brow pinching at the sudden admission. As your lips part to speak he directs a pointed look at you, the depths of his brown eyes wavering. “I love you,” his voice cracks, “so much.” He swallows, his throat bobbing as he does so. “Please remember that.”

There’s a hollow feeling in your gut, a chasm opening wide where every anxious and painful thought that you’ve tried to keep buried since he’s been gone begins to claw their way out as a thousand different outcomes play out in front of you. “Aaron, what’s going on?”

He doesn’t answer your question as the rest of the team trickles into the room, sitting at the round table or standing as suspense fills the space. It’s tangible. Everyone’s posture is rigid and tense in anticipation of whatever it is he has to say.

“Seven months ago I made a decision that impacted everyone on this team,” he begins, eyes firm.

Spencer shifts uncomfortably beside you. Rossi leans forward, fingers steepled under his chin.

“As you all know, Emily had lost a lot of blood,” Hotch continues and your ears prick at the sound of her name. Why would he bring her up? No less, her condition the day you all lost her. You all know this.

“…the doctor’s were able to stabilize her.”

Your lips part but no sound comes out as you raise your eyes to meet his. They meet yours for the briefest of seconds before flitting on to the others.The next words to leave his mouth sound far away, interrupted by the blood now pounding in your eardrums. “She stayed there until she was well enough to travel…given identities…”

There’s a lump in your throat and you feel as though you may choke on it. Air doesn’t seem to be able to bypass it and you have to remind yourself that you can breathe even though it feels like all the oxygen has vacated your lungs.

Penelope is the first to speak. “She’s alive?”

Spencer’s brow quirks as he tries to rationalize what’s being said to him. “We buried her.”

You did. You helped carry the casket. You felt the weight of her dead body and watched it sink into the earth. If that wasn’t her, what the fuck or who the fuck did you actually put in the ground?”

“As I said I take full responsibility for this decision,” Hotch continues, eyes downcast. “If anyone has any issues they should be directed towards me.”

The blood pounding in your ears is deafening. When Hotch looks up, you search his eyes and can’t help wondering if you know him at all. All of the nights you literally made yourself sick from crying and he held your hair back as you dry heaved over the toilet and your body spasmed from the grief of losing your best friend, he’d known that she was alive. For a moment, you think you may be sick right there at the round table at the thought of it all. Derek is speaking, his voice tight with anger but you don’t hear him. Heads turn and the hairs on the back of your neck prickle as a haunting feeling creeps up the back of your spine.

Turning around in your chair, everyone else stands but not you. If you do, you know your knees will buckle and fall out from under you. Spencer and Penelope are on their feet, moving briskly to greet the ghost of Emily.

Except she’s not a ghost. Her skin is not the cold blue-gray pallor of death, but pink and bright, the blood beneath her flesh very much pumping through a heart that’s beating. Her dark brown hair is sleek and shining, her bangs grown out and styled; her part now to the right. You watch her arms fold around Spencer and the way he squeezes her in turn. Penelope follows suit, tears streaming down her cheeks as she smiles widely. Derek stares on, features fixed in a cross between anger and shock. Emily approaches him with apprehension. An apology leaves her lips as she draws him in for a hug and his arms tentatively wrap around her. When she turns to you, your muscles tense. Those deep brown irises flicker back and forth across your face, searching for a reaction. You don’t give her one. Instead, you push past her, avoiding any and all physical contact with her, and dip out of the conference room.

You hear Garcia call your name and Derek shouts about having a case. You don’t care. You bypass your desk, not even bothering to get your purse. Your keys are hanging on a carabiner on your belt loop. Ignoring the elevator, you shove your way through the entrance to the stairs and move down them so quickly you’re surprised you don’t lose your footing and tumble down them. Down and around you go, your footsteps echoing as your heart slams against your ribcage. You slap your badge against the keypad that lets you exit the building, ignoring the greeting from the security guard at the front. As you push through the front doors of the office building, you barely make it to the bushes before you fall to your knees and retch.

•

A car door slams followed by the double beep which locks them. You close your eyes and inhale deeply as you prepare to face him, hands clenching around the sweater you were packing. A tear slips free from your eye as you breathe out and look toward the ceiling, as if the answers to why all of this had to happen are written up there. This is not how your reunion is supposed to be. You’d pictured his homecoming for weeks; thought about the outfit you’d wear to dinner and the lingerie you’d bought to wear just for him when you both got home, opened a bottle of wine, and made up for all of the time lost while he was away. That is how tonight is supposed to go.

Now you’re leaving, and you don’t know if you’ll be coming back.

The lock on the front door jiggles before the gears click into place. It squeaks on its hinges as it swings open. Five beeps follow and you can picture his fingers pressing against each button on the alarm system. His keys clatter as he drops them on the table. As his footsteps edge closer to your bedroom, you count each one. The sound that usually means safety and security, now sends a shiver of anxiety throughout your body.

He appears in the doorway, eyes rife with exhaustion and the bags beneath them puffy and swollen. His cheeks are flushed and his nose is pink, as if he’d been crying. Maybe he had been, god knows you had. His eyes flit between you and the bag you’re packing. His lips part and a small sound of desperation slips past them.

“Baby, please—”

You hold up a hand, curling your fingers into a fist. Your lip curls as you speak. “Don’t,” you breathe. You swallow the lump that quickly forms in your throat as you drop your hand, zipping the bag shut.

The inner corners of his brow draw upward and you can hardly stand to look into his pleading gaze.

“You have to understand—”

“Understand, what? Aaron?” You ask sharply, struggling to hold back the thick hot tears pricking the backs of your eyes.

He places a hand on his hip, fingers tucking back the fold of his unbuttoned shirt as his thumb hooks into his belt; a gesture you’re all too familiar with as he does the same thing with all of his suits. His other hand rises to pinch the bridge of his nose. He pauses, inhaling as he tries to find the words. After a moment, he scrubs a hand over his face and turns his gaze to yours.

“I wanted to tell you so badly,” he says. When he looks at you there are tears in his eyes. “I hated myself, watching the agony this decision put you and the team through. I wanted to tell you and take away your hurt, but I couldn’t. It wouldn’t have been fair to the team. Just because you’re my girlfriend, I can’t—” He turns his hand and slams his hand against the doorframe causing you to flinch. “Dammit!”

Your voice is soft, but sure when you speak. “You can’t bend the rules.”

It’s what you’ve always worried about, both of you. You always knew the job could come first, especially with him being the Unit Chief. You always understood that that meant no preferential treatment and that is something you never would’ve asked him to do. You just never anticipated it happening like this, a complete and total life altering mind fuck.

Aaron drops his hand and it slaps against his thigh in defeat as it falls to his side. “What was I supposed to do?”

You cross your arms over your chest, fingers curling over your biceps to try and still your shaking hair. You hang your head and a curtain of hair falls across your face, “I don’t know, Aaron.”

He kicks off the doorway, moving towards you with his hands outstretched. It happens without thinking, the way you flinch away. Pain flashes in his eyes and you feel as though you’ve been punched in the stomach the way it’s suddenly hard to breathe.

His hip is close to yours, his body angled away from you. You can feel the weight of his gaze on your shoulder as he looks down. “Don’t do this,” he whispers.

Your lip quivers, chin wobbling in response to the tears you’re trying so desperately to hold back. “I have vacation I’d been saving.” You pick up your bag and throw it over your shoulder, not daring to look up at him because you know if you do you’ll shatter into a thousand shards of glass at his feet.

As you move toward the door, you pause. For a split second, you entertain the thought of dropping your bag, running across the room he’d chased you around so many times before, and throwing yourself around him. You consider all the things you want to say and scream and cry about; all of your anger, sadness, betrayal, grief, and love. You crave him so terribly in that moment because his have always been the arms you’ve run to when things become too much to bear.

Instead, your chin dips toward your shoulder as you speak, but you don’t raise your eyes to meet his. If you do, you don’t think you’ll be able to leave. “My gun and badge are in the safe.”

As you make your way down the hallway, you have to bite your knuckles to stifle a sob just as you hear one leave his lips from the bedroom.

You don’t turn back.

#aaron hotchner #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fic #aaron hotch fanfiction #aaron hotchner criminal minds #aaron hotch fic #aaron hotchner headcanons #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner drabble #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner angst #aaron hotchner hurt no comfort #angst #hurt no comfort #bau reader #bau!reader #fem!reader #hotch x reader #hotch x y/n #drabble #fic #hotch #sad!aaron hotchner

[takemebacktowheniwassane]

i've been seeing a lot of falsettos posts recently deconstructing the fandoms beliefs and firstly

holy fuck thank you, i try to steer clear of fandom (and fandom-izing thereof) drama but this is getting a lot more visible recently so here's some little tidbits for you

whizzer brown is not an unflawed character!

okay so i haven't seen enough dissecting this but!!! in the chess game!

the whole point of marvin using that game to determine the ending of their relationship is because he suspects whizzer is constantly deceiving him and wants to prove it.

whizzer LITERALLY proves him right!

he asks marvin to help him along (yes i know he says he doesn't want help, hear me out, it's a little more complex than that) and takes advantage of the fact that marvin is- like- infatuated with him.

he draws him into a sense of false security then starts throwing accusations at him ("since you need a man!" "what?" "who's 'brainy'," "or witty, move.") until hes able to win, which he does with ease because he's been using marvin having this idea that he isn't smart against him.

of course, marvin's side of this isn't the best either but honestly, for once the fandom should focus on a different character when they think 'insane asshole'. typically we should also probably change our perspectives a little to be more unbiased cuz fr guys, this is getting really.. annoying.

i understand he's the most visibly flawed but that doesn't excuse constantly picking the worst parts of this musical (without other context, btw) to use against him.

and this post certainly isn't here to excuse anyone either i've just got a lot of opinions that i wanted to share while falsettos is.. trending? right?

2. marvin's (headcanoned but still somewhat researched) autism

this one isn't brought up as much but when i do see it around, it's kind of a skewed viewpoint.

while rewatching bits of the proshot i realized a lot of different neurodivergent traits that he shows-

he's helpless during I Never Wanted to Love You and is childish and regressive when he's upset (not every autistic person is like this either, i know this is a bit of a touchy subject so i just wanted to add that).

usually when people depict it i see it either toned down or joked about which is fine when all in good fun, and when its done respectfully.

not here to attack anyone, just here to point it out and say that yes :) he most likely is neurodivergent, but despite that his actions aren't condoned. he's still kinda a dick who needs to get his shit together

3. ..the lesbians also have shit going on?

just putting this out there- I DON'T SEE ENOUGH FOR THE LESBIANS! OR TRINA!

the girls in this musical are like thoroughly neglected and i think that's kind of shitty just assuming the fact that william finn put them in to demonstrate how gender roles put people in degrading positions (and he even makes it more prevalent by showing marvin as something like a misogynistic character who forces whizzer into more feminine roles to show the audience what woman have to/had to go through in society).

anyways, the lesbians aren't just there guys. they have a plotline too. in Something Bad is Happening, you derive a lot from charlotte singing about the outbreak of HIV/AIDS and realize how she operates on a daily basis (she's passionate about her work and takes every bad day as a hit to her life and career, explaining in a way that as a black, jewish, lesbian, FEMALE doctor in this time, everything that goes wrong is immediately brought down on her so much more than it would as any straight white male pharmacist-).

cordelia on the other hand has to handle the fact that her girlfriend is so adamant about her work ethic that she can't actually be super present in their relationship at times like that.

but either way she still sticks by her and is constantly trying to be supportive and endearing despite feeling like she's not amounting to her gf who's basically a hero in her eyes.

i kinda just wanted to bring that up because they mean a lot to me and they don't get enough love from the fanbase, thank you for listening to my TED talk <3

#why did I spend 20 minutes typing this #rant #whizzer brown #falsettos #marvin falsettos #charlotte falsettos #cordelia falsettos #hhhh

[highwayorgantrade]

Safe House

Pairing: Female Reader! X Soap

Request: Nooo

Summary: Oh no! A bunch of soldiers posted up in your farmhouse bed and breakfast?? Whatever shall you do!! Should you fuck them??

Word Count: 4.4k

Warnings: Overstimulation, begging, volume (keep quiet), unprotected sex, cervix kissing 

Author's note: Okay listen y'all I did not plan on doing this whatsoever. I was in the middle of writing a Graves thing when I got this idea and I knew I just had to get that damn little brain worm out before it ruined my life further. This is gonna be a series!!!!!

The mission had gone wrong. Oh, so horribly wrong. 141 thought they were smart by teaming up with Los Vaqueros again to take down a trafficking ring - “Positive international relations,” Price had called it. “We even got imported muscle.” He grinned, referring to the 6’10” man they had called in, after hearing of his ability to do his job and keep his mouth shut.

 However, the ring had decided on the same tactic, bringing in a nearby cartel to defend their location. Quickly, way too quickly, the group was overwhelmed, frantically phoning in to Laswell for extraction.

“Don’t worry,” She sighed, after directing the seven men to a relatively safe area, the black-tinted SUV already flying gravel. “I have a friend.”

You had just so happened to be the friend. Well, the relative was more accurate, being her sister-in-law. You knew what she did for work, but you never thought she would call on you for help with it.

“Please, (Y/N), it’ll only be for a few days, I swear. A week, tops.” She called you early one November morning. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.” And you knew she wouldn’t. The fact was simple: You had lived relatively nearby, and the bed and breakfast you operated and lived in certainly had the facilities to house eight people, and it so happened to be the off-season.

You were eager to accept, happy to help your sister, and it would be nice to have some muscle with the chores that needed done around the property. When the SUV pulled up, you quickly regretted your decision. You had expected a house full of military boys, tearing around like a pack of dogs, but out stepped six of the most attractive men you have ever seen, all completely different, but equally as handsome and rugged. Two were masked, but Christ, were they big anyway. As they loaded packs out of the van, you stepped into the grass, the cold air causing you to draw your cardigan tighter around yourself. When you approached, you kept a safe distance - partly because you didn’t know them, but also because you were afraid that if you got too close, you’d get lost in the intricacies of their faces.

“Hey!” You spoke finally, the rustling of the dying leaves nearly drowning you out. “I’m (Y/N), I hope the trip out wasn’t too awful!” You internally cringed at yourself for giving them the usual spiel you reserved for guests, but continued anyway. “Come on in, all the rooms are pretty much the same, but you can pick, so… that’s something.”

“Ay, don’t worry lass, better by miles than where we’ve been.” One of them finally spoke, casting a friendly grin your way, and you turned quickly to hide the burning on your cheeks. 

You were proud of the way your property looked, hidden well off the road in a small forested area, the whole thing had kind of an eclectic feel to it, but you still felt kind of strange leading them into the common area. 

“Okay!” You clasped your hands together, and tried to remember that you were only a housing opportunity - they had more important things to focus on. “Well, uh, I’ll stay out of your way as much as I can, but you might see me flitting about here and there. What’s mine is yours.” Some nodded their thanks, others were making quick work of checking their bags for God knows what, and one, the one in a skull mask, merely stared down at you, his large arms crossed on his chest.

Okay… You took that as your cue to leave, and you quickly stepped out the back door, hoping to make progress on your chores before the sun set.

The frigid air felt nearly unbearable compared to how hot you were burning in their presence - you didn’t even realize that you were slightly sweating. With a sigh, you reminded yourself of your responsibilities. Repaint the gazebo, refill and hang the bird feeders, and fix the greenery so everything is in full bloom by summer. Leaves crunched under your step as the half-painted gazebo came into view. You could hear voices coming from your house, a few with different accents, mostly British, but you could pick out a Scottish, a vaguely German, and a couple Spanish lilts. A booming laugh echoed, and you relaxed your tense shoulders at the sound. 

“Don’t make me regret this, Kate.” You mumbled as you settled into the grass and popped open a paint can.

She was pretty. It was the first thing Soap had noticed. It looked like she belonged here, in the woods, with the wind blowing her hair and birds singing in her presence. No doubt she kept them well-fed. He had barely listened when she spoke - he was much too focused on how her sweater wrapped tightly around her body, or how her eyes seemed to physically sparkle with curiosity. She had said something, Soap had no idea, but he responded anyway. Something about the drive? The rooms?

“Ay, don’t worry lass, better by miles than where we’ve been.” He answered, stabbing that it was an appropriate response. The way she averted her eyes and a hint of a smile played at the edges of her lips told him that he was successful. When she turned around to lead them into the safehouse, Price gave him a nudge and shook his head ‘no.’ No fucking Kate’s pretty little sister? Might as well ask him to walk on fucking water, next. 

She had promised to make herself scarce, and Soap was silently thankful. He didn’t want this woman caught up in what they were doing, and he didn’t want her to know something that could get her in trouble - Laswell would never forgive them. When she left, Alejandro was the first to speak.

“Nobody talk to me about this mission tonight.” He grumbled, and Soap recognized that as a request long ago, based on the way his jaw was clenched nearly the entire drive to the location, muttering what Soap assumed to be expletives every so often. He trudged up the stairs with his bag, Rudy trailing not far behind. 

“Right, then.” Ghost spoke, rolling his shoulders and pulling out a map of the enemy facility and laying it on the wood table, and Soap nearly laughed at how out of place it looked. “If they’ve gotten support from that gang, it eliminates them from support from anyone else, and makes them a target to others, not just us.”

“We need to get to them first.” Konig’s hand landed on the map, gesturing vaguely at an entrance. “This was lightly guarded.” Soap stared at the location, before his eyes flitted out the window to see you approaching a gazebo outside, and he itched to get this out of the way.

“Aye, they might reinforce that entrance since they know it’s weak now. Leaves somewhere else open to vulnerability.” Soap strategized, his eyes lingering on how your hands ran through your hair, and JESUS, how did it still look perfect after that? A light thump on the back of his head pulled him out of his thoughts, and he looked back to see Gaz with a raised eyebrow, the corners of his mouth turning upwards. 

“No-go, mate. Red zone. Laswell would have your head on a stick.”

“Might be worth it.” Ghost chimed in, following his gaze to the woman.

Price pointed a warning finger to Ghost, his face stony.

“Ghost, stop instigating. Gaz, leave Soap alone. Konig…” He took a breath, considering the man had nothing to do with their antics. “Good job. Soap, I wish I had control over who a soldier decides to sleep with, but I don’t.”

“That girl in Ibiza left a bad taste in your mouth, Cap?” Soap retorted, recalling one of his more infamous hook-ups, and Price laughed loudly.

“Lesson for the inexperienced,” Ghost turned to Konig. “Remember your date’s name or she will throw a knife at you.” Konig shook his head at this, and slung his bag over his shoulder, ready to call it a day.

“Sounds like my kind of woman.”

Soap had already tuned the ribbing out, and when Ghost packed up the plans, he was already tracing your path, walking out the back door to meet you.

A rustling of leaves caused your head to perk up, and you turned to see the one who had spoken to you earlier, a small smile on his face.

“Need any help?” He tilted his head at the gazebo. “More hands make less work ‘n all.” You looked back at your work, having made minimal progress since you began. 

“Oh! Yeah, sure. If you want.” You responded, pulling the paint tray out in front of you so he could take the spare paintbrush. A moment of silence passed before he spoke again.

“I’m Johnny. Most of the guys call me Soap, though.”

Soap? The nickname seemed to come out of nowhere, and you crinkled your nose at this.

“Why do they call you that? You shower more than everyone else or something?” He laughed at this, reaching up to cover the underside of a railing in white paint, and you fought to keep your eyes from lingering on his arms.

“Good at cleaning house, love.” Soap corrected you, your lips pursing at the nickname. “How long have you had this place?”

You shrugged, simply happy that he was making conversation with you.

“Coupl’a years. Since I was twenty. Bought it as a dump and flipped it.” He makes a noise of approval and takes a deep breath. 

“Your, uh, boyfriend live here with you, does he?” At this, you can’t help but allow a laugh to tear through you, both in recognition of what Soap was doing, and out of pure shock that he was doing it.

“Not sure where my boyfriend lives, I haven’t met him yet. Let me know if you find him, though, yeah?” Soap shook his head.

“I don’t think I will, but thank you for the offer.”

The back and forth with Soap left your head reeling, and you considered your options as you painted in silence. Kate would kill you if she found out, but she doesn’t need to find out. It has been terribly long since you’ve even been on a date, or even had sex for that matter, and Soap certainly isn’t the worst looking man in the world. He clearly had a great body, and you delved down the rabbit hole of how his arms would look pinning your arms above your head, his battle-worn dog tag trailing cold electricity down your chest.

A flash of yellow light pulled you out of your musings, and a firefly landed on your knee. You took a deep breath and turned to Soap, his attention garnered by your sudden movement of waving the small bug away.

“Do you wanna have a drink tonight? With me?” Your face was comically serious, and Soap let out a soft chuckle as he replaced the lid on the paint, taking the brush from your hand.

“Aye.” He stood, sighing a bit at the noise his knees made, and handed you the paint tray.

“I’ll, uh, go put this up and meet you inside.” You offered him a small smile, and his head tilted at you, trying to hide his own.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Soap had to stop himself from running back into the house. Giddiness coursed through him, and he burst through the door to see Gaz, Ghost, and Konig sat in various places around the living room, the TV tuned in to the local news.

“Get the fuck out.” He stated simply, his eyes wide and a dumb grin on his face.

“Pardon?” Ghost barely spared him a glance, and Konig automatically stood, silently confused as to where he was supposed to go. Gaz merely stared up at him.

“I said,” Soap wrapped his hand around Ghost’s bicep and pulled, forcing the man to stand, and Gaz followed. “Get the fuck out.”

“You sendin’ us to bed, then, eh?”

Soap picked up Ghost’s bag for him, and shoved it into his chest, nearly pushing the men up the stairs.

“I am.” He turned to Gaz, his mouth already open to protest, and pointed a finger in his face. “If you fuck this up for me, I will end you.” 

The second the three men shut the door to their respective rooms, you stepped back into the house, locking the backdoor behind you.

I raised an eyebrow at the television, and grinned at Soap.

“Did you turn on the news?” I ask, grabbing two glasses and a bottle of wine from cabinets, pouring us both a fairly full glass.

“Yeah, it’s a new form of foreplay.” He laughed, taking a sip. “Learnin’ that we world is shite.” 

“Oh, so foreplay is important to you?” And that question was your first step. He glanced at you from across the kitchen island, and you could just see the gears in his mind turning, figuring out the best way to get himself into your bed. Honestly, he could have asked to bend you dead over the kitchen counter, his large hand pulling your hair as leverage as he thrusted into you from behind.

But your imagination always runs wild.

“Mm. ‘S very important.” You cocked your head at his answer, and he shrugged. “I prefer to have a girl simply beggin’ before I even think of finishing.” He took a step around the island, not quite in front of you, but leaning on the side. You sipped your wine again, trying to cover your reaction to his answer, but there was no wine glass big enough to cover how you pressed your legs together, one hand gripping the counter with slightly more force than necessary.

“How do you do that?” It was an effort to keep your tone even , trying not to show how badly he was affecting you.

“Eh.” He set his wine glass down, finger lightly circling the base of the stem. “Usually have ‘em coming a few times before I get my own.”

Holy fuck. You needed Soap, and you needed him bad.

“Ah, so only good reviews then?” Damnit, why is your voice suddenly higher? You cleared your throat to try to get it to return to normal, and the fucking bastard smirked at you.

“So far. Tell me, love.” That damn nickname again. “When was the last time you were fucked?” You opened your mouth to answer, but it didn’t matter as Soap began talking again. “Ah, lemme revise that. When was the last time you were properly fucked? The last time someone had you cryin’, had you just stupid on their cock?”

You were buzzing, shaking slightly at Soap’s vulgar words. His accent got lower, rougher as he spoke, and you could feel your arousal tying a knot in your throat.He simply stared at you, waiting for your answer with a dumb smile on his face, like he already knew.

“Oh, no, don’t tell me…” He began, in mock sympathy. “Never?” You shook your head at him, not wanting to tell him the truth.

In all reality, you’ve never orgasmed with someone else. It was all only you, and you learned quickly not to say this, as all men would try to be the first. Then you’d end the night by lying, and they would go with their egos inflated.

You both stood, the tension in the kitchen more than you could bear, and just as you were about to dismiss yourself for the night, Soap wrapped a hand around your forearm - Not tightly enough to worry you, but just enough so you looked up at him, your faces inches from each other.

“Love, I don’t like to, uh, think I’m all that, y’know?” He cleared his throat. “But I’d like to try. Show some thanks to our host.”

In one last attempt at quieting down your own perverse thoughts, you set your wine glass down, and looked at the floor.

“Ah, you don’t need to thank me Soap.”

“I absolutely do,” He responded immediately. “I really do need to. Nothin’ better than a pretty face while I work.”

You bite the inside of your lip, considering all the ways this could go bad. Every single one was overrun with the way Soap was searching your eyes, silently pleading for you. With a purse of your lips, you poured the rest of your wine down the sink, and smiled.

“Absolutely.”

You barely got the words out before Soap wrapped his arm around your waist and lifted, slinging you over his shoulder and making his way up the stairs, searching for any room that didn’t look like it was already occupied.

“Mine’s on the other end.” You breathed in an effort not to laugh at his eagerness, and he turned on his heels toward a door that was differently painted than the rest. He placed a hand over your head, protecting you from a bump as he ducked through the doorframe, and less-than-gently set you on your bed, locking the door behind him.

When he turned, you didn’t see the sweet man offering to help you with painting, you saw a soldier. A soldier tuned into your every breath, every movement, and every thought. He kneeled in front of the bed, between your legs, and began planting lighter than air kisses on your ankle, untying your shoes and setting them to the side haphazardly.

“Red means stop.” He whispered against your skin, traveling upward to your knee. “Yellow is slow down, green is good. Repeat it.”

“Red is-“ You were cut off by your own gasp as he delivered a light bite to the inside of your thigh before kissing it again, and you could feel him smile against you. “Red is stop. Yellow is slow. Green is good.”

“And where are we now?” He breathed against the spot right where your thigh met your most sensitive area, and you felt your stomach jump.

“Green. So, so green.” A whimper escaped you, and Soap tsked, like he was about to scold you.

“Stay quiet, lass.” Teased Soap, as he slid your shorts down, along with your underwear, and he whistled lowly. “A Chriosd ann an ifrinn, seall ort, a nighean bhòidheach.” And with that, he licked one long, thick strip up your cunt, dipping down to tease your hole with his tongue. Soap was eating you out like a man starved, and you were obsessed. 

Light, breathy moans left you, ever so aware of how quiet everything else was. 

“Tell me what feels good, love.” He punctuated his command with a nip to your thigh, pulling your mind out of the pleasure-induced haze. His tongue traveled through your folds, eyes trained on you to see your reaction to his ministrations. Soap’s lips wrap around your clit, fingers toying with your soaking entrance, and it felt like all rational thought had left you. You didn’t care about who exactly was between your legs, nor if his team could hear your desperate mewls.

The pressure inside you was building, and your movement was strange - trying to wriggle away from the incessant barrage against your clit, and trying to grind impossibly closer to Soap’s lips, and by his huff, it was clear he had enough of that. One large arm wrapped around a thigh, his other pressing down on your abdomen, and the only noise Soap could muster was a few low groans as he continued devouring you.

The knot inside you was getting tighter and tighter, and it felt like it was going to snap any second. A split moment of panic ran through you as your back arched off the bed, Begs and cries tumbling out of your lips before you could think of them.

“Soap, please, please.” You cried, hands aching from gripping the sheets. “Please don’t stop, please…” Staying true to your direction, Soap was unrelenting against you, the combination of his sucking, biting, and licking at your clit had dizzy spots appearing in your vision. With one hard push on your abdomen, and a particularly slow drag of his tongue at your entrance, you felt that snap, and you finally understood why it was called the Little Death.

Your mind had gone completely blank, mouth open in a silent scream, and your thighs clamped around either side of Soap’s head, where he still had yet to stop drinking you. It felt like your heart had even stopped beating, until the pounding was heard in your ears. As Soap continued, you felt your body lurch upwards, fingers tangling in Soap’s hair until he finally looked up at you, his hand coming back to slide a finger into you.The sudden intrusion forced a gasp from you, and he gently kissed your thigh, where you noticed the ache that predates a bruise.

“How we doin’, love? We okay?” His voice was impossibly sweet, a complete 180 to how he just made you feel. You nodded, despite feeling like every single sense in your body had been blown out. His finger continued sliding in and out of you, your walls pulsing around him.

“Green.” You confirmed breathily, and he smiled a wolfish grin before adding a second digit into you, his pace quickening. A quick flash of aggravation and desperation coursed through you, and you knew how to get exactly what you wanted. 

You looked down at him, eyebrows upturned in a pleading look, and your doe-eyes were working overtime. 

“Please, Soap, just fuck me.” You said, voice higher and more gentle than you thought it would come out, and he groaned, rolling his head against your leg. His fingers took on a ‘come here’ motion, and your eyes rolled in the back of your head at the feeling.

“Ah, I know what you want. You want these…” Soap planted a kiss on your thighs, interrupting his own speech. “God, these pretty thighs pinned behind your head, taking me so well, takin’ me so good.” He looked absolutely pussydrunk, his eyes darting between your eyes and his fingers, tsking and offering a slight noise of false sympathy when a tear rolled down your cheek. Your walls pulsed around his fingers, and you could feel that fire building inside of you again. “Christ, love, you wanna come again, huh?” You nodded furiously at his question, one hand coming up to absentmindedly play with your tits. A bright look crossed Soap’s face, and while his hands continued, his mouth met your hands.

His lips wrapped around your nipple, and before you could think, he bit down - the orgasm that crashed through you was stronger than the last, and the muscles in your thighs screamed from being clenched so tightly. You felt his fingers work their way out of your pussy, hissing at the feeling of your walls clenching around nothing.

“You want me to fuck you now, pretty thing?” His face was almost smug as he climbed up on the bed, one hand going to your lower back to effortlessly raise you, and he peppered light kisses on your sweat-covered face. Of course you want him, how could you not? Your body was buzzing with the aftershocks of two orgasms, and here he was, lining himself up with you.

“God, yes, please.” You breathed, hands coming to rest on his back. Soap brought his lips down next to your ear, sending another shock straight to your core.

“Beg better.” He punctuated his command by rubbing his cock through your folds, and you twitched when the head ground against your already sensitive clit. Beg better? Fuck you, Soap. 

You took his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you and, hopefully, how serious you looked.

“Fuck me, Soap. Now.” 

The simple instruction was all it took for him to push inside you, and it was like it activated something in him - Soap simply could not shut up.

“Ach, mo Dhia, tha thu a 'faireachdainn cho foirfe timcheall orm. So perfect.” He planted a kiss to your temple. “So perfect, my pretty girl.” 

You brought your lips up to his neck, kissing the curve where it meets his shoulder, and his babbling only continued as his cock dragged against nearly every nerve, your broken moans echoing through your room. God, his slow pace was nearly agonizing, you wanted more, you needed more. It was like Soap read your mind as he paused, hooking your knees above his shoulders, effectively pinning you into the mattress. He flashed you a wicked grin before he began his jackhammer pace, and this new position had him reaching impossibly deep inside you.

A vague, low ache began in your abdomen every time he bottomed out, his head kissing your cervix every single time. The depth combined with his pace, his groaning and endless praise in your ear - it felt like it was all culminating in a perfect storm, one that was threatening to break down every fibre of your being.

“Fuck, Soap, I’m going to-” You interrupted yourself with a low, hoarse groan, your admission only spurring him on as he replaced his hold on your knees with his hands.

“Look at me, love, I wanna see it, I wanna see you.” His stuttering hips told you he was in the same spot as you, and you both were not going to last much longer. “Come for me, pretty girl.” He growled, and that was all it took for you.

Your legs shook uncontrollably as you released around him, and your ending brought his own on. Curses left him lips as he buried himself inside you, collapsing next to you.

“Ach, come ‘ere.” He breathed, reaching his arm out to hook around your waist and pulling you to him, one leg wrapping around his waist. One hand rested on your jaw, planting kisses on your forehead, cheek, anywhere he could get access to. Your body felt numb, and you knew he stayed true to his word - you were fucked absolutely stupid. You wanted to talk, you wanted to ask where this left you? Would you ignore that this happened? Would it recur? Would he tell his team about it? You wanted to ask, and yet you didn’t - The song of crickets and his heartbeat was a lullaby, and one that you couldn’t fight.

The snare of sleep overtook you as your heart rate evened out, and only one thought was on your mind before you gave up the fight for consciousness:

You really fucking hope you don’t regret this.

#mw2 #john soap mactavish #soap x reader #john mactavish x reader #call of duty fanfic #cod x reader

[sun-snatcher]

No no because I love your depiction of Jet??? Oh my god?? Like hell yeah hes a fearless leader of a freedom fighting rebellion group he built from the ground up but he’s also?? JUST A TEEN!! JUST A BOY!! Teenage boys get butterflies too!!??

🌾 ・ POCKETFUL OF BUTTERFLIES

summ. Operation: Creeping Cricket was a botch. It looks like you and Jet aren’t gonna be headed home anytime soon. pairing. Jet x f!medic!reader w.count. 1.1k a/n. ANON YOURE SO RIGHT. Sometimes we forget Jet is really just a teenage boy grappling with hormones and feelings and everything inbetween! Enjoy this short continuation to Hand in Loving Hand!

You take a mental note to thank Longshot and his squirrel-like tendencies to hide emergency stashes up in trees for times like these.

“Here,” Jet says softly, “Y’might catch a cold soon.”

The change of clothes he offers you is weathered, but a warm welcome respite from the frigid chill that’s settled into your bones. 

Operation Creeping Cricket had been a complete bust. Your narrow escape is a stroke of luck with all things considered, and at least the rain has finally stopped. It doesn’t help that both you and Jet are soaked head to toe, however, and the fact that the temperatures in the forests by Omashu can drop critically. 

Your cheeks are raw; your fingers ache— but you manage to begin peeling off the layers of your clothes one by one to dry by the campfire. From across, Jet’s already managed to change out. He frowns in concern from where he’s sitting by the fire, watching you tip over a boot of water. 

“You’re shaking.” 

“Shivering,” you correct, trying to stop the chatter of your teeth. You wonder if biting on a wheat straw like how Jet is doing right now would help. “But, yes. Same thing I suppose.” 

Then you’re untying the strings of your tunic, and pulling it swiftly over your head. 

Jet barely has time to react. 

He practically snaps his neck turning away, eyes wide. 

The whiplash, the innocent attempt at privacy, has you biting back a laugh. 

Ever the gentleman. 

“You can look now,” you finally say, after a quick minute, and Jet is careful to turn. 

The garments that Longshot had stashed practically drowns your figure, sleeves bundling at the wrists; collar wide and dipping low enough to reveal the corded necklace you never remove. And then there’s the glow of the fire, honeying you in amber light as you run your fingers through your damp hair. 

You’re… effortlessly beautiful. He’s not quite sure there’s any other way to describe you.

“That bad, huh?” you ask, pinned under his gaze. 

Jet startles. “Sorry, I— No, you just, look cold, still.”

He clears his throat as the tips of his ears burn. He hopes to the Spirits beyond you hadn’t noticed them go red. (You did.) 

“Well, so do you.” You reach back into Longshot’s knapsack and tug out a blanket from inside, before making your way across to the log Jet’s settled on. The material is tanned and threadbare, but it would do for the night.

Your hands brush as you wrap the cloth around the both of you. 

It’s difficult not to focus on just how warm Jet is. Even more difficult not to lean against him.

It hadn’t mattered much in the end, though; Jet shifts closer, and presses his shoulder against yours. 

“Y’okay?” You ask, gentle.

Under the dim firelight, his hard edges seem to soften. The fearless leader of the Freedom Fighters can be surprisingly endearing. Suddenly, Jet is simply another survivor; another casualty of war.

He shrugs lightly, careful not to jostle you, and makes a face. “Eh. We’ve faced worse, haven’t we?”

You laugh, ducking into his shoulder. Jet wonders if you can physically feel the butterflies taking flight in his chest.

There’s a spill of flowers behind you— budding Moonflowers, he recognises; native to Earth Kingdom wildlife— and has half the mind to pluck one and hand it to you. 

He chews harder on the straw in his mouth instead. 

( He knows you don’t see him that way, anyway. You’d made that clear before. ‘We’re family,’ is what you’d told him; Him and the rest of the Freedom Fighters. ‘Found family.’ And while he isn’t complaining, he’d be lying to himself if he didn’t imagine atleast once what it’d be like to be something more with you. 

Even if you did, he’s not quite sure he’d act on it. He’s not quite sure he can allow himself to be that vulnerable to someone. Not when he's a wanted man; not when subjecting someone into his dangerous lifestyle is the last thing he wants— even if said someone had signed up for it. )

“I’ll take first watch.” he says, after a moment.

“Y’sure? I don’t mind doing it. I promise I’ll wake you up this time.”

He laughs at the old memory. The smile, however, doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll be fine. You need rest.”

Quietly, you read him. Measure the micro-expressions that pass his face. Having fought alongside Jet throughout the years of survival made it easier. Whenever night falls, and the weight of his duties could settle if only for a little while, you could finally see all of him. Just a teenager who’s fighting for what he believed in; a kid who had to take on the world too early.

That illusion of 24/7 confidence falls around you often, though never around the younger rebels. You’ve kept the privilege close to your heart.

“You’re worried.”

He picks on the hearth for a moment, listens to the crackle of the fire.

Jet doesn’t doubt the Freedom Fighters’ capabilities. Longshot’s probably camping out somewhere in the trees with Smellerbee and The Duke, and Pipsqueak and Sneers can navigate these forests even better than him. They’ve all probably made it home already, knowing them.

And yet. And yet—

“Yeah,” he says. He didn’t like admitting it, because it implied they couldn’t protect themselves. It’d have meant he isn’t confident in them; that he, to some degree, didn’t trust them. It’s a twisted mindset, he recognises, but he can’t quite help his way of thinking these days. He didn’t like admitting he cared more than he really should— it’d be a concession. An admission. 

An admission that he might truly snap if he lost any of the Freedom Fighters; that he might truly break if, Spirits forbid, he’d lose you.

The thought sends a frisson up his spine.

That shouldn’t scare him. It shouldn’t.

He blinks, shakes his head. “That obvious?”

“No. But I’ve known you for years now,” you nudge.  “It’s okay to worry, y’know? You can care. You do care. There’s nothing wrong with that. You don’t have to act like you don’t for the sake of appearing calm and collected and… cool.”

He cocks his head at that, musters a playful smile. “Ah. So you think I’m cool?” 

It’s meant to derail the conversation. Fortunately for him, it’s successful. Jet watches you bow your head and laugh; the bright one, the kind that makes his heart sing.

Camaraderie, he reminds himself, swallowing thickly as he reluctantly turns away from you. Nothing more, nothing less.

#the pining & denial combo is SOOO #obsessed with Jet just behaving like a normal a teenage boy his age tbh #JET YOU STUPID PRETTY BOY #let him be a kid!!! he’s lost so much already!! #AAAAAA #atla #natla #avatar the last airbender #avatar: the last airbender #live action atla #netflix atla #jet atla #live action jet #jet imagine #jet x you #jet x reader #jet x y/n #jet x oc #atla live action #atla imagine #atla jet imagine #atla fanfic #sebastian amoruso #🪷 ; atla #🪷 ; wishing well

[reds-writings]

sunday kind of love

(pairing: rust cohle x fem!reader)

a/n: finally a bit of pure fun and fluff! this kinda applies to the jealousy, jealousy universe but it can totally be read as a standalone! requests are open so hit my inbox if you so choose! enjoy!

word count: 1.3k ish (a lil treat)

warnings: light cursing but not much else! the ending felt kinda weak so i apologize for that lol (minors begone!)

“Y’know…today is supposed to be one of rest…given that it’s a Sunday n’ all. Just in case you might’ve forgotten.” You remarked in your half-drowsy state, your porch swing swaying idly as you lay draped across it like some lazy house cat. 

The day had you hotter than a sinner in church. The sun sat high and bright in the sky, certainly having no mercy on all the melting folk of Louisiana. Even the breeze that had the old wind chimes you’d hung up ages ago tinkling idly in its gusts was relentless in temperature, offering no aid to your sickeningly sticky skin. With the way you’d been running the AC and numerous plugged-in fans in your house over the past few days, you were sure to rack up one nasty-looking electric bill in due time. Even with all that operating nearly 24/7 it hadn’t made much of a difference in the old rickety house. You’d give just about anything right now if it meant not being so grossly miserable and sweaty in all the worst places. 

The only reason you weren’t inside the slightly cooler haven that was your home was because of a certain pigheaded man who decided today would be the day he busied himself with fixing up your lawn. How ridiculous. One offhand mention of the front yard being a little unruly and your flowers looking a bit lackluster had Rust up and working as if you were Pavlov and he the infamous dog. There was no fighting him when he set his mind on something so you assigned yourself the role of making sure he didn’t drop dead from heat exhaustion like a fool. 

“I’m serious, Rustin. We should head on inside. Ain’t no need to get all of this done today.” You called out again, tipping your head to the side and looking over your sunglasses to see that he had now moved on from getting all the lawn clippings into a trash bag to planting some new flowers he claimed would thrive during the season. The way the muscles under the tan skin of his arms moved and the look of utter focus painted on his handsome features had you smiling something horrendously lovesick. Despite his bullish nature, you knew this was just one of his many underlying ways of showing that he cared for you. Loved you even. You could say that now after certain admissions had been made some nights ago and you found yourself no less giddy after the fact as you thought on it what had to be a million times over at this point. 

Some Linda Rondstat tune played from the old radio that sat propped up on the porch’s railing, causing your bare feet to tap in tandem with the country star’s divine voice. Rust continued to work in silence as you started humming, sitting up to then swing your legs off the bench’s edge. 

You flipped your sunglasses to lay stationary at the top of your head, “I’m feelin’ awfully neglected right now, darlin’.”

That had him finally snorting, “I’m sure you’ll live.” 

“You don’t know that. If I were to keel over right this minute cause a certain cowboy won’t give me the time of day, I bet you there’d be some sorta scientific explanation behind it and it’d have you feelin’ just awful. Gutted even, I’m tellin’ you.” You wagged a finger at him as you went on your theatrical tangent. You saw him shaking his head, continuing to work as if that could hide his growing smile from you. 

“You find this funny but I’m bein’ dead serious. I’ve got one of the most handsomest men in Louisiana on my lawn and he’s too busy diggin’ holes in my garden. Those flowers are gettin’ more felt up than your poor girl over here and that don’t sit quite right with me-”

“Quit it, woman.” He cut in with feigned exasperation though you knew such outward declarations of flirting made by you had him more than a bit flustered. You could live out this whole scene forever if you could. It might’ve been hotter than hell but the landscape was lush and beautiful. The weeping willow taking up a good amount of space on the front of your property danced in the light afternoon wind. The sunlight was hitting everything just right and it had you grateful to call this all yours. The man opposing you only added to the fuzzy feeling dancing in your veins. Snapping out of your sappy thoughts of admiration you saw Rust finally get up from his position and make way towards the garden hose.

You huffed out a dramatic sigh as you forced yourself up and made your way down the weathered porch steps. He stood over the new thatch of colorful flora, thumb half over the hose’s nozzle to spray down his hard work of the day. 

“If I quit it then just how else am I supposed to bug you with my affections?”

“I couldn’t tell ya. Shame that is.” He drawled, seemingly amused with feeding into your impatient antics.

Eyes squinting at him, you tried to fight the quirking of your lips as you ambled on over closer to him. 

“You must got some hidden thing for the works of sadism, mister. Leavin’ me hangin’ for hours on end with no-” You nearly shrieked at the sudden cold of the hose’s stream being flicked at you. The offendant stood opposite of you, too smug for your liking as he took in your half-soaked form. The old tank top and denim cutoffs you had on already left little to the imagination prior to his attack, you could only imagine the form of indecency you found yourself in now. 

“Oh, that’s it. C’mere you little- HEY!” You screeched as the cold spray hit you again. The momentum with which you charged at him had water flying between you both when he got you again. You wrestled each other for the hose, causing more than enough of a mess in the process. The joy in your laughter had Rust’s chest squeezing almost painfully. The stretch of his grin felt foreign to him but he couldn’t manage to control himself. 

As you made numerous attempts to jump up and snatch the tubing from his grip you overestimated your step and slipped on the newly muddied grass, causing you both to topple over. Your belly ached from how hard you found yourself laughing. You almost felt like a child again, drenched beyond belief with streaks of mud and grass finding a new home on your body. A few deep rumbles sounded from the depths of Rust’s broad chest as he pushed some of the sopping-wet hair from your face, looking at you as if you were the only thing in the world that made sense to him. As if you were all the answers to his universe wrapped up into one person. The intensity had you knocking his chin with your knuckles softly and wiping some water from his face. 

“You’re an ass, y’know that?”

“And you’re one sore loser.” 

“Loser?! I’ll have you know I managed to take your lanky ass down in one fell swoop-” 

You were silenced by the sudden press of his kiss. It was hard to reciprocate as you felt yourself smiling harder but he persisted despite the clumsiness of it all. Moments like these were something you’d never take for granted. Any chance to see the man in front of you free of all of his persistent burdens, even if just for a moment, were times you could hold on to forever. You felt nothing short of lucky that he let you in. That you were able to cross paths and choose each other in this life. 

You had a feeling there were probably other lifetimes in which you danced this similar dance as different people or different beings. Destined to always find your way back to each other come hell or high water.  Damn. Rust's daily cosmic ramblings and otherworldy mumbo jumbo were starting to really get to you.

Though you couldn't help but wonder if he happened to feel it too.

a/n: late night post but we love silliness and laughter! as always feedback is greatly appreciated! hopefully, this wasn't too ooc!

#reds-writings #rust cohle x reader #rust cohle imagine #fanfic #true detective season 1 #true detective imagine #matthew mcconaughey #true detective #rust cohle

[riaarivic]

HIS - KNJ x F!reader: 2 Clean

💗Pairings idol!NamjoonxReader

💗 Genres idol!AU, Smut, Angst, Romance, Enemies to lovers to enemies to lovers

💗 Rating 18+ minors DNI

💗 Summary Three years have passed since the last time you saw Kim Namjoon. But now he was right in front of you, with the same stupid warm smile that made your good judgment (and underwear) disappear without a trace. You haven't seen him for four years. But now here you were working for BTS again. Having to see his insufferably attractive face every day of your life again.

But there's something Namjoon doesn't know. The little girl with almond eyes and dimples in her smile clinging to his ex-girlfriend's hip, not only looked too much like him. But she was… His.

💗  Warnings for the chapter: reader has very conflictive emotions about the news of her pregnancy at the begining. This chapter will have some back and forth time skips, miscommunications, pinning, SO MUCH PINNING, Hurt/comfort.

💗 A/N: ⚠️ dialogue in BOLD is intended to be in English if not, they are speaking in Korean. ⚠️

Love, Ria

💗 Chapter wordcount 4,8k

💗 Series index: 1 2

“The drought was the very worst, ah-ah. When the flowers that we'd grown together died of thirst It was months and months of back and forth, ah-ah, ah-ah. You're still all over me like a wine-stained dress I can't wear anymore” -Taylor Swift

💗💗💗MARCH 2022💗💗💗

Your daughter, Hana.

Amid the rapid-fire questions echoing in Namjoon's head, his pulse raced as you introduced the unexpected star of the show—

Who had just barged into the already tense conference room.

Like a small– But charming tornado. 

"Everyone, this is my daughter, Hana. Baby, say hi; they will work with mommy." You said sitting her on your lap.

"Hello, I’m Hana. I’m Three years old.” Hana greeted, her innocence oozing charm. 

She spoke korean. 

That made Namjoon smile.

Cute.

"Baby Hana, do you know who we are?" Jimin asked, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

She nodded. Did she?

"You are Jimin, Jk, V, Jin, J-Hope, Suga, and… Rap Monster?” Hana’s innocent attempt earned laughter from everyone.

 Everyone but Namjoon.

He halted what he was doing, a sudden realization hitting him like a ton of bricks.

She was three years old. 

And she looked like him.

Too much like him. 

“She’s so polite!” Jimin exclaimed.

“That’s so cute!” chimed in V.

“Are you an army, baby Hana?” Jin inquired, curious.

“No,” Hana replied. “I like Seventeen more.”  Jin's shocked expression made everyone burst with laughter.

“Oh! But we’re cooler than them!” Jin tried to protest.

“I’m sorry; she has her interests, and right now, she’s obsessed with Wonwoo from Seventeen.” you tried to explain. But Seokjin was already about to get into a fight with a three year old to prove that, In fact, BTS were much cooler. 

Not that Namjoon had a problem with Seventeen.

But he considered himself objectively cooler than them. 

He stopped mid thought. Why the hell is he caring so much of what a toddler thought?

"Hana! Here you are!" A tall man with glasses emerged, breaking the charm of the moment. "We apologize for the interruption. Our Hana tends to run too fast. I am Eric Lee, Stardom’s chief financial operator and Y/N’s husband," he added, the unnecessary detail sending a ripple through the room.

The oblivious members resumed their excitement, but Namjoon felt like a computer crashing and about to explode. The mathematical calculations in his head were on the brink of causing a stroke.

If Namjoon's eyes could kill, Eric would be a bloody stain on the floor. Jealousy surged within him, a feeling he knew he didn't deserve. 

But your daughter, she was three. 

That meant you met this person around the same time you broke up.

You surely moved fast.

The Eric guy apologized again and took Hana from your arms to take her outside. She smiled at everyone and waved goodbye. 

Her dimpled smile made Namjoon’s heart do a somersault.

The meeting continued as if background noise, but Namjoon's focus shifted to you, studying your face. That girl, she looked too much like him and nothing like this whoever-I-don’t-care guy. 

It couldn't be possible.

He admitted he hurt you. But you would never do that to him.

Right?

If that girl was his.

You would have told him.

But he looked too much like him.

And he needed to talk to you. 

💗💗💗FEBRUARY 2017💗💗💗

The conference room hummed with tension.

As the team gathered for a crucial meeting on the North American leg of their Wings Tour. Namjoon, the usually composed leader, wore a furrowed brow and an air of defiance. The discussion centered around their press schedules.

Namjoon's frustration boiled over as he voiced his stance, "I won't be a clown for them. We're artists. I won't subject the group to this circus. Where the only thing they ask us if we had ever eaten a hamburger"

You, seated across the table, shot him an incredulous look.

"Namjoon, we can't afford to cut the press schedules. If we want BTS to break into the mainstream music market, we need exposure. Press appearances are non-negotiable."

He scoffed, "Exposure won't matter if they don't take us seriously. I won't compromise our art for popularity."

The heated exchange drew the attention of the other members and the managers.

This was the third time this week.

And the main managers were starting to think if you were worht all this tenssion.

But you did get them an appearance on the three main late night shows in the US for their tour promotion.

So you two had to learn to get along.

The room crackled as you shot back, "This is not about compromising your art, Namjoon. It's about strategic promotion. We need the media to understand and appreciate you, all of you."

Namjoon's eyes flashed with anger, and just as the confrontation seemed to reach its peak, J-Hope intervened.

"I think it's enough. This is about the success of the group. We'll do what it takes to keep BTS in the public eye, and that includes press appearances."

The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of the decision sinking in.

Yoongi, who had remained quiet, finally spoke up. "I get where Namjoon is coming from, but we have to adapt to the market. If this is what it takes, then we'll do it. And Namjoon, you have Y/N's support. She won't let us down."

You nodded, your frustration simmering beneath the surface. The resolution hung in the air as the team grudgingly agreed to move forward with the press schedules. 

The future of BTS in the North American market now rests on the delicate balance between you and him.

And none of you would give the other the satisfaction of a win. 

After the intense meeting, you needed a moment to decompress. So you headed to the lounge to join the stylist crew for lunch. 

The atmosphere was more relaxed here, a welcome change from the tension in the conference room. The aroma of delicious foods filled the air as you settled at the table with your colleagues.

As you unwrapped your lunch, the stylist crew delved into a gossip session. 

“Y/N-ssi, Do You know Ha-young? She’s from the makeup team” You nodded. “She just confessed to PD-nim that she caught one-sided feelings with one of the members” the younger stylist said leaning closer to you “Bad girl. She should have known better” 

“My money is on Jimin” one of them said and the others giggled. You couldn’t help but feel a bit bad for the girl who had just lost her job. 

Their director was unforgiving. 

Just like they have told you on your first day here. Having any type of personal relationship with any of the members was the cardinal sin. 

Poor Ha-young, was going to be blacklisted from the industry, a harsh punishment for what was deemed reckless and unprofessional behavior.

Listening to the gossip, you couldn't help but shake your head. 

The idea of jeopardizing your career for a simple crush seemed both reckless and foolish.

As the chatter continued, you found yourself silently reaffirming your commitment to keeping personal and professional boundaries intact. 

That will never be you.

💗💗💗NOVEMBER 2019💗💗💗

“I am really sorry, doll,”

Yoongi murmured, his eyes filled with genuine concern.

“I don’t understand anything that’s happening,” you admitted, the weight of the situation heavy on your shoulders. You patted Hana’s back as she slept peacefully unaware of the deep wound on her mother’s heart.

One that you would have to mend. 

To have the strength to raise a child…

By yourself.

“You know it takes time for him to wrap his head around things. He’ll know better, give him time,” Yoongi offered, his voice reflecting a hint of confusion and frustration with Namjoon's actions.

“I wish I had that luxury, Yoongi. But she’s here. She’s alive, she needs things. I can’t just go and say that I need time. She needs a parent… Both of us.” Yoongi sighed, understanding the gravity of the situation. 

“I considered it, you know? Not Having her” your heart sank confessing this for the first time outloud “But, I guess I was selfish, and I resent myself for it. The selfish side of me wanted to at least have this. But she’s so much more than just us. She’s so special.”

“I can see that,” he replied, a bittersweet smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“You hate babies, Min,” you teased, trying to lighten the mood.

“This one’s alright. She’s a part of you too. And that makes her special.”

“I’m scared,” you confessed, vulnerability seeping into your words.

“I know, doll,” Yoongi reassured, his tone softening.

“I don’t know if I can be a good mom to her. I can’t do this alone.”

“First of all, you are not alone. Second of all, you are the most capable, hardworking, and kind person I’ve met. It’s going to be fucking hard? Yes, I’ll not sugarcoat it. But you got this.”

“I want to punch him in the face so much.” You felt the first tears start to fall from your eyes. 

“I know, doll. Me too,” Yoongi admitted, the unspoken understanding between you two creating a bond of shared frustration and support.

Yoongi placed a comforting hand on your shoulder, his gaze filled with both empathy and frustration. "Look, Y/N, I know Namjoon, and this is so unlike him. We've been through everything together for more than ten years, and he's not the type to turn away from responsibilities. There has to be something else going on."

Your eyes filled up with tears again, a mixture of sadness and anger. "I just don't understand why he sent his mother, with an envelope full of money instead of facing us himself. It feels like he's treating us like a burden."

Yoongi's expression hardened, a rare sight for someone known for his calm demeanor. "He messed up big time, and he needs to face the consequences. You and Hana deserve better."

"I thought he loved me. I thought we meant something to each other," you confessed, your voice cracking.

"He does, Y/N. I can't explain his actions, but I've never seen him act this way. Whatever it is, he needs to sort it out. Meanwhile, you focus on being the amazing mother I know you can be."

Tears spilled down your cheeks, and Yoongi pulled you into a tight embrace. "I'm here for you, Y/N. We all are. BTS isn't just about the stage; we're a family and both of you are a part of it. Families stick together, no matter what."

As you let out a shaky breath, a mixture of gratitude and sadness, you whispered, "Thank you, Yoongi."

"Anytime, doll. You’ve got this," he reassured, his words carrying a promise of solidarity and support. The hotel room, once filled with the weight of uncertainty, now held a glimmer of hope amid the storm of emotions.

You’ve got this. 

You had to. 

💗💗💗MARCH 2017💗💗💗

They just got nominated to an international award.

Everyone else was celebrating their milestone.

But Namjoon just couldn't enjoy it as much as he wanted to.

He was happy.

For the first time in his life he felt like they were finally receiving the praise they deserved for their art and their hard work.

But the weight of their public persona and the fine lines they could never cross as idols in Korea, was growing heavier by day. And the endless possibilities of major exposure scared the fuck out of him.

They were on their six date of the tour when he felt like he was going to die.

The air backstage in Newark was thick with the aftermath of Namjoon's exhaustion-fueled breakdown.

You found him leaning against a wall, a cigarette between his fingers. He couldn’t hide the trembling of his hands.

"That's an awful habit you have right there," you commented, eyeing the smoke.

"I can say the same to you," he retorted, nodding at the Coca-Cola can in your hand. "What can I say, everyone picks their own poison." you smiled at him honestly. For the first time. 

Surprisingly, it led to the first civil conversation between you two.

You leaned against the wall beside him, sipping your cola, the fizz providing a rhythmic contrast to the quiet.

He broke the silence, "You know, sometimes I feel like I'm just a puppet, dancing to whatever tune the media plays."

"It’s okay to feel tired sometimes, you know?" you offered.

"I do, but being their leader and their spokesperson. I can’t afford to be nervous or too tired," Namjoon admitted. "I speak for myself in these interviews. It is a huge weight on my shoulders to speak for everyone. Sometimes they might not agree with what I’m saying."

"Yeah, I reckon Panda Express being your favorite restaurant in America is a pretty controversial opinion," you teased, earning a hearty laugh from him.

"Do you think they are going to ever take us seriously?" he asked with a laugh and a touch of desperation.

"They better do. You guys will own this industry one day."

He shot you a grateful smile, and for a moment, the weight on his shoulders seemed to ease.

"That is a pretty controversial opinion. I am a 'what’s your favorite American food' away from literally losing it," he confessed.

"You know," you began, changing the topic with a playful grin, "I think your controversial opinions are what make you more human to your fans. They love you for being real."

Namjoon chuckled, the tension dissipating. "Maybe I should start a blog—'Kim Namjoon's Unfiltered Thoughts.'"

"You might break the internet with that," you joked, enjoying the rare camaraderie.

As the conversation lightened, you both shared a laugh, finding solace in this unexpected connection. The backstage chaos seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you in a bubble of understanding.

"You'll do fine. You always do," you reassured him.

"Thank you."

As a friendly gesture, you pulled a small disinfectant from your pocket.

"Manager Sejin was looking for you; you better use this before he finds you. You don't want him scolding you for the smell." you said before turning away to head back inside. 

Namjoon chuckled, taking the disinfectant. "Thanks, Y/N. For being here."

"Anytime, Joon," you replied, the use of the nickname a testament to the newfound camaraderie

He smiled, and the scent of the disinfectant mixed with your fragrance, like flowers in the air.

As Namjoon walked away, disappearing into the backstage hustle, he took a moment to collect his thoughts. 

"Y/N!" A familiar voice called out, it was Sejin, the ever-watchful manager, threading through the maze of crew members and equipment.

You approached him, noting the stern expression on his face. "Mr. Sejin, you were looking for Namjoon?"

He nodded, "Yes, he needs to wrap up the interviews and rest. The schedule is tight, and we can't afford any delays."

You couldn't help but feel a sense of protectiveness toward Namjoon. "He's doing his best, Sejin. But he's human, not a machine."

Namjoon was about to walk to where you were but that coment made him freeze on his feet.

Sejin sighed, his stern expression softening. "I know, Y/N. I just worry about them all. The pressure is immense."

"It is, but moments like these," you gestured to the chaotic backstage, "it is good remind them that they're not alone."

He offered a small smile, appreciating the sentiment. "You're right. Well, let's make sure Namjoon gets some rest."

As you both navigated the backstage maze, you didn’t know he listened to the conversation. And he couldn't shake off the unexpected warmth that had emerged from the brief encounter with you. 

The chaotic world of stardom was vast, but in that moment, a connection had formed—one that hinted at the resilience and humanity behind the larger-than-life personas.

Maybe you weren’t that bad.

💗💗💗AUGUST 2021💗💗💗

You had gone to a therapist when Hana was two. 

The therapist's office had become a sanctuary for you, you needed guidance on the hard task of being a single mother to Hana. 

She was going to ask the inevitable questions about her father one day. And you needed to know what to say. But no amount of therapy could have prepared yourself for this day. 

Hana was smart, too smart for her age. 

And when you came back from a playdate at her friends house. 

She wanted answers to her questions. 

"Why don't I have a daddy?"

You two were back in her room getting ready to sleep and you knew that question was coming.

You took a deep breath as you sat next to her, trying to find the right words. "All families are different, baby. Some have a mommy and a daddy. Some have two mommies or two daddies. Some, like ours, have a mommy and all your uncles and aunts. Isn't that fun?"

"It is fun," she replied, but the dissatisfaction lingered in her eyes. She had more questions, and you knew your initial answer wasn't enough.

And now she discovered kpop. 

And she was obsessed with it. 

You felt like throwing up everytime you saw him on your screen. 

The bitter reminder that she deserved to know the truth. However, you weren't ready to shatter the illusion just yet. Telling anyone that her father was the leader of the biggest music group in history seemed unbelievable.

You knew how crazy you will sound.

Even your therapist had a hard time believing your story the first time you went to her.

But, your daughter was the living image of her father.

And you had shown her your old Big Hit contract for her to finally believe you.

"So I don’t have a dad?" Hana's expectant eyes pleaded for an honest answer.

"You do have one. He is living his dream, making millions of people happy," you stammered, your hands trembling as you combed her hair. Even though Hana was still a child, she sensed the discomfort and wisely chose not to press the topic any further—for today.

Later that night, as if the universe mocked you, he appeared on your TV screen. "I want to be a dad," he confessed to the interviewer, his smile was radiant as always. It felt like a punch to your stomach, the wine glass slipping from your hand and staining the new rug.

Fuck him. 

He was a dad. He just chose not to be one. 

The fandom even had the joke that he had a hidden wife and kids. 

You entertained thoughts of shattering his public image, creating rumors that could strip away the disarming smile he flaunted. But the truth was, you could never inflict that pain on your daughter.

As the wine stain marred your rug, you vowed to shield Hana from the harsh realities as long as you could. But beneath your composed exterior, a storm of emotions raged.

Just for a little longer.

She will soon be old enough to understand.

But you didn't look forward breaking her heart with the news that her father didn't want her in his life.

💗💗💗FEBRUARY 2018💗💗💗

Everyone was tense.

The word disbandment floated heavily on the air. 

After this morning’s team meeting things were pretty rough. 

They were tired. 

They felt like nothing was working in their favor. 

Some of the members wanted a break. 

Some of them wanted to keep going. 

He had to remain unbiased. 

You knew how unfair it was. 

For him and for all of them.

Message from NJ:  meet me upstairs. studio. 

You knew what that meant. 

He wanted to fuck the frustration away. 

And you would be lying if  you said you didn’t want to. 

This was the riskiest thing you've ever done yet. You knew how dangerous it was for you especially. You were breaking your own rule and you were being careless. 

You knew perfectly well what were the consecuences of what you were doing.

But you couldn’t get to care enough to stop you from hurriedly hitting the lock combination of his Studio. 

His tired eyes greeted you. And a second later you were pinned to the wall behind you, hands everywhere and not enough at the same time.

And you wanted to ignore how much it hurt you that you were just this to him.

A relief.

“I missed this” he whispered against your lips. His tounge tasting your lower lips. Wanting to savour everything before devouring it all at once.

You missed it too. 

But you were too stubborn to say it outloud. 

And he was too, trying to pretend that he missed this whatever you had going on.

Instead of just you. 

As always it started like a fight for dominance. His kisses carrying a hunger that transcended mere physical release. The urgency in his touch revealed a deeper need, one he was too stubborn to acknowledge.

Namjoon steps between your thighs and you can feel how much he needed this. His body is warm against yours as he lowers his lips to kiss down the column of your neck.

"You smell so good" you feel the soft breeze of his breath against your skin. And before you could reciprocate his words you felt the sharp pain of his teeth biting the same spot of your skin he just kissed a second ago.

"Namjoon-" a small whisper leaves your lips and a wave of conflicted feelings wash over his body.

He wanted to drown the world around you.

Where only the two of you existed.

And that scared him.

How much he really needed you.

He lifted you, his grip momentarily loosing his balance, and both of you erupted into laughter as you tumbled onto the sofa. "I'm so sorry," he said, his eyes holding a vulnerability that surpassed the laughter. "I'm just... I'm so tired."

His heart was breaking. 

With a gentle smile, you cupped his cheek, your thumb wiping away his tears. "It’s okay, Joonie. Everything is going to be okay."

Your words rendered him defenseless. He was so tired of pretending he didn’t feel safe in your arms. He wrapped his arms around you and you could feel his body trembling with sobs. 

He called you to fuck his frustration out of his system. 

Just like you’ve been doing for a few months now. 

But now on his studio floor he had a realization he wasn’t ready to confess just yet. 

Everything else he had been saying to himself about you was a lie.

How he didn’t care; that you were just a passing crush. That he was too tired and too frustrated and that you both enjoyed each other’s company. That you were only good sex to him.

All of that was a lie.

As he kept crying and hugging you on his studio floor. 

Both of you came to the same conclusion silently. 

This wasn’t just sex; friends-with-benefits secret thing you had going on. 

It was something much more complicated. 

Something that could potentially destroy you.

The two of you stayed in silence on the floor, still wrapped on each other's arms.

That was the moment Namjoon realized.

He called you for sex.

But he just needed you.

💗💗💗MARCH 2022💗💗💗

A Battleground.

That's how the room felt like it had become a battleground of emotions, the air thick with tension as memories and unspoken words lingered between you and Namjoon.

He dragged you into a conference room. It had been a week since you had met again and they were preparing to go back to Korea. 

There was silence.

The air froze between the two of you. Alone for the first time in three years, you imagined this moment so many times. You could almost play out how it was going to go. 

Last time you were alone in a conference room he told you he loved you. Whispered like an oath against your lips.

Just like the one you were in.

Today he stared back at you, all his movements were calculated. As if he was making sure it was real. That the girl who was playing outside in your office was just a dream… 

Or a joke. 

It felt like a joke. 

And you both were the punchline. 

Namjoon's gaze intensified, the atmosphere heavy with unsaid words. Finally, the tension snapped as he demanded, "Is she... mine? That girl, is she my daughter?." His voice, sharp and accusing, cut through the room.

For a small heartbeat of time you considered lying.

But what was the point? He knew. He just chose to ignore it. 

"Yes, Namjoon, she's your daughter," you replied, your voice strained, trying to keep a semblance of control. “Her name is Hana Lee.”

Two heartbeats passed before he spoke again. And you realized This was a Namjoon you did not know. The young man you once knew, was filled with raw emotions and always had something to say. Usually, he spoke way before he thought. 

The man before you was a diplomat. You could see his mind working, calculating all the right words to say next. 

He was deflecting, you knew what he was doing.

You trained him to do that.

He was controlling his real emotions and speaking like at a press conference.

“Lee?” His voice started to fill with an anger that seethed beneath the surface. Like molten lava fighting the cracks of a volcano to rise to the surface. 

You were too civil, faking control and composure. And you both knew it was a matter of seconds before all hell broke loose. 

"You gave another man's last name to my daughter" his eyes darkened in disbelief and you couldn't help but chuckle at his nonsense.

If he was going to be this cruel.

You could play the game just as well.

You both were used to tearing each other into pieces anyway.

"You weren't there to give her yours, so." your voice sounded even more cynical than you intended it to be “She has my husband’s last name.”

"Why the hell didn't you tell me?" 

A sour chuckle escaped your lips “Did you expect a wedding invite?”. 

He clenched his jaw furrowing his eyebrows. “I meant… the fact that I have a daughter.”

"I did," you shot back, frustration bubbling over. "Got on a plane for sixteen hours with a baby on my lap. But you didn't want to see me. You sent money and told me to stay away. What was I supposed to do?"

Namjoon's eyes narrowed in disbelief. "I don't know what you're talking about." 

"You don't know what I’m talking about” You repeated, bitterness lacing your words. “Let me refresh your memory, shall we? Your mother and  Sejin handed me an envelope full of money, told me to disappear." You were shouting now, you realized. You didn’t know when you started to shout.

All the things you have wanted to say for  three years started to flow out of you like a dam that had just broken.

And the water would destroy everything on its way.

Starting with the both of you.

Namjoon's expression twisted in confusion. "I would never do that to you." his tone was accusatory now “I didn’t know. There has to be another reason.”

“And what other reason would I have to raise a child by myself? With no more than two suitcases and sleeping on Hyung-Joon’s couch for a year.” Anger surged within you. "Oh yeah. Because having an unplanned child out of wedlock would have 'destroyed you and Bangtan,' as your manager put it. Since you just didn't have enough balls to say it to my face."

Namjoon's features shifted from confusion to a hint of regret. "I... I didn't know. I would never have done that."

“I don’t understand what game you’re playing right now Kim Namjoon, but I’ll tell you something. It 's over. I will not let you make fun of us anymore” Your throat tightened and the tears started to itch your eyes. “You left me a letter, remember? and the text message after that. “I hope you understand”.” you said, mocking his voice.

He was about to speak but you didn't let him.

"They said you didn't want anything to do with us. And that if I ever came back, they would take Hana away from me. That I was just a minor mistake, an experience you just needed to have'' Tears were falling down your cheeks, you couldn’t pretend anymore. It hurt too much. "Riding the white horse isn't what you call it, right? And that my daughter was just the consequence of my own carelessness. That I should have known better."

“That didn’t… I didn’t” 

“You didn't do what?” You turned your face to see the windows, unable to look at him anymore. "You can't just waltz in here and pretend like you didn’t know," you said, your voice cracking with rage. "You missed everything, Namjoon."

“Y/n” his voice was barely a whisper as you felt his finger touch your wrist. Electricity traveled through your whole body. “I was waiting for you, but you never came.” 

“Bullshit” 

“Why didn't you come back to me?" Namjoon's voice softened, regret coloring his words. 

Your laughter was bitter, filled with the pain of betrayal. "You sent me away, Namjoon. I couldn't just come back after that."

"I don't know what you're talking about. I waited for you at the hotel. I called you so many times that day." he said, desperation lacing his voice. "I waited for hours and you never came. Do you really believe that I wouldn't have taken responsibility for my daughter? That I would send her away? Send you away?"

He was close, too close to you now. 

You could bear his presence from a distance.

But not this close.

This close you couldn't pretend that your heart wasn't reaching out to him.

"I don't know, Namjoon. When you have a child, a life to protect. You would do anything to keep them safe. From anyone and everything. Not that you would know any of that" The words slipped from you before you realized how low of a blow was that. But you couldn't find yourself regretting it.

"Because we both know what you would choose if it came between the group or us." You stopped and smiled at him bitterly "And I understand, Namjoon. I truly do. You were finally living the dream you sacrificed everything for. I don't blame you anymore for it."

"I understand"

And you truly did.

You knew how much he sacrificed.

He fought for his success with teeth and nails.

They all did.

And you knew how unfair it would have been to ask for him to drop everything for you and your daughter.

You understood him.

And that was the worst of it.

"I could never do that to you. I love you, and I always have," he said, desperation lacing his voice.

There were those words again. 

Whispered in the quiet peace of an empty conference room. 

Last time they were the mischief of a shared secret. 

Today they felt like a confession to a crime. 

You were about to respond when you heard a small knock on the door. Your eyes never left Namjoon's, the intensity of the unspoken words lingering between you like a heavy fog.

Namjoon stepped back, breaking the physical connection between you. He cleared his throat, the diplomat persona returning, but the vulnerability in his eyes betrayed the turmoil within. "We're not done," he said, a mixture of command and plea in his voice.

As the door creaked open, your eyes darted to see a petite figure standing there, a shadow in the doorway. Hana's eyes mirrored yours, wide and uncertain as she looked between the two adults. The air thickened with tension, the past colliding with the present in a collision of conflicting emotions.

"Mommy, who is he?" 

Hana's innocent voice cut through the charged atmosphere. Her gaze shifted from you to Namjoon, her curiosity evident. You took a deep breath, trying to compose yourself.

Namjoon's eyes softened as he looked at Hana, and for a moment, the hardened exterior cracked. "I'm... a friend of your mommy's," he said, his words carefully chosen.

"A friend?" Hana repeated in Korean, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. She might be young, but she wasn't oblivious to the undercurrents in the room.

She was smart. Even for her age, she was quick to understand the things that were in front of her.

Just like him.

You knelt down beside her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Yes, sweetheart, just a friend," you assured her, shooting a pointed glance at Namjoon. 

The distance between you felt like an unbridgeable abyss.

Namjoon, sensing the tension, attempted a reassuring smile, but it looked strained. "I heard you like drawing. Do you draw a lot?" he asked, trying to engage Hana in a conversation that felt more awkward than casual.

Hana nodded, her gaze never leaving Namjoon. "I like drawing flowers," she replied, the tension in the room momentarily diffusing as she shared a piece of her world.

Namjoon crouched down to her eye level, a genuine smile softening his features. 

"Flowers are beautiful. Maybe you can show me your drawings sometime?" he suggested.

Hana's eyes flickered between you and Namjoon, processing the complex dynamics in the room. "Okay, but only if Mommy says it's okay," she declared, a hint of protectiveness in her voice.

Namjoon glanced at you, seeking approval. You nodded slightly, acknowledging the silent agreement. Hana's presence had inadvertently shifted the focus, giving you a momentary reprieve from the emotional confrontation.

As Namjoon and Hana engaged in a tentative conversation about art and colors, you retreated to the periphery, watching the scene unfold.

The wounds of the past were still raw, the emotions tangled, but for Hana's sake, you found a fragile truce with the man who once held your heart.

The journey from enemies to reluctant allies had just begun, and the path ahead was uncertain, shrouded in the complexities of a shared history that demanded resolution.

"Y/N, we need to talk" Hyung-Joon reappeared at the door, his voice filled with urgency and you nodded.

You knew this shouting match with Namjoon would bring consequences.

And you felt for a second that you just stepped into the past.

💗💗💗💗💗💗

Well hello!

First of all, THANK YOU. I am so happy to see all the love this story is getting and it means the world to me. Every comment, like and repost I appreciate it from the bottom of my heart.

And now, some notes for context:

This story is inspired on real events and people. But it is not a real representation or is trying to say that any of this happened IRL. With that beign said I'll take some creative licenses and adapt things that happened to the plot of the story.

2. I fucked up.... math is not my thing guys. Hana is three years old not four. Im sorry.

3. We all want a supportive friend like Yoongi in our lives.

4. The story is written in time skips, but the main storyline is March 2022 'The present' And some dates WILL be changed for the story to make sense.

I'm really exited for you guys to see what's next!!

Love,

Ria. 💗💗💗💗💗💗 TAG LIST: @felicityroth @cuteipat @jjinjo @mochimommy2002 @amarawayne @canarystwin Ps. If you want to be on the tag list drop a comment below!! 👩🏼‍💻✨

#bts fanfic #bts smut #bts imagines #bts #bts au #bts namjoon #bts fic #namjoon smut #namjoon #rm #bts rm

[starlightshadowsworld]

Kunikida smiled in relief as Katai walked over. "I'm glad you're here" he said with a smile. But Katai wasn't looking at him. In fact Kunikida couldn't see his facial expression at all.

Kunikida frowned.

"Katai? What's wrong?" The second the words left his mouth, a slap rang through the novel world. His cheek stung and he could only stare at his friend in shock.

"Katai..?"

"What's wrong?!" Yelled Katai, his meek demeanor vanishing entirely. "I don't kn-" Kunikida was cut off by a punch to the chest, than another and another.

"Bullshit! Don't pretend that you don't know! Or are you so accustomed to blowing yourself up these days that it doesn't even cross your mind anymore!"

Katai breathed in deeply. Letting his fist fall to his side. "Do you know what it's like to wake up to your house being raided?"

He wasn't even looking at him now.

"I didn't believe them, even when they made me watch the execution tape."

"Katai"

"But than I heard them, laughing about how one of those Agency terrorists jumped out a helicopter and blew himself up along with a Hunting Dog."

Katai looked up at Kunikida, anger didn't even begin to cover how he felt. But what made Kunikida pause were the tears welling up in Katai's eyes.

"I knew it was you before they said your name."

"I'm sorry you had to find out like that" said Kunikida. Katai shook his head "of course that's what you're sorry about. Not hey maybe I shouldn't have done that." Said Katai bitterly.

"Would you prefer I just stand there and do nothing?!" Asked Kunikida, baffled at what Katai was suggesting. "We were in danger, Kenji was injured and we had that damn dog on our heels about to destroy the helicopter." He explained.

Katai listened and than asked "so why did it have to be you?"

"I... What?" Kunikida felt like the rug was being pulled under him. As if the world itself was being thrown off his axis. In comparison Katai seemed as calm as ever. His anger seeming to drain out of him, now he just looked tired.

"Yosano's handled worse and we both know it. Junichiro was trained by yourself, Kenji's the strongest in the Agency for a reason. Chuuya Nakahara, from Dazai's numerous rants doesn't seem like the type to half ass a mission from his boss. Even if it meant rescuing the enemy." Explained Katai.

"You had all these people there willing and ready to fight. But it had to be you, because one of the Hunting Dogs belittled your ideals earlier so you dove out to prove him wrong."

"I-"

"So you couldn't just knock his friend off, no you had to blow him up along with yourself to prove your ideals were more than words." Finished Katai and Kunikida couldn't even argue because he was right.

"I've always admired you for your passion. I've never really had that kind of drive for anything. So seeing you focus on making the world a better a place, I thought it was cool." Admitted Katai, looking at where Kunikida's hands should be.

"Now I just wish you cared about yourself even half as much as you did your ideals. This isn't even the first time you've treated your life so carelessly. Fuck!" Katai punched the wall beside him in anger.

"You died! You died! I had to hear them brag about how you were bought back twice on the operating table! You don't even have any hands, and you ask me what's wrong?!" Tears more and more welled up in his eyes and began to fall.

"Yosano isn't a cure all, you can't keep throwing your life away and expecting everything will be fine! You died I lost you and there was nothing I could do and you ask me what's wrong?!"

In an instant arms wrapped around Katai, he buried his head into Kunikida's shoulder and sobbed. Kunikida didn't regret his actions, he hadn't than and not now. But he never wanted to see Katai like this again.

#katai tayama #bsd katai #bsd kunikida #kunikida doppo #bungou stray dogs #bsd

[wereallydobevibing]

Oh, to Find Love in Russia | Konig x Reader

I used to post my stories on tiktok under the username @codlover but I figured since tiktok might get banned I should delete that account and post it here. Here’s one of the stories.

Feel free to use my work as a prompt/inspiration. Better yet, feel free to write your own ideal part 2 just MAKE SURE YOU CREDIT AND TAG ME.

WARNINGS: Mentions of injury, specifically written for my delulu girlies💕

The ice, cold air of a wintery Russia rushed through your body like death through Pompeii. With your lips an ungodly shade of purple and your fingers feeling so stupidly numb, you follow the public map displayed on the side of the nearest building to meet a short term comrade in a common tourist area.

It took you some time, having never been to Russia before, but you eventually find yourself walking alongside a very large man who names himself König. He leads you away from the tourist path and into a market area where you both enter a less than busy bar. You agree you’ll talk here, where it was warm and your shivering didn’t hinder your ability to speak.

The next two hours was a conversation of confirming your roles here and the goals that were set to be accomplished – you both were sent to gain intel, but König’s main focus was to serve as your armor, and gaining intel was especially assigned to you, dear reader.

You were not a special forces operator because you were big and strong, or because you had a particular set of skills pertaining to combat at all. Your task-force had elected you to become one of it’s soldiers because you were a holder of intelligence – you were the brain, and everyone else was the body.

Your skills lied in your ability to speak and understand a multitude of languages. Your looks and personality made you attractive to others both romantically or otherwise – people couldn’t help but make themselves known to you. You were good at making them feel so special that it hurt too much to not spill all their flavors into your cup.

Blackbird, they called you; a symbol of beauty and intelligence. You were your team’s little warbler – whatever they needed to know, you were sent to find out, and you always came back chirping your sweet song of intel.

König was quite taken by you from the very start – he’d never met a woman in his field that carried herself with such grace. Overtime, many women in special forces became much like their male colleagues; rough around the edges, heavily drinking and/or smoking, cursing like wounded sailors.

You? You were so clean. Not a single profanity fell from your glossed lips, your voice was smoother than the finest of silk velvets. Your eyes are still warm with the hope of a better world and twinkled with the gentle promise of eternal youth.

Granted, you were still rather fresh in age being in your early 20s. Still, you were special.

As you both got familiar with each other over the next few hours, König grew firmer in his belief that the radiance of your skin was actually your golden soul shining through your pores.

The safe house you’d both been given had been put together at the last minute. A fact that was clear by how it was a small cabin with only a couch in the living room and one bed in the bedroom, certainly not prepared for two. The kitchen was stocked with little snacks and such, but if either of you ever got the taste for a real meal, you’d have to eat out or go grocery shopping.

König was quick to offer you the only room, as you were a lady deserving of privacy.

Over the course of two weeks, you took turns cooking and choosing restaurants. But by week three, you’d become so focused on your task of manipulating a Captain in the Russian anti-group that you’d end up spending every free moment of your day at the desk, documenting the day’s occurrences and future strategies. König became responsible for making sure you both ate – it seemed that if he didn’t feed you, you’d simply forget to do it yourself and starve.

Week four was when the storm arrived, the great finale that signaled the nearing end of every mission – Blackbird had collected everything she needed and was ready to fly on home and feed her findings to her kin. Things were wrapping up and, naturally, that meant shit was going down.

The final day would end with König wounded – he fought well, your knight in shining armor. Of course he won, but he was losing blood from his abdomen and you knew he was in pain.

The jet that was assigned to pick you both up would not arrive until morning. Your due date was not until two days from now, but you’d finished early. Until then, you used what you had to stop the bleeding and make him comfortable.

You leave him on the bed that you’d been sleeping in for the last five weeks, flat on his back. If not for the pain of his stab wound, he might’ve enjoyed drowning in the lingering, feminine scent of shampoo and perfume stuck to the sheets and pillows you burrowed yourself in at night.

You bandage him with delicate fingers – such a stark difference compared to the medics back at the KorTac base. They were always so rough, like hornets pricking and prodding at his body.

He doesn’t notice how your focus was divided between his wound and his bare chest. Your impulsive thoughts, if you gave in to them, would’ve had you resting the palms of your hands flat on his muscles and grazing your fingertips over the ridges.

You tried to be respectful, the man was in pain – but you just couldn’t help your nature as it demanded to behold the glorious sculpture settled before you. Thousands of years ago, König might’ve been the model for ancient Greek statues. He was beautiful.

König sits up on the mattress when you finish, which now is stained with speckles of blood, clenching his jaw as he did. Your hands come up on his bare chest and you stop him.

“What are you doing?” You ask, bewildered, “You have to rest, König, you’re hurt.”

“This is your bed, schatz,” König grunted, “I will go to the couch.”

Now that the mission is over, you suddenly feel a wave of guilt come crashing down onto you. You’d been so busy thinking about what you needed to do, how you were going to get your hands on the information you’d been sent out to receive that you didn’t ever stop to think about König’s comfort. And here he was, spending every single day of the last five weeks watching your back, making sure you ate, and that you were comfortable. All he did was think about you.

As you stare at him, your heart begins pulsing erratically. Your face grows warm with the sudden realization that this big, brutal, soldier of a man was such a gentleman. He’d been so kind and considerate, looking over your shoulder for you like he was born to do it and not just because it was his job.

Your hands raise to cradle his masked face. You think about how this six-foot-ten beast had been sleeping on that tiny, poor excuse for a couch for nearly two months for the sake of your comfortability, and how he would do it even now when he was in pain.

Without a second thought, you go in and kiss him through the fabric of his mask – a little peck of admiration for his chivalry, a humble praise for being a rare man.

König stares at you when you pull back, he’s stunned. All these weeks of very subtly flirting with you … he thought you’d never notice, or even reciprocate his interest. König figured that you both would separate at the end of this story like Orpheus and Eurydice, he’d be damned to never know you again and you’d forget him as soon as he was gone.

With your hands still holding either side if his jaw, you tell him, “Lay down, König. Here.”

He brings up a large hand to meet one of yours, using the other to hold himself upright and stroking your wrist affectionately with his thumb, “You will not sleep on the couch, schatz.”

“No,” You agreed. “We will both stay here, on the bed, and that way if you need anything, I’m right here to help you.”

Still not believing what’s happening, he tries again to rise from the bed, only for you to guide him back down until his head rested on one of the pillows.

You ask, “That’s okay, isn’t it?”

König, beneath his mask, feels his lips curling upward as he laughs breathlessly.

He grins, “Okay?”

It was perfect.

#cod #call of duty #modern warfare #konig #kortac #konig x reader #simon riley #john price #john mactavish #kyle garrick #x reader

[halsteadlover]

Shadows From The Past

*Gif not mine credits to the owner*

• Pairing: Jay Halstead x Fem!Reader.

• Requested by anon: I don’t really know if this is how you make a request if it’s not correct me but would you possibly be able to write one where Jay has an episode because of a criminal that took tours in Afghanistan as well, like an episode in the show in season 5 I think. Where the criminal gets shot and dies and J is the only one there and you go to check up on him and he points gun at you because he’s having an episode idk I really don’t know, but could it end in him apologizing a lot and feeling really bad then just cuddles?? Thank u and uh if you see this could you pls just remind me when it’s done possibly. Thank you so much!!!❤️

• Warnings: mention of blood, gun, PTSD.

• Word count: 5825.

• A/N: hi everyone! Long time no see. I know this is ugly af but I tried my best. I hope you’ll like this piece anyway, please let me know what you think. Comment, like, reblog if you want this would be amazing! Thank you so much for your support, and for everyone who stayed even if I upload once every 100 years 😭 I love you all so much ❤️

Jay had always tried to do his job the best he could, giving everything in his power to every case he worked on, always trying to focus on nothing but bringing justice to the poor victims. He had always tried to be as objective as possible, leaving emotions out and thinking and planning every move to make lucidly. Some cases were easier, others a little less.

There were moments of his life, some shadows of his past, that still echoed in his present. They sometimes came back so strong and overbearing, they made him risk his present, all his progress and happiness, even his future.

And the case he was working on was one of those moments.

Following the discovery of a man's body, Intelligence was assigned to investigate this case. After questioning witnesses, analyzing the victim's life, talking to family and friends, suspicion fell on a person Jay met while serving overseas in Afghanistan. In fact, Don Stanton had served in the 3rd Battalion of the 75th Ranger Regiment at the same time as Jay, but he had never had the opportunity to speak in depth with him.

In fact, after returning home, Don didn't do too well, soon spiraling into drug, alcohol and illegal dealings.

From the moment they found out about this suspect, Jay felt something stir inside him, though he didn't know exactly what. He tried to disguise it or he would’ve estranged from the case but he couldn't hide his feelings from you, who knew him like the back of your hand and had learned to know every single nuance of him and recognize when something bothered him.

To try to get Don to confess, Jay offered to go undercover, build a relationship with him in a way that would make him trust him, and no one could be perfect for this role except someone who had gone through the exact same shit during the war as Jay.

It goes without saying that you didn’t agree with this decision at all and Voight would’ve even agreed with you if this wasn’t the only lead you got to catch the killer.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” you asked Jay as you adjusted his hidden microphone in his shirt. “You can always back out, someone else will go or we will find other leads to catch him.”

Jay sighed. “It's an undercover operation like any other Y/N, if anyone can do it it's me.”

You looked up at him, your hands still on his chest as you tried to analyze his expression on his face. “No baby, it's not an operation like any other. The suspect served in your own battalion, you met him and you can tell from a mile away you're upset about…-”

“Goddamn Y/N stop it! You've been asking me if I'm okay since this morning! I'm fine, I don't need a babysitter!” he snapped raising his voice and this sudden outburst made you withdraw your hands in shock.

Jay immediately regretted those words the instant he said them. He noticed the sad expression that appeared on your features and felt guilty like few other times in his life. “Baby… Shit…” he sighed again, running his hands over his face in frustration. He cupped your face in his hands, forcing you to look at him. “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I don't know what has gotten into me. I’m sorry baby.”

You remained silent for a few seconds, looking at him for a moment before speaking. “Jay I'm just worried about you, I know it's hard for you but I want to help you… It breaks my heart seeing you like this,” you mumbled softly, your throat tight in a knot, your heart heavy.

“I know, I know, I’m so sorry love. Come here,” he whispered, pulling you into a hug and holding you with all the love he could. “It'll be okay. I can do it. You don't know what people like him are like, like me, he won't trust anyone and if there's someone who can make him confess it’s me. We served together, we saw the same crap, I can understand him,” he continued, pulling away from the hug and looking into your eyes.

You looked at him intensely, as if you wanted to read inside him, trying to discover a shred of hesitation or uncertainty.

“Jay, you are not like him, he is an alleged murderer, drug addict and alcoholic, you are a decorated detective. Don't even think for a second you're like him, okay?”.

He caressed your hair, and then nodded, smiling slightly. “I know, I know.”

“If something, anything, goes wrong you're out, you understand me?” you threatened him, pointing a finger at his chest.

He chuckled, caressing your cheeks. “Yes ma'am. Everything will be fine, I promise.”

If only he believed it too.

The truth was, Jay's mind was racing and image after image, memory after memory, everything seemed to be resurfacing, moments of the past he wanted to forget at all costs but which was about to overwhelm him like a river in flood.

He didn't want to talk to you about it, he knew he'd get over it – just like he had all time – he didn't want to worry you any more than you already were.

While he was in the car waiting for Don Stanton to show up, he read the message you sent and a small smile crept onto his lips.

From Baby D💕, 3.13pm

Be careful love. I'm here for whatever you need. I love you.

That message made the abyss in his heart grow and a feeling of guilt took over him. But the way he loved you, God, he didn’t know what he would’ve done without you.

From Jay, 3:16pm

I love you too babe, more than anything and everyone. Everything will be okay.

He put the cell phone back in his trouser pocket, trying to concentrate exclusively on the case. He sat in the car for about ten minutes before seeing Don in the distance. He looked around suspiciously before approaching Jay's car and quickly getting in.

“Drive,” Don ordered, and Jay gave him a confused look.

“Where? What is going on?”.

Don snapped his eyes at Jay. “Didn't you say you wanted a job? Drive then. Go straight, at the first crossroads turn left, I'll tell you from there where to go next.”

Jay understood there was no way to get an explanation and after letting out a sigh, he started driving, aware that you and the rest of the team would’ve followed him from afar.

After driving for about twenty minutes, he and Don arrived at an abandoned building. It looked shabby and it must’ve been unused for at least twenty years.

“What the hell is going on Stanton?” Jay asked, for the umpteenth time. Don stopped in his footsteps, turning to him, looking annoyed and angry.

“What part of ‘I'll explain in a moment’ you don’t understand?”.

“I won’t do anything until you explain to me what hell is going on. This place is clearly a mile away from legality and I'm not risking my ass for whatever bullshit is going on here. So either tell me what's going on or I'm out.”

Don sighed, glancing between Jay and the building, looking uncertain, even almost frightened. Jay noticed this and realized whatever was going on, they weren't alone and that there was nothing good about that abandoned building.

He approached Jay, walking fast and hands in his trouser pockets. “Then leave.”

“C'mon man talk to me...”.

“Damn it! I'm in deep shit man, I can't back out!” he exclaimed in despair.

“Why? What did you do?”.

They were all at the edge of their chairs as they listened through Jay's microphone conversation, knowing that a little nudge was enough to get Don Stanton to confess.

“Don, talk to me. I can help you, I know you're not doing well, I totally understand. You don't have to do anything, whatever it is...”

“You can't help me… I… I fucking killed a man!” Stanton exclaimed loudly, running his hands through his hair “But it wasn't my fault! They forced me! I… I really needed the money…”

There were some moments of silence in which you and Voight exchanged a look. He confessed, but why didn't Jay arrest him?

“What are we going to do here Don?” Jay asked, trying to stay calm as his heart was pounding.

“They gave me another job. A gang member… They want me to kill him and they’ll pay me almost ten thousand dollars.”

“Don, for fucks sale! No life is worth this money! How can you do this? You were a fucking soldier, you risked your life to protect others, to protect this country and now you're the one hurting people!” Jay exclaimed, more angrily than he would’ve liked.

“I know! I know! They've foreclosed on my house… I'm out of money… I need it man…” Don muttered.

“Halstead what are you waiting for? Handcuff him,” Voight ordered over his mic but Jay didn't seem to listen, in fact, he didn't even seem to be on this planet anymore.

You were worried sick, your stomach was in a vice. You knew Jay couldn't do this, he was too involved to be able to deal with all of this, to deal with his past.

“Voight we have to do something,” you said, turning to your now impatient boss.

“Let's just wait few seconds.”

But when you saw Jay enter the building your heart stopped for an instant and fear took over. Before Voight could say anything, you leapt out of the car at lightning speed, waiting for no one, thinking of no one but Jay.

You pulled out your gun from your holster before entering the abandoned building. It was larger than it appeared externally and at first sight there was no sign of Jay.

Your heart was beating so hard you could hear it pounding in your ears and with every step you took, fear ate you more and more. What the hell was he thinking? Why did he come in here alone with a criminal?

As you climbed the creaking stairs to the first floor, a shot rang out from the walls and you jumped. “Oh my god,” you murmured in a trembling voice before starting to run as fast as possible towards the place where the shot came from. Your mind began to project images of Jay lying in a pool of his own blood, dying, and the very thought made you die inside.

God let him be okay, please.

Once you climbed to the third floor, however, you saw him in the distance but before you could take a step towards him or even take a sigh of relief, a bullet was fired in your direction, forcing you to take cover behind a pillar.

A gun fight with some men ensued, and though you knew you had to focus on saving your own life, you couldn't help but glance at Jay from time to time, noticing him hunched over Don Stanton, trying to revive him.

The rest of the squad arrived at that moment and you managed to take down three men who were shooting at you. You approached Jay while the others explored the rest of the building for anything suspect.

“Jay,” you called but he didn't seem to hear you as he tried to stop Stanton's bleeding, “Jay,” you called him out again but still nothing, no answer. So you placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to make him aware of your presence but that touch made him stiffen and you almost had a heart attack when he pulled out his gun and turned, pointing it at you.

“Woah!” you exclaimed loudly, spontaneously raising your hands to let him know you were unarmed, “Jay, what the hell are you doing?!”.

His gaze was fixed on you but he wasn't really looking at you, his eyes were empty, without the light that characterizes them, his forehead was wet with sweat as his chest rose and fell quickly as if he had run a marathon.

“Jay put that gun down. It's just me. Can you hear me? Everything is fine.”

You continued to speak but your voice reached far into his ears which continued to ring incessantly. You didn't dare take a wrong step, or try to get him to put down his gun because you knew Jay wasn't there right now, that his mind was unconscious and his body uncontrollable. He was still in war and he saw you like an enemy and not his girlfriend.

But that didn't make the moment any less scary.

Jay, the person you most trusted in the world, with whom you felt safest, was pointing a gun at you and anything could trigger him to shoot you. You've never felt so small and helpless, even after facing the most dangerous and depraved criminals, you felt so scared and intimidated.

He'd had similar episodes, where the PTSD made him lose touch with reality, but he'd never come to that, never pointing a gun at you and threatening to hurt you.

“Jay!” you almost screamed and only then did Jay seem to come to his senses.

When he realized he was pointing his gun at you a wave of guilt fully overwhelmed him and he dropped the gun from his hands in disbelief at what he had just done.

What the hell had he been up to? Was he really point a gun at you? The love of his life?

He couldn't believe it, he couldn't believe he was capable of doing such a thing and as he watched your face contorted in an expression of pure fear and terror, as he watched you back away until you ran away, he realized he seriously needed help.

-

The case was finally closed but never like then it left you an unbridgeable abyss inside you.

Since you'd left that building you'd been trying to avoid Jay even though he'd been trying hard to talk to you. You knew it wasn't his fault, that what happened was just a consequence of everything he'd been through, that knowingly he wouldn't do anything that could hurt you.

But that episode had shocked you more than you could ever admit and the image of that gun pointed at you continued to haunt your mind.

You were at your house, sitting on the couch staring at nothing in particular, contemplating whether to respond to Jay's many texts and calls. You knew you had to talk to him, you couldn't avoid him forever, but you needed some alone time first, to digest everything that had happened.

But when the bell rang you understood this was not going to happen.

You stood up and your heart skipped a beat when you saw through the peephole it was Jay. You took a deep breath and opened the door, realizing you couldn't avoid him forever and sooner or later you had to deal with the confrontation.

Jay was a walking disaster.

He didn't know what to say, what to do, how to act and especially when he noticed the way you kept avoiding his gaze, he panicked even more. You made room for him to enter and he felt his heart break when, in an attempt to say hi, you pulled back slightly.

“Uhm… Hi… Come in,” you murmured nervously before going to sit back on the sofa.

Jay closed the door behind him, walking over and sitting next to you. You brought your knees to your chest and he didn’t miss this gesture, he didn't miss the way you tried to distance yourself from him, how you tried to protect yourself by moving away from him.

“How are you feeling?” you asked feebly, finally looking up at him and a chasm opened inside you as you saw his tired, destroyed eyes, the melancholy expression on his face.

“I'm fine but...”

“No Jay,” you interrupted him “Don't start with these lies, you know I can't stand them. You pointed a damn gun at me, you are definitely not fine.”

You knew it was tough, but it was time for him to face the shadows of his past that kept haunting him, it was time for him to face reality and realize he wasn't good at all, that he kept lying to himself and pretending to be in a state of well-being which, unfortunately, wasn’t true at all.

He sighed and it was him who lowered his gaze that time, unable to look in your eyes anymore. He rubbed his sweaty palms on his jeans before resting his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands. He was silent for a moment before returning to his previous position.

“You're right…” he murmured, almost afraid to admit it aloud, “I… I'm not okay I know, I’ve realized it… But Y/N, darling, I just want you to know I would’ve never done that… I would never hurt you…”

“Jay…” you sighed “I know that, but… But what if you won't regain control of yourself next time? What if you won’t come to your senses and shoot me?”

“No! No! Fuck… This will never happen again, I swear…”

“And how do you know this, Jay?” you asked, a lump in your throat, eyes brimming with tears as you tried to hold them back. “How do you know you’ll be able to stop the next time that in the grip of a similar episode you’ll point a gun at me again?”.

Jay had never experienced a worse feeling in his life. He always promised himself he would given his life to protect you, that he’d do everything in his power to keep you safe, that he’d rather die than know you were suffering.

He loved you more than anyone else in the world, more than he ever thought he’d love someone and knowing he was the one who tried to hurt you, destroyed him. He’d never forget the expression of fear, terror and pure shock with which you looked at him in that damned building, it would’ve haunted him forever.

“I would never hurt you Y/N, you… You are the most precious thing in my life. God, I'd die to protect you…” he babbled in desperation.

“I know, Jay. I consciously know this,” you answered, putting your feet on the ground and approaching him without touching him. “I want to help you, but...”

“But what?” he whispered, his green eyes bright with tears as he looked at you. A tear slid from your eyes onto your cheek but you immediately wiped it away before you spoke again. “You want to leave me right? You are afraid of me?”.

You remained silent for a moment.

“Y/N I… You can't leave me please, I can't do this without you, I need you. You're the only person I'm still here for, helping me through this shit… Please…”

You cried. “I have to protect myself Jay,” you wiped away another tear “I don't want to leave you, God. I love you so much…”

“But you're afraid of me,” he stated, swallowing the lump in his throat. He looked down at the floor and his shoes to try and mask the tears he couldn't control anymore and streamed down his cheeks. He stood up, suddenly feeling suffocated, and ran his hands over his face as he began pacing around the living room.

“Hey…” you said, standing up and approaching him. You placed your hands on his arms to make him stop and he directed his eyes at you. They were red and shiny from tears and God only knew how much it hurt you to see him like this, how much he didn't deserve all that suffering.

You placed your hands on his face, wiping away his tears with your thumbs. “God baby,” you whispered “I hate seeing you like this…”. He hugged you, squeezing you so tight it made you gasp for breath.

You hugged him back, putting your arms around his neck and letting yourself be cradled by that embrace. You stroked his hair while he hid his face in the hollow of your neck, letting go in a desperate and liberating cry.

“It's okay love, it's okay,” you whispered, as you too were crying, “Let's sit down.”

You sat back on the sofa and you hugged him, letting him rest his head on your chest as he let out all the anger – mostly towards himself – and sadness he felt.

“Cry all you want, I'm here. I don't want to leave, I'll always be here with you Jay,” you mumbled, caressing his hair. He wrapped his arms around your chest tighter, as if he was afraid to let you go.

“I'm so sorry my love. I didn't mean to scare you… When…” he sighed “When I realized what I was doing, the way you were looking at me…” he couldn't finish the sentence, because just remembering the expression you had in that moment pushed him over the edge again “God Y/N I will never forgive myself for what I did...” he got up, sitting on the sofa and running a hand through his hair “When I saw your face… That moment I understood I seriously need some help, I don't… I can't risk hurting you, losing you, I don't want you to be afraid of me. I want to be your safe haven, I don’t want you to doubt for even a second I can intentionally hurt you… I… I don't want you to look me with that terrified and fearful look again... I can't...”

“But I'm not afraid of you Jay, I know you were going through a lot , the case was heavy to deal with…” you tried to comfort him.

“Yes you do,” he smiled at you bitterly, eyes and nose still red from crying “No lies remember? You told me before and even now…” he tried to stop crying but failing “You hugged me and you were tense and the thing is, I can't even blame you… It's only my fault for believing all the shit the war brought me could just go away on its own and I will never be able to forgive myself for how I reacted, in that building, when you were putting my mic...”

“You weren't yourself,” you whispered.

“I know… But I won’t let you to suffer the consequences of what happens to me… But on the other hand I'm too selfish to let you go, I love you too much Y/N and I know if you're not here I… I'll never be able to face this alone.”

“But I don't want you to go through this alone,” you retorted, grabbing his hand with yours and intertwining your fingers as your eyes were on his. “Jay I will never leave you… You’re my whole life and I want to be with you at every step you take, I know it will be hard, I know it isn't easy, I know there is a long way ahead but we’ll do it together. I won't leave you alone… I was just scared in that moment, let's be honest, who wouldn't, but I don't want to abandon you, okay? I just need to know you’ll really, really, try to face these ghosts.”

“Absolutely, I don't want to hurt you anymore…”

“No baby, you don't have to do it for me but for yourself,” you didn't let him finish the sentence “Because you went though what no other human being can go through and you deserve to be happy, to fully live your life, to do your job serenely, you don't deserve to wake up in the middle of the night from nightmares. You are strong, one of the strongest people I know and if there is anyone who can do it, it’s you, love, okay?” you stroked his cheek and he nodded faintly.

“Promise me you'll really try? Not for me though,” you continued as he looked at you with all the love he felt for you. “I can take it, past the fear I know it's not your fault baby, you don't control it. I can't even imagine what you're going through, what you saw over there, anyone who didn’t experience it will never be able to, but I swear Jay I… I would die to give you all the happiness you deserve.”

“You are my happiness,” he retorted and you smiled feebly when you saw him calm down a bit “Tomorrow I’ll look for someone and start doing therapy, I promise I'll do it, for you, for me, for us.”

Your smile grew on your lips. “I know you will. I'm so proud of you.”

“So you won't leave me?” he whispered so softly he almost sounded like a child intimidated by the response he’d receive.

“No baby, never, I swear. I'd take a bullet for you if it means to make you happy.”

“Don’t even joke about that,” he mumbled. He placed his hand on yours which was still on his cheek, then bringing it to his lips and leaving a kiss on the back without his eyes ever leaving yours. “I love you so much Y/N, so fucking much I can't even breathe right now. I don't know what I did to deserve you,” you smiled again “I always want to see you smile like that, God… I can't even explain what you do to me. I… I want to make you happy as much as you make me happy. I'm so sorry baby, I'm sorry for everything...”

“Shh, it's okay, it's not your fault I want you to put it in this cute little head. I love you too Jay so much, more than you can ever imagine.”

You stayed on that sofa embraced for and indefinite amount of time, cradled in each other's arms. After some time you managed to get Jay to eat something before letting him take a shower, needless to say he was going to sleep over at your place.

You both got into bed and, due to the exhaustion, the intense emotions experienced that day, it didn't take long for Jay to fall asleep, his head resting on your chest as you held him and hugged him. But you couldn't sleep a wink, the events of that day still clear in your mind.

When Jay woke up in the middle of the night, it didn't take him long to realize you weren't there anymore. He sat up in bed and looked at the time on his cell phone, which read 1:32 in the morning, before getting up and walking towards the living room.

For a fraction of a second he thought he heard a sob but he thought he just imagined it. But when this sobbing sound was accompanied by a sniffling, he knew he didn’t imagine them at all.

He walked quickly to the living room and his heart skipped a beat when, in the dim light, he saw you sitting on the sofa, your knees drawn up to your chest as you cried. He turned on the lights and didn't miss the way you tried - in vain – to quickly dry your tears.

“Y/N… Baby… God, what happened? Are you hurt?” Jay asked after rushing over to you, kneeling right in front of you.

You mentally let out a curse, aware that you wouldn't be able to escape this. “I'm fine,” you replied though, hoping for a nano second he’d buy it.

“Oh baby don't lie to me, you don't cry if you're fine. Please talk to me, are you okay? What happened?” he continued to ask worried. He grabbed a handkerchief from the top of the coffee table and handed it to you, watching you intently as you blew your nose. He sat down next to you and started stroking your hair in an attempt to comfort you.

“Don't worry babe, it's okay. Nothing happened, go back to sleep you're tired.”

“How can you even think I'll leave you here alone?” he said “Wait, I'll go get you a glass of water.”

Before you could object, he was up and in less than no time he returned with a glass of cold water which you drank with pleasure. “You want another one?” he asked and after you mumbled a ‘no’ he took the empty glass from your hands and placed it on the coffee table. “Are you feeling better?”.

You nodded. “Seriously baby, I'm fine, go back to bed.”

“How about you stop lying to me and start telling me the truth? You're making me worry to death love.”

You sighed deeply, feeling the urge to cry coming back. “It's just… It's been a busy day and I needed to vent.”

Jay was silent for a moment, wiping away a single tear that slid down your cheek. “Talk to me baby, I'm here for you.”

You shook your head and then stood up. “No, there is nothing to say. Let's go to sleep, I'm getting tired too.”

“No, we're not going to sleep until you tell me what's going on,” he stood up too, looking at you with such intensity it almost took your breath away. God why did he insist so much, why didn't he just let you cry and forget everything?

“I told you Jay, I was just venting after today.”

“Yes, but it's not only that, I'm sure,” he retorted, taking a step towards you. “Baby don't you trust me? You know you can talk to me about anything, I just want to help you.”

“I-it's not that, of course I trust you.”

“Then talk to me,” he pressed, now on the verge of losing his mind “What...”.

“I don't want to bother you, you already have so much to think about.”

“Y/N I want you to listen to me very carefully now because I won't say it again,” he spoke, placing his hands on your face to force you to look at him. “There is nothing in this world I wouldn't do for you, and nothing, I say nothing, is more important than you. You never bother me and never will. You want me to be honest with you, to ask for help, but you have to do it too, you don't have to be afraid to tell me about something it’s bothering you.”

You started crying again and he hugged you, holding you close as he stroked your hair. “It's alright baby, I'm here. Cry all you want, let it go. I won't leave you.”

“It’s just…” you sobbed at a loss for words, letting go as a wave of guilt washed over you. You placed your hands on his bare chest as he continued to hold you.

“Y/N, please, I hate seeing you like this. What are you afraid of? Why don’t you talk to me?” he whispered, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Because I feel guilty,” you answered so feebly you feared he didn’t hear you.

Jay placed two fingers under your chin, forcing you to look at him. “And why’s that?”.

Another sob escaped your lips and at that point you slightly moved away from him, no longer able to hold his gaze, his closeness. You ran your hands over your face and then through your hair, not quite knowing what to say.

“Because I was fucking terrified! And… And I feel guilty because I know what happened wasn't your fault, you weren’t yourself…” you sniffed as the tears continued to flow in rivers, leaving you not even a chance to talk “I know you’d never consciously do anything to hurt me but seeing you point that gun at me… Jay, I…” you sighed “I've faced criminals, murderers, but I've never been so afraid and terrified as today and for a moment I really thought you’d shoot me. The way you looked at me… God I can't get it out of my mind and I'm hating myself because it wasn't your fault…”

Jay stood there attentively listening to every single word you said as every second that passed he felt a part of himself die.

“That's why I didn't want to tell you about this, because I know you’re blaming yourself for everything and you're already going through so much Jay and I don't want to add this other burden on you...” you continued and at that point he approached you again, putting his hands on your cheeks and wiping away the tears with his thumbs as you did with him.

“Y/N…” he said your name as a little prayer “You really think I don’t know that? I know you, I know when something is bugging you, I know when something makes you feel sad. I saw the way you looked at me this whole evening, the way you were tense and I'm so sorry for putting you in this situation my baby. I hate myself so much for this, you didn’t deserve any of that,” he left a soft kiss on your forehead.

“And I love you so fucking much,” he continued “You're willing to suffer alone just to not make me worry but you don't have to. Your feelings are as valid as mine, you have to tell me when you're hurt, when you feel like crying, when you're scared even if I'm the cause. I want to listen to you and do everything in my power to fix what’s hurting you and I promise I will. We have a long way to go, you said it too, but we can't do it unless we're both honest with each other, if we don't express our fears, our apprehensions,” he said wiping away your tears as you did nothing but keep crying “You are the best thing that has ever happened to me Y/N, you saved me from a chasm that I am trying hard to climb over, you are my lifeline and I want to be the same for you. I can never apologize enough for what I did today, but I promise I’ll do everything I can to put all that shit behind me. But you need to talk to me, okay? You are so fucking important to me and I'm okay if you're okay. I can't focus on anything else if I don't know you’re happy and to know that I need you to tell me everything that goes through your mind, and I will do the same… Okay baby?”.

You nodded and in response you pressed your lips onto his in a sweet, long-awaited kiss before hugging and squeezing him as if your life depended on it. He was right, God was he right about everything.

He was your everything.

Your sun, the love of your life, the reason for everything.

You were his salvation.

You were the light at the end of a dark tunnel, the first breath of fresh air after being underwater too long. You both knew that even in the most difficult moments you’ll be able to overcome everything and that you could always count on each other in joy, fear and pain.

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