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popponn · 6 months

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here and there, about him.

summary: is he perfect? no, just like anyone else. but there will always be something about him. (aka a snippets of one of many, many things he will do for you.)

notes: missing lovesick bllk boys trope for a hot minute while doing other stuffs. short and light stuffs to scratch the itch. was about to isagi and nagi, but turns out self control is still a thing for me. warning: none, just minor swearing + fluffs capital f of smitten boys, chigiri is ready to fight for you. reader's gender unspecified.

characters: rin, chigiri, kaiser.

itoshi rin is very, very much very obvious in his favoritism to you. so obvious that both his teammates and his brother told him to tone it down a little bit. of course, rin only scoffs and tells them to mind their own business (actually he said it more as ’fuck off, cretins’, but details). but, really, no one could exactly blame them. this guy could be in an ongoing tirade about how person a is an utterly pathetic soggy wet trash, then you greet him with a smile and he turns into a cold, suave, rich boyfriend on a snowy winter day. drape his jacket on you, hold your hand, and ’let you hug him from behind while discreetly intertwining your finger with his’ type of stuff. it’s a bit disgusting, honestly. and no one wants to start commenting on how he immediately looks in your direction after scoring a goal. also if he buys something, the only one who has the slightest bit of hope of ever receiving anything is his brother here—and that chance is very miniscule on its own since none of them are you. put simply, it’s a bit infuriating, yet undeniably infuriatingly cute in its own way to watch. especially when there is a very high chance you will be the one and only romance this anti-social guy will ever have. everyone in the team supports the two of you, but by gods maybe please do something about him a little bit?

chigiri hyoma will never let anyone hurt you. it’s common knowledge already that he takes no shit from anyone and ever since he has seen you as ‘the one’, he pretty much already thinks of you as an inseparable part of his life already. so, in other words, that means you have gotten yourself a boyfriend who is ready to become a biting guard dog at a moment's notice. someone insults you? tries to physically harm you? oh, baby, hold your boyfriend back because he is also known to get angry real quick. save his reputation and hold himself back from spouting words that would make someone’s ancestors cry or, worse, from beating someone up. this is a speedster athlete trained by ego jinpachi himself—no one could escape unscathed from something like that. but hey, this is someone who naturally turns into a shoujo manga male lead with soft gazes and flowery smiles the moment you put a hand on his cheek. this is, in a way, just another way for him to protect and make sure of your comfort. also, he needs to have an outlet for the less soft part somewhere other than soccer.

michael kaiser is very reliable and observant, despite whatever persona or deflection he will give you even in the ‘official already’ part of your relationship. this guy has a high ego and puts on an air of someone high and mighty, beyond your league. but everyone all knows if you get to the part where he proudly lets you wear his clothes or makes sure you stay pressed to his side during walks, he is down bad. still, for his sake and maybe everyone else’s, let him take care of you and act casually about it. don’t point it out when he suddenly crouches down and ties your untied shoelaces, keep talking as if nothing happened when he puts a hand in the small of your back, and just act as if nothing happened when he gives someone a ferocious glare while making sure you cling unto his arm. don’t praise or, god forbid, swoon at those. it will only make him get flustered and lose his composure or, worse, get real annoying. he is indeed good at the whole act of service thing, surprisingly, but please do remember his attitude is indeed also in the ‘piece of shit’ category most of the time. just let the yellow and blue betta fish swim at his own pace and let what means to happen in the future, happen at its own time, including giving praises to him without him reacting like a lovesick brat.

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taffywabbit · 2 months

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every time dilbert gets mentioned in a conversation/post i think about how hilarious it is that scott adams turned out to be such a deranged alt-right fuckwit, considering the fact that his comics indisputably radicalized me against capitalism as a kid and probably did so earlier than anything else

like there IS some pretty iffy stuff in dilbert for sure (particularly a lot of casual misogyny and xenophobia), and it definitely increased over time as the author got more edgy and self-important. i don't think i read anything from later than like 2003 and it was already starting to get pretty unreadable by then - LONG before he started openly being a turbo-racist podcaster weirdo. but the earlier stuff (especially before there were a lot of established recurring characters or running gags) was largely just a satirical cartoon focused on how corporations are evil and exploitative, and how you'd have to be completely detached from reality to truly enjoy working for them, and how trying to climb the ladder of success is a futile pursuit within a capitalist society where the upper class needs to keep pulling that ladder up behind them to keep the rest of us in our place and maintain their own status. it was basically vent art by a guy stuck working in mind-numbing desk jobs, who barely knew how to draw but just wanted to get his thoughts out and reach other people who were frustrated in the same ways he was. it's really weird but also fascinating to compare that to how it (and adams himself) ended up in the long run

i don't think it was particularly funny most of the time, and when it did have actual jokes, they were often pretty mean-spirited and/or cynical. i don't remember more than one or two specific bits from the comic that actually ever made me laugh, and i read a LOT of them as a kid (my grandpa had a massive collection of newspaper comic compilation books at his house that he'd let me look through and borrow stuff from - this is also how i discovered garfield and calvin & hobbes). but i DO remember having it instilled in me from an early age that there was nothing really exciting or praiseworthy about grinding your life away for a company that profits off your skilled labor and gives you pennies in return - which is especially noteworthy considering i was also raised by mormons, who are famously all about that "nobility in suffering" and "work your way to heaven" type bullshit. i'm genuinely unsure how this happened

anyways i think scott adams would probably piss his pants and explode if he ever took a break from peddling his psychic penis hypnosis and killer burrito podcasts long enough to seriously think about any of this stuff. (and i hope he does. it would be funnier than anything he's ever written.)

#buny text #dilbert #capitalism

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impyssadobsessions · 11 months

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DPxDC idea/prompt Pen Pals

(Probably more idea but you can run with the concept... im so srry XD) Basically Danny and Damian are pen pals- until Damian receives a letter with Lazarus Water and Blood smeared on the page.

WHAT IF Danny and Damian were pen pals before Danny's accident. A school project for 8th grade. Damian was reluctant to participate but due to it being a grade and being pestered by his siblings that he would just scare the kid off anyways, he deciding to partake in this pen pal. Danny whose not suffering at school, just living a normal life at the moment, is being teased by Dash saying his pen pal could smell loser before even opening the letter. Asking Danny if his parents even let him open the letter or blast it thinking its a ghost. Which makes Danny who wasn't into this idea of writing a stranger more determined to do it. Besides they might only get one letter and teachers drop the subject. They might not even get it. So what the heck. Turns out they become the only ones that constantly wrote each other- even mailing it in person once the school ended the program. (Damian having a post box set up for letters)

At first it was awkward. Danny commented/asking if Damian really was their age or some teacher pretending to write back instead of sending out the letters. If so. He sucks at it because what kid writes perfectly grammar letters and big words to convey something is cool. Guess its better than pretending he knows slang. Damian furious writes back, offended! Also asks if he isn't younger, because everyone with basic english should know to capitalize their letters! This goes back and fourth. Danny writing back every chance he got, and Damian doing the same, even being told not to at the dinner table. It goes from offended at each other to being curious. Danny asking Damian more advice on english because it isn't his favorite subject. Damian asking more about how to sound like his age. Then it devolves to animals. Danny wishing he had one, but his parents didn't want one getting into the lab. Damian happily sending picture of his animals. Danny talking more about the stars.. etc. Until Accident happens- Danny starts having trouble writing the letters. His pen with phase through his hand and replies between them got longer. Danny justifying this by saying he's having trouble with schooling this year. Damian also been unable to send as many replies because he's been busy with teen titans and other heroics. Though he's encouraging Danny saying Danny is far smarter than that school even is aware of. Until one day, after months of not being able to reply. He finds Damian's letter again. It makes him feel better. Even if Damian didn't know him... this person still believes in Danny... Though Danny feels guilty about it- it compels him to write him again. He was about to finish the letter when he gets blasted by a ghost. He returns from the fight, beaten and bloody. He picks up the letter and sighs at the green stain left on it. Folding it up he stuffs it into his bag. Next day after hurrying off to school, his mother finds the letter after it had fallen on the floor. She read a little bit of it and immediately recognize it was to Danny's penpal. She takes the opportunity to try her knew anti-ecto spray and mails it for Danny. "Boy just like his father. So messy. I'll have to give him a lecture about ecto-contamination again." Damian just returned from a mission from Teen Titans, been gone for three months. Alfred informs Damian he had received a letter from his anonymous pen pal in his absence. Damian had almost forgotten about the pen pal- thinking his pal just didn't want to answer anymore. So eagerly he goes to his room to open the letter, but immediately blood drain from his face as his eyes zoomed back the feathery ink to the green blotch of lazurus water.. having almost evaporated.. leaving a water stain that glowed... and more importantly.. the human specks of blood that was revealed with the driest parts of the stain. Damian immediately rushes to the cave.. only to find out his paranoia was right.... and was it his fault his friend was harmed? Also the idea of Damian talking to Phantom in his robin suit. Asking how Daniel Fenton was.. and Phantom surprised and slips out a "Alive as much as he's dead." Damian glaring and Phantom corrects, "He's fine. He has parents that are ghost hunters is all." Stressing his situation complicated. Phantom just so shocked his pen pal is a hero- annnnd also cursing his mom for sending a letter like that. HE KNEW IT WOULD SEND IMPLICATIONS!

but idk if I figured out a good way for Damian to see the smeared letter. I just think it be fun. Also Damian thinking he's to blame for league going after the fentons when he wasn't. At least not as early as he thought. He's very focused on saving/protecting Danny Fenton.. which makes Phantom's job harder.

#danny fenton #dpxdc #dp x dc #danny phantom #damian wayne #robin #dc crossover #dcu #dcxdp #pen pal au #long post

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luveline · 11 months

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𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥 | 𝐚𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐫

when internet trolls poke fun at your appearance while working on a case, hotch is there to make you feel better. fem!reader, 3k

tw cyberbullying, poor eating habits, criminal minds typical violence

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

You're not a media liaison or anything close, but with JJ off for maternity leave and Penelope in Quantico, there's a face needed for the press announcement on TV, and you offer to step in.

You aren't particularly eager to do it, but Hotch doesn't have the time or wherewithal and such a high intensity case, not while Spencer is at half-mast, migraines rendering him ineffective and stubborn. You're trying to keep the ship sailing smoothly, doing your part of the profiling while juggling media and supporting the police sergeant that's heading the tip line.

You're not expecting to become a joke. After a red-eye, three sleepless nights trying to find a missing woman in Oklahoma —the domestic violence capital— and a full day without something to eat, you're aware you don't look your best, but you aren't sure what that has to do with your missing person.

The FBI — fugly bitches International. #FindDanaLangley

Damn, are they not letting those agents sleep or what? She looks terrible !

she should be less worried about Dana Langley and more concerned with the dead woman in the mirror, ew

hope theu find her just so they stop putting this creature on TV #FindDanaLangley

"Well," you murmur, wondering if it would be inappropriate to burst into tears, "these aren't especially helpful."

Derek looks at you, his gaze measured, and you know he's not sure how to react to you or what's happening. He settles on his usual loving encouragement, because he's a very good friend.

"Don't listen to all that," he says, throwing his arm around your shoulder, "those trolls wouldn't know beautiful if it hit them in the face. But we could always try it?"

You sink into his hold, needing the reassurance even if you wish you didn't. "No hitting," you say, covering your mouth to hide a large and possibly fugly yawn. Your head is racing with regurgitated insults. "It doesn't matter, Derek. Promise. We have bigger stuff to deal with."

The door opens and Hotch and Emily step inside, Rossi just behind them. You're thinking Hotch is going to agree with your sentiment, no time for comfort when a woman's life is at stake, so you move away from Morgan to sit in front of your laptop again.

"Is something wrong?" Hotch asks.

You meet his eyes just long enough to smile at him. "Nothing. What did Amandla have to say?"

Emily retells the alibi of Dana's ex-girlfriend and is clearly suspicious but without proof, you're forced as a team to move on to the next lead. Spencer returns shortly afterward and you try to brainstorm your next step.

It's Penelope that pulls through. "You asked me to cross reference the neighbours at Dana's previous address with people crossing state lines, right, after that one guy ended up being kinda icky? Well I did that, and nothing came up, which was–"

"Garcia," Hotch interrupts.

"Right. Long story short, one of the neighbours recently had an extreme falling out with Icky Guy after a years long friendship, his name is Justin Mantova, he has extreme PTSD with documented episodes of confused aggression, and he's been seen coming in and out of a storage unit in Paseo Storage Solutions for the past four days."

"Address?" Hotch asks.

"Already sent to your phones."

"Thank you, Pen," you say.

"Just go catch the bad guy, pretty girl," she says.

Ah, so she's seen the tweets too. You frown rather than smile, reminded again of what's been said and wishing you could be anywhere else.

You get your wish and forget all about personal grievances for a while, concerned with the safe location and extraction of Dana Langley. The operation is clean, and she's hurt but has a great chance at a full recovery. It's quick, it's professional.

You're falling asleep in the SUV on the way back. Hotch at the wheel, Spencer in the backseat, you rub your eyes from the passenger side and try not to look suspiciously morose, but it's impossible. Hotch is too good at his job.

"Are you sure everything's okay?" he asks. With Spencer's window open and the wind whipping, it's hard to hear him.

"Hm?"

"Is everything okay?"

"I'm just tired." You don't look at him. It's rude of you, but if what they've said is true —you'd seen the photographs, and you looked tired, sure, but you still looked like you. "Just tired," you say again. You snap your mouth closed when your voice wobbles.

Hotch is regularly too sweet on you. Most of the team say it's a crush. Emily calls it 'character development. Whatever it is, he's nice to you. He warmed up to you near immediately when you first joined the team, and he's been as welcoming months later as he was in your first week.

Maybe he feels sorry for me, you think, submerging yourself inch by inch into self pity.

The three of you regroup with the others at the police station to pen immediate recounts of what happened before you can forget, tying up loose ends.

Finally you're able to go back to the hotel. Another half an hour and you're in the lobby.

"We'll go home in the morning. Nine AM flight, meet in the lobby at eight thirty," Hotch says. "Get some rest."

You disband. They've squeezed you in all over the place, and you're lucky enough to be next to the elevator on the second floor. Hotch is the third floor, and everyone else the sixth, so you say goodbye to your colleagues and exit the elevator, stepping onto the second floor with a parting smile.

You can't know it, but Hotch notices the way your smile falls before the doors have well and truly closed. Your shoulders slump in defeat.

You trudge into your room and don't bother turning on the lights. The door closes behind you and the mask you'd been holding up starts to crack. You put your laptop in the closet despite temptation to boot it up, knowing no good can come of looking at the tip hashtag again.

You head into the bathroom to pee, and you're confronted with your appearance as you wash your hands.

You stare at yourself.

You look tired.

Tears well as you look at yourself. You're not those things those people said. You're pretty, and when you smile everyone knows it. There's nothing so beautiful as a smile. You can't summon one, but you know it's the truth.

Or, it should be.

A single tear falls down your cheek, quickly followed by a second, and a third from the other eye. You ignore them, tracing the line of your bottom lip, the texture of your skin on your cheeks, the slight sunken effect of your under eyes.

A knock makes you flinch. "Fuck," you say, wiping your cheek with the back of a hand, twisting on the spot like looking into your room might reveal whoever it is at the door. Probably one of your team. "Hello?" you call.

"It's me. It's Hotch. I know it's after hours, but I wanted to speak with you."

Whatever reassurance he has to give might actually make this all much worse. You don't want any pity from anybody, you just want today to be over. Still, you wiggle your toes into the plush hotel carpeting, debating only for a moment about the pros and cons of pretending to be asleep.

"Hey," you say, opening the door. You wipe your eyes and hope he takes it for a tired gesture rather than a method of hiding the glassy sheen at your waterline. "Hi, Hotch, how are you feeling?"

"Fine. Tired. Thank you for asking."

"Do you want to come in?" you ask.

"Please."

Hotch follows you into your room. There's an armchair across from the bed next to a desk and an old TV sitting atop it. Your suitcase is still open on your bed, your pyjamas crumpled in the shell. You close it before Hotch can see. That's another thing to add to your list: being a slob.

"It's very clean in here," he says.

You startle. "What?"

"It's clean, considering how long we've been here. Have you ever seen Spencer's room at the end of a case?" he asks.

"No, is it bad?"

"It's like a paper hurricane."

You look down at your knees, hyper aware of his gaze on your face, tired of feeling uneasy in your skin.

"I wanted to say thank you for doing the press release yesterday. You did an amazing job. It's something to be proud of."

Of course he's talking about the press release, the one thing you need to not think about.

"Did Derek tell you?" you ask.

"Tell me what?" he asks, voice sharpening.

You look up. Hotch is a picture of concern, professionalism slightly off centre.

"Nothing."

"Something's been bothering you. Something Derek should've told me, I'm guessing."

You chew over your words. "Uh. Hotch, it's really nothing, it's a hiccup. The press release, I…" You really don't want to have to say it. The words get stuck at the back of your throat.

He leans forward. "What?"

"I looked sick. On TV. I looked really unwell, and it– it actually–" Why are you stammering? What's wrong with you? You laugh and it's not your laugh but it's better than your nonsense stuttering. "Sorry. On the press release, I didn't look my best, and it was a hot topic. That's what I thought Derek told you about. But I don't need anyone feeling sorry for me, Hotch."

"I don't feel sorry for you."

You wince, "No, of course not."

"Two seconds," he says, putting his hand forward in the air between you. "A hot topic? I don't understand." He looks genuinely apologetic.

"The tip line got clogged up with comments about my appearance," you say. You phrase it as a professional error rather than the embarrassing event it represents in your personal life.

His lips curl downward. "Saying you looked tired."

"Saying I looked unagreeable."

"As a friend," he says, tone softening, "could you tell me what they said?"

Heat blooms in your cheeks and behind your eyes, your throat aching as you scratch at a nonexistent itch in the crook of your elbow. "Um. Well, there was a lot of them, and they weren't all about me, but the ones I saw, they seemed to think I needed more sleep. That I–"

Hitch rarely interrupts, but something in your voice must impel him. "What did they say?" he asks again.

"That I looked like a creature. That they hoped Miss Langley would be found, so that they didn't have to see my face on TV again. Hotch," you say, your throat sounding as tight as it feels, "it was pretty bad, but it really doesn't matter."

"I think it matters if it's upset you," he says.

He has the warmest voice when he wants it to be, so dulcet, almost melodic. You'd think it was a practised phrase, but he speaks freely.

"It didn't," you lie.

Pointless in your line of work and automatic anyways. Hotch doesn't deny you the safety of your untruth, but he doesn't entertain it, either.

"You're beautiful when you're tired," he says.

You don't mean to, but you hold your breath. The silence that follows his remark is deafening.

"You're beautiful," he says, again, as though you could've missed it the first time. "Regrettably, you're very tired, but you don't look any less pretty. Don't think what was sent in to the tip line has any merit."

"Are you saying that as my friend or my boss?" you ask. It's meant to be a joke that lightens the mood.

"Neither," Hotch says.

You gawp, and then falter. "Why…"

Hotch is close enough to offer a hand, and you're feeling stupid enough to take it. He squeezes tenderly, looking you straight in the eye. "I'm sorry about what's being said. I had no idea. We can pull the video, and the tipline should stop now Dana's been found, but it doesn't erase what's already happened. I'm so sorry. It's not right, and it's not fair."

"It's a hard job, right?" you ask.

His hand is so so big, and not as soft as you'd pictured. It doesn't make a difference, not when he's touching you like you might shatter.

"That's not the job," he says.

"It's silly to care, though. About what other people think."

"I hope you care about what I think. The merit of an opinion comes from the person, and the relationship you have with them. Anyone who knew you would know that you're beautiful."

"Inside that counts," you say, not fully comforted, but trying to give him an out.

"You're beautiful on the outside," he says, giving your hand a small shake. "You're an amazing woman, of course. But I, for one, enjoyed seeing your face on TV."

You try not to smile too hard, directing your gaze at your joined hands lest he get a read on you.

Hotch must know how you feel about him. He'd be an awful profiler if he didn't. You fawn when you're around him even now, months down the line from your very first meeting when you were sure your heart would ricochet from your chest, the intensity of your instant crush like nothing you'd felt, not even as a schoolgirl. He'd been tall, striking, classically handsome and completely unaware of the fact. Now he's sitting across from you and he doesn't seem so tall, nor so striking. His caring side shines like a gem. It's blinding, and it really does make you feel better.

"I cried in the bathroom," you confess, rubbing your thumb against his in minute, near imperceptible circles. "I wish it didn't matter to me, how I looked. I know I was doing something important, and there wasn't time to freshen up. Maybe I should've just asked somebody else."

"You did it perfectly. You were perfect. No one else could have delivered the profile to the public that professionally, and that astutely."

Hotch stands up, and you don't know what to do. You decide to look up at him just as he takes your face into his hands.

"No crying in bathrooms, okay? It would… it breaks my heart thinking about it. You come to me."

Such a dramatic statement, yet Hoch lays it out like it's an unquestionable truth. No bravado, only a sincerity that makes your throat hurt. His frown slides back into place as his palms warm your cheeks.

"You're so busy, I could never," you say, shaking your head.

"Time and place, sure, but. I will always try to make time for you. I hope you know that by now."

You nod dazedly. Hotch's hands drag with a pressure down to your neck, your shoulders, leaving tingling skin in their wake. He looks at you and time stretches, a few seconds pulled out of order. It's his closeness, and his affectionate, empathetic smile.

You nod again.

He relaxes.

"Try and get some rest, okay? You need to take care of yourself. I know it's hard to ignore how you feel, I know today was hard, but you're one of the strongest people I've ever met. I have faith in you." He gives your shoulder a final squeeze. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," you say. It comes out much more quietly than intended.

"Rest, honey. Call me if you're upset again. I mean it."

He smooths your cheek with the back of his forefinger and you wonder if this is some weird fantasy. Hotch makes for the door, and you know for sure it's real when he says, "And no more caffeine tonight."

"No more caffeine," you agree.

He doesn't realise he's twice as bad as a coffee. Your heart races all by itself, his phantom touch on your cheek.

—

"Hi, beautiful," Derek says.

"There's the girl of the hour," Rossi says.

You roll your arm in a bow, eyes stinging from the bright lobby lights but otherwise quite happy. Hotch called you beautiful last night. Hotch called you honey. People on the Internet who have nothing better to do thought you looked gross, but Hotch thinks you're pretty. It's hard to focus on the negative with a positive that good.

"Good morning, my favourite boys," you say sweetly.

Spencer looks up from his book. "Hey."

"You didn't say hello," you say, "you excluded yourself."

Spencer frowns and goes back to his book. You offer him a mini cookie from your pocket and he perks up, better when you whisper, "You know you're my favourite, Reid."

"We all know that's a lie," Emily says, rolling her small suitcase to your left and nearly trampling your foot.

"Unfortunately so," Rossi agrees.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

"Hotch looks chipper this morning, doesn't he?" Derek asks, nodding. You follow his nod too quickly and give yourself away, earning a scattered round of laughter from your tired team. "Got you."

"Laugh it up," you say. You're on a high that can't be killed, even with their collective teasing.

"Why are we laughing?" Hotch asks from behind you.

You jump half out of your skin.

"We were laughing at Y/N's swift observational skills, but we spoke too soon," Emily says.

Hotch takes a moment to smile at you. "Hey, you look a little more rested. Feeling better?"

A flush rises to your cheeks. "Much," you say, sounding foreign to your own ears.

Hotch gives a pleased nod and clasps your shoulder gently before manoeuvring around you. "Let me go see where JJ is."

He walks around the lobby corner and into the hotel restaurant. You have your face in your hands before he's gone, harassed by quiet whistles and giggling.

"She's so embarrassed!" Rossi cheers, like a proud dad. "How hopeless, young love."

"Someone please shut him up," you beg, rubbing your aching eyes. It's an excuse to hide your smile a moment longer.

"Are you still tired?" Spencer asks. "You look tired."

"She does not," Derek says severely.

You raise your head with a smile. Tired or not, Hotch thinks you're beautiful. He liked seeing you on TV. You lavish the memory.

"I'm genuinely exhausted," you say eventually, a smile stretching from cheek to cheek as you stand tall again.

"I want whatever kind of tired you're feeling," JJ says as she arrives, Hotch a step behind her.

You meet his eyes. You think he might not acknowledge what's been said between you —it wasn't strictly professional to have held your face in his hands like that, after all— and the beginnings of disappointment creep in, until he stands at your side, his fingertips brushing yours. It cannot be accidental.

"She wears it well, doesn't she?" he asks the group. He gives no time for an answer. "Everyone ready?"

You practically vibrate your way to the SUV. Not a bad case, as they go.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading, so much! I hope you enjoyed! if you did and you have the time, please consider reblogging cos it makes me happy <3

#aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner x female reader #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner one shot #aaron hotchner drabble #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds #aaron hotch hotchner

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foldingfittedsheets · 1 month

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You know when you’re in a bad situation and you make up little scenarios for how you’ll deal with the absolute most terrible next thing that could happen?

But then that thing never happens and all the imaginary scenarios with plans C-Z never need to be implemented?

I had one (1) time in my life that it actually played out that I needed the exact response to a scenario I had anticipated.

At the time I was living with my ex down in Arizona with, and I don’t capitalize this lightly, The Worst Roommates I’ve Ever Had. They were truly the absolute worst. My ex was friends with the boyfriend, so he and his girlfriend offered to move in with us when I moved down.

They picked the house, which was $1000 out of our budget, subsidized by the girlfriends mom. They had an extremely obese dog and a cat. Because they were moving in before us they filled the house entirely with all their stuff and felt entitled to kick us out of any area because of that.

We were watching a movie? Too bad, that was their tv and couch. When we argued we hadn’t been given the option to have a couch, tv, dishes, or literally anything except a bed they basically just shrugged. Things were in general very terrible and the communication was worse, but the straw that broke us was when they brought home a new puppy with absolutely no warning.

This lead to a forty five minute full on screaming match and both couples retreating to their rooms, fuming. My mind was spinning very quickly though, because we had loudly declared we’d be moving out and this couple had shown that they viewed the house as theirs. I told my ex my worry but she shrugged it off as irrational.

After an hour of cooldown the boyfriend came into the hallway and I stepped out to meet him.

“Since you guys are moving out we don’t want you using our dishes or pans anymore.” That was my exact fear.

There wasn’t space to store additional dishes of our own, or the pans that I had in storage. So we’d have had a month of paper plates and no ability to cook or utensils to eat with.

But I smiled and said, “I thought you might say that. If that’s the case, then I don’t believe we’ll be paying the water or electricity bills which are entirely in your name and don’t affect us.” Them camping out on all the ownership and leaving us out suddenly had a consequence.

He looked stunned and after a moment just said, “Well played.” He turned and walked back down the hall. I heard him repeat it to his girlfriend through the door as it closed, “That was really well played.”

I retreated to our room, shaking and stressed but proud that I’d scored a point. Our move went off alright and we settled into what would go down as the sketchiest place I’ve ever lived, but at least I didn’t have to worry about when I was allowed to watch TV.

#ramblies #ffs foibles #story #funny #anxiety brain came in useful just that once #writing

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cordeliawhohung · 5 days

Text

In Limbo [Chapter 4]

mafia!141 masterlist | In Limbo masterlist | general masterlist | taglist | playlist

mafia!Simon Riley x fem!Reader

cw: violence, blood, vomiting, allusions to sexual trauma

you wish he wasn't so kind

wc: 4.1k

Ever since you were a kid, all your life has been is a game of numbers.

It’s a grueling game, and you’re reminded of its indifference towards your feelings and needs as you scribble your thoughts into your journal. You’ve gotten very good at mental math over the years. Between calculating hours, wages, taxes, overtime… every single day you live is planned to perfection to make sure you can survive throughout the month. There isn’t a single pence not accounted for, nor pound that goes to waste.

A sigh dances between your lips as you give your hand a break from writing. You’ve been sitting in that bed for what feels like hours just crunching numbers, and you can feel the effects of it ravaging your lower back and wrist. As your head rests against the wall behind you, you take a deep breath of the fresh air blowing through your open window. It’s always chilly in November, but you go insane being kooked up in the small confines of your studio apartment. It’s the only bit of freedom you can pretend to have without having to put yourself in the eyes of the public.

Two weeks. That’s all you have left until the 25th.

Your phone buzzes on the bed next to you, pulling you out of your thoughts, and you glance away from your notebook to look at the illuminated screen. Though you had told yourself you wouldn’t text Simon under any circumstances — you really were trying your best to avoid owing people — that leak in your sink had become unbearable. No longer a soft drip, it’s become a steady flow over night, and your head already hurts at the thought of your utility bills. You had messaged him earlier that morning, sheepishly requesting that he assist you once more, and he left almost immediately in order to buy the right materials.

You take the phone into your hands and unlock it to view his message. Simon’s texts are… odd. They’re very short and blunt, just like he is. Proper capitalization and punctuation, and refuses to use any text talk. It’s nothing concerning, it just makes you feel like you’re speaking to a robot more often than not — or someone being held against their will to talk to you. No matter. Short and blunt is good. Quick. Painless.

Be there in five.

It was a lie. He shows up three minutes later, and this time he doesn’t sneak up on you. You realize very quickly that instead of driving a car or taking the bus like any sane person would, he’s brought a motorcycle. The roar of the engine has you peeking out of your window down at the street as he quickly shuts it off. It’s hard to tell what kind it is, as you’re not exactly an expert on that type of stuff, but it’s a sleek black, and very well taken care of. Even with the helmet on you recognize right away that it’s him based off of his sheer size alone, but the confirmation comes quickly as he begins to shed his protective layers.

His knock sounds at the door moments later, and you answer it with a throw blanket wrapped around your shoulders. A bright pink dusts the tip of his nose and his cheekbones, frosted from the bitter cold and his drive over. Simon looks down at you for a short moment before taking a quick scan of the area behind you. His eyes narrow when they return to you.

“Chilly. Is your heat out?” he asks as he steps into the room.

How the hell can he sniff stuff out like that so quickly? “Uhm, no I’ve just got the window open,” you explain.

He gives you a strange look before humming in response and making his way toward your kitchen sink. There’s something wrong with him, surely. Throughout your entire life, you’ve never met someone so hellbent on trying to solve every single issue that just so happens to plague you. Even Row will give up after a period of you insisting that you’re fine, though she does so begrudgingly. Does he see you as some poor creature that can’t take care of itself? Or is he just genuinely this kind?

Simon Riley is a strange man. Maybe it’s easier for him to stick around because you’re too nervous to tell him you don’t want him here.

While he works on fixing your sink, you return back to your bed where you continue to crunch numbers and plan out the remaining time you have left this month. There’s always been a huge difference between living, and keeping yourself alive. It’s a balance you try to keep, though it’s extremely difficult. Paying for your rent keeps you alive. Getting Marco his money on time keeps you alive. And after you are finished with all that, you are left with £297 in your checking account.

Working like a dog, just to live off of scraps.

You draw an angry circle around your final number before tossing your journal back onto the mattress. How you’re going to afford groceries this month is beyond you. Work nights won’t be so bad, because Bruce — the chef and owner — is more than happy to make free orders for anyone working for him at Sapori. Any other day of the week will be a little tricky, but nothing you haven’t done before.

A cold breeze puffs through the window, and you pull your blanket tighter around your shoulders. Simon’s still working on your sink with parts dismantled on the counter next to him. As he scrubs them clean with some sort of solvent, you can’t help but take notice of the way his back flexes with the movement. Even through the dark fabric of his long sleeved shirt it’s obvious how his muscles dance underneath it, like there’s too much of him to be properly contained by fabric alone.

Bee’s words from the other night ring loud in your mind. You sure know how to pull them. It’s laughable how she thinks you’re able to attract people as if Simon sees you as something more than a pathetic animal that doesn’t know how to care for itself. Though, you can’t exactly disagree with her. For all his rough edges, he’s an attractive man. But that’s about as far as you ever go. Looking, admiring from afar, keeping your distance. Distance is good. Keeps you safe. Keeps everyone safe.

Besides, you’re not sure if intimacy is something that’s meant for you. Every time you think of a hand on your waist or hot breath on your face your body tenses so much you can feel it trying to rip itself to shreds. You think of someone’s lips on yours and you want to scream. You think of that hand, sliding between your thighs inside of your skirt, and the bile in your stomach starts to churn.

“There we are,” Simon mutters to himself.

As Simon runs some final tests on your sink, you slide out of your bed and tip toe into the kitchen behind him. Water no longer drips out of the spout, and the apartment feels oddly quiet without the constant stream, but you’re grateful to no longer have something quite literally siphoning out your finances.

“Should be set,” Simon explains as he cleans up old, calcified hardware from your counter. He tosses the discarded metal into the paper bag the new ones came in before turning his attention to you with crossed arms. “Anythin’ else need fixing?”

“No, nothing else is broken. For now,” you say in an attempt at humor.

But there is one issue left: payment.

“Thank you, again. I, uh, don’t really have the money to pay you for it, but I can comp another meal for you tonight, if you’d like?” you offer.

“It’s no problem. Don’t worry about it. I’m workin’ tonight, anyway,” Simon excuses.

This… is not how you expected the conversation to go. He seemed more than happy to accept free food last time, yet now he’s making it seem like you don’t need to pay him back at all. Of course you’ll have to pay him back. That’s how the world works. If he doesn’t want anything now, he’s going to want something later.

“I can drop it off tonight at the club,” you insist, desperate to finally be rid of him. “I’m sure you get hungry at work, and I know for a fact the food there is terrible.”

Simon shrugs. “The chips aren’t that bad.”

You look him up and down before raising an eyebrow. It’s a silent question — no, a protest — you know for a damn fact a small serving of chips isn’t enough for a man his size.

“Text me what you want, and I’ll bring it by tonight,” you repeat, tone all but begging for him to accept.

Dark eyes study you like you’re a specimen. His gaze feels like he’s pinning you to some examination board with your legs and arms splayed out. You’re on full display, chest and stomach waiting to be cut into. All he’s missing is the lab coat and scalpel to rip you open.

“Alright. See you tonight then, sweetheart.”

Work goes by fast. Too fast. It’s busy, which is to be expected of a Saturday, but this is outrageous. Between the takeout orders and the endless wave of patrons, it’s impossible for you to take any sort of breather. The aroma of fresh bread and cheeses soaks so deep into your being, you’re certain you’ll have to soak in the shower for hours in order to get it off of you. A deep ache plagues the bottoms of your feet, and by the time you’re finally able to lock the door it’s nearly midnight.

Things always pass by in a blur on nights like this. The only thing you’re able to focus on between the tasks at hand is the sweat that gathers on your neck and soaks into the collar of your shirt. Really, it’s a blessing in disguise. A busy day means busy hands and busy hands mean you don’t have to think about the notification waiting for you on your phone, or the meal you’ll have to deliver soon.

Yet, your phone is the very first thing you reach for the moment you’re able to grab a seat. One of the waiters is huddled up in the booth next to you, rolling silverware for tomorrow night’s service, and the clinking drowns out the soft music playing through the speakers as you unlock your phone.

Order whatever you want for tonight. Not picky. Come through the VIP entrance. I’ll wait for you.

It was sent a while ago, just before eleven. He’s been waiting for nearly an hour and a half, and it’ll be much later by the time you finally get it to him. So much for paying him back. Maybe you should have waited for him to have a day off that way he wouldn’t be waiting for ages just to get his food — then again, you hate having to owe people for longer than needed.

sorry, it’s been a long night. should be there before one!

“Chip!”

Your eyes dart away from your phone just in time to see Bee waving at you from the kitchen entrance. Her ponytail has gotten rather ratty throughout the busy night, yet her beauty is still effortless and captivating as large, sunflower-shaped earrings swing above her shoulders.

“Bruce is gonna close up soon. Want anything?” she calls.

“Uh, yeah, just an order of capellini pomodoro!” you shout back.

Instead of answering you, she gives you a thumbs up before vanishing back into the kitchen. It’s an easy meal. Something quick. Usually your go-to dish whenever Bruce demands that he feeds you, which is quite often. You swear he has some sort of sixth sense that can detect whenever you’re trying to skip meals to save cash.

A sharp buzz from your phone pulls your attention back down to your lap. Its screen illuminates with the preview of Simon’s response back to you.

Take your time, sweetheart.

“Christ…” you mumble to yourself.

You wish he wasn’t so kind. It would be easier to push him away if he was as cruel as everything else in your life is.

It’s an awkward ride on the bus. Warmth seeps into your lap through the thin, styrofoam takeout box as the world passes by you in a blurr through shiny windows. There are two other women on the bus with you, and you find yourself breathing easier at the realization that there are no men around you. Everyone avoids eye contact with one another as a woman in scrubs types away furiously at her phone, and a woman who looks two seconds away from throwing up rests her head against the cold window on her left. All three of you exist simultaneously, yet so separate from one another. For once, a part of you is glad that you’re not alone.

There’s an odd pit in your stomach that forms when the bus halts at your stop. It’s one thing coming to the club when you’ve got Row to drag you around, but it’s something else entirely when you know you’ll have to navigate the area all by yourself. Styrofoam squeaks as you grip the box in your hand and exit the bus where the chilly night air cuts right through your work clothes. There’s no need to zip your jumper up. It’s a short walk to the club, and you can already see a group of bouncers hanging around the front entrance of the building.

Simon had told you to use the VIP entrance, but the issue is that you can’t remember where it’s at. You had only been there a few weeks ago, but you were so tired after your shift that you were too exhausted to really pay attention and remember anything. You have a vague memory of a neon sign, and two large double doors, but that’s about it. Instead of wandering around the building like an idiot, you decide to do something ultimately worse.

“Excuse me.”

The bouncers at the front entrances are in the middle of their smoke break as you interrupt them, and they look at you with narrowed, unentertained eyes. There’s a few steps that lead up to the entrance that makes you feel impossibly small as they scrutinize you like you’re just some bug on the pavement. You chew on your bottom lip before you clear your throat and try again.

“I’m, uh, looking for the VIP entrance? I’m supposed to meet Simon?” you say.

“You askin’ or tellin’ us?” one of the men asks with his cigarette stuck between his teeth.

Everything you say feels like a question, and you feel heat rise up in your face. You’re starting to second guess asking for help. Maybe you should just call Simon and ask him to meet you out front, but you’d hate to take him away from his job. No, you just need to grit your teeth and bare it. Once this is done, you don’t owe him anymore, and then you’ll never have to see him again.

“Sorry,” you try again. “It’s just that, I’m supposed to bring Simon dinner tonight, I just need help finding the entrance.”

“Sorry love, dunno a Simon.”

You raise an eyebrow at the man, your confusion beating out the anxiety gripping your chest. “Doesn’t he work security with you?”

The other man slaps the smoker on the arm — something playful and childish — before he rolls his eyes.

“She’s talking about Riley, you dunce,” he explains.

Terrible realization washes over the smoker’s face, and he quickly flicks his cigarette onto the ground where it sputters and dies in a little wisp underneath the sole of his boot.

“Shit, of course,” he says, a silent apology soaking his words. He points a finger toward your right, guiding you along the darkness of the building. “VIP entrance, yeah? Just head that way and make a left before the alleyway.”

It’s not the easiest set of directions to follow, but it’s certainly more than you had a moment ago. You give the two men a quiet thanks before trudging down the pavement. The only thing keeping you warm is the food in your hands, but the night air is sapping its heat faster than you had anticipated. You fear by the time you finally find Simon, it’ll be stone cold. Hopefully they have a microwave somewhere.

Soon enough, it won’t be your problem.

Just like you were instructed, you make a left turn into the area you had assumed was the VIP entrance, yet you very quickly find yourself in the alley you were told to turn before. It’s a simple fix. Turn around, backtrack, and find the right turn — but it’s not. It’s not simple because the air is so acrid it starts to choke you. You’re frozen, stuck in time at the entrance of some grimy alley as two men converse with each other and pass notes and cash between one another.

Dirty business. Dirty, filthy business that stains your skin and festers until you’re rotting. It makes your tongue go dry, but it only gets worse when you realize that you recognize one of the men. It’s difficult not to with his brown, undercut hair and stone cold eyes. You want to run, but it’s too late. His blue eyes have already found you in the darkness with a fire that illuminates you like a spotlight. He always looks angry — determined — with harsh features and tense lips. Yet, as he stares at you, he appears almost relieved. Like he had been looking for you.

You swallow the lump in your throat as this man mutters something in Russian to his friend, who quickly brushes past you as he departs. Heavy feet brush against the stone floor of the alley as you’re approached by that monster of a man, and you tell yourself to look away, but you can’t. You know better than to look away from Andrei when his hands are in his pockets.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, stopping just close enough to crowd your space, but not close enough for you to step back.

Your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth as you try to choke out the words to respond to him. “I’m… delivering food.”

Andrei looks over his shoulder at the poorly illuminated area behind him, before he turns back to face you with a raised brow. “To who? The rats?”

“I made a wrong turn,” you answer honestly.

He chuckles, but there’s no amusement behind it. No, you’re nothing but a curious creature. One he can’t wait to cut into.

“You’re always getting lost, aren’t you?” he questions. It’s not something he expects an answer for, and you know it, so you stay silent as he leans closer as if ready to tell you a secret. “You shouldn’t be here.”

You’re very aware of that fact. You knew as much the moment you laid eyes on him.

“I’ll just… drop this off and go. I’ll go home, I swear,” you attempt to plead.

“Dangerous men here. Lots of them,” Andrei continues as if you had never spoken in the first place. “You’d do well to keep your distance. I know you like getting caught up in bad business, but this isn’t something you want to get stuck in. That much, I can promise you.”

If only he knew how hard you try. You’ve been playing this grueling game since you were a kid. You’re just always dealt a bad hand.

“Chip?”

Simon’s voice bounces off the brick walls around you, rattling you to the point you swear your knees will give out. You’re unsure if you should feel relieved or terrified that he found you. How he did it, you’re not sure. Then again, he always seems to be searching for a problem to try and fix. Andrei looks over your shoulder. His lip twitches, and you swear you’re going to be sick.

“Need something?” Andrei asks, bored.

“Yeah,” Simon responds. Gravel and sand crunches behind you, and you jump as you feel a warm hand on your shoulder. “I need you to fuck off.”

Amused, Andrei tilts his head to one side. Simon is significantly taller than him, yet he doesn’t seem intimidated at all.

“You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,” he warns.

“Don’t care,” Simon deadpans. “I said: Fuck. Off.”

There’s no time to warn Simon about the war he’s started with those words. Rage boils in Andrei’s eyes with a heat so violent you can feel it in his hands as he shoves you to the side.

The takeout box slips out of your hands just in time for you to catch your fall. Soft flesh collides with sharp rocks and broken glass, but the adrenaline pumping through your system numbs the pain in your hands and knees. Angel hair pasta litters the ground around you, and the mouthwatering scent of Simon’s would-be meal becomes stomach churning. Something that can only be described as a strained sob escapes your mouth as you try to steady yourself and keep your body from toppling over onto the ground.

All you wanted to do was drop off Simon’s meal and go home.

It takes an eternity for you to push yourself to your feet and even then you almost fall back to the ground. You look at your hands, shredded and bleeding from whatever you were unfortunate enough to catch yourself on, and your body begins to tremble from the frigid air and shock that grips you like a vice. You hear grunting, and your stomach drops.

You turn your attention to the mess behind you, and the tinnitus in your ears suddenly roars louder than everything else around you. Blood gushes from the side of Andrei’s head and his nose, dribbling down his chin until it stains the dark fabric of his shirt. His head rolls against the back of the wall as he leans against it for support. You can hardly see what’s in his hands from behind Simon — who has decided to use himself as a physical barrier to keep Andrei from you — but the glint of the knife in his hand is unmistakable.

It hits you all at once. The blood. How it spills on the linoleum floor and spreads, outlining the cooling body in the kitchen. You wonder how many other lives that knife has taken. That cruel, curved blade that taunts you as Andrei folds it up and shoves it back into his pocket. Pale eyes land on you in a warning as he wipes his face on the back of his hand, smearing blood across the flushed color of his cheeks. He doesn’t have to say his caveat out loud for you to know what he means.

It’s only a matter of time before you’re next.

There’s hardly enough time for you to turn around and brace your sore hands against the wall before your stomach bubbles. Rancid bile stings the back of your throat as you puke, vile liquid sloshing on the ground. There’s hardly anything inside of you to get rid of; just the consumed remnants of your brunch from hours ago. You try to keep it down, but you’re overwhelmed by the way the muscles in your body contract, contorting your body uncomfortably as you expel the only bit of sustenance you were able to eat that day.

Simon’s hand rests on your hunched back, making you jump, but you can’t get yourself to turn and face him. Muffled words — your name and reassurances — break through that high pitched drone harassing your hearing, but it doesn’t quite reach you. Everything is disconnected. Nothing but frayed wires and nerves. Shuttering breaths. Cold blood. Trembling hands. Rocks sticking out of flesh.

Then there’s nicotine. It’s faint; something that haunts the fabric of Simon’s shirt as he holds you close. You’re not sure if it’s to offer you comfort, or to keep your shaking legs from collapsing; you don’t care either way. Instead, you focus on the smell of him — old smoke mixed with something clean, like deodorant — as well as his warmth as he keeps you tucked close to his side. It does nothing to stave off the panic ravaging your chest, but it’s enough for now.

“C’mon, I’ve got you,” Simon says, voice hardly cutting through the drum of your heart pounding in your chest. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #mafia!ghost #f!reader #mafia!141

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lupuslikethewolf · 23 days

Text

in honour of being promoted to Deputy Stage Manager in my school's theatre department, top gun high school/sixth form au:

Dr Kazansky rules the drama department with an iron fist. always wearing black turtlenecks. never seen without his glasses, his coffee, and his terrifying glare (which earned him the moniker Dr Iceman). do not show up to rehearsals if you don't know your lines. death be upon the poor students who fuck around during tech and dress, because they will find out. he loves the crew tho.

Mr Call-Me-Mav Mitchell is the head of sports. you name it, he's played it, and he could absolutely give you pointers, also, do you want a protein bar with that? it's chocolate flavoured :) even the kids who Hate (capital H) sports love him. he is sunshine and adrenaline in human form. endless energy. no one knows why he is called maverick, but even the principal does it, so.

Mr Kerner is the principal. he is also the only person who can interrupt rehearsals and survive. dr kazansky loves him. inexplicably, maverick hates him. nough said.

Jake Seresin is the school's golden child, not even because he's Kazansky's nephew. he’s head boy. he’s on the school’s football/rugby team. he writes regular articles for the internal magazines. and this year, he’s playing Orpheus in the school’s production of Hadestown. everyone thinks it’s nepotism. it is and it’s not, jake just lost a bet to his Uncle Tom, and must now reap the consequences to said uncle’s delight.

Bradley Bradshaw has been stage crew since he was thirteen and an overworked runner, thank you very much. it’s his final show, he’s the DSM, and if fucking seresin ruins this for him, he will riot. dr kazansky should never let that happen. however, this is the same man who, last year, laughed when revealing that a screen on stage had turned off and bradley had to go on stage during the show to fix it. hm. maybe bradley should have re-thought his life choices. also: the turntable. the goddamn turntable.

other characters include: phoenix as eurydice, bob doing lighting, payback and fanboy as ASMs who flirt over the comms to everyones misery, cyclone as another drama teacher/stage manager,

maverick keeps turning up to rehearsals and trying to help because his favourite (cough only cough) godson and his favourite player are both interested in this stuff, so he should at least try, right? kazansky hates it until he doesn’t. kerner thinks it’s all fucking hilarious. bradley is embarrassed but its kinda endearing do NOT tell him i said that.

kazansky and maverick both bare witness to A Moment between their respective pseudo sons and decide the two simply must get together for their sakes and also so they never inflict that on another person ever.

bradley and jake both bare witness to A Moment between their respective pseudo fathers and decide the two simply must get together for their sakes and also so they never inflict that on another person ever.

kerner is cackling. Cackling.

#the only part of this that is vaguely reminiscent of my life is the part where iceman is laughing at bradley’s horror at the prospect of #having to Go On Stage In Front Of People to fix something #director did actually laugh at me #and i did actually still have to do it #it was hellish #anyway #icemav 🤝 sereshaw -> so insane about stuff that there is no way that anyone else deserves to be put through that #slider is having the Time Of His Life and absolutely no real work is being done in his office #pity thr rest of the student body who has to deal with them on a regular basis #bradley rooster bradshaw #jake hangman seresin #tom iceman kazansky #pete maverick mitchell #top gun 1986 #top gun #icemav #sereshaw #hangster

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waitimcomingtoo · 15 days

Text

One For Us

Pairing: Peeta Mellark x Reader

Synopsis: Peeta gets upset when you suggest getting married to appease the Capitol

Masterlist

“We could get married.”

Everyone stopped debating strategies for getting President Snow to believe your love story and looked up at you upon your suggestion. You felt self conscious with all the eyes on you so you looked to Peeta for help. You thought he’d agree with you but he was just staring at you with an almost hurt expression.

“What?” He asked you in a quiet voice.

“You said we’re gonna be on this train forever anyway, right? We’d have to get married eventually. We might as well do it right now to convince Snow how in love we are. We could make a huge deal of the proposal and the dress and cake. Don’t Capital people love all that kind of stuff?” You asked Haymitch.

“She’s right.” Haymitch agreed. “A wedding between the star crossed winners might be the one thing in more demand than the games. If we spin a story about the wedding being canceled due to the games, maybe the outrage would be enough to get the Capitol to change their minds about sending you two back in there.”

“Yeah. And we could go on Cesar’s show and say that we were so in love that we couldn’t wait any longer and had to get engaged. We can make a whole big thing of it. That should be enough to convince Snow that we’re in love, right?” You asked. Peeta blinked a few times and let out a short dry laugh.

“Fine. I don’t care. Let’s just do it.” Peeta sighed as he got up to leave. You frowned and watched him walk about without giving you so much as a glance in your direction. You looked at Haymitch and Effie and held up your hands with confusion.

“What’s his problem?”

“He’s probably just sore that he wasn’t the one who came up with the brilliant idea.” Haymitch replied and gave you a proud pat on the back.

“Oh my goodness. You fools.” Effie huffed and shook her head. “That’s not why he’s upset.”

“Then why? I’m just trying to help. It’s not like he came up with anything.” You said and folded your arms like a child out of annoyance over Peeta’s disapproval of your idea.

“He’s upset because this is not how he wanted this to happen.” Effie said as she looked at only you.

“So the idea of marrying me is so awful to him that he had to storm out of the room?” You grumbled.

“No, child. He’s not upset that he has to marry you. He’s upset that it’s only counterfeit.” Effie explained with a tight smile. You stopped being angry with Peeta and took a moment to process what she was saying.

“I’m gonna go talk to him.” You decided and got up to follow him. You found Peeta in the back of the train, staring out the window with his chin in his hand.

“Hey.” You said quietly as you sat down near him.

“Hi.” Peeta replied without taking his eyes off the window.

“I’m sorry about that back there. I should’ve talked to you before telling Haymitch about getting married. I didn’t think it would upset you.”

“It’s okay.” He said quietly. “It’s a great idea.”

“You hate it.” You laughed nervously and wished he’d look at you. A smile tugged on Peeta’s lips and he nodded his head.

“Yeah.” He admitted. “I do.”

“But why? Why do you not want to get married?” You asked. Peeta stayed silent and turned his head so that you couldn’t see his face. You got up to sit beside him and put your hand in his leg to silently comfort him until he was able to speak. He looked down at your hand before looking up and wiping his face with his sleeve.

“I do want to get married. I always have.” He admitted. “I always wanted to find a girl that I love and could be genuine companions with. And to not just get married because it was convenient or beneficial to us both, but because we were best friends and wanted to be with each other forever. So we’d take vows to promise each other that. And then have a big family and live a quiet but happy life.”

“Oh. I see. Marrying me would prevent you from finding her.” You nodded in understanding. It stung you a little to hear him talk about the life he dreamed of with someone else but you couldn’t place why you felt that way. Peeta finally turned his head to look at you and had a sad smile on his face.

“What?” You wondered.

“You know, when I was little, I always saw myself marrying you.” He admitted.

“You…you did?” You asked with a surprised smile.

“I did.” He nodded. “I liked you from the very first time I saw you. So I went home and told my mom I was gonna marry you. I was only six.”

“What’d she say?”

“She asked if you were the coal miners girl and I said yes. Then she told me she almost married your dad.”

“What? My dad?” You were taken aback and pointed to yourself.

“Yeah. He gave her a ring and everything. But it didn’t work out. I don’t remember why. Then she told me she hopes I don’t have the same fate as she did.” He said with a dry laugh.

“That’s too bad for them. But I think it’s cute you had a schoolboy crush on me.” You told him, making his cheeks adorn with a rosy glow.

“Trust me. It was more than a schoolboy crush. You had a hold on me for years. I had this whole plan to ask you to marry me after high school. I was gonna propose that we start a business together. I could sell my bread and you could sell game. I was going to get us a cow and chickens so we could save money on supplies. And we could build a house near the forest so you don’t have to travel far when you went to hunt. We’d be poor but we’d be happy. I was gonna tell you all of that when I proposed, by the way.”

“That’s a really good plan, Peeta. I had no idea you thought that all through.” You smiled softly as a sadness weighed on your chest. He had all these plans that would never be realized because of the cards he had been dealt. His sweet fantasy of a wholesome future together was going to be replaced with fake weddings and bloodshed.

“Yeah, I did. I really though it would happen too. That’s why I stormed out earlier. You suggested we get married and just sounded so cavalier. Like, it was just one more thing we could do to please Snow. And I guess it made me think of my plans for the future and how I was never going to get any of them. So I got upset. It wasn’t anything against you.” He assured you with a sad smile.

“I understand. I just thought you didn’t want to marry me. I didn’t know you had all those plans. I’m sorry they won’t be happening.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry too. You and I got reaped just a few months before I was gonna ask you. And I haven’t recognized my life since then. But before all of this, I really thought it was gonna happen. Given that you said yes, of course. I even told my mother about my plan. She gave me this.” Peeta said and pulled necklace out from underneath his shirt. On a leather cord was a dainty silver diamond ring.

“Oh my gosh, Peeta. t’s beautiful.” You gasped and leaned forward to gently touch it with your fingertips. Peeta gulped at how close you were and felt his face heat up again.

“Your dad gave it to her.” He told you. “He found that diamond himself when he was working.”

“I can’t believe she kept it all these years. She could’ve made a fortune with this.”

“That’s what I said. But she said it was worth more than any amount they could offer her.”

“She sounds like a romantic. I see where you get it from.” You laughed softly and nudged him a little.

“Yeah. I’m a lot like her.”He said with a timid smile as he looked into your eyes. You stared at each other for a moment and you felt an ache in your bones for him. He was still so kind and gentle despite what you’d gone through together and the impending doom that loomed over your heads. He still wore the diamond ring his mom gave him and credited his kindness to her. Your mind began to picture the future Peeta had painted for you and you felt homesick for a place you’d never been to. You wished you could jump from the train and go live the life he described, but that could never happen.

“I wish we didn’t end up here.” You said in a quiet voice. You feared that if you spoke any louder, you’d burst into tears.

“I know. Me too. I wish things were different. I wish that I was asking you to marry me because I decided it was time. And I wish…” He trailed off as he started to get emotional at the thought of the life he would never have.

“You wish what?” You asked calmly and rubbed his arm to comfort him.

“I wish I knew you were saying yes because you meant it.” He admitted. “Not because you have to.”

You were both quiet for a while after that confession. A silence that wasn’t necessarily uncomfortable, just very heavy, sat among you as you looked in opposite directions.

“I would’ve said yes.” You said after a beat.

“What?”

“If you had asked me. After high school. And told me about the cows and chickens and business. I would have told you yes.” You explained with a timid smile. Peeta stared at you for a minute to see if you were joking or not.

“No you wouldn’t have. You didn’t even know me back then.” He laughed dismissively.

“Yes I did. I knew you were kind and strong and hardworking. And now that I know you better, I know that you’re funny and resilient and thoughtful and kinda grumpy before you’ve had tea in the morning and not the worst to look at. What more could I ask for?”

“Not the worst to look at?” He cracked a smile.

“Come on. You know you’re handsome. Don’t make me say.” You rolled your eyes and he blushed once again.

“I would not use that word to describe myself. Especially not with Finnick running around.” He mumbled.

“Well I happen to think you’re very handsome. And the wife is always right. You need to know that if we’re going to get married. So shut up.” You said and playfully smacked his leg.

“Don’t tell me to shut up or else you’re not getting a ring.” Peeta played along.

“Oh, I’m getting that ring.” You insisted. “And I get to name all the cows. You can do what you want with the chicken but the cows are mine. And I’m giving them last names too. Fancy ones.”

You and Peeta both laughed at the dumb joke and you felt yourself relax. Even if your lives weren’t going to go the way you’d hoped, at least you could look forward to these moments of sweetness with him.

“Would you really have said yes?” Peeta asked in a small voice once your laughter died down.

“It depends. How would you have asked me?”

“I had a plan for that too, actually. I was going to pick you a bouquet of wild flowers. The ones that grow by the river bank. I know you like those.”

“I do like those. The orange and purple ones.”

“Yeah. Those.” He smiled. “I was gonna bring them to you and then get down on one knee. Like this.”

“That’s very old fashioned of you.” You couldn’t help but blush as Peeta got down on one knee in front of you.

“I know. But that’s all I know how to be. An old fashioned romantic. I even practiced how to get the ring out with one hand.” Peeta said as he struggled to get the ring from around his neck.

“You didn’t practice very hard.” You teased.

“Shh. Yes I did. I’m just nervous.” He laughed and finally got the ring free.

“Don’t be.” You told him. “It’s just you and me.”

“I was gonna explain how I got the ring. But I already told you that so pretend I was proposing then.” He said and waved his hand, making you laugh.

“Okay. I will. Oh, wow. My father’s ring? That he gave to your mother? Meaning we were almost siblings? How romantic.” You dramatically played along to humor him.

“Hush now. I’m trying to remember my plan. Then I was gonna tell you…” He trailed off again and a sheepish smile broke through on his face. You could see him losing his confidence but didn’t want him to stop.

“Tell me what?” You asked quietly and took his hand.

“I was going to say that you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. And that I’ve seen a million sunsets since bakers have to get up before dawn but not one of them could compare to you. I would’ve said that you enchanted me from the first day I saw you and every day since. And that to know you is to be in awe of you. I would have told you that you were the strongest person I know and if you’d let me, I’d help you bear some of the weight you have on your shoulders.”

“Keep going.” You whispered and held his hand to your chest.

“Oh, okay, um. I was gonna tell you that I know you don’t love me yet but you could learn to. And that I would make it easy for you. I would promise to be the best partner you could ask for and to love you at every turn, no matter what gets thrown our way. I’d promise to wash your hair in the sink the way your mama does and build you a desk so that you can write letters to your family. And then I’d ask you to make me the happiest man alive and please-“

“Yes.” You cut him off as a single tear slipped down your face.

“Yes?”

“Yes.” You repeated. “I will marry you.”

“You will?” He smiled in disbelief as his eyes searched yours for signs of insincerity.

“I will. I want to. I’d love to. I love…” You trailed off and he sucked in a sharp breath in anticipation of what you were about to say.

“I love you.” You said finally. “And if I’m on this train forever, at least I have you with me. That means it’s going to be okay.”

“I love you too.” Peeta smiled at those long awaited words hitting his ears. You pulled him into a long kiss despite no cameras being around. But you both knew this moment wasn’t for the cameras. It was just for the two of you. When you pulled away, Peeta fumbled around with the ring.

“Sorry. My hands are shaking.” He was embarrassed to admit as he tried to steady them long enough to untie the chord around the ring.

“It’s okay. Take your time.” You assured him and he eventually slipped the leather chord off. He looked you in the eyes for one last confirmation and you nodded enthusiastically. With that, Peeta slid the song onto your finger and then leaned down to kiss your knuckles. You laughed at the gesture before cupping his face and bringing him into a kiss. Peeta got off his knee but never broke the kiss. A sudden knock at the door made you jump apart. Peeta sat on the opposite end of the couch while you smoothed your hair and wiped your face.

“Come in.” You called out and Haymitch walked in.

“Hey. I just wanted to check in on you guys after our conversation back there.” He said.

“We’re fine. We were just talking about the engagement. Peeta said we could go on Cesar’s show and he could propose then.” You lied to Haymitch with a smile.

“All right. Works for me. I’ll let Effie know.” Haymitch gave you a thumbs up and then left the room. When he was gone, Peeta looked at you curiously to see why you lied.

“We still have to fake one for the Capital, but this I’ll remember this as our real engagement.” You explained, making him smile fondly.

“One for us, one for them.” He replied and you nodded in agreement.

“Yeah. One for us, one for them.”

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