#so every time killer comes back cross immediately says he’ll handle him and goes after him himself

[spacedikut]

“would you please put your tongue away” ; spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid (criminal minds) x f!reader

summary: spencer can’t handle how good you look in your dress. he also can’t handle another guy asking you to dance. 2760 words

a/n: taken from this prompt list :)

“…It’s highly inappropriate.”

Someone waves a hand in front of Spencer’s face and he’s brought back to reality – surrounded by people from every FBI department in a far too bright room with champagne that is certainly not worth the amount it costs and in a suit that is a little too tight.

“What?” He asks.

“I said,” Derek grins, “Would you please put your tongue away.”

Spencer raises an eyebrow at that, “My tongue is firmly in my mouth, Morgan.”

Derek gives a scoff. He wishes Emily was with them to attest, but she’s across the room, beside you, stuck in a conversation with some “important” person that Hotch made a point to tell the team to suck up to.

“If Y/N can’t feel your stare burning a hole in her back, when she turns and sees you drooling she’s sure to know you’re obsessed with her.”

In panic, Spencer wipes his mouth just in case he is in fact drooling. That gets a hearty laugh from Derek, and Spencer huffs indignantly, “I am not obsessed-“

“When you saw her all dressed up earlier you had to leave the room, Reid. That isn’t a platonic reaction.”

“Well,” He stutters, glancing over to you and scanning your bare back, “She looks- she-“

“She took your breath away, man. It’s okay.” Derek gives him a pat on the back and smirks at him, coughing to cover a chuckle when Spencer glares at him.

“And who is this majestic being that took Doctor Reid’s breath away?” It’s you, Prentiss and JJ trailing behind, delicately holding a champagne flute in your left hand and a business card in your right.

Spencer flounders, taken off-guard by your approach and the close-up view of you in your dress. He doesn’t know much about fashion, let alone dresses, but God do you look like something straight out of a movie. To him, you’re the embodiment of all the love poems and romantic monologues that his mother used to read him. He always wondered what the beauty all those writers saw looked like, and if he’d ever see something so celestial, and then you walked into his life.

He’ll never recover. Especially when you keep reminding him how perfect you are.

“Someone’s been networking,” Derek nods to the business card, noticing Spencer’s struggle and swooping in to save him. Derek loves to tease Spencer, it’s his favourite thing to do, but there’s always a time and a place, you know?

You fiddle with the card, “A little pretentious, but he mentioned having some paperwork trouble and I offered to help. I thought if I got in his good graces he’d help us keep the jet.”

Just then, the band at the back of the charity event plays a slow tune, everyone coupling up to head to the dancefloor. Before you or Spencer can react, Derek is dragging Emily away and JJ goes to find Will, but not before all three of them send some kind of subtle gesture to Spencer – Derek winks, Emily raises her eyebrows and looks between you and Spence, and JJ nudges him as she passes.

Spencer’s entire body locks up. He can’t do this. Whatever this is.

When he doesn’t move, you offer him your hand, “Would you care to dance, Doctor Reid?”

His body eases and he can’t help but smile because you’re you, “It would be an honour, Miss Y/N,” He laughs, gently wrapping his fingers around yours.

You tug him onto the outskirts of the floor – being in the centre is both of your worst nightmares – and Spencer’s other hand falls to the small of your back, pulling you close. You’re chest to chest, your arm falling in place around his shoulders, but even with heels on he’s still got some height on you. You sway to the music in perfect sync, like you’ve done this a million times, and your eyes subconsciously close from the comfort of being in Spencer’s arms and the feel of him against you.

You concentrate on your feet for a few beats, too shy to look him in his clear, brown eyes. When you finally look up to meet his gaze, you can’t help the soft smile that appears. He’s already looking at you.

Spencer returns it, smile equally as fond.

The lights of the room reflect in his eyes – it’s as if they’re twinkling, like stars, and it’s utterly mesmerising. For a second, you forget you’re at a fundraiser event, on business, surrounded by your team and people from all departments and all positions. You feel like you’ve been whisked away to some faraway land, maybe somewhere that isn’t filled with killers and evil, and you and Spencer are lovers simply enjoying the night and eachother’s company.

“You look beautiful,” Spencer whispers, as if he doesn’t want anyone else to hear you. You wonder if he feels the same way you do.

“Thank you. I was waiting for you to compliment me.” You tease.

“Oh? Does my compliment mean that much?”

You giggle nervously. You love when he teases you back, when he has this confidence that always surprises you.

“More than I’d like to admit,” You say, “But I did also spend all day getting ready, so I want my hard work appreciated.”

“Well,” Spencer swallows, eyes flickering to your collarbones and neck and everywhere on you, “Consider your hard work appreciated. Not just by me, either. I think I’ve got a lot of glares being shot at me right now.”

You break eye contact to survey the room. There’s definitely a good number of people staring at you, but you refuse to believe they’re all jealous of him. He looks dashing in his suit, hand-picked by Rossi himself, and you know you’re not the only one to notice. You see the beauties dotted around that keep checking him out.

Another ballad begins so Spencer keeps you close. He scans the side of your face, how your nose peaks and the makeup you’re wearing illuminates all of your features. He’s hopeless at makeup, too, but the colour of your eyeshadow(?) suits you perfectly. You always look perfect, he realises. Being ethereal comes naturally to you.

“Excuse me,” A voice interrupts.

Both of you snap towards him. Travis.

Travis works in.. a department. A stupid one, probably. Spencer thinks Travis sucks.

“Hi, Trav,” You smile. You like Travis – of course you do. You’ve known him longer than you’ve known Spencer, so how does Spencer stand a chance?

“Evening, Y/N. Evening, Spencer.” He gives a polite smile.

Spencer returns it with his jaw set.

“Could I steal you for a dance, Y/N? Just like during our graduation ball?” His eyes are hopeful, and Spencer looks at in you confusion. What graduation ball?

You agree shyly, “Sure, Trav. Is that okay, Spence?”

He doesn’t know why you’re asking him – you both know Spencer’s too socially awkward to say no. So he nods, gives a tight lipped smile, and sharply turns to walk straight towards the bar. He doesn’t want to see Travis gently grasp your hand and pull you close, just like he had done.

But he’s not jealous.

“Water, please.” Spencer says to the bartender.

Someone slides up beside him. He glances at the shoes – Italian leather – and he knows it’s Rossi. He’s standing with a whiskey in his hand and a pitying gaze.

Spencer takes a big gulp from his glass of water like it’s a shot of straight vodka.

“You know he’s gonna make a move on her.” Rossi announces. Spencer takes another gulp.

“What?”

“I overheard him and his friends. They were in the academy together, and after seeing her tonight he’s decided now it’s time to make a move. Even stopped me to ask if she was single because he saw how close you two were out there.” Rossi shrugs as he takes a sip of his drink, gaze burning into Spencer as he does it.

Spencer knows what he’s doing. He’s trying to rile him up, get his feathers ruffled, for him to, what? Fight Travis on the dancefloor? Run up and steal you?

“I’m sure…” He starts, slowly, “If someone, say, Emily, who disappeared outside, had a sudden emergency… Y/N would drop Travis in a second.”

Spencer looks at him. Rossi raises his eyebrows.

“Excuse me.” Spencer says.

Rossi grins as he watches Spencer almost charge towards you.

There’s a hand on your shoulder and you know it’s Spencer, and when you turn he’s out of breath.

“Emily-“ He pants, “I think she’s- she’s sick. She’s outside and asking for you.”

“Oh, God,” You gasp, hands immediately leaving Travis completely to instinctively grasp Spencer by his arms, something you’ve always done.

Spencer’s heart warms at your concern – of course you’re so genuinely concerned for one of your best friends. Could you be anymore perfect?

“Let’s go, Spence.” You glance at Travis, feet already moving, “Sorry, Travis, it was lovely to dance with you!”

Travis watches you flutter away, knowing very well that that was his once chance and he lost it. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that Spencer is lying – at least a little.

Travis could tell Spencer wasn’t happy when he asked if he could dance with you. The unimpressed look in Spencer’s eyes whenever they made eye contact solidified that.

Travis can’t blame him, if he’s honest.

Outside, the cold is starting to set in, but you’re too panicked to notice or care. Your head darts left to right, searching for Emily. You spot her, in her stunning red dress, and go to call for her. But then she laughs, head thrown back, and takes another sip of her drink.

She’s fine.

You turn to Spencer, confused, “I thought she was sick?”

He looks sheepish and you laugh as he says, “I may have told a little lie.”

“Spencer!”

“Sorry.” He doesn’t look sorry.

“Well why-“

“Since we’re here, why don’t we go look at the fountain? I saw you eyeing it when we arrived.”

You want to ask why he interrupted you and Travis, but you’re not given the chance. Spencer’s large hand holds the tip of your fingers and he gently pulls you towards the stone fountain, where it stands with several tiers and the soothing sound of running water. There’s a statute in the centre – a woman wrapped in some kind of shawl.

“My guess,” You say, arms crossing, causing Spencer to take a sharp intake of breath, “Is the statue is based on the forlorn sculptor’s lover.”

Spencer’s body deflates as releases a deep breath. He thought you were onto him and why he ruined your dance.

“Actually,” His hands move to emphasise his point, “One of the most common purposes of sculpture is in some form of association with religion-“

“Why did you interrupt Travis and I?”

Uh oh.

“Did I look uncomfortable?” You wonder, “Because I can handle myself, Spence.”

You tried to resist asking again. But something about what he did bothers you – if you didn’t want to dance with Travis, you would’ve said no or made an excuse to not have to. If you didn’t want to be around Travis, you would’ve walked away from him. No matter what, you could’ve dealt with it yourself. Does Spencer disagree?

He licks his lips out of nervousness, shakes his head and mumbles a, “No, that’s not it.”

You turn to face him. His hands are in his pockets and he’s staring at the ground as he shuffles his feet. Rossi will have a fit when he sees the shoes he hand-picked have marks on them.

“I needed to get you alone. I’m sorry.” Spencer squirms. He can’t make eye contact.

“What?” You ask, brows furrowed, “Why? Is something wrong?”

“He was..” He trails off and clears his throat, “He was gonna ask you out. I couldn’t- didn’t want to let that happen.”

Your confusion increases. So he does think you can’t handle yourself?

There’s a spark of frustration in you, then. You’ve dealt with being underestimated and babied basically your whole life and Spencer knows that. He also knows you’re a trained FBI agent that has saved his skin more times than you care to count – he knows better than anyone that you can handle yourself.

So what the fuck.

“I appreciate the concern,”

Spencer winces at your tone. This is… not going well. Not going how Spencer wanted it to, or planned. Not that he had a plan beyond getting you and Travis as far away from one another as possible.

“But I can guarantee I do not need you to loom over me and scare boys away, Spencer. You’re not my father.”

Your tone is biting and Spencer moves closer to placate you.

“That’s not what I meant, Y/N, I’m sorry that’s- I know you can handle yourself. Very well. I still have the scar from when you thought I was a robber in your house-“

“You shouldn’t have tried to sneak up on me, Spencer Reid-“

“Rossi overheard Travis saying he was gonna make a move on you and it was like I went on auto-pilot and I could hear the blood pumping in my ears and-“

“I can take care of myself, Spence.”

“I couldn’t let it happen because I want to date you.”

He looks at you then, gaze so intense you feel frozen where you stand. He continues.

“But I’m sorry if you were planning to say yes to Travis and I… came in and ruined it. Maybe you’re into him and I just… delayed the inevitable for no reason other than to humiliate myself.” He gives a tight lipped smile, rolling onto the tips of his feet and then back on the heel.

You let out a breathy laugh in disbelief. “I wasn’t going to say yes to Travis, Spence. It’d be pretty damn rude for me to date him when I very much like and want to date you.”

His eyebrows shoot up and he gives a toothy, hesitant smile, “Really?”

“Yeah, really.” You step closer. Spencer can’t take his eyes off you, not that he’s been able to at any point tonight, but now you can tell he can’t help but ogle at you.

It makes you feel fuzzy inside, that mix of excitement and nerves that you always get around Spencer.

“Well, what should we do about that?” He teases, but some anxiety shines through. He’s genuinely asking.

“Would it be okay if I kissed you?” You ask.

He sputters, “Uh- yes. That would be completely okay.”

“Well then,” You smile, “Come here.”

As if you’ve done it a million times, Spencer’s hands cup your face as he tugs you towards his lips. Your hands find his waist, softly gripping him as your eyes flutter shut and you feel Spencer’s lips for the first time.

Why does it feel so natural? So right?

Spencer has to pull back a couple of seconds later because he’s smiling so wide. You can’t resist and kiss his nose, and he giggles. He giggles.

God, you’re so in love with him.

Spencer glances at the statue standing at the top of the fountain.

“You think she’s angry that we’re kissing in front of her?”

You hum in consideration, “Definitely jealous. I mean, not everyone gets to kiss the most handsome guy at the ball.”

He can’t help but blush, and although you have a teasing tone you both know you genuinely mean it.

From where you’re standing you can still slightly hear the sound of the band inside – some kind of smooth jazz is being played now, nice and slow.

You turn and offer your hand to Spencer, just like before, “Another dance, kind sir?”

Spencer gives you a cheeky smile, “As long as you promise no Travis-like interruptions this time.”

He pulls you close, definitely closer than before as your lips nearly touch and you can feel his breath, and you rub the tip of your nose against his. “No Travis, no one, just us.”

“And the voyeur statue,” He gestures with his head towards the fountain.

You both look, and your hand leaves his shoulder to flip her off.

“Back off, hag.” You joke, and Spencer laughs at your absurdity.

Then you dance, for the second time, to the music that flows out from inside. Under the moonlight, with the twinkling stars, Spencer is convinced this is the closest to Heaven on Earth. With you, in his arms, dopey grins and loving stares.

God, he’s so in love with you.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x you #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfic #mine #i thought i liked this but then i left it for a day and now my opinion has DRASTICALLY CHANGED #decent idea. terrible execution

[winterscaptain]

redamancy.

Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader a joyful future fic

a/n: the moment you’ve all been waiting for...#5 makes an appearance! (thanks to kira @good-heavens-chris-evans for helping me not be a liar and gassing me up so i could post this tonight like i promised xoxo i love you so much) words: 5.56k warnings: descriptions of childbirth (nothing too gross or graphic), swearing, disgustingly sweet family content

summary: “what strange creatures brothers are!” - jane austen. au!august 2022

masterlist | a joyful future masterlist | ajf faq | taglist edited: january 9th, 2021

“Hey, Aaron?” You peer around the wall to the bedroom from your place on the master bath toilet. There isn't any urgency to your query, which would later make you both laugh until you can't breathe. 

Aaron has a book in his lap and reading glasses resting on his perfect nose, as is usual for bedtime. He turns a page. “Hm?”

“When you get to a good stopping point, can you grab the go bag?” 

“Yeah.” He gets up on autopilot, setting his book down. When he reaches the bedroom doorway, he freezes and turns over his shoulder “Wait. Why?”

“Oh, nothing extreme,” you say, your voice light. “My water just broke and I figured we might -“

Your name leaves his mouth in a laugh, and he trots back to you, helping you up and kneeling to assist you with your comfiest pair of pajama pants. You steady yourself with a hand on his shoulder, stepping into one leg, then the other. Playfully, he snaps the stretchy waistband around you. He's still kneeling before you when he says, “You’re insane, you know that?”

You smile down at him and scrub your fingers through his hair. He leans into your touch like a cat and closes his eyes. “You are too, I’d like to point out.”

He sighs, kissing your belly and resting his cheek on it. “Never said I wasn’t.” He looks up at you. “Is it weird that I’m...a little sad? I’ve loved this part of our lives so much.”

You shake your head. “Me too, my love. And no, It isn’t weird.” 

He holds your hands as he stands and kisses your forehead. 

“We should probably tell Jack it's go time so he can help the little ones when they get up.”

Aaron pauses for a moment, thinking. “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea. Isaac isn’t going to clearly remember last time, so he’ll probably be nervous, and this is totally new to the girls.” You reach up and he plants a kiss on your lips. You smile, pleased. 

A little contraction wave hits, and one side of your face screwed up in discomfort. 

Aaron kisses your cheek and says, “I’ll get the rest of the toiletries together.”

You nod, and padded down the hallway, your socked feet swishing a little against the hardwood floors. You knocked twice on Jack’s door, quietly, and waited for his groggy, “Yeah?”

With access granted, you open the door with a little smile, and Jack sits straight up.  You cross to his bed and sit down on the edge, opening your arm to him. Though he’s almost seventeen, he scrambled out from under the covers and tucked in close to you. 

“Your dad and I are headed to the hospital, and Aunt Jess and Em are on their way okay? If you need anything big, dad has his phone and -“

“Mom, we’ve done this before,” he says with a grin. “I know the drill.”

You push the hair off his forehead and kiss him. “I know it, but it makes me feel better. The little ones haven’t done this before, and they’ll probably be a little nervous. Please help your aunts so they aren’t driven to the drink by your sisters.”

He laughs a little, and surprises you by wrapping his arms around your shoulders and pulling you close to him. “Be safe, mom. I love you.” 

Tears prick at your eyes, and you hold him tight. “I love you so much, Jack.”

“Are you scared?”

You press a hand to the back of his head, and he burrows into your neck. “Only a little. I know I’m older, which can make some things difficult, but I’ll always come home to you.”

He nods. “Promise?”

“I promise as much as I can.”

Jack pulls away and swipes quickly at his eyes with the back of his hand. 

“Hey,” your brow crinkles in lighthearted concern. “What’s gotcha?”

He shakes his head. “It’s stupid”

“I can guarantee you it’s not.” While still a bit of a boy, Jack looks very much a man in the dark, lit only by the light of the hallway as the wheels turn in his head. You pick up one of his hands, and he places your linked fingers over your belly. 

“I just - I don’t - Ugh. It’s morbid - Nevermind.”

You huff a laugh. “Baby, remember that one-third of this house hunts serial killers for a living. Nothing is morbid.”

A smile quirks at his lips, but it doesn’t really reach his eyes. “Just be okay? Please?”

You sober and nod, pressing a hand to his cheek. “Jack, do you think I would ever put you or your father into a position that can result in leaving either one of you?”

He shakes his head. “But things happen.”

“They sure do. Your dad will be with me the whole time and he can send you hourly updates if you want. I promise promise promise you’ll be in the loop, baby. I know you like to know.”

Your son’s eyes flicker to the doorway, where a shadow appears. It's Aaron, his backpack on and your go bag in his hand. 

“Ready?” 

You nod, stand (not without effort), and press another kiss to Jack’s head. “I love you bud. I’ll see you when our plus one arrives.” 

The plan is easy: Emily and Jessica are on their way over for the kids, and Dave and Spencer will relieve them after 12 hours. Derek, Savannah, JJ, and Will are only called when the baby arrives, to save them the angst of prematurely wrangling four children between them. 

The hospital is only eighteen minutes away, but with the way Aaron drives, it's more like ten. 

Time is fairly important - with your body accustomed to delivering babies, having done it twice before, there’s a very big chance active labor would only take a few hours, if that. 

Emily and Jess pull up to the house at the same time, both in their pajamas, holding their overnight bags.

“Ready?” Jess asks, kissing your cheek. 

You laugh. “Don’t have much of a choice now, do I?” 

Emily sets her things down and wordlessly hugs you. You wrap your arms around her as best you can. 

“Walk me out?” You ask. 

She slings an arm around your shoulders and you walk back out the front door. She situates you in the passenger seat, and you offer her a small smile. 

“You know,” she starts with a bit of a laugh, “every single time I’m just as nervous as I was when Henry was born.” 

You reach for her hand, and kiss the back of it. “Me too.” 

Everything goes according to plan after that. You sit in the car with your stopwatch while Aaron packs the car, checking the car seat base and putting everything that needs to go up with you in the trunk. Jess and Emily get set up on the couches in the living room, ready to settle in for the night. 

You're uncomfortable, sure, but it isn't unbearable yet. This is the tedious part. 

Miraculously, none of the little ones wake up in the commotion. The magic of white noise machines is never to be underestimated. 

“Time?” He calls from where he leans into the back of the car. He's handling the last details, in full field operations mode. 

You turn around. “5 minutes, 15 seconds.”

“Alright,” he looks up at you and grins widely. “Let’s go, baby.”

+++

Brienne breezes in and checks your charts and your dilation. “It’s go, time, here I think, Momma.”

You sigh and readjust. “Do I have to lay down?” Comfortable as you are, epidural all finished, you still feel a little restless. The alternative is worse - you’d delivered Isaac without any pain management, and thought it was the end of days. You didn’t, and won’t, make that mistake again. 

“Not necessarily, but if you’re going to shuffle around I would suggest a squat for the sake of your blood pressure.”

Another contraction hits, and it knocks the wind out of you. You squeeze Aaron’s hand so hard you fear you’ll break it, and inform him for the third time that morning that you hate his guts. 

“I know, honey. I’m sorry. I know. I’m the worst. Just breathe, okay?” He presses his forehead to your temple, giving you something to focus on. 

It sounds like you tell him to fuck off, but you aren’t sure. The wave crests and then falls, and you slump back against the pillows. “Okay, maybe I do want to lie down.” 

Everyone stifles a chuckle, but you didn't have it in you to be prideful. While you still have a few seconds, you double-check the plan. “Hey Brienne, we’re still good to tie today, right?” 

“Yes, ma’am!” she says, way too chipper for the small morning hour. She speaks quickly, knowing she has to finish her thought before your next contraction. “Soon as we’re all done, we’ll do a really quick procedure and everything will be squared away. If, for some reason, we have to do an emergency cesarean, we can do it right then as well.” 

Brienne is a great obstetrician - she never pulls punches when the news is difficult or stressful. Her straightforward nature immediately endeared her to your whole family. 

It's too much to think about, seeing as another contraction sneaks up on you as you ponder. It felt like only seconds since the last one. 

You're so tired. 

Brienne gestures to Aaron. They developed a bit of a language over the last two deliveries, and he presses a kiss to your temple. “You gotta push, babe.” 

“God, Fuck. I hate you, Aaron. Goddamn you. I’m never letting you near me ever again. Fuck.” A stream of expletives continues to leave you as you push and push and push. 

He only holds your hand and reminds you to breathe and push. He also tells you how much he loves you in between agreeing with your damning assessments. 

If he's honest, he always thinks your ire during childbirth is hilarious. It is kind of his fault, and he can't fathom the physical trauma, so he figures this is a fair role to fill while you do the hard work. 

On a small trough in your final set of contractions, you catch your breath enough to ask for his other hand. This is the hardest part, and it always makes you a little nervous. 

“Aaron, come here. Please.” He drapes his arm around your shoulders, and you grab his hand where it hangs by your collarbone. 

“You’re almost there, darlin’! We’re gonna be crowning here in a second.” You can't see Brienne, totally locked into her task, but her update is a relief. 

You lean heavily into Aaron and he rests his cheek against yours. While this is a shorter labor than both Isaac and the girls’, you're exhausted. Bone-deep tired and hot and cold all at once. 

“You’re doing so well. You’re a superhero. I love you so much.” He whispers his words against you, and you wail as another contraction hit.  Your choice of a walking epidural doesn’t knock the pain out entirely, and it still totally sucks. But again, better than the alternative.

“We’ve got a little Hotchner head! Keep going!” Brienne pats your knee and grins at you, and you follow instructions. “Do you want to catch, Dad?”

Before he can answer, you tell him, “If you move, I’ll kill you,” through your teeth. Aaron shrugs and looks over your head at Brienne, who suppresses a smile. 

There can't be any blood left in Aaron’s upper extremities at this point. In the midst of actively disliking him and your presence in your life in that particular moment, you're so grateful for him you could cry. 

Well, you could cry for a great number of reasons, but that’s definitely one of them. 

A few minutes and a pretty bad time later, a strong cry fills the room and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Aaron releases you as you unbutton your gown to expose your chest. 

“Your time to shine, Aaron.” Brienne holds up the umbilical cord clamp and snaps it together twice like a dad at a barbecue. With a smile, he stands and rounds the bed. 

You tried to peer over to see, but you're only able to see Aaron and Brienne.

A smile eats up his whole face. 

“Hi!” His voice pitches up, and you start to cry. 

You just love him so much your chest could just burst. Aaron is always the first person to greet your children as they come into the world, and he never fails to deliver a warm welcome. 

“Right here, right?” He looks to Brienne, and she nods. He cuts the cord, and the nurse crosses the room for measurements. 

Aaron returns to you and removes his own shirt, ready to take the little one while you finish delivery. After his crew neck is thrown to the side, he gathers you up in his arms again. 

There’s nothing you can do but melt into him. His skin is warm and he smells good, whereas your skin felt clammy and you probably smell like a horse’s ass. 

Brienne’s voice comes to you faintly from the other side of the room, iterating the specs of the newest addition. “Baby Boy Hotchner, 5:37am, August 13th, 8 pounds, 14 ounces, 21 inches.”

Okay I'm not crazy. He’s actually huge. 

Aaron scoots even closer as you lean away to get a better look. Brienne sets the still-squalling infant on your chest with gentle, warm hands. Your eyes blur with tears. Aaron isn't any better off, keeping one hand on you and another on your son, his own tears tracking quietly down his cheeks. 

Your son. 

Brienne sighs and says, “Alright, last bit here, and then you’re done.” 

You nod and Aaron takes him off your chest, leaning back with one hand under him and one hand over him. Fluid and other questionable grossness be damned, he ducks his head and presses his cheek to his son’s head, an ineffable joy radiating through his body. 

Aaron’s hands almost completely cover him - with his little knees tucked to his chest, he looks like an angry little loaf of bread. 

The afterbirth is the easy part, but then it was before, too. All the Hotchner kids are massive - even the girls were bigger for twins. 

You always make fun of Aaron for “ripping me to shreds, and not in a fun way.” 

(Okay, fine. Maybe a little in a fun way. Sometimes.)

There’s a little more pressure, and you look down at Brienne’s outline behind that infernal green medical paper shit. “How’s it going down there?”

“I’m getting these suckers tied off so we don’t have any more happy accidents. Don’t mind me.” 

Aaron stifles a laugh and you roll your eyes, still weepy. The nurse passes him a warm, wet washcloth, and he begins to wipe the ick from his son’s skin. 

Brienne finishes up and helps you get adjusted with ice packs and that excellent postpartum underwear. When she's satisfied, she removes her gloves and presses a hand to your bare shoulder. “Beautiful work, momma. He’s perfect.” 

You put a shaky hand over hers. “Thanks.” A little watery laugh leaves you. Ouch. “I’ll miss you.” 

And it's true. Brienne has been a semi-permanent fixture in your life for close to six years and has become a friend. You wouldn’t have any reason to see her again outside of regular check-ups. 

She squeezes your shoulder twice. “You ever need anything, you know who to call. Let someone know when you’re ready to put his name down, and they’ll finish off the birth certificate.” 

With that, she shepherds the nurse out the door, and you're alone with Aaron. 

“So,” you say. 

He smiles, his eyes still trained on the little body who has quickly quieted and is snoozing on his chest. “So?”

“Gimme that.” 

His laugh is warm, and he places little one on your chest again. You prod him awake, feeling only a touch bad about it, and offer him a snack. He latches right away, and you tip your head back in sheer relief. 

“Thank God.” 

Aaron nods in agreement. “That’s one less thing to worry about.” He shakes his head as if shaking something off - no doubt remembering the meltdowns night after night trying to nurse Isaac. 

Little one is still naked to the world, so you point at the little blue blanket folded across the room. “Can you grab that for me?” 

Aaron just looks at you for a second, as if seeing you for the first time.  “Of course.” 

He crosses the room, throws the blanket over his shoulder, and grabs a diaper. While the little one is distracted, he deftly maneuvers the diaper into place and drapes the blanket over him to keep the chill off while maintaining skin-to-skin.

You pull the blanket back a little so you can see his squishy little face. “Can you call Jack?” 

“Do we want to call him now? It’s pretty early.” Aaron leans over to his backpack and pulls his phone out, finding a couple requests for updates from Jess. First things first, he turns the camera on you, and you give him a thumbs up. You detach the little one from your nipple for a second, framing his face with the blanket. Aaron gets a good photo of a yawn and fires both pictures off to the BAU group chat before checking Jess’s messages. 

4:12am How we doin? 4:18am Jack’s up with me. He can’t sleep. Em is dead to the world - she gave up about an hour ago. Give us an update when you can. 

6:02am He’s adorable!!! He’s got your nose though, which is unfortunate. 6:02am Kidding. Maybe. 

Aaron laughs a little, and he looks at you. “He’s up with Jess.”

You nod. “Go ahead and call him. He’ll worry, honey.” 

He nods, and dials the second number on his speed dial. Jack picks up on the first ring. “Dad?”

“Hey, bud.” Aaron can't hide the smile in his voice. “Your brother is here and your mom wants to talk to you.” 

“Can I come see you?” Jack’s voice wavers a little, and Aaron knows it's relief, rather than anxiety. Much like his son, he was more than a little concerned for your safety. Now that it's over, he can finally relax. 

That alone is enough to make anyone emotional. 

Aaron checks his watch. “Are you too tired to drive?” 

“No, no. I’m good. I slept a little after you guys left.” he's quiet for a second. “Can you hand me to mom?”

“Sure, bud.” Aaron nods at you and you smile. He starts to pass the phone over to you then -

“Oh, dad?” Jack’s voice is only a little urgent. 

Aaron pulls the phone back to his ear. “Yeah?”

“I love you.” 

“I love you too, bud. I want to talk to Aunt Jess when you’re done with mom, so don’t hang up, okay?” 

With that, he hands you the phone and fresh tears roll down your cheeks. You know this part comes in waves - the emotions. Your hormones are in shambles, and you forget how intense it is every time. 

“Hey, Jack.” 

“Are you okay how did it go what happened?” All the questions come out in a rush.

You chuckle. Ouch. “Slow down there, kiddo. We’re just fine. It went really smoothly, but the last part happened kind of all at once and I denied your father personal freedom and geographic agency, so we didn’t get a chance to update you.” 

He laughs, and it warms you. “It’s okay. I’m really excited to meet him.” There’s a shuffle, and you assume it's his keys. 

Baby boy is finished eating, just nosing around your chest at this point. You shift, and Hotch catches the phone and holds it to your ear so you can use two hands, bringing little one’s head right under your collarbone, tucking him up again. “He’s excited to meet you, too.”

After Aaron has a chance to debrief and game-plan with Jess (“If you bring the little ones over here before 10am, nobody will have any fun.”), Jack is on his way. 

In the meantime, Aaron sets his phone on the side table and sits on the edge of your bed. “Are we sticking to the name we picked? Does it feel right?”

You nod. “I think so. What do you think?”

You do your best to inch yourself over - Ouch - so Aaron can have a little more space. He stretches out on the bed next to you, on his side with his arm folded under his head. A very large hand covers yours, pulling the blanket down to little one’s chin. 

“He looks like you,” he says. 

You snort. Ouch. “Don’t lie. All your damn kids look like you.”

“Alright, fine.” He relents with a wide smile. “He looks like me.” 

He's quiet for a moment, tracing the apple of little one’s cheek with his finger.  His smile morphs into something soft, pensive. It's the look he always has when he's in awe of his children. “What do you think, little man? Is your name Elliot David? How’s that sitting with you?”

The Elliot David in question just makes contented little staccato sounds from his chest, his brown eyes looking here and there, surprisingly alert. He lets out a little cough, and both you and Aaron let out an, “Oh!” simultaneously in that drawn-out way parents do when their kids surprise themselves. 

You look at him and stifle a laugh just for the sake of your exhausted muscles. Aaron’s smile soon turns shaky, and tears fall onto his elbow where it rests under his head. He takes a big breath, and it catches on the way out. 

“Oh, honey. Come here.” 

You adjust again, bringing the head of the bed down with the little remote. As you recline, you only need one hand to keep Elliot secure. You raise your other arm, and Aaron scoots under it, resting his head in the crook of your chest and shoulder. He snaps some buttons on your gown in the absent-minded interest of keeping Jack relatively unscarred. 

Aaron’s bare arm is warm under your fingers. You trace little patterns into his skin as he stares at the back of his son’s head. Elliot’s impossibly small hand catches Aaron’s finger in that death grip only babies seem to have. 

Aaron doesn’t care he's nearly twenty-four hours without sleep, missing a shirt, and really hungry. The only things that matter in this moment are right here in front of him. 

There’s no need to speak. 

A nurse stops by and drops off the bedside cradle, speaking quietly. “You can put him in here when you’re ready to get some rest.” 

You look up and thank him. “Oh, and we’d like to finish the birth certificate in a few hours. Will that be alright?”

He nods. “Just fine.” He checks your charts and leaves a few moments later. 

Soon after, the door slips open, and Jack’s head pops in. “Hi!” He stage-whispers. “Lemme see him.” 

Aaron is stuck where he is, still locked in by Elliot’s grip, so Jack crosses to your other side, pulling up a chair as close as he can get it. 

There is a sense of finality to this meeting. Elliot is your last child, and this is the last time the Three Musketeers will sit together, meeting the newest member of their family. 

“Oh man, Mom. He’s so cute.” Jack coos and ducks so he's eye-level with his baby brother. He traces a finger along Elliot’s tiny, straight nose. When he rests his head on your upper arm, you kiss his head. All three of you sit there until the sun rises, watching Elliot fall asleep. Aaron follows suit eventually, his breath fanning slow and even across your chest. 

+++

The three of you are relatively well-rested by the time your family comes to bombard you. 

Elliot woke twice in the early morning - once to be fed and the other to be changed. Jack retreated to the recliner after a certain point, and Aaron threw on a sweatshirt and curled up next to you for the duration. They're still out cold, while you rest somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. 

One of the nurses on rotation pops her head in. You wave at her with the tips of your fingers. 

“Your family is here to see you.” 

That wakes you up. You make an ‘eek’ face. “All of them?”

She nods. “Three at a time?” 

“Please.” You reach over and pick up a neatly-swaddled Elliot and tuck him into your elbow. You check the corner, where Jack still sleeps. You're sure a train could drive through the room and he’d still be out. That kid has sleeping superpowers - being sixteen only helped.  

Jess is first, holding the girls’ hands while Isaac trails a little behind. 

You put a finger to your lips and point to Elliot. “He’s sleeping, so you have to be really quiet, okay?”

Caroline clambers up on the bed with a few reminders to “be gentle with Mom and don’t lean on her too much,” and peers over you. “Is Daddy sleeping?”

You look to your right, and sure enough, Aaron is out like a light again, performance evaluations on his chest, his hand relaxed around his pen. “Yeah, baby. Daddy’s sleeping because he's awake for a really long time helping me with Elliot.” 

Newly reminded of the main event, Caro plants herself by your knee while Sophia sits by your hip, taking the good real estate. You look over at Jess and wink. She slips out, closing the door softly behind her. 

You scoot over so you're flush with Aaron’s side. “Come on up here, bubba.” 

Isaac gives you a little smile and perches at your side. “He’s so small.” 

“Yep. And look at that,” you brush your fingers down Elliot’s nose and tap his cupid bow before doing the same to Isaac. “You have the same nose.” 

Isaac smiles and raises a tentative hand. He hesitates right before he reaches the dark brown peach fuzz that sits in unmanageable cowlicks on Elliot’s head. 

“You can touch him, bub. Just be gentle.” Isaac’s hand smooths over Elliot’s head with next-to-no pressure. “Do you remember when Sophia and Caroline were born?” 

Isaac nods. “It was super cool.”

“It was super cool.” You kiss his forehead and adjust your hold on Elliot. “Sophia, love, can you hand me the pillow that’s by Daddy’s knee.” 

She nods and very carefully presents it to you. You show her how to stuff it under your elbow so you can relax while supporting Elliot’s head. Caro is clearly enamored, her eyes never leaving Elliot’s face. 

“Babies are really delicate,” you remind a wiggling Sophia. “Their heads are too heavy for their little necks, so sometimes they need a little help.” 

At the mention of ‘help,’ Aaron’s eyes snap open. “What’s up?”  

You suppress a laugh as he realizes all of his kids surround him like the children of the corn. He presses a hand to his face, recovering. “Oh. Hi.”

Caro beams at him, and he beams right back. He puts his files down and pats his lap. “Come here, my little love. I’ve got a really good view over here.” 

She very mindfully picks her way over your shins and into her father’s lap. He lifts her so she's flush to his chest. His cheek presses into her hair, and he shows her where to find Elliot’s little baby toes under the blanket. 

“Are his feet very very small?” Caroline’s whispered question almost makes Aaron cry again. 

“Yes. They are very very small. So are his hands. Here, look.” 

He reaches over and peels back a layer of blanket, exposing one of Elliot’s (very very) small hands, pressed flat against the fabric. Aaron wiggles his finger under it and presents it to the kids. “If you look really carefully, you all have the same hands.” 

All at once, three pairs of hands appear, flipping their palms up and down as each one individually assesses the similarities. 

“And if you look even closer,” he says, flipping his palm down, but keeping Elliot’s hand aloft, “I have the same hands as all of you, too.”

Caroline looks up at him, awestruck and he nods. She places her hand on the back of Aaron’s and - lo and behold - they're the same shape, just significantly different sizes. 

Satisfied, Sophia drops her hands, leaning on them to get a closer, yet stable, look at Elliot’s fingers. 

She gasps, but to her credit, keeps her voice soft as she says, “Look at his tiny little nails!” 

“Lemme see!” Aaron supports Caro as she thrusts her body forward to get a better look. 

Jack stirs in the corner, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. In full voice, he says, “Oh, hey guys.” 

Three big shushes come from the kids, and it takes everything in you to keep your laugh locked away. You keep your eyes trained on Sophia (who looks downright offended at Jack’s volume) knowing if you look at Aaron you’d be done for. 

Jack makes the same ‘eek’ face you made earlier. “Sorry, sorry.” He creeps over, standing behind Sophia and putting his hands on her shoulders. She giggles quietly as he drops close to her ear. “Cute, huh?”

She wrinkles her nose. “He looks a little funny.” 

“He’ll start to look more like a person in a few weeks,” Aaron says with a smile. “You looked pretty funny the day you're born, maybe even funnier.”

He winks at her, and she dissolves into a fit of giggles again, leaning back against Jack. As she did so, her brother wrapped her in his arms and rested his chin on her head. 

Isaac runs his hand over Elliot’s hair, gentle and repetitive. He, like Jack did hours earlier, rests his head against your shoulder. You press your cheek to the crown of his head, soaking it in. 

“I like him.” 

A smile breaks your face in half, and you peer around to look at Isaac’s face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. He’s cool.” 

Your bottom lip disappears into your mouth as you fight back tears, still ready to flow without fair warning. You don’t want to scare them. “I’m so glad you think so, bubba.” 

Elliot has once again taken Aaron’s finger hostage, and it takes more than a little negotiation to get him unwrapped and tucked back into his blanket. You have no idea how Elliot manages to sleep through all the commotion, but then again, he’ll have to get used to it. 

Jess pokes her head back in. “Ready for some lunch?”

Four heads whip around and nod vigorously. Aaron deposits Caro on the floor, while Isaac presses a heart-wrenching kiss to Elliot’s head before gingerly getting his feet back under him. Jack just lifts Sophia and she hangs off his hip, only a little too big. 

He walks to you and kisses your cheek. “I love you, Mom.”

You bring your hand up to his temple, the back of your fingers brushing his hair back. “I love you too, my Jack.” 

One side of his mouth turns up in a smile, and he leaves the room with Sophia, leading the rest of the pack down the hallway. 

+++

It's safe to say Dave immediately covets his namesake. You plop Elliot into his arms right away, and say, “This is Elliot David Hotchner. He’s been very excited to meet you.”

Dave full-on cries, letting the tears just fall onto his shirt as he bounces Elliot all around the room, talking to him about all the ways he’ll spoil him rotten. 

It’s easy to name him after Rossi. When you finally decided on a couple of first names, it was a no-brainer to pair them up with David. He’s your family, like they all are, but you're acutely aware that Elliot will have the smallest amount of time with Dave, no matter how much time that will be. 

When Dave is ready to give him up, he reluctantly passes him back to Aaron. Dave crosses to you while Aaron offers Elliot a knuckle to mouth around on. 

Dave kisses your cheeks and embraces you. He leans back to look at you, keeping his hands on your face. You cover his hands with your own and close your eyes. 

You're taking a lot of mental pictures today. 

He presses a kiss to your forehead, and you're sure you see Aaron’s one-handed camera work out of the corner of your eye. 

“Thank you, bellissima.” 

“You’ve more than earned it,” you remind him.  

“Dealing with you two for fifteen years? You’re damn right I have.”

+++

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[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

Poison: Part Four

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Word Count: ~2.1k

Warnings: canon violence, canon language, canon talk of death, methods of kill, fluff and angst

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Criminal Minds. All credit goes to their respective owners. If there is any warnings that exceed the normal death/kills from the show, I will list them. If you’ve seen the show, then it’s the same level of angst unless otherwise stated.

Feedback is gold, and it’s the only currency I take

The hospital isn’t a good place for you to be in because of all the patients coming in and pretending to be sick, but it’s a lot better than the police station only because Spencer isn’t there. He’s here with you, so you’re able to focus on him instead of all the panic. You need to figure out which cases are real so you can determine just where they were poisoned and how to stop it from happening again.

“I really can't talk right now. We just got hammered,” the nurse sighs.

“Listen, most of these food poisonings are probably psychosomatic,” you reveal.

“What makes you think that?”

“A news broadcast just reported a local restaurant was poisoned. Now, it would be a huge coincidence if there was another poisoning right after that aired,” JJ explains for you.

“So what do you want me to do?”

“Help us find out which cases, if any, are real,” Spencer answers.

“People are coming in with all kinds of complaints. But, there's at least one case that isn't psychosomatic. Lynn Dempsey. She's barely breathing.”

“Can you take us to the doctor that's treating that patient?”

“I'll call Hotch,” JJ says and takes out her phone.

The doctor comes almost immediately just as soon as JJ is done updating your boss. The doctor escorts you to the woman who has a hard time breathing, and you can tell this is a real case based on what the doctor says as well as the vibes you’re getting from the woman.

“When the patient got here, she didn't remember anything about her day. Her speech was so slurred, I could barely understand her,” the doctor reveals.

“It sounds like Rohypnol. Did you test her?” Spencer wonders.

“She was positive for Rohypnol, negative for LSD. But we're running more tests because Rohypnol alone doesn't explain her symptoms. She presented with nausea, difficulty swallowing, and labored breathing. She was also having trouble moving her legs.”

“How long had she been sick?” you ask.

“She didn't know. I could barely understand her when she first got here. Now, she can't speak at all.”

“Do you know any biological agents that have similar symptoms: ricin or sarin gas?” Spencer asks.

“You think this is a biological attack?”

“We can't rule anything out.”

“I'll order a few more tests,” he sighs and leaves you three alone with the woman.

The poor woman is coughing and having a hard time breathing into her oxygen mask. She whimpers in pain, tosses and turns, and just looks like she isn’t having that much fun.

“I’ll take a look at her. Let me see if I can get anything out of her,” you offer.

“She can’t speak,” JJ says.

“I don’t need that to communicate with her,” you say and walks over to the woman.

Lynn barely opens her eyes to look at you, and you give her the kindest eyes you can muster up.

“Hi, my name is Y/N Y/L/N. I am only here to help. May I take your hand?” you ask and hold out your own.

She seems too eager to do so, and she grabs your hand as if it will cure her. Almost immediately upon contact, you get visions of her past right before she was poisoned. Your eyes close as the images transmit to you. Lynn is at the bank. She’s in line waiting to get some money taken out of her account. She grabs some candy out of a bowl as she waits and decides to cut her wait time in half by grabbing an envelope and writing her information down on it. She takes a step forward when the man in front of her does, and that’s where the vision ends. There is nothing out of the ordinary that is going on, so you’re not sure why you got that specific scene.

You open your eyes and look at Spencer and JJ. They half-expected you to get a definitive clue or something to lead them down a path, but you just shake your head. Your hand slips from Lynn’s, but as soon as you lose contact, she reaches up and grips your hand tightly. You look back at her to see her eyes open wide. She stopped coughing long enough to want to tell you something.

“JJ, Spencer, I think she’s trying to say something,” you say.

“The end…” Lynn barely gets out before having a coughing fit.

“The end…?” JJ questions.

You close your eyes once more in hopes that whatever she’s trying to tell you will show up in the visions you get. All you’re getting, however, is her picking up an envelope from the bank so she can use it for her money purposes.

“She may be incoherent from the lack of oxygen,” Spencer states.

Lynn pulls away hastily and turns on her side to let out a coughing fit. You take one step back and look at Spencer with a sad look.

“Doctor!” JJ calls. Once he’s inside Lynn’s room, she continues. “So, what are the chances that she's not poisoned, that maybe she just got some bad food?”

“Highly improbable. Chances are basically nil.”

“What is the rate of survival?” you ask.

“With this dose and without anti-toxin... zero.”

Lynn suddenly goes into V-Fib, and Spencer grips your shoulders to gently move you out of the way. You step back into his body to let the doctor and nurses through,  but you don’t move once they do pass. You’re basically watching Lynn slowly die right in front of your eyes, and there is nothing you can do to help her. All you got is her at the bank, touching some candy, and writing on an envelope. How the hell is that going to help anyone?

“Doctor, her BP is dropping rapidly,” the nurse states.

Lynn’s heart can't hold out any longer, and you turn away so you don’t have to watch her die. You shrug out of Spencer’s arms and leave the hospital room. Him and JJ aren’t that far behind you. If you have even one more soul on your consciousness, there’s no telling what kind of nightmares you’ll have or if you can even handle another soul.

While you were with Lynn and experiencing her last few moments on Earth, Elle and Derek were at the bank looking through the security footage to see if they could spot a common denominator with all the victims. Every single person that was infected came into this bank, so it has to be the key to figuring out where this substance came from and who put it there—most importantly, who is the targeted audience. It’s why experts are testing the candy to see if what she touched is actually poisoned or not.

“Lynn Dempsey was an executive assistant. She has no expertise with chemicals. She doesn't fit the profile of the unsub,” Gideon notes.

“But the CDC found both LSD and Rohypnol in the candy she was replacing at the bank,” Derek says.

“She must have been an accomplice, and when the unsub finished using her to further his attack, he killed her with Botulism.”

“So, what does that tell us about the unsub?” Gideon asks the group.

“He's far more sophisticated than we realized,” you answer.

“Why is that?”

“The Botulism toxin is the deadliest substance known to man. It blocks Acetylcholine receptors, paralyzing its victims until, basically, choking you to death. Without an antitoxin, a lethal dose will kill you in thirty-six hours,” you try to explain, knowing only Spencer will truly understand what you’re saying.

“How many people have access to this stuff?” Elle wonders.

“In New Jersey, quite a few. It's actually the pharmaceutical and chemical capital of the US. So, that the toxin can be ordered in the form of Botox through any chemical or biological lab or Botox clinic. It has to be purified, but any chemist or lab assistant has that capability,” Spencer answers.

“So, we're looking for chemists and sophisticated lab assistants?”

“Basically,” you and Spencer say at the same time.

“Okay, wait a minute. If the unsub is a chemist with access to the toxin, what'd he need Dempsey for?” Derek wonders.

“Well, we don't know yet. But she worked for a company, called, uh... Hichcock Pharmaceuticals. I think there's a good chance the unsub worked there, too,” Gideon reads off his notes.

“Let's start with people who fit the profile who've had a recent stressor.”

“Like, anybody fired from Hichcock in the past six months.”

“Yeah, or demoted. Not recognized for their hard work. Anyone who seems under appreciated. Let me call Penelope,” you state and take out your phone.

You call her, and once you get her over the line, you quickly explain what is going on and what you need her raw talent. You place her on speakerphone for all to hear so you don’t have to repeat what she says.

“Hichcock's a giant company, Sugar Shack, and there were over a hundred people fired just this past year.”

“And so far, none of them fit the profile?”

“No. But, I do have thirty names of people who were downsized and shunted off to other lame companies with a cut in pay and benefits.”

“That’ll work,” you nod.

“Alright, send us the names. We'll cross-reference them with civil and criminal complaints filed with local PD. But I want you to keep digging, and while you're at it, look for any connection to the First New Jersey Federal Bank,” Derek asks ever so nicely.

“I'm on it, Angel,” she says, and you hang up.

“Our guys acting like a workplace mass murderer. He'd stay close—seething—and he'd plan his revenge,” Hotch points out.

“Well, if he is a workplace killer, what else does that tell us about him?”

“For one, they don't give themselves up. He's lost his empathy and his moral compass. He's capable of anything.”

“All those innocent people at the bank,” you mutter regretfully.

“They meant nothing to him. He'll take out anybody to forward his cause,” Gideon says.

“Like Dempsey.”

“Correct, and eventually, even himself. Not until he finishes taking out his primary targets.”

“We have no idea where he's going to strike next. For all we know, he could poison the local reservoir,” Derek groans.

“Well, the local cops haven't gotten any leads out of Dempsey. Why don't you go to Hichcock and see if you have any luck,” Hotch says to Elle who is already out of her chair.

“You got it,” she states and leaves.

Elle didn’t really get anything out of Lynn’s desk. Her assistant told her that Lynn wasn’t the best at holding high self-esteem and was a very quiet person in general. Most assistants and their bosses talk about what goes on in their personal life and are basically friends, but not Lynn and her assistant. She barely knew one thing about Lynn. It came up as a dead end, so you, Derek, and Gideon are researching who got laid off at Hichcock and if it was brutal enough to warrant deadly actions to get revenge.

Derek is sitting at the computer with you looming over his shoulder so you can read what he has up. Gideon is looking at the town’s map to see if he can come up with a geological profile. There haven't been a lot of people who were brutally laid off, but there are some that make you so sad to think that after all the time they spent in the company, it’s wasted.

“Gideon, some of these lay-offs were brutal. This one chemical engineer, he'd been at Hichcock for nineteen years when he was downsized,” Derek notes.

“Damn, that’s harsh,” you mutter.

“Yeah, that could certainly inspire homicidal rage, huh?”

“The guy was in his late forties and the head of his department. He definitely had a generous severance package,” you read.

“A lot of these guys don't have enough pension. They may not be happy about it, but I don't see them killing anyone,” Gideon states.

Derek’s phone rings, and you see that it’s Penelope calling with hopefully some good news. He answers it and puts it on speakerphone.

“Talk to me, Hot Stuff.”

“Get this, Cochise. I found a chemist who works at a company that was bought by Hichcock called Palmay Cosmetics. Now, here's the thing. Lynn Dempsey applied for a loan at New Jersey Federal Bank around the same time this chemist applied for a patent on this anti-aging, breakthrough technology thing called PCO-99.”

“So, you’re saying he applied for a loan in her name to make his product?” you ask.

“That's what I thought, but both the loan and the patent were rejected because Hichcock had already applied for the patent and the patent deal had gone through, drumroll please, at New Jersey Federal Bank. I'm tracking his cell phone and it won't be long before I have his location.”

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[violetsmoak]

Tabula Rasa [2/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20183281/chapters/47822500

Blanket Disclaimer:

Summary: Tim and Jason have known they are soulmates for years, though neither has said anything about it. Tim thinks Jason doesn’t know, and is just trying to live with it. Jason thinks Tim knows but doesn’t care, which is fine with him, he thinks the soulmate thing is a crock anyway. But one night, a minor mishap forces them to confront the issue head-on, leading to a series of events no one could have predicted.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

JayTimBingo Prompts This Chapter: #bright vivid colours #danger #enemies to lovers #soulmate aversion #soulmark tattoo

First Chapter

Beta Reader: I’ll get back to you on that.

________________________________________________________________

Tim is exhausted.

It’s not the semi-permanent fatigue he’s been living with ever since becoming a vigilante, the ‘constantly tired about something’ background noise of his life. It’s more of an utter doneness with everything.

His head is pulsing like someone took an icepick to his left eye and punched through to his brain stem, and he’s got a bit of fever. Damian’s cat bit him in the early hours of dawn when he stopped by the Cave to drop off some intel. It’s taking his antibiotics longer to kick in than he’d like.

He’s been in meetings since seven this morning discussing the next year’s budget, sitting across the boardroom from the old guard of shareholders and Bruce. Bruce, who’s been attending more of these meetings in the past month with the implied goal of scrutinizing every move Tim makes. He spent hours today grilling Tim on every judgment call, made him argue for every cent of allocated funds and second-guessed projects months in the making.

And then the board members—even those who disliked Bruce—joined in and it was like a fucking ambush.

Tim didn’t even have someone in his corner to give him five minutes of breathing room, and he’s never missed Tam so much as at that moment. But she asked to transfer to a different department not long after the whole faking her father’s death thing. Tim doesn’t want to call her in for matters he should be able to handle himself.

Kon’s canceled their plans to hang out this weekend because he forgot his and Cassie’s anniversary. It was meant to be a videogame and junk food fueled marathon, and Tim had been looking forward to it for two weeks now. It’s the third time this month they’ve had to call rain check.

Though to be fair the last two instances were because I got dragged into something Bat related and time-sensitive.

At this point, all he wants it to get home, eat a whole pizza himself and sleep for at least eight hours. He’s even picking out toppings as he heads for his car in the employee parking lot.

So, of course, that’s when the notification system on his phone chimes. Patched into the GCPD frequencies, he’s informed that Killer Croc is rampaging in the University District.

And at City Hall?

Crash!

And apparently now in the WE Building.

“What the hell?”

The lingering staff members scream and flee to their offices, barricading themselves in as the growling, pebble-skinned thing bursts out of the nearby stairwell.

Okay, that’s not Killer Croc, but it looks a heck of a lot like him. Maybe shorter.

The elevator bell dings, opening on an empty car, drawing the snarling man-shaped beast’s attention. It makes an immediate run for Tim, who backs into the elevator and glances upward; there’s a cage across the ceiling to block access to the ceiling panels, the spaced between the metal lats wide enough to reach his fingers through.

He bends and jumps up, swearing at the bite of metal as he grabs hold of the grille, just as the creature barrels into the elevator. Tim uses the momentum to plow his knee into the creature’s jaw.

Its head snaps backward, blood spraying as it bites down on its tongue, but it doesn’t pass out as Tim had hoped. Right as it’s gearing up to take another run at Tim, there’s thwip! sound and two darts lodge themselves in its throat from somewhere outside.

The croc-person goes rigid and passes out. A moment later, Bruce strolls down the hallway toward him as casually as if he’s heading to dinner. He folds a compact knockout dark gun back into his breast pocket. Luckily for them, all of the doors remain shut tight and there are no windows for the other employees to see any of this.

“What did you hit him with?” Tim wants to know.

“Carfentanil,” Bruce replies, stepping over the unconscious body and reaching for the thumbprint scanner at the bottom of the elevator panel. “Lucius will see to that one.”

He engages the override to skip every floor on the way down to the sub-basement.

“What’s going on?”

“Based on Batgirl’s intel, some idealistic grad student wanting to change the world. She believed the best way to kick-start the proletarian revolution was to mix Waylon Jones’ DNA with a version of Langstrom’s prototype serums, test it out on the homeless and then release them in various locations considered to be bourgeoisie strongholds of Gotham.”

Tim blinks at that. “Eat the rich?”

“Somehow I doubt that’s what Rousseau meant.”

The elevator vibrates as it speeds downward, and Bruce considers Tim out of the corner of his eye. “How long has it been since you slept?”

Twenty-three hours.

“I’m fine, B.”

“You were nodding off during the presentation by Powers Tech.”

“Because Warrick Powers is a pedantic drone that’s rehashing all of the same proposals he made last month. Even you were playing Candy Crush on your phone for half of it.”

Bruce’s expression doesn’t change. “Anyone going out tonight has to be at their best. Killer Croc is a challenge on a good day, but Oracle’s saying there have been a dozen sightings of these hybrids—”

“All the more reason you need me out there,” Tim cuts him off. As the door to the elevator opens, he strides away before Bruce can offer reason he doesn’t want Tim going out tonight. He’s been questioned enough today at work, he refuses to be called out on his night job.

Things go from weird to complicated to unbelievable within hours. As it turns out, Killer Croc is involved…but he’s working with them for once. Red Hood’s voice comes over the comms early on to caution everyone not to go after him unless he makes a move on a civilian.

“Arsenal vouches for him,” he insists, and things are so crazy no one has time to argue with him. Everyone separates into their various zones, though corralling the croc-man-bat hybrids often has them overlapping with one another.

It takes all night.

By the time the last of the test-subjects has been subdued, ready for transport to a treatment facility, dawn is just peeking over the edges of the buildings. Tim’s body aches like one big bruise. He’s got something bigger than a cat bite that needs treatment, and if his head hurt before, now it’s like his brain is bubbling out of his skull.

Everyone has checked in, which is a relief, but everyone sounds like they’ve been put through the wringer. Those that Tim can see look even worse.

Batman is on the ground, conversing with Commissioner Gordon, and from the way he’s standing, it’s clear he’s taken some damage to his ribs. On a rooftop in the distance, Tim can see Robin with his arms crossed, cape in ruins and shoulders hunched inward. He doesn’t have to see the kid’s face to know he’s scowling. Beside him, Red Hood is laughing, helmet missing and body armor ratty and torn. Tim taps his visor to magnify his vision. Hood’s entire left arm-sleeve is gone, along with the gauntlet, and he’s bleeding from a wound above his bicep.

But he doesn’t seem bothered by it. He even reaches out to ruffle Robin’s hair, then easily dodges the knife the kid swipes at him. There’s a flicker of relief that flits through Tim to see him unharmed.

Despite their past, despite the fact Jason avoids him, Tim still tries to stay hopeful about the whole thing. It’s possible things will get better and they can be friends one day, or at least tolerate each other in the way Jason and Damian do. He could handle that.

“Well that was fun,” Steph groans, dropping down beside Tim on his chosen rooftop. “I need to sleep for the next six weeks, though.”

“What are you, a groundhog?” Duke quips, alighting on the other side of him.

“If it gets me out of midterms, hell yes. Just…not the same day over and over thing.”

“I don’t understand,” Cass sighs. “Either of you.”

The usual post-Arkham-level emergency banter starts up, all snarky jokes and witty rejoinders and Tim’s just…not in the mood.

“I’ve got a final sweep to do before turning in,” he mutters. He doesn’t care if anyone hears him as he hops over the edge of the building and grapples away. There’s some chatter and questions in his ear, but he ignores it.

His adrenaline from the night’s activities is dropping, and the exhaustion he was experiencing earlier in the day is hitting him like a Mac truck. He doesn’t even want the pizza anymore, just the sleep.

There’s a dreamlike quality to the way he sways through the air like he’s not actually present in the moment. Perhaps he’ll skip the last leg of patrol too, tonight. And he can write the incident report up tomorrow, and—

Right as he hits the highest arc of his swing, there’s a snap and sudden give to his line.

It should be an automatic thing, hauling out his redundant grapple gun and fixing it to a new anchor point. This is all about timing, a practiced movement all of them trained for before Bruce even let them out of the cave.

And yet.

It’s as if time slows for just a moment.

As if he has all the time in the world to contemplate the intricacies of each separate action, the pull of his muscles and movements of his fingers. Or even the ramifications of simply letting himself fall.

For that one moment, Tim isn’t Red Robin or Tim Drake-Wayne or any number of things he’s supposed to be, he’s just. There. Existing in a void of sound and sensation, adrenaline blocking it all out, weightless and empty.

Floating.

A sudden desperate wish hits him to freeze everything like this, at this high-point forever. To stay forever frozen in the peace of a not-quite-flight.

Gravity pulls at him then, making his stomach flip, and he reaches for the redundant grapple, even as he realizes he’s too slow. The air rushes past him, the ground rises to meet him and he’s still drawing out the line, and it will be too late—

As he’s about to hit to point of no return, something clasps around his arm and yanks. Someone wrenches Tim up and forward, a hand grasping his whole forearm in a vicelike grip and it’s reflex for his fingers to clasp around it. Warmth tingles in his fingers and radiates the entirety of his arm, like laying his hand on his own personal sun. As they swing through the air, Tim’s eyes fall upon the literal lifeline that saved him.

The first thing he sees is a swirl of red and gold, the familiar winding knotwork pattern of his soulmark.

Except it’s not his.

Jason’s left arm and shoulder are bare, the mark blossoming seemingly out of nowhere halfway up his forearm. But Tim recognizes the uneven streak of hastily applied cover-up from wrist to elbow-crease—because it turns out, Jason covers his mark at all times as Bruce does.

The warmth in Tim’s hand and arm grow, stretching tendrils of heat through his body, but it burns the most where he and Jason touch. Steph once described the sensation as a lock and key interlinking, and he finally understands because there is a very physical click inside him, like tumblers slamming into place.

It’s distantly familiar, and he wonders if he might have experienced this before, but couldn’t focus on it due to being bleeding out at the time. The way their marks reach and wind about each other now, Tim doesn’t believe there’s any way for it to be ignored anymore.

His heart flutters at the idea.

Then Jason is swinging them to the nearest rooftop and abruptly lets Tim go, snatching his hand back the instant his boots hit the gravel. Tim stumbles forward, barely stopping himself from tumbling to his knees from the momentum.

He skids around to face Jason, who is already turning away, shielding the mark. When he faces Tim again, the colors recede once more beneath the spray cover-up.

“Geeze, Replacement. You gettin’ enough sleep?” he asks lightly, mouth crooked. “You almost let yourself become pavement art.”

Tim blinks, still a little lost in his head.

“I mean, I’m sure you could have engaged those tacky wings of yours before the worst happened, but cuttin’ it kind of close, don’t ya think?”

Tim’s not really thinking anything. His eyes are on Jason’s arm, where the colors of his mark have already slipped away. Because Jason is putting a very conspicuous space between them. And asking something inane, as if he’s trying to distract him.

Which he shouldn’t be doing.

He saw the mark. He would have felt what Tim felt. It should be a shock, he should be confused or angry or surprised—

Tim freezes in realization.

“You’re not surprised,” he says, the words somehow disconnected from his mouth.

“Surprised about what?”

Tim bristles at Jason’s feigned ignorance now, indignation rekindling some of his spark. “Seriously? You’re just going to—you’re really going to pretend we both didn’t see that? That we both don’t know…?”

“I think that fight rattled you,” Jason says, slow and placating. “How many times did you get hit in the head tonight?”

“You didn’t even flinch!” Tim snaps, taking a step forward. “If you hadn’t known, it would have surprised you! You might have dropped me, or yelled, or…”

Jason is backing away now, not even trying to disguise his intention and Tim darts forward, hand snatching to grab hold of Jason’s wrist. Incredible gold and deep scarlet bands of color creep up his left arm, threading along the capillaries of his skin, connecting the freckles and scars across his bare arm. There’s a corresponding warmth in Tim’s right wrist and arm.

Before either design can fully manifest, though, Jason snatches his hand back and punches Tim in the chest.

“I’m not a fan of handsy guys,” he says, though his joke is lost in the ice of his tone.

Tim barely reacts to the blow, because he’s had worse from Jason, and right now, he’s honestly too furious to register it.

“You knew the whole time, didn’t you?” he accuses.

“Knew what—?”

“Don’t! Don’t lie! You’ve known—you had to have known ever since the day we met, at the Tower!” There is no argument this time, only a head-on gaze. “And you never said anything.”

“Well, it’s not like you did either,” Jason defends, discomfort coloring each word.

And there’s the confirmation; it’s more of a blow to the gut than Jason’s punch. It’s an aching, gnawing hurt, and Tim tries to tamp it down, tries to focus more on the simmering rage that is welling up alongside it.

“Because I didn’t think yours had activated,” he manages to get out. “At the time I didn’t think you were capable of…I thought if I said anything, you’d…you hated me then, and—” Comprehension smacks into him. “That’s why you didn’t bring it up, isn’t it? And then the other night, when I said all that. About soulmates. You knew what I thought about it, and that’s why you didn’t say anything.”

Jason coughs, backing away again. “Okay, glad we cleared that up.”

“If you’d said something—if you’d even acknowledged it, maybe—”

“‘Maybe’ what?” Jason challenges. “We’d magically be on track for a house and picket fence and adopting our own passel of neglected orphans?”

“Wait!”

“Yeah, no, I’m over this—”

“Jason, don’t—” He reaches out once more, hand clamping down on his shoulder and in his madness, he’s forgotten everything he knows about Jason and personal space. It all comes back in a rush when he’s suddenly staring down the barrel of a gun.

“I said I’m done,” Jason growls, and Tim swallows reflexively.

Slowly, carefully, he takes a step back.

Jason doesn’t move right away, simply stares at him, then the gun in his hand, which he lowers after a breath.

The tension doesn’t leave his shoulders though.

“This whole soulmate thing is some bullshit,” Jason snarls at last. “I hope you’ve got another option on the other arm, Drake, because I ain’t it. And I want shit-all to do with you. Follow me, and I’ll shoot you.”

He leaps from the building, and a beat later Tim watches him swing away between the skyscrapers.

It takes a while to remember how to breathe, more because of the crushed glass sensation in his throat than of any fear Jason would have shot him.

The rejection isn’t unexpected.

Honestly, it’s like a door being closed on something he hoped for even when he tried not to. There’s a finality to it that should be cathartic even.

It doesn’t hurt any less.

Well. At least now I know for sure.

Really, it’s a relief. He knew Jason didn’t like him, but he kept fooling himself with hope and occasional daydreams. And now he can’t anymore, and that’s that. It isn’t like losing Robin or no one believing him about Bruce or butting heads with Ra’s; those had workarounds. This, though, soulmates…it’s not something that can be learned or memorized or forced into being.

Time to move on.

Because Tim doesn’t get to be happy.

Body on autopilot, he returns to the Nest and sees to any obvious wounds. He concentrates on careful stitching, and then on meticulously writing up his report on the night’s events. No need to mention his argument with Jason. Tonight’s going to take his strongest sleeping pills and painkiller, he decides, the kind that will keep him from dreaming.

He considers not setting an alarm for the next morning—surely he deserves a day off, doesn’t he? Considering everything that’s happened today?

No. That would make it too easy to dwell on this, to mope. Work will keep him busy.

And he has to stay busy.

He’s meticulous about following his routine for the next few days. Immersing himself in new product designs, revising by-laws, defending more of his decisions from Bruce’s nitpicking, volunteering down at the Neon Knights shelters. He visits the remaining Titans, spends time with old school friends in Gotham and goes through the motions with his family. Outwardly it’s working but it all seems…hollow. It doesn’t sit right. Something is missing and he knows exactly what it is but can’t do anything about it.

With every fake smile and encounter with the paparazzi, always being the reliable one and having to think and plan everything through to the tiniest detail. It’s exhausting as ever.

And by night, he throws himself into every fight that comes his way.

He very deliberately avoids looking for Jason.

And it’s fine.

Really.

But at the oddest moments of the day, either at work or diving into the middle of a brawl, he remembers that crystalline moment, just after his line missed. When he was just…floating.

Tim knows that’s not a good sign, knows that he isn’t in the best headspace right now. He thinks of reaching out to Dick, the way he always does when it gets bad. He wants to tell him everything that’s going on with his day and night work, wants to admit the truth about his soulmate—

Then he remembers Dick is on his honeymoon and he doesn’t want to bother him and Barbara over this. So he heads to the manor because Alfred is always a willing ear and wise counsel. And Bruce might be making his life misery at work, but he can always be counted on to have some cases that could benefit from a second pair of eyes.

Except when he gets there, Damian informs him that Alfred is driving Bruce to some political fundraiser.

“It seems you made a wasted trip, Drake. Perhaps next time call ahead and spare yourself the trouble,” he drawls from his seat at Bruce’s desk where he’s sketching, Titus curled at his feet. The dog lifts his head and wags his tail when he sees Tim, but otherwise doesn’t move. “I’d show you to the door, but that would require me to care.”

“Always a pleasure, demon boy,” Tim sighs and sets off down the hall. He decides to take a nap in his old room; at least here the place isn’t as empty as his apartment. Damian might not be the best company, but he’s another human being within his vicinity.

Sort of.

As it turns out, Cass is still home. He can hear her laughing at something in the family room, followed by Steph’s familiar guffaws. As he passes by, he sees that they’re curled up together on the couch, arguing over the Netflix selection.

Steph catches sight of him and calls out. “Hey! When did you get here, Former Boy Wonder?”

“Uh, ten minutes ago,” he replies, leaning against the doorframe. It hits him immediately that he’s just interrupted a date night, so he doesn’t make a move to enter.

However, Cass’s all-seeing eyes rove over him and she purses her lips.

“Come and sit,” she tells him. “We have Krispy Kreme.”

“And Cass bought ketchup chips at her layover in Montreal.”

Normally the lure of donuts and chips would have him vault across the room and settle on the couch, but tonight the idea of food makes his stomach rebel.

“I might just go get some coffee,” he replies, trying to back away.

“Do that later,” Cass orders. “Stay for a bit.”

“I don’t want to interrupt anything…”

“You’re not interrupting anything,” Steph rolls her eyes. “Except our weekly argument about what we should watch. Besides, we haven’t seen you since the croc-mutants thing.”

“How’s your head?” Tim asks, giving a mental sigh of defeat and shuffling into the room. Steph sustained a pretty bad concussion that day.

 “Still having dizzy spells and can’t move too fast,” she replies. “The ushe.”

Tim doesn’t take a seat on the couch, though, instead sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table and dutifully taking a handful of chips. They don’t taste like anything.

Cass is frowning at him. “You okay?”

“Just tired,” Tim says, forcing what he hopes is a comforting smile. It’s not a lie, not really, but he doesn’t intend to tell her exactly what’s making him tired.

Cass accepts it, though she continues to eye him with concern. He does his best to distract her by suggesting a film he knows both of them hate, forcing another round of arguments about viewing choices.

They really don’t seem to mind him being there, and for a little while, everything’s alright. They throw popcorn at each other and complain about Bruce’s uptightness and gossip about their respective villain drama and mock each other for failing at their New Years Resolutions after only three weeks. 

Eventually the girls become engrossed in the movie. Of course, it’s one of the token soulmate plotlines that he immediately skips over on the rare nights he has time to watch television. And Tim becomes more and more conscious of how Steph and Cass lean into one another. Cass’s fingers run through Steph’s hair and Steph hides her face in Cass’s neck when a truly cringe-worthy sappy scene comes up.

They look so…content.

Happy.

At peace.

I’m never going to have that, Tim realizes and it’s this that makes his stomach twist, want to throw up and scream and cry.

Because he’s always been alone, but there’s always been that lingering hope that one day he wouldn’t be. That even if it wasn’t a romantic soulmate relationship, he’d still have someone.

Everyone he has loved has left him behind; even the one person in the world who was never supposed to.

“What would you have done?” he finds himself asking, staring at the screen where the male and female lead are mired in their stereotypical big-misunderstanding-fueled fight. They hurl words at each other that they obviously don’t mean but were clearly written to be devastating.

Cass and Steph look up, both somewhat startled by his question.

“What would we have done for what?” Steph wonders.

“If Cass had hated you. Or if Steph had hated you.”

Both their faces go blank. Cass’s mouth turns downward as if she is puzzling out a difficult question, while Steph shudders. “I can’t even imagine it.”

“Me neither,” Cass adds.

Tim hums, having expected that answer even if it doesn’t help him.

“Hey—what are you so worried about?” Steph asks, nudging his shoulder with her foot. “It’s a big world. It’s not your fault or the end of the world that your soulmate died.”

 Tim’s hand strays to his wrist. He’s covered it up around anyone in the Family since he woke up and learned that Jason Todd had almost killed him. As far as Steph or anyone in the family is concerned, he no longer has a mark.

“You can still have fulfilling relationships,” Steph goes on. “You know, if you get over your secretive and control-freak ways and your tendency to eat Hawaiian pizza.”

Tim snorts. “Says the girl who would eat waffles every meal of the day.”

“Hey, that’s a valid meal choice—do you realize how many different types of savory waffles are out there?”

“No wonder you’re beginning to spill out of your uniform,” Damian’s voice disdains from the doorway. Titus lopes at the boy’s heels. “You and Cain have been colonizing the couch for three hours now. I intend to play Inquisition without your hovering, so leave.”

“You mean you intend to spend three hours on character creation before getting stuck in the Hinterlands for the next week and finally throwing the controller at the screen in frustration and not touching the game again for another month?” Tim asks.

“If I want your input, Drake, I’ll—” Damian considers. “I’ll never want your input. Now shut up and stay out of it. Brown, I demand you all vacate the room immediately or I will force you to.”

“Rude.”

“Eleven televisions on this floor,” Cass adds. “One in your room, even.”

“This one has the best resolution for gaming. You go to one of the other ones. You’re not doing anything important in here.”

“There’s nothing more important than Netflix and chill with the boo,” Steph replies. She’s playing with her phone and then chuckles, angling it so Cass can see, earning a bright laugh in return.

Damian looks disgusted. “I sincerely hope when I meet my soulmate, I am not so ridiculous about it as you two, or Grayson.”

“We are not ridiculous,” Cass replies. “We are normal.”

There’s immeasurable pleasure in that word; Tim knows it’s not often she gets to use it in relation to herself. Once again he thinks himself a complete tool for being jealous of her and Steph.

“Hopefully I will take after Father,” Damian continues, sitting in the armchair across from them.

“Emotionally stunted and anal-retentive?” Steph suggests, earning snorts of laughter from everyone but the blood scion of Wayne.

“In terms of soulmates,” Damian emphasizes; Tim notices he didn’t bother correcting Steph’s assessment of Bruce. “I will not make a total fool over the person I have been assigned.”

“First of all, soulmates aren’t assigned,” Steph says, “and second, B is totally foolish over Selina. Why else does she never get sent to jail? And what do you call Alfred putting up with his bull after all these years?”

“Tt. Perhaps you have a point.” Damian seems to reconsider, before glancing at Tim with a frown.  “I suppose in this, you’ve had some luck, Drake.”

That brings him up short, both the implied compliment and the sentiment behind it. “…How?”

“Your soulmate is dead.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence in the room.

“Damian!” Steph cries, sitting up and dislodging Cass’s fingers to stare at him in horror. “You can’t say stuff like that!”

“Why not? It’s true.”

Now would be the time to correct everyone. Tim doesn’t bother.

“That’s not—I meant you shouldn’t wish your soulmate was dead, especially since you haven’t even met them yet.”

“I hope I never do,” Damian insists. “Look at Drake—his soulmate cannot be exploited as a weakness by some clever criminal. He will never have to lie about his identity if the individual turns out to have questionable morals—consider how long Father was forced to hide his identity from Catwoman. And Drake is now free to pursue or avoid any relationship he wishes, without having to worry it will be interrupted by the untimely arrival of a soulmate.” His expression smooths a little, becoming more thoughtful than petulant. “He is free in a way none of us are.”

Cass tilts her head to one side. “That is oddly…insightful of you.”

“And really kind of depressing,” Steph groans.

“And my cue to leave,” Tim says, standing. He forces an easy tone. “If Damian starts envying me, the Apocalypse must be about to start. I should get an early start to patrol just in case.”

“No, Tim! Stay—see what you did, Damian? Apologize.”

“That’s not happening.”

“It’s fine,” Tim dismisses, already leaving the room. “I’ll see you guys later.”

“Be careful,” Cass cautions, her tone somehow knowing.

Tim flees before she decides to really focus on him, but not before Steph can hurry out after him.

“Hey, ignore what he said,” his ex-girlfriend says, looking both worried and intent at the same time. “He’s never had a soulmate, so he doesn’t understand how serious it is to say something like that.”

“No…it’s actually fine,” Tim assures her.

In fact, far from being insulted by Damian’s words, Tim finds himself latching on to them and the logic they represent. The last thing he wants to be is that cautionary tale, like the kid people pity who shuts down his whole life because their crush didn’t like them back.

“Are you sure?” Steph asks. “Because Cass is right, you don’t look okay tonight.”

“I really am just tired,” he insists once again. “I think I’ll skip patrol tonight. Get some sleep.”

She lets out a relieved puff of breath. “Well, that’s something at least.”

“Enjoy your movie—or your impending war with Damian over rights to the family room. Whatever.”

“Oh, he’s in for it if he tries,” Steph smiles a truly fiendish smile, similar to the one she turns on criminals before she breaks their jaw. “Night, Tim.”

“Night.”

He continues on his way to his room, while Steph turns back to the family room. She pauses though, and says, “I was thinking…if she did? Hate me, I mean?”

Tim turns his head to acknowledge her.

“I’d probably still stick around nearby,” Steph says; she rubs at her shoulder, clearly discomfited by the idea. “Just to make sure she was happy, I guess? It’d give me peace of mind, even if I couldn’t be with her. You know?”

Tim’s carefully maintained façade of functionality wavers a little. His eyes soften a bit and he offers Steph a small smile. “I do. Good thing you’ll never have to worry about that, right?”

“Yeah…”

They exchange bittersweet smiles for a moment. Tim bets she’s remembering the day it became clear she and Tim wouldn’t ever be anything more than friends. Then Steph disappears into the family room.

Tim strolls down the corridor to his quarters, frowning with a new resolve. He doesn’t have it in him to stick around and make sure Jason is alright and happy; he can’t even think about the situation without the growing lump in his throat slicing into him.

So, it’s best to focus on filling his life with other pursuits.

From that point on, he renews his goal to immerse himself in work.

WE by day and Red Robin by night. He loads up case after case, reasoning his way through elaborate mental games with villains and rogues, and sends in work for his correspondence courses at Ivy University.

He exists on coffee and sleeping pills and four hours of sleep a night, but he’s too exhausted to fixate, and that’s the important part.

⁂⁂⁂

Next Chapter

This blog isn’t my primary, so my reblogs don’t show up very well. As such, please reblog the fic, otherwise not a lot of people are going to see it :)

<3 Violet

#jaytimweek2019 #jaytimweek #jaytim #jaytimbingo2019 #fanfic #jaytim fic #batfic #prompt: soulmate #tim drake #jason todd #stephanie brown #cassandra cain #damian wayne #a lie #bright vivid colors #danger #enemies to lovers #soulmate aversion #soulmark tattoo #angst #drama #romance #introspection #pining

[beyondthedreamline]

You reblogged a post from my side blog about Thor! It made me happy because I’ve been following you for 2 years and I really respect your opinions. I was starting to doubt my righteous anger because I saw people say that those who didn’t like EG!Thor were fake fatphobic Ragnarok!Thor fans, no matter their reasons. I am glad to see we share the feeling of disappointment, even though I’m satisfied with Thor’s final development as a big bearded warrior and looking forward to the rest of his story.

Thankyou for that! I appreciated your post very much because itarticulated a couple of points that had bothered me a lot. ApparentlyI still have feelings on this subject, so be warned, you’re in fora bit of an essay now.

Firstoff, I care a lot about Thor as a character. I love Norse mythology,I love Douglas Adams’ The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul, Ilove nearly every iteration of Thor as a character that I have everencountered and I love him as a superhero. I enjoyed all of thestandalone Thor movies very much. I have more mixed feelings aboutthe Avengers ensemble movies, but there was no member of the team Iactively did not like and I kept up with most of their solo moviestoo, because I enjoy superhero films as a genre and because theMarvel universe is a very rich playing ground for a whole range ofstories.

Therewas a lot of emotional investment in these last two films –Infinity War and Endgame are the conclusion to years ofworld-building and character development, weaving in dozens ofbackstories and in jokes, all the hellos and goodbyes and moments ofcatharsis that we have been waiting on for years. That is a massive askof any storyteller and there were always going to be disappointments,because with the best will in the world there is no chance ofpleasing every viewer. And this is fandom; perfection is unachievable and disagreement isinevitable. The best we can do is handle disagreements with grace and respect one another’s perspectives.

All.That. Said.

Forme, Infinity War andEndgame failed pretty much everycharacter, one way or another. Other people have written eloquent posts on theway these storylines failed the female characters of the franchise,whose motivations are mostly subsumed by the wants and needs of themen around them. Gamora ismurdered by the man who abducted and abused her, but her death isframed as hissacrifice, a way to advance hisjourney. ClintBarton becomes a grief-driven vigilante serial killer in otherpeople’s countries, but he gets absolution and Natasha ‘red in myledger’ Romanoff dies the martyr’s death in his place. PeggyCarter, furious brave Peggy Carter, becomes a literal trophywife in a goddamn Gordion knot of time-travel nonsense. SteveRogers brought war onto thesoil of a peaceful and well-defended African nation and a whole armywas sent out to fight because he couldn’t face losing a friend, butat the very end he ditches every single friend he’s got in the 21stcentury in order to experience a white picket fence of a happy endingthat erases all of his character development since TheFirst Avenger.

Andthen there’s Thor. Over the course of his three solo movies, he’slost his mother, his father, his brother (multipletimes), his girlfriend (thankgoodness she’s still alive, but it looks like she got Darcy andEric in the break-up), his planet,most of his peopleand all peace of mind.Throughout that litany of suffering, he is kind. He is patient. Hegrows as a man and as a leader, listening to the knowledge of thepeople around him in order to make decisions that benefit everyone,not just himself. He isintelligent, though often underestimated even by those closest tohim. He is capableand resourceful and a friendto anyone who needs him, the very definition of what a superheroought to be.

I’mgoing to talk about schema here for a second. A schema is a cognitiveframework. It’s a psychology term referring to how we organiseinformation based on preconceived ideas. Stories shape perception,telling us what is good and what is bad, what can happen and whatcannot. There is a very narrow pre-existing framework defining what asuperhero can look likeand it’s a shock to the system when that gets challenged. I wasshocked by seeing a fat Thor, and I’m glad of it – it means I hadto think more criticallyabout my personal preconceptions. Thiscould have been a wonderful storyline,dealing with PTSD, bodyimage and negotiating self-perception in the wake of grief andregret. It could have been apositive portrayal of a fat superhero, which outside of maybe comics– which I don’t read and can’t speak for – is absolutely anew and needed thing. It could have offered a vital reminder that howa person’s worth and strength and skill is not bound to theirphysical appearance.

Itdid not do that.

Asyou pointed out in your post, Thor was turned into a sidekick. Morethan that, he was turned into ajoke that revolved around his weight and his trauma, like he was notentitled be anything other than brawn.While Tony Stark gotan emotionally charged reunion with his long-dead father, Thor’sdialogue with Frigga soundedlike a badfirst draft, a scene rushed through with no respect for eithercharacter. He calls her ‘mom’; she tells him to ‘eat a salad’.He walks straight past Loki, the brother he wept over time and again,who died under absurd narrative contrivance about five minutes ago byAsgardian standards. Steve Rogers wasallowed the time to starewistfully at a woman he once lovedbut Thor wasrushed through his own reunion like he waswasting everyone’s time by being sad.

Thoris not permitted to contribute to the narrative in any meaningfulway; where every other lead Avenger hits a beat, however dubious orminor, that establishes theirpurpose in the story, Thoraccomplishes nothing of significance in strategy, battleor reconstruction. The powerdisplayed in Ragnarok and,in a more hit-and-miss style, in Infinity War, isabsent in Endgame. Hissignature weapon is actually handed off to another Avenger. He’snot even allowed to remain a leader of his people. And, look, I loveValkyrie as a character, but she spent centuries as a boozed-upmercenary enslaving gladiators for a glam-rock despot and it took theactual apocalypse to get her to give a damn about the fate of Asgardagain, so the idea that Thor taking a few years off to grieve in away that only harmed himself somehow makes him unfit to rule is atruly staggering double standard. Instead of continuing his growth as a king, he gets shoehorned intosomeone else’s franchise to bicker pointlessly over who gets tomake any decisions at all. I don’t know if Chris Hemsworth is upfor making more movies with Marvel, but I do not trust them to give Thor ameaningful arc any more. Where can he go from here?

Thiswas not an ensemble movie – this was the last Iron Man movie, withCaptain America taking second billing and every other characterscrambling for scraps of narrative significance. Endgamemademe resent characters I usedto like. Italienated me from a series that used to be a source of comfort.It hurts. Not as muchas it did, because I’ve emotionally checked out of the MCU for now,but apart from any other consideration, that level of storytellingfailure offends me.

Iwill acknowledge that Thor’s hair was very good in the big battlesequence. That’s one of the few positive things I have to say aboutEndgame. Great braids.

Youknow what I’d have loved? I’d have loved Wakanda to offer asylumto Asgardian refugees and for a miniseries to revolve around theircross-cultural community building. Two advanced civilisations reelingin the wake of recent upheaval but working together to build a sharedfuture, and Wakanda actually getting something out of it for onceinstead of taking a hit on behalf of the Earth. Shuri would adoreAsgardian tech and she might get to ride a flying horse, whichshe deserves; T’challa andThor would have a lot of common ground what with the disappointingfather figures and modern warrior king lifestyle. Thorwould get heavily involved in agriculture and have fun playing crashdummy for Shuri’s wilder experiments. He’d arrange a travel visaso that Jane Foster could come and play with all that beautiful shinytechnology and they wouldn’t get back together but they would befriends, like they always were underneath the first glow ofattraction. Loki would be there, because to pretend he’ll stay deadat this point is just an insult to our collective intelligence, and he wouldimmediately imprint on Queen Ramonda like an extremely defensive,resentful and heavily-armed duckling.Valkyriemight get to talk through her complicated feelings about duty andbetrayal with the Dora Milaje, particularly Okoye, who couldempathiseafter the Wakandan royal family’s disastrous power struggle.Wakanda could send outintergalactic ambassadors, headed by Nakia, to start playing a rolein the wider universe. The other Avengers could visit sometimes, ifthey behaved themselves.

Soif you’re wondering where Thor goes next for me personally, that’sthe answer.

#asks #superheroes #thor #meta #endgame negativity #that turned into a rant and actually it feels really good to have channelled all my frustration into something approaching coherence #fatphobia #sexism #racism #storytelling

[lady-divine-writes]

Klaine one-shot - “Dangerous Liaisons” (Rated NC17)

Blaine has a secret he's keeping from Kurt. During what should be a normal Friday night dinner with friends and family, Blaine plans something that might literally change everything. (2768 words)

A/N:  This is a re-write featuring contract killer!Blaine. Mention of blood and killing, but nothing too gory. It's funny in a dark sort of way. I hope you enjoy it <3

Notes:

Read on AO3.

The oven timer goes off just as Kurt positions a piece of lavender fondant over the second tier of a five tiered maple walnut cake – Burt Hummel’s absolute favorite. But this version Kurt made with only egg whites to cut down on the cholesterol and applesauce instead of sugar. This way his father can indulge without going off his diet.

Kurt, too.

“Blaine! Honey!” Kurt calls, carefully laying the fondant down. He frowns when all that answers him is silence. “Blaine! Can you come in here and help me please?”

Footsteps clamor down the staircase that leads from the upper level to the living room. Half a second later, Blaine races in, dressed for dinner in slate grey slacks and a white, button-down shirt. The door swings on its hinges as he crosses the kitchen and grabs a set of pot holders hanging off the knob handle of one of the cabinets.

“Upper oven or lower oven?” he asks, dancing in front of the glass doors.

“Upper.” Kurt sighs with deep, spiritual satisfaction as the fondant drapes perfectly. “The pinwheels are ready.”

“You made pinwheels?” Blaine giggles with childish glee. “You know they’re my favorite!”

Blaine slips the quilted pot holders on his hands and pulls the top oven door open. He breathes in as a wave of hot air sweeps over him, carrying with it the savory smell of filet mignon stuffed with feta cheese, sun-dried tomatoes, and spinach – a Kurt Hummel specialty. Kurt’s pinwheels are a linchpin in their relationship. They end fights and mend fences. Kurt and Blaine celebrate every birthday/(anti)Valentine’s Day/Christmas/Arbor Day with them. His pinwheels are one of the reasons Blaine fell in love with Kurt; not that Blaine hadn’t been completely head-over-heels the moment he saw Kurt on that fated subway ride in Manhattan more than three years ago, but this dish – this delectable, mouthwatering dish – played a big part in winning Blaine Anderson’s heart.

“Well, you said to pull out all the stops.” Kurt grabs a dish towel off the counter and wipes a sheen of sweat off his forehead. He watches Blaine balance the cookie sheet of pinwheels, looking left and right for a place to set them down. Kurt gestures to the burner covers on the stove top. “This has to be the most elaborate Friday night dinner we’ve ever planned.”

“Speaking of” - Blaine sets the hot tray down – “I have to run out really quick. I forgot to get something.”

Kurt cocks his hip and tilts his head, crossing his arms over his chest, and Blaine knows he’s in for it.

“Blaine Anderson! Everyone’s going to be here in a little less than an hour, and I haven’t even gotten dressed yet!”

“You’ll pull it off. You’re a miracle worker.”

Blaine winks. Kurt rolls his eyes and returns to his cake.

“Fine, but if I’m covered in fondant when everyone arrives, I’ll blame you.”

“Please do.” Blaine comes up behind Kurt and kisses down his neck. “Then they won’t argue when I carry you away and nibble it off.”

Kurt tries not to giggle, but he can’t help it, the image of Blaine eating lavender-tinted fondant off of his naked body both erotic and hilarious … though hilarious is winning.

“Fine, fine.” Kurt waves a hand to dismiss his boyfriend before he starts sucking on his neck and leaving marks Kurt will never have enough time to cover up. “Just be quick about it.”

“Super quick. I promise,” Blaine says, swatting Kurt on the ass as he backs away and heads out the door.

“And pick up another bottle of wine while you’re out,” Kurt calls after him.

“Red or white?”

“Red!”

Kurt sighs, looking down the length of his kitchen counter, piled high with half-decorated cookies, a pan of rising bread dough, and tray after tray of appetizers.

“Jerk,” he mutters under his breath, returning to his task with a grin growing hot on his face at the thought of what else he could get Blaine to eat off his body.

***

Blaine slips on black leather gloves as he rushes down Broadway, cutting through back alleys and keeping to the shadows to avoid being noticed. But the cloak-and-dagger stuff isn’t necessary. The sidewalks are packed with people too wrapped up in their own lives to notice another businessman in a long, black coat walking among the crowd. He keeps his coat collar popped and his eyes lowered as he weaves in and out of mobs waiting at the corners for the lights to change or huddled near a bus stop, gathered around the metal overhang to avoid the light rain that’s started to fall.

The crowd thins in the direction Blaine’s going, and he smiles.

Perfect.

He creeps behind a corner, ducking into a sheltered spot with a clear view of the store door. He sticks close to the brick wall and waits.

Any minute now, he’ll get what he came for.

His mark is a jewelry store owner – a suspected terrorist sympathizer with possible links to Al Qaeda. Blaine doesn’t know for sure. He didn’t ask questions. He’s not paid to know the details. Blaine accepted the job immediately when he heard about it. He felt it was offered to him as an act of providence. It answered a crucial question, one that he had been mulling over for months now.

This job gave him the perfect opportunity to get something that he needed.

Blaine stands stock still, eyes darting from the door, to the alley, to the street, to the buildings all around. He remains hyper-aware of his surroundings - the homeless man asleep in the alley across the way, the bodega owner on the corner sweeping his stoop, two kids riding bikes who seem way too young to be out so late. He hears the bells on the door jingle and he knows the time has come.

He counts in his head, ticking off the seconds, what’s left of his time here in the alley …

… what’s left of a stranger’s time on earth.

Footsteps approach, unhurried, shuffling slightly on the pavement, stopping for a second when the shop owner checks his pockets for his keys, and then starting again. Blaine sees an arm swing forward and he pounces, locking on to an elbow and securing a hand over his mouth before the startled man can even think to scream. Blaine drags him kicking and cursing down the alley till they’re far enough from the street to avoid being seen. Blaine isn’t too concerned with the tenants of the apartments nearby. From what he can tell, the decrepit buildings house immigrants, addicts, and elderly on fixed incomes - people who are rarely inclined to talk to the police.

Blaine tosses the man up against a brick wall, trapping him in a space between two large dumpsters. The man blinks into the darkness, and Blaine waits for his eyes to adjust so he can see his face clearly.

“Mr. … Mr. Smythe?” the man stutters in confusion. Blaine grins like the apex predator he is at the sound of his mark calling him by his pseudonym, the name of his nemesis in the game - an old friend from high school who Blaine is more than certain calls himself Mr. Anderson when he contracts out. “Was … was there something else you n-needed?”

“Yes, actually.” Blaine opens his coat. He pulls out his concealed Glock, taking a dramatic moment to fit a silencer to the barrel. The man swallows hard as Blaine stares at him amused, twisting the silencer slowly until it threads completely.

“I … I don’t understand.” The man looks from the gun to Blaine, and back to the gun.

“There’s nothing to understand,” Blaine says. “I’m going to kill you. You’re going to die.”

The man steps back, stumbling into the wall behind him, and his knees give way. He slides to the ground, his entire body shuddering uncontrollably, fear welling in his dull, brown eyes.

“P-please,” the man whimpers. “I s-swear to God, I did nothing wrong!”

“I don’t know your God,” Blaine says with a shake of his head. “But if I’m here, then chances are you did something to deserve it.”

Blaine aims his gun. The man makes a pitiful, choked sound.

“I have money,” he sniffles, bargaining with what little time he has left. “You can have it. All of it. Anything you want, I’ll give to you. I’ll …”

The man cowering on the filthy cement, pleading for his life, gets cut short by a high, lilting melody coming from somewhere in the vicinity of Blaine’s pants. Both men freeze and stare awkwardly at each other. The tune continues, then repeats, and in spite of literally looking death in the face, the shop owner chuckles.

“Is … is that from the musical Wicked?”

“Shut it!” Blaine snaps, reaching into his pocket with his free hand to find his phone. “That’s my boyfriend’s ringtone. It happens to be his favorite song.”

Blaine’s eyes flick to the screen. He notices the man on the ground out of the corner of his eye making moves to run. Blaine waves his weapon in the man’s face and points it at his head.

“Don’t get any ideas,” he warns, “I’m faster than you think,” and glances back at the screen.

From: Kurt

You’re the one that invited everyone we know in the world over here and you’re late! Where the hell are you? You’re in huge trouble, mister! Get your ass back here NOW!

From: Kurt

Don’t forget the wine.

“I won’t forget the wine,” Blaine grumbles, shoving his phone back in his pocket. The shop owner sees an opportunity. Using this distraction, he rushes Blaine and grabs for his gun. Blaine anticipates it. He knew the man would. They always do. Without flinching, Blaine fires, putting a bullet neatly through the man’s skull, right between his eyes. But instead of falling straight back, the man spins oddly, teetering on his heels. He lurches forward on twisted ankles and lands on Blaine, covering his neck and shirt in blood as he slides down Blaine’s body.

“Ugh!” Blaine groans, hopping out of the path of the dead man dropping to the cement. “Damn it!” Blaine looks at his shirt, the spatters and smudges of blood trailing down to his slacks. “Shit, shit, shit!” Blaine kicks the dead man’s shoulder in frustration. “How am I supposed to cover this up?” he asks, as if the corpse will suddenly wake and start brainstorming options.

“Fuck fuck fuck …” Blaine chants as he struggles with the body, lifting it into the dumpster with a grunt and tossing it inside. He’s not worried about the bullet lodged in the dead man’s skull. He knows the police will dig it out and trace it, and when they do, they’ll find it belongs to a Glock 23, just like his, owned by Clarissa Mildred Porter of West Fargo, North Dakota, an 89-year-old lady who passed away three years ago, and whose personal protection weapon was never recovered after her death.

Not that Blaine killed her.

No women or children – that’s a rule he lives by.

Diabetes and a long standing love of cigarettes and bacon killed her. He just ended up with her gun.

Blaine doesn’t leave the neighborhood the way he came. He still sticks to the shadows, but now he has to jump a few fences and cut through a couple of sketchy-looking backyards to make his way back to Kurt’s house in the East Village unseen.

Blaine loves Kurt’s little house. It’s more of a cottage, with vines trailing up the aging brick, its enclosed patio shrouded by the overhanging branches of a few large trees, completely obscured from the sidewalk not fifteen feet away. Blaine can’t even count the amount of times they’ve made love beneath those trees in broad daylight, outside the notice of parents walking their kids to the daycare down the street, and college kids rushing by on their way to NYU.

Blaine loves how turned on Kurt gets doing something taboo.

The house is nestled in a fairly exclusive neighborhood. Kurt swore once that he saw Michelle Williams walk by with her daughter Matilda, and even though both men agreed that they love her work in Brokeback Mountain, they were far too eager to get started on round two to throw on their clothes and find out.

Blaine looks at his ruined clothes and curses. How is he going to explain this to Kurt?

Blaine tiptoes to the back door, eyeing the sidewalk and the front of the house, watching for signs that their friends saw him approach from the side street and are running out to meet him. He opens the door and peers into the kitchen. Loud talking and boisterous laughter coming from the living room tell him that everyone they invited over for dinner tonight showed up. There’s no way he’ll be able to sneak past them without being seen. He opts for the stairs in the back of the house that lead up to the second floor balcony. They’re vintage - cast iron and in need of some repair, so they’re going to squeak like a motherfucker. But hopefully everyone is too distracted with catching up and Kurt’s delicious cooking to notice. He backs away, heading out of the kitchen on his way to the door as Kurt bustles in from the living room carrying an empty tray.

“Oh, great! Blaine!” Kurt gushes, putting down the tray on the nearest empty surface and rushing forward to greet his boyfriend. “You’re back! I …” Kurt stops dead, coming to a halt so suddenly that he trips over his own feet at the sight in front of him: Blaine -his clothes, his skin, his disheveled hair, spattered in blood. “I … I …” Kurt raises a hand to his mouth, his jaw dropped, eyes widening in horror.

“Kurt …” Blaine raises his hands, inching forward slowly, preparing for the chance that Kurt might run off “… I can explain.”

“You’re … you’re covered in bl-blood!” Kurt’s eyes rake over him from head to toe while, in his mind, he searches for the right words to express his feelings, his confusion, his anger. “You … you … you idiot! Blaine!” Kurt advances, icy blue eyes threatening to slice him apart. “You knew we were going to have a house full of people! Why did you have to go and take a job tonight?”

Kurt glares at Blaine’s soiled clothes, and the smears of blood around his collar, staining his neck. He recoils with disgust and a disapproving shake of his head.

“For Christ’s sake!” Kurt laments in a whisper harsh enough to cut glass. “Did you hit him over the head with a sledgehammer?”

Blaine opens his coat and lets Kurt see the Glock in his holster. Kurt tuts. He takes his dish towel and wraps it around Blaine’s gun, shoving it in the trash can concealed beneath the sink for the time being. He gives Blaine another once over, Blaine’s face fighting to look repentant, but darkening with lust at the way Kurt fusses over him. Kurt throws his hands up in exasperation.

“And you forgot the wine.”

Blaine snickers, leaning in to kiss Kurt’s neck, seeking out that spot that makes Kurt forgive everything.

“But I promise I brought home something better.”

Blaine’s lips barely brush Kurt’s skin when a hand to his chest stops him.

“Not now,” Kurt smirks. “We don’t have time. Go upstairs. I’ll cover for you.”

“What about my clothes?” Blaine asks, watching Kurt do a last second tidy in the kitchen, pausing to wash traces of blood off his hands.

“They’re ruined,” Kurt says definitively. “I don’t have enough pre-treater in the world to get all that out. We’ll stick them in the incinerator and get you a new outfit tomorrow.”

“Really?” Blaine asks, blown away even after all these years at how nonplussed Kurt can behave under pressure.

“Of course.” Kurt turns at the kitchen door and gives Blaine a wink. “You look hot in it.” He pushes through and returns to the gathering with not a single chestnut hair out of place.

Oh yeah, Blaine thinks, a smug smile on his face as he walks out the door and hurries up the stairs, patting his pants pocket and the tiny ring box it holds. He’s chomping at the bit for later tonight when he gets the chance to give it to Kurt. I am definitely marrying that man.

#klaine fanfiction #klaine fic #klaine #Dark!Blaine #Frankie writes

[emmerrr]

Would you do a pynch for the the ♔ prompt?

 anonymous asked: I’m a sucker for your pynch stories! ♕ pls 

♔: Finding the other wearing their clothes

♕: Holding hands

I combined these two prompts I hope that’s okay! also I’ve already done a prompt before of adam wearing ronan’s clothes and you can find that here. I’ve gone the other way around this time :)

also, please don’t send me anymore now. I have so many. so many…

Adam’s practically skipping on his way back to his dorm. It might be something to do with the weather. Sure, it’s freezing out but it’s sunny, autumn leaves littering the ground, just right for crunching. It’s enough to put anyone in a good mood. Some of it could be attributed to the returned essay that’s currently in his satchel, awarded with an almost perfect score.

But Adam knows that the real reason for his high spirits is that there’s a boy in his room waiting for him to finish classes.

A Ronan Lynch shaped boy.

Because of the distance, Ronan had driven up on Thursday, arriving late at night. It gave him the chance to relax in Adam’s room and recover from the long drive while Adam was at his Friday classes. Then he’d leave again Monday morning, but it at least meant they had the entire weekend together.

Adam’s very glad he doesn’t have a roommate this year.

When he gets back to his room, the curtains are pulled closed, and Ronan is sprawled on Adam’s bed, fast asleep. He’s on his front, one arm dangling down out of the bed and towards the floor, the other tucked underneath him. 

As peaceful as he looks, Adam needs to wake him up. He’ll never sleep tonight otherwise, and besides, he’s gonna get killer pins-and-needles lying like that.

“Hey,” Adam says, running a hand gently up Ronan’s arm.

Ronan’s eyes stutter and then blink open, and he looks at Adam with a thick-lidded gaze as sleep still clings to him. 

“You’re back,” Ronan says huskily.

“Yep. Rise and shine, sleeping beauty.”

“Fuck off,” Ronan says, and he rolls over onto his back, shaking out his arm.

Adam pauses. “Ronan.”

“Yes, Parrish.”

“You’re wearing my Harvard hoodie.”

Ronan crosses his arms immediately, covering the large white letters of Adam’s university.

“Am not.”

Adam tuts and shakes his head. “What a dirty, rotten lie, Ronan Lynch.”

Ronan widens his eyes with faux-innocence, but the act doesn’t last and he snorts. “Whatever, Parrish. It got cold in here and your nerd sweater was the only thing I could find.”

“That’s so interesting, because I can actually see your hoodie hanging over the back of my chair. And yet you went into my closet to get out one of mine.” Adam puts his thumb and forefinger to his chin like he’s pondering some great mystery. “So curious.”

Ronan throws the pillow at him. “You, Adam Parrish, are such a little shit.” Then he lunges forward and grabs Adam around the middle, manhandling him onto the bed and getting him into a headlock.

Adam laughs and tries to twist away, elbowing Ronan in the side. “I might be a little shit, but you’re a giant dork.”

Ronan releases him with a smirk. “Alright, you caught me. I’m wearing your fuckin’ hoodie. It’s comfy as hell and it smells like you.”

Adam can’t handle this. “Ronan,” he complains, then crawls into Ronan’s lap and hides his face in Ronan’s neck. “You’re such a sap.”

Ronan makes a disgruntled noise but his arms wrap around Adam, keeping him where he is. “Maybe. Don’t tell anyone.”

A little later, after Ronan’s given Adam a proper welcome back from class, Adam opens up the curtains to let the light of the day in for what little time it has remaining.

He turns to Ronan. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“For a walk. I need to get a couple things from the store anyway, and you need some fresh air.”

Ronan wrinkles his nose distastefully. “This is college air. It’s not fresh.”

“Okay, first of all, fuck you. And second of all, shut up, you’re coming. The cold air will wake you up properly.”

Ronan grumbles about it, but Adam still gets him out the door, and it’s inordinately pleasing somehow to have Ronan out in public wearing an item of clothing that is not only Adam’s, but that has the name of his school embossed across the front.

Adam takes them the scenic route to the store, through the park. There’s a few people still about, but not many. The sun’s just about starting to go down, and with it goes the temperature. Adam can feel the chill of the air creeping up his fingers.

Ronan’s hands are always warm.

It’s second nature to reach out and take Ronan’s hand; also familiar is the way Ronan’s automatically closes around it. There used to be a time when Ronan would look vaguely surprised if Adam held his hand, as if he couldn’t quite believe it was happening, but not any more.

They’ve both grown.

“Your hands are fucking freezing, Parrish,” Ronan grumbles, rubbing his thumb across Adam’s knuckles.

“I know.” Adam hip-checks him. “But yours aren’t.”

Ronan sighs. “Is that all I am now? Your personal radiator?”

Adam smirks. “Amongst other things.”

Ronan opens his mouth, no doubt on a snarky reply, but then his attention snags on something further ahead and his eyes positively gleam.

“Oh, heads up, Adam,” he says, and that’s the only warning Adam’s given before Ronan takes off at a run without dropping Adam’s hand.

He’s towed along, laughing breathlessly, and it soon becomes clear where he’s being led when he spots the pile of leaves at the side of the path. Ronan leaps in with a delighted, “Whoop!”, dragging Adam on through.

The leaves are every bit as crunchy as Ronan evidently hoped they’d be, as he jumps around like a five year old.

When he’s finished, he looks at Adam and grins. “That,” he says emphatically, “was really fuckin’ satisfying.”

Adam hooks his hands in the pocket of his hoodie and pulls Ronan towards him. He doesn’t need to ask Ronan to kiss him; he’s already there, warm calloused hands cupping his neck, thumbs grazing his jaw, lips on his lips.

Every minute not spent kissing Ronan Lynch is a wasted one, in Adam’s opinion.

Eventually, Ronan pulls away with an impossibly smug smile and takes Adam’s hand again. “C’mon, Parrish. To the store.”

The sooner they get what they need, the sooner they can get back to Adam’s room. “To the store,” he agrees.

It’s almost completely dark by the time they get there, and the carpark is almost empty. They pass an abandoned trolley as they cut through and Ronan, inevitably, pulls Adam to a stop.

He brings both of Adam’s hands to his mouth and kisses his knuckles. “Adam, he says sweetly. “Get in the trolley.”

Adam sighs. He rolls his eyes.

He gets in the trolley.

#the raven cycle #pynch #trc fic #tumblr prompts #trc

[jillmckenzie1]

A Man of Focus

Let’s begin with something that’s indisputable. On April 1, 2009, Alfonso Hernandez and Michael Edmonds thought it would be funny to shoot a dog dead. Why? All cruelty has ever needed to flourish is an opportunity. In this case, Hernandez and Edmonds saw a yellow Labrador puppy outside a home. They shot the dog with a .357 Magnum pistol, then stood over her body, laughing.

In addition to being evil, this was a seriously dumb move. The puppy’s name was Dasy. Her guardian was Marcus Luttrell, a SEAL team member awarded the Navy Cross for heroism in combat while serving in Afghanistan. He was the only survivor of a particularly vicious firefight. Dasy was given to Luttrell to help with the healing process. Her name is an acronym for the names of the men Luttrell served alongside.

Armed with a pistol, Luttrell snuck up on Hernandez and Edmonds. He took aim. They saw him, hopped in their car, and fled. Undeterred, Luttrell pursued them in his pickup. Across three counties. For 40 miles at speeds approaching 100 miles per hour. During the chase, Luttrell was on the phone with a 911 operator, and he was quoted as saying, “You need to get someone out here because if I catch them, I’m going to kill them.”*

Does that sound a little familiar? This is how myths are born. A real event happens. A storyteller takes the core event and runs with it. Yet a great deal of our modern mythology is found in movies, and it doesn’t all have to do with the Avengers. One of the latest additions to American film mythology, 2014’s John Wick, told the story of a grieving widower who received a preposterously cute puppy as the last gift from his wife. Assorted scumbags kill the puppy and take the widower’s car. Did I mention that the widower is a legendarily lethal assassin? The film wasn’t just a hit—it cemented itself as a benchmark, a necessary addition to action cinema. Now, the maybe-or-maybe-not conclusion of the trilogy, John Wick: Chapter 3 – Parabellum, has arrived. Holy hell, has it ever.

All three films are tightly plotted together, and in order to understand what the heck has happened, you need to either have seen the preceding two films or read this handy recap.

In the first film, Wick (Keanu Reeves) was able to get revenge for the death of his puppy Daisy by killing a lot of bad people. When John Wick: Chapter Two gets going, Wick is immediately dealing with the theft of his car. He’s also reluctantly drawn into a plot by Santino (Riccardo Scamarcio), a crook with dreams of ascending to the High Table, the ruling council of a global criminal syndicate. Things went sideways. Wick ended up killing the hell out of Santino. Unfortunately, he did this at The Continental, a hotel for assassins and safe ground. “Conducting business” is a no-no at The Continental, and Wick conducted business extremely enthusiastically.

So, does Wick get a slap on the wrist and a stern lecture from Winston (Ian McShane), the manager of The Continental? He does not. Instead, Wick has been declared excommunicado. There’s a $14 million price on his head, and every killer is crawling out of the woodwork just to take their shot.** This is where Chapter Three begins. Wick is a pretty sharp cookie, and he has both a short-term and long-term plan.

The short-term plan is to brutally kill anyone who comes after him, and he does so hilariously at the New York Public Library. The long-term plan is to head for Casablanca, track down The Elder—the head of the High Table, and make amends. To do that, he’ll need to first ask The Director (Anjelica Huston) for help getting him out of the United States. Next, he’ll need to find Sofia (Halle Berry), a disgruntled former associate, and ask for her help. Sounds like a cakewalk, right?

While all of Wick’s globetrotting and head smashing is going on, the High Table is making its own moves. They have sent out The Adjudicator (Asia Kate Dillon) to punish everyone involved with helping Wick in the past. Both Winston and The Bowery King (Laurence Fishburne) are informed they have seven days to relinquish control of their empires. The Adjudicator has the muscle to enforce this, as she’s brought along Zero (Mark Dacascos), a sushi chef/ninja who’s also a massive fan and rival of John Wick.

These days, action/adventure movies can be broadly separated into two categories. The first is FX heavy, consisting of your MCU and Star Wars films. By utilizing CGI, filmmakers can bring us everything from Daisy Ridley jumping over a TIE fighter to Josh Brolin throwing a moon at Robert Downey Jr. There’s an artistry to CGI that, when utilized by the right people, the results can be spectacular. Equally spectacular is the second category, films that lean hard into stunt choreography. These films are like a dance, requiring intense precision and training.

John Wick: Chapter 3 is directed by Chad Stahelski, one of the most talented and innovative stunt professionals working today. Watch how he shoots action sequences. Instead of dizzying edits, we can see long takes and appreciate the extensive training his cast and crew went through. His decades of experience brought us well-shot and innovative action scenes involving gunplay, knife fights, horse-fu, motorcycle chases, death by book, and a dog running up a wall to maul a luckless henchman.*** There is an exhausting amount of action here. Stahelski has also made a genuinely gorgeous-looking film. He’s got a knack for arresting imagery, everything from neon reflected in rainy streets to golden sand dunes. It all comes together to feel operatic, bigger than a regular action movie. I loved it, and my only criticism with his direction is that the pacing occasionally feels a little sluggish.

Returning writer Derek Kolstad, along with co-writers Shay Hatten, Chris Collins, and Marc Abrams, have delivered unto us a good news/bad news scenario. The good news is that Parabellum very nearly hits the sweet spot between the intensity of the first film and the fascinating world-building of the second. We learn more about the Continental, the High Table, and even a little of the origins of Wick himself. The script also feels like a meditation on fame and how it feels. Everywhere Wick goes, people recognize him and want a piece of him, and in the end, he just wants people to leave him the hell alone so he can grieve for his wife and play with his dog.

The bad news is that as much as we learn more about the world of John Wick, we don’t learn as much about how Wick and the other characters feel about it. During the first film, Keanu Reeves digs into a meaty performance—one of the best of his career. Ever had a loved one pass away, and while you’re trying to deal with their loss, the world keeps intruding? That’s what the first film is really about—a genuinely evil man who’s given a possibly unearned chance to redeem himself, and how that redemption falls apart. At this point in the series, so much has been taken away from John Wick. If an action scene had been trimmed and a bit more time had been devoted to emotional combat, we might have had a film that delivered an even bigger impact.

There’s never a moment with the cast where I was disappointed. Laurence Fishburne’s booming hamminess. Ian McShane’s worn-out elegance. Mark Dacascos’ nerdy enthusiasm. It’s all delightful. Anjelica Huston shows up for a minute as the sly head of a school for killers, and improv legend Jason Mantzoukas even appears briefly. I thoroughly enjoyed Halle Berry as Sofia, and she’s able to bring something real to a role that was a little smaller than I would have liked. Despite having won an Academy Award, I think Berry has never quite gotten the respect she deserves as a performer. Here, she’s put in serious tactical training, dog training, and on top of all that, she delivers an emotionally touching moment.

If the John Wick franchise is an ever-expanding wheel of bizarre rituals and crazy characters, Keanu Reeves is the still center. I’d love to get a look at the script, as I suspect he has no more than 200 lines of dialogue. It’s unfortunate that the kind of acting that Reeves is doing here will go largely unappreciated. Other actors would be tempted to go big. Reeves keeps things locked down, and his legendary blankness is actually a mask of professionalism hiding a grieving man in search of a little order. Consider an early scene located at the library. Wick has gone there to retrieve some necessary supplies hidden in a book, along with a photo of his wife. An assassin takes a shot at him. They fight, and Wick uses the book as a viciously effective weapon. Once the combat has finished, Wick takes the time to put the book back exactly where it goes. That moment tells you everything you need to know, and Reeves sells it perfectly.

Is the character of John Wick really based on Marcus Luttrell and the horrific night of April 1, 2009? I don’t know. While I’ve read in some places that he was an inspiration, I suspect it doesn’t really matter. What matters in a myth isn’t necessarily its origins. Strip away the guns, blades, and mayhem, and John Wick: Chapter 3 – Parabellum feels like an opera, myth, or folk tale. Heightened themes, a story told through violence, and a man forced to confront what he truly is.

    *As a fast side note, Hernandez and Edmonds both pled guilty to animal cruelty. Hernandez got two years in state prison with a $1000 fine. They went a little easier on Edmonds, as he testified against his buddy and was sentenced to five years of felony probation.

**One of my favorite things about this franchise is the idea that New York alone is home to something like 600,000 professional killers. Think about that next time you stiff your server on the tip.

***This may look like a CGI pooch, but trust me when I tell you it ain’t. Click here to learn more about the stunt and the Very Good Boy who handled it.

from Blog https://ondenver.com/a-man-of-focus/

[bookedsuccess]

DAY TWENTY FOUR

The Book “Letters from a Self-Made Merchant Son” in Three Sentences

Summary by James Clear

This book is a series of letters written by a successful entrepreneur, John Graham, to his son offering various pieces of advice throughout the boy’s college years and early career. For example, 1) It isn’t so much knowing a whole lot, as knowing a little and how to use it that counts. 2) Putting off an easy thing makes it hard, and putting off a hard one makes it impossible. 3) A good wife doubles a man’s expenses and doubles his happiness, and that’s a pretty good investment if a fellow’s got the money to invest. And many other insights.

Letters from a Self-Made Merchant to His Son summary

This is my book summary of Letters from a Self-Made Merchant to His Son by John Graham. My notes are informal and often contain quotes from the book as well as my own thoughts. This summary includes key lessons and important passages from the book.

You’ll find that education’s about the only thing lying around loose in this world, and that it’s about the only thing a fellow can have as much of as he’s willing to haul away.

Some men learn the value of money by not having any and starting out to pry a few dollars loose from the odd millions that are lying around; and some learn it by having fifty thousand or so left to them and starting out to spend it as if it were fifty thousand a year. Some men learn the value of truth by having to do business with liars; and some by going to Sunday School. Some men learn the cussedness of whiskey by having a drunken father; and some by having a good mother. Some men get an education from other men and newspapers and public libraries; and some get it from professors and parchments—it doesn’t make any special difference how you get a half-nelson on the right thing, just so you get it and freeze on to it.

The first thing that any education ought to give a man is character, and the second thing is education.

I know a young fellow with the right sort of stuff in him preaches to himself harder than any one else can, and that he’s mighty often switched off the right path by having it pointed out to him in the wrong way.

I’m anxious that you should be a good scholar, but I’m more anxious that you should be a good clean man.

Education’s a good deal like eating—a fellow can’t always tell which particular thing did him good, but he can usually tell which one did him harm.

College doesn’t make fools; it develops them. It doesn’t make bright men; it develops them. A fool will turn out a fool, whether he goes to college or not, though he’ll probably turn out a different sort of a fool.

It isn’t so much knowing a whole lot, as knowing a little and how to use it that counts.

The sooner you adjust your spending to what your earning capacity will be, the easier they will find it to live together.

I can’t hand out any ready-made success to you. It would do you no good, and it would do the house harm. There is plenty of room at the top here, but there is no elevator in the building.

Pay day is always a month off for the spend-thrift, and he is never able to realize more than sixty cents on any dollar that comes to him. But a dollar is worth one hundred and six cents to a good business man, and he never spends the dollar. It’s the man who keeps saving up and expenses down that buys an interest in the concern.

The boy who does anything just because the other fellows do it is apt to scratch a poor man’s back all his life.

Some men learn all they know from books; others from life; both kinds are narrow.

Some men learn all they know from books; others from life; both kinds are narrow. The first are all theory; the second are all practice.

I wanted you to form good mental habits, just as I want you to have clean, straight physical ones.

It’s not what a man does during working-hours, but after them, that breaks down his health.

A clear mind is one that is swept clean of business at six o’clock every night and isn’t opened up for it again until after the shutters are taken down next morning.

Putting off an easy thing makes it hard, and putting off a hard one makes it impossible.

Habits rule a man’s life.

On travel: Seeing the world is like charity—it covers a multitude of sins, and, like charity, it ought to begin at home.

Have something to say. Say it. Stop talking.

It’s all right when you are calling on a girl or talking with friends after dinner to run a conversation like a Sunday-school excursion, with stops to pick flowers; but in the office your sentences should be the shortest distance possible between periods.

It’s easier to look wise than to talk wisdom. Say less than the other fellow and listen more than you talk; for when a man’s listening he isn’t telling on himself and he’s flattering the fellow who is.

You’ll read a good deal about “love at first sight” in novels, and there may be something in it for all I know; but I’m dead certain there’s no such thing as love at first sight in business. A man’s got to keep company a long time, and come early and stay late and sit close, before he can get a girl or a job worth having.

All he ever needed was a few hundred for a starter, and to get that he’d decide to let me in on the ground floor. I want to say right here that whenever any one offers to let you in on the ground floor it’s a pretty safe rule to take the elevator to the roof garden.

I want to say right here that whenever any one offers to let you in on the ground floor it’s a pretty safe rule to take the elevator to the roof garden.

I don’t know anything that a young business man ought to keep more entirely to himself than his dislikes, unless it is his likes. It’s generally expensive to have either, but it’s bankruptcy to tell about them.

Superiority makes every man feel its equal. It is courtesy without condescension; affability without familiarity; self-sufficiency without selfishness; simplicity without snide.

There’s no easier way to cure foolishness than to give a man leave to be foolish. And the only way to show a fellow that he’s chosen the wrong business is to let him try it.

I want to say right here that the easiest way in the world to make enemies is to hire friends.

Get the scent in your nostrils and keep your nose to the ground, and don’t worry too much about the end of the chase. The fun of the thing’s in the run and not in the finish.

The fun of the thing’s in the run and not in the finish.

Never marry a poor girl who’s been raised like a rich one. She’s simply traded the virtues of the poor for the vices of the rich without going long on their good points. To marry for money or to marry without money is a crime. There’s no real objection to marrying a woman with a fortune, but there is to marrying a fortune with a woman.

While you are at it, there’s nothing like picking out a good-looking wife, because even the handsomest woman looks homely sometimes, and so you get a little variety; but a homely one can only look worse than usual. Beauty is only skin deep, but that’s deep enough to satisfy any reasonable man. (I want to say right here that to get any sense out of a proverb I usually find that I have to turn it wrong side out.) Then, too, if a fellow’s bound to marry a fool, and a lot of men have to if they’re going to hitch up into a well-matched team, there’s nothing like picking a good-looking one.

You can trust a woman’s taste on everything except men; and it’s mighty lucky that she slips up there or we’d pretty nigh all be bachelors.

Marrying the wrong girl is the one mistake that you’ve got to live with all your life.

There’s nothing in the world sicker-looking than the grin of the man who’s trying to join in heartily when the laugh’s on him, and to pretend that he likes it.

Always remember that a man who’s making a claim never underestimates his case, and that you can generally compromise

It looks to me as if you were trying only half as hard as you could, and in trying it’s the second half that brings results.

He knew his business. And when a fellow knows his business, he doesn’t have to explain to people that he does. It isn’t what a man knows, but what he thinks he knows that he brags about. Big talk means little knowledge.

There’s a vast difference between having a carload of miscellaneous facts sloshing around loose in your head and getting all mixed up in transit, and carrying the same assortment properly boxed and crated for convenient handling and immediate delivery.

Poverty never spoils a good man, but prosperity often does. It’s easy to stand hard times, because that’s the only thing you can do, but in good times the fool-killer has to do night work.

Most men get cross-eyed when they come to size themselves up, and see an angel instead of what they’re trying to look at. There’s nothing that tells the truth to a woman like a mirror, or that lies harder to a man.

Tact is the knack of keeping quiet at the right time; of being so agreeable yourself that no one can be disagreeable to you; of making inferiority feel like equality. A tactful man can pull the stinger from a bee without getting stung.

When you make a mistake, don’t make the second one—keeping it to yourself. Own up. The time to sort out rotten eggs is at the nest.

Some salesmen think that selling is like eating—to satisfy an existing appetite; but a good salesman is like a good cook—he can create an appetite when the buyer isn’t hungry.

Of course, clothes don’t make the man, but they make all of him except his hands and face during business hours, and that’s a pretty considerable area of the human animal. A dirty shirt may hide a pure heart, but it seldom covers a clean skin. If you look as if you had slept in your clothes, most men will jump to the conclusion that you have, and you will never get to know them well enough to explain that your head is so full of noble thoughts that you haven’t time to bother with the dandruff on your shoulders.

Appearances are deceitful, I know, but so long as they are, there’s nothing like having them deceive for us instead of against us.

But it isn’t enough to be all right in this world; you’ve got to look all right as well, because two-thirds of success is making people think you are all right.

A man can’t do what he pleases in this world, because the higher he climbs the plainer people can see him.

Jack had enthusiasm, and enthusiasm is the best shortening for any job; it makes heavy work light.

A good many young fellows envy their boss because they think he makes the rules and can do as he pleases. As a matter of fact, he’s the only man in the shop who can’t. He’s like the fellow on the tight-rope—there’s plenty of scenery under him and lots of room around him, but he’s got to keep his feet on the wire all the time and travel straight ahead.

No man can ask more than he gives. A fellow who can’t take orders can’t give them.

There’s no alarm clock for the sleepy man like an early rising manager; and there’s nothing breeds work in an office like a busy boss.

You can’t work individuals by general rules. Every man is a special case and needs a special pill.

The fellow who can’t read human nature can’t manage it.

Be slow to hire and quick to fire.

But when you find that you’ve hired the wrong man, you can’t get rid of him too quick. Pay him an extra month, but don’t let him stay another day.

Some fellows can only see those above them, and others can only see those under them, but a good man is cross-eyed and can see both ends at once.

A man’s as good as he makes himself, but no man’s any good because his grandfather was.

A man who does big things is too busy to talk about them.

There are two things you never want to pay any attention to—abuse and flattery. The first can’t harm you and the second can’t help you.

As long as you can’t please both sides in this world, there’s nothing like pleasing your own side.

There are mighty few people who can see any side to a thing except their own side.

Worrying is the one game in which, if you guess right, you don’t get any satisfaction out of your smartness. A busy man has no time to bother with it.

Money ought never to be the consideration in marriage, but it always ought to be a consideration. When a boy and a girl don’t think enough about money before the ceremony, they’re going to have to think altogether too much about it after;

A good wife doubles a man’s expenses and doubles his happiness, and that’s a pretty good investment if a fellow’s got the money to invest.

I’ve never been one who could get a great deal of satisfaction out of dreams.

With most people happiness is something that is always just a day off. But I have made it a rule never to put off being happy till to-morrow.