#I would give them a 25% raise at LEAST if I was in charge though | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sserpente · 3 years

Photo

A/N: Surprise! Here’s the thing—I don’t normally write sub!Loki at all. However, since Christmas is a time of gifting and making wishes come true and it has been requested quite a few times in the past, I decided to take on an anon request. I can’t write fully-fledged sub!Loki, I just can’t… so I hope this will do! There’s another anon request in there too. I hope you all enjoy it!

Words: 2357 Warnings: sub!Loki-ish, fluff, smut

Additional NSFW warnings: light bondage, oral, usage of anal sex toy

You cursed when you stubbed your toe on the door, shutting it aggressively all the while flinging your bag into the corner like it was the reason for all of your problems. You were trembling, anger and exhaustion gnawing at your guts.

When you let out a desperate sigh as you kicked off your winter boots, Loki tilted his head. He had appeared in the threshold leading to the living room on your floor—an entire floor on Stark Tower, all to yourself. Today, however, this very circumstance did not cheer you up in the slightest.

“A good evening to you too, pet.” He said, eyeing you with curiosity.

“I bloody hate working in retail!” You spat in response. “Why are people being so idiotic, can you tell me that? Oh, I want a refund on this obviously used item which I don’t even have the receipt for, oh, can’t you hurry up I need to catch a train—I had hours to spend on browsing but I want to pay for this immediately or I’m just gonna leave, oh, can you recommend a gift for my niece, I barely know her or her interests but surely you’ll find a gift for her because I am too lazy to use my own brain?” You were fuming. Loki chuckled.

“My dear… breathe.” He was never this gentle with any of the other Avengers but then again, you were the only one he had taken a romantic and sexual interest in. You sighed when he approached you to pull you into a tight embrace, forcing you to calm down for him. Your hands wrapped around his middle almost automatically, allowing him to lift you off the ground and carry you into your bedroom.

Loki spent most of his time in your flat here in Stark Tower. Here, he wasn’t always under suspicion of plotting world domination again—and in fact, all he did was reading, stealing your sweets and learning more about Midgardian culture, first and foremost Christmas. Last week, you had forced him through all Santa Clause films and he had actually ended up enjoying them in the end.

Another sigh escaped your lips as you pressed your face against his chest, letting his hand stroke over your head. Perhaps you should finally let the cat out of the bag and tell the others about your relationship. Loki could be so sweet… and he loved being pampered by you, even if you made sure to take your time teasing him thoroughly first.

“Is there a particular reason you left me a gift this morning?” He changed the topic. Oh yes. You had almost forgotten about this. You had shoved part of Loki’s Christmas gift into his green and gold socket above your bed before you had left this morning. It was Christmas Eve and since you would be spending the 25th with the other Avengers, you had decided that him receiving part of his gift in private would be more appropriate.

“Me?” You asked, playing innocent. “That must have been Santa, Lokes.”

“Are you going to tell me what exactly it is?” He probed. You giggled, looking up at him with innocent eyes.

“I was hoping you’d ask. Where did you put it?” Loki conjured it up seemingly out of thin air—you’d never grow tired of seeing him use his seidr—and handed you a black plastic packaging which contained an equally black butt plug with a prostate massager for men. Loki and you had recently had a conversation about toys for men as opposed to women only and much to your surprise, he had shown quite the interest in the topic. The faces of the Avengers would have been priceless, had you put it under the Christmas tree for him along with his main present.

You grinned. “Lie down on the bed for me—and magic your clothes off, will you?” Loki smiled at your request. He did not often let you command him around like that—but when he did he knew you needed it, to have some fun with his arousal for you to distract yourself from work and other sorrows, much like today. You shouldn’t be in such a bad mood on Christmas Eve, after all.

Still smiling gently, he did as he was told and then slightly raised his eyebrows for you to make the next move. You winked at him after admiring his semi-hard cock for a bit, disappearing in the bathroom. Once you had returned, hands washed, clothes changed and sex toy sanitised properly, you got to work. Loki’s eyebrows shot up all the way when you produced the bondage rope you kept in the drawer right next to the bed and then climbed on the bed as well, straddling his strong thighs.

“Please? Let me play.” You pouted. Loki sighed—allowing you to tie his hands together and then to the bedpost. Both of you were very well aware that he could rip himself free at any time—it was more a matter of it looking pretty and downright hot to have the God of Mischief tied up and at your mercy, at least hypothetically.

He shifted on the mattress just a little when you reached for the toy again which you had already coated in a thick layer of strawberry lube and brought it to his anus. It was designed to directly stimulate his prostate and you positively couldn’t wait to see his reaction.

“What are you doing?” His question was a warning; reminding you it was a privilege he was playing submissive for you and that the… situation could change at any moment. You swallowed, your own arousal pooling in your knickers like a waterfall.

“Trust me? It will feel good, I promise.”

Loki sighed once more—and gasped when you slowly and carefully worked the butt plug inside of his rear. His cock twitched, joyful anticipation mixing with impatience. By the time it was snugly in place, he was as hard as rock and moaned upon you wrapping your hand around him, giving him a few strokes with your hands partially still covered in the strawberry lube you had used.

Loki bucked his hips almost immediately, growling when you drew your hand away again. You chuckled. “You look pretty adorable like that, you know… desperate for pleasure…”

He growled in response. “You will be the one desperate for pleasure and begging me for my touch if you keep this up for long.” He threatened. Your giggle intensified. You felt so much better already.

“Just you wait.” You said, pressing the button of the small bullet vibrator inserted into the butt plug. Loki tensed up when it hummed to life, sending continuous vibrations through his anus and stimulating his prostate.

Then, taking mercy on him, your hand returned to his impressive length, jerking and pleading for attention. A few drops of precum had already formed on his red tip—it was too tempting to ignore. Unceremoniously, you bent down and closed your lips around him, licking over his slit and lapping up all he had to give for now.

Loki tugged at his restraints. A little more strength and he’d tear them apart altogether and he was barely just containing himself anymore already. Knowing he could stop this anytime and pin you down underneath him to just take what he desired for some reason only fuelled his arousal. He bucked his hips in an attempt to plunge himself deeper into your mouth but you were being particularly relentless today. He growled once more, watching how a grin formed on your lips. With a smacking sound, you released him again, continuing to stroke him all the while the prostate massager kept vibrating inside of his rear.

“Does that feel good?” You asked, almost timidly. Loki was an experienced lover, you knew this much. How many Asgardian women had had the pleasure to learn what had earned him the nickname silver tongue you did not want to know and yet, even though his confidence in bed and knowledge of pleasing a woman was exciting, at the very same time it intimidated you.

Loki nodded, blue eyes locked with yours. “Yes. Keep going, my dear.” It almost sounded like an order—one you’d do better not to defy. You took it as an invitation and pressed the button of the vibrator again.

The setting was on high now—but not high enough to tip him over the edge just yet. You needed to hear him whimper first. You had managed once, a few weeks back when Loki had allowed you to tie him up and tease him for a while for the very first time. In the end, it had resulted in him flipping you around and fucking you roughly from behind so hard you had been unable to walk the next day. Your cunt clenched upon remembering how deliciously sore you had felt. It was a risk you were willing to take again.

Loki bucked his hips once more, thrusting up in a steadier rhythm now and desperate for more friction… which gave you another idea. Biting your lower lip, you stood from the bed and peeled off the comfy trousers you had changed into, right along with your underwear. If only Loki could see the wet spot on them as you stepped out of them, he would be grinning like a cat who got the cream but fortunately for you, you were in charge tonight—or at least, for now.

He eyed you like a hungry wolf, growling in an animalistic manner as soon as your slick pussy lips rubbed against his tip and you massaged your clit with it for a while before slowly, painfully slow, sinking down on him and sheathing his cock deep inside of you. You moaned, throwing your head back. Riding him always felt so much deeper than when he was on top… unless he hauled your legs over his shoulders that was.

“More…” He choked out, his blue gaze getting almost feverish, about to turn him into a mindless beast. You stilled, not moving an inch and just kept him inside of you all the while the vibrator in his rear kept stimulating him. He gritted his teeth when you failed to move, bucking up his hips in a desperate attempt to get you to ride him but you decided to take your time. Leaning forward, you began covering his chest and neck in light kisses, tongue darting out every now and then to taste him. Loki was already sweating, his limbs shaking and you knew then just how badly he needed his release. The restraints keeping his hands above his head on the bedpost gave a suspicious tearing sound as he thrust up into you once more.

He was close. He was so close. Smiling, you kissed him and moved back up and into a sitting position. Your fingers found the switch of the vibrator, turning the setting even higher. There was no need for you to move and ride him anymore. Loki came by himself and finally, gave you the whimper you had so desired to hear from him. Your lips parted when he starting twitching inside of you, spilling himself with a groan. His warm seed coated your walls, his cock jerking until he was all but spent. Once he had caught his breath, you turned off the vibrator… for now.

“Get that lovely quim of yours up here.” He ordered with a hoarse voice, once more raising the question whether you had ever truly been in charge of his pleasure. But who were you to defy him? Biting your lower lip, you let him slide out of you, whimpering at the loss of feeling so deliciously full, inched forward until your most private parts were only inches from his mouth and then carefully sat again, your thighs to either side of his head.

Loki wasted no time. Humming contently, he licked over your slit and clit, suckling on your outer lips and circling your sensitive bundle of nerves, tongue pressing against it, massaging it, until you dug your fingers into his raven hair, urging him on. You were so incredibly wet for him it wouldn’t take you long to gush all over him either and so you did. Loki ate you out like you were his last meal, pampering your clit until your body couldn’t take it anymore and you fell, seeing stars as your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, drowning you in pure pleasure. You only realised once you lifted yourself off his face because he would not stop that he had wrapped his fingers around the bars of the top of the bed. The bondage rope was torn apart beyond repair.

You smiled, allowing him you wrap you in his arms as he flipped you both around so you came to lie on the bed more comfortably.

“Feeling more relaxed now, my dear?” He asked with a sly smile.

“Much better. Thank you.” Loki hummed in response. “I’m pretty hungry… how about an early Christmas dinner? Just the two of us, without the others.”

“That sounds promising. But first I will need you to get that thing out of me.” He said, eliciting a devilish grin from you.

“I think I’m gonna leave that thing where it is for now. You’ll get a taste of your own medicine. Remember that golden butt plug you made me wear on Christmas last year? Revenge is sweet. So…” You paused. “Are you going to help me cook?”

Loki’s expression darkened, sending pleasant shivers up and down your spine. “You are going to remove that right now.”

“Nope,” you announced smugly, freeing yourself from his embrace and climbing off the mattress. “I’ll be in the kitchen, whenever you’re ready.”

Truth be told, you never made it to the kitchen. Loki was after you in a matter of seconds, dragged you back into bed and made sure you came to regret teasing him like that. Oh, and you most definitely lost count after at least five more orgasms.

A/N: There’s a hint in there for another smutty Loki Christmas Imagine soon to come. Can you find it? ;-)

If you enjoyed this story, I would appreciate it so much if you considered supporting me on Kofi! It’s either for caffeine or red wine, I’ll take both. ko-fi.com/sserpente ♥

790 notes · View notes

spicyspencerreid · 4 years

Text

The Wonderful Benefits Of Physical Touch

A Spencer Reid Imagine

Female!Reader, BAU!Reader// A whole 4939 words

Warnings// Mentions of domestic abuse (not inflicted on reader or involving Spencer), kissing, A SHIT TON OF FLUFF, language, lack of spellcheck, this is just so so so so so soft like- I know it’s long, but it’ll make your heart warm

Summary// Reader’s had trouble sleeping for the past couple of nights and Spencer notices something’s off with her, it comes out when they have to share a hotel room and he helps her fall asleep.

Key// Y/f/n- Your first name, Y/m/n- Your middle name, Y/l/n- Your last name

Not my gif: I hope you guys enjoy, I love this one and spent wayyyyy too much time on it!!

You woke up in a cold sweat, your least favorite way to wake up. You were shivering, but you could feel sweat slowly dripping down your face. You took a second to catch your breath before trying to remember where you were. You noticed the sun, then your light blue curtains, then your alarm clock. 5:00AM. You sighed, having finally fell asleep at 4:30, you hoped you’d get more than a half hour of sleep before you needed to be up at 6:00, but it looks like that wasn’t in the cards for you.

You were exhausted, and there was nothing worse than being exhausted and not being able to sleep. Luckily, coffee had been enough to keep you going for the past couple of weeks. You weren’t exactly sure why you couldn’t sleep. At first you were having nightmares, but they’d gone away.

A month ago, your older sister, Hailee, went missing. A week after she showed up at your doorstep, told you she was running from her abusive husband.

You heard a knock on your door, causing all the hairs on the back of your neck to stand up. You reached in the drawer of your entry table, pulling out your gun. To be completely honest, you hated guns, probably because you’d blamed them for a good amount of the problems in the world, but as the communications liaison, you were required to have one for your job.

You peered through the peephole of your apartment, dropping the gun on the ground when you saw who it was. You pulled open the door as fast as possible, pulling her into a hug as tears poured out of your eyes.

“Never, ever scare me like that again Hails,” your sister was in charge of public relations for Givenchy in Paris, and every time she visited you she brought you an exclusive portfolio of their latest designs. So when you felt a book up against your chest, you weren’t surprised, and didn’t give it a second thought, “What’s this?” You opened the book to scroll through the pages, only to gasp at what you saw. Broken ribs, broken legs, broken everything.

“My medical records...” you looked up at her to see you hadn’t made eye contact this entire time, meaning you hadn’t noticed the dark purple under her eye. You knew instantly, having seen it too much in your line of work, “I wanna put him in jail, but I had to get out of there first. I checked the calendar you sent me looking for your next day off and booked the quickest flight I could get. I wanted to tell you, I’m so sorry-” You and your sister were closer than ever, and you cursed yourself for not picking up on it when she wasn’t coming to many more family events. She probably knew if you saw her with him in person you’d pick up on it instantly.

“Stop apologizing, we’re gonna put that asshole in jail, okay?” She nodded and you pulled her back into another hug.

“I-I have recordings. Of him yelling at me, do we need them?” She choked out through tears. All your life she’d been your protector since you were kids, but more importantly, she was your best friend, only two years apart from you in age, which is why you knew something was off when she hadn’t called to check up on you in a week like she normally did. Your parents refused to report her missing, not that you tried to get them to or anything, they just assumed she was in between countries and not able to answer her phone. Spencer and JJ could both tell something was up with you at work, but didn’t want to push you. You ended up telling them you could feel something was off with your sister, and you hadn’t slept, but if anyone could work on no sleep, it was you.

“That would be good, go sit down. Does he know you’re gone? I’m gonna get you water.” You went straight into your kitchen, filling up a glass.

“I don’t think so. I told him I had to go on a business trip, even bought a plane ticket to London and everything. I was gonna call mom and dad, but I didn’t know if he could tap into my phone or something.” You handed her the glass.

“I’m gonna make a couple phone calls, you need sleep,” you reached for the blanket on your couch to lay over her.

“Y/n/n,” she grabbed your wrist, “you look like you need sleep,” she wasn’t wrong, you hadn’t slept for more than four hours after the first missed call of hers. You thought you’d covered it up fairly well, but if anyone could tell, it was her.

“I’m fine, you can sleep in my bed if the couch is uncomfortable, but really, get some rest.” You called Hotch, who was in the office, and faxed him copies of Hailee’s medical records, telling him it was an emergency and you needed him to contact the police in Hailee’s county and arrest her husband. He was arrested that day, and pleaded guilty after more and more women started to stand up.

You were thankful Hailee came to you, but since then, you still hadn’t gotten a full night of sleep. Even after he was put in prison, even after everything was settled with your parents, even though you knew Hailee was in bed safe, you still felt off. The nightmares faded, but the bad sleeping habits stayed. And you had no idea why. You’d tried everything, herbal remedies, meditation, ice baths, etc, but none of it worked.

You got in the shower, got dressed, and made yourself breakfast, jamming out to music to try to improve your mood before getting on your way. You arrived at work at 7:00, usually arriving at 7:15, you were hyper-organized, so you always liked to have the case out and ready at 7:20, giving you ten minutes to prep in your head. Since you were early, you turned on your favorite audiobook and closed your eyes for a couple seconds, taking in the calm before going to look at dead bodies. You opened your eyes after a couple minutes, your body realizing you fell asleep. You checked the clock in your car. Shit. It was 7:25. You grabbed your bag and walked into the building, grabbing the file off of your desk and walking as fast as you could into the conference room. Derek and JJ were already sitting in the conference room chatting amongst themselves. You walked in and rapidly started pinning pictures up to the board, you already knew the case, but needed to have everything ready to present.

“Derek I can’t reach that thumbtack can you grab it.” It was barely out of your reach,

“Wow Y/n, no ‘good morning my sweet Derek, how are you on this fine day”?” He was right, you weren’t exactly your chipper self this morning.

“You don’t wanna fuck with me right now Morgan,” you turned to glare at him, earning a laugh from JJ.

“Damn, okay, put those daggers away, I’ll grab the thumbtack...,” Derek handed you the thumbtack and you pinned up your final picture. You closed your eyes and started to go over what you were going to say in your head. You could feel JJ and Derek judging you, now joined by Emily who walked in while your eyes were closed, “A single word and I will hurt all of you, slowly but effectively.” Spencer walked in the room tapping your shoulder and slightly startling you, causing you to jump. He put one hand on your shoulder causing heat to rise to your cheeks. Spencer was your best friend, your adorable, undateable, best friend. You could practically feel JJ giving you a look, you were so undeniably lucky Spencer wasn’t exactly the best at social cues and wasn’t always trying to profile you, because you were the absolute worst at hiding your innocent little crush.

“Woah...I just brought you coffee, I saw your mug was still in the cabinet and assumed you didn’t arrive here at your usual 7:15,” he handed you a cup of coffee, and you took a deep breath.

“Spencer Reid, you are my knight in shining amour,” Spencer smiled and you sipped your coffee, thankful he knew just how you liked it.

“What do we have?” Hotch walked in and you went into formation.

“Three dead in Seattle,” you pointed to the board, reading through their names and ages.

“They’re all the same age, but there’s no specific type here?” JJ asked.

“Yes, about that, their...um...” you swallowed, tripping over your words just a little, “ring fingers are all cut off.”

“Do we know what with?” Emily motioned for the picture and you handed her one of the extra copies.

“M.E. said they’d contact us when we arrive.”

“Alright, wheels up in 30,” everyone head out of the conference room while you took a second to clean up your files. You sat down in one of the empty seats, drinking your coffee and taking a deep breath before heading back out into the bullpen. You sat at your desk and pulled out Pride and Prejudice, deciding to reread it for the fourth time this month. You starting sucking on your lower lip, feeling tears start to well up in your eyes, you body was on override from lack of sleep, and being off schedule was putting you over the edge. It had never been an issue before, but at the moment, you just wanted time to not look at dead bodies, but you didn’t feel like that plane ride to Washington was gonna be long enough. You took a deep breath, knowing you could stop yourself from crying if you tried hard enough. You felt that familiar hand on your shoulder.

“Come with me I wanna show you something,” Spencer lightly pulled your shoulder.

“Spence,” you looked up at him, something was off, “I’m reading,” you smiled at him with furrowed eyebrows, motion to your book. Spencer grabbed the book out of your hand and scrolled through the pages.

“I will literally recite the first ten pages for you later,” he raised his eyebrows at you and you caved, he was lucky he was your one weakness.

“Okay, okay fine, will you at least tell me where we’re going?” You walked with him only to end up in an empty office. An agent had transferred last week leaving an empty office in the back hallway. Spencer pulled you in and closed the blinds, “Am I being held hostage?” you joked, not getting a laugh in response.

“What’s going on with you?” Shit.

“Nothing’s going on with me?” You were good, really good, at masking emotion, even for a team of profilers, but apparently you weren’t good enough today.

“Y/n...” you stared at him, standing your guard, “Okay fine, you’ve started doing that foot-tapping thing again, you forgot your coffee this morning, and you’re blinking more rapidly than average, which means you’re either dehydrated or trying to stop yourself from crying,” you felt your eyes start to water again, “and you're probably the most well-hydrated person I’ve ever met, so what’s going on?” When you didn’t respond with words, but a sniffle and a tear, Spencer wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you up against him. You knew he did this because studies showed skin to skin contact was the easiest way to calm any negative emotion, but your heart still stopped beating for a second as your wrapped your hands around his neck, “I-I didn’t mean to make you cry, I just wanted to know if I could help,” he whispered, as if talking too loud would only make you more upset. Once you calmed down a little, you pulled away, “Do you want to talk about it?” You shook your head, you didn’t really have anything to talk about, you were just so tired.

“Sorry,” you wiped the leftover tears from your face, “I’m just having a bad day, didn’t sleep much last night,” you hadn’t slept much in more than just last night, but you didn’t feel like worrying anyone right now.

“It’s okay,” his voice was still gentle.

“Do I have streaks on my face?” He shook his head, “We should probably go to the jet.” You motioned to the door.

“We have 17 minutes if you need another second...”

“Nope, I am all good, but thank you, seriously Spence,” you reached for his hand and squeezed it, “thank you,” you speed walked back into the bullpen, putting on your best smile. When you got on the jet, Spencer sat across from you. You played chess most of the flight while debating over movies with Emily.

The case went by extremely quick, considering the fact that the Unsub’s maid found a box of fingers with wedding rings on them in the Unsub’s closet. You only had to hold one press conference to get someone to come forward, which was lovely because all you wanted to do was get home.

“Bad news,” Hotch walked into the room you and Emily were sitting in the Police Office, “Jet can’t come in until sunrise, they’re expecting a big storm,” you threw your head back, damnit, “I was able to get four rooms at the hotel, so double up. Oh and Y/n, good work on the press conference, if it wasn’t for you, we’d probably be stuck here a couple more days,” you smiled. A couple seconds later Spencer popped his head into the room.

“Penelope called Morgan, and JJ’s got Emily, so that leaves you and me,” of course it did.

“Sounds good,” you smiled, feeling Emily’s eyes on you as he turned around and left.

“Wow, complimented by Hotch and getting a night alone with Spencer, it’s like all your dreams are coming true at once,” you playfully slapped her arm.

When you got back to your hotel you all split off into your rooms. You argued with Spencer over who got to use the bathroom first, but you eventually won. Won meaning you got to the bathroom before him. You put on a sports bra and shorts, following it up with a loose tee-shirt when you remembered you were sharing a room with Spencer and not Emily and JJ per usual. Usually Penelope didn’t come on trips unless necessary, which in this case she was, so instead of the usual three rooms, Hotch got four. You washed your face with cold water hoping the internet was right and it would help you fall asleep.

“Don’t use up all the hot water,” Spencer yelled in from the bedroom.

“I take morning showers,” you opened the bathroom door and reentered the bedroom.

“Good, Derek takes forty-five minute showers.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” Spencer took a pretty quick shower, and you rested yourself in the queen-sized bed, grabbing your copy of Pride and Prejudice and returning to your page. You were pretty into the story when Spencer came back in.

“So...I can take the floor,” you’d totally forgotten once again that these was not your usual sleeping conditions, but you still trusted Spencer enough to share a bed with him, you’d fallen asleep next to him on the couch in his apartment on multiple movie nights, how is that any different?

“Spence, how long have we known each other?”

“209 days,” you giggled, expecting a much less specific answer.

“Okay then I’d assume our 209 day friendship is enough to allow us to share a bed together without it being weird?” You marked your page and closed your book.

“Are you sure you’re comfortable with that?”

“You are quite the gentleman, but yes, I swear. Unless you snore like Emily, then I might kick you out of the room completely,” you pointed finger guns at him. He laughed and laid on the opposite side of the bed, grabbing a book of his own. He finished his book in a couple minutes, closing it and grabbing a manual from the desk.

“I know you are not about to read that microwave manual.”

“What? It’s interesting,” he looked so cute perusing through all of the different manuals spread out on the hotel desk.

“That is a bad, bad idea,” you closed your book shut, “actually, we should both probably try to get some sleep,” you were exhausted, and while you knew you weren’t going to get much sleep, you still wanted darkness and quiet to revel in. He shut off the lights and pulled the covers over his head, whispering a goodnight to you before drifting off into sleep. You were about two hours into your nightly routine of staring at the ceiling when Spencer’s voice brought you back into reality.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” He muttered, you glanced over at him to see his eyes were still closed and decided to pretend you were asleep, “Y/n, I know the length of space between breaths when a human is sleeping, therefore, I know you’re awake.” You turned your head to face him.

“You got me,” you yawned. He sat up against the headboard of the bed, and you did the same.

“You wanna tell me what’s going on now?” You continued to stare at the wall in front of the bed, but you could feel his eyes on you.

“I haven’t been sleeping for a while,” you leaned your head back against the wood.

“I thought that got better?”

“I’ve been trying, but I can’t sleep for more than thirty minutes at a time, I haven’t been able to since Hailee went missing. I thought it would fix itself when I found out she was fine, but nope.”

“You...” he reached out to poke your leg, making you giggle, “should’ve told me sooner, I am very well versed on ways to help sleep.”

“Spence, I’ve literally done everything, it’s hopeless,” you laughed, “but I might take you up on your offer to recite those Pride and Prejudice pages for me.”

“That’ll be our last resort. Have you tried eating bananas, they contain-”

“Tryptophan. Yeah I only drank warm milk and ate bananas and cherries for three days straight, nothing, but is it possible to become lactose intolerant from drinking too much milk?”

“There are many studies on why raw milk doesn’t cause lactose intolerance, but for legal reasons, not much has been studied about processed milk and how the differences relate to lactose intolerance, but really to answer your question, lactose intolerance is caused because of the enzyme lactase which splits the-,” he stopped once he heard your giggling, “...and you were kidding. Y/n, I am trying to help here, what about herbal teas?”

“Tried, didn’t work.”

“Um...meditation?” You nodded, “What about lowering your apartment temperature?”

“I literally can only sleep in the cold,” he was about to interrupt but you already knew what was coming, “...and I already tried the opposite, raising the temperature, which sucked by the way.”

“This might sound a little strange, but what are the colors of your bedroom wall?”

“I already looked into the impact of cool versus warm colors on sleep, my walls are white and I have blue curtains, my lights are led, so they aren’t yellow, and I don’t use any electronics for an hour before I get in bed,”

“Then it’s not physical, it’s mental, you know talking about what’s bothering you helps. Compartmentalizing really doesn’t.”

“I haven’t been compartmentalizing though, I’ve even been journaling and stuff, even though I absolutely hate it.”

“Hmm,” he went quiet for a second, you opened your mouth to ask and he stopped you, “I’m thinking...,” it was like a lightbulb turned on over his head, “I got it what about-” He stopped.

“What?”

“It’s just...”

“What? Spencer? I’d literally try anything at this point.”

“Serotonin.”

“We’re not all super geniuses, please don’t make me ask,” you pleaded.

“Serotonin’s a monoamine neurotransmitter...um it’s a large contributer to feelings of well-being and happiness, but a study I read last week actually talked about how involved it is in the regulation of sleep...um it has sort of a calming effect when activated,” sounded like pure bliss to you.

“And how do I activate it?”

“Yes that’s the um...” he looked over at you before continuing his explanation, “...so the most effective way is through deep touch pressure, which is a form of tactile sensory input. It’s mostly provided by firm holding, firm stroking, hugging, and cuddling.”

“Oh,” it clicked in your head.

“It’s actually really interesting, if you think back to the times you’re most relaxed, or just times that are coined as relaxing in general. Spas have done really well with this in general, with the hot stone massages especially, the heat combined with the cool temperature of the spa, mixed with the weight of the stones, it mimics a beach so well, which also is coined for relaxation considering how the heat acts as a blanket in some pretenses. Being in your mother’s arms, cuddling with a significant other, all good examples of serotonin, which is why weighted blankets are so popular now, they mimic the feeling of being held, they mimic that deep touch pressure...,” you let him ramble on about weighted blankets while you thought about what he was actually talking about. You’d been thinking about the events that would occur if you and Spencer shared a bed for a night, and while you might’ve thought of more explicit things than cuddling, the thought of anything more than a hug with him made your heart race, “Are you still listening?”

“Sorry, I got,” you cleared your throat, “distracted.”

“Sorry I didn’t mean to-”

“No it’s okay, it’s a good idea,” you stammered, wanting to slap yourself. You sounded way too excited, which you were, but that excitement was coated with nerves. It was silent for a minute before Spencer spoke up again.

“When Hailee first went missing, it had only been three days, so I asked you how you knew something was wrong, and you said you just knew. It’s like with baby cheetahs, baby cheetahs always know when there’s something wrong with their older siblings because they are their protectors, it’s their instinct, just like yours,” He turned to look into your eyes, and brought his voice down into a whisper, “You told me a story about how when you were younger and you’d get nightmares, instead of running into your mother’s room, which is the natural instinct, you’d run into Hailee’s room and she’d hold you instead. When I asked why, you said it was because she was a room closer, but I think it really was because of your independence. No matter how independent you were, you still needed someone, and no matter how independent you are now, you still crave that serotonin, you crave that physical touch. You’re human. It’s just like earlier today, I didn’t want to bring it up because I’m sure you feel embarrassed about crying during work, but it’s completely normal. We aren’t sociopaths like these people we go after, we have empathy, and it’s part of the reason we’re so good at our jobs. No matter how many gruesome cases we see, we aren’t robots, so we all sometimes just need a moment to break down and compose ourselves in an emotional release, it’s just another human necessity. It’s science. And you can replicate it with a weighted blanket when you’re alone, but when you get the opportunity, you really just need more physical touch, that’s all,” he reached over to rub your shoulder, and a tear fell onto your check.

“You’re right,” you sniffled.

“Oh no,” he chuckled, wiping your cheek with his thumb, “I made you cry again.”

“No,” you placed your hand on top of his on your face, “you’re just the sweetest person I’ve ever met.” He didn’t respond, just opened his arms, nodding with his head for you to come closer. You scooted over and nestled your head into his chest. He pulled you into him, wrapping his arms around you and squeezing you tight. His hand slowly made its way to your lower back, peeking under your tee-shirt to draw light circles on your bare skin. You were close to falling asleep when you felt warm lips touch your forehead, causing you to immediately snap back.

“Sorry,” he whispered. He must’ve felt you stiffen in his arms. You tilted your head back and looked up at him, placing your hand on his jawline as you connected your lips with his, softly and slowly. You were hesitant, knowing part of your action was based off of exhaustion, but you were just sick of having to look at his lips everyday and long for them to be on yours without doing anything about it.

“Goodnight Spencer,” you pulled away quickly, returning you head to its spot on your chest.

“Goodnight Y/n,” he whispered back a minute later, and his hand resumed his circular motion, lulling you to a full night of sleep for the first night in many, many days.

You woke up a little lower on the bed then you were when you fell asleep, and your position changed. Spencer was laying on his back, and you were on your side, one of his arms under your waist and resting on your stomach. You were facing the alarm clock and gasped when you saw the time. You sat up out of Spencer’s arm, completely dumbfounded. It was 6:00AM, and the last time you checked the clock it was 11:00, you hadn’t woken up once. You started to get up when you were pulled back onto the bed.

“Spencer it’s 6:00,” you whisper yelled, “I just slept for seven full hours.”

“Mmm, think you can sleep for one more,”he turned onto his side so your back was now pressed into his chest.

“Seven hours, wow, and it’s all thanks to this incredible guy I know. He’s like a super-genius who taught me the wonderful benefits of the magical enzyme called ‘serotonin’, have you heard of it?”

“He sounds like a great guy,” he grumbled into your neck, “I’m so very happy for you,” he pressed his lips to your neck, giving you goosebumps and reminding you of your impulsive decision from the night before, “but shhh.” It had been decided, groggy Spencer was your new favorite Spencer.

“Spence...” you had to talk about this. If you didn’t, the whole team would be able to read you the second you got on the jet.

“No. Sleep.”

“Spencer...”

“Okay, I’ve officially been awoken from my peaceful slumber,” you wiggled so you were now facing him.

“Hi,” you whispered. His eyes opened slowly and he smiled at you, “you have very pretty eyes, they’re like honey.”

“You’re nice when you’re sleepy,” his hands shifted again to your lower back, drifting under your shirt to stroke your skin once again.

“I’m nice all the time,” you pouted.

“You were extra nice last night,” turns out groggy Spencer and confident Spencer were the same person, you rotated your body so you weren’t facing him, “How long?”

“How long what?”

“How long have you felt this way about me?” This was not a good question for you.

“How many days did you say we’ve known each other?”

“210 counting today.”

“Then 210 days,” you sighed out, you’d liked him since the first day you’d met, it wasn’t love at first sight or anything, but from your first conversation, he’d been giving you butterflies, “I’m really sorry if I ruined things between us.”

“You’re kidding right?” You leaned up, and furrowed your eyebrows at him, “I just thought you didn’t feel that way. If I knew, I would’ve done something about it, or I would’ve gotten weirdly distant until you forced me to tell you what was wrong,” he smiled and your heart melted.

“What’re we gonna do about the team?”

“Derek’s gonna be relentless,” he sighed out and you giggled, “but we’ll figure it out, just not right now, because I’m cold, and I want your body heat.” He pulled you back into him.

“I have to shower,” you mumbled.

“You smell fine,” you gave him a look, “okay, okay, go.” He released you from his tight hold, not before you gave him a quick kiss, and you ran to the bathroom. You took a quick shower, then put on your makeup and got dressed. You both decided to eat on the plane instead of charging the bureau for room service. When you arrived on the plane you said quick hellos to the team and took a seat right across from Derek. You didn’t say anything when you sat down, you just opened your book. You looked up to see Derek’s eyes shifting back and forth between you and Spencer, who was playing chess with Rossi a couple seats away.

“Y/f/n Y/m/n Y/l/n,” you looked up from your book, “Did you get laid last night?”

“Oh my god Derek! I spent the night with Spencer,” you shut your book closed fast.

“This is the first time I’ve seen you look genuinely relaxed in over a month,” he whispered at you, “did you spend the night with pretty boy over there or did you spend the night with him? Because you didn’t hear this from me, but pretty boy’s got it bad for you.”

“Oh really?” He was right, pretty boy did in fact have it bad for you.

—

I was just really in the mood for some more Spencer fluff, if you liked this please check out Making A Move, it’s a lot shorter, but still cute.

Here’s my masterlist

Love you all!!!!!

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fic #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer imagine #spencer fic #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds spencer #criminal minds #criminal minds fic

4K notes · View notes

baeddel · 3 years

Text

Parson’s position on ‘free love’ and ‘variety’ (now we say ‘polyamory’) is a bit hard to swallow. She said that if society adopted polyamory it would rot away, that monogamy is the natural state of humanity, that women have special obligations towards their children, that promiscuous sex leads to venereal disease, and so forth. She said all this in the context of arguing that “marriage slavery” (as she called it) was the product of economic conditions, such that women had a financial need to assent to coercive marriages, and that if women were not financially dependent on men marriage would no longer be coercive.

This is not a bad case but it is the kind of leftist feminism that I don’t like very much, reducing the women’s question to the economic question; a simple objection is that it fails to explain the institution of forced marriages in pre-history, or in present day hunter-gatherer societies (note that these two things are very different) where the means of subsistence are already held in common. The oppression of these women are obviously related to the means of subsistence, ie. in some hunter-gatherer societies a woman’s only alternative to a coerced marriage is to run away and either find another society or starve; but there is nothing about this means of subsistence itself which should lead us to expect an institution of coerced marriages. Why is women’s access to subsistence alienated in such a society? So the means of subsistence is a necessary, but not sufficient, cause of the oppression of women.

Parsons argued that if society practiced free love, then it would be difficult to ascertain who the father of a child was, and that the father would have no special obligations to care for the child; mothers would be left to raise their children on their own. This argument is very similar to the line taken by contemporary reactionary ‘radical’ feminists who say that the sexual revolution failed women because it increased men’s sexual access to women while liberating them of their spousal responsibilities. We do indeed find that today, for example, in the UK, about 25% of mothers are single and raise their children alone. That free love is responsible for this seems difficult to argue, though. It actually seems more likely that, ironically, it is due to the very solution that Parsons proposed. If most women were forced to assent to coercive marriages, and could not divorce their husbands, then we would expect to see fewer single mothers. To the extent that women in the UK today are more likely to be financially independent, they are able to escape coerced marriages, and they are able to support children without a spouse.

The statistics give us a bit of trouble with this argument, though. 42% of single parent families in England live in poverty (according to Trust For London). This could be explained by the fact that raising a child on your own is more expensive than with a partner, as is merely living alone without a partner; 30% of single people without children live in poverty (ibid.). We might seek some amount of reassurance in the fact that in India, a country with a lower median income than the UK (thanks largely to the UK), we find that only 4% of mothers are single; in the Phillipines, 12%. But then we find that in Ghana this figure is 26%, narrowly beating the UK, and in fact sub-Saharan Africa as a whole has the highest number of single mothers worldwide, reaching a staggering 32%, with Latin America a close second at 30% (Gallup World Poll).

Now the wealth of nations appears a poor guide. But the sexual revolution doesn’t appear to be much better of a guide; was the sexual revolution most successful in sub-Saharan Africa? There are, unsurprisingly, really a number of factors at work, including access to abortion and contraceptives. Parson’s opponents, the advocates of free love and ‘variety’, were also generally advocates of abortion and contraceptives, and in any case, tended to also argue for the abolition of the family and the development of new means of caring for and educating children. As it appears in the Communist Manifesto (as dialectrician pointed out to me), “[d]o you charge us with wanting to stop the exploitation of children by their parents? To this crime we plead guilty” (and they already note a “practical absence of the family among the proletarians”).

People who have written about her stance on free love tend to apologize for it quite a bit in a way that is frustruating to read. I understand that we like her, and her principle opponent in the argument was Emma Goldman who’s treatment of her is deservedly infamous, so it is tempting to defend her, but what she said is really bad, and the defenses are embarassing. Links, for example, write that:

The obsession of her anarchist detractors with making an individual’s sexual lifestyle the central-most important question in the social revolution, merely showed the extent to which they were indeed obsessed with the individual pursuit of freedom (and on a “middle-class” basis), to the exclusion of fighting for the freedom of the entire working class from the social, economic, and political systems of oppression endemic to capitalism.

Which is absurd to me, I mean, no matter what you think of Emma Goldman, do you really believe that she made free love the center of her platform, to the exclusion of the freedom of the working class? Come on... I personally am not sure to what extent the argument Parsons makes here even reflects what she actually believed. She only expressed these sentiments (against ‘variety’ and so on) twice; once in a letter to the Free Society newspaper, and once at a meeting held by the Free Society, which Goldman also attended. The meeting was over the censorship of the newspaper under the Comstock laws, which made charges against its editor for publishing obscenities, leading to his arrest. Parsons was the only speaker who did not denounce the arrest, saying that “there has been some dirty reading in the [Free Society]...” This is something very embarassing for an anarchist to say, but we might come to understand it more if we remember that she was presently feuding with not only the editors of the magazine but also at least one other speaker at the meeting. We have a good deal of personal experience with how rivalries between friend-groups and milieus find their expression in political differences which neither side really believes in. Their political disagreements were not, in principle, that serious, but we do know separately that at least some persons involved treated Parsons badly...

In any case, it’s interesting to me to see how this discourse has evolved. There was a time when the abolition of monogamy was once such a significant part of the anarchist and communist conversation that a difference of opinion over it would become a major incident (Parsons felt alienated from the anarchist scene after her remarks). These days, despite many anarchists practicing polyamory, virtually no one would dare criticize monogamy or argue for its abolition. We tend to regard it as a personal choice with no political consequences. I wonder how much of that had to do with the considered rejection of a political principle and how much had to do with the need to set aside disputes in the course of organizing?

76 notes · View notes

daringyounggrayson · 3 years

Note

Could you do 25 or 30 for Bruce and Dick? I’d really like for you to make Bruce say those words to his son!

I think we would all like to see that! oh, and for this one, I’m mixing things up: Bruce took Dick in as his ward but never went on to adopt him.

25: “You know I love you, right?”

30: “I love you, okay? I’ll say it as many times as you need to hear it.”

AO3

"Mr. Wayne!” a photographer calls, waving his arm toward their small group as they try to make their way inside. “A picture of you and your sons, if you wouldn’t mind?”

“Sure!”

On cue, the four of them turn toward the camera with easy smiles.

“Oh, sorry sir.” The photographer directs this at Dick. “Could I just get his sons for this shot?”

Dick doesn’t blame the reporter, honestly. He was probably assigned to get pictures of the Waynes, and when you google the Waynes, Dick’s name doesn’t pop-up—at least, not under family. And it makes sense; he was never adopted, so he’s legally not part of the Wayne family. Dick’s relation is just a small, unimportant detail. And to outsiders, especially people outside of Gotham or people who simply don’t keep up with Wayne Family News, Dick looks like more of a family friend, if anything.

It’s an honest mistake, and Dick doesn’t take it personally. Unfortunately, that doesn't make it any less awkward.

Dick glances at Bruce, trying to decide what to do. This evening will be long enough as it is, and if Bruce would rather let it go and get through the photos as quickly as possible, Dick wouldn't blame him. And it’s not like Dick needs his face on another magazine.

Bruce tightens his hold on Dick’s shoulder, decision made.

“If you don’t mind,” Bruce pipes up with a charming voice, “I would like Richard to be in the photo. I did raise him for a decade, after all.” Bruce laughs to ease the tension, and Dick joins him to tell the photographer it’s okay.

The photographer’s eyes go wide, face going slightly pink. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize. I, er, here—” he holds the camera up “—smile!” The camera flashes twice. “Perfect. Have a nice evening!” And then the photographer is gone.

“I think I’m going to run ahead,” Dick says. “Find me when you can.”

“Dick, you don't—”

“It’s fine, B. Seriously.” Dick grins.

Bruce frowns.

Dick shrugs and ducks away from his group, heading toward the building. He ignores the flashing of cameras and calls from the various photographers, and he ignores the three pairs of eyes that dig into his back as he goes.

oOo

All in all, the party was uneventful and the four of them excused themselves early after receiving an alert that Scarecrow had been spotted on the other side of town. If Scarecrow hadn’t been spotted terrorizing civilians with fear gas, Dick might’ve been able to enjoy the free ticket out of the gala.

“Shit,” Tim mutters.

“What?” Dick asks, not taking his eyes off of Scarecrow.

“Forgot to grab a new rebreather. I still have the busted one from the other night.”

Dick pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a breath before grabbing his own rebreather. “Here.”

Tim pushes it back toward him, shaking his head. “It’s fine. I messed up; I can deal with the consequences.”

“I’m offering you the solution,” Dick insists, pushing back. “We don’t have time to argue. Take the rebreather so we can move in.”

“I’m not a kid anymore, I don’t need you to protect me like I’m,” Tim looks away, down, “like I’m Robin. Besides, I think we both know that I’ll be able to handle fear gas better than you.”

Dick clenches his jaw, then relaxes it. Not the time. “Maybe, but I’m in charge right now. So: take the rebreather or you’re playing look-out for the rest of the night.”

Tim’s head shoots up, eyes scanning Dick to see how serious he is. Tim takes the rebreather, shoving it into his belt. “Happy?”

“Thrilled. Let’s go.”

oOo

If anyone had to get gassed, Dick’s glad it was him. Even though he has an objectively bad reaction and treatment isn’t always effective, he has more experience and can deal with it better than his siblings. During and after. On top of that, Tim was and continues to be his responsibility; his top priority was getting Tim home safe. From those perspectives, it was logical for Dick to take the lungful of fear toxin.

Then there’s the selfish, probably more powerful perspective: Dick can’t stand seeing Tim on fear gas. The screaming, the tears, the things he says, the inability to comfort him and take the pain away. It’s awful to see once, and Dick’s seen it countless times, in real life and in nightmares. He’d do anything to avoid it—for Tim’s sake and, when Dick’s being honest, his own. He knows his family probably feels the same way about him, but that just means they’d act out of selfishness too.

Tonight, Dick had more say, so Tim got the rebreather and Dick got more than a lungful of gas.

“Sorry again,” Tim mumbles, passing Dick a fresh ice pack. “About the rebreather.”

Dick takes the ice pack and presses it against his right shoulder, which he agitated at some point during their fight with Scarecrow. “’S fine. Knowing you, you’ll triple check next time to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“No kidding,” Tim mumbles, running a hand through his hair. He stifles a yawn. “Need anything else?”

“Nah.” Dick starts reciting pi in his head, trying to drown out the voices he knows aren’t real. “Get some sleep. And good work tonight.”

Even with the gassing, he and Tim were able to take down Scarecrow fairly easily. It’s nice to know that the two of them can still work well together, even when the circumstances aren’t entirely ideal.

“Thanks, you too.” Tim bounces on the balls of his feet and fails to stifle another yawn. This time, Dick yawns too. “You don’t want company or anything?”

“I’m good. Besides, I’ll probably just try to sleep until Alfred is happy with the blood work.”

Tim shrugs and takes a few steps backward. “If you change your mind.”

“Night, Timmers.”

“Night.” Tim turns around and makes his exit.

Dick throws his good arm over his eyes and tries to sleep.

oOo

Unconsciousness comes in waves, broken by adrenaline spikes and Alfred or Bruce checking on him. But no matter his consciousness status, Dick’s reality is shadowed and manipulated by voices and figures, hallucinations and lies that feel like absolute truths. It’s hard to tell the difference between sleep and wakefulness, but the shaking is a good tell. He doesn’t usually shake in his nightmares.

He's in his room, lying in his bed and shaking. He doesn’t remember coming here, but that doesn’t say much. He’d been having a dream, something that felt real, but wrong. Something adjacent to reality.

A camera kept flashing in his face, the photographer morphing into something less and less human. And Bruce, Bruce had been there. Yelling at him, telling him to—

No. That hadn’t happened, and now that he’s awake, Dick can barely remember the lies.

Dick kicks at his sheets, trying to reach the cool air above them. At first it’s a relief, but soon it’s not enough because he’s hot and sweaty and something keeps telling him to run. He glances out the window, trying to figure out if he could survive the fall—

No. He’s fine. He’s fine.

Dick pushes himself upright, takes some deep breaths, tries to recite pi.

He jumps at the knock on his door.

“Dick?” the door creaks open to reveal Bruce, who enters the room before Dick can answer. “What are you still doing here?”

“I—” Dick feels hot, his palms are sweating again and he can feel his heart pounding against his chest, trying to escape. He blinks, twists the skin on his forearm until it hurts.

Bruce is in front of him, sitting down on the bed. “I trained you to be a detective. Can’t you piece together the clues? You’re not wanted. Get out of my house and stay away from my family.”

Dick shakes his head, fists his hair. The room feels like it’s getting smaller, twisted and darker. Louder. Wrong. This is a sign, but Dick can’t remember for what. “But you—no. You trusted me with Damian, you said—”

What had Bruce said? He’s a master manipulator when he wants to be, needs to be. He might’ve trusted him with Damian, or maybe, just maybe, he was only trying to protect Alfred in case Damian had been given orders to assassinate them. He’d already attacked Tim, after all, and keeping that fact in mind, Bruce would have needed to consider safety and who he’d be willing to lose in order to protect someone else. Dick’s death and its repercussions would have felt minuscule if it meant Alfred would be saved.

Hands tug at his wrists. It’s three fourteen. The voice is lying.

“Shh. Take a breath.” Dick tries, but it’s like his chest has stalled. “Tell me how many posters are in your room.”

“There’s—”

“Take them and go. I don’t want any trace of you left in this house.”

“Dick, you’re alright. Take a breath.” Hands are on Dick’s shoulders, trying to restrain him. He brushes them off, tries to get to the window. “I’m out of patience. I won’t be subtle any longer—I’ve regretted taking you in from the moment you moved in. Go!”

His fingers barely brush against the window’s lock before he’s slammed into the ground. His shoulder pops, making him grunt.

“You’re not thinking clearly. Focus. Wait it out.”

Dick struggles against the weight on top of him, but it doesn’t give, not even when he resorts to biting. The hands simply shift from his chest to his stomach, and his attacker doesn’t even make a sound.

The voices in his head build up. There are millions, all shouting conspiracies at him, all of them sounding too true. His heart pounds so hard that it must be bruising his chest, and he’s so hot that his brain must be about to melt. And, and—he can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He’s going to die. This is it—he’s going to die.

A hand forces his head down, and it’s not until then that he realizes he’s been slamming it against the ground in an attempt to silence the voices.

“Shh, shh. You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

“Leave! Jump out the window, you’d be doing everyone a favor!”

Dick tries to lift his head again, but the hold is firm. There’s not enough room to hit it against the ground, there’s not enough room to shut the voices out.

“No one will miss you!”

The familiar feeling of a needle slides into his arm.

“Shh.”

Something happens. The room shifts, he shifts, and he realizes that he’s no longer shaking. It’s a sign.

The hallucinations shift into a nightmare that feels too real.

oOo

Dick wakes up to nausea and a headache. He tries to move his hand to rub at his head only to find that he’s been restrained. Bad night then.

He opens his eyes and turns his head. There’s an empty chair by his bed and the bedroom door is cracked open.

“Bruce,” he calls.

Damian steps into view, pushing the door open a little wider. The quick response tells Dick that Damian has been listening from the hallway. “Father is answering a call from Kent. Would you like me to collect him?”

"It can wait.”

Damian still hasn’t entered the room, and it makes Dick wonder how much he’d heard last night, how much last night has to do with the distance, the hesitance. He doesn’t remember seeing Damian at all, but he probably came back when Dick was still in the Cave. And even if they hadn’t seen each other, it’s not like Dick’s bedroom is soundproof.

“Everything okay, kiddo?” He can remember Bruce having a handful of especially bad reactions to fear gas from when Dick was a kid—they’d been terrifying, seeing Bruce like that had made them terrifying.

“Of course. You are the one who was incapacitated.” Damian tugs on the sleeve of his sweatshirt, pulling it halfway down his hand. “But you are alright now?”

Dick quirks his lips into a smile. “I’m fine.”

“Good. I imagine last night was quite difficult,” Damian begins. “Titus woke up several times.” Damian tugs on his sleeve again, he looks like he wants to ask something.

Damian’s head turns abruptly, and whatever he sees causes him to take a step back. Into the hallway, he says, “Richard is awake.”

Now that he’s paying attention, Dick can hear Bruce’s footsteps. Bruce pauses outside of Dick’s bedroom, and he and Damian exchange words in quiet voices that Dick can’t understand. Then Bruce steps inside and closes the door behind him.

“How are you feeling?” Bruce asks.

“Lucid,” Dick starts. Bruce tilts his head, expectant. “Not great overall, and I still feel a little on edge, but I think the worst of it is over.”

“Hnn.” Bruce looks him over for a moment, trying to confirm Dick’s self-evaluation. He must pass because soon Bruce is taking off the restraints.

“Did I . . .” Dick tries to think back to last night and work out what was nightmare and what was hallucination and what was reality. “Did I try to jump out a window last night?”

“Yes. I had to hold you down until a sedative was administered. After that, we decided it would be safer to use restraints until the toxin wore off.”

Dick sits up as the last of the restraints are removed. He stretches his ankles and wrists. “Did the antidote not work or something?”

“It either wore off early or the toxin was stronger than usual. Possibly both, considering how you reacted to additional doses,” Bruce explains.

Dick frowns. “How many doses did you give me?”

“Three. You probably won’t need a fourth, but we’ll check your blood in a few hours to make sure that the traces still in your system are gone, or at least decreasing.”

Dick groans and slides back down against his pillow, draping his arms over his face. The fear toxin antidote, while helpful, isn’t without side-effects. With three doses, those effects will stick around for days.

Bruce, the bastard, has the audacity to chuckle at him. Dick blindly throws a pillow at him, smiling when he hears it meet its target.

Then, “Are you hungry?”

“Not even a little.”

Bruce runs a hand through Dick’s hair. “Sleep.”

He doesn’t have to be told twice.

oOo

Dick wakes up alone again, but this time the chair is gone and the door is completely shut. It’s a good sign, and since Dick isn’t currently disoriented, very much preferred.

It’s much later in the day now, a little past noon, but he knows he could very easily close his eyes and sleep for another few hours. Possibly until the next morning. But to his misfortune, his stomach growls in protest.

With a dramatic sigh that no one can hear, he gets out of bed, quickly showers and dresses, and goes downstairs to find something to eat.

"I was just about to check on you," Alfred says when he spots him entering the kitchen. "How are you feeling?"

Dick shrugs. “Tired.” It’s a side-effect of the antidote, but the nightmares probably hadn’t helped. “Did you guys have lunch already?”

“It would seem that everyone has gotten a rather late start to the day. We were just about to settle in for a brunch of sorts.”

“Do you need help?” Dick asks.

Alfred points toward a tray of what looks like buckwheat pancakes. “If you could bring that tray into the dining room, please.”

Dick hums and grabs the tray, carrying it into the dining room with Alfred behind him. He’s just setting the tray down when Titus storms in, running into his legs with a force that threatens to knock him over.

He takes a step back with a small laugh, reaching down to pet Titus. His tail thumps against the ground as he takes a seat on top of Dick’s feet.

“Master Damian!” Alfred shouts, setting a bowl of fruit down on the table.

“What’s up with you, buddy?” Dick asks the dog as he bends down to pet him better. Titus doesn’t usually tackle him, especially not when they just saw each other the day before. “What’s goin’ on?”

Alfred tsks to the room at large.

“Yes, Pennyworth?” Damian asks when he eventually reaches the room.

“What have I told you about animals in the dining room, especially during meal times?”

Damian rolls his eyes, prompting another “Master Damian!” from Alfred. Dick almost laughs, but the adult in him tells him to stand up and keep his mouth shut.

“Titus, come,” Damian says.

Titus whines.

“Titus, come,” Damian repeats.

Titus obeys, tail low as Damian leads him out of the room.

“And please gather the others before returning.”

Damian mumbles something under his breath that Alfred claims to have heard. Despite the resistance, Tim comes into the room a minute later, so Damian must’ve done as Alfred asked.

“Morning,” Tim says. He juts his thumb toward the hall. “What’s Damian mad about?”

“Oh.” Dick huffs a small laugh. “Titus ran in here and Alfred kind of went off on him.”

“Ugh, and I missed it? Bummer.” Tim takes a seat next to him and steals a piece of fruit from the bowl. “Feeling any better? Bruce said you had a rough night.”

Sometimes a little fear toxin exposure can be so mundane and minuscule that it isn’t mentioned the following morning. Dick wishes this was one of those times.

“Yup.” Dick taps his fingers on the table. “What happened to your ankle? You didn’t report it last night.”

Tim looks down at the ACE bandage wrapped around his left foot. “Oh. Just an old injury that started acting up this morning. I can still kick your ass at sparring later, though.”

Dick snorts and grabs one of the buckwheat pancakes, deciding he can’t wait any longer. “You wish.”

oOo

Breakfast is uneventful, aside from Dick literally falling asleep on the table. Bruce shakes him awake after everyone’s finished eating and then drags Dick down to the Cave to check his blood levels. Titus joins them, pressing himself against Dick’s legs and nearly tripping him as they make their way down the Cave’s stairs.

One blood test later and they learn that the toxin levels haven’t budged. Bruce decides to give him another dose of the antidote.

“Fourth time’s the charm, right?” Dick says.

“Hnn.”

Bruce sets a timer on his phone, just like he used to do in the early days. Draw blood, antidote, set a timer, draw more blood. That had been the routine for so much of his life.

Although, Dick supposes, they hadn’t really had antidotes back then; they’d had attempts at treatments. Desperate attempts to manage symptoms. There was no testing to guarantee their effectiveness or safety, and their chemical makeup had been based purely on theory and desperation. It was better than nothing, but it was risky, so they took precautions: monitoring each other not only for effectiveness but also for the inevitable side effects.

Dick will never forget the time an “antidote” caused his throat to swell up and chest to stall. The timer had only had a minute left, too—they’d increased the time after that, and Dick hadn’t complained about having to wait the whole time for almost a year.

These days, monitoring isn’t always part of the routine, and when it is, it’s mostly to check for effectiveness. But since this is Dick’s fourth dose in a relatively short timeframe, his risk for adverse effects is higher and he needs to be monitored to make sure he doesn’t keel over. Bruce will probably force him to stay at the manor until all side effects of the treatment subside, longer if new side effects arise.

“Have you been able to get any restful sleep?”

Dick jerks as he’s pulled from his thoughts. “Uh,” he starts, needing a second to process what Bruce just said. “No. Not really, no.”

“Someone can patrol in Bludhaven while you recover.”

It’s an offer, Bruce trying to be helpful. Dick knows that, but something makes it feel like an order, proof that Bruce thinks he’s incompetent.

“I’m fine on my own.”

Funny how Dick’s still trying to prove that, after all these years. He remembers when he was eight and first moved in with Bruce, how he’d been adamant about not needing a parent, not needing Bruce, but he became attached anyway. He’d told himself Bruce was a want, not a need, but that hadn’t been true, not in the early days.

Then things shifted. He grew up and no longer needed Bruce, but he’d wanted him. Dick had lied to himself again, telling himself that Bruce was the last person he wanted. The lie was easier to believe on some days than on others, but it had been even harder to convince himself that Bruce felt the same way. That even if Bruce didn’t need Dick, he wanted him.

That feeling of uncertainty, insecurity, had been with Dick since he was a kid, and it had persisted and worsened as he’d gotten older. It had been exacerbated after Two-Face nearly killed him and Bruce promptly fired him from being Robin. He was twelve and lost back then, and in what he now knows was just his twisted, hurt kid-brain, he’d convinced himself that Bruce didn’t need nor want him, as Robin or anything else.

Back then, he’d been certain that pity and guilt were the only things stopping Bruce from tossing Dick out onto the streets. He’d felt like a burden, and he’d hated everything about his life in those moments. So, he’d done the only thing he could think of—he ran.

And Bruce—Bruce didn’t chase him.

That was—maybe is—the important bit, the part that Dick still thinks about. Not the initial rejection, not being fired—that Bruce didn’t come after him.

After all, that’s what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? For Bruce to prove him wrong, for Bruce to chase after him, fight for him. To want him.

Bruce fought for Jason, then for Tim and, eventually, Damian. It’s clear that they are and always will be wanted, and Dick knows it’s stupid, but he doesn’t always know if that’s true for himself. At the end of the day, his brothers all have Bruce’s name, and all Dick has is a man who stopped being his legal guardian when he turned eighteen.

Dick is useful, even needed on the rare occasion, but he’s not always sure that he’s wanted. And he desperately needs to be wanted.

“Something’s . . . bothering you.” Bruce’s brows are furrowed, searching Dick’s face and trying to find the clues that will tell him what went wrong and where.

Dick scratches behind Titus’s ears, looking at him instead of Bruce. “Just the toxin.”

“Hnn.” Bruce sits down next to Dick, grunting slightly as he settles. “I imagine that the photographer’s comments last night didn’t help.”

Sometimes Dick hates how well Bruce knows him.

“It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Maybe. But fear toxin twists things, and it’s been known to draw on recent events, especially the latest versions.”

Dick says nothing, just nods in acknowledgment as he attends to Titus.

“Dick, you are my family, in every sense of the word. And I . . . I was bothered by the comment last night that implied otherwise.”

Bruce reaches over and squeezes Dick’s knee, and Dick wonders how much he’d said last night when the fear toxin was in control.

“You know I love you, right?”

“Yeah, I know. It’s just—” Dick sighs, leans his head against Bruce’s shoulder, squeezes his eyes shut. “Sometimes I don’t.”

Bruce shifts. He cups the back of Dick’s head and pulls him toward his chest, pressing a kiss into his hair. “I love you, okay? And you are wanted here. So, so wanted.” Bruce holds him in a tight hug and traces circles into his hair. “I’ll say it as many times as you need to hear it.”

Dick hugs him back and nods into his chest. It doesn’t fix everything, but it makes it better. And sometimes that’s all anyone needs.

#dick grayson #bruce wayne #tim drake #damian wayne #nightwing #batman #red robin #robin #batfamily #fear toxin #elizabeth writes

198 notes · View notes

freifraufischer · 3 years

Text

An interesting sports/politics observation:

I’ve been following the dumpster fire at USAG for quite some time now and became deeply interested in following the sport of gymnastics in more than a 4 year fan way around the time that the Larry Nassar scandal broke.

The post mortem on the US women’s gymnastics team results in Tokyo was honestly starting around Olympic trials in June. The US women have never traveled much internationally for decades so they compete less than other international gymnasts. The argument has been that the travel takes away from valuable training time. What was little became none because of COVID and the bankruptcy filing of USAG to deal with the lawsuits arising from the abuse scandal.

It was known that the US women were also being domestically over scored by judges at home. Domestic overscoring is not unique to the US but most countries that have it also complete internationally so their athletes have a real sense of how international judges will evaluate their routines. There have been alarm bells for at least three years that the US women were not going to get credit for elements and face deductions in international competition that they weren’t facing at home. Just this year one of them was literally used in a pictorial example of a international judging document for something that should be deducted--the fact that current athletes are used this way is a whole other horrible kettle of fish. I should add that the discovery that routines that were being scored highly in the US would fail at the olympics isn’t even new. Famously the reigning world champion missed out on the all around final at the 2012 games because she wasn’t given credit for connections and series that were overlooked at home.

Now the job of bringing domestic meet scoring into line is on the national team staff and the job of advising and strategizing is that of the “High Performance Director” for the women’s program. This is the job that was held (under the title National Team Coordinator) by Martha Karolyi with an iron fist before 2016. She was replaced (after fits and starts) by a man named Tom Forrester. Forrester’s defining qualities for the job have been that he is nice. Literally the bar was that low. He has demonstrated a rather alarming lack of knowledge about what international judges deduct for (after Junior World Championships he expressed surprise that they deducted for dance elements--something that happened again in Tokyo to US gymnasts), did not understand the Olympic selection criteria for individuals, and appeared to have a very very faulty understanding of the rights of athletes with an ongoing abuse complaint (more on that later).

He was relatively removed from the culture of high level elite coaching for the last few decades and the athletes considered him nice. The last time he had been deeply involved in senior US gymnastics politics was the mid 1990s when several of his gymnasts were passed over for the 1996 Olympic Team because injured athletes were petitioned on to the team over those that competed at trials. Mind you this was a time when the Olympic team had 7 members and the people petitioned on were the 1992 Olympic Silver Medalist Shannon Miller and 1995 National Champion Dominique Moceanu. It would have been literally insane not to have them on the Olympic team. But it has become apparent that Tom Forrester felt a great injustice was done to his athletes and the the worst part of US gymnastics team management was that Martha Karolyi picked favorites.

This year he denied the petition of a former world champion to Olympic trials (she likely wouldn’t have made the team but her exclusion is... questionable) and after the fact justified it by saying she had failed to meet a criteria for the petition that he never told her existed. At trials the team was chosen (by a committee that he had essentially full control over) took the top all around finishers in order of how they did at trials (as he would have liked them to have done in 1996). This was in willful defiance that the format of the olympics now demands not all arounders but strategic use of team building for the best score possible. The US did not bring the highest potential scoring team to the olympics because of one man’s wounded pride from 25 years ago.

And before you might be tempted to tell yourself he did this because he wanted to support the athletes let me tell you about the fact that he allowed a coach that was under investigation for abuse to come to a camp where one of the athletes that had filed the complaint against her was also in attendance. His wife, who has a history of unhinged social media rants, claimed he didn’t have the authority to send home an athletes chosen coach. In reality Louie Hernandez had the legal right not to have to be there with her. That coach would later be banned for longer than anyone else has ever been banned in USAG history.

So in June anyone following the details of this knew that Tom’s strategy was entirely “we have Simone and so we will win.” Because that kind of pressure and stress couldn’t possibly have any terrible consequences on an athlete. Spoiler: It did.

People within the sport were warning about this before Simone Biles lost herself in the air during that vault in Tokyo. The fact that we were all lucky not to watch one of the greatest athletes of a generation break her neck can not be overstated. It was so scary that one of the most famously bitter angry and terrible human beings of Gymnastics that has been saying awful things about Biles for years kept telling Russian media that she made the right decision to pull out. That was pigs flying territory.

Forrester left the athletes to face the press alone after the final.

So with that backdrop I want to give this observation: Dominque Moceanu, an olympic gold medalist who has an abuse story so horrific with villains so cartonishly evil that if it was written as fiction the author would be told it was over the top, wrote a book about the culture of abuse in in the sport and USAG in 2008. She was called insane, living on another planet, and apparently sent hundreds of emails by those within the sport that she was ungrateful for what her abusers had done for her (emails that she has apparently kept and I’m telling you I’d love to read more then the few I’ve seen). Moceanu was a figure out of greek legend, Cassandra doomed to tell the truth and be called mad (and attention seeking). In light of the fall of the Karolyis and the Nassar scandal Moceanu has become a more respected figure as someone that has been speaking out about abuse for a long time. She has also been someone that other victims went to over the decades to talk to before they could come forward. A weight that no one should have to bear.

I had been joking that the only way people would start to trust USAG was honestly trying to reform was if they put someone like Moceanu in charge (Aly Raisman’s name is floated but even she points out that she’s not qualified). Moceanu is. But the old guard of the sport have spent two decades telling people that Moceanu is crazy. I didn’t think she’d take the job and I didn’t think USAG would ever hire her.

But here is the interesting thing .... her social media presence radically changed character in the last three months. Starting around the time of US Nationals and continuing though trials and the olympics between posts supporting team USA athletes and raising a voice to support Simone Biles and the need for a cultural change in the sport were digs at Tom Forrester and about the need for transparency in that job.

And this: “Would someone be kind enough to notify me if the U.S. women’s high performance coordinator position opens up? Asking for a friend.” (x) At the same time (literally the same day as one of those tweets) she launched a youtube channel that is essentially a political fluff piece about her as a change agent in gymnastics coaching.

She’s auditioning for that job.

There are a bunch of other interesting elements of her online behavior and some other telling notes about things she’s said ... but it’s interesting to notice something like that unfold.

22 notes · View notes

j-pankratz · 3 years

Text

The Slumber that Creeps to Me

Geraskefer. 7208 Words. Rated T. Jaskier pulls an extreme all-nighter (read: 60+ hours) to finish a paper he procrastinated on, and finds at the end of it that sleep does not come as easily as he’d hoped. Tags for: Sleep Deprivation, Self Destruction/Lack of Self Care, Hallucinations, Nightmares, Overstimulation, Hurt/Comfort, Whumping the Bard, very loving partners, and a happy ending. <3 AO3 link in the reblog!

As with most disasters spurned by his own cockiness, Jaskier felt as thought that all in all, the situation could have been worse.

The idea to have Geralt and Yennefer spend the spring holiday break at Oxenfurt was, in his defense, ingenious. His students weren’t around, the weather was gorgeous, they all had varying degrees of business in the city, and they could fuck each other senseless at any hour of the day. In a bed. A nice one, provided he was a legitimate professor, now. Well, visiting. Well, it was complicated. But they were his rooms, and that’s what mattered.

When Jaskier gotten the prestigious offer to write the season’s main article for the Continent’s most respected Bardic Journal, he’d just sort of figured he’d… fit it in, somewhere. He had seventeen months, which was plenty enough for him. Then he’d just work with the editors, and have a centerfold piece. It was an honor. He was excited about it! He’d meant to get to it sooner, but decided the summer before that he’d devote the winter to it. But… he’d… he’d been distracted. It wasn’t often the entire family gathered at Kaer Morhen. So, he thought, he’d do it later.

But the first few weeks after winter were, of course, spent with Geralt. And the week after that, a trip to the coast, where he’d played a festival and met up with Ciri, who was becoming an amateur critic herself. And then by pure, absolute happenstance, after 3 more weeks of travel he happened to end up at an inn that he definitely hadn’t heard Yennefer was staying at. So that more time gone. And then he’d arrived in Oxenfurt, and he’d really meant to get to work on it, but there was so much to prepare for! He wanted things to be right for them.

And then Yennefer and Geralt had actually arrived, and the idea of anything possibly being more important than their presence flew his mind.

And now, here he was. If he wanted to get it in on time (unfortunately, that wasn’t a suggestion in this case, more of an actual, terrifying requirement,) he’d need to submit it in… gods above, less than three days. 60 hours, if he was doing the math.

There was no word limit, nor a minimum. But, ever the maximalist, he knew it was going to be… long, if he was going to do it right. They’d edit it down, but it was the focal point of the journal, they’d been leading up to it for ages now. Ahh. Well. There was only one thing for it, he supposed.

“I’m working through the night on my paper!” He’d announced that morning, sitting straight up in bed, jostling his sleepy lovers. “No one bother me! I will be at the dining table until further notice!” He swung himself out of bed and made for the door.

“Pants,” his lovers chorused together.

“Right!” he'd said, and marched back into the room.

He’d pulled all-nighters in his youth. In fact, he couldn’t count the times he’d worked through the night, deposited a composition or essay on his professor’s desk with some polite conversation and maybe a wink, and then promptly fallen asleep during the lecture itself. Just a 15-minute power nap, really! Then he’d be back up and at it again, working through another night just to sleep through the weekend. He’d done it before, he could do it again.

Well, it’d been 25 years ago, but that didn’t change much, did it? He still felt spry, agile, hearty— hell, he’d spent the better part of the last twenty odd years chasing after a Witcher, and later an additional princess and mage— surely he should be in better health now!

This was completely accomplishable. Admittedly, he could have written this sooner… but he hadn’t, and here he was.

Geralt and Yennefer both set out early on different errands, leaving the bard to some peace and quiet. Relatively.

He spread his work and references out before him. 7 books, 4 pamphlets, his favorite quills, a hundred fresh pieces of parchments, his lute at his knee. “Alright,” he said aloud to his empty Oxenfurt apartment, “Just sit down and write the damn thing. Sitting part, definitely done. Writing next. Just… write.”

He stared at the page.

“No! No, no, do not be impossible about this. Just start the thing.”

The page stared back.

“Ah, blast,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. This was fine. Just… do the awful, disgusting part of beginning, and then he’d be off. The sooner he started, the sooner he’d finish, after all! He took a breath, and put his pen to paper.

Yennefer returned a few hours later, a book and small parcel in hand. Jaskier looked up to see her sweep through the room, a commanding presence, though she didn’t acknowledge him yet. A few waves of her hands and a pot of tea was put on to boil, her hair was put in a bun, and three mugs were floating down from a shelf.

“Lovely to see you too,” he smiled as Yennefer poked through the tea collection. He could practically hear her fond eye roll. She neatly plucked two from one box and looked back at him in question. “Ah… peppermint, if we’ve got it?” and she turned back to the cupboard grab it.

“Any progress?” She finally asked.

“A bit, actually!” Jaskier said cheerfully. It didn’t look like much, but he’d done half a page with almost no errors, and he’d made plenty of notes in the margins of the books he’d need later. It was better than he’d hoped it’d be going by this point, at least. He was kicking academia’s ass. Or, he would be.

The kettle whistled and Yennefer poured the tea, bobbing all three of the tea bags up and down as they steeped. He watched her lean against the counter, casual, relaxed, gorgeous, before realizing she was staring back at him. “Um! Yes, no, definitely good. Got a lot of… those words, you know, they are definitely here. Looking very sexy. The words! The writing is looking… very sexy, very curvy… letters. Sensuous words, you know.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Sensuous words.”

“Yeah, yes. Like… contemporaneous… and… iguana.”

“Iguana.” She let out a little huff of a laugh and something in Jaskier’s chest tightened and loosened in quick succession. And in a moment she was there, sliding him a large mug with the carving of a rather playful looking bear on one side, batting at a butterfly.

“Oh! My favorite. Thank you, thank you.”

“Mmm,” she said before waving a hand to cool down their tea a bit. She took a seat opposite him, scanning an eye over the table. “Think you’ll be done by tonight?”

Jaskier laughed. “Darling, I’ll be lucky to be done by tomorrow morning.”

“You’re planning to stay up all night, bard?”

“Unfortunately.” He took a sip. “Should be done by tomorrow afternoon, if I keep steady at it.”

“After tea, of course.”

“Of course.”

Yennefer stretched out a bit, kicking her feet onto Jaskier’s lap and rolling her neck. They sat there a moment, sipping, pausing, drinking in each other. There was something nice about taking a moment of stillness with someone just as frenetic as he was, someone who was usually just as itching for something to do, even if she went about it differently. The grace of choosing stillness, he thought, was not something to ignore.

Yennefer reached the end of her mug and tapped its ceramic walls lightly.

“What’s next for you?”

“I have to refresh my potion stock, so I’ll be at the market for supplies. You sure you don’t want to take a break and join?”

Rat’s ass. He fucking loved the Oxenfurt markets. “I’m afraid I can’t. Academia calls.”

“Who does it call for, exactly? What’s that I hear…” She cocked her head and listened intently. “Who is it calling for… is that… V… Val… Valdo?” Jaskier hefted her feet off of his lap in protest, and she laughed. He plucked his quill from its stopper, and went back to hovering over his paper. Introduction mostly accomplished, now he had to really lead in to his point, give some proper context. He flipped through a book beside him.

Yennefer rose smoothly from the table and went to move her mug to the sink. “When Geralt gets in, tell him I need toadflax and bluebells from him? Might as well put him to use.”

Jaskier flipped through the pages, thumbing through for a note he’d sworn he’d made ages ago, when he belatedly tried to register his mage’s words. He could have his fun, too.

“Blue…Yennefer, you want me to tell Geralt that you need blue balls from him?”

“Bells! Bells, you absolute child!” she said. “Honestly. Blue balls? Really, Jaskier?” He was giggling. “I don’t need to ask to give either of you blue balls.”

“Exactly, Yennefer, you provide that service for us anyway, free of charge!” A balled-up napkin hit him in the head and he laughed joyfully.

“I can’t stand you. I’m leaving, you’ll never see me again.”

Jaskier looked up through his grin and met her twinkling, happy eyes. “Tonight then?”

“Tonight,” she agreed, and left with a quick ruffle of his hair.

“Still working?” Geralt said as greeting later in the afternoon. The desk was neater than Jaskier expected it to be this far in, only a few books open, dog eared and marked in colored ink. He’d written a page and a half since Yennefer left, and it was good, it was, but he’d need to go back and make edits later. His long empty mug of tea sat far across him.

“Mm,” he agreed, continuing to write. “Ah, Yennefer came through earlier,” giving a gesture to the waiting mug of tea on the counter. Geralt made his way over to the mug, and gave it a small igni to warm it. He smiled fondly down at the drink—what a terribly lovely sight he was. Warm here, and safe. Couldn’t it be like this always? The three of them here, comfortable and happy? No, he supposed, but gods how he wanted it.

“She’s at the market now,” Jaskier continued, “wanted me to ask you about...” He lifted his pen and squinted. “Ah, toadflax and bluebells.” He looked up at Geralt, smiling. “Blue balls,” they said together, sporting matching shit-eating grins, Geralt’s albeit much smaller. “I made the same joke myself,” Jaskier added.

Geralt snorted. “How’d she take that?”

“Oh, as well as you’d hope. We’ll never see her again, of course.” He turned back to his work, reading over the last paragraph. He could feel Geralt approach to stand behind him, and while he’d normally shoo his witcher off, he was too deep in concentration to bother.

How long was too long to linger on the progression of oral storytelling to bardship? It’s not like he could ignore it, (Geralt’s hand came to grip his shoulder, a thumb rubbing against it tenderly) as it was a crucial tenant of the argument— but there was plenty to be said for assuming the literacy and foreknowledge of the reader. (He leaned in to get a closer look at Jaskier’s page, the soft warmth of the tea in his other hand bouncing off his chest) But this was to be in a journal often referenced by first years, and he knew how much he would have loved a paper that had everything all in one—

“How’s it going?” Geralt asked softly in his ear.

Jaskier waved a hand over the mess before him. “You know. It’s fine, I’m just not sure at what point I’m lingering on points to excess.”

“Mm,” Geralt hummed understandingly. “Tell the story. Trust your gut.” He gave Jaskier a nuzzle and light kiss against his cheek before taking up the empty mug off the table and walking off further into the apartment.

“I always do!” Jaskier called back. Mm, if only this were as simple as telling a story. Well…Oh—if he spent this paragraph referencing the progression it would end up taking up more room, be a run of the mill lead-in, but if he wrote the actual history as a short story itself, now there was an idea, he could make his point and give the context. Oh, fuck, brilliant—

“Back soon,” Geralt was saying as the front door slipped shut, but the bard was too lost in his work to do more than give a small nod of his head.

The sun was falling, making a graceful bow into the horizon. Warm light spread out over the streets of Oxenfurt like the last pushes of tide, ebbing, and flowing, and sinking back into night.

“Ah, fuck,” Jaskier muttered, crossing out a spelling error with a snarl.

His shoulders ached, and his lower back was going to be the death of him. He was on page 7. All he could see was the work ahead of him, winding off ad infinitum. If he didn’t pick up the pace, he might have to go 60 hours straight—he shivered. Not ideal. He took a breath, stood up and stretched a bit, his muscles groaning in thanks. A quick bathroom break later and he was sliding back into his chair, still warm, his papers grinning up at him, sardonic.

He’d take a meal break at 10 pages, he told himself.

He stood to stretch and his head swam. Well. Plenty of reason to stay seated, he supposed.

Geralt and Yennefer returned at 12 and a half pages. He turned his head in greeting, and when he looked back he got the first real look at the table in hours—it was a disaster, crumbled pieces of parchment, empty quills, and little notes strewn everywhere. Some books propped open, the pile of parchment looking more like a mountain slope, an empty glass from when he’d chugged water hours ago.

His loves were clearly a few drinks deep as they came through the door, and completely unmarred by the woes of academia. Bastards, honestly.

“Hi, hello, hope you had a good evening, I—”

“Come to bed,” Yennefer said, suddenly right behind him. Two small but firm hands came to his shoulders, rubbing deeply.

“Ah! Oh, fuck—oh, yes, darling, right there—”

Geralt came to his other side, tipping his head up for a kiss, which he moaned into. His witcher’s tongue was soft, pleading, tempting him—his mage’s hands pushing almost painfully against his aching muscles. He wanted to cry, it was so good. It was so different than the last… however many hours it had been that he had been sitting here. Geralt pulled away, and Yennefer’s hands came to rest as well.

“So?” Geralt asked, his voice deep and velvety. “Bed?”

“I…” gods, who had he become? “I can’t. I want to, I just—”

Yennefer placed a kiss to the top of his head. “It’s fine,” she said, and he knew it was, but he hated denying them something they all wanted. “Have you eaten?”

Jaskier frowned. “Fuck. Not really.”

Geralt sighed and went to the pantry. “You’re getting a sandwich,” he grumbled.

“Ooo, Geralt, dear heart, would you heat it up? Use some of your,” he wiggled his fingers “your witchery magic?”

Geralt turned and glared. “You’re getting a sandwich.”

“He’s so mean to me,” Jaskier muttered to Yennefer, “I can’t believe he’s so mean to me.”

His mage snorted a laugh into his hair. “You’re really staying up all night, then?” She waved a hand and the curtains around the room swept shut, and his lantern began to burn steadily.

“Looks like it,” he sighed. Geralt retuned a moment later, plated warm sandwich and glass of water in hand.

“Fuck. Thank you.” He took it and took a bite, suddenly ravenous. He looked up at both of them, staring down in fond amusement. “Fank—” he swallowed his mouthful of sandwich. “Thank you both, truly. I’ll be up a bit. If you need something, call, yes?”

They rolled their eyes. “He tells us to call if we need anything,” Yennefer muttered. “Don’t get into any trouble,” she said, and with a peck on the cheek from both of them, they disappeared into the bedroom.

He looked back at his work.

Okay. 12 ½ pages in. He could do this.

At 15 pages, he felt ravenous again, and made a second sandwich. Not as good as Geralt’s. Geralt’s sandwiches weren’t even that good, but they were made by Geralt, which added a certain kick, a novelty he adored.

He drank another glass of water and shook his head. Back to work.

At 17 pages, sometimes the world swam before him. He gripped the edge of the table. Fuck.

He was so tired. 23 pages. He kept writing.

It was terrible. The whole paper was a mess. Nothing made sense and people were going to laugh at him. 25 pages.

He heard a sound. Was that Geralt rising for the bathroom? Was it an intruder? Light crept in through the window. 27 pages.

There was a ringing in his ear. His writing was getting increasingly larger. 27 ½ pages.

Geralt gave him a soft nuzzle to the top of his head before padding through to the kitchen. Jaskier’s heart ached. His bones ached. Writing was hard but right then it felt impossible. 27 ¾ pages.

Geralt lingered, and Jaskier felt his nose twitch. He tapped his foot impatiently, waiting for him to leave. He couldn’t have any distractions right now. He shut his eyes tight until he heard the bedroom door close once more.

Yennefer entered hours later, sweeping the curtains over with a flick of her hand. Bright light flooded the room, painting the desk in all its full, disgustingly messy glory. “Well—”

“Could you ask next time?!” Jaskier snapped. “Some of us need consistency to concentrate!”

Yennefer raised an eyebrow, and they stared at each other. Some part of him wanted to slap himself but the rest was just so irritated. Who’d she think she was, anyway?

After a moment, the mage turned and left with a flick of her hand to sweep the curtains shut again.

“Headed out,” Geralt said at 30 pages. “Contract.”

“Good,” Jaskier muttered. “I mean. Good that you’re—fuck. Whatever.”

Geralt stared. “You need rest. It’s been more than 24 hours.”

“I need to fucking finish.”

“Yen said—”

“I’m sure she did,” Jaskier muttered, driving his heels into his eyes. Gods, his eyes burned. Silence hung.

“She portaled out this morning.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Great. Love that. I’m a fucking disaster, thank you for the reminder, Geralt.” He waved toward the door. “Don’t you have a contract?”

He turned back to his papers, shifting around to look for page 11, and didn’t think about how long it took before Geralt left the apartment.

His hand was shaking but he was at 34 pages. He still had so much to say. Fuck. But he was in it now.

He scarfed down some soup that was mostly broth at some point, and he’d under-salted it, but it was something. His eyes kept going blurry; traitorous things.

The bear on his mug was plotting his downfall.

38 pages and Jaskier felt like the gods themselves had gifted him with the knowledge he now bestowed onto meager commoners. He was a genius.

At 43 pages, he had stopped to lay out the entire essay on the ground, so he could see it all. The words sometimes swam before him, and he had trouble remembering what he was meant to say next. Once, he looked up, confused as to where he was. And then, at 44 pages, the guilt of snapping at his dearest loves, the weight of this behemoth paper he wasn’t even sure he could finish, and his own self-doubt crept in and seized him up, leaving him breathless and in tears for… awhile. Everything hurt. He had to keep going.

At 48 pages, he saw a griffon fly through his window, and he named it Kalvin. He turned whatever color Jaskier wanted him to turn, which was very considerate of him. Kalvin was his only friend now, and with a little convincing, might become his editor, too.

At 55 pages his chest seized, and it was hard to breathe for a moment. He closed his eyes but—no, no, couldn’t do that. If he fell asleep now, he’d never finish in time. He tried to relax, got some water, leaned against the counter. Everything was a mess.

He sat back on the floor, his work around him. Keep going.

“I don’t think there’s anything about anything that I have to be doing right now. Kalvin, you’ve… you’ve got to understand, this could be my finest work! It’s good. It’s pretty good here in… in this part, here. In that other part it’s just okay, but that’s why you come in with your big claws and you’re gonna. Rip up the bad parts. Don’t rip up the good parts. Right? Yeah. Do you think they’ve forgotten about me by now?”

He looked down. 57 pages. Took a long blink.

“Yeah,” he said softly, “That’s fair.

He had to write two extra pages so that he could skirt around referencing Valdo Marx’s work as anything other than a contradictory point. Maybe it would have been fun to use his own writing against him but he didn’t want to give the satisfaction of being referenced positively in a centerfold piece.

He lost the essay.

“Fuck—oh, gods, where did—”

He turned around, looked down. Oh, there it was.

“Thank fuck.”

The curtains were still closed and the charmed lantern was still burning, but Jaskier knew it was night by the time he reached 63 pages and Geralt came in.

Jaskier looked up from his spot kneeling on the floor. Geralt looked fine. He was a little dirty. There were some gushy bits. Probably blood. He was tired. Or just mad. Maybe he hated Jaskier.

“You’re still—?!” Geralt asked, looking at Jaskier like he’d just said a griffon named Kalvin had flown in the window earlier and now they were friends.

“I met a griffon,” Jaskier heard himself say. Geralt stared. “We’re friends now.”

“…You need to fucking sleep.”

“No.” Jaskier went back to the margin he’d devoted to drawing circles in. “Sorry ‘bout earlier.”

Geralt sighed. He might have talked but Jaskier didn’t hear, just kept writing.

“How often has that been happening?” he heard Geralt ask.

“What happening?”

“Where you fall asleep for a moment.”

“I haven’t! Fallen asleep.”

“Fuck,” Geralt said. He looked very nice, except for the goop all over him. Well. Even that wasn’t so bad, when the underneath bits were Geralt. His Geralt. Looked so warm, so strong, so able to carry him.

“Later,” Jaskier replied, and went back to his words. The familiar pop of a portal sounded in the bedroom. Their eyes lingered on the direction it came from, but Yennefer didn’t open the door. They looked at each other, and then back at the door which remained very much shut. “She’s mad.”

“Yep.”

“At me.”

“Yep.”

There was a pause. “Are you covered in blood?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Oh.”

“Not mine.”

“That,” he said pointing to the Witcher, “is good.”

“Mmm.”

“Sticky though.”

“Definitely sticky.”

Yennefer came out of the doorway, and Jaskier blinked. When he opened his eyes again she was much closer than she’d been and was in the middle of talking. Magic, he assumed.

“—yourself very lucky, bard.”

“Yeahh,” he said. “Sorry. ‘Bout… Sorry.”

She huffed and crossed her arms. There was a look in her face. Eyes? And her mouth. It was hard to name. Words were hard, when they weren’t the words he desperately needed to write.

“—for a while,” Geralt was saying. “Jaskier. How close are you to finishing.”

“Soon!” Jaskier said. “Soon! Soon. Due… 1pm tomorrow. What time is it?”

“10pm.”

“Fuck. Psshhh. I can… I can do it.” He looked up at Yennefer. “Sorry. Really. I… I’m just tired,” he admitted. “Shouldn’t have snapped. Not fair to you.”

Yennefer stood there, arms folded, emanating some emotion Jaskier had lost the concept of around page 41. Geralt walked further into the apartment, into the bedroom. Oh right. Blood armor. Ick.

He went back to writing and tried to ignore the desire to cry again, and then suddenly Yennefer’s shoes were in his line of vision.

“Let me read it,” she said.

“Oh.”

They stared at one another. She had such a pretty face. He might have been smiling. She rolled her eyes and then came to sit next to him. She quickly found the first page and began.

Halfway through it, he spilled ink on the bottom half of page 64, and wept. Yennefer gave him an attempt at a comforting pat on the back.

Yennefer had read the pages and risen; “It’s good. You need edits, but it’s somehow decent. Good. Whatever. A little… loose, toward the end, though,” made herself a cup of tea, and entered the bedroom.

Either a few moments, or 20 minutes later, Geralt emerged.

“What are you at now?”

“69 pages.”

“Nice,” Geralt said.

“Ha. Yeahhh,” Jaskier agreed.

“That’s not what I—” Geralt sighed the sigh that meant his face was going all pinch-y. “Close to the end?”

“Mmm. What is the end, really?” Geralt made a different pinch-y face. “Soon.”

“Come to bed tonight, Jaskier.”

“I’ll try,” he said. He blinked, and Geralt was gone.

There are a lot of words in an essay that are very hard to spell.

Jaskier ate the rest of a loaf of bread.

For a while, he swore he walked the streets of Oxenfurt while still warm in his professorial housing.

Kalvin’s accent changed three times and at one point he was on fire.

85 pages.

Geralt woke first, as always; There he was! That was his love. So much of his heart.

With shaking hands, Jaskier had brought himself up to sit in his chair, and sat staring down at his work. He looked up at Geralt with a lopsided grin. “I did it,” he said weakly.

“Need help putting it together?”

The tears fell so quickly he didn’t realize it was happening. “Really?”

Geralt sighed softly and knelt down, organizing the papers.

Yennefer emerged a bit later—There she was! His love, a chunk of him was hers entirely. He smiled. “Look!”

“Mmm. And now you can sleep.”

“NO!” Jaskier cried and leapt to his feet, “No, no, now… now is presenting time. To… the editors. Not Kalvin. But I turn it in… and then sleep,”

He had a sudden burst of energy, and tried to step over Geralt and the papers, but fell into the table instead, before the Witcher steadied him from below.

“Ohhhh, thank you dear. It’s time for… presentation! Mm.” He leaned into Yennefer’s warmth at his side, though she did not wrap her arms around him as he’d hoped. “Help me pick out an outfit.”

He blinked. Yennefer was in front of him now, looking at him with a frown, her hands around his waist. Geralt’s hand was against his forehead. “No! Stop that! I’m fine. I’m fine! See me! Fine. It’s action time. Let’s go!” and he marched off to the bedroom.

The floor was suddenly very close to his face.

“Did I—”

“You fell on your face.”

“Have I—”

“You’ve asked three times now, yes.”

There should have been fanfare when he turned it in, but there was only the grateful smile of Edmond, the young new assistant, a firm handshake, and a promise he’d hear back from them very soon, for a quick summarization of their initial thoughts. Or, he’d used all those words, Jaskier forgot which order they’d come in.

The three returned to the apartment, and everything happened very slowly and so quickly he found it hard to keep track. There was definitely a bath drawn for him—gods, it had been days, hadn’t it— oh, fuck, he was gross, wasn’t he—a full meal, and a celebratory drink. He’d made a few good jokes, and all he could see were Geralt and Yennefer, smiling at him. An empty glass. A bar of soap. A long quill. A messy table. A pile of books and an empty mug. They deposited him on the bed for sleep, and left together.

Jaskier lay there, waiting for sleep to take him.

It did not.

He was so tired he could cry. He did, a few times. He couldn’t think straight. All of it, everything, hurt. His body ached. He tried to soothe himself down alone, rocking himself in the hopes it would work. But nothing.

What if he could never sleep again? What if he would always be awake, forever? What if this was how he died?! Oh gods, he didn’t want to die! He still had edits to approve!

Eventually, he could feel himself getting closer. He adjusted himself, lay on his back and took deep, measured breaths, kept his eyes closed but relaxed. Okay. Okay. Sleep.

He was falling, so violently and so fast that when he jolted awake, he forgot he’d been lying on a bed in the first place.

Fuck.

He tried again. It happened sometimes, it was fine. He’d be fine.

He tried breathing deeply once more, trying to let the distant scents of Yennefer and Geralt now embedded in his pillows overtake him.

A fear so powerful it gripped his heart and twisted, whispered to him, ‘this is what dying is, you’re going to die’ and he once again jolted awake. He threw his head back against the pillow and winced; even that hurt.

Fuck. Fuck.

He kept trying. Over, and over, he’d get so close to sleep and then right at the precipice, something would yank him out of it.

Once, he saw Yennefer falling off a cliff. Another time, he saw Geralt stabbed through the chest. At some point, he saw Ciri screaming, and his hands flew out to pull her close, only to find nothing there. Sometimes it was himself falling, and sometimes it was the world below him falling instead.

He’d really done it this time. Stayed awake so long, sleep had abandoned him entirely.

It felt like twelve years before Yennefer and Geralt returned, slipping into the room quietly. He sat up in bed, startling them both.

“Please,” he said quietly, “I can’t. I don’t know why I can’t I just—I can’t. My body won’t let me, I want to but I can’t—”

“How the hell—” Yennefer started, walking over to him with a palm out to check for a curse, maybe? It didn’t matter. He wrapped her hand in his and clutched it to himself, desperate for her. She was so warm. So alive.

“Fuck,” Geralt sighed, “It’s been nearly 70 hours already, Jaskier.”

“Let me just put him down with magic,” Yennefer started, but Geralt put a hand up.

“We can’t. It’s a temporary fix. if he can’t fall asleep on his own without magic, it’ll get harder and harder for him. We need to get him to fall asleep without it.” They looked down at him. What a disgrace he must look like, how pathetic he was. He turned his face away in abject shame. He couldn’t even fall asleep right.

While he looked away, Yennefer tore her hand from his as she and Geralt discarded their clothes into heaps beside the bed, crawled beneath the covers on either side of Jaskier. They hated him. They must. How could they not?

“It’s fine, you don’t—fuck, sorry—”

Geralt shrugged. “Don’t be. I know how bad it gets. It’s different for a Witcher, but no sleep is the whole reason we met Yennefer.”

“Oh, yeah,” Jaskier said softly.

“As I recall, the solution then was to have vigorous sex on the floor.” Yennefer ran a finger along Jaskier’s chest. “Sound appealing?”

“I—yes, Yennefer, it sounds appealing.” He fidgeted, tried to focus on the feeling of Yennefer’s delicate touch. He was oversensitive enough that it felt like fire, but nothing… stirred, and each word he spoke felt like he was pulling honey from his tongue. “I don’t… much as I’d like, I’m not sure I’d be... up for it right now.” Yennefer’s head fell against the pillow and she flattened her hand, ran the palm up his chest to rest above his heart. Pressed a kiss there.

He closed his eyes and tried to breathe deeply, but they were looking at him, he could feel every inch of their gazes and it was all too much. He whined in agony. “I can’t do this. Fuck. I can’t, just put me out. We try it again tomorrow, I—”

“Jaskier. You can. Tell us what you need and we can help you,” Yennefer said, sweet but firm. And that was her, wasn’t it?

He couldn’t think. Wanted to. Wanted so much. Wanted to be asleep.

Jaskier curled up on his side, exhausted of being exhausted, when he felt Geralt slide up closer behind him. “Can I hold you?” he murmured into the bard’s shoulder. Jaskier nodded, and felt Geralt’s arm come around him and under his own arm, felt it slide up his chest and cross it protectively.

“Feel good?” Jaskier nodded, and then cracked his eyes open, met Yennefer’s, concern palpable.

He lifted one arm just slightly. “C’mere?” And she did, curled into his arms and around him, tucked her head under his, kissed the top of Geralt’s fingers. He held her close, and was held by the two in turn. Breathing, somehow, felt easier between them.

“Breathe, bard,” Yennefer urged him softly. Geralt buried his nose in Jaskier’s hair, took in a deep breath, and Jaskier tried to follow.

They breathed softly, all together, slow and safe. Soon, he was drifting into sweet oblivion.

‘You,’ Fear said, wrapped around his sternum, ‘will crumble, the moment you let go of wakefulness.’ It gripped him, and tugged him back to reality.

He jolted again. “Fuck, dammit, cock wringing—”

Yennefer pulled back to look at him worriedly. “Is that what’s been keeping you up?” she asked.

“It’s, I don’t know, something just pulls me back, I try to fight it but…”

“Mmm,” Geralt agreed. “Sleep starts. Happens sometimes.”

“The hell are sleep starts?”

“They’re… when you’re too on edge to sleep, or just haven’t in too long, brains… fizzle. Keep you awake. It’s a survival instinct—it makes you think you’ve got to stay awake to stay alive. Feels like falling? Or… a shock. Sometimes other things. Hallucinations.” Geralt pressed a kiss to the back of his head. “It’s scary. It’s meant to be. Your body thinks it’s fighting for its life.”

“I am never letting you doom yourself like this ever again,” Yennefer said, and while it was probably meant to come out angry, she just sounded worried.

Geralt hummed and agreement. “Try again, we’ve got you. We’re not letting go.” Jaskier took a breath. They had him. They had him.

Yennefer lifted a hand to Jaskier’s temple. “May I?” And he let her in, easier than breathing. She gave him Ciri laughing, wind chimes on the breeze, the soft roar of the coast. Geralt hugged him tight, ran his other hand through Jaskier’s hair, tried to keep the bard’s breathing aligned. Now, what had he ever done to earn these two?

Soon, sleep came to him again, and he could feel Yennefer ready to soothe anything that came for him in his mind, Geralt ready to defend against anything that dared hurt his resting body. The darkness crept in, and he felt peace.

Geralt was reaching for him, falling, bleeding, screaming.

“FUCK!”

“Shh,” the real Geralt hushed him. “We’ve got you.”

“Fuck, there’s got to be something else,” Yennefer groaned. “What’ve you tried so far?”

“I have tried… to fall asleep.”

Yennefer and Geralt both huffed small laughs. “No. Positions—”

“Only the good ones.”

“Meditating?” Geralt asked.

“Darling, I haven’t had a thought in my head in hours. This is meditation.”

“Drugs?” Yennefer asked.

“I will try the drugs!” Jaskier said with a drowsy cheerfulness, as Geralt replied “No drugs. No.”

“Ugh,” Jaskier groaned, and shifted to lie on his stomach. Oh. This was… better. He nestled into the pillows, and a soft contented sigh drifted from him.

“That feel better?” Geralt asked as he ran a hand up and down Jaskier’s back. “Mmm,” Jaskier replied. Yennefer’s hand joined Geralt over his chest. Oh, they were going to make him cry.

And then it was too much, too much feeling, like his brain couldn’t handle all the sensation, and he felt Yennefer come to pause, and a moment later, Geralt’s hand as well. ‘That better?’ Yennefer asked in his mind. Jaskier gave her the memory of his favorite hug with her, warm and happy as her legs wrapped around his waist, and his favorite with Geralt, crushing and firm and full of too many emotions to speak aloud.

“Could…” he said softly, “Just. Talk? Not to me. Just… to each other. Just wanna hear you.” He could almost hear their smiles, and felt as they settled in on the pillows beside him, arms and hands intertwining on his back. Yennefer’s head on his shoulder, the gentle planes of Geralt’s chest on his other side. “If you need us, Yennefer and I are here. We’ve got you. You’re safe.”

He nodded into the mattress, cool and soft below him.

“Goodnight, Jaskier.”

“G’night Yennefer.”

“Goodnight, Jaskier.”

"G’night, Geralt.”

He started to fade into oblivion, but stopped himself before he got too far. Not fear, not anxiety, a conscious stopping. Somewhere above him, Geralt was telling Yennefer about the contract from… sometime in the past few days, and Yennefer was telling her own story about some town gossip with a woman and her hens, which, it might have been a metaphor, but he’d basically forgotten what those were by now. He breathed deeply, felt their words flow through him, and when he felt brave enough, he let go, trusting they would catch him.

He could have sworn he heard wind chimes, somewhere.

The small amount of light filtering in through the curtains was golden when he awoke. His head both ached and felt light as a feather, his muscles screamed and cried but half of it was in relief. He gave a small stretch and yawned. “G’morning,” an amused Geralt said to him, lounging in a chair he’d brought beside the bed, reading a book. His legs were propped up on the bed beside the bard’s and Jaskier stretched to bump their toes together.

“What time…?”

“You slept 13 hours.”

“Fuck.”

“You probably need more.”

“Yeahhhh.”

“Feel alright?”

“Like a real human being,” he said. “Hungry, though.”

“Mmm.”

Yennefer slipped in the door, but, noticing Jaskier was awake, rose a hand. “May I?” she asked, voice dripping in sarcasm, gesturing to the curtains.

“You may,” Jaskier offered, covering his face with his hands. “Ohhhh, gods, how bad was I?”

“Genuinely awful,” Yennefer said, as Geralt was saying, “There’s been worse.”

“Normally I’d withhold this,” the mage said, withdrawing a small envelope from her pocket. “But, under the circumstances…” she cleared her throat.

“To one Julian Alfred Pankratz. We were extremely pleased to receive your manuscript yesterday afternoon. Our editors are will have their notes to you by the weekend, but we wanted to reach out and extend our most sincere compliments on your work. It is—oh, a flood of adjectives, I’m skipping these. Etcetera, etcetera, sucking your dick, etcetera alright, here—and meticulous in construction. We can tell,” Yennefer said, dragging out the final sentence, “you made good use of your year of writing time to complete the work.” Jaskier and Geralt by this point were holding back true howls of laughter.

“And won’t you believe it, there’s more. Ahem; we have a number of suggestions and questions already, but encourage you to get your well-deserved rest as we prepare our feedback. We are grateful to work with you, and thank you again for your stunning entry. There’s a postscript,” Yennefer added. “As a quick and personal note, we cannot have helped but notice the nature of your penmanship; we mean no offence, but would encourage you to see a doctor of the eye to fit you with some spectacles.”

“My—my penman…? What’d—” and Yennefer, who had clearly been waiting for this moment, brought out a rather crumpled piece of parchment with an ink stain at the bottom—ah, yes, the original page 64— and showed it to him. His eyes were… gods, they were aching, but he was clear minded enough now to see that each line had become at least twice it’s normal size. The lines were far from straight, dipping and bending toward the edge of the paper, the letters changed directions at random points, and a fair amount of the words were smudged so completely they were hard to make out.”

Jaskier stared in horror.

“They. Is that. Is that what it looked like? Really?”

“It’s worse than most of the ones that made it in,” Geralt said, carefully.

“Most?!”

“You drew pictures on one of them,” Yennefer said.

“Oh my god. They…they must…”

“Adore it, clearly,” Yennefer said, setting aside the paper. “It wasn’t worth the strain, and you’ve definitely firmly embarrassed yourself, but they’re either embarrassing themselves by fawning praise on you,” she said, sliding onto the bed, “Or you’re actually just… very knowledgeable and talented, even when addled by sleep deprivation.”

There was a pause, Jaskier soaking this in; it hadn’t been worth it, exactly, but it wasn’t all bad. In fact, it was quite good, and Yennefer was complimenting him outright, so, very good.

“Or both,” Geralt added.

“Definitely both,” Yennefer agreed.

Jaskier groaned. “You can’t be mean to me. You’re in my house and I am extremely tired, which means that you, by law, must kiss me and tell me nice things about myself.”

Geralt laughed, light and free, and Yennefer slunk slower down into the bed. “You get no kisses,” she said, “You get sleep and rest.” She grabbed a pillow from under her head and plopped it delicately onto Jaskier’s face.

“Boo,” Jaskier said, muffled beneath the thing. He closed his eyes. Geralt muttered something, and Yennefer gave a snort of laughter, and then there was silence.

“Are you two kissing up there?!”

More silence.

“UGH,” he groaned, and sunk into his soft, sweet mattress. Oh, beautiful mattress. How he adored it, how he adored his two loves on top of it. He listened to their kissing, soft, and sweet, and knew he’d join them soon. But it was so warm down here. Even as one of them removed the pillow, he could only bring himself to open his eyes for a moment, to see them both leaning to kiss his face gently, before returning to each other. He took a long, deep breath, and listened to them swirl around him, until all he could feel was their love and the sweet caress of his pillow.

#Geraskefer #Jaskier Whump #Soft Geralt #Soft Yennefer #The Witcher #Witcher Fic #jaskier #geralt #yennfer of vengerberg #sleep deprivation #insomnia #hurt/comfort #Witcher Whump #Butterbard's Fics

51 notes · View notes

theawkwardterrier · 3 years

Note

8+25 for a Steggy drabble

Amicus Curiae

Summary: Spending her Sunday watching high school students argue the same fake case is starting to seem like something Judge Carter might regret, until the Brooklyn Community High School team shows up. Or rather, until their teacher does...

Peggy is perfectly aware why she had volunteered for this. She knows why she should be proud and excited to be here, can mentally list through all the positives, the importance of it.

By her fourth session of the day, she has given up reminding herself of these things and is just hanging on.

It isn’t that the students are terrible - many of them are actually quite good. It’s only that listening to the same case being argued repeatedly over the course of several hours has the tendency to put a bit of strain on a person.

Perhaps it is especially grating because she had specifically only signed up to work for the morning today; she was planning on indulging in some actual relaxation over this weekend, or at least a bit of it after she had finished giving the keynote at the Women and Law conference on Saturday and spending Sunday volunteering, then finishing up on some work, and so long as her neighbors’ newborn actually took a break from indulging in a seeming undying passion for crying….

Well, not being around to listen to that was one blessing of having been begged by the very harassed tournament organizer to stay for a bit of extra time when Thompson had begun vomiting after lunch and needed to go home (Peggy can’t say she’s sorry about it, and she suspects that students will appreciate not having to put up with his tendency to pontificate).

Still, it’s hard to remember all the benefits, the meaningful logic, when the next set of teams has settled into her courtroom and she has to push back her shoulders and enter for yet another round.

“Just one more to get through. I’ll text the café and put in an order for your usual,” Rose mutters out of the corner of her mouth as Peggy passes, then raises her voice to announce, “All rise, the superior court of New York is now in session. Judge Margaret Carter presiding.”

Peggy scans the crowd absently as she gives her now-standard introductory speech. There are Zola and Schmidt, who have served as faculty coach and legal advisor for Hydra High over the past several years. She doesn’t envy the students on their team; the two might have a fairly steady winning record, but their personalities are miserable and they have a reputation for being harsh leaders.

Her gaze shifts to the other side. She’s never even heard of Brooklyn Community, guesses that they have never made out of preliminary rounds before. They are serving as the prosecution, with two young women and a young man as their attorneys. The three have their hands folded atop the table, listening to her attentively, but as she wraps up, she notices them sneaking glances toward their chaperones.

She is almost certain that they aren’t looking for reassurance from the lawyer accompanying them. She knows Howard Stark, although then again everyone does. He hasn’t argued before her, but he takes high profile cases and makes them even higher profile. If he wasn’t actually a talented and thorough attorney, she would dislike him quite a lot for how well he plays the media game, turning the law and people’s lives into sound bites and cable news clips. It’s a surprise to see him here - she would not have thought him the type to volunteer his time, especially not for something as small as a high school mock trial tournament - but no surprise at all to notice that he is glancing down at the phone in his lap, typing surreptitiously.

The thought of penalizing him for that crosses her mind, but before she can say anything, a tall student in the front row shifts and she can see whose eye the young prosecutors were trying to catch.

Their teacher is young, Peggy realizes as she directs Rose to read the name of the court case on the docket (which she already knows extremely bloody well by now). Not as young as some of the bright-eyed-bushy-tailed types she’s seen, but she’d wager that he’s in his thirties, perhaps a year or two older than she is. The smile he directs toward his students is not a flashy, movie star sort of thing but more solid than that, real and reassuring, and he meets the eyes of his charges and nods with firm encouragement toward them before sitting back to watch.

Incidentally, he is also incredibly good looking.

Peggy honors her commitments, prides herself on that, in fact, and so she takes as much care in overseeing this trial as she does with those which come before her in a more official capacity. Still, between watching the excellent prosecutorial team and noting some of the more interesting choices being made by a few of the witnesses, she manages to keep an eye on the teacher - Steve Rogers, according to the file she had glanced at.

He watches the trial carefully, making notes as he does, but it isn’t like Zola, who only jots things down when his team has made a misstep. Mr. Rogers seems as likely to mark things done right as those which could be done better. He nods along with his students, smiling especially widely at several points; Peggy would venture that those were things that they worked on particularly hard in practice. And every so often he turns to look at her before turning swiftly back toward his students.

It’s the way his eyes widen and shift quickly away which makes Peggy suspect that his gaze isn’t entirely to do with analyzing how she is perceiving his team.

He keeps his eyes on hers, however, when she returns from her brief recess and announces that his team will be advancing to the next round. It’s only for that moment, though. The next he is turning to congratulate his team, who have all swarmed around him, patting their shoulders and speaking quietly to them, turning to shake Howard Stark’s hand.

With one last glance at Schmidt, whose face has turned sour with rage, and Zola, who is trying to calm him even as he shakes his head at the team, Peggy allows Rose to announce her exit, and goes to absorb the quiet of her chambers. As nice a distraction as Steve Rogers was, she knew that it could not be for long.

Still, she’s a bit regretful when she, divested of her robe and carrying her briefcase, returns to the courtroom to take the stairs down to the back parking area and finds it empty.

Then she hears something.

“Gotcha,” a voice says, and Steve Rogers stands from between the benches of the gallery where the Hydra team had been sitting earlier, a crumpled paper cup in his hand. He spots her almost immediately, and she can see the awkwardness come over his face even with the courtroom lights dimmed.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he says. “Your Honor, I mean.”

“It’s no trouble, Mr. Rogers,” she says, walking nearer. “Have you forgotten something?”

He glances down at the cup he is holding and winces. “Oh, no. I—When we were in here before, I saw that there were a few things left behind. I figured I’d come back to clean up a little once I saw my team to the subway.”

“You don’t have to do that. Really.” They are at comfortable speaking distance now. “Tidying after other teams isn’t precisely within your job description.”

He shrugs, wide shoulders looking a little helpless. “I was here and I could take care of it. No reason that the custodial staff should have to deal with extra just because some people weren’t as respectful as they should have been.”

The response seems to make something warm and expansive trail through her chest, but she only says, “Hmm,” in return, tilting her head to one side. “Well, I should hope that you didn’t entrust the well-being of your students to Mr. Stark while you came back to take care of litter.”

“They’re city kids, they’ve been taking the subway by themselves for years. And if anything, I’d trust them to take care of Howard instead of the other way around,” he says. A smile touches at his mouth, and although she’s seen him smile many times over the course of the afternoon, it is different when it is directed at her.

“Well, let us hope that it won’t come to that. I did wonder, actually, how you managed to convince Mr. Stark to participate. I only know him by reputation, but I wouldn’t think it his sort of activity.”

“I might not have thought so either, but I know that it never hurts to try, so I got in touch. Turns out that he got his start on a team back in high school too. He still has a soft spot.” He shrugs. “I was lucky to get him. My kids deserve the best.”

“I’m disappointed not to be asked then,” she says. His eyes widen a bit before he realizes that she’s teasing.

Still, he sounds truthful and serious as he tells her, “If you weren’t a judge, you would have been on my list. You got yourself on the bench even though you’re young, a woman, and if you’re a naturalized citizen you already have to be pretty self-directed and able to go through all that’s involved in that...I know that none of that would have made it easy. People with vision about their futures who were able to achieve their goals despite obstacles - that’s exactly who I want around my team.”

She shifts her briefcase a bit, knowing that she’s already eaten through most of the day and that the journey home will lose her even more time. But it feels so nice standing here talking to him, not just small talk, not just because of the compliments, but because it feels like the start of something. So instead she says, “I apologize, by the way. I haven’t congratulated you.”

“They did a great job,” he says, immediate, eager. “It’s our first year even offering Mock Trial and I wasn’t sure how well it would work out, but they’re doing themselves proud. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear about some of them making partner one day - or making their own way to the bench. Nat, who did the cross, she—” But he cuts himself off, blushing a little. “Sorry, I know I can get carried away, and you probably don’t want to hear it - you already spent the whole day knee deep in this, after all, and I don’t want you to think I’m trying to bias you somehow.”

There really isn’t a word for the pink in his cheeks other than fetching. Well, perhaps darling would do it.

Just earlier today, she would have said that her life was quite full enough, perhaps even overfull. But somehow, she thinks that a space could open for him, for speaking with him and seeing him and more, if she wanted it to. So she takes a breath and says, “I actually won’t be judging any further rounds this season, so there can’t be any sort of conflict of interest at all. Even if you were to, for example, join me for a bite to eat sometime soon.”

For a blink, she wonders if she might have misjudged, if she has mistaken politeness for something more, but then his mouth curves back into that smile which sends warmth running through her and which she is already beginning to like so well, especially when it is being aimed in her direction.

“I’m free tonight if you are,” he offers, something a bit worried still lying beneath the offer he has laid plainly at her feet. It makes her want to take his hand, to lean her head against his shoulder and promise that he has nothing to be nervous about.

Instead she says, all thought of taking off her heels and climbing into a hot bath forgotten, “If you’ve finished neatening things up around here, I know a place nearby.”

His smile gets just that bit wider. “Let me toss this out. Then you can lead the way.”

She’s happy to.

#Steggy #Steggy fic #Peggy Carter #Steve Rogers #fic memes #sorry this one came out weird and probably inaccurate to actual mock trial #I did skim a bunch of stuff to try to get it at least a bit accurate #thanks to the New York State Bar Association for putting their finals videos online #(I also should have specified in my original tags that when I refer to a drabble it is a story of exactly a hundred words #This and the rest will be...a bit more than that)#Anonymous

57 notes · View notes

girlmeetsliv3 · 4 years

Text

Lilies of the Valley III

A/B/O!BTS x Reader

Flowers can have different meanings depending on the flower shape, color, and method in which they are presented. Lilies are my favorite for such a simple flower can have so many distinct meanings.

In the language of flowers, yellow lilies are said to represent both deception (perhaps tied to the notion of concealment) and graciousness.

Release Date: 05/25/20 @ 7 pm

previously ~ next

Yoongi shook his head, black fringe swaying slightly. “That’s ridiculous. You’re staying with us.”

“Absolutely not!”

The refusal was out of her mouth before she'd even thought about it. Both men flinched at her rejection but didn't look surprised. YN however was beginning to be upset, of course they would try to take advantage of the situation. I shouldn’t have expected any different. The tension was beginning to rise between the two and YN suddenly remembered that Yoongi liked to provoke people. Suddenly Jimin raised his hands as if to show no ill will, "We don't mean it like that." His hands raked through his perfectly styled hair, "It's just that you're our mate. Legally now too."

“It wouldn’t look right. Plus it would be dangerous.” Yoongi finished for him, leaning forward and uncrossing his arms. He tentatively reached across the table, placing his hand over hers. It was warm and softer than YN would’ve imagined, she didn’t remove it and she couldn’t quite understand why. Maybe because it was meant to comfort her and it had been a long time since YN had been comforted. She almost found herself getting lost in its warmth until she reminded herself of who she was with and stopped herself. Sensing her discomfort the betas rushed to speak again. “We have this small cottage in the back, it’s newly refurbished and has plumping and everything. All it would need is a bed.”

“I don’t know if I would feel comfortable living with all seven of you...it’s a lot.”

Yoongi sighed, “We understand, though it isn’t like you have much of a choice. No place will take a mated omega. The law won’t permit it. Only...” He didn’t have to finish for her to know what he meant.

Only the boarding house.

YN looked up at the men and spoke as clearly as she could, "I'm not your mate. I'm not your omega," she saw how every word was spoken physically deflated them. "However, thank you for helping me. It's only temporary until I find another solution." Something flashed quickly in both men's eyes, but it was far too fast for YN to comprehend what it was. They only smiled and nodded with jovial excitement. Jimin began to talk about furniture that would be added while Yoongi pulled out his phone and seemed to text someone. She realized her hand was still under his and tried to retrieve it, Yoongi didn't allow her too. Before YN could say anything he gave her hand a quick squeeze and released it. Putting his left hand into his jacket’s pocket.

“So it’s set. We’ll be by later to pick up your things .”

YN nodded feeling a numbness spreading throughout her body, as she finished her tea and placed the cup down. Her eyes met theirs, dark empty pools, and she wondered if their inner scale was tipped. Were they more animal than human? Beasts? YN would soon find out.

“Swear you’ll be okay?” Rosé asked, her fingers intertwined into YN’s. They swung back and forth, their arms shaking slightly. The air was silent, save for the things left unsaid.

"I'm sure. I'll be safe. They won't hurt me." The smile hurt YN, but she forced her lips to spread open for her best friend's sake. She couldn't possibly leave Rosé out for the wolves, even if it meant she would be jumping right into their den.

“Don’t forget to text me. Oh, and call me every night.”

YN rolled her eyes but laughed. "Yes, mom. I'll make sure to write you a letter every day."

“For a year?”

The two girls giggled and embraced as YN willed herself to stick to her word. Just as she was beginning to doubt herself, someone knocked on the door. When the door opened, it was Yoongi and Jimin again; both with smiles on their faces - ones a little too big to be done out of politeness. They stayed by the door, if they entered their scents would linger and that wouldn't look good on Rosé. Betas did have a scent, but unless they were purposefully trying to emit it, only other betas would sense it. "Are you ready to go?" Jimin spoke after he had waved at Rosé. YN nodded, grabbing her bags resting by the door and handing them off to the two waiting betas. Feeling like it would be a while until YN saw her again, she turned around and gave Rosé one last hug. Rosé leaned deep into their embrace and whispered into YN's ear, "If anything happens. Call me, I'll be there immediately."

Tears almost welled up in YN’s eyes but she fought them back, merely giving her a reassuring squeeze before walking out and closing the door.

Wow, what a fucking house. YN's jaw slackened at the sight of it, though her parents were well off it hadn't compared to this. Then again, combining the wealth of seven of the richest families in Seoul was bound to bear its fruits. Judging by the smirk on the two men's faces, they enjoyed her reaction. So, she did her best to school it immediately. There hadn't been any words exchanged by the three of them in the car, thankfully, and YN hoped it would remain that way. Instead of taking her to the front entrance, Yoongi and Jimin guided her to the side of the house. It once they reached the backyard that her breath was truly taken away.

The area was huge with a swimming pool, patio area, and botanical garden. However, it was the tiny home in the back with a garden of lilies that called to her. “It’s like the one at school.” Was the first thing she noted. It wasn’t as large, but it seemed to have similar flowers and evoke the same feeling.

“Do you like it?” Yoongi asked, looking at her from his peripheral.

“I love it.” There was no hesitance in her words, they were sincere.

They guided her to the tiny house; which the closer she got wasn't so tiny at all. It was one floor with a large bed, a television mounted on the wall, a small closet, a kitchenette, and a bathroom. There was even a small bookcase filled with familiar books: they had been the assigned reading when she was in school. Probably filled with annotations and other such things. YN wished she still had her copies, but she had donated all but her favorites to school when she graduated.

Jimin cleared his throat, “Sorry the closet isn’t bigger, but we can expand it later.” YN shook her head, “No, that’s alright. I’m sure it’ll be fine.” Yoongi placed his hand on her shoulder, “Dinner will be served in about an hour. You can meet everyone then.” Meet them again. YN felt her throat dry up, she wasn’t sure about how she felt being a room with all seven of them just yet. She had wanted to delay the inevitable, but considering she was staying in their home - it was the least she could do.

“Sure.”

The two of them seemed pleased at her lack of resistance. Jimin smiled, "Go get cleaned up and we'll come to pick you up when it's time." YN felt it was more of a command, then a suggestion but she didn't care. Once the two of them left, she jumped on the bed and decided to take a small nap. The pillow smelled fresh and clean, only lulling her faster into sleep.

"I'm very sorry for what's occurred to you, YN. But I want you to know it isn't your fault and that we are here to help." Officer Kim sent a comforting smile, trying to ease YN's nerves. YN remained silent, her grip on the blue blanket thrown around her shoulders was so strong her fingers were white. The officer sighed, tilting her head slightly to send a look to the people behind the screen. When she looked back at YN, all she saw was the teenager's glassy widened eyes. It had been an accident, a terrible one, but teenagers tended to be reckless. If the gruesome bite on YN's neck was anything to show for it.

“Do you want to press charges?”

YN shook her head, caving in on herself even more. Jungkook’s sorry wails still echoed in her head. It didn't matter, what's done is done. YN looked up to meet the officer Kim's warm golden eyes. Her lips parted and she could see the anticipation building up in the cop's face only for there to be a disappointment once YN actually spoke.

“I just want to go home.”

Loud knocking tore her away from her dreams, as she saw a shadow-like figure standing outside the doors.

The door opened slowly, only once he'd stepped in could YN recognize him. "Sorry I didn't mean to startle you. I didn't know you were asleep." Kim Taehyung had probably undergone the most significant change out of all of them: transforming from a lanky teen to an able man. YN didn't realize she had been gaping at him so openly until he smirked. "Um, no don't worry." She scrambled to get off the bed and smooth down her clothes, getting rid of any creases her short sleep might have caused. Taehyung tilted his head, his eyes roaming her body until they landed on her poorly concealed mark. YN flinched when he stepped forward, but instead of grabbing her Taehyung held out his hand.

“Dinner is served and it’ll get cold if we wait any longer.”

As attractive as he was, truthfully they all were, and as much as something inside her willed her to grab his hand - YN refused. Walking past him and outside the double doors to the garden of lilies. The sun had long set and now the half-moon shined brightly in the night sky. Casting a beautiful glow on the garden, the lilies, and YN herself. Perhaps, that is why it took Taehyung such a long time to step outside her room, the man still in the shadows. He was simply basking in her glory. Or perhaps, he was trying to control his rage at his mate's reaction in a way that would frighten the already tense YN.

When he stepped out a charlatan smile was present on his features, “Let’s go then.” Together the two of them walked side by side until they reached the house. Faintly YN could hear the sound of jazz music and muffled voices, goosebumps rose on her arms as her stomach twisted and turned. Here we go. YN’s hands balled into fists as she dug her nails into her skin, trying to remain calm despite the voices growing louder and louder. Eventually, she could pick on the scent of one...two...four alphas and hear the soft bell-like nature of Jimin’s laugh. They were all here. Now’s the time.

The conversations began to die down and YN knew it was because they sensed her. She prayed to whatever god's existed that everything would go well. They turned a corner and YN suddenly saw them. All seven of them were wearing what could be deemed business casual attire. They were all littered across the room, but all seemed to be in a circle surrounding a red velvet chesterfield where the lead alpha was seated. His dark hair combed back, a white button-down, and tight black jeans. One by one they all turned to face her, but he was last. His warm chocolate eyes lingering on the glass of wine in his hand before they slowly traveled to meet hers.

YN finally realized what situation she was in. A prey in a predator's territory and sadly, she'd already been branded. She remained frozen on the spot, unable to look away from the alpha's eyes, she didn't know if it was courage or brazen recklessness. Then he smiled, a warm charming smile that reminded her of the early days. When the two would speak in hushed whispers and aid each other in assignments and tests. Times when YN looked at him with admiration, care, and maybe a tiny bit of love. She did have a small crush on him back in those days, nothing to act upon since she knew he was destined but enough to make her feel happy to be around him.

He stood up and crossed the room, a steady stride which was a blend of natural yet calculated. As if he was measuring how close he could get without scaring her, it was when he was two feet away that YN slightly stepped back. The action caused him to stop, as he finally spoke.

“Welcome. It’s been a while.”

Soon they all crowded around her offering kind smiles. Their scents were strangely muted now, YN guessed that was being done on purpose in order not to frighten her - or send her into a pseudo-heat. Not that it would occur considering the suppressants she was on. Conversations started back up again, but YN didn't participate in any. She noticed Jungkook was strangely quiet too but didn't pay him much attention for fear he might get the wrong idea. It was a couple of minutes later that a worker announced the food was served, YN went to follow him but someone tugged at her hand pulling her back.

“Mind if we have a chat?” Namjoon asked, a hint of mirth in his smile.

"Sure," YN noted how most of them walked away, Seokjin was the only one who remained but stayed near the threshold.

“Wow, you’ve changed. Grown, I mean.” His awkwardness caused a slight chuckle to escape YN’s lips. “Says the person who is now seven feet tall.” At that his smile grew. The glass of wine in his hand was placed on a top nearby and now that his hands were empty, Namjoon took a hold of hers. His large warm hands cradling hers, as his thumbs ran soothingly across her knuckles. “How do you feel?” YN didn’t know why she was so at ease around Namjoon, maybe because they’d known each other before everything happened. He had demonstrated that he was a good person, who had simply made a mistake. As opposed to the other’s who she only knew vaguely and had been forced to get to know because of what happened.

“Fine. Good.” YN smiled gently, her heart didn’t race as it did before but she felt comfortable around Namjoon in a way she didn’t around the others. It might’ve been that he was the leader: the one who could make everyone fall in line at his command. It might’ve been that she trusted him. YN didn’t want to dwell on it for too long. “Thank you for letting me stay.” She spoke to both him and Seokjin who straightened up.

“It’s no problem, YN. Your welcome as long as you’d like.” Seokjin’s words were polite and YN was thankful he didn’t mention anything about mates. In fact, she hoped the whole conversation would be avoided the entire evening.

Namjoon drew her attention back to him, “What’s ours is yours. Whatever you need, don't be afraid to tell us.” Before YN could say anything, he pulled her towards the exit. “Come. Everyone is waiting for us.” He sent her a flirty wink before Seokjin joined them, walking on her other side.

“So YN, what did you study?” Hoseok wiped the corners of his mouth with a napkin.

“Sociology.”

“Sounds interesting. Did you like it?”

“Yeah, it was interesting.” YN wasn’t the most social person, not to mention she found it difficult to speak when all eyes were on her.

“Did you get the flowers we sent for your graduation?” Taehyung asked, beside her. He was less intimidating in the warm yellow lighting of the dining room. Ah the flowers. Her parents had delivered the flowers when they went to visit and though YN had been all smiles, she’d thrown them in the trash the second she’d gotten back home.

“Yes, they were lovely. Thank you.”

It all seemed too perfect, too surreal, nothing bad had occurred yet and it had YN on the edge of her seat. This wasn’t how she was expecting the night to go at all. It had been years since the incident and though YN was aware that people could change, they seemed so different. People are different during heats. It’s more animal instinct than anything. That may be true, but it felt like she was at a reunion rather than a dinner with her supposed ‘mates.’ It seems the jovial atmosphere was beginning to be too much for someone else because Jungkook finally broke.

“Aren’t we going to talk about it?!” His hands slammed down against the table, causing everyone to turn and look at him. Jungkook was near the end of the table, right next to Seokjin which faced Namjoon at the head. Talk about what? It seemed his question was more intended for his pack members than for her, but it still left YN curious. Seokjin who seemed unfazed continued cutting his meat, “Kookie, stop it.” This seemed to only anger the youngest more.

“No, we agreed -” Just as Jungkook was standing up, Hoseok pulled him back down to his chair. Oh no. Alpha’s butting heads was never a good sign. She might’ve assumed this was normal but seeing how tense Yoongi, Taehyung, and Jimin were this was clearly unusual. The sudden growl that Jungkook let out was all the proof she needed.

Adrenaline began to pump through her blood, as her instincts were about to kick in. If there was going to be a fight, she wanted no part in it. It was then that Taehyung and Jimin both placed their hands on her knees, keeping her still.

“Calm down, Jungkook. Stop being a brat.” Seokjin scolded him once more, his jaw now locked. The young alpha wasn’t listening, didn’t care to. Suddenly all his attention zeroed in on YN as he spoke. “We have to complete the mating bond.” Anxiety began to trickle into YN’s mind and body. No. no. no. no.

“No.” YN pushed the chair away from the table and stood ready to walk out and leave the house. She should have known better than to trust them. This had been their plan all along, to get her into a situation where she couldn’t escape. As she passed by Namjoon his hand shot out, gripping her wrist, tugging her towards him. The lead alpha had remained silent during the whole ordeal, as YN looked at him with irritation. Namjoon spoke in a calm mellow tone, “Down.” Just like that Jungkook dropped to his knees and began to cry.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to scare you.” Now YN was even more terrified. What the fuck is going on.

Rosé: Hey, how’d your first day go?

YN: Terrible, I don’t even want to talk about it.

Rosé: Did something bad happen? Did they do something to you?

Rosé: Are you okay?

YN: I’m okay. Things are just really strange here. I don’t know how to describe it.

YN: It's like everyone's on edge, but they're pretending they aren't.

Rosé: I mean isn’t that kinda normal. You are their mate and you did reject them, so it makes sense.

Rosé: You never did tell me why you rejected them though.

YN: It’s a long story and I’m tired. Ttyl. Night.

Rosé: Good night.

Hope you enjoyed the story. Tag list is in the comments.

776 notes · View notes

tossawary · 3 years

Text

Chapter 25: “Home Sweet Home” of “pride is not the word I’m looking for” quotes and commentary. Not a full list of favorite quotes or full commentary.

Anyway, Shang Qinghua makes himself so fucking sincerely annoying that the Huan Hua Palace Sect cultivators can’t figure out how to politely tell him to fuck off fast enough. Shang Qinghua makes outlandish assumptions about how many thieves there are (at least a dozen, he’s sure, probably twice that) and what methods they might be using (special invisibility talismans, he suspects); Shang Qinghua repeatedly apologizes for being too busy with important things for Cultivator O.B.B. at the last Immortal Alliance Conference, then tries to commiserate with the man about having to get important things done without getting any respect for it; Shang Qinghua also anxiously wonders if they should all go to Zhao Hua Temple Sect to report what happened here, since there’s a troublesome demon and also some sneaky rogue cultivator thieves on the loose out here! He gets turned down immediately, but assures everyone that he’ll at least let Yue Qingyuan know everything that happened here right away!

Liu Qingge pretty much just stands there scowling silently the entire time - he’s no Shen Qingqiu for sheer menacing "I can and I will ruin your entire life" glares, but he’s still pretty intimidating. He does a great job! No notes!

Shang Qinghua nearly pats himself on the back as he and Liu Qingge leave less than an hour after he arrives. “Holy shit, I’m good,” he thinks, a little giddy with the successful extraction. “That’s a skill that good ol’ Liu-Shidi will never have!”

AN: Of course this has a high chance of backfiring. Is Shang Qinghua going to weave webs of lies anyway? Of course.

Love the fact that Shang Qinghua can shamelessly act like a total pushover, while actually manipulating someone so that he gets the results he wanted. Some snobby sect leader walks into a negotiation room, prepared to use SQH as a doormat, and Shang Qinghua is probably internally like, “Bro, me and my jelly spine welcome you to hell.”

He gives them the rundown on what happened, but, to his complete lack of surprise, that doesn’t seem to satisfy interrogators like his little sister-in-law and his fellow transmigrator. They have so many questions! And Shang Qinghua doesn’t have enough answers for them!

No, he doesn’t know what Huan Hua Palace Sect knows or thinks they know. No, he doesn’t know how they knew about that place. No, he doesn’t know whether the monster was just a local opportunist preying on distracted cultivators or something more sinister. No, he’s not experimenting with the creepy special item or discussing it at length here. No, Luo Fanli and Peerless Cucumber are not allowed to poke at the creepy special item!

Why the fuck would he ever let them do that?!

All Shang Qinghua knows is that Luo Fanli and Peerless Cucumber should eat their vegetables and then go to bed! Because they all have a long journey back to the sect in the morning! And also that words cannot describe how painfully old he feels as soon as he says this.

AN: I’ve been thinking about a Demon Trio fanfic in which Mobei-Jun finds himself in a similar position with Luo Binghe and Sha Hualing.

Mobei-Jun and Shang Qinghua are, like, bare minimum twice the age of Luo Binghe and Shen Yuan. Like, yes, neither Mobei-Jun nor Shang Qinghua are old old by the standard of the PIDW world. Yes, MBJ and SQH are stunted as all get out. But the fact that they have bare minimum 2x the life experience as Bingqiu is, in my opinion, funny as hell and severely underused in fanfiction.

Like, imagine Mobei-Jun unintentionally dadding new demon LBH in SVSSS. Mobei-Jun being like, “Don’t eat the meat from this monster. It makes you hallucinate.” Or being like, “These people aren’t politically important enough to be shown this kind of respect. Look down on them properly and go sleep, or no one will ever respect you again in demon politics.”

MBJ looking at SVSSS LBH and SHL like, “Damn, who raised you?”

Because, like, I love to joke about Mobei-Jun being an oblivious fool, but that’s in regards to human culture. Mobei-Jun operating on demonic culture + his level of arrogance in regards to how he’s handling SQH suggests that MBJ can be politically savvy among demons when he wants to be. Also, the mental picture of MBJ being like, “Eat your weird demon vegetables, there’s nothing wrong with them, you picky half-breed brat,” is extremely funny.

I’ll probably turn this into a separate post.

Shang Qinghua does not miss the man’s unconcealed “oh, great, some of my favorite problem people are back, probably with bad news” expression when they arrive. The man is not at all impressed to hear about the drugged-up Shadow Cave Wolf Spiders or the evil, murderous, madness-inducing plant they fought on their mission, but the Qian Cao Peak Lord is reluctantly, partially placated by the jar of three-eyed skeleton tears Shang Qinghua super thoughtfully brought back for his inspection. Mu Qingfang really likes his research projects!

Shang Qinghua lets himself feel kind of good about this gift - he’s the man who gets things and gets things done - and ignores the Weeper’s Eye whispering in his head, “He has resigned himself to the untimely deaths of everyone he knows.”

(Wow. Oh, Shang Qinghua knows that feeling!)

AN: Mu Qingfang doesn’t think that everyone around him is inevitably going to die, he’s just extremely aware of how dangerous the world is and how reckless cultivators can be. Also, for many years, he was fairly certain that Liu Qingge and Shen Qingqiu were headed for bad ends.

This felt like a good place to insert some optimism back into the sect in general. Luo Fanli has been cured and is willingly going to visit her sister, Liu Qingge has got a hold on his self-destructive tendencies, Mu Qingfang thinks things are getting better, Shen Qingqiu’s health problems have been essentially fixed, Qijiu might actually work their shit out, Shen Yuan shares his real name with Shang Qinghua, and so on and so forth.

It felt like a good contrast with and buildup towards Luo Binghe’s Skinner mistake (not everything is rosy yet, there are still growing problems), the secret basement, and the encounter with Bing-Ge.

Only to flip that around and then bring some surprise Moshang into things!

“I have now been informed that, after learning that you had returned and, at the very least, completing the duties that were intended to have him reflect on his actions, he has disappeared yet again,” Shen Qingqiu continues. “This second disappearance has set some of the other junior disciples into a renewed panic, which has concerned some of the senior disciples, which was, apparently, cause to alert me.”

“Ah,” Shang Qinghua says.

AN: Shen Jiu should not be in charge of a bunch of children, but it is funny to imagine him going through the same “be a less shit person” adoption process as Shang Qinghua. Like, oh, it would be so easy for him to be cruel about this situation, but fuck you if he’s going to be outdone in the recovery and redemption process by Shang Qinghua of all people.

Shang Qinghua: *grows into a kind of decent person*

Shen Jiu: “Fuck you. That’s not allowed.”

Shen Jiu: “...”

Shen Jiu: “Well, if THAT FUCKER of all people can do it...”

Shang Qinghua doesn’t have to look long or far to find his nephew. He finds the young protagonist sitting despondently on the doorstep of his own Leisure House, sniffling into his sleeve. Peerless Cucumber of all people is sitting beside him and keeping him company.

“Focusing on other people’s lives is easier than looking at his own.”

“-think a drowning man first has to save himself… or else he’s only going to bring down the people he’s trying to save,” Peerless Cucumber is saying.

Binghe nods.

AN: Going by, like, the everything of SVSSS, Shen Yuan really is the asshole going, “I’ll die before I look inwards to recognize and deal with my own emotions.” Also, going, “Yes, I’m a hypocrite who won’t take my own advice. And what about it?” What a repressed nerd.

Shang Qinghua clears his throat to get their attention. Both kids (well, teenager and young adult, but still... kids) look up and then stand up quickly. Luo Binghe takes a forgetful step forward, before he wobbles into an appropriate respectful bow instead.

“Shang-Shishu!”

“How dearly this boy is loved!” the Weeper’s Eye declares, in its soft way inside Shang Qinghua’s head. “More than life itself! More than death itself!”

“Ah, never mind all that,” Shang Qinghua says, and steps forward to wrap his nephew in a quick hug instead, keeping the creepy talking eye oriented away from his nephew. “You’re a little too late to talk to me about your mission before your shizun did.”

Binghe, who was just relaxing into the unexpected hug, freezes.

Shang Qinghua knowingly pats the poor young protagonist on the back.

“Oh, shit” is right!

AN: Uncle Shang really is adorable. Still kind of knocks me for a loop writing it, though, given that the SVSSS SQH and LBH relationship is... nothing like this whatsoever. Look upon the field of SQH and LBH content and see that it is relatively barren except for the stubborn motherfuckers with excellent taste in character exploration.

“Ahhh, well, I’ll be there too for this potential family reunion, bro,” Shang Qinghua assures him. “Maybe we can finally get to the bottom of where this ‘Shen Yuan’ name came from.”

Peerless Cucumber makes a strange expression.

“What?”

“...It’s my name.”

“What?” Shang Qinghua repeats.

“It’s my name,” Peerless Cucumber says again, quietly. “It’s my real name.”

“Oh.”

“Huh,” Shang Qinghua thinks, having been operating on the assumption that the System made the name up for its mysterious backstory. Well, that gives new dimensions to Peerless Cucumber’s criticism of the scum villain!

“You can use it,” Peerless Cucumber says, with an air of determined nonchalance. “Everyone else is doing it.”

“Ah, alright. Thanks.”

AN: This is probably the part where I would have made Shang Qinghua reveal his original name in turn... IF HE HAD ONE. It drives me... kind of wild that we get the Airplane Extras and we STILL don’t get 1) Airplane Shooting Towards The Sky’s original name, and 2) MOBEI-JUN’s name.

Which actually makes things a little more interesting here, in my opinion, even though not having those names gets a little frustrating in terms of fanfiction writing. With Mobei-Jun, you get to explore the fucked up possibilities of him not having a name outside of his identity as the future Northern King. With Shang Qinghua, you get to explore him being a squirrelly little fuck who refuses to let anyone into his life.

So, because we don’t have Airplane’s name, we actually get this mildly interesting dynamic in which Shang Qinghua doesn’t even really think to reveal it to Shen Yuan. We don’t see this part, but Shen Yuan is actually a little miffed by this degree of secrecy, which is going to come up later. (Shen Yuan doesn’t like the fact that Shang Qinghua has as much power over him as he does.)

I personally do not hold the headcanon that Airplane’s name was “Shang Qinghua”. It’s a little too on the nose for me. At that point, the only reaction to transmigrating into SQH kind of has to be, “Ah, well, I was asking for that!” Maybe Airplane projected his worst qualities onto Shang Qinghua, but I don’t think he went so far as to give the character his own name.

Airplane’s main identity when he died appears to have been Airplane Shooting Towards The Sky, and we know that he wasn’t particularly close to his divorced parents and any step- or half-siblings. So, the only names that are really relevant post-transmigration are “Airplane Shooting Towards The Sky” and “Shang Qinghua”. By the time that SY gets here, he’s firmly entrenched in those identities, and his original name is completely irrelevant. I could honestly believe that Airplane just doesn’t think it matters anymore.

Shang Qinghua’s nephew, in the way of a true young protagonist or fucking cannon fodder, got the bright fucking idea to slip away to speak with the concubine called Butterfly privately.

“I thought: what if she didn’t want to speak in front of that lecherous old man? What if she wanted to get away from him?” Binghe confesses.

“She was the demon,” Shang Qinghua guesses.

Binghe nods, voice breaking. “It was… I was really, really stupid, Uncle.”

“Well, at least you know that,” Shang Qinghua sighs, and pats his sniffly nephew on the back again.

Oh, he can see why Shen Qingqiu was pissed the fuck off now. Shang Qinghua kind of wants to start yelling! Or maybe just screaming, coherently or otherwise!

Except yelling isn’t going to help much right now.

Shang Qinghua listens as Luo Binghe recounts being captured by the demon and then waking up bound by Immortal Binding Cables - of being so terrified that he could barely breathe with it. His only hope was Ning Yingying and Ming Fan tattling on his disappearance and a senior disciple tracking him down on time. The skinner demon apparently nearly killed Binghe, crooning over his young and beautiful skin, except a flash of warm light intervened and dropped an unstable part of the ceiling in on them before they could hurt the captured protagonist.

“Fu-Shijie and Shizun arrived after that and k-killed it,” Binghe says. “Uncle, it was all stupid luck! Shizun said I should have been dead and that, between my efforts and the demon’s, he had no idea how I wasn't! And he was right! It was so close! If the ceiling hadn’t fallen in like that-! Fu-Shijie suggested the ropes might be faulty and it could have been an unconscious use of spiritual energy, but I didn’t do anything! It wasn’t me!”

It sounds like the System to Shang Qinghua, intervening again at a crucial moment to prevent the premature death of the protagonist. Just thinking about how close his nephew came to dying without him knowing is nearly enough to inspire a cold sweat! Shang Qinghua can’t speak about the System, so all he can really do is keep hugging! Keep holding on for dear life and saying soothing nothings to his crying nephew!

AN: I wanted to include the Skinner mission, but I didn’t want to redo it onscreen because that’s been done in many fanfictions before and I felt that there was really no good reason for Shang Qinghua to be a part of it. The reason I wanted to include it is to show how the plot is off the track of the SVSSS (and PIDW) stories, with the changed LBH and the changed Original SQQ.

LBH wants to be a hero, but he’s not there yet.

“...Don’t put yourself above him… or below him. Tell him what you want and listen to what he wants, and don’t be surprised if things don’t change all at once,” Shang Qinghua advises and, at Yue Qingyuan’s look, quickly raises his hands. “Ahhh, not my business, I know! Not my business! I just… I hope it works out! I hope you two get something better out of this mess! Aha, make the sect meetings a little less awkward and… things.”

“He has never known what better looks like. He will always be Yue Qi, the slave boy. No matter what he does.”

“...Thank you,” Yue Qingyuan says finally, thoughtfully. “I appreciate your… restraint in this matter… in recent months.”

Aha, yikes.

AN: I know that some people wanted more stomping on Yue Qingyuan, but... like... this man is as or nearly as traumatized as Shen Qingqiu. His childhood fucking sucked. He broke his own soul trying to save Shen Jiu and failed. He made some shit decisions where Shen Qingqiu was concerned, but the logic and trauma he’s operating on are pretty obvious. He was trying.

Part of the theme around the Qijiu and Moshang arcs has also been “an eye for an eye”. Like, are you guys really going to keep on not communicating with each other and then fucking up and then taking chunks out of each other? How many misunderstandings and upset over misunderstandings are you going to throw at each other? Where do you put your foot down and say, “I don’t want to live like this forever. We can be better than this. I want better than this.”

Like, it can’t just be hurting each other back and forth (this applies to Qijiu more than Moshang, in which MBJ definitely carries the weight of this fuck-up). It can’t just be privately nursing hurt feelings forever. The options here are “fix it” or “live like this forever”. Fixing it won’t happen immediately, but the other option fucking sucks, so every little step helps.

So Shang Qinghua here is just like, “Bro, I’m tired. My anger has cooled a lot. I just want all our lives to suck less. I hope things work out for you.”

#tossawary svsss #tossawary commentary #pride is not the word

51 notes · View notes

markftmingi · 4 years

Text

sit down! - part one

sit down! masterlist

summary: the king of south korea hires you personally to become the prince’s personal bodyguard after he receives death threats but still continues to life his life dangerously.

pairing: prince!badboy!jaehyun x bodyguard!badass!reader

warning(s): mentions of smoking/drug use, gang activity, and some other crime stuff, swearing, jaehyun’s an asshole tbh.

a/n: this was almost a yugyeom story on wattpad over a year ago (excuse any typos pls) but i’ve been in my jaehyun feels recently. i also really want to make this a social media au🥴. also this is my basic “y/n” kind of story but like “y/n”’s gang code name is siren, cause like you lead men to their deaths, get it?

you took a deep breath before knocking on your boss's office door. his right hand woman, joy, opened the door with a smile.

"miss siren, he's been expecting you," she bowed politely.

you bowed back, "you can call me by my real name you know... i've known you for most of my life."

joy blushed slightly but before she could say another word, your boss interrupted.

"she was instructed to call you miss siren and she will do as such,” he ordered as you sat in the chair across from him.

"whatever you say, yuta," you said mockingly, "what's my job now?"

"you were hired by someone to keep his son out of trouble. his son has a pretty bad record: fighting, smoking, drug use, gang activity, sleeping around frequently, and the list goes on. your job is to make sure that he never does anything like this again... he has a major reputation to manage. he'll be disowned if he doesn't."

"okay... and how am i going to do that?" you questioned.

"you'll be living with him, watching his every move. he lives in seoul palace in south korea." he said sliding the case files over to you.

you raised an eyebrow, "seoul palace? who is he? the prince?"

yuta let out a small laugh, "yes, actually."

you held back the urge to scoff. what kind of prince doesn't respect his father –the king– enough to listen to what he says? especially if it's for his own good. if he keeps up the recklessness, he'll be dead by 25.

"a prince... needs me... to babysit him so that he doesn't get into anymore trouble?" you said slowly to make sure that yuta wasn't losing his mind.

he gave you a hard look, "a prince with a really rich king father that's willing to pay us 500,000,000 yen to babysit him so that he doesn't get into anymore trouble. the prince has been receiving death threats too and he just continues the recklessness.”

500,000,000 yen? that’s nearly 5 million dollars... you could do a lot with that kind of money. you could retire with that kind of money.

"okay, deal."

"great because i already had joy pack your bags and call the jet to south korea. your flight departs in less than an hour." yuta smiled brightly as your face dropped.

although he wasn’t family, yuta was all you had left. he was more of a relative than your boss. it was his father’s company before he took over. his father raised you to obey every single word that came out of his mouth and keep your guard up at all times. sometimes yuta could overstep his boundaries but hey, at least you were getting paid and weren’t an orphan anymore.

you sighed before standing up, taking the files with you. joy followed you out of the office and into her car.

"miss siren, the jet takes off in..," she glanced at her phone, "roughly 40 minutes."

you nodded, "you packed everything i needed?"

"i got most of your clothes, toothbrush and other necessities, your laptops and chargers, and your favorite weapons. the usual things i pack." joy explained as she drives.

you nodded once more before opening your client's file.

name: jung jaehyun (sometimes goes by yoonoh)

nationality: korean

birthday: february 14, 1997

zodiac sign: aquarius

height: 180 cm (5’11")

weight: 63kg (138 lbs)

blood type: A

hobbies: piano, basketball

languages: korean, english, and some japanese

as you continued to read his file, you couldn't help but to want to laugh. the way yuta talked about jaehyun made him sound like public enemy number one. he seemed like a normal man... until you got to his police reports:

seven charges of aggravated assault, four charges of drug possession, two DUIs, and three charges of theft. all of which was pardoned because he was the prince. you didn’t get why the prince himself would do anything of these things. jaehyun could have anything he wanted at anytime but he was acting out.

"he's handsome." joy smirked slightly as she pulled up to the airport.

you looked back up at his picture. she wasn't lying. jaehyun was gorgeous. definitely has the looks of a prince. she laughed once she caught you staring at the picture.

"true, but not happening."

"i'm just saying, y/n - i mean siren. he's handsome, you're beautiful. i saw his friends' profiles too. they all looked like pieces of heaven. something is bound to happen." she said teasingly.

you rolled your eyes as you got out the car, "no romance, no relations. besides he's a prince. he probably acts like he has a stick up his ass."

“you act like you have a stick up your ass too sometimes. maybe he can take it out for you,” joy laughed as you slammed the car door shut and walked away. the jet ride from osaka international airport to seoul, south korea was only about two hours, so you took the time to rest up for what awaits you.

_______________________________________________________

when you got off the jet in seoul, you weren’t expecting four men to pick you up from the airport. nor were you expecting to be riding in a limo. you usually didn't talk much when you were working but this awkward silence was killing you and you think the other men knew it too.

"so how long have you been working under mr. nakamoto?" the man on your right questioned, trying to break the ice.

"majority my life basically."

he turned to you with wide eyes, "how?"

"well, it's the family business. i’m not blood family but they adopted me in. from the time you're able to walk, you're trained to fight. you don't actually work serious jobs until you go through all the training."

"when did you get your first serious job?"

"i had just turned eleven,” you stated.

the man didn't say anything after that and you were relieved. you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding as you all drove to a gate. as if expecting you, the gate slowly opened. you’d been to korea on other jobs before but you never saw this palace before. the building was tall and stretched for yards. it was surrounded by various ponds and small gardens. guards with guns were in a line at the front door. you adjusted your backpack straps as you walked through the main door. the palace was rather modern looking from the old architecture on the outside. it looked like it could house hundreds of people. when the door shut behind you, two women and two men rushed to greet you.

"welcome back, mr. kim!" they all chorused as they bowed slightly.

"staff. this is siren, don’t ask for her real name. she's head of security over jaehyun along with johnny and taeyong. she'll be living here for awhile. treat her with respect." the man you spoke to in the car explained. guess he was addressed as mr. kim.

"yes, mr. kim. welcome, miss siren." they chorused and bowed once again.

do they practice being in synchronization like that?

"uh, thanks." you mumbled, adjusting your bag straps again.

you heard a door open, followed by seven men jogging down the stairs. all seven pairs of eyes locked on you.

"oh don't tell me she's the one who's going to be keeping jaehyun out of trouble," one of them said as a smile grew on his face.

five out of the seven started laughing. something you didn’t take lightly. you didn’t like being laughed at or taken as a joke.

"i'm trained in eight styles of fighting, i have a perfect aim with the gun on my hip, and a few other skills that you'll quickly find out if you laugh at me again." you said calmly.

that shut all of them up. mr. kim gasped, sending an elbow into your side. you didn't flinch at all.

"this is siren and yes, she'll be assisting johnny and taeyong in keeping jaehyun out of trouble which includes limiting the visits of the four of you. siren, this is jung jaehyun, the prince of this kingdom. these are his friends – dong sicheng, prince of china. huang xuxi, prince of hong kong. wong kunhang, prince of macau. chittaphon leechaiyapornkul, one of the princes of thailand. they may be princes but only sicheng acts like it." mr. kim said, giving them a fake smile.

one of the seven came up to you, "i'm sorry for kunhang's comment earlier, i'm johnny– the head of security, and that’s taeyong, other head of security. you can call him ty though." johnny introduced himself and taeyong, holding out his hand.

you shook his hand shortly. joy was right about his friends... they all looked amazing, especially the one locking hands with you. mr. kim looked between you and johnny with a shocked expression and you didn’t know why.

i made a mental note of each of their appearances so i could remember their names quickly. one of the most important things about being on a job was to take note of everyone around your client.

"i'm jaehyun, the one you'll be keeping out of trouble,” jaehyun said copying mr. kim's words.

they both glared at each other. the tension in the room was almost sickening.

"we're gonna go." taeyong announced before ushering the remaining boys to another part of the house.

"bye, siren!" sicheng smiled brightly.

i waved goodbye as they walked away.

"well, you got your wish, doyoung. i got a babysitter now and you ran my friends off again. you happy?"

"very happy."

"good, so get the fuck out." jaehyun said angrily.

you didn't know that much about the royal family but you were shocked. princes were supposed to be respectful or at least act like it. yet you could hear how much hatred jaehyun had in his voice.

mr. kim, doyoung as jaehyun called him, scoffed but looked at you, "siren, be careful. he's a tricky one," he stated before leaving.

you turned to look at jaehyun who was already staring at you.

"johnny really respects you."

you shrugged, "a lot of people do. what's your point?"

"he likes you for some reason and i don't know why and its bothering me."

"you're a big boy. you'll get over it."

jaehyun smirked, "yeah, i'm a big boy alright."

you rolled your eyes and walked past him. had to walk yourself into that pun, didn't you? you felt his eyes on your ass as he followed you up the long spiraled stairs.

"tenth door on the right is your room. next room over is my bedroom in case you get lonely."

ignoring him once again, you walked into your new room. it was huge: a king-sized bed with black silk sheets, dresser, nightstand with a flatscreen TV positioned on the wall. you took out your laptops and phones to charge them.

"why do you have two laptops and two phones?" jaehyun asked, reaching to pick one of the laptops up.

however, you grabbed him by the wrist before he even got the chance.

"don't touch anything that doesn't belong to you... that's rule number one. don't ask me anything business related or too personal. my job isn't to befriend you. my job is to keep you out of trouble, got it?" you asked angrily, “good, don’t make me tell you again.”

"you're so fucking sexy when you're angry." jaehyun whispered, staring at the grip you had on his wrist.

you rolled your eyes and let go of him, “it’s my job to keep you alive and out of trouble. why are you already making it hard for me?"

"didn’t they tell you how bad i was, baby?"

741 notes · View notes

cruisingthedemimonde · 3 years

Text

America’s Gay Men in WW2

World War Two was a “National Coming Out” for queer Americans.

I don’t think any other event in history changed the lives of so many of us since Rome became Christian.

For European queers the war brought tragedy.

The queer movement began in Germany in the 1860s when trans activist Karl Ulrichs spoke before the courts to repeal Anti-Sodomy laws. From his first act of bravery the movement grew and by the 1920s Berlin had more gay bars than Manhattan did in the 1980s. Magnus Hirschfeld’s “Scientific Humanitarian Committee” fought valiantly in politics for LGBT rights and performed the first gender affirmation surgeries. They were a century ahead of the rest of the world.

The Nazis made Hirschfeld - Socialist, Homosexual and Jew - public enemy number one.

The famous image of the Nazis burning books? Those were the books of the Scientific Humanitarian Committee. Case studies of the first openly queer Europeans, histories, diaries - the first treasure trove of our history was destroyed that day.

100,000 of us were charged with felonies. As many as 15,000 were sent to the camps, about 60% were murdered.

But in America the war brought liberation.

In a country where most people never even heard the word “homosexual” , historian John D’emilio wrote the war was “conducive both to the articulation of a homosexual identity and to the more rapid evolution of a gay subculture. (24)” The war years were “a Watershed (Eaklor 68)”

Now before we begin I need to give a caveat. The focus of this first post is not lesbians, transfolk or others in our community. Those stories have additional complexity the story of cisgender homosexual men does not. Starting with gay men lets me begin in the simplest way I can, in subsequent posts I’ll look at the rest of our community.

Twilight Aristocracy: Being Queer Before the War

I want us to go back in time and imagine the life of the typical queer American before the war. Odds are you lived on a farm and simply accepted the basic fact that you would marry and raise children as surely as you were born or would die. You would have never seen someone Out or Proud. If you did see your sexuality or gender in contrary ways you had no words to express it, odds are even your doctor had never heard the term “Homosexual. In your mind it was just a quirk, without a name or possible expression.

In the city the “Twilight Aristocracy” lived hidden, on the margins and exposed their queerness only in the most coded ways. Gay men “Dropping pins” with a handkerchief in a specific pocket. Butch women with key chains heavy enough to show she didn’t need a man to carry anything for her. A secret language of “Jockers” and “Nances” “Playing Checkers” during a night out. There is a really good article on the queer vernacular here

And these were “Lovers in a Dangerous Time.”

In public one must act as straight as possible. Two people of the same gender dancing could be prosecuted. Cross dressing, even with something as trivial as a woman wearing pants, would run afoul of obscenity laws.

The only spaces we had for ourselves were dive bars, run by organized crime. But even then one must be sure to be circumspect, and act straight. Anyone could be an undercover cop. If a gaze was held to long, or lovers kissed in a corner the bar would be raided. Police saw us as worthy candidates for abuse so beatings were common and the judge would do all he could to humiliate you.

Now Michael Foucault, the big swinging french dick of queer theory, laid out this whole theory about how the real policing in a society happens inside our heads. Ideas about sin, shame, normalcy, mental illness can all be made to control people, and the Twilight Aristocracy was no different.

While cruising a park at night, or settled on the sofa with a lifelong lover, the thoughts of Priests and Doctors haunted them. “Am I living in Sin? Am I someone God could love?” “Is this healthy? Have I gone mad? Is this a true love or a medical condition which requires cure?”

There was no voice in America yet healing our self doubt, or demanding the world accept us as we are. And that voice, the socialist Harry Hay, did not come during the war, but it would come shortly after directly because of it.

Johnny Get Your Gun… And are you now or ever been a Homosexual?

For the first time in their lives millions of young men crossed thousands of miles from their home to the front.

But before they made that brave journey they had another, unexpected and often torturous journey. The one across the doctor’s office at a recruiting station.

In the nineteenth century queerness moved from an act, “Forgive me Father I have sinned, I kissed another man” to something you are, “The homosexual subspecies can be identified by certain physical and psychological signs.”

These were the glory days of patriarchy and white supremacy, those who transgressed the line between masculine and feminine called the whole culture into question. So doctors obsessed themselves with queerness, its origins, its signs, its so called catastrophic racial consequences and its cure.

“Are you a homosexual?” doctors asked stunned recruits.

If you were closeted but patriotic, you would of course deny the accusation. But the doctor would continue his examination by checking if you were a “Real Man.”

“Do you have a girlfriend? Did you like playing sports as a kid?”

If you passed that, the doctor would often try and trip you up by asking about your culture.

“Do you ever go basketeering?” he would ask, remembering to check if there was any lisp or effeminacy in your voice.

Finally if the doctor felt like it he could examine your body to see if you were a member of the homosexual subspecies.

Your gag reflex would be tested with a tongue depressor. Another hole could be carefully examined as well.

Humiliating enough for a straight man. But for a gay recruit the consequences could be life threatening.

Medical authorities knew homosexuals were weak, criminal and mad. To place them among the troops would weaken unit cohesion at the very least, result in treachery at the worst. In civilian life doctors had much the same thing to say.

The recruit needed a cure. And a doctor was always ready. With talk therapy, hypnosis, drugs, electroshock and forced surgeries of the worst kinds there was always a cure ready at hand.

Thankfully the doctors were not successful in their task, one doctor wrote “for every homosexual who was referred or came to the Medical Department, there were five or ten who never were detected. (d’Emilio 25)”

Here’s the irony though, by asking such pointed and direct questions to people closeted to themselves it forced them to confront their sexuality for the first time.

Hegarty writes, “As a result of the screening policies, homosexuality became part of wartime discourse. Questions about homosexual desire and behavior ensured that every man inducted into the armed forces had to confront the possibility of homosexual feelings or experiences. This was a kind of massive public education about homosexuality. Despite—and be-cause of—the attempts to eliminate homosexuals from the military, men with same-sex desires learned that there were many people like themselves (Hegarty 180)”

And then it gave them a golden opportunity to have fun.

The 101st Airborn - Homosocial and Homosexual

“Homosocial” refers to a gender segregated space. And they were often havens for gay men. The YMCA for example really was a place for young gay men to meet.

Now the government was already aware of the kind of scandalous sexual behaviour young men can get up to when left to themselves. Two major government programs before the war, the Federal Transient Program and the Civilian Conservation Corps focused on unattached young men, but over time these spaces became highly suspect and the focus shifted to helping family men so as to avoid giving government aid to ‘sexual perversion’ in these homosocial spaces.

But with the war on there was no choice but to put hundreds of thousands of young men in their own world. All male boot camps, all male bases, all male front lines.

The emotional intensity broke down the barriers between men and the strict enforcement of gendered norms.

On the front the men had no girlfriend, wife or mother to confide in. The soldier’s body was strong and heroic but also fragile. Straight men held each other in foxholes and shared their emotional vulnerability to each other. Gender lines began to blur as straight men danced together in bars an action that would result in arrest in many American cities.

Bronski writes, “Men were now more able to be emotional, express their feelings, and even cry. The stereotypical “strong, silent type,” quintessentially heterosexual, that had characterized the American Man had been replaced with a new, sensitive man who had many of the qualities of the homosexual male. (Bronski 152)”

Homosexual men discovered in this environment new freedoms to get close to one another without arousing suspicion.

“Though the military officially maintained an anti-homosexual stance, wartime conditions nonetheless offered a protective covering that facilitated interaction among gay men (d’Emilio 26)”

Bob Ruffing, a chief petty officer in the Navy described this freedom as follows, ‘When I first got into the navy—in the recreation hall, for instance— there’d be eye contact, and pretty soon you’d get to know one or two people and kept branching out. All of a sudden you had a vast network of friends, usually through this eye contact thing, some through outright cruising. They could get away with it in that atmosphere. (d’Emilio 26) ”

Another wrote about their experience serving in the navy in San Diego, “‘Oh, these are more my kind of people.’ We became very chummy, quite close, very fraternal, very protective of each other. (Hegarty 180)”

Some spaces within the army became queer as well. The USO put on shows for soldiers, and since they could not find women to play parts, the men often dressed in drag. “impersonation. For actors and audiences, these performances were a needed relief from the stress of war. For men who identified as homosexual, these shows were a place where they could, in coded terms, express their sexual desires, be visible, and build a community. (Bronski 148)”

“Here you see three lovely “girls”

With their plastic shapes and curls.

Isn’t it campy? Isn’t it campy?

We’ve got glamour and that’s no lie;

Can’t you tell when we swish by?

Isn’t it campy? Isn’t it campy?”

The words camp and swish being used in the gay subculture and connected to effeminate gay men.

I would have to assume, more than a few transwomen gravitated to these spaces as well.

Even the battlefield itself provided opportunities for gay fraternization. A beach in Guam for example became a secret just for the gay troops, they called it Purple Beach Number 2, after a perfume brand.

This homoerotic space was not confined to the military, but spilled out into civilian life as well.

Donald Vining was a pacifist who stated bluntly his homosexuality to the recruitment board as his mother needed his work earnings, and if you wanted be a conscientious objector you had to apply to go to an objector’s camp. He became something of a soldier chaser, working in the local YMCA and volunteering at the soldier’s canteen in New York he hooked up with soldiers still closeted for a night of passion but many more who were open about who they were.

After the war he was left with a network of gay friends and a strong sense of belonging to a community. It was dangerous tho, he was victim of robberies he could not report because they happened during hook ups, but police were always ready to raid gay bars when they were bored. “It was obvious that [the police] just had to make a few arrests to look busy,” he protested in his diary. “It was a travesty of justice and the workings of the police department (d’Emilio 30).״

Now it might seem odd he was able to plug into a community like that, but over the war underground gay bars appeared across the country for their new clientele. Even the isolated Worcester Mass got a gay bar.

African American men, barred from combat on the front lines, were not entirely barred from the gay subculture in the cities. For example in Harlem the jazz bar Lucky Rendevous was reported in Ebony as whites and blacks “steeped in the swish jargon of its many lavender costumers. (Bronski 149)”

The Other War: Facing Homophobia

“For homosexual soldiers, induction into the military forced a sudden confrontation with their sexuality that highlighted the stigma attached to it and kept it a matter of special concern (d’Emilio 25)”

“They were fighting two wars: one for America, democracy, and freedom; the other for their own survival as homosexuals within the military organization. (Eaklor 68)”

Once they were in, they fell under Article 125 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice: “Any person subject to this chapter who engages in unnatural carnal copulation with another person of the same or opposite sex or with an animal is guilty of sodomy. Penetration, however slight, is sufficient to complete the offense.”

Penalties could include five years hard labour, forced institutionalization or fall under the dreaded Section 8 discharge, a stamp of mental instability that would prevent you from finding meaningful employment in civilian life.

Even if one wanted nothing to do with fulfilling their desires it was still essential to become hyper aware of your presentation and behaviour in order to avoid suspicion.

Coming Home to Gay Ghettos

“The veterans of World War II were the first generation of gay men and women to experience such rapid, dramatic, and widespread changes in their lives as homosexuals. Bronski 154”

After the war many queer servicemen went on to live conventionally heterosexual lives. But many more returned to a much queerer life stateside.

Bob Ruffing would settle down in San Francisco. The city has always been a safe harbour for queer Americans, made more so as ex servicemen gravitated to its liberated atmosphere. The port cities of New York, San Francisco and Los Angeles became the prime destinations to settle. Vining’s partner joined him in New York, where they both immersed themselves in the gay culture.

Other soldiers moved to specific neighborhoods known for having small gay communities. San Francisco’s North Beach, the west side of Boston’s Beacon Hill, or New York’s Greenwich Village. Following the war the gay populations of these cities increased dramatically.

The cities offered parks, coffee houses and bars which became queer spaces. And drag performance, music and comedy became features of this culture.

These veterans also founded organizations just for the queer soldiers. In Los Angeles the Knights of the Clock provided a space for same sex inter racial couples. In New York the Veterans Benevolent Association would often see 400-500 homosexuals appear at its events.

A number of books bluntly explored homosexuality following the war, such as The Invisible Glass which tells the story of an inter racial couple in Italy,

“With a slight moan Chick rolled onto his left side, toward the Lieutenant. His finger sought those of the officer’s as they entwined their legs. Their faces met. The breaths, smelling sweet from wine, came in heavy drawn sighs. La Cava grasped the soldier by his waist and drew him tightly to his body. His mouth pressed down until he felt Chick’s lips part. For a moment they lay quietly, holding one another with strained arms.”

Others like Gore Vidal’s The City and the Pillar (1948), Fritz Peters’s The World Next Door (1949), and James Barr’s Quatrefoil (1950) explored similar themes.

In 1948 the Kinsey Report would create a public firestorm by arguing that homosexuality is shockingly common. In 1950 The Mattachine Society, a secretive group of homosexual Stalinists launched America’s LGBT movement.

References:

Michael Bronski “A Queer History of the United States”

John D’emilio “Coming Out Under Fire”

Vivki L Eaklor “Queer America: A GLBT History of America”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Lesbians

In 1947 General Eisenhower told a purple heart winning Sargeant Johhnie Phelps, “It's come to my attention that there are lesbians in the WACs, we need to ferret them out”.

Phelps replied, “"If the General pleases, sir, I'll be happy to do that, but the first name on the list will be mine."

Eisenhower’s secretary added “"If the General pleases, sir, my name will be first and hers will be second."

Join me again May 17 to hear the story of America’s Lesbians during the war.

#gay history #world war two #queer history #gay #lgbt

21 notes · View notes

insufferablelust · 4 years

Text

THE ARTIST AND HIS MUSE (vi)

okay but that gif sent me to blazing hell, anyways! this is the 6th installment to the series! i hope you enjoy! it’s kinda a filler chapter to make straighten the plot line, thank you for reading! MASTERLIST for earlier chapter.

WARNINGS : Dom!Spencer x Sub!Reader, no actual smut, allusions to sex and pre-BDSM talk, traumatic past, Huge Build up (sorry loves), Cheesy fluffs.

I would also like to say that, some aspects of this story is not consistent with the actual series, i make some changes to fit the plot lines better. Full credit to the creators and directors of the series though.

—————

{ love is a world of it’s own, that lives in the heart not in the head. -Diana & Spencer Reid from Criminal Minds }

————

I love you

I love you.

————

The next morning, had me smiling. It was the longest sleep i’ve gotten in awhile and one that doesn’t have nightmares, all because he’s here. Spencer’s here, i shuddered as i felt his arms tightened around my waist and his legs tangled with mine. It felt so good just to know that we’re both safe and sound inside each other’s embrace, even if it’s temporary.

I listened to his breathing for awhile, he sounded so calm, there’s nothing i wouldn’t do to ease all of his worries and soothe the very thing that had him overthinking everything. His mind is a complicated place, he said so to me one time that “You never know what its like to be the prisoner of your own mind.” he didn’t know then that i’m still trying to get out of mine.

I bit my lip hard, as the memories from last night flooded back, i used to promised myself to not say any of my past to anyone, but now Spencer knows and i’m terrified that something will happen to him. Bad things tend to occur when they know the real me, and i won’t let anything happen to Spencer.

I shake away my bad thoughts and move on to the more exciting time of the night, god— i could still feel the way he touched me, the way he whispered so cruelly yet so lovingly. It was different from the first time we had sex, he was gentle whereas that time he was rough, dominant. I love both Reid’s, and yet i just can’t seem to get the thought out of my head, “How did he know that much about Dominance and Submissive play?” It’s not just common knowledge on how to perfectly bound someone or edge someone right? according to your experience, His techniques were as sophisticated as someone who had years of BDSM training.

“I could’ve sworn that dream was real.” Spencer’s morning voice pulled me out of my thoughts, i turned my head to see him before flashing him a smile and giggled. “Penny for your dreams then?”I muttered jokingly which he told me that it involved me and him, i stifled my laugh as i hid my face on his neck, immediately feeling the immense calmness radiated from his scent alone.

“Remember that one time, on the picasso signature case?” He mumbled sleepily against my hair, “how could i not remember? that case is the one that changes everything.” I looked up to him then, ran my fingers through his hair.

“I remembered just how flushed you are, i always liked you since the beginning, i just.. i just don’t know how your reaction would be so i kept it a secret.” He paused to look down at me, tucking my hair behind my ear, then continue,

“But then i started noticing little.. changes in your behavior, so i observed you for weeks which i know is creepy but hey.. i was practically in love with you at that point, you got anxious a lot around me which you hid it really well but then that one time during a case you just completely went flushed and your pupils were dilated, your breathing labored— which convinced my theory.” He explained, with eyebrows raised and a smirk itching to appear on his godforsaken lustful lips.

“Mmm, which is what Dr.Reid?” I batted my eyelash up at him, not knowing where my sudden burst of confidence appeared from but not caring either. “That you feel the same way about me, if not romantically, then at least sexually.” There it is, his lips curved up at one side— i was about to answer but beat me to it- leaned against my ear and whispered, “Stop with the act or i’ll spank your ass purple.”

“Oh Spencer, you’re saying it like it’s something i wouldn’t love.” I scoffed as i sit up on the bed, then straddled his hips. My respond lit up something inside him, something primal that i can see it in his eyes, his demeanor changed 180 which sent thrill to my skin.

“You’re enjoying this aren’t you?”

“I think i am, and so are you.”

“Oh i am pet, It’s fascinating how much you think you have control when it’s been showed clearly on who’s in charge, by the marks on your skin, and the burning sensation between your legs.” It felt like he poured all the molten lava on top of me to leave me burning, the way he said all of that turned me on beyond belief.

“You forget that i’m in control of you, and by so i can take away the things you ‘love’, when we talk about our relationship later, i’ll make sure spanking won’t be in the list of punishments— since you’re such a needy masochist.” I can’t help but to whine at his words, only to confirm all he said is true, true to every damn detail.

“S-Sorry sir and yes we need to talk about it..” I was so flustered i couldn’t think of anything else but that, i knew if i asked for him to touch me now he would just laughed, so maybe i can try to get back in his good mercy.

“There you go, you have manners after all. We’ll talk about it over breakfast, go and shower, i’ll make french toast.” He make sure to kiss my lips before patting my bum as a signal that I need to get up, which i happily did so. “Oh and sweetheart?”

“Yes, sir?”

“If i find you touching whats mine, Expect to be denied with ruined orgasms for a week.”

—————

The smell of french toast cooking hit my nose on the perfect Sunday morning as i stepped out of the bathroom, quickly drying myself off then went to my closet to pick out an outfit that was both comfy but also would make Spencer goes crazy. I smiled as i saw a vintage dress i’ve owned since college, it was a Sabrina type dress that stopped right above my cleavage, showing plenty of skin from there up to my neck.

I put on the dress quickly, decided not to apply any make up, and comb my hair to let it fall freely. I stand in front of the mirror to see how i looked, the sight made me shiver, the marks he had given me last night littered all over the exposed skin of my neck down to my collarbones, I bit my lips at the thought of bearing more of his mark as a way to show everyone that he owns me. Body and soul.

After a good 5 minutes, i snapped out of my thoughts and head downstairs right to where Spence is plating the french toast. “Go sit on the table. I’m almost done” He ordered, so i sit down, waiting for him to finally see me, my knees bounced against the table as i waited in anticipation.

“Y/N stop being anxious, your knees keeps—“ He demanded, only to be cut off when he saw me. He stopped dead at his track, holding both plates in each hand, his eyes widened a little as his breathing got labored at the sight of me, Spencer bit his lip hard taking a deep breath, before placing your plates in front of me, and his plate opposite of mine.

As you thought he was about to sit, he strolled to my side, hands immediately gripped my jaw and pulled me out of my seat— his hand are so tight around my jaw, i’m sure it’ll bruise, good. I took in the state of him, like i could see the red in his eyes as his were burning holes through my skull.

Then his grip moved lower to my neck, grasped it softly, not enough for it to bruise but enough to give me a warning. “You have no idea how much i want to put a nice collar on your neck, and bend you over this desk right now.” He whispered roughly, his other fingers trailed against my lips side to side.

I opened my mouth so he can pushed them in, letting me suckle on them as he chuckled “We’ll talk first, we have a lot to talk about. But since you’re pretty adamant on teasing my like this, if you agree to be mine later after we establish how this is going to work— best believe i’m going to ruin you.” My knees buckled at his proposition, Doesn’t he realized that i’m already his? He owns me the moment i let him open me up inside out.

“Bribing me already Dr.Reid?”

“Oh baby, i’ll make sure you’ll earn your lesson.”

—————

You moaned the second you tasted that sinful french toast, god isn’t Spencer supposed to be terrible at cooking? then how come this tastes like literal heaven? the perfectness oozes out of this fine looking toast dripping with hon—

“You’re really testing me now, Y/N.” He intertwined his fingers around each other before putting them in front of him, the manner suggest proper intimidation, clearly it worked for you. You replied with a whisper “Sorry sir, it’s really good.”

“Before we start to discuss our relationship, i’ll allow you to ask me questions about anything and everything that’s been going on. You gave me closure yesterday, and i shall give you closure too.” You kept eye contact as you wonder what to ask, which one of the thousands of questions in-your head that you were going to ask.

“Y/N?”

“How um how’d you find out about me? my past?” You nervously asked, this is something important to you, if Spencer truly found out then sooner or later you’ll have to face the consequences of everyone finding out too, probably even deeper than what’s Spencer been digging.

“I had my suspicions for awhile, when you first joined, you looked way too trained to be 25. No one is that trained unless they have basic skillset, everyone were suspicious too but decided to not question anything. But like i said,” His eyes were sharp, and you can feel the goosebumps rises at the sound of his tone. God he always managed to make you nervous.

“You intrigued me. So i did some digging of my own, asked Garcia to hand me your file, to my surprise before the age of 14 Y/N Bones never existed, Your surrogate father is smart, but he still leaves crumb Y/N. I’m just surprised the bureau didn’t question it when you joined,” He paused as he clench and unclench his jaw, the sight alone made me squirm in my seat, i’m not sure if i’m even listening at this point.

“So i searched deeper, even asked one of my friends Elle to do a deep background search about you so that it’s not someone on the team, and we both found out that you.. breezed your way through the psych eval that you have an astounding result. Your records are squeaky clean yet, there are pictures of you when you were 17 so we generate how you might’ve looked like when you were 10 to 15 years old and then we found...”

“The missing kid from a mob murder house in Italy, last seen by the chauffeur that was killed moments after he talked to the police, the poor guy was new— he never been briefed on what happened when something like that occurred.” You finished his statement as you looked down, your eyes closed momentarily as you tried to process that this man knows everything about you and now your secrets will be revealed to the world.

“Y/N, listen to me,” You’re that good at controlling your face whenever someone confronted you, thats why you’re able to breezed through your basic psych eval like a magnet. “Let me see you, not the walls you’ve put up.” Then when he said that, you felt like you never really knew yourself, all these years, you’ve put up a persona that was strong enough to handle everything even if you chipped away apart of your psyche every time something traumatic happened.

“This is me, Spence.. It’s who i want to be..”

“No, it’s killing you. All your life you’ve been directed, told what to do, controlled. But then you gained some sort of control when you finally was able to get free from your surrogate father, yet you don’t like it right out of the start so you keep up because that’s what kept you survive, get you inside the bureau so you won’t legally be touched once your father died, am i correct?”

“Yes.”

“That’s why you tried everything to give up control again, you joined the club right?” That made you red in an instant, How the hell did he managed to know so much about you? you’ve tried your damn hardest to be discreet about it, event as far as going to the club thats far from where you lived.

“I-I, Spencer this is too much information..” You trailed as you bit your lips at the thought of him knowing the inside and out of you like you’re one of his book, part of you were glad that you don’t have to keep everything to yourself anymore, that you don’t have to worry about control— you want to relinquish control, and he’s the only one that has made you feel comfortable when you give him all of you, and you don’t want it to stop. But you two are coworkers, FBI agents in the same field nonetheless there’s no way Hotch would agree to anything you propose.

“I know it is, Y/N. But you don’t have to go through it all alone now okay? i’m here, i know and thats good.”

“What do i have to do? Tell Hotch the truth about my past?” You chewed your lower lips as you think about all the possibilities that could happen, one being the most obvious which includes you being investigated and then fired. Or there’s one where the FBI would uncover Mr.Bones’s ties to Italian mob, which means you put all of them in danger. Then there’s one—

“Stop it, stop thinking for a second, and stop biting your goddamn lips, i swear.” He took you by surprise as he went over to your side and place you on top of the table in front of him before sitting down on your seat himself. “I-I’m sorry, i just.. don’t know what to do.. i don’t want to resign or get fired, i love this job, you’re all my family.”

He took my hand in his, and hold it tight before pressing a kiss on each fingertips, “You’re way too valuable of an agent to get fired and Hotch knows that, love. The worst thing that can happen is they’ll investigate and you’ll be forced to tell them what happened and how it went from there. Y/N you have no absolute ties with them, you were a victim.”

“You don’t know how powerful they are, the reason why i wanted to be apart of this job is to go after them Spence, and i’m getting nowhere close to even find any trace of them.”

“As much of a genius as you are, combining 8 heads instead of one will have a different outcome.” He joked, which makes you chuckled as you sighed and nods “Can i think about it first?”

“Of course, but do know that they’ll find out whether you tell them or not. And it’s better if it’s coming from you, not genius detective work of Garcia.” He sternly remind you, as you nod, and smile at him, muttering a small “okay..”

“Now, do you have any other question?” He pulled you closer, his hand practically grasping your bum cheeks, making you blush. “I-um..” you stopped as the words you were about to let out got stuck on your throat.

“Y/N, when you’re being asked, speak up clearly.” He scolds, which made your heart twisting in an uncomfortable way, showing how much you hate it when he gets disappointed at you. “I’m sorry, it’s just.. um— how did you know so much aboutsubmissionanddominance?” You rushed the last bit as you close your eyes in embarrassment, He made you feel so timid.

“What was that, baby? Didn’t quite hear the last bit?” He muses with a wonderful smirk formed on his ridiculously handsome face which makes you want to roll your eyes but decided otherwise since you don’t wanna get punishment this early.

“Submission and Dominance, Sir.” He play his game, and so you will play yours, only fair right? oh he thought so, his lips quirked in amusement before chuckling,

“How do you think i found out about that club you joined hm?” Your brows furrowed in confusion as you try to click things inside your head before you came to a realization...

“Spencer... are you— are you?”

He’s a goddamn member isn’t he?

“3 years, Princess.”

You’re fucked, Once again.

————//————

TBC! i know it’s short, like i said it’s only a filler chapter, since i have plenty of blurbs req, i’ll prioritize them first. So if you sent your reqs already, please be patient, they’re all coming soon!

tell me what you think on comment or send me a message, Tag list is open just let me know if you want in! thank you!

( @blancastans @spencerwaltergubler @slutforthegubes @n1ghtsh4d3-67 @babybloomer @liaabsurd @midnightsubmissives @addie5264 @maybankslut @secretpickleprofessordean )

#insufferableblurb #dom!spencer #criminal minds smut #spencer reid smut #spencer x reader #taahm #criminal minds imagines #spencer reid blurb #spencer reid fluff

201 notes · View notes

hitsuackerman · 3 years

Text

Unpredictable (Overhaul x Reader) pt.30

warnings: this cannot be read solo

Links: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12, part 13, part 14, part 15, part 16, part 17, part 18, part 19, part 20, part 21, part 22, part 22, part 23, part 23.5, part 24, part 25, part 26, part 27, part 28, part 29

Masterlist to my other fics: here :) (that has not been updated for how many months now... proceed with caution~)

“Kurono.” Overhaul spoke up as he discarded red stained gloves. “You’re in charge while I’m gone. Something came up.”

“Are you going to her?” He asked as he accepted the gloves and threw them into a bin. Taking a disinfectant from the corner, he began to wipe a small area of the chair Eri had sat. The day was rather long and none of them had sufficient sleep.

While it was true that Overhaul had went home late at night, the shuffling of his footsteps was enough to peek Kurono’s interests. Knowing full well where he had come from, he assumed it was safe to spark up a conversation with Kai. Of course, there was a tinge of regret when he agreed to working on the bullets. A mere check up turned into an extensive fix of the small deadly items.

“She is asking for information regarding Tamisura.” The annoyance behind his mask was a little too obvious. He hated that woman with a passion.

“Tamisura? She’s part of the Fukuo Kai now?” Kurono was not expecting that news at all. “Isn’t she the loner type?”

“She is.” He sighed. “However, that woman was given a rather good portion of the Fukuo Kai’s members. If anything, she’s basking in the sudden power given to her. It won’t surprise me if she falls drunk to the sensation.”

“Have you interacted with her during those meetings?” Kurono asked as he locked the experiment room. The only sound echoing were his and Kai’s footsteps.

“Once. There have been many meetings to which I have chosen not to partake in.”

“Do they know?”

“No. It wouldn’t be fun if I gave them everything.” It wasn’t all a lie, though. He was never a huge fan of meeting with the other yakuzas. Even before the Shie Hassaikai was established, he strayed away from those gatherings. “I’ll be back before the night falls.”

“Alright.”

“See to it that Eri-chan eats. If not, force her.”

Kurono simply nodded and watched as Overhaul walked his way towards his car. If he were doing Shie Hassaikai business, he was sure he would have to drive him around but this time he was the one moving. It only meant he was going towards his only person of interest. Whether it was a good or bad thing, Kurono couldn’t tell. Brushing those thoughts aside, he went to the kitchen. The child would surely not eat whatever he would cook, but at least he followed orders.

The drive towards your apartment was uneventful. Occasionally, he would yawn and roll his shoulders. The night was rather long and not even that cup of coffee he had 6 hours ago helped give him energy. Remembering that he had to buy food, he turned right and went for Mendy’s. Knowing what you would want, he ordered something for himself too.

Staring at the rear view mirror, he took note of the license plate. It was a pretty run down car but the plate was new. Must be a second hand car, he thought to himself. Looking at the hood, he scoffed at the dirt.

“Disgusting.” He complained as he reached out for the paper bag.

Knowing he was using his personal car, the guard would surely not allow him entry to the basement parking. Finding a secure spot a few good blocks away, he took off his jacket and folded the sleeves of his dress shirt. Sliding the tie off his neck, he checked the rearview mirror for any oddities. Seeing as it was clear, he took a surgical mask and grabbed the food.

Walking his way closer to the building, he could see a few of the lesser members of the Shie Hassaikai doing their assigned task. With his phone ringing, he took it out and answered it.

“Hurry up. I’m starving.” You complained.

“Give me 5 minutes.” He quickened his pace. “And don’t complain about the food getting cold. You have a microwave.”

“Are you walking?”

“Yes.”

“You know the guard knows your car right?” You sat down on the sofa and began to prepare the files.

“I used my personal one.”

“I’ll meet you at the entrance.” Just as you stood up, he told you there was no need. “Okay then. Just knock when you’re here.”

Dropping the call, you began to review the files you had prepared. Most of them were just gathered data regarding Tamisura and the Asaki-Gumi. With barely anything to get on, all you could do was sigh and hope that Overhaul could provide a decent amount of information. Knowing full well that he attended meetings without the precincts knowledge, the chances were there.

Hearing the knock on your door, you were quick to open it and be greeted with a paper bag held to your face. Taking it from his hands, you stepped aside and he went in.

“You look different today…” You commented as the snacks were taken out from the bag.

“How so?”

“Your sleeves are folded and your jacket’s missing.” And he looked really good. “Any special event I missed?”

“As I recall,” He walked towards the sofa and took a seat. “You mentioned you were bugged, is that right?”

“And?”

“If it wasn’t the Shie Hassaikai’s doing, then it surely could have been Nighteye or your precinct themselves. However, we seem to have grown rather too comfortable with one another that another party has taken your interest.”

On instinct, your eyes began to survey your unit.

“I was followed on my way here. Hence my tardiness.” Overhaul let out a sigh. “A few of my men are patrolling the area but as to whether or not they trailed me all the way here is for debate.”

“You set up a few henchmen here?” You raised an eyebrow.

“Precautionary measures, my guilty pleasure.”

It had been a long while since you last heard him call you that nickname. Feeling your mind turning to mush, you quickly grabbed a folder and handed it over to him. When he leaned back on the sofa and began to scan the papers, you couldn’t help but stare.

The young yakuza boss was examining files with a police officer. One of the most powerful and feared villains sat there with his sleeves rolled to his elbows while his mask hung limply on his ear. Looking at his hands, the gloves were still there but in some strange way, they complimented him. The walk towards your apartment ruffled his hair a bit too.

With your cheeks slowly reddening, you snapped yourself back to reality.

“So, uh, what exactly do you know about Tamisura?”

“As to the names of her quirk, I am not sure.” He began. “But, the records here state facts that she does need time to prep her abilities. If I am not mistaken, she needs a rather considerable amount of time as well.”

“Would you know how long?”

“Assuming it hasn’t evolved, once she is around her target, she would need at least 20 minutes.”

“Is there a time limit to her quirk?”

“Perhaps an hour.”

“That long?” You cursed at the duration.

“As for how to stop her speed, it is beyond my knowledge.” He shrugged. “Based on what I’ve gathered, she still prefers to work alone despite having a few new men under her wing.”

“How do you know so much about her, though?”

“She’s quite popular in the underground.” A few more exchanges of information, it was safe to say that you had gained just enough to satisfy Nighteye. With the bug now planted in the Fukuo Kai, the raid was now within arms reach.

Now that you were done interviewing the yakuza, the two of you were now eating the food he had bought. As always, he came through and ordered what you liked in their menu. You wanted to start a conversation with him, yet the only thoughts running through your head was the amount of time left you had with him.

“Tsukauchi has informed me that we will be partnering during the raid, is that correct?” Overhaul broke the silence.

“We are.” You couldn’t help but chuckle. “Back to where we were, huh?”

“Being melancholic?”

“I can’t help it. In a matter of days the raid will take place and after that, we’ll see each other as enemies. Tragic, isn’t it?”

“You were the one who pursued this.”

“Blaming everything on me?” You teased and kicked his leg. “Who was the one who attmepted to seal the deal?”

“I was not blaming, (y/n). I never stated that I too did not pursue this.” He pointed his index finger at you. Upon hearing your laughter, he couldn’t help but notice the sudden weight on his shoulders. Shaking the looming fear that crept in him, he grabbed a glass of water and gulped it down.

“Now that we’re on the topic…” You grabbed a pillow and hugged it. “What did you first think of me?”

“Annoying.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“That hurts.”

“Along the way, you only grew more annoying. But somehow I got used to it and find it rather endearing in its own cursed way.” He paused and rolled his golden eyes. “Were those the words you wanted to hear?”

“Maybe. Flowery words don’t suit you.”

“Really?”

“Don’t mock me, Chisaki.”

“That’s all we’ve been doing these past few minutes.” He flicked your forehead. “But I stand by what I said. I have to go, (y/n).”

“So soon?” The words went out of your mouth before you could think.

“The longer I stay the higher they’ll suspect me. You wouldn’t want your plans to go into failure, no?”

Leading him to the door, you couldn’t help but wonder what would happen in the next few days. With the raid’s plan going smoothly, it was only a matter of time before Nighteye would push for your full cooperation with their case. Would you still be able to meet him in secret? Or would the heroes truly prevail and bring their needed justice home? Could you even dare look at him when they detain him?

“Don’t overthink things.” Overhaul said as he rested his head on your shoulder.

“I can’t help it…” Your grip on the doorknob tightened.

“It isn’t the end of your world. We still have one more moment before going separate ways.”

“Right…” You turned around to face him. Taking in the features of what his mask didn’t cover, you couldn’t help but raise your hand in an attempt to touch his face. Remembering that he wasn’t one who was fond of physical contact, you decided it was best not to continue your action. “I’ll see you next week.”

Watching as Overhaul exited your building, you dragged your feet back to the sofa. Closing your eyes, images of possible outcomes began to flood your head. With Nighteye knowing your complicated relationship, there was no escaping. All you could do was think of alibi’s to clear whatever you could.

Even if you did file a case about them bugging you, it wouldn’t be the best decision due to it leaning on their favor. It would also be best to not let the media know about whatever footage they had obtained.

With nothing else to do, you quickly grabbed your laptop and began to search for the details once villains would be handed over to the HPSC.

- - - - -

I hope you guys liked the chapter despite me being gone x) again, if you want to be tagged, feel free to message me or comment :) Take care and have a nice day!

would you buy me a ko-fi :3

#mha overhaul #mha chisaki kai #bnha overhaul #overhaul #chisaki kai x reader #chisaki kai x y/n #overhaul x reader #overhaul x y/n

41 notes · View notes