#its definitely not worth a week and a half wait

[luveline]

𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐩𝐭 | 𝐚𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐫

You learn how to be someone’s girlfriend. Or, 5 times Hotch raises your expectations (+1 time you raise his).

7k words, new established relationship to established relationship, lots of fluff and some small angst, hurt/comfort, fem!reader, civilian!reader, calls him aaron, basically hotch treating you well

༺༻

1. Soup. 

"Are you hungry?" Aaron asks, hands at the neck of his shirt as he loosens his tie. 

You've never seen him do that. It's a lot to take in.

"A little, are you?"  He's lucky that you remember to answer.

His smile lights you up inside and out, a warm, casual quirk. "Famished." 

"Should we make something?" 

He turns from the doorway and moves into the kitchen. You have to twist on his couch to see his movements. 

"No need. I should've asked if you like it, but I made vegetable soup. The kind with mini dumplings." 

You look down at your legs and squeeze your thighs together until your knees tap. You're too shy to go and meet him where he's standing, but perhaps sitting and having him wait on you is arrogant. And awkward. 

The couch is plush under your hands as you stand. You'd slipped off your shoes at the door, and your socked-feet slide over the tiled floor of the kitchen as you make your way to his side. Aaron lights the stove, atop which stands a tall cooking pot. 

"When did you have time to make that?" you ask, soft with awe. 

"I knew you'd be coming over. I started it this morning." 

"And if I didn't like it?" 

He turns his gaze to yours, pot lid held aloft. "Then I would've ordered in for us. You're sure this is okay?"  

You've never had somebody cook for you before. Homemade, fresh ingredients, and the intricacy of the dumplings too, it all impresses and amazes you. You feel very special. Like you're worth all the effort. 

"I'm sure. More sure if you let me try it." 

His laugh startles you for its rarity. "Okay. It's not done," he warns. 

"Just to taste it." 

He stirs the warming soup with a big spoon for half a minute, the heat on high, before scooping up some broth and holding it above a cupped palm. "It's probably not very hot," he says. 

Oh, you think, excited and sick with nerves at once. He's going to feed the soup to me. 

Something out of a movie, something you didn't know people actually did for their significant others, Aaron waits for you to open your mouth and offers the spoon. You slurp and feel heat rise to your cheeks at the clumsy sound. 

"Aaron," you say, soft and obsessed after you've swallowed, "it's really nice. You made that yourself?"  

"I can cook," he says defensively. 

You lick your lips, giggling. "I can tell. That was really good. Though it was definitely too cold." 

"Mm. It has to cook through some more. Reduce. Do you want to shower?" He puts down his wooden spoon, head tilting to one side gently. He assesses your expression, and brings a curved hand to settle over your cheek. The tip of his index finger kisses the delicate skin under your eye. "No, maybe not. You look tired." 

You probably shouldn't say something like that to your brand new girlfriend (you scream internally at the word, every single time since he asked you a week ago) but Aaron speaks factually. You don't think for a second that there's any malice there, any hidden critique. His words shine with concern. 

"It's Friday. I'm always tired at the end of the week." 

His hand falls to your shoulder. "I can imagine." 

"You can go shower, if you like. I'll watch the soup." 

"I need one, huh?" 

He must know how well-kept he looks even now. You're not sure you've ever seen him dishevelled. 

"Definitely need one," you try to tease. It comes out murmur-quiet, and Aaron takes pity and kisses your cheek. 

He leaves to shower and you 'watch' the soup — you stand at the stovetop and soak in it's emanating warmth, stirring it every now and then to prevent the bottom from burning. The shower runs muffled from the bathroom, and your mind wanders as it tends to do. It's an undeniable fact that Aaron is naked right now, the thought opening an avenue of images you've been trying not to think about all day. It's your very first time spending the night after a couple of weeks of dating, and now you're together, if Aaron wants to have sex tonight you'll say yes. He's handsome, and his build suggests a certain… tenacity. 

His hands would convince you alone. Big hands. 

You look down into the simmering pot of soup and smile harder than you have any right to smile. He's done everything right, all the romance; he'd asked you out clearly with no doubt of his intentions, which had shocked you; he'd brought you a bouquet of flowers on your first date, which had delighted you; and he hadn't tried to take you home, which had surprised you. 

Modern romance often doesn't feel very romantic. Things with Aaron are different. 

Hell, he's so sweet he probably won't make a move unless you make one yourself. 

You'd prefer to be squeaky clean tonight, you've decided, just in case. When he gets out of the shower, you'll tell him you've changed your mind.

The shower shuts off. He appears a little bit after that, in new clothes, towel around his neck and feet either side of your own as he sidles in for a damp and quick cheek kiss. 

"Sorry I took so long. Are you ready to eat?" he asks, taking the spoon from your hand to give the soup a big, gran stir. 

"Actually, could I shower?" 

If he's surprised at your changed mind he says nothing, only turns down the heat of the stove. "Of course you can. Come on, I'll show you how it all works." 

His 'come on' is accompanied with a guiding hand at the small of your back. You let yourself be guided. The heat of his touch fills your stomach and doesn't abate, no matter how cold you run the spray. 

2. Phone calls. 

It's the week after that when you're supposed to be spending the night again. You're excited for two reasons, the first and smallest being that he had been what you thought and more in bed, that itself an expectation raised, and it had felt like connection at its brightest — he'd been sweet, and he'd been rough but never, not ever once cruel. A perfect night. The second, and biggest, is that he's honestly just the nicest person you've ever met. He's your boyfriend, a phrase you don't say in front of him because he's admittedly older than you, and you can't imagine he calls you his girlfriend. Partner might be more apt. He's your boyfriend and he's openly fond of you. Openly more than that. It's new to be doted on as ardently as he dotes on you. 

He touches you like he can't believe he's touching you. He talks to you like you're gold dust, all smiles and laughs heavy with admiration, and he listens. You've never felt listened to in the way you do when you're with him. 

So many conversations are just one party waiting for the other to stop talking until it's their turn. You think, maybe, Aaron would let you talk for hours. He would listen the whole time. 

In summary, you're basically thrumming with excitement to see him again. You've missed him some, but mostly you've spent the week bouncing off of walls waiting for the next time you get to talk to him. 

His text is disheartening, to say the least. 

Hey, honey. I have to cancel our plans tonight. I'm sorry, and I'll explain as soon as I get the chance. Please take care of yourself for me until I can.

It doesn't make you mad. While it is extremely short notice, and your heart hurts to the point of frustrated tears, you know it isn't his fault. He's been clear about his job at the FBI and what that means for you both. How it will without a doubt pull him away from you during dates, the middle of the night, special occasions, the works — this had been after a small disclosure about his commitment to his son, Jack, and how he's a father first — and how it will definitely cause some strain. 

"But," he'd said, "I want you, and I want this to work. So if you can be patient with me, I'll try to make it worth it." 

He's been successful every time. After he'd cancelled your third date, he'd quickly rearranged it and apologised with a modest but beautiful bouquet of flowers. 

Somewhere between the fifth and sixth date, you hadn't seen him for two whole weeks, and every worry you'd had about his intentions had been abated by a steady stream of encouraging text messages and the occasional photograph. Nothing crazy, but sweet things, like the cookies he and Jack had made that night, captioned, I'd save one for you if I thought Jack would let me, or a sunrise in a different state, captioned, This looks like the dress you wore to Lemaira. 

Later that night, you're unhappy and frowning still, a small carton of ice cream freezing your fingers to the cardboard and a spoon in your mouth when your phone starts to ring. 

You aren't expecting it to be Aaron. You aren't in the habit of calling one another, even though you'd secretly wished he would while he's away beforehand. 

It's nearing eight o'clock. 

"What time do you call this?" you joke, smiling despite yourself. Again, the excitement that comes with talking to him wells at the surface. 

"I know, I'm sorry," he says, sounding very tired. 

You slouch down into your couch cushions, ice cream on the armrest, remote for the TV on your chest. You click the volume button down, down, down until the TV's near silent. 

"I'm kidding, mostly. Are you okay? I've been a little worried." 

Understatement of the century. You know sudden cases of violence often draw him away from Virginia, but this had been sudden sudden. The lack of information had made you think the worst, worse than serial killer and bombers and hostage situations. You'd thought Aaron was in danger himself, and then you'd tried to suffocate that thought. He'd never worry you like that even if he were. 

"I'm fine. Sorry to miss you tonight." 

"I'm sorry to miss you too," you say, voice disjointed, too earnest. You scramble to hide the depth of your feelings. "Where are you?" 

"I'm in St. Louis. Where are you?" 

You laugh, curling onto your side with the phone pressed up against your ear. "Where am I? I'm at home." 

"What are you doing?" 

"I was watching TV." 

"Yeah? Did you eat anything yet?" 

You think to the takeout you'd bought and shoved in the microwave, not hungry at the time but knowing knowing would be. "Not yet. Why are you asking?" 

"I want to know." 

"I told you in my text I would take care, Aaron." 

"Honey," he says, pet name like a warm palm over your heart, "my definition of taking care and your definition are very different. Promise me you'll eat something."

"Of course I will. Easy promise." You scratch the couch fabric absent-mindedly. "Have you eaten?" 

"Yes," he says, the sound of a closing window in the background. "It's awful how much take out I eat. All these cases, there's never any time to cook real food." 

"Why, what did you have? And surely there's some uber healthy options out there, like, a chickpea salad-" 

"That costs thirty dollars? I'm not struggling, honey, but we both know that's obscene." 

You're laughter takes on a giddy quality as you cross your leg over the other, picturing his smile as his laughter echoes breathily down the line. You really, really wish he were here right now and that you were having this conversation face to face. You know he'd smile and try to hide how smug he feels at making you laugh. His hand would reach over any gap to touch some silly part of you, forearm or collar or the skin under your ribcage. 

"Are you okay?" You say his name to drive the point home. Your voice is quiet — you're hesitant to offer, worried you're crossing a boundary. "Aaron, I know you don't like bringing it home, but you aren't home, so… I'm here." 

"I know. It's nothing I want you to worry about, there's an ongoing situation here, bomb threats coming in quicker than the local P.D can handle. They need us to vet them and figure out if any of them are real." 

You think about it for a few seconds, the silence small but not uncomfortable. If you were under that kind of pressure, you'd be hurting. Chest pains, anxiety shakes, a migraine. 

"You'll be safe?" you ask. 

"Always. I'm not in any danger. And I need to get home, I owe you a Friday." 

"You do," you mumble. 

There's the creak of a box spring mattress, and the sound of a lamp being clicked. On or off, you don't know. When Aaron speaks, his tone is dulcet and hushed but distinct. You feel it in your chest. 

"Tell me about your day," he murmurs. 

You lay it all out for him in detail. He can barely reply when you hang up, sleep thickening his affectionate, "Goodnight, honey." 

3. His bleeding heart.

"What kind of kid were you?" he asks.

You look up from your notebook, surprised. Aaron has been silent for what feels like an hour now, laid out on the picnic blanket with your sweater bundled up under his head while the sun warms your skin. 

"I was…" You let your pen roll into the centre of your notebook and close it. He's laid his paperback flat across his chest. You think he might be very interested in the answer. "It was a long time ago, but I think I was lonely." 

He nods like this is what he'd been expecting. "Me too." 

It's a gorgeous day out. The sky is a light, bright blue with few clouds. They block the sun occasionally, providing a short and bittersweet shield from the heat. The grass surrounding is shockingly green, rippling in the breeze. 

"You were?" you ask. "What were you like?" 

"I was quiet." 

"That's not surprising," you say mildly. 

"No, I guess not." 

You abandon your notebook and lay down beside him. Worrying what you look like from this angle, you cover your jaw with your hand and turn toward him ever so slightly to show you're listening. 

"I liked affection. I remember my mom used to say I was a siphon for it. I'd be all over her, and she'd have nothing left to give anyone else." 

"That's not true," you deny. Every ounce of affection that you given him, he has returned tenfold, and that's inspired a lot of kindness in you, for him and for the world. "You're like an amplifier, if anything." 

He smiles to himself and turns his gaze skyward. "I wish we'd met before." 

"Me too," you say, leaving little room for debate.

"You're so kind," — he adorns you with each word like a gift, a tiny star of praise — "I think you're the kindest person I've ever met." 

He laughs. It's a catching sound, contagious as anything. You giggle with him and shift closer. Your arms touch, your hips. 

"Baby," you murmur, almost lamenting, "d'you ever think your ability to see the good in people is- It's indicative of the good in you... You've given more of your life than most to keep other people safe. That's the kindest thing a person can do." 

He tangles your hand with his where it had been resting on your stomach. You're pretty sure you can feel every line of every fingerprint as he works your fingers together, a snug fit like one of those wooden brain teaser puzzles: How do you pull these two pieces apart? From the outside, it looks impossible!

"I think I'd be different, if I'd met you before. I'd be kinder," he says. 

You can't agree with him. It's obvious who he is. You know more about him now than you ever have before. His late wife, how she'd been the best mother they ever made. His son, and how he moulds Aaron everyday into a better man. His friends, who trust him, who adore him. All these people have a hand in who Aaron is now, and while you wish you'd been around from the start, now will have to do.

"You're plenty kind," you say. Understatement of the century. 

"Sorry," he says with a laugh, "With you-" He cuts himself off, head-shaking from side to side as he pulls your joined hands up slowly. 

Your arm bends and then turns as he pulls it toward his face. He unlinks your fingers to steer your forearm, aligning it flat over his lips. The first kiss is a surprise, light like the feathered edge of a flower petal, and the second isn't dissimilar. 

The third melts you, veritably, the parting of his lips emphasised by the dull scratch of teeth against your pulse, the wet heat of his tongue. Three becomes four, and a final fifth, crescent moons pressed into your skin like he's trying to tell you something. 

You've no clue what. You likely couldn't say which way the world turns, not when he's kissing you. Not like this. 

Aaron has an acute ability to talk without talking. Hello's and thank you's and I care about you's woven into quick kisses, the swift squeeze of his hand over the slope of your shoulder.

These ones say something you don't want to speak aloud, lest you jinx it. 

The sunlight fades. A big grey cloud covers the sun.

"I think it's gonna rain," you say. 

A raindrop splashes in Aaron's eye. 

"Fuck," he says, which is hilarious, because he never swears in front of you. You hadn't known he cussed at all. 

The downpour is slow and then sudden, spitting rain dotting over you both like a fine mist as you stand, a thicker, faster outpouring chasing your heels as you hurry to the car. You realise you can't outrun it even if you sprint, and so you stop, Aaron's hand in yours tugged like a rubber band. He bounces back into your chest with the picnic blanket under his arm, your books tucked somewhere inside. 

He doesn't ask what you're doing. He's made the same deduction as you, or maybe he trusts you, or maybe he's indulging you. 

"Your hair," he laments. 

"Doesn't matter," you say. 

You lift your chin up for a kiss. Aaron ducks down to give you one. A raindrop runs down the bridge of his nose to the tip of yours. 

4. In sickness. 

You insist that it wasn't the rain that made you sick, but honestly there's no way to tell. You'd kissed for slightly too long, and the rain had been surprisingly cold. Now you aren't very well, and you have to cancel Aaron's sleepover. 

You hold out as long as you can, but come Friday afternoon it's clear you aren't getting better. You wake to a text from Aaron, two texts, and it makes you smile through shivery coughs. 

I can't wait to see you tonight. Do you need anything before I get there? Miss you. Sent 6.26AM.

Is everything okay? Sent 9.17AM. 

Usually you'd have answer his morning text within the hour. 

Hi, I miss you too, so much, but I don't think we'll be able to see each other tonight. I've got the flu :( I'm sorry. And sorry I couldn't answer your message until now, I was sleeping. 

It's another hour before he answers. You rouse from your gross snotty stupor to squint at the phone. It's surprisingly long. 

I'm sorry it's taking me so long to get back to you, things are tense here right now. You don't have to be sorry for either, I'm glad to hear you're resting. You could have told me you were sick. Is it okay if I come and see you tonight anyways? I would love to check on you. Don't rush to answer, and call me if you can. 

You call him with reservations. 

"Is this a good time?" you ask weakly, forgoing a hello. 

It takes him a little while to speak. You assume he's leaving a room, closing a door. "Now's fine. How are you?" 

"My throat hurts and it's a little hard to breathe, but I'm sure I'll live." 

"You've been to see a doctor?" 

"It's not that bad." 

He sighs. "You sound tired. And sore. Why didn't you tell me you were sick?" 

"You don't have to baby me, I'm really okay." 

"Have you considered that I'd like to baby you?" 

Not really. You can't imagine anyone would want to deal with you. You're a mess, you look awful, you don't smell great, and you're not good company. You can't think of a single reason Aaron would want to be anywhere near you right now. 

"No," you say, "I hadn't." 

"I'd love to look after you." 

"You could be doing something fun with your Friday. You could see Jack." 

"Jack's going to Kings Dominion. And Fridays are our day, you being sick doesn't make me want to see you less."

You hadn't said that, but he'd inferred it. Of course he had. 

You and Aaron decide that your sleepover will go ahead after all. Or, he persuades you very gently. You spend three hours doing tasks that should only take one. You shower, you clean your room, and you do the dishes. By the end of it you're sweating enough to need another shower but you aren't a quitter, so you open the freezer and stick your head in, hands braced against the refrigerator door. 

You're excited to see him. You always are. Too bad you look so wiped out. 

It's almost 6.30 when you hear his knock on the door. You'd been waiting for him and started dozing at the kitchen table, your neck a mess of twisted nerves, your hand numb from supporting your head. You shake it out and open the door, sheepish. 

"Hi," you croak out. 

He has a lot of stuff with him. His familiar overnight bag, a briefcase, two grocery bags, and a bouquet. 

"Aaron, why," you moan, covering your face with one hand as you move back down the hall to let him in. 

"Not the greeting I'd hoped for." 

"I can't greet you, I'll make you sick." 

You get all the way to the kitchen and think, triumphantly, that you've escaped his 'greeting'. He puts the flowers down carefully on the kitchen counter as you try to come up with a thank you that doesn't make your eyes burn. The grocery bags are placed without ceremony on the floor, and his overnight bag falls onto the kitchen chair. You watch him unbutton his rain spattered coat, and your triumph fades when he peels out of it and instantly reaches for you. 

"Aaron," you mumble, stepping into his arms. He knows you can't say no to a hug, not after a week of not seeing him. 

"I missed you," he says, arms around your back, lips at your temple. "You're running a temperature." 

"It's not that bad. 101." 

"Honey, 101 is bad." 

"Not as bad as 102." 

"Not as bad as 102," he concedes. You can hear his voice rumbling in his throat, and feel it in his chest and yours.

He takes as much of your weight as he can, leaning back so you're forced to arc forward. Your face slips into his neck, and you're thinking, this is what it's like? To be held, sick, with nothing to give? It feels good.

"Please tell me the next time you're sick," he murmurs. 

You definitely will. If this is what it's like, roaming, cautious hands over your shoulder blades, a strong nose stroking lines against your warm forehead. 

"Thank you for the flowers." 

It's squished against his skin but he hears it. "You're welcome. Do you want me to put them in a vase?" 

"I can do it." 

"I think that might defeat the purpose. They're a gift, not an extra chore." 

"Nobody ever got me flowers before you, so it doesn't feel like a chore at all." 

He encourages your face back enough to look at you. You have to mouth breath on him because your nose is all stuffed up, and it is not something you're happy to do. You look down so he can't feel it. 

"I'm gonna do something really cheesy, and you can tease me about it later, okay?" 

You look at him from under your lashes. "'Kay." 

"Close your eyes," he whispers. 

You let your eyes shut. Aaron cradles your face in both hands and pulls your face toward his chin, in your rough approximation. 

Heat fans against your eyes. He kisses your eyelids, the left and then the right, the most gentle press of his lips you've ever felt. 

"It's killing me to see you like this," he says, and you're grateful for the pinch of humour behind it. "Couch or bed?" 

"Couch. I wanna watch a movie with you." 

"Good. I wanna watch a movie with you, too." 

Aaron does everything. You're too tired to notice, but when you're better, you'll add it all up. He makes you dinner and breakfast and lunch and enough for the day after that, too. He trims down all your flowers and places them in a vase on your window sill. He recleans your room, cleans your bathroom, and plays nursemaid diligently. He makes you take your temperature in front of him, and then he fawns and makes you hug an ice pack, stays the night again when he's supposed to go home. 

It sucks, but your temperature falls, and when your insides stop cooking themselves you start to feel better. On Sunday morning, when he has to leave, you feel the strange pang of being cared for unconditionally like the wind being knocked out of you. He'd done all of that because he cares about you. He'd wanted to see you fed and well and happy, and he hadn't gotten anything out of it in return. 

5. The test-drive.

"Hi, Jack," you mumble, rubbing wetness out of your sleep-heavy eyes. "Good morning." 

"Good morning," he says cheerfully, of his father's disposition. 

"Did you," — you yawn wide and turn your face so neither of them can see — "sleep well?" 

"Yeah, thank you. Why are you so tired?" 

Aaron's standing at the stovetop making oatmeal. You stand at the counter beside it, hips touching but facing opposite ways. "I'm still getting used to your dad's bed." 

It's true. There's something about someone else's mattress that makes you ache. 

"What is it about my mattress you can't get along with?" Aaron asks in good humour, adding a generous pinch of salt to the saucepan. 

"It's more comfortable than mine," you say with a self-satisfied laugh. 

Aaron pecks your damp cheek and skirts around you to fill three identical bowls of oatmeal next to three identical glasses of orange juice. Jack cheers when his portions are placed in front of him, and he digs in even though it's ridiculously hot. 

Aaron had explained once that he's basically trained Jack to eat it scorchingly hot by accident. Years of oatmeal straight off of the hob versus a growing boy with no patience. You watch in awe as Jack scarfs it down. 

You and Aaron are doing this thing. You've called it the test-drive in your head. He wants to see how well you and Jack get along, likely, and how well you handle living together, too. (Though you absolutely don't think you'll be moving in together quite this soon.) That's your working theory. He'd asked you if you'd be interested in staying for the week a month ago, and you had, and it had been a dream. This is week two, and it seems to be going just as well as the first. 

It's definitely revealing. To see each other's routines. And an adjustment. You have to see all the gross stuff, no avoiding it. 

Though stuff you might consider gross he enjoys. Like watching you put on body lotion, he'd loved that more than words could express. And watching him shave, you'd loved that more than you'd thought you would. You'd sat on the lip of the tub and he'd listened to your morning murmurings, half asleep and excited as always to talk to him about everything. 

Getting to know Jack more has been a joy, too. You've met him nowhere near as many times as you would've liked and done family things: bowling, pizza places, the movies, a baseball game. 

Eating breakfast together is way more fun. Especially because Jack likes you. 

As soon as you sit down he starts to tell you about school. You listen, sipping your orange juice while you wait for the oatmeal to cool from lava. 

After breakfast, the three of you head back to your respective bedrooms to get dressed. 

That's something else you adore, you and Aaron undressing and redressing together in the space in front of his closet, the intimacy of casual nudity, and the way his hand closes around your hip to move you out of the way of his shirts. 

You're pretty much inseperable until you get to the car park. A firm believer in kids receiving as much love as they can from everybody, you offer Jack a hug before you part ways everytime. Sometimes he says yes, though most times he says, "Thank you, Miss Y/N, but my hug quota is full." 

Today, he squeezes your waist really hard and says, "Have a good day bye," like it's one word.

"Have a good day, baby," you tell him, laughing as he jettisons into the passenger seat of Aaron's car. 

Aaron usually gives you a swift kiss and goodbye like his son. Today, he brings his hand to your neck. You stare him straight in his dark eyes as he does, marvelling the shock of straight lashes outlining each one, and the permanent wrinkle between his brow from frowning. 

Placing two hands on either shoulder, you use his frame to rise on tiptoes and kiss it. 

"Don't frown too much today, okay, handsome? Have a good day." 

He cups your face in both hands as your heels touch the ground. His hands are warm, kind as he pushes both palms over your cheeks and your ears. He covers them, and your heartbeat amplifies, a thumping sound fighting his skin. Then he slips his fingers behind your ears and the roaring fades. 

"I love you," he says. 

You beam at him. "Really?"

"Really. I love you, honey. Have a good day."

As if. If he thinks he can walk away after dropping that on you he's got another thing coming. 

You throw your arms around his neck and all your weight into his front, almost barrelling him over. You have to stop yourself from wrapping your thighs around him, 'cause then he really might fall over. 

You dig your face into his neck, searching for something, for the perfect place to rest your cheek. "I love you, Aaron." 

There isn't a chance in hell he didn't already know it. 

"I got you something," he says. 

You laugh in surprise and tighten your hold on him. "Why? This is gift enough." He loves you. It bounces around in your chest. 

"Because I'm not stupid enough to miss what I have right in front of me." 

You lean back so you can kiss him, ignoring his hand as it reaches into his pocket. 

"Baby," you say, a hair's width from his lips. You kiss him again for a second, thrilled, but curiosity pulls you back. "You have it now?" 

He takes a step away from you and reveals the box in his pocket, long and thin. It clicks open on a silver hinge, and inside velveteen lies a simple chain.

"Is that a diamond?" you ask, breathless. The stone at the end of the chain shines like nothing you've ever seen before. 

You don't know a thing about them other than that they're expensive. You can't see Aaron Hotchner of all people buying a fake. 

"A small one," he says modestly. 

Your eyes burn. You're happy to the point of tears but you refuse to cry. 

"And it's for me?" you ask. 

He laughs and you laugh too, the sound slightly sniffly. 

"Of course. Do you want to wear it?" 

"Now? Yes, more than anything," you say, smiling hard, cheeks appled and aching. "Are you serious?"

"More than anything." 

Corny, you think desperately. Do not cry, that's so cheesy. 

"Are you sure you don't want to wait until my birthday?" 

He gestures for you to turn around, the chain hanging from his finger. You turn, feel his hands brushing against your neck as he lays it across your chest and pulls it together behind your nape. 

"Your birthday gift is better than this." 

Better? You could burst. 

The clasp closes and he rubs his hands down the backs of your shoulders. 

You turn back around, face dipped to your chest in efforts to see the necklace. It's short but long enough to spot the diamond hanging under your collar. 

"I've never had a diamond, before," you mumble, hands pressed to your chest. Your heart bumps under your hand. 

"Thank you," you say, looking up, "baby, you didn't have to. You don't have to get me stuff like this, it's a lot." 

"I don't think it's too much. You give gifts when you're grateful. I'm grateful to love you." 

He's expecting you this time, unwavering when your arms slide over his shoulders. You breathe in the smell of his skin and he does the same, his face pressed to the top of your head.

Jack is late for school that day. You apologise to Aaron more times than you can count, and every time he only smiles and says, "It's okay. I love you." 

+1 

Aaron misses your first anniversary. 

It's a very important date to miss, and you have a right to be upset. 

But. 

You always knew from the very first date that this was something that could, unfortunately, happen. You'd been lucky to get him for your birthday, luckier still to see him on his own and treat him with the delights he deserved. You'd figured eventually something would happen to throw a spanner in the works. 

What you aren't expecting is the lack of anger. 

You aren't mad at him, not one bit. It would be okay if you were, even though it's not his fault, because this is so big. You're celebrating the best year of your life alone, and that's no fun. You and Aaron had planned to go away, two days in a fancy hotel, Jack with Jessica and no worries. 

He can't ignore a bomb threat in the capital, and he wouldn't want to. 

You know a missed anniversary is a lesser weight than innocent people dead. You know Aaron wouldn't be able to forgive himself if he didn't go. You know he regrets leaving you on such an important day. 

Maybe one day, you'll be angry with him. Today, you only miss him. 

I love you. I'm sorry. I'll be back very soon. Happy anniversary. 

He sends that after a grovelling, short phone call, in which you assure him that it's fine. Your voice is tight with tears, you miss him like crazy, and he hears it though you try to hide it. 

I will make it up to you. 

You don't have any doubts. 

You feel a little sorry for yourself, and then you send him a text of your own. 

I love you, so don't be sorry. Get back safe and sound and consider yourself forgiven. Happy anniversary, my love. 

Followed with what's likely too many hearts for good measure. 

Still, still, he doesn't believe it's okay. You know he's human, and he loves you, and that makes it easy to predict how he's feeling — worried that you're angry, worried that you'll leave him, worried this won't work for you. 

And you're only human yourself. You can't say how you'll feel in another year, or two, or five. You can't imagine how depressing it might be to miss the holidays and birthdays and anniversaries with him year after year, but you want to be patient. You want to forgive him for the things he has no hand in, and you do. 

You get a visitors pass for his office once you're cleared and take the elevator up, checking your text messages for the fifth time, just to make sure. 

I'll be home in a couple of hours, the plane touches down in two. Love you. Sent 4.53PM. 

It's the day after your anniversary, a Monday, and it's nearly 7PM. You smile at people you've seen in passing the few times you've visited his office before and don't bother trying to sit in Aaron's office, knowing it's locked while he's away. You travel the spare steps and sit at the top of the landing, hands clutching the neck of the bunch of flowers you're holding nervously. The cellophane crinkles. 

You hadn't answered him. It was cruel to leave him hanging, but you didn't expect him to come home so soon. He's too damn good at his job. 

The elevator doors open in the quiet. Barely anybody lingers now in the late hour, and the voices of the BAU echo. 

Spencer sees you first. Morgan second. They stop at the beginning of the office. 

Aaron sees you third.

You spring to stand up on your feet, and then you feel very tall and very seen and descend the steps rather than draw more attention. 

"You said seven," you say, not sure what else to say, not with people watching you. "This is definitely closer to eight." 

Aaron thankfully isn't too proud to speed walk to you. Your heart skips as you meet him, flowers crushed half to death as he gets his arm behind your neck, hooking your head in the crook of his elbow. 

He kisses you roughly. Heat floods every inch of skin, your breath rushes out of your nose with a sigh. 

He pulls back. 

"Happy anniversary," you say quietly, smiling at the sheer relief in his eyes. 

"It was yesterday," he says, quiet too. 

"Happy one year and one day, then." You push him away from you gently. "Don't suffocate your roses." 

"You got me flowers." 

"You get people gifts when you're grateful," you parrot. 

He takes a step back and accepts the flowers. On the message card, you've written, bashful and clumsy and adoring, I'm grateful to love you. One year and more. 

He moves the bouquet into one hand and wraps you up in another huh, firm-armed, chin over the top of your head, though he intersperses his embrace with dainty kisses pecked from one temple to another. 

"You aren't mad?" he asks, worried about the answer. 

"No," you say honestly. "Not mad. Missed you like crazy yesterday, but I get you today. I can make it work." 

When you break apart a second time, you both buckle under the weight of his colleagues watching.

"Thank you," Rossi speaks up, grand and wry, "we thought we'd have to endure his moping for at least a week. Your understanding spares us all." 

"Nice, Dave," Aaron says. 

"I've got your paperwork, Hotch," Morgan offers. 

Aaron has the good sense to accept it before Morgan can change his mind. His friends say goodbye, and Aaron pulls you by the hand back to the elevator bank. You couldn't wipe the smile off of his face if you tried. 

The elevator doors have barely closed when he's leaning down to kiss you again. 

"Thank you," he says. 

"You really don't have to say thank you," you murmur, bumping your shoulder with his. "You got home safe. That's all that matters." 

His next kiss is bruising. The sound of cellophane crushed between you makes you laugh. He kisses you through it, his smile pressed feverishly to yours, over and over and over.

༺༻

thank you for reading! if you enjoyed please consider reblogging, i promise it makes a difference to me <3

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

[die-pink-maus]

A Weekend in Vienna 🇦🇹

While vacationing in Germany, Chantelle’s (OC) best friend, Adrian (also an OC), books an impromptu trip to Vienna to visit extended family. Chantelle decides to join her for the last few days of her trip, where she meets an interesting friend of Adrian’s family who offers to show the two around the city for the weekend🤭

TW: Pretty much none, not for this chapter anyway, but things will get 🌶️spicy🌶️ in the next parts. Also there is an age gap between OC and König, she is 25 and he is about 36-37.

CW: FemOCs, female pronouns used, while both characters are technically OCs please feel free to imagine them however you’d like, ultimately the main character is the reader, I just didn’t want to use “Y/N” so I gave them names 🙈

Word Count: 1,516

*DISCLAIMER*

This is my first time EVER writing any kind of fan fiction so please go easy on me 😭 if you like where things are going, likes and reblogs would be greatly appreciated! If you’d like to see anything in particular in the next part or part(s), I’d love to hear it!

This version of König is based on the above interpretation drawn by @lettaniko (I hope you don’t mind me using it! I absolutely love this drawing it’s perfect! 🫶🏼)

I like a nice build up to the smut so if you like to get right into it this is probably not going to be for you…but if you can wait I it out I promise it’ll be worth it 😂

Enjoy! 💋

7:30am. There’s approximately 30 minutes before my train departs for Vienna, and I still haven’t reached the train station yet. I scrambled as I dashed out of my hotel room, hoping I’d left the place in a somewhat decent state and I hadn’t forgotten anything valuable as got into the elevator. I’ve been exploring Munich for the past two weeks and I’ve been having the absolute time of my life. Although traveling alone can be quite scary, oddly enough, I’ve never felt more at home. Munich is such a vibrant city, filled with all kinds of exciting things to do and I’ve met so many incredible people, it’s definitely been the experience of a lifetime. To say that I am not looking forward to going back home to Vancouver would be an understatement, but all good things must come to an end. I’d spent about a year and a half learning to speak German, and promised myself that I would plan a trip in celebration of achieving fluency, so here I am! Now, Vienna wasn’t initially on my list of places to visit when I decided to come to Germany, but my best friend, Adrian, ended up booking a spur of the moment flight last week to visit extended family in Austria and suggested I come hangout with her during the last few days of my trip. Seeing as its only a 3-4hr train ride from Munich, I figured why the hell not! I’ve heard Vienna is beautiful, and Im at all not opposed to exploring another city.

Upon arrival at the train station in Vienna I was greeted by Arian, excitedly jumping up and down while holding up a large white sign that read “Willkommen in Wien, Schlampe!” I rolled my eyes and shook my head, laughing as I got off the train and ran over to her, tackling her in a tight embrace as she laughed hysterically. “Did you have to let the whole station know that I’m a bitch or…?”

“Honestly, they should’ve known the moment they saw you.” She said jokingly. “How was the ride over?” She asked.

“Amazing, I haven’t slept that well in years. It also didn’t feel like a 4 hour train ride.”

“Trains in out here are quite quick so I wouldn’t be surprised if it somehow took less time. They definitely shit on the ones we have back home.”

“Oh for sure.” I agreed as we began walking over to the car.

“So a family friend of ours just came back from a mission in the states, he’s in the military bee tee dubs —“

“Yeah kinda pieced that together when you said ‘mission’.” I chuckled.

“I don’t drive out here so he’s gonna give us a ride back to my aunts, cool?”

“Sounds good.”

“He’s also a lot more familiar with Vienna than I am, so he offered to show us around a bit later on this evening.” Aw how nice of him. Knowing Adrian, the first place she’ll want to be taken to is the nearest bar, that girl can drink! If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my time in Germany, and my 10 years of friendship with Adrian, it’s that Europeans love their liquor. There are people from all parts of Europe in Germany and that’s one thing that remains quite consistent across the board. I also love my liquor, which is probably why I ended up fitting in so well.

We finally arrived at the car and opened the trunk to begin loading all of my luggage inside. I’d brought a small carryon suitcase, a duffle bag, as well as a large suitcase that was full of clothes I’d over packed from home, and a bunch of other clothes and souvenirs I’d bought in Munich. “Okay this one’s gonna be a tad heavy.” I warned as Adrian grabbed hold of the handle on the top. I reached forward to try to help her lift, but neither of us could manage the weight. “I got it.” His voice was low, but gentle. He had an accent, but it wasn’t overwhelming or harsh, nor did it make anything he said hard to understand. I wasn’t expecting to see the person I saw when I’d finally caught a glimpse of him…I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man like this in my entire life. Adrian and I stepped back as he grabbed hold of the suitcase, lifting it with absolute ease, as if it were light as a feather. His arm muscles bulged within the confines of his olive green long sleeved shirt as he tossed the suitcase inside the trunk. My heart began to race, It felt as if I was watching him move in slow motion. “Easy peasy.” He smirked as he turned around and looked down at me, his dazzling dark blue eyes awash with amusement at Adrian and I’s prior struggle. Jesus Christ…This man is an absolute unit. He’s gotta be at least 6 foot 7, if not taller. He’s incredibly easy on the eyes in a rough and rugged kinda way — a nice low trimmed beard, medium length dark brown hair, and a smile that is captivatingly dangerous to say the least. His presence alone exudes a confidence that causes me to grow weak in the knees. “I’m König,” he smiled knowingly as he stretched his hand out towards me. I know I’m definitely not the first woman to look at him the way I am. Even though I’m trying to keep my composure, it’s very clear that he can see right through it. “And you must be Chantelle?” He asked, eyes slowly roaming about my frame from head to toe. He bites his lip slightly as they return to my gaze, suggesting so much without saying any words at all. “I — yes.” I blushed, sheepishly brushing my hair behind my ear as I shook his hand. “Nice to meet you.” He said. “Oh yeah, König Chantelle, Chantelle König.” Adrian yelled from the backseat. He laughed and shook his head as he closed the trunk.

We arrived at Adrian’s aunts house about 45 minutes later. König helped us load all of my things into the foyer before letting us know he’d be coming back in a few hours to take us out to this bar that he and a few of his buddies on his task force frequent whenever they’re home. I’ve been thinking about him ever since he left — those mysterious blue eyes, the way he slightly bites his lower lip just before laughing at something ridiculous Adrian has said, the way his arm muscles swell beneath his shirt with the slightest movement…God, he’s sexy. I could think of a million different ways I’d want him to ruin me. The thought alone of being trapped beneath his large brawny frame writhing in pleasure as he thrusts into me over and over has me clenching around nothing. Though I’m not usually one for a one time fling, I have a feeling he’d be able to convince me. “So, you wanna tell me what all of that was about?” Adrian asked as she helped me settle into the guest room. “What are you talking about?” I asked. “Since when are you a shy girl?” She giggled. Sigh. I figured she was referencing my unusual silence during the car ride over here. “He’s hot as fuck but I’ve never seen you like that before.”

“Ugh!” I groaned as I covered my face with a pillow. She’s right. I’m not very easily intimidated. I’m quite the confident woman and I ensure everyone in the room knows it, but this was different. Almost as if our energies were fighting for dominance, and mine didn’t stand a chance. “Hey if it’s any consolation, my jaw dropped the first time I saw him without his mask too.” Mask?

“Mask?” I asked.

“Yes…the last time I was here he was on base training recruits, so I’d see him often in full tactical gear. He’s a snipper, so he wears a mask to hide his face in the field. I mean, that was hot too, but in a Ghostface kinda way”

I couldn’t help but laugh at the comparison, but I was curious to see what his entire ensemble looked like. “How old is he?” I asked.

“I think he’s in his mid to late 30s? I’m honestly not too sure, and it doesn’t matter to me either way.” She winked. “I was sensing some unspoken vibes between the two of you in the car though. Don’t think I didn’t see both of you stealing glances at each other every now and then.” She smirked.

“Stop,” I scoffed. “A man like that is definitely not single, and even if he is…I don’t know” I blushed. “I didn’t see him looking at me..”

“K well I see everything, he definitely likes what he sees, and clearly the feeling is mutual on your end as well. Looks like tonight will be interesting.”

“Nothing’s gonna happen, Adrian.” I laughed as I rolled my eyes. Nothing’s gonna happen…right?

PART II 👉🏽 A Weekend In Vienna 🇦🇹: PART II

PART III 👉🏽 A Weekend In Vienna 🇦🇹: PART III

#cod mw2 #cod modern warfare #cod x reader #cod mwii #cod mw3 #könig #konig cod #konig x reader #konig mw2 #konig call of duty #konig smut #könig cod #könig mw2 #könig call of duty #könig x reader #könig smut #könig fanfiction #konig x you #konig modern warfare #konig

[ghostgirl101]

Can we get some headcanons of Jeff t.K. in a relationship? ^^

Dating Jeff The Killer Would Be Like This:

A/N: Well, this is a long overdue request, hope the wait was worth it 🙃 I’m going to be waiting for you all at least twice a week from now on, and there are a few spaces left for requests if you want to get yours in for Jeff and others now if you're interested 🔪 This is the original creepypasta Jeff, but I could try writing for David Near's version too if anyone's wondering... enjoy.

🔪• Well damn, there's a lot to include for this crazy son of a biatch, so get ready-

🔪• It's an uncomfortable night, the skies outside pitch black, stars clouded over and your curtains ruffling as you glare tiredly at the ceiling, wishing for sleep to overtake you. But there's just something that's keeping you half-aware, something that makes you toss and turn for a while, eyeing the window with a furrow of your brows. It's almost like someone's watching your every move. You just can't see them.

🔪• Until that whispering, hoarse voice pierces through the still silence from behind your curtains, making your eyes widen in horror at the sadistic chuckling that only gets nearer as you will your body to move from its frozen position.

🔪• The tip of his blade skims across the skin off your face before you can make out his own, pale and deathly and twisted with a nasty, deeply cut grin etched up his cheeks. His cold blue eyes linger over your features, and it’s a frustrating and vulnerable feeling knowing that can read you a lot better than you can him. It’s a tense few moments when all you feel is the end of the sharp dagger trace just light enough down a cheek and your lips, resting there for a second, as if he’s thinking.

🔪• Jeff doesn’t keep you alive just because you’re you - he doesn’t know who you are, or why you look, in his eyes, almost as beautiful as he does. But it makes him curious and confused, something he’s not used to and doesn’t particularly like at first. So with a scoff, the knife is suddenly snatched away, replaced with his face right down next to yours, with a “go to sleep~” and sudden darkness.

🔪• It’s a wonder to you when you wake up the next morning unharmed. It’s unheard of for the infamous killer to let his victims go, but after that night, it’s clear to you that what you experienced wasn’t some sort of weird nightmare. You feel eyes on you almost every minute of the day, footsteps that aren’t your own following you when you’re by yourself, shadows in the hall that turned out to be nothing…

🔪• The only times Jeff will make his appearances where you can actually see and talk to him is at night. At first, it's kind of to see how you'll react - scared and screaming panicking like the others, or oddly curious and mildly apprehensive - if you show the latter, he'll definitely be caught if guard, because he's used to the screaming and crying. But even if you do panic and start some weird chase scene around your house, Jeff seems to find it amusing, until he's had enough and corners you, hissing in your ear, "would you calm the hell down doll, you don't wanna wake the whole damn street, now do you?"

🔪• And you're like yes?!?? Because a scarred maniac is in my room and getting blood stains over my non-washable flooring??! Or maybe that's just me

🔪• This boy can be an absolute mystery to anyone who manages to survive him, because they never really figure out the solid reason why, or his whole backstory, his intentions, etc. All they know is that he's a killer who preys on young people at the night and disappears in the morning. Some survive him because they're interesting for a while, and die when they're not anymore. Some remind him of his past self, and on a bad day, he remembers how much he hates that and gets rid of them too. Some are just to play around with. And then there's you.

🔪• Jeff doesn't give you much of a reason either when you question his motives, because at first, he can't even be sure of why he's ket you around. Is it because you're pretty? Somehow different from his other victims? It's not because he's gone soft. The whole thought process ends up frustrating him, so he'll storm out the window to be alone and try taking his mind off it by going after some whiny targets. But still, he keeps thinking about the question, about you, watching him in some kind of awe and confusion. Why do you care? Why does he care?!

🔪• This whole thing is not some fast-paced cliche love story where everything's sappy and sweet and he'll kill everyone but you. He's still the infamous Jeff The Killer. But that doesn't mean he isn't a little soft for you. Just don't point it out, or he gets flustered and defensive.

🔪• At one point, he wanted to just kidnap you and have you with him all the time, but you had to put your foot down and promise to stick around every night for him to come and go as he pleases, which calmed him down. Because, yeah, that's not happening Jeff, calm yourselffff

🔪• It ends up being him popping in almost every night, with you learning to keep your windows open so you don’t have to keep on replacing the forced-in smashed glass. And even when he visits, it takes time for him to reveal himself, little by little, until you can make out all the rough burns and dried blood that blemish practically every inch of his skin. It's not that he's all insecure - he thinks he’s beautiful most days, and he’s not trying to make you feel less scared by his appearance, because him being the jackass that he is, finds jump scaring you funny.

🔪• But he can have bad days, days where he can't stop thinking about his brother and parents and all that made him who he is, and when that happens, he either bearly says anything and sulks with his knives in the corner of your room, and pretty much lets you do anything. Like, you could end up playing and studying his knives - he watches apprehensively at first, all ready for you to try to stab him in the back - but after time goes by and you've given up questioning yourself as to why you're letting a cold-blooded murderer hang out with you almost every night in your room, he sees that you're not trying to defend yourself in those extreme measures, so kind of lets you do your thing.

🔪• It's nice for him to have the company, too, and he enjoys the small conversations he has with you: the nosy, lucky, pretty little survivor who asks too many questions about him and has a smile that's almost as good as his. Him being him offers to carve one in, and still jokingly tries to while you fight him off with a string of curses. He can be really annoying when he wants to, because he finds your reactions cute. If, on the extremely rare occasions, you happen to see him before it goes dark, doing your homework or something, he'll try drawing on the paper or mucking around with your stuff to distract you. If you're watching something, he'll spoil the ending or give a stupid running commentary. If you annoy him back by any means you can, Jeff gets all pouty and frustrated, but it's also sort of endearing to him??

🔪• So he'll be all "are you freaking stupid, or just suicidal, antagonising a serial killer?!" but he can't help scoffing at you in some form of fondness that he hasn't even realised has been growing in him

🔪• When he ultimately realises that hey! you're stalking and killing the bullies of and are increasingly obsessing over this person, it takes him a bit of time to process. He might not show up on that night, wanting to get his thoughts straight, leaving you very confused, but Jeff does show up the next night wanting you to shut up and sit down and listen to him, because he doesn't want to make this any weirder than it feels for him. You'll hardly understand what he's getting at when he spurts out how you're different and he doesn't really believe in fate but something feels right and every Clyde needs his Bonnie and random crap like that 😂

🔪• You'll have to cut him off with a "so are you asking me out?" and he's like "well... yeah, duh. Don't even think about saying no, because you're not getting rid of me, even if you want to, alright?!?" You can tell he's uncharacteristically nervous. So when you've assessed the situation and see that there's no more harm than there already has been to saying yes, there's an unreadable look of shock and something more in his stony eyes. Then his grin is back, and he's annoying you again by whirling you around in the air and stuff, and boom! You're never getting rid of the maniac. He's yours. Congratulations.

🔪• I'm gonna be honest with you; dating Jeff The Killer is definitely not the easiest mountain you chose to climb, but at the end of the day, if all you want is his manic, obsessive love and devotion to you, then it's well worth it. Take the amount of obsessiveness and stalker behaviour he's shown to you as a weird-ass friend and multiply it by a thousand. I'm not kidding.

🔪• Jeff The Killer genuinely cares about those who have somehow made it to that point with him, and as you're at the top of that list, damn, you'll be spoiled. Don't ask him where he gets all the jewels and trinkets and things you've been wanting or that match your hobbies and talents, because they're yours, and they've always been yours. So your welcome, enjoy, he knew you'd like it. That's one way he shows his love. It's kind of like a way of saying that he's always thinking about you, which isn't an exaggeration at all. I can definitely imagine him killing for you with pride and bringing back a heart all casual-like, while you shake your head with an awkward smile.

🔪• "That's, uh, sweet of you, Jeff, but seriously, throw it away now, that's rank."

🔪• No one else catches his eye after you, too. He's never met someone truly beautiful, inside and out, before you, and he's convinced he won't after. So if someone tries to beg for their life or give him compliments he used to like, it's pretty much ineffective now. "You'll ever be as hot as my doll is, you sadass, but here, I'll carve a little something to get you halfway there~"

🔪• He can actually be surprisingly sweet when he wants to. On his bad days, now he'll just lean into you in silence and twirl his blade around, while you play with his hair or put something on TV or somehow end up staring at him. If you look closer and beyond the chalky white shade of his burnt skin and the deep, bloody scars that trace up from his lips, you can notice how he probably was a good-looking boy before the 'accident.' But don't let him catch you looking, because, bad mood or not, he's a cocky bastard, and will end up grinning and saying something like "it's rude to stare, dolly," which ruins the moment lmao

🔪• Jeff can also get clingy when he feels like it too, though he'll never admit it. He likes how your body's always warm when he is somehow always freezing, and being able to have time alone with you, where you're all his, and no one can take it away from him. He'll go freaking rabid if anyone tries, and no one wants that.

🔪• He gets a little awkward when it comes to comfort and opening up, but he'll get there. He learns from you to just give you a silent hug instead of patting you on the back and telling you to chin up or something stupid, or tries to make you laugh, or kills the thing that's getting you down, if you let him. That's your decision 🙃

🔪• He eventually opens up to you about his past, too, which takes him a lot of courage and a lot of patience for you. It's good that you know, though, because it's something to be even closer about, and the more you know about each other, the more you belong together. At least, that's Jeff's logic.

🔪• Jeff can be a bit possessive and sulky when those moments have to end in the mornings, and he's been known to just shove his white hoodie over your head and demand you wear it when he's not with you. Which is fine, Jeff, but seriously, clean that blood of it first.

🔪• But when all is said and done, no matter how heartless and cold and crazy he may seem, and undoubtedly is, he's sane enough to know that he loves you. His love can be ridiculously intense and overwhelming at times, but you can learn to work around or with it. He will do it. Whether anyone believes it or not, him and you knowing your love is enough for Jeff.

#jeff the killer #jeff the killer x reader #jeff the killer imagines #jeff the killer x y/n #jeff the killer fanfic #jeff the killer fluff #jeff the killer x you #creepypasta x reader #yandere x reader #yandere fanfiction #creepypasta #creepy pasta #creepypasta headcanon #creepypasta blog #creepypasta jeff the killer #creepypasta jtk #jtk x reader #jtk headcanons #creeypasta #ticci toby #slenderman #ben drowned #eyeless jack #creepypasta fandom #creepypastas #jeffery woods

[erratic-sanguine]

-_Vay-Cay_-

Stolas

Naturally, Stolas was the one who came to you with the idea.

He was going through your belongings one day, totally not trying to find and steal one of your soft nice smelling hoodies.

While looking around he found an old letter depicting a snowy mountain, humans skiing down its white slopes with "Winter 2002" written in the corner.

He flipped it around to find a note written by non other then, you.

"I just went skiing with some friends. It was nice, until someone messed up and slammed into me... Now my ankle is sprained... WORTH IT! I got to drink some bomb ass hot cocoa."

Stolas knew about snow, of course. But he never had the chance to experience it for himself, and he wouldn’t let this opportunity slip by.

He carefully puts it back in the envelope before continuing to look around. Next time he sees you he'll have to bring it up.

He finally finds what he came for a few seconds later. Quickly grabbing the hoodie from your bed then sprints out of your room making sure to clear any evidence he was ever there as he leaves.

Later that day he started planning a vacation for you two. Somewhere quiet, somewhere cold, somewhere snowy.

~~~~~

You're sitting on one of the many fancy couches in the palace when Stolas walks in a slight sense of worry emanating from him.

"Ahh there you are. I looked everywhere, I started to get worried after I searched your room and didn't find you or a text... I need to speak with you about something, may I sit?"

You nod and gesture to the spot next to you. He happily takes said spot and gets comfy before turning back to you.

"Dear, I've been wondering. Would you... Like to go on a vacation... With me? Everything is already planned. Transportation, protection, and food of course. All I need from you is a simple yes or no."

You sit there in silence thinking it over while he waits for your answer, he's staring a little bit.

After a moment going over it in you're head you agree, a vacation sounds nice. Even if all you do all day is laze about and receive love from a certain owl it wouldn't hurt.

~~~~~

You step through the portal, the chilly frost bitten air wasting no time trying to freeze you to your core, it fails however because of the twenty something layers Stolas made you wear.

You'll admit it's keeping you warm, but it also makes it hard to see... And walk...

You clumsily follow the owl through the snow covered mountainside eventually coming up to a grand looking cabin.

You turn to Stolas wondering if this is the place only to find him beaming at you, guess it is.

Once inside you take your time getting all the layers off while Stolas brews some hot cocoa.

By the time you're comfortable the sun starts going down. You're about to head to bed before Stolas stops you, asking you to join him for a bit.

You sit down with Stolas on two surprisingly comfortable wooden chairs, sipping hot cocoa and watching the sunset through a large wooden framed window, the high altitude of the mountain making the view more special.

It's cold and blue outside, but warm and orange inside. This really is a nice vacation. You should thank him when you're back home.

~~~~~

Stella

Convincing this avian royal to think of, non the less talk about the possibility of a ‘vacation’, is not an easy task.

It took you weeks of prying, prodding, and sometimes even begging to get Stella to consider it.

As right as it feels to congratulate yourself for getting her to consider it, only half your work is done. You still need to get her to go.

Once you finally convince her though, she goes from acting like she would never enjoy a vacation in a million years to acting like she waited forever for this.

The whiplash from her attitude's complete 180 might as well have broke your neck.

Sunscreen! Stella cannot emphasize this enough.

Your puny, spongy, soft human body will not be tainted by Earth's sun rays. And it's definitely is not just her trying to justify her rubbing your bare back, or down your sides.

She's 100% doesn't have ulterior motives, at all, why would you even say that?!

Though… If you did get sunburned, then she’d still get to rub that Aloe Vera all over you… Hmm…..

No! Your skin is far too pristine to be burned and roasted like that, no matter how tempting it is.

~~~~~

You arrive at the door to Stella's room, barely even knocking on it before it was swung open an ecstatic Stella greeting you from her well furbished room.

"There you are! I've been waiting for ages!"

She had a light blue sundress on. It hugged her curves well and you'd be lying to said you didn't stare a bit. All of that topped off with the largest wide brimmed sunhat you’ve ever seen.

You open your mouth to complement her appearance but are cut off by her dumping three giant, incredibly heavy bags in your arms.

"Let's get going, you wouldn't want to be late for our hotel reservation, now would you? And I've heard wonderful things about their wine."

Before you could so much as get a word in edgewise she starts dragging you off towards portal, all while you're struggling to get used to the weight of the bags.

While you walk she starts talking your ear off listing off all the activities she's planned for you two.

You nearly scoff at that. She's talking like she's the one who organized all of this. It's not like you spent multiple weeks planning and convincing her.

After a moment more struggling with the bags you catch up and step through the portal after her.

You're instantly hit in the face with a waft of heat, sun, and fresh ocean air. Despite the initial shock it's a nice change from the palace that you're oh so used to.

She gestures for you to follow then speed walks off towards the hotel leaving you with her bags, again. You're already tired, and you haven’t even gone to the beach yet.

~~~~~

After the workout that was getting Stella's luggage up to the room you and her finally relax on the beach together.

Not a single other person in sight. You turn to her calm but still a little confused.

"Where is everyone, an island like this should have tons of staff... Wait... Did you rent out this entire island?!"

She, not surprisingly laughed at that.

"Of course I did. I may be the prettiest girl you'll ever see but I'm still a demon. And, I thought that some alone time would be nice. No guards or servants. Just you, and me."

Mid sentence she interlocked her hand with yours while progressively getting closer. You lean forward for a kiss but feel a finger on your lips instead.

"You should know by now that you have to earn that darling. This is our first day here and you expect me to just give you whatever you want right off the bat. This may be a vacation, but that does not mean you get whatever you want instantly."

You frown and look away, it was such a romantic moment before she went and said all that. But, you're willing to work for it. You wouldn't be here sitting with her if you weren't.

~~~~~

Octavia

Good luck getting her to relax. She definitely needs it though, as this owl is stressed. I mean, she's got a lot of worries and she's a teenager, so you've got your work cut out for you.

That being said however, she's easily tricked into relaxing if you say the vacation is for you not her, and it wouldn't be the same without her there. That'll make her change her mind real quick.

Then once there, when she least expects it, you strike. Then before she knows it, she's feeling relaxed. Or at the very least a little better then before.

My professional opinion is to take her somewhere that is completely new to her, like nothing she's seen before if possible.

It'll help her forget her troubles easier. I recommend somewhere quiet with tons of greenery. And animals,

And stick around her, she wants consistency, and reliability. That mixed in with tons of quality time.

Just keep close to her if you can, try to make her have a good time, and most of all try and make it new to her.

Time away from the normal and melancholy is what she needs most.

~~~~~

You walk up to Octavia's door and knock. Nothing. You knock again. Also nothing.

You invite yourself in and see her laying on her bed staring at the ceiling, never a good sign.

You walk over and sit on the bed watching her snap out of it when the bed dips. She turns to look at you not moving much.

"Hey, you doing ok?"

She half sighs half groans then flips over to face you better.

"I'm fine."

You frown at that, 'I'm fine' is not a 'I'm actually ok' kind of answer.

"Rough day?"

"Just my parents, again... UGH WHY CAN'T THEY JUST BE NORMAL! Or at least not make their problems mine."

She flops back onto her back, going back to staring at the ceiling her expression shifting constantly as her mind works through her inner turmoil.

"Alright well. Were going on a vacation tomorrow so please remember to pack."

She groans again and flips over this time facing away from you.

"Do I have to... I mean I've told you a hundred times, I don't need a vacation... I just wanna stay home..."

You frown, again. You just gotta convince her to go. You can do that...

"It isn't for you. I want a vacation. And I want you to come, cause it wouldn't be the same without you."

You two sit in silence for a few moments before she groans extra loud. You're about to ask if she's alright before she suddenly gets up and walks into her closet.

You hear things being moved around and assume she's packing. So you'll leave her be, you've have to pack too anyways.

Before you leave you walk up to the doorframe of the closet, peak your head in just so she can see it.

"I love you."

You hear her mumble something along the lines of 'luv you too' before you turn to leave.

~~~~~

You quickly step out of the limo going around to Octavia's side to open the door for her. She quickly gets out before you can.

You know she doesn't like you doing that, but you're just trying to be courteous. Like usual.

Non the less you walk over and take her hand leading her into the medium to large house with a giant glass dome connected to one end.

"I thought you'd enjoy this place. It's a house built in the early 1900's. It has a giant greenhouse with hundreds if not thousands of plant types in it. Perfect place for a week away from home, I think."

You two go inside while some servants unload your things. You start showing her around, just little interesting things you learned from the homes owner.

You walk around for a while most stuff she doesn't react to, but have one more trick left. You pull out a small, old, metal whistle and blow into it. A moment later the dog of the house come padding in.

He's a large old golden retriever named Spike, who's lived here for years. You met him a few days ago to make sure he was friendly. He was, and you know Octavia's going to love him.

You watch her expression change from overall boredom to confusion then finally to a small smile when Spike walks up to her and rests his head against her side.

She look at him for a moment, then up to you clearly a little confused. You smile at her then walk over and start scratching behind his ear.

"His favorites spots are behind the ears, base of his tail, and his toe beans. Just be careful not to tickle him, he doesn't like that."

She cautiously crouches down and starts lightly scratching him behind an ear. You make sure nothing goes wrong then take a step back letting her enjoy some doggo time.

Yeah. She definitely needed this.

~~~~~

Started by Erratic-Sanguine, Finished by @jester089

Cheers Luv, we both appreciate it.

#hazbin hotel #helluva boss #headcanon #helluva boss x reader #stolas #stella #octavia #stolas goetia #stella goetia #octavia goetia #stolas x reader #stella x reader #octavia x reader #jester089 #thanks

[stqrbxy]

please call my name. [中也] chuuya nakahara.

he's there for you, no matter the day or time, he'll be at your beck and call; even if you don't ask for it.

t.w :  depression? burning out, vulgur language, just reader being tired of living.

Another excruciating day to get through, it's definitely not like you don't have enough weight on your back anyway. As a groaned muffle nuzzles against the comforting warmth the pillow provided you for your nights at your apartment, you had to abandon it for the day.

What a pain.

The scents of sweet dreams coaxed back to you, begging you back on its field of roses, but your body subconsciously moved to try — to prove their worth, to do their job, what's the point of their job if they don't even do it right?

Lazily, you trudge over to the sink, slowly squeezing out the toothpaste from its container onto the toothbrush; lethargically brushing your teeth and attempting to brush your hair in a way at least presentable.

You were a fashionable one, but today you weren't feeling like it, so you just slipped on the first outfit you found okay-ish in your wardrobe.

All actions are done in a half-asleep manner, no one — not even you, would be surprised if you didn't look as neat as the mirror reflected with blurry eyes gazing at it.

Exiting your bedroom, you are met with the sight of a short ginger lounging on your living room sofa. The one you're so very familiar with. How could you not? You could recognise those bleu céleste eyes even if you were on your last breath.

Speaking of the one and only Chuuya, he seemed to make himself at home, one leg over the other whilst sitting on your couch, the faintest sound of the television casting a romcom in it in the background as his eyes travelled over you. Frowning subtly when he saw the eyebags underneath your eyes, and how you didn't look even remarkably close to the enthusiastic person he knew you were.

Wait, how'd he even get into your house? Ah right, you gave him a spare key, but that brings another question to your mind —

" Chuu'? Don't you have work today? "

The words leave your lips almost without your own will, the blank look on your face causing Chuuya to dryly chuckle.

" No, not anymore at least. You've been clearly down for the past few weeks, overworked, not showing up to our dates — even more, because you're over the moon at the smallest amount of time you spend with me, "

The words weren't meant to be cocky or arrogant, it was the truth. Considering how busy both of you are, you both are equally elated whenever you two get to spend time together, no matter what you're doing.

" So, I've decided to take a day off for my doll, we can stay home, do whatever the fuck ya' want, just spend time. Would you like that? "

Chuuya asked, but both of you knew there was no other way out, he was a man of his word after all. A smile, which seemed rare after its long-term disappearance, appeared on your lips. A sigh escapes your body, treading over to your boyfriend as he smiles marginally at your submission. He wraps his arms around his beloved's body, whispering coos in his low voice as he brings you to sit on his lap.

Oh right, you had work, and you still didn't tell them that you wouldn't go at least. Either way, the exhaustion caught up to you, and you failed to argue any further, letting Chuuya carry you around for the rest of the day, treating you as a princex to be cared for.

With him around, you can let your insecurities loose and worries dissipate.

author’s note : back from the dead back from the dead I'm back from the dead back from the dead /lyr /ref with that out of the way... hope you all are doing great! I've been through a shit ton for the past few months, that's no excuse to slack off though. so, i hope to supply you with more fanfics of sorts; this fanfic is rather ahaha.. self-indulgent, hope some people can find a tinge of comfort in it.

#bsd x reader #bsd #chuuya nakahara #bsd headcannons #bsd fanfic #bsd chuuya #bungo stray dogs #chuuya x reader #chuuya nakahara x reader #chuuya x y/n #chuuya smut #chuuya x you #chuuya x male reader #chuuya x female reader #bungo stray dogs fanfics #bsd fanfics #chuuya angst #chuuya comfort

[factual-fantasy]

26 ASKS!! THANK YOU!! :}}} 🥪

(Post in question)

WAAHAHAAG THANK YOU SO MUHC!!! :DDDD As for your questions-

Spider crab's name is just a place holder for now, much like a lot of the crew has.. I want to give them all proper names at some point. Like Ellie and Louis have.. But I'm just really bad at coming up with names for stuff- <XD 💔💔

For Luigi- no one in particular! I just wanted to draw him with that expression <XD And don't worry, Mario cheered him up in the end :}}

As for the FNAF doodle, thats Foxy, Roxy and Mangle! I get that its hard to recognize her by her side profile and without color though-- <XD I had experimented with some ideas of a pirate themed Glamrock Mangle being added to one of the AUs. Though that sketch was the only one I really liked. :/

I have seen Encanto! :D It was alright, I liked the living house aspect of it :00

As for Red, I thiiink he might be too young to understand fusion or how to do it.. I pictured him being.. like what, five? Or something? That's like half the age of when Steven first learned to fuse-

That, and it felt a little odd for him to fuse with any of the crew, since they're all so much older than him. :/

@astaherussy (Post in question)

XD Sure were! Convenient aren't they?🤣🤣

I've definitely heard of it, and I've seen some gifs/posts about it here and there.. but truth be told I have no idea what its about. :( I think I've seen two Mario's and one wears a black suit...?

(Link/video in question)

XDD I imagine Ellie would shut that down real quick. But in the off chance that they get away with it.. I feel like Louis would come out on top.

He could block any oncoming attacks with his unbreakable claw arm, then whip around and launch whole watermelons and pies with the other XDD He would probably think it was fun too!

Does the game have large birds like that?? :0 I had no idea! They gotta be on the look out for those then--

Oof, I suppose they could.. though I don't intend for either party to experience that. It just sounds miserable! D:>

(Link/video in question)

XDD Oh man, that's hilarious! Poor Red--

@yourstrulylightstar283 (Referencing this post)

Thank you! I hope I get better soon too.. I hope to have some answers by next week.. <:) 🙏

:DD Thank you! I'm so glad you like my Freddy! :))

I always kind'a felt like a certain.. gloomy-ness, would be fitting for him. He already has some of that in the game. But with everything my Freddy's been through.. just.. having this weight to his tone. This lingering exhaustion.. I felt like it would suit him. :(

Hmm... I imagine that Seam and Jevil would be options.. Maybe in bad cases Calico Jack would.. Almost everyone in FNAF is an option <XD

No.. in a sad twist of fate, no one ever heard his cries in the dungeon. Imagine how much more lonely he felt becuase of that..

I don't know if he gets phantom pains from getting beat up.. but I imagine his horn stumps give him some aches and soreness that can be attributed to phantom pain.. :(

Who's gingerbrave? That's the main character right..? I have no idea if he'd come across my crew.. I don't know what kind of shenanigans he gets up to.. wait "gang"? He travels in a group with other people??

@chickenmilk120

fank uu! :}}}

@couchwow

Yeah,, I'm aware.. 😔🙄 ya hate to see it. But hey the watermark is right there saying "this art is stolen." so it could be worse I guess.

@littlelightfish

Tuna:

He is not being normal about it XDD You've totally flattered him!

@potatocryptid

Thank you!! :DD Yeah,, I think I WILL work on what ever I want!! XDD

Off the top of my head, there's an AWESOME Mario artist by the name of @katlyntheartist! I love her work, I highly recommend you stop by her blog! :D

I've also seen some jaw-dropping Mario artwork by @suedoodle! Both blogs are worth a visit! :}}

(Post in question)

Ah yes! The idea behind that was to show the initial divide between Grillby and Spamton.

You see, Spamton hails Jevil as his savior of sorts. He was at his lowest low, and in unimaginable pain.. then Jevil just swoops in and offers his hand. Bringing him outside of his AU. Away from the pain, away from the torment.. Jevil is awesome!!

But then you've got Grillby.. Jevil saved him from his AU right before it collapsed in on itself. He "saved" his life, but at what cost? Grillby lost everything. And he cant help but be angry at Jevil for it. Thinking that if Jevil hadn't been there, he could have just peacefully disappeared along with his family and everyone else in his AU..

So Spamton is endlessly respectful towards Jevil, and Grillby cant help but roll his eyes and spit sass at him all the time. Those two opposing views are bound to cause problems someday..

I imagine one day the whole group is tired and cranky. Jevil did something that Grillby didn't agree with. Some bitter remarks there, Spamton defending Jevil's decision here.. some back and fourth and next thing you know a fight breaks out. :x

@im-nice-but-i-dont-like-you

XDD idk!! Why are YOU into almost every single fandom I'M into?? Also than you so much!! :}}

Thank you! I'm glad you like my sona! But aaa sorry, no can do.. I don't want fanart at all, of anything. Just comments/asks/reblogs. <:}

@canonickero (Sent after this post)

XD Thank you! I'm glad you like him :}}

I pictured Yendo being another one of Funtime Foxy's nightmare-ish visions. Though I should consider passing that onto Bon Bon.. 👀

The story goes that Funtime Freddy is a frequent flyer in parts and service. The employees groan that there's always something wrong with Freddy that needs fixing. Nobody really knows why..

Now at some point Freddy was shut down and in parts and service. As per usual.. Foxy was nearby, and heard a sudden thud/crash coming from that room. He rushes inside to see what happened and finds Funtime Freddy on the floor, what ever he was propped up on had broken, causing him to fall.

He looked at Freddy's face.. and.. his face plates were wide open..

Foxy. freaked. out. If I remember correctly, he was supposed to start shouting and panicking. Trying to help Freddy, thinking he was hurt. When he couldn't move Freddy and he wouldn't wake up, Foxy ran out of the room to get help. He runs into some employees and tried to tell them what happened. They end up just forcibly shutting him down because he cant stop freaking out..

Later on he's reactivated and the rest of the gang is with him. Including Freddy. He uncharacteristically runs to Freddy all worried and frantically inspects his face for injuries. They ask him what he saw but he just.. doesn't have the words to describe it.

Part of the horror is Foxy's inability to understand what he saw. Therefore being terrified of it and being unable to describe it..

After that Foxy began to develop these hallucinations of sorts. Overtime the image of Freddy's skinned face kind'a turns in to its own nightmare. Yendo.. overtime it feels more like "Yendo" is an entity separate from Freddy. Foxy begins to imagine this skinned bear like creature that is out there somewhere.. wanting to hurt Freddy and take his face.. its not fun :(

This idea is still in development. Well, the whole AU is. But this was my initial idea for Yendo :)

Now old man consequences is tricky.. I had intentions of him being this weird vison that Foxy sees now and again. But with recent developments to the AU.. I might need to scrap the old gator. Or at least re-write his role and function in the AU-

@stripetkattelalala54 (Post linked in question)

No problem! I'm always up for Mario questions! :DD

And as for the question, I pictured that Mario never really liked the ice flower to begin with. I imagined Mario loving the heat and the sun. Always enjoyed being warm/hot and functions the best in it.. You know like a maniac-

So the Fire flower was naturally his favorite powerup. And that experience did leave Mario with some kind of trauma, which just added to his dislike of it..

@beryl-shade

OOO I like Tendrilfoam! :00 Hmm, Captain Tendrilfoam.. I'll have to consider that one! :D

#my response #fnaf security breach #fnaf sister location #cookie run #cookie run kingdom #cookie run ocs #my ocs #undertale #deltarune #octonauts #super mario bros

[poppy-metal]

god exes to fwb with jordan where you CAN’T let go even though every time you try to work out your problems you just can’t find a way to coexist but when it’s dark out and you’re lonely it’s so easy to forget about how complicated shit is??? and they can’t help but to worm their way back in by getting you your favorite coffee and breakfast every morning and walking you to work/class or waiting around until it’s your lunch break and making up reasons to stay over until it’s dinner and they heard of this new restaurant, did you wanna go try it? it might be hard to get a table but it’s worth a shot (they made reservations 3 weeks ago) and obviously you have to dress up. it’s a nice restaurant. and why wouldn’t you wear new lingerie? it goes with the dress. and it’s not YOUR fault the tables are cramped so you end up playing footsie under the table. definitely not jordan’s fault that they keep refilling your wine until you’re flushed in the face and falling over each other on the walk back to their place

its the stumbling out of clothes slamming you against the wall kind of kiss and you shouldn't be doing this but when jordan yanks the straps your dress down to kiss your bare shoulder you moan and arch into them.

and because they're jordan and nothing is easy with them, they pull back, "this for me?" as they finger the lace strap of your bra. pulling away from your lips when you try to kiss them again to distract them, "did you think about me taking you home and fucking you when you put this on? did you think about it when you were telling me no?"

they pull the strap back, letting it go so it snaps against your skin. the way jordan sounds kinda angry about it - just makes you more eager for them. you feel wet between the legs.

"i - i didn't know we'd- that I'd come back with you- "

"but you hoped."

you can't lie. not when they're looking at you with those dark brown eyes, brows pulled together like they're in pain. you cup their cheek, feeling your heart stutter in your chest. they're so painfully beautiful.

"but i hoped," you tell them. the ugly raw truth. that even though you'd put up walls, put up weak defenses said 'no no, i shouldn't...' the moment you saw jordan again you'd gone out and bought this set of lingerie. because you'd hoped. you always hoped.

jordan lets out an aborted sound, half groan, half whimper, and then they're diving in, eating your lips, shoving you back against the wall, up up up, until you have to jump and wrap your legs around their waist. dig your hands into their hair, breathe into their open mouthed kisses, sigh when their hands roam your body.

"tell me you missed me."

they lower you onto the rug in their living room, to fucking hungry to make it to the bed. already yanking your dress down your thighs.

you spread your legs when the dress is off, "i missed you." you tell them, another truth, as they come back over you, slotting themselves between your open thighs. molding themselves to you, body to body. pelvis to pelvis. you feel how hard they are fuck, you missed them.

"god," they moan into your neck, rocking their hips into the cradle of your open legs, and the friction has you panting. "fuck you feel so good - i fucking needed this. needed you."

then why did you let me go, you want to say. but you dont. if you open that can of worms you might start crying, and you want a different kind of cry tonight. the good kind.

the kind only jordan can give you.

#poppy speaks #jordan li x reader #jordan li smut

[gwndolnfrankln]

i'm not in love - eddie munson x reader

🎧.˳⁺⁎ summary: as the photographer of the school's journalism club, you were given a task to take pictures of the hellfire club for the highschool yearbook. when everyone notices a sudden change in eddie munson's demeanor the night of the campaign, it may or may not have something to do with you.

⋆ warnings: 18+ only, minors DNI, swearing, fingering, making out, dirty talk, aftercare, orgasm, eddie munson (bc this man is the death of me)

⋆ a/n: based on the song: i'm not in love by 10cc. i had a lot of first time's writing this: my first smut, fluff ig and of course, eddie munson <3 the grammar still needs a bit of work but this one's special, folks. 

⋆ word count: 3645

I'm not in love

So, don't forget it

It's just a silly phase I'm going through

And just because

I call you up

Don't get me wrong, don't think you've got it made

I'm not in love, no no, it's because...

Scattered voices fell into hushed whispers the moment you walked inside the campaign room, steadily following your presence like a prancing fox. With your photo camera in hand, you sauntered slowly, trying to blend with the crowds in normal hallway fashion, but to no avail their eyes were on you. Your skin prickled and flushed; goosebumps flared up your arms while you unacknowledged a drop of sweat trickling down your forehead. Even with the air of suspense lingering in the room, a few familiar faces waved at you on the long table across from you. You recognized some of them, boys you’ve had classes with and others you’ve seen around the neighborhood, but the one you’ve secretly kept a keen eye on was the man sitting at the far end of the table: Eddie the “Freak” Munson.

Before the start of spring break, Nancy assigned you to take pictures of the clubs for the yearbook. For the week, you’ve just done Chess, Taekwondo, Debate and the cheerleading squad. You wrote the list with the help of Nancy, arranged them in numerical order, putting Hellfire Club at second-to-the-last. Even though you’ve known Dustin and Mike since they were little kids, you were half-convinced by your parents to stay away from anything DnD-related or as they would like to call it, “the Devil-worshipping game”. 

You knew it was never like that since you used to play as a young girl, wholeheartedly fascinated with character sheets and the little details put into these games. Overall, you respected the heart and passion of these players. So much so that every time a certain guy with long curly locks starts to march on his usual table, calling out every clique in the cafeteria, you couldn’t help but stare, longer than one’s supposed to every time someone makes a scene at lunch time.

“I’m not in love.” You whispered to your friend, Megan, as you placed your pile of textbooks inside your locker then checked the state of your dusty old camera with a few snaps. Megan rolled her eyes with a teasing smirk, knowing that that’s not the definite answer to what she saw at lunch lately. “Yeah, right. A few minutes worth of Eddie’s lap dancing versus your twenty minutes of staring doesn’t seem to look up on your behalf.” You grunted, showing no signs of defense at Megan’s conviction. 

“Ha, ha. Alright Megan, you got me. Now, can I have some of your gum?” Megan handed you a packet of pink gum from her skirt pockets, putting on red lip gloss in front of the locker’s side mirror. “Okay, fine. I’ll let you change the subject for now. But I want to hear more about this little crush on the phone later.” Megan clapped your cheeks with pouty lips before she walked off to her next class. As you closed your locker doors shut, your heart jumped right out of its chest when you noticed Mike’s presence, not really knowing how long he was standing there. 

"Hey Mike, what's up?" You didn't know why you fidgeted like a kid grabbing candy from the sweets bowl; judging by Mike's weird expression, he must've waited by your side the whole time. "Well, I'm wondering if you can take Lucas' spot for Hellfire later, since he can't come because of the championship." You remembered the game because of Nancy, when you insisted on taking photos on the court instead of the other clubs. Nancy must’ve seen right through you, but you gave up all your pleas just to get the job done and not mess with Nancy’s temper any longer.

“Sure, but I won’t play. I have to take pictures for the senior yearbook. The layout committee saved you guys a page.” 

That very answer leads you here in the old theater room, now fully occupied by the Hellfire club. Mike explained to you in a hurry that they desperately needed someone to replace Lucas for the evening or else their DM would be bothersome if they didn’t get a replacement for tonight's DnD session. It was a surprise to them that someone like you would want to watch them play. You were quite infamous for dating a lot of guys since you were thirteen; puberty has both been a blessing and a curse.

Dustin cleared his throat to break the prolonged awkwardness, asking Eddie to continue but it was only met with coughs from the other members. You were avoiding the table the whole time and decided to play around with your camera until they decided to continue, yet Dustin’s question was only met with more silence. That’s when you looked up for the first time, and your eyes were met with Eddie’s, who was across from you sitting on his throne. 

His curly bangs failed to cover the dark look in his eyes, his all too familiar gaze sharpening the strictness of his jaw. His intertwined fingers went rigid just by the way his metal rings stopped clicking against each other, while his chest heaved heavily like something was about to explode from inside him. Unfortunately, you knew that he was going to react the way he did before you entered the room. His avoidant stares from your side of the cafeteria, the bitter tone in his voice when he asked Mrs. Hanks to change his seat farther from yours, and his cold invisible cape that brushed your shoulders every time he walked past you in the hallway. The summer of ‘86 was a memory you can't etch to forget, and it was evident that it was also that time for Eddie’s.

I like to see you

But then again

That doesn't mean you mean that much to me

So, if I call you

Don't make a fuss

Don't tell your friends about the two of us

I'm not in love, no no, it's because...

The momentum in Eddie drastically changed as he started reading the folder in front of him, narrating flawlessly. “The hooded cultists chant,” Once again, his eyes darted to yours while you captured the game with the snap of your camera. “‘Hail Lord Vecna’. They turn to you, remove their hoods. You recognize most of them from Makbar. But there is one you do not recognize,” Their eyes were on him now, clenching their fists as they listened intently. 

“His skin shriveled, desiccated. And something else.” Eddie rose from his seat and placed an arm behind him. “He is not only missing his left arm, but his left eye!” Everyone clamored in their seats as you took the perfect shot at the edge of the table. You can tell by the look of amusement on Eddie’s face that he had accomplished his expectations for the campaign, placing them right where he wanted them to be. 

"No!"

“He was killed by Kas!” 

“So, it was thought, my friends. So, it was thought. But Vecna lives!” 

The game started from there. You were quite enthralled the whole entire time, adoring the sight of cards and notebooks scattered everywhere on the table. You even placed your camera down to shout when one of them never got lucky with the dice. It was surprisingly fun at times, enraging at some points, but the thrill distracted you from Eddie. 

Well, that part isn't fully true. 

You would find yourself smiling when he laughs back at his throne, or even look at his fingers clenching the handles of his throne while the other members of the club attack the enemy. Tonight was the first time you’ve ever been this close to Eddie. This was the first time he ever looked at you, saw you and stood in the same room as you. Every school day, he fished you out like a choking hazard, and you deserved it. This was punishment—a punishment that you’re willing to take since that last summer. 

Your final days with him were nothing short of regretful choices. You were scared to be sure, the assurance that someone would actually want you apart from anything else. You shroud love with cowardice, completely used to the idea that any guy can easily discard you like garbage. A simple, pretty girl who never took real relationships "too seriously", or a himbo who only dated "just for the fun of it", whatever else the rest of the school talks about behind your back. But you knew— you knew deep down that Eddie was different from the rest of them. 

It was very hot that day; you were sweating profusely through your striped polo shirt and you were in a desperate need to find a water bottle. In the woods, you were walking down the faint grassy trail, where you heard loud music playing from his van. You rounded towards the back of the vehicle, the backdoors hanging open in both directions. That’s when you saw Eddie for the first time. 

It was like a scene from a sappy movie, where everything around you went into slow-motion and the world just stopped turning; it's as if nature paused its shift for the two of you. His dark curly locks were tied up, a few strands of hair hanging like ivy vines on his neck. He was wearing a Black Sabbath t-shirt and gray denim pants with handcuffs around his waist. The loud blaring of his guitar stopped when he narrowed his brown eyes towards you, like the world also stopped turning for him. “What are you playing?” You asked him while he drank a water bottle, his steady gaze still on your figure. “It’s an original. I’m still playing around with the chords, but I think it’s going well from there.” He placed his red guitar down, leaning it carefully against the wall before he sat at the end of his van, close to where you’re standing. "Is this what led you here?"

"That was you? It sounded like it was played from one of your records or something.” You sat next to him, your hips touching slightly against his. After he took another sip of his mineral water, he handed it to you with a small, endearing smile, gesturing you to take it. You smiled back at him, mindlessly placing the cap near your lips and flushed in embarrassment when you realized that you haven’t opened the bottle yet. Eddie chuckled softly at the sight, before he wrapped his fingers around yours on the water bottle to loosen the cap for you. “There you go.” He leaned back on his side, resting his weight on the palm of his hand. You tried not to stare too much but to no avail, you find yourself lingering at the sight of his bat tattoos. “Thanks.” You finally looked away then started drinking like a Nomad in the middle of a Sahara Desert. 

“So, what are you doing here? In the middle of the woods, I mean.” You set the empty bottle down on the space between you and Eddie. 

“Oh, my uncle kicked me out just this afternoon. He didn't want me to disturb his guest with solo practice.” The lids of Eddie’s eyes fluttered upwards to the sky, the blues settling down into a shade of orange. You can’t help but notice his vibrant brown eyes, the sweat trickling down the sides of his neck and his pink chapped lips. You wondered how someone like him could look so beautiful in the mellow glow of the summer heat. Icarus, who flew too close to the sun.

The humid afternoon air placed its fiery warm hands on your back, pushing you carefully towards him. Eddie stared back at you the moment you leaned in closely, his gaze traveling every delicate feature on your face. “I want to hear you play sometime.” You whispered into his ear, feeling the vibrations of your throat sending electric sparks all over your insides. Then that smile, that crazy grin of his, sent you into waves of unfamiliar, exciting emotions. 

You want him to smile at you like that forever. 

“I’ll be here whenever you need me.” He placed his hand on top of yours, feeling the warmness of his palm come into contact with the coldness of your sweaty backhand. Instead of thanking him like a simpleton, you find yourself touching his left cheek with your other palm, then slowly but surely kiss the skin closest to his lips with a flourish. 

The next thing you know, you find yourself around this part of the woods for quite some time. The unknowing trail became a familiar place to you, the anticipation creeping into your veins the moment you set foot on grassy paths, broken cobblestones and fallen branches. The smell of the smoky engine wafted your senses completely, making you break off into a sprint until you knocked repeatedly on the metal doors. He pulled you inside his van, his arms tightly wrapped around your back in a warm embrace. You both laughed like children, letting your bodies slowly drift into nerve-wrecking oblivion. 

His shoulders relaxed as you placed your fingers behind his neck, his steady breaths fanning against your skin. Your face was like a pleasing ladder to his eyes; he climbed at the sight of your lips, up to the bridges of your nose, then your eager eyes, covered slightly by the strands of your hair. He gently pushed it away with his thumb, then leaned his head to the side to press his soft lips against yours. Your lips moved with his, an easy rhythm you’ve memorized and pictured so vividly even when you're fast asleep. 

Both his hands traveled down to your waist, pressing his fingertips hungrily onto the fabric of your shorts. You grunted and bit his bottom lip mischievously, signalling him to carry you to his leather seats and set you down with his calloused palms, kneading the back of your thighs. He kneeled down in front of you and set your legs wide apart, before pressing his thumb to the wetness in between. “You’re getting wet down there, sweetheart. It’s a shame that it's still covered for me like that, would it?” He continued rubbing small circles onto the wet fabric of your shorts, sending you into a euphoric high of teasing pleasure. Your teeth sinked itself deeply into your lips, holding back a groan you so desperately want to let out as his index and middle finger swiped your covered folds like a credit card holder. 

Your back arched at the overpowering sensation, as you carried your hips closer to where his fingers played with your pussy. He started unbuttoning your shorts, then slid it down to your curled ankles along with your white floral-patterned panties. Out of impulse, your thighs closed itself like a clam, your bare sex flushed at Eddie’s ravenous sight. Slowly, he slid one hand in between your legs, which opened itself so eagerly to him like it had a mind of its own. He started rubbing and flicking your clit with his thumb, while the other sneaked itself under the hems of your shirt to pinch your hardened nipple. 

You gasped and roughly grabbed his bony wrist as he slid a finger inside of you, feeling the coldness of his metal ring hitting your warm folds. “Fuck, you’re so tight for me, sweetheart.” His large, expectant eyes found its way back to you, crazily grinning at the look on your face. You can’t help but drool when his index finger slithers side to side between your inner walls, not minding the sloppy sound it makes. You closed your eyes as he thrusted one more finger inside of you without any preparation whatsoever, which is something Eddie likes to do: surprise you. 

Both fingers slowly push themselves inside you; your mind going completely blank at the depth of his place. He pulled and pushed it back more rapidly, his fingertips pressing harder against your wet walls as you swallowed large gulps of saliva down your throat. Your muscles contracted as his swift fingers obliterated your pussy in painful yet wonderful delight, savoring every inside space as possible. Your feet lifted themselves off the ground, while he held your raised hips with his rough calloused hand; one that would surely leave a mark in the showers later. 

“I’m getting there, Eddie.” Your unsteady breaths made it harder for you to speak properly. You can’t even think clearly because of him. Everything from his soft long curls brushing past your shoulders to the hungry look in his eyes as he goes down on you. “Cum for me. I know how much you want to cum all over me.” Like a struck of lightning, he slid a third finger in between your petal-like folds and pushed it farther inside, to the point of absolutely no control. You rolled your eyes to the back of your head as you cursed his name over and over again, not wanting him to stop. With one final bounce, you shuddered under your raspy breath as his drenched fingers released itself from your stretched pussy. 

Eddie stood up from his knees and kissed you on the forehead, staring down at you with that dimpled smile of his. “Was I good?” He plopped himself down beside you and snuggled his head on your clavicle. Underneath all that confidence, there was a desperate tremor in his voice that you knew all too well. He wanted to be good for me, you smiled softly at the thought. 

He wrapped his arms around your shoulders and looked up at you expectantly, waiting for an answer. “What, why are you smiling?” Eddie asked, his smile slightly faltered. You faced him quickly, your body leaning slightly to his side. “You were amazing.” You gave him a small peck on the cheek. 

Now, there’s that amazing smile of his, shining brightly at you like those many times before. “You've also become a different person when you’re horny. You really like to talk me down, huh.” Eddie covered his eyes embarrassingly while laughing at your brutal honesty and critique. “I’ve always wanted to please you in the best way, that’s all.” He whispered into your ear as his hand scooched you closer to him, gently rubbing your sides with his palm. 

You grinned at his words from ear to ear, then subtly caressed his cheek with the small of your thumb, closing the tight space between you into a passionate kiss, letting his soft moans melt under your tongue. “I love you.” He muttered in between kisses; his brown eyes significantly locked into yours. You inhaled from surprising exhilaration, resting your forehead against his. 

“I love you too, Eddie.”

Wanting him is never the same without him. If only you knew that your careless past would come back and sabotage the one and only thing that’s good for you, you would’ve snatched the keys to his van and locked yourself inside, throwing away the keys until he comes back. 

By the time you ran out of things that reminded you of him, you pictured yourself regretfully harboring his love into permanent frames just to slip into your memories of him once more. That summer haunted the crevices of your mind like a dusty old paragraph fading into unrecognizable colors; barely even a photograph to look at. The summer of ‘86 ended like many summers before, yet you felt it in your heart that you would never find the courage to depart from it ever since.

I keep your picture

Upon the wall

It hides a nasty stain that's lying there

So, don't you ask me

To give it back

I know you know it doesn't mean that much to me

I'm not in love, no no, it's because...

The DnD session ended surprisingly successfully. Members older than Mike and Dustin were crying out of joy, while some applauded Erica Sinclair’s lucky draw, welcoming her officially early to the club. Your smile widened at the sight of her waving towards you in her cape, tiptoeing in the middle of the crowds to see you. 

Before you start to walk towards her, you caught a glimpse of Eddie heading out the front door with keys in his hand and a black metal box. It wasn’t like you expected him to talk to you after the campaign, but at the same time you felt a pang of pain tugging at the strings of your heart. You’d rather curl up inside your bed and ugly-cry under a blanket for hours than see him leave like that. As you tucked your camera into its old leather case, a small folded yellow paper slipped from the bottom edges of the case, like someone purposefully sneaked it in there while you weren’t looking. You picked it up and opened the contents of the yellow piece of paper, secretly hoping that it was for you. 

“Hey, it’s been a while. I don’t have the stomach to reconcile or anything, but Henderson asked me to be nice since you’re only taking pictures for the yearbook. It’s not like I wanted to bother you. I never even thought about it when you showed up with that camera you always bring around. Did your new, older boyfriend get that for you? Anyways, I’m pleased that you enjoyed the campaign tonight. It’s something I’ve specially crafted for weeks now. I guess all that hard work finally pays off when an outsider such as yourself finds it decent at best. Tell me when the photos arrive and keep an extra for me, will you? You always know where I am.” - Eddie.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #stranger things smut #stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson smut #joseph quinn #stranger things fanfiction

[bengiyo]

I Feel You Linger in the Air Ep 12 (Finale) Stray Thoughts

Last week, Jom told Yai the truth about his origins and his suspicion that he's about to vanish. Yai didn't want to lose Jom and did everything he could, from asking a monk to reading H.G. Wells instead of having sex with Jom. They held a farewell and thanks party for their friends that felt a lot like an AIDS announcement party to me. Jom wrote a letter to the future and asked Yai to pass it down through his descendants. Nonkul and Bright delivered last week with incredibly heartfelt performances of two people trying to make the most of the time they have and not mourn. Meanwhile, Fong Kaew put Euangphueng in touch with someone to help her abort the child, and Maey struggled with the potential spiritual fallout of that.

Oh lord, Jom and Yai are burying a body.

Oh, nevermind. Yai is following his instincts related to Jom.

If they buried a ring in the past, did they not know about the time jump? I would have sent instructions. Come to think of it, Jom should have written a letter to himself!

Oh it's Mustache Yai again! What a fascinating sense memory. How is Jom remembering moments from the past that occur in his future?

Aw, it was a dream.

"You take a little stick, you dig a little hole...and you have a little fun."

It always looks hot as hell in Thailand.

I like this send off scene for Euangphueng and Maey.

Yai covered the mirrors. I love that.

Jom's smile when Khamsaen asks him if he could just move on from love is perfect.

Oh, poor Yai. He definitely thought Jom vanished.

The choreography for their intimate scenes is so good and so tasteful. This feels like gay sex even if we don't see it. There's so much intent and silent communication here. Doing a montage over their heavy breathing was a great choice.

We let them make love. Time for the drama.

Having Jom disappear while he was doing the portrait is so much. Come on.

This extended goodbye is making me ache.

Well that was so sad.

Mustache Yai and Jom's original clothes are back.

WHO IS THIS SCUBA DIVER? ARE WE RESCUING JOM FROM THE CRASH?

Oh lord we're back to the present and just walking around unbothered.

Now Ohm and Baby Mama are here! We hadn't been in the present day drama for very long, and this is actually fairly reasonable behavior considering all that happened.

Oh good, Jom remembers.

Look at that, Jom is eating crepes and his sister is coming out. It's a good day.

Fascinated by the implications of the ceremony and all the reincarnated people being in Jom's life. Please show us the woman who owns the house.

Feeling very emotional about all of these mementos being saved for Jom for a century.

Wow, this letter. Incredible historical significance.

Whoa. How is Yai here?

Wait, how are we ending here??

Now why is Jom in the goddamn woods again?

I'm so glad we got a second season confirmation because I would be so annoyed being left in limbo.

Final Verdict: 9, This Show Was Worth The Hype. I have some qualms with some of the pacing of various beats and how effectively the expanded roles of the side cast worked out in the show relative to what was clearly a story focused on a romance, but I think this show took me to places in queer history I hadn't specifically thought about in a way that made me hungry to know more. I really appreciate Nonkul and Bright so much because Tee is at his best with strong performers who work really well together. This show held for its first half, but I find myself frustrated for Jom that we still have no idea how or why any of this is happening to him, and I think it's really sad that he keeps losing his loves. This is one of my favorite productions of the year, and yet I feel like I want some distance from it for a while now that it's over.

#i feel you linger in the air #IFYLITA meta #thai bl #bl series #Ben watches

[checkoutmybookshelf]

The last month and a half has been wild, so I don't have anything prompt-specific for Polin week, but I didn't want to do nothing, so...

I'm posting the prologue of the Polin shifter fic I'm working on. I hope y'all enjoy this sneak peek! It'll go on Ao3 eventually, when it's done.

Content Warnings: Battle wounds, minor blood, descriptions of battle wounds.

1806 – Germany

Artillery shells boomed alongside the long guns in the darkness, a rolling undertone punctuated by the sharp cracks of muskets, pistols, and rifles. The roar of men’s voices was a discordant counterpoint to the more mechanical sounds of war, and the screams of the wounded and dying...well. Harlow did his best not to hear those.

Muzzle flashes strobed through the darkness, utterly ruining the night-sight of every soldier and officer in the vicinity and costing more than a few poor bastards limbs—or lives. Torchlight—and light from the fires inside the fort—reflected off the low-lying clouds, bathing the entire hellish scene in a yellow-brown ambient light that washed the color and definition out of the uniform jackets of the writhing mass of soldiers climbing over bodies—living and dead—to take some meaningless fort in whatever cursed corner of the continent Bonaparte thought he could attain mastery of through little more than self-declared imperialism.

Not, he reminded himself, that Boney or that fort are your problems tonight. No, Harlowe crouched at the base of a tree within spitting distance of the battle wearing a borrowed infantryman’s uniform—a soiled one, it must be said—for another reason entirely. He couldn’t trust his vision enough to see details, so if his quarry was still, waiting for the opportune moment to leave the fort, to escape with his sorry life, Harlow would never see him. That was why he had planned. All around him, in the bushes and trees and tall grass where the fighting was thinnest or nonexistent, traps were scattered. Some noose traps, some snare traps, anything that would be nonfatal. Tonight’s quarry deserved the trial and execution of a traitor; a swift death was more than Harlowe was prepared to grant him. All that was left to do now was wait, and watch for the tell-tale flash of motion in the wrong direction that would mean the hunt was on.

Harlow was a hunter. Early in his military career—the usual lot of a third son in somewhat-less-than-wealthy ton families—he had proven that his worth was not in taking orders and charging selflessly into the fray to kill or be killed. His first commanding officer had banished the young lieutenant from his regiment for masterminding what his dismissal letter had termed “deeply dishonorable conduct and trickery unbecoming of a gentleman.” That behavior had led to his squad single-handedly ensuring that nearly half a French light company and its supply train had blundered into a bog. Once they were well and truly foundered, the squad had used rifles—and one seven-barreled piquet gun—to deluge the trapped enemy soldiers in bullets. Harlow had ensured that his squad was well-hidden in the surrounding landscape, so when the French commanders—and later their NCOs, once the officers were dead—wished to surrender, they could find no one to direct their pleas to. Harlow had refused to give quarter until it was requested, even when the Frenchmen had ceased to fight back and merely cowered against the ground, behind corpses...anywhere they could.

That stunt had drawn Harlow to the attention of Colonel Cole, a hard man who was convinced that no amount of military might would be enough to defeat Bonaparte if there was not military intelligence behind it. And military intelligence required men who were perhaps less married to their honor than British officers were meant to be. Cole’s personal regiment comprised men who were involved in intelligence, unsavory warfare in general, and the hunting and removal of traitors. Harlow had excelled in this environment, moving quickly up the ranks and making friends all along the way. Ultimately, he was put in charge of his own detachment, and their first real mission had been intelligence gathering and the removal of a particularly problematic agent in Prussia, near Jena.

On a cold October day, Jena fell to Bonaparte, and Harlow very nearly fell to Jack Harker. Jack had been Harlowe’s first and closest friend in Cole’s regiment. They had planned missions together, survived training together, held each other up on campaigns, and watched each other’s backs in combat. Harlow considered Jack more of a brother than his father’s other sons had ever been. So when Jack had stepped between Harlow’s pistol and their mark in a little house in Jena, it had cut Harlow more deeply than any disproportionate cruelty his blood brothers had visited on him. The wound caused by Jack’s treason compounded when Jack and their mark had shifted, escaping and leaving Harlowe and the rest of the squad to deal with three squads of French soldiers Jack had tipped off to their presence to take them prisoner. Harlow had been the only man of them to survive that particular captivity long enough to escape.

The wounds from Jack’s treason and lies were why, just over a year later, Harlow was crouched motionless in a forest that reeked of blood, shit, and powder, simply waiting.

There.

A flicker of movement in the corner of Harlow’s eye. He made sure not to turn his head; if movement had betrayed Jack to him, it would as easily betray him to Jack. Instead, he closed his eyes and listened, waiting. He had the rhythms of the battlefield in his head, so the trick was to listen for what didn’t fit.

“Battles are like drums,” Colonel Cole was fond of saying. “They have a rhythm, they have a cadence, and you must learn to hear the syncopation. That will tell you more than any number of trumpeted signals or officer bellows. Your environment is more than simply the battle raging around you. Hearing what it will tell you will keep you alive.”

The soft but unmistakable patter of paws on dead leaves and hard-packed dirt told Harlow that his quarry was making a beeline for the forest, but about fifteen feet to his left. Directly in the path of a noose trap that should be catching any moment now...

A nearly imperceptible yip followed the slither of a rope and the flap of a released springy branch. Something that wasn’t a smile and wasn’t a snarl twisted Harlow’s lips as he faded deeper into the cover of the woods and made his way toward the abnormally large fox that was deliberately backing up to give the long end of the noose around his leg enough slack that he could loosen it with his teeth and escape.

Simple snares and nooses didn’t hold shifters for long, Harlow knew. But this one had only needed to hold for long enough.

“Hello Jack,” he hissed, grabbing the fox firmly by the scruff.

The next moment his fingers were buried in human flesh as Jack shifted back to human. Harlow flinched violently, but didn’t relax his grip.

“Been practicing, Harlow? Last time I saw someone shift in your grasp, you dropped them.” For all his unusual size as a fox, Jack was a significantly smaller man than Harlow. He wasn’t bothering to struggle.

“That would have been the last time you saw anyone on that squad. They didn’t survive. Know how they got Greg?” Jack tried for impassive, but Harlow saw the feathering in his jaw muscle and pressed on.

“That boy never reached seventeen. The second Frog bastard into the room put a bayonet in his guts and left it there. It was there while they dragged us out of the house, all through that brutal wagon ride out of Jena. The blood and the bits of gut leaking out didn’t stop them from hog-tying him either, Jack. You hear the battle sounds over there? Those screams? They’ve got nothing on how Greg screamed. But that wasn’t the worst of it, no. The worst of it came hours later, when he was dehydrated and delirious. He was still trying to scream, but he couldn’t do it. Have you ever had to listen to a kid in that much pain force air through his mouth and nose in a scratchy, gasping scream through a sandpaper throat and parched lips? By God, Jack, when Greg finally let go, sometime the next day? When we all heard his death rattle? All I felt was relieved for the boy. He wasn’t suffering anymore. Wasn’t agonizing from a belly wound that was the fault of someone he looked up to like a brother—”

Jack’s fist connected with Harlow’s jaw. Harlow let the blow land, but didn’t loosen his grip. He only stopped talking long enough to spit the blood from his mouth.

“Hitting me doesn’t bring Greg back, or any of the other men from our squad. I’m bringing you in, Jack.”

“Letting them hang me for being a shifter won’t make you feel better,” snarled Jack.

“I’m letting them hang you for being a traitor. You being a shifter just proves that England’s shifter laws are a damn good idea. Only shifters and bastards betray their country.”

“I won’t speak for the bastards, but no shifter who jumps at the chance to live in a country that doesn’t make their very existence illegal unless they take on all the suicide and dirty-work missions the crown doesn’t want to send real soldiers on can be blamed for trying!”

“You got our entire squad murdered—”

A drawling upper-class accent interrupted Harlow with, “I know I taught you both better than this.” Colonel Cole shouldered through the woods and began tying Jack’s wrists. “The fort is all but taken, Harlow. Let’s get our man back to camp and secure him. The three of us are on a ship across the channel by tomorrow morning. Parliament wants this dealt with quickly.” Cole finished restraining Jack, then met his eyes. Something sad crossed them, and the older man sighed.

“Make this simple, son. Don’t shift on us. I won’t hesitate to nail you into a crate for the duration.”

Jack didn’t respond, but any fight he might have been willing to give Harlow had been knocked out of him by their mentor’s appearance.

As Harlow followed his mentor and former best friend through the woods and back to camp, he tried to tell himself that he was finally making up for how brutally Greg—a boy who was as much as younger brother to him as he had been to Jack—and the other men under his command had died. Greg’s parched, painful cries played in his head as Harlow and Cole secured Jack in camp and did the requisite paperwork. They haunted his dreams that night, and were his constant mental companion all throughout the trip back to England. They were silenced briefly as Harlow testified at Jack’s trial, affirmed repeatedly that Jack was a shifter who had eluded the law for his entire life and that being a shifter was part of his motivation for turning traitor.

The verdict came swiftly: Guilty.

The sentence was predictable: Death.

On the morning of Jack’s execution, there was a knock at the door of Harlow’s rented room in London. Cole had offered him a suite in his London townhouse, but Harlow had declined, instead taking the sort of room enlisted men did when they were required in London. It was cheap but clean, with more than a few options for men who wanted drinks or companionship. Harlow hadn’t left the room more than he was absolutely required to.

Opening the door, he found a young page, thirteen if he was a day, dressed in the livery of Cole’s regiment. He held an official set of beribboned paperwork, and a letter.

“Colonel Cole’s compliments,” said the boy in a high voice that didn’t crack even once. “He also said for me to tell you—in these exact words, mind—to get up off the mat and not to forget your hat.”

“The damn shako makes me look like a right pudding head,” Harlow protested.

“Colonel Cole says—and again, he specifically ordered me to say this—that you’re lucky he isn’t making you wear ostrich plumes. And he says congratulations, sir!” The boy attempted a pivot that would be impressive when he grew into his feet and marched himself off.

Harlow closed the door, sank down onto the bed, and opened the small letter first.

Harlow,

Stop blaming yourself about Jack. Even the best in our line of work can be bamboozled by men with something to hide, and friendship makes murky waters all the cloudier. We still require friends, and we still have work to do.

Make me proud, son.

Yours etc.,

Cole

Postscript: Wear your medals today, and the new bars. There will be people there who will be impressed by them, and people who will understand what it took to earn them. You need to know which is which and how you can use them for the next step of your career.

Next step? wondered Harlow, opening the official set of papers. Small gold bars fell into his lap from the parcel, and he picked them up, confused. Then he looked at the papers. Effective immediately, he was promoted to the rank of provost marshal.

Even Jack’s execution was to be a lesson in gathering information and leveraging people, it seemed.

1808 – England

“Miss Euphemia Worsley,” announced the herald as the doors swished smoothly open. “Presented by Her Grace the Duchess Worsley.” The young lady’s already-pale face turned whiter than the paint on the columns of the presentation hall, and she trembled visibly as her mama gently tapped her wrist and the pair stepped out toward the thrones where Queen Charlotte and Geroge, Prince of Wales, were seated.

Portia Featherington’s fingernails pinched the flesh of Penelope’s upper arm, still sharp through Penelope’s sleeve and Portia’s glove.

“Watch, young ladies,” hissed Portia. “Miss Euphemia is considered the least graceful of this year’s debutantes, so make sure you mark every error she makes so you will avoid them when you debut in a few years.”

“I could have debuted this year,” grumbled Prudence.

“Hush, child,” scolded Lord Featherington. “When you must pay to debut three girls, you may debut them one by one instead of together.”

“I shall be an old maid by the time I debut if I am to wait for Penelope to be a reasonable age!”

“Be silent,” snapped Portia, slapping her closed fan against Prudence’s arm.

Penelope, meanwhile, had been watching Miss Euphemia’s steps grow slower the closer she got to the front of the room. Her face had transitioned from deathly white to distinctly green, and her shoulders were inching up toward her ears. The ostrich plumes on the top of her head were slowly but undeniably slipping sideways. The poor girl looked absolutely miserable, and Penelope couldn’t help but feel sorry for the older girl.

“Do you think she’s going to faint?” asked Philippa, in a tone of interest that would have been more appropriate for commenting on a particularly exotic animal in the royal menagerie.

“Quiet,” ordered Portia.

Miss Euphemia had come to something that was nearly a complete stop about three quarters of the way down the room, and Duchess Worsley was quietly and rapidly muttering to her daughter. Penelope heard “take a deep breath, my love. You can do this”; words that were undoubtedly kinder than Portia’s word would have been in the same situation. Miss Euphemia placed both hands over her stomach, closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths.

“The chit cannot even walk the length of a room without panicking. She’ll never survive running a household,” said Portia.

Penelope wouldn’t dream of directly contradicting her mother, but it seemed that Miss Euphemia could get herself under control, because when she opened her eyes, her color was better and she managed to drop her shoulders a few inches. Shaking her head, Miss Euphemia accidentally caught Penelope’s eye. Penelope offered the older girl a small smile, and received a half-wink in return as the visible tension finished draining from Euphemia’s shoulders.

Perhaps her presentation will end better than it began, thought Penelope.

Which was when a small side door exploded open with a crack that echoed through the room, followed instantly by the baying of hunting dogs and the rough shouts of ungentle men.

The room exploded into sound as courtiers drew back against the walls to avoid the hounds. Queen Charlotte was ordering dogs to sit—and they were listening—while Prince George bellowed for his huntsman and the fellow’s assistants to control their dogs. However, what captured the room’s attention was Duchess Worsley’s screamed “Effie!” Miss Euphemia seemed to have disappeared. Then the Duchess dived for the floor and the small hedgehog that absolutely had not been there a moment before.

Lord Featherington pulled Prudence and Philippa behind him, obscuring their view of the room and ensuring that they would not be trampled. Portia had pulled Penelope to her—one arm around Penelope’s chest and the other closed around her upper arm—and backed them both against a wall. Unlike her sisters, however, Penelope had a clear view of what happened next.

“Shifter!” Bellowed a tall, hawkish man standing in the shadows behind the dais. He leapt the dais, looking like nothing so much as a highwayman from a ballad or a pirate from a story. He couldn’t have been older than thirty, but his presence was that of a much older, powerful man. Between the unfashionably loose cuts of his waistcoat, coat, and breeches; the hair that was slightly too long and queued in a style decades out of date; and the sharp planes of a cruel face, the man exuded a threatening energy that was not dispelled by how quickly his eyes darted around the room to assess the situation. Once he had fixed his attention on the clearly panicked hedgehog that was doing erratic laps of the room between running feet, he snorted once, nodded sharply, and stalked slowly forward.

His pace was deliberate, footsteps rolling smoothly from heel to ball to toe in his un-tasseled Hessians. The boots were hideously informal for court presentations, but even Charlotte—typically famous for her particularity about courtiers adhering to court dress codes—failed to object. None of the gentlemen in their flat shoes would have been able to walk so smoothly in that style without losing a shoe posthaste. He also had a range of motion from the loose cut of his garments that men in court dress rarely did, so his loose, smooth, fluid motion was an eye-catching contrast to the other courtiers in the room.

The man moved in silence, seemingly ignoring the others in the room. However, his focus and purposefulness seemed to intimidate every courtier he passed. Ladies drew back as he passed them, as did some gentlemen. The gentlemen who did not draw back alone found excuses to pull ladies—often mothers or sisters—back, and took the opportunity to put space between them and the black-garbed man. Anthony, Benedict, and Colin Bridgerton held the line, although they tucked their mother and four younger sisters behind them. The Bridgerton daughters were pale-faced but calm, in contrast to many of the screeching, sobbing girls in the room.

Penelope seemed to be seeing everything in the room at once, from overhead. The courtiers parted like the Red Sea before the man, and hedgehog Euphemia was running in smaller and smaller circles as the slow footsteps bore down on her. Duchess Worsley was trying desperately to ignore the man bearing down on her daughter, but still clearly had half a terrified eye on him as she attempted to collect her daughter. She might have had more luck on her feet, but the train of her skirts had caught in her heels and tangled about her legs, preventing her from rising even as the man drew level with her and slid his coat from his shoulders.

“No, no, no, no!”

Penelope’s heart constricted as Duke Worsley intercepted his wife’s hands before they could close around the man’s Hessian boots and hold him back.

“Peter—” she begged. Lord Worsley went to his knees, blocking his wife’s view of hedgehog Euphemia. Miss Euphemia had backed herself into a corner and gone largely still, apparently frozen. The man was barely four steps from Miss Euphemia.

Penelope suddenly felt nauseous. Miss Euphemia could have still escaped to this point, but now…if the man closed those last few steps…

Move, she begged Euphemia, silently. Please, move. Run. Don’t let him get his hands on you, please. She must have twitched or moved or something, because Portia’s nails dug into her arm, hard, just as the man halted his slow stalk and moved like lightning to toss his jacket over Miss Euphemia, bundle her into it, and stride from the room. The slam of the door was punctuated by a sob from Lady Worsley and Lord Worsley’s brokenhearted “Amelia.” It somehow managed to sound like an apology and a prayer for absolution simultaneously.

“Do you see, Penelope?” For perhaps the first time in her life, Penelope couldn’t hear any airs or arrogance in Portia’s voice. There was nothing there but seriousness and perhaps a tinge of fear. “Do you see what happens to shifters in the ton?”

Lord Worsley had gathered his still-crying wife into his arms, and from their place on the floor, his head came up and turned toward the dais. “Your Majesty, Your Highness,” he began. “That is my daughter, I beg of you—”

“We shall not hear you,” snapped the Prince of Wales, turning his attention to the red-jacketed marines who entered the room and bore down on the Worsleys.

“Please, your Majesty!” Lady Worsley’s voice was all sharp-edged desperation. “From one mother to another, please. Let me take my daughter home. We shall leave London, leave England—”

“Enough,” snapped Charlotte. “Your plea bores us. You know that there are no shifters in ton families, and all shifters belong to the crown, which graciously allows them to atone for the heinous crime of overthrowing Charles I through service in our ongoing war with the Corsican upstart.”

The marines dragged the Worsleys to their feet, facing Charlotte, who continued speaking.

“That you did not see fit to inform the crown that your house sheltered a traitor is of concern. You shall be taken into royal custody and made to answer before the court and parliament.” With a flick of her fingers, Charlotte dismissed the Worsleys and the marines hustled them from the room.

Court was then summarily dismissed, and the ton returned home to await further news. Eloise and Penelope had been forbidden from discussing the events, but that did not stop them from playing in the square out of earshot of their chaperones and talking over the events.

Duke and Duchess Worsley returned home a day or two later, having been released with massive fines in penalty for not turning their daughter over to the crown. Less than a month later, Penelope and Eloise were nearly run down by the royal coach that abruptly pulled up to the Worsley’s house and disgorged the same threatening-looking man who had taken Miss Euphemia away and a judge in robes and wig.

Penelope and Eloise had been sharply summoned back to their respective houses and not allowed out the rest of the day. Both read the notice in the paper the following day:

The Duke and Duchess of Worsley are deeply saddened to announce the death of their only daughter, Miss Euphemia Worsley. Miss Worsley was lost in service to Crown and Country, and Their Majesties, King George III and Charlotte of Mecklenberg-Strelitz, recognize her service and her role in atoning for the crimes of shifters against England.

As was standard for such announcements, no funeral date was listed. There was not even a date for a memorial, as was standard for soldiers and officers killed overseas, leaving the families without so much as a body to bury. Shifters received no formal recognition; they simply disappeared and the ton quietly pretended that they had never existed.

Less than a week after the notice, the Worsleys left England. For nearly a week, Penelope barely ate anything, couldn’t sleep, and couldn’t talk to anyone about why, not even Eloise. Genuinely worried for his youngest daughter’s wellbeing, Lord Featherington took her to the market and offered her anything she wanted—a tactic that tended to pull Prudence and Philippa out of any adolescent mood they might be in. He was expecting Penelope to ask for a new dress or other article of clothing, or perhaps some sweets. She chose a beautifully crafted writing kit, with letter paper, several bottles of ink, quills, and the tools to make and maintain quills.

Lord Featherington never understood Penelope’s choice, but within twenty-four hours, his daughter was happier and more herself, so he patted himself on the back for resolving the issue—whatever that had been—and avoiding his creditors the entire day at the market.

1812 – Spain

There were bullet holes in the thin, wooden walls. The thatch had held up remarkably well in the few months of Spanish weather that the little two-room house had been abandoned. The place was empty, so either its denizens had had time to pack and leave or else it had been picked over by soldiers and refugees in the intervening time. As he lowered a green, sweating, bleeding, and barely not-screaming Daniel Smythe-Smith to the dusty, gritty floor of the house that somehow managed to be hotter than the open in Spain in July, Colin Bridgerton regretted agreeing to Jathan Postlethwaite’s Younger Sons’ Iberian Peninsula Grand Tour.

Just let us get out of this alive, and I will never cross the channel to avoid Mother and Anthony trying to marry me off again, he thought desperately.

His mother and Anthony had both tried to talk him out of walking into a literal war zone, but the appeal of spending time with a group of younger brothers—all feeling as directionless and put-upon by parents and/or older brothers has he had been of late—had been too strong a siren song for Colin to ignore. The eight younger sons had been lucky so far. Visiting the sites of previous battles and sieges—including Badajoz—had been uneventful, and they hadn’t run into either Spanish or British armed forces for the first few weeks of their trip. When Jathan got wind of a big battle that was supposed to occur at Salamanca and insisted they go to watch, Colin had argued. It was one thing to go sightseeing months or years after a battle, but there was something macabre about watching British men die for sport. They weren’t Romans, after all, to enjoy gladiatorial blood sports. Unfortunately, Jathan plied the rest of the group with drinks and they overrode Colin’s protests.

That morning they had set out for high ground above Salamanca on foot, given the rough terrain and several of the party’s truly terrible horsemanship. Generally, two of them would have had maps and compasses out to ensure that they didn’t stray into any of the areas they had been warned away from by various military officers—each of whom who had rolled their eyes in a shocking disregard for manners and propriety—they had encountered and explained their tour to. However, Jathan had insisted that he knew precisely where he was going. The only early riser in the group, none of the other gentlemen had had the energy to check his headlong chivvying out the door and leadership across unfamiliar terrain in the pre-dawn light.

By noon they had gotten well and truly turned about. The entire party was hot, sweaty, tired, and hungry, and rising tempers had led to Jathan’s headlong rush through a copse of trees that had been sheltering a French patrol. For a long moment, Jathan and the patrol had stared, dumbstruck, at each other, until the officer in charge—who Colin would later swear was fifteen if he was a day; his voice kept cracking as he shouted orders—galvanized himself, pulled a pistol from his bandolier, and took a shot at Colin, the next of the younger sons to emerge through the trees.

Surprise and the shadows among the trees saved Colin’s life. The bullet sliced along his jaw, but did no further damage.

“Run!” came a cry from behind Colin. He and Jathan both turned and did so, followed moments later by the patrol. Shots rang out as the group ran. Thankfully muskets on the move and at this range were of limited accuracy, so the first few shots flew wide and bought the group time to head for a cottage for cover. It also widened the distance between the French and the young Englishmen, since the Frenchmen had to stop to fire.

They were nearly to relatively safety when a lucky shot took Daniel Smythe-Smith’s leg out from under him. He tumbled to the ground hard, nearly tripping two of the other men. Jathan took a flying leap over his comrade, barreling into the one who has stopped, hesitant to leave their companion but equally as hesitant to move back toward the steadily advancing soldiers. Colin, who had somewhat instinctually taken up a position at the back of the pack—as he had so often done when Francesca, Gregory, and Hyacinth were playing chase games on the grounds at Aubrey Hall—bellowed at the others to keep running before stopping just long enough to haul Daniel upright and carried him, more by main force than anything else, through the cottage door.

Someone else slammed the door closed behind them, and for a long moment there was nothing but the sound of panting and the twirling of dust motes through the columns of sunlight streaming through the bullet holes in the walls.

“My God Dan, your leg…” began one of the men, before words turned to retching.

“In the corner,” barked Colin, wrenching his hand away from the still-bleeding graze along his jaw to focus on his friend. As one of eight rambunctious siblings, Colin was no stranger to patching up scrapes, bruises, and a myriad bumps and nicks when games turned overzealously rough. Not even the time Gregory had knocked his head against an iron railing prepared Colin for his first gunshot wound, however.

The entry wound was innocuous enough; it was a small hole that bled sluggishly but steadily. The scream when he turned Daniel’s leg over—as gently as he could—was deeply unnerving in its involuntariness. The exit wound violently turned Colin’s stomach. It was ragged, gushing blood, and looked positively gory. Colin knew enough from his prior travels to be grateful that there was an exit wound—too many men died not of the bullets themselves, but of physicians digging about inside them to extract the missiles. Daniel would not need to undergo that particular ordeal. Colin reached up and roughly yanked off his neckcloth.

“Brandy,” he ordered, hand held out but eyes still on his friend’s glassy eyes and sourly green face. A flask was placed into his hand.

“Hold him.”

One man braced Daniel’s shoulders, supporting and restraining him. Another man held his leg still.

Not wasting time they didn’t have trying to get Daniel to drink, Colin poured brandy generously over entry and exit wound. Daniel screamed again and bucked, but his friends held him still as Colin dropped the flask without bothering to cap it and firmly wrapped the cravat around Daniel’s leg. As the first knot was pulled tight, Daniel passed out, making the rest of Colin’s job easier.

“He needs a proper physician, but he shouldn’t bleed to death before we find one,” said Colin, hoping he was right.

Another man had an eye pressed to a bullet hole and spoke up. “They’re getting closer!”

That seemed to jog Jathan out of whatever stupor he had been in. “Those curs, don’t they realize we are Englishmen?” he blustered, furious.

“I would imagine that’s why they’re shooting at us,” retorted their lookout. “They’re all coming toward the front; is there a back door we can get out of?”

“Nothing,” called another man. “The front is the only way in or out. The windows in the back aren’t even large enough to crawl out of.”

“Perhaps someone ought to go out and try to speak to them,” said Jathan, paling visibly. “Not I, of course, my French is terrible…”

“Nobody is going out there to get shot,” declared Colin. “There has to be another way.”

“We can’t surrender,” said Jathan. “We are members of the ton, it is simply not done. We shall have to fight our way out.”

“With bare fists?” snapped Colin. “By all means, you first.”

“Well we cannot simply sit here!” Beads of sweat were running down Jathan’s face. He trembled, and his hands clenched and unclenched erratically. He looked as though he might take a swing at Colin.

“Stop before you come to blows!”

Colin and Jathan both swung about to face the speaker. Atherton Swift was the youngest of ten in a minor ton family that rarely left their country estate. He had been invited on the strength of his acquaintance with one of Lady Danbury’s sons more than any particular friendship with any of the other gentlemen, but he had been an excellent traveling companion and friendships had quickly formed between him and the other gentlemen.

“There is another way out of this, if you gentlemen will trust me,” said Atherton.

“I think any plan would be better than surrendering or fighting muskets with bare hands,” said Colin.

“I can go for help.”

“Pfeh,” snorted Jathan, derisively. “You must have heatstroke to think so. There is no way out of here except through the French.”

“Do not be an ass, Jathan,” snapped Colin. To Atherton, he said, “That’s a suicide mission, we cannot ask you to do that.”

“It is less dangerous for me. I just require your help being let out the back window,” insisted Atherton.

Daniel stirred and moaned, briefly silencing the conversation as all eyes flicked toward him. Colin sighed.

“Atherton, we haven’t time. It’s a noble suggestion but we must be realistic—” Colin’s mouth snapped shut as Atherton shifted, and suddenly a plump dormouse was looking expectantly at him.

“Right,” wheezed Colin, before picking up Atherton and striding over to set him on the windowsill. Atherton squeezed through a crack in the counterpane and scurried off.

“Why that no-good little rat,” hissed Jathan. “And well done Bridgerton, you’ve let the criminal escape while we are left to be shot to death by the French in Spain!” By the end of the sentence, Jathan’s voice had gone from vicious hiss to a hysterical shrill. “He’s not coming back and we are dead.”

“He has gone for help,” retorted Colin.

“He’s a shifter, he’s left us to save his own skin! They’re all vile criminals with no honor—”

“Say another word and I will hand you to the French myself,” said Colin.

They were interrupted by a knock at the door. Jathan went almost instinctually to answer it, but Colin grabbed his wrist, holding him back.

“It’s their officer,” said the man looking out the bullet hole. “He isn’t armed, and he has a handkerchief tied to a stick.”

“He wants to talk, at a guess,” said another man.

“Ouvre la porte, sil vous plait,” came a boyish call from the other side of the door.

“Well I shall tell him what for,” declared Jathan, yanking from Colin’s grip and throwing open the door before anyone could stop him.

The sudden opening clearly startled the young officer, he drew back in alarm with a shout, and a musket retort cracked through the heat of the afternoon. Colin yanked Jathan back into the cottage and slammed the door, listening to the rapid footfalls of the spooked young officer as he retreated back to his men.

“Anyone hit?” asked Colin.

“I…” The rose of blood blossoming on the shoulder of Jathan’s coat answered the question, and he sagged into the arms of the other gentlemen, who set him down next to a still-unconscious Daniel. One of them held another neckcloth over the entry wound to staunch the bleeding.

“What are the French doing?” Colin asked of their self-appointed lookout.  

“Milling about a bit; that officer is giving the man who fired the shot an earful. We’re in an awful position, Col. We can’t get out, and they know it. All they have to do is wait, we can’t stay in here forever.”

“We can give Atherton time to get back here,” said Colin.

“He’s not coming back, I told you—”

“Shut up, Jathan.”

As the sun moved through the sky and the afternoon wore on, the little cottage grew increasingly stifling. Within an hour, all the men were down to trousers and shirtsleeves. They were trying to ration the water in the few skins they had between them, but they continued to sweat more and more heavily, with one or two complaining of nausea and headaches. About thirty minutes after that, their lookout quietly called Colin over, and he nearly passed out on standing. Slowly and carefully he made his way over to the bullet hole in the wall.

“Problem?” he asked. The lookout drew back, gesturing for Colin to look.

The French patrol had advanced on the cottage, and arranged themselves in a semicircle around it. They were loading their muskets, and were kneeling to give themselves a more stable firing position.

Colin swore under his breath, feeling a small pang at using words that his mother would have roundly scolded him for. When was the last time she had scolded him? They had been from home for months.

“Is there any sign of Atherton?” he asked softly. The lookout shook his head. Neither man said a word as they watched the French take up their firing positions. There wasn’t anything to be said.

“Do you hear that?” Daniel’s voice was a pained rasp, but it was enough to turn Colin’s head.

“Hear what?”

“Hooves.”

“Ours or theirs?” asked Jathan, drowsily.

“Ours!” exclaimed another man, who had pulled himself up to look out the window. “I’ll be damned, it’s British cavalry!”

As willing as the young French officer had been to fire on unarmed gentlemen sheltering in an abandoned hut, he was ill-prepared to face a cavalry charge. The assault was swift and brief, and within a few moments of the thunderous cavalcade, there was silence, followed by a knock on the door and a gruff, “Are you lads alive in there?”

Colin opened the door to reveal a British cavalry officer in full uniform, horse’s reins in his hand. “Just barely, sir. We are grateful for your arrival and assistance.”

“A mouse told us you were in trouble,” the officer said. In short order Daniel and Jathan had been transferred to the custody of the company sawbones, and the rest of them had had a chance to cool off and drink their fill. Colin had yet to see Atherton, however.

The colonel himself was cagey on the subject, offering polite non-answers and generally brushing off any enquiries. Thoroughly rebuffed but refusing to let the matter lie, Colin collected some drinks and wended his way to the NCO’s fire. The sergeants were genially chatting, drinking, and cleaning their muskets, and Colin’s demeanor and gift of drinks meant he was quickly welcomed among them.

Before dark, Colin was being led across the back end of camp, to where prisoners were kept. Atherton was lying on a cot in his shirtsleeves in a tent that was too small for one person, and was positively claustrophobic when Colin slipped inside.

“Colin?” The disbelief and wariness in Atherton’s voice pinched Colin’s conscience. He should have pushed harder for information, gotten here sooner. But he was here now, and could put this right. Atherton had saved all their lives, and Colin would be damned if that good turn were not repaid in kind.

“I apologize for not finding you sooner, Atherton. Why on earth are you here?”

Atherton snorted. “You know the law, Colin. Shifters are illegal.”

“In England, yes. Not in Spain.”

“No court in England is going to argue that fine a legal point against the Lord Provost Marshal, Col. I knew what I was doing and what the risks were. Look, will you just take a letter back to my family?”

“You will take it to them yourself,” said Colin firmly. Sticking his head outside the tent, he used his best impression of Viscount Anthony Bridgerton to browbeat a guard into fetching the Lord Provost. Behind his back, the sergeant who had led him here jerked his chin at the guard, which was when the man actually went.

Retreating into the tent, Colin shot a smile at Atherton, who did not quite manage to smile back. “This is foolish, Colin. It’s not going to go anywhere, and you risk being labeled shifter-soft.”

“If you had given up this easily, we would all be dead in that hut right now. The very least I can do is try. It is the honorable thing to do, and it is the right thing to do for a friend.”

“Now what is all this rumpus?” The colonel’s voice was bombastic more than irritated, and Colin stood, pulling Atherton from the tent with him. Beside the colonel was a tall, blond, hawkish man with cool eyes that did not seem to miss anything about his surroundings.

Colin faced both uniformed men with his back straight and his tone even. “Colonel, I request the immediate release of my friend Mr. Atherton Swift.”

The colonel harrumphed uncomfortably. “On what grounds, lad? The man is an admitted shifter, and the law is very clear—”

“We are in Spain, Colonel. Spain has no such law against shifters, which I believe is part of why the army uses them here. Is this not therefore an inconsistent application of law, to arrest a shifter in a place where not only are they legal, but you yourself have taken advantage of this loophole to do the king’s work?”

Atherton’s jaw dropped as Colin—still impersonating Anthony when he was being the Viscount—spoke.

“You know he makes a fair point, Mowbray,” the colonel said to the blond uniformed man. “And we did secure a key victory today. Perhaps we can take that win and look the other way for a lad who went above and beyond to ensure his friends were safe? In the name of fair play?”

“In my experience, Colonel, releasing a shifter is a poor strategy. Every one of my acquaintance—and as you know, in my role as the Lord Provost Marshal, a significant part of my job is to oversee shifters conscripted for crown use—has ultimately proved themselves untrustworthy with treasonous impulses. Allowing this one to go free is, in my opinion, too great a risk. I would not recommend this course of action, sir.”

“Colonel,” said Colin with the charming smile of a cobra about to strike. “I imagine it will be difficult to find officers willing to take your orders and work with you if it should get about London society that this is how you reward loyalty and bravery above and beyond the call. As I am sure you know, my elder brother the Viscount Bridgerton and brother-in-law the Duke of Hastings are well-respected voices in the House of Lords and ton society, with Viscountess Bridgerton and Duchess Hastings hosting some of the most glittering events of the social season every year. I should hate for them to discourage men of good breeding from serving with you, sir.”

As Colin spoke, the colonel went red, then white, then red again, before turning to Mowbray. “I cannot have this affect my ability to staff my regiment, sir. Not to mention that Mrs. Hakesworthy would have my head if I got her cut out of society.”

“Colonel,” began Mowbray.

“No, Mowbray, enough. This, gentlemen, is what is going to happen.” The colonel surveyed the little crowd around him, making eye contact with Mowbray, Colin, and Atherton. “We shall release Mr. Swift here, and we shall not pursue him for being a shifter outside of England, as I believe is policy.”

“A policy I am working to change,” said Mowbray, through gritted teeth.

“Yes Mowbray, but we must not put intention before written law,” said the colonel. “Parliament would have a few things to say about that.”

“We appreciate your sense of honor, Colonel,” said Colin. “And I am sure that Mrs. Hakesworthy will enjoy many invitations in the seasons to come.” He made a mental note to write Anthony, Kate, Daphne, and his mother for help with said invitations.  

“I have not finished, Mr. Bridgerton. We shall not detain Mr. Swift here, but the dispatch about his status as a shifter has already been sent to England. I cannot and will not undo that. I recommend that Mr. Swift not return to England. I promise you that Mowbray won’t be so willing to let this slide there. Now, if this unpleasantness is settled, there is a hot toddy in my tent I should like to return to. Gentlemen.” The colonel turned on his heel and strode off. Mowbray on the other hand stayed where he was, staring down Colin and Atherton until Colin clapped his friend on the shoulder and the pair retreated to Colin’s tent.

“I can’t stay here,” Atherton said, immediately.

“Where will you go?”

“I have family in Germany I can go to for a while, and then…who knows.” Colin didn’t press as he helped Atherton pack his saddlebags and then saddle his horse. He did slip a purse into one of the saddlebags without telling Atherton, though.

 “I’m sorry, Atherton,” he said, once his friend was on his horse. “I didn’t intend to force you to run.”

“Colin…” Atherton raised his eyes to the sky. “So help me, if you walk around feeling guilty for ensuring that I didn’t die on a suicide mission for that madman Mowbray, I will strip down in the middle of Whitehall and shift in the midst of court. Nobody forced me to shift to run for help. And as much as I wouldn’t mind leaving Jathan to the French, Daniel didn’t deserve to die as a prisoner of war.” Atherton reached into a pocket and drew out a small packet of letters.

“It looks like I’m still going to need you to deliver some letters for me,” he said, softly.

“It’s the least I can do,” said Colin, taking the offered stack. “I’ll deliver the one for your family personally when we return.”

“There’s also one that has…special delivery instructions.” Atherton hesitated a moment, seeming reluctant to give Colin the direction for the unaddressed letter.

“Atherton, if your concern is secrecy, I swear on my family’s lives, I will not betray any confidence you give me.”  

“The final letter needs to go to Lady Whistledown.”

“The gossip columnist?” asked Colin, perplexed.

Atherton’s laugh had an edge of hysteria to it. “She’s more than just a gossip columnist, Colin. She’s…I suppose you would call her a safety net. Not even shifters know who she is—if she’s even a she—but thanks to her, we can get messages out to the shifters in the ton quickly. I hadn’t heard a word about Mowbray trying to get parliament to make it legal to arrest British shifters outside Britain, but if that truly is the case, others need to know.”

“How do I find Lady Whistledown to deliver the letter? Not even the queen can find her, despite some of the more pointed things she’s published about the crown.”

“You don’t find Lady Whistledown. You take this letter to the church on Fleet Street in London and you leave it under the loose flagstone at the center of the sixth pew from the door. And then you forget everything you know about this, Colin. I’ve warned Lady Whistledown in the letter that I’ve told a non-shifter about this dead drop and to stop using it. She’ll tell everyone that as well as about Mowbray.”

“Will you write me when you’re settled with your family?”

Atherton smiled, a little sadly. “I will if you wish, but I won’t expect a response. You don’t want Mowbray sniffing around your family, Colin. He’s ruthless, and he’s forced more than one shifter to reveal themselves by staging accidents for their families.”

“Is there anyone in your family you want me to warn to run?”

“I’m not answering that question. I have to go, but Colin…thank you.”

The two men clasped hands. Then Atherton rode off into the night.

Colin stood at the edge of the army encampment long after Atherton had disappeared into the darkness. The packet of letters was heavy in his coat pocket, and the weight of a friendship that had effectively been killed it its cradle—partially through his own actions—sat heavier on his mind.

The Bridgertons had no shifters in the family. Not every member of the ton believed that, but the personal and public family history agreed with that. In the very early days of the title, one Viscount had married a shifter, but none of those children had been shifters, and the cadet lines of the families had also remained shifter-free, whether through marital choices or the trait failing to breed true. As a result, the plight of shifters and the laws making their very existence illegal had weighed little on the family. For generations, they had largely stayed out of any political issues that dealt with shifters, and as far as any of them knew, none of their family friends were shifters.

Colin had quite abruptly learned that “as far as any of them knew” was not very far at all, and he did not know what to do with the unexpectedly deep feelings of discomfort this knowledge left him with. Could he have done more? Could he have protected his friend if he had been deemed trustworthy enough to know Atherton was a shifter?

“Regretting letting the monster slip our grasp?” Mowbray’s voice was too close to Colin’s ear. His back stiffened, but he didn’t jump.

Mowbray snorted gently, not missing the sudden tension in Colin’s body, but respecting that he hadn’t yelled or flinched. “Befriending shifters is a mistake. Take it from someone who made the mistake once; they will not hesitate to stab you in the back the first chance they get, and take out as many people as they can while they do it.”

“Have you misapprehended the facts of the situation?” asked Colin. “I and my companions would be dead right now if not for Mr. Swift.”

“So would he. Saving his own skin meant saving yours this time, but it won’t always. Take my advice, Bridgerton. If the shifter gave you any information, give it to me. Mitigate some of the harm you’ve done here tonight. I can keep people safe with more information, and even I didn’t know about this sniveling bastard—”

“Say another word Mowbray, and I shall be forced to call you out.” Colin was as near to seeing red as he had ever been in his life. Had he been wearing gloves just then, he wouldn’t have bothered warning Mowbray, he would simply have removed a glove and slapped the man’s face as hard as he could.

Mowbray sighed and stepped out of Colin’s personal space. “I have no time for duels. How you live with your conscience is your own business, but I will be watching, Mr. Bridgerton. You shall not find thwarting the law so easy once we are all back on English soil.”

#polin week #polin #polin fanfiction #polin fanfic #polin fic #penelope featherington #colin bridgerton #oc

[camlannpod]

Character Playlist: Morgan

Happy off-week! Episode 3 is coming out next Monday, so whilst we wait, here's a playlist all about my beloved Morgan Jones. Last time we posted about Dai, (you can find that playlist here), because episode 1 is very much his episode. Episode 2 is Morgan's, and as you might notice, she's on a much darker and spookier path than her found sibling.

Hurricane by Reuben and the Dark

I am broken, I am brave The way the body behaves I am free, I'm afraid A mirror of my mistakes

Morgan's been through so much. The Cataclysm was awful for everyone, but Morgan was traumatised long before the world ended, and things have just got worse. She is explicitly terrified of her own name in this new world - of what it means and could mean. She so desperately doesn't want to hurt people, and she's so terrified that she will.

2. Witch's Rune by S. J. Tucker

By earth and water, air and fire By blade and bowl and circle round We come to you with our desire Let all that is hidden now be found

Morgan Le Fay! Witch, sister, villain, survivor. Our Morgan is intimately familiar with the story of her namesake, and thinks of Morgan like a witch inside her, or a ghost haunting her. The whole gang have different perspectives on how the Names work, but our Morgan definitely sees it like a curse.

3. Sing of the Moon by The Collection

So we sing of the moon and the face that it hides Shining just half of its truth to our skies But bring me the sun that gives it all its light I don't want to just wait to die

Morgan is very much the moon to Dai's sun. I often think of them like a binary star system - they are completely inextricable from each other, and if they were ever separated they'd both spin out and be lost in chaos. Morgan is more shy than Dai, more reserved. He brings out her lighter side, but she's always aware of the fact that one day that will end.

4. Old Churchyard by The Wailin' Jennys

I know that it's vain when our friends depart To breathe kind words to a broken heart And I know that the joy of life is marred When we follow lost friends to the old churchyard*

Everyone's lost people, but Morgan most all. Most traumatically, she saw her younger brother Ben die in front of her - a fresh trauma from which she still hasn't recovered. Morgan doesn't fear death. She's not a practicing Christian (I think she's an atheist) but she sees it as a simple, restful end to a long and painful life. What she does fear is losing people - it's the thing she fears most of all.

(*Note at the end of the post)

5. Better in the Morning by Birdtalker

Tired and worn from the patterns I’ve carved I will do better in the morning I’m afraid of who I’d be without you I will do better in the morning

We'll learn more about Morgan's childhood later in the series, but suffice it to say that every day of her life, Morgan has gotten up and tried again. For me she's very much that image of hope with bloodied knuckles, forcing herself to stand up and get back into the fight. It isn't easy for Morgan to keep surviving, let alone to keep trying to be happy. But she tries, because Dai loves her, and she loves him, and he reminds her that life is worth living.

6. Pyrokinesis by 7Chariot

We could set the world on fire using only our minds Pyrokinesis we hurt each other without trying

The gang don't know if magic is exclusive to the Phenomena, or if it's even magic as we would describe it. They don't know if it's mushroom spores or something alien, science they don't understand, strange divinities or straight up magical powers. They also don't know whether or not Morgan has magic. If she does, it's not presented itself in any way that's obvious to her - beyond her nightmares. But she often has dreams about the monsters they've faced, and it's hard for her to untangle nightmares from trauma from dreams that might be more significant. Part of her worries that somehow she's making things real, and drawing the monsters closer to them.

7. Ghost by ZZ Ward

Hear the Devil call out my name Broken promises, burning flames Frozen hearts in a lover's grave God knows, darling, god knows I gave

Morgan's biggest enemy is herself. She's most afraid of herself - and Morgan le Fay. She's terrified of hurting people and losing control. But if she could ever just let herself be angry, even more outspoken - if she could relax enough to try and enjoy all the ferocious freedom of one of history's greatest witches? She could be incredible. And even now - she has the capacity for a ferocious kind of burning joy that she has stolen from everyone and everything that's ever tormented her. When she parties, she parties hard.

8. Mile Magnificent by Molly Ofgeography

An apartment when it's empty echoes lovely, bright and clean Sing odes to green-blue water that we stole so it comes free All things end, it's part of living; forest fires feed the trees Lift your glasses full of sunshine, sing a toast to gasoline And it feels like a good, good omen I've never been much of a good, good woman But good things are coming Good good things are coming

Morgan has always been kind of terrible at being 'a woman' - whatever that means. She's not demure, she's not obedient, gentle, or agreeable, and she's never been especially feminine. She's always been outspoken, blunt, short-tempered and direct - a woman who acts first and talks later. In the world before, that could be a problem sometimes - something she was insecure about, that made it hard to fit in (though figuring out her queerness helped a lot). In the apocalypse, all of these things are exactly why she survived, and there's a part of her that's determined to snatch a life from the ruins and the ashes.

9. We Will All Be Changed by Seryn

We can shape but can't control These possibilities to grow Weeds amongst the push and pull Waiting on the wind to take us

Every main character playlist in the show ends with this song.

*A note on Christianity in Camlann - I'm not a practicing Christian, I consider myself agnostic. But because I grew up in a Christian family in the UK, I am culturally Christian. However we might feel about it, Arthurian legends and British folklore are pretty inextricable from Christian influence. Christianity's been here a long old time, and we don't have a lot of reliable written sources that cover the pre-Christian period. As a result, some of the songs on these playlists contain Christian themes. I hope that isn't too troubling to people. To be very clear, all faiths deserve reverence and respect, and Christianity is far from the only religion practiced in Britain over the last 2,000 years.

#camlann #camlann podcast #morgan jones #queue just needed more time

[neonblessing]

6.

⚠️ SPOILER ALERT! ⚠️ Click here to read Neon Blessing from the beginning!

Shiv pocketed the phone, then reached out and took Ornarch’s withered hand. “I’ll do it.”

Her god smiled. “I knew I could count on you.” With a twist of his long, thin fingers, a sleek black card appeared and found its way between her fingers. “Twenty thousand credits.”

Shiv nearly dropped the card in surprise. “Twenty thousand?!” The payout for picking a pocket was three digits at the highest: cards would be canceled long before they could be used, and there was always the risk that the mark might have augments or trackers. B&E paid better, but you needed to find a fence who could break into stolen electronics, and they were almost universally scum. The shit she and Raz had looted on the botched job could have been worth a hundred grand, even after a steep cut from both Ornarch and a middleman, but that had taken weeks of planning and cost her an arm. Twenty thousand up front was unthinkable.

Ornarch waved a hand dismissively, rings glinting in the industrial glare. “Grease some palms, hire some muscle, buy a gun. Whatever makes the job easier.”

“Thank you, lord.” She hesitated a moment, realizing she had no idea where to start looking. “Do you have any leads?”

“How were Raz’s finances?”

“About as broke as me, I think. Those implants cost a lot.”

“So they’d need to sell off some of the haul to get away from here. They aren’t safe in the Diluvian, and fare out of here is pricey.”

“I’ll ask around.”

“Wonderful.”

“Any idea as to why they did it?”

“No. No clue.” She almost choked on the words. That was the worst part, the bit that kept her up at night. What could have been so important that they’d just leave her?

“Ah well. Good luck, Shiv.” The dismissal, unspoken, was irrefutable. She would do what he wanted, he would give her what she wanted. The conversation was over. For all his immortality, Ornarch was not a patient god.

Shiv turned to leave, the roar of water rushing up to meet her as she approached the exit of the pipe. Could she even kill them? In a fistfight, even down an arm, definitely. Guns were a toss-up given that neither of them knew how to shoot. But of course, Raz was a skulljack, and a good one at that.

Skulljack. It was a dirty word, the worst kind of mage. Raz’s brilliant blue undercut hid dozens of neurocranial implants–translators and antennae and arcane batteries–all bent towards one terrible purpose: the subjugation of the will. In that dingy waiting room before their first operation, she’d told them not to do it, but she’d come to rely on their skills in the years since: skulljacking took too long to be useful in a fight, but it was priceless in an interrogation.

Of course, skulljacking was easier the better you knew someone, and they’d grown up together. Over a decade and a half, she and Raz had bared every last rotten secret–had aired out every scrap of encryption around their souls. They promised they’d never fuck with her, but would she know if they had? Even if they hadn’t, how long could she hold out against someone who knew her first crush, all her fears, and everything she’d ever dreamt of?

As she climbed the stairs back to street level, her nervous thoughts sublimated into a mantra, repeated with every step. 

I’m not who I was a month ago. That woman could never imagine killing them. I can.

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#6 #neon blessing #shiv #ornarch

[wuahae]

hihi my lovely cat!! congratulations on hitting 1k gal 🥳✨ may i request 22:30 with sangyeon, where you both are just strolling down the beach hand-in-hand enjoying the breeze and ocean waves, basically a soft fluffy lil drabble hehe

and and!! rank your top 5 fav tbz era!! love you loads 😚🫶🏻💖🫂

[22:30] / on the beach

the waves roll into the shore gently, water lapping at your feet for brief seconds before pulling away once more. sandals held in your hands, each step you take leaves footprints behind on the wet sand beneath you, moonlight catching onto the darkened imprints before the water washes them away again.

“it’ll be nice to remember,” you say, tilting your head up at sangyeon. “the perfect night before we have to leave.”

sangyeon smiles, your other hand placed securely within his. “so you’d say this was a good honeymoon location after all?”

you give him a face, swinging his hand once in emphasis. “you have to admit, the beginning was a little rough.”

right as you’d arrived at the airport in the morning, the plane had been delayed for ten hours, which meant you would miss the connecting flight to your destination, which also meant you spent your entire morning rebooking flights and calling hotels for a trip where you were supposed to be enjoying yourselves. and then half your luggage ended up getting lost, so even when you arrived at the vacation, things were still a mess you needed to fix.

“yeah, but,” sangyeon squeezes your hand once, his dimple two dots deep. “we made the rest of the trip worth it, didn’t we?”

you sigh, smiling back at him. “you’re right. we made the best out of it.”

the moon glows bright tonight, light cascading across the quiet sea. it was something you’d seen every night since you came here—the stars were always a comforting sight, a release from whatever you’d been penting up during the day, a constant you could always rely on. it’s always been like that, ever since you could remember.

the way that no matter how terrible your day or week or month had been, no matter how many changes were happening in your life, you knew you could look up to the sky and know that there would always at least be the stars waiting there for you. they were a stability, a reassurance, something you were eternally grateful for especially in this new stage in your life.

in truth, you don’t want this night to ever end, because after it does, then it’s back to reality—the stress over packing everything back into your suitcases, the long flight back tomorrow morning, the end of your peaceful vacation.

“can we just stay here?” you ask, hopelessly. “i haven’t even finished packing all of the stuff to move to the new house…”

“well, if you never leave then it’ll never get packed, will it?”

pouting, you kick the sand mid-walk. “can’t you just indulge me?”

“darling,” sangyeon says, and your brain stops. “you know i always do.”

somehow, all these years and a ring on your finger and that word formed sweetly from his mouth never fails to have you short-circuiting for hours. sangyeon definitely knows it (that dirty schemer), judging by how he uses it only when he wants you as malleable as possible to get his way.

“besides,” he continues, “once we get the hard things out of the way, we’ll have that whole house ready as our reward.”

the way he said ‘darling’ still echoes through your brain, but not enough for you to not remember what consisted of the new house. on its own, it was actually a lovely house, located in a small town in the countryside where there was more farmland than infrastructure. what it lacked in the usual city’s hustle and bustle, it made up for in the peaceful quiet that came with the location; even just looking at it at first glance, you knew it was the right place for you. 

(it felt like love, in a way. no longer a sparking sensation nor the fireworks that came with a new passion, but rather, a steady flame. the gentle warmth of a fireplace, a mug still steaming on the coffee table.)

but with the new place came new threats, threats consisting of your elderly neighbors, grannies whose eagle eyes seemed only to sharpen with age, honed specifically to pick out handsome men with a calling to be their dream son-in-law.

well. sangyeon already was a son-in-law, and he already had a wife, so really you just want to tell these old grannies to buzz off.

“sangyeon,” you rest a hand on his arm, grave. “you know you have to be careful once we move.”

he looks at you like you’ve swallowed too much salt water. “what?”

“you know…” you press, dead serious. “i’m not going to be around for a lot of the day since i’m in the next town for work, and you’re going to be manning the house all by yourself, i…” you trail off, gripping his arm tighter. “i’m worried.”

“darling, everyone around us is in retirement?”

‘darling’  won’t save him now. “exactly.”

from your brief visits while moving some of your early stuff in, sangyeon has gained enough attention from the old ladies from seeing him around town and running into him at the grocery store they’ve become bold enough to comment on how lucky his wife must be to have him, how any woman would be so blessed to have him in their lives. sangyeon relays it to you as a nice encounter from your future neighbors, but you know their games. you know what they’re after.

(you know precisely what moment they catch the ring on his finger because there’s always a dirty look and a ‘tsk’ that follows immediately after. hmph.)

sangyeon shoots you a look that’s half affection and half exasperated, as if he’s heard your grievances far too much to take them seriously (he has. he should!). “don’t be silly, before we left, miss yoon said that she could introduce her daughter to me! she said she had a great collection of cabbages and could give me some tips on how to start my own cabbage garden too—”

“are you saying our marriage is over before it truly begins!”

“what?”

“you’re going to get stolen from me… under the promise of good cabbages!”

sangyeon gives you a pointed look. “you’re being silly.”

“i’m not. i’m not…” you grip him tighter. “locally grown, grass-fed chickens and all…”

“i thought we were talking about cabbages?”

“for now! that’s what they always say!”

sangyeon stops, mirth in his eyes as he really looks at you. he’s earnest, really, even as he tries not to laugh in your face, when he says, “no old woman is going to sway me, i promise.”

you hesitate. “not even miss yoon and her cabbage daughter?”

he slides your hand down to his again, sincere. “‘in sickness and in health, till death do us part,’ remember?”

“wow,” you joke lightly, trying to hide the way your voice wobbles like a leaf in the wind. he really has way too much power over you. “renewing our vows already?”

sangyeon squeezes your hand again, leaning in to kiss you on the forehead gently. “i’ll renew them as many times as you’d like, if that’s what it takes for you to never forget.”

and in the midst of this, the last night of your honeymoon, the brand new beginning of your new life together, you realize that maybe you won’t need to look up at the stars for a comforting constant anymore—not when you’ll have sangyeon by your side for the rest of your life too.

#BTW my top 5 tbz eras are roar stealer reveal thrill ride and maverick hehe in no particular order :3 #1k event! #sangyeon x reader #tbz x reader #sangyeon x you #tbz x you

[milkywaybottles]

The Way Things Were | Tommy Shelby x Reader

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Word Count: 2.1k

A/N: Hi! I will not be using the term starting with G (you know what it is) to describe Romani people unless it is a character speaking that had already spoken prior in the show (I do not agree with that language), because many Romani people find the term offensive and I do not want (Y/N) to speak like that. It is simply not my place xx

Chapter 7: Eventful Days

"This is an awful idea" you grumbled, crossing your arms across your chest. Worry was bubbling inside you. Ada only smiled, pushing a strand of her hair back behind her air. Your body bounced up and down rhythmically in the seat of the car, the road becoming heavier and bumpier as you neared the Lee camp.

"Don't worry. You were given the choice to come and you did, that must mean something. Besides, Tommy, Arthur and John wouldn't let anything happen again" Ada assured. She slipped her hand to her waist. She was getting big, the little baby gaining on their due date. After Ada declared she was going to make you a godmother, you had become just that little more excited about the baby.

There was a minute of silence between you.

"John isn't going to like this". She shook her head in agreement as the car slowed to a stop. You stepped out and as soon as your heel hit the gravel, you were overwhelmed with the scent of horse manure. Turning your head to Ada, you observed her face become paler than normal, resisting the urge to burst out in laughter. For a girl who grew up around horses, she definitely couldn't handle the smell. If you had been a few years younger, you definitely would've teased her about it, but deciding it wasn't worth the fight, you left it alone.

Arthur emerged from behind a colourful vardo, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction. "Ladies, Johnny boy is onboard. This way, please". His awfully chirpy behaviour caught you as a surprise, as he had previously contracted the self-named 'Flander's Blues' a week prior. He was practically shimming in excitement when taking you both to the alter, and you determined that there was definitely alcohol making its way through his system.

You had always been captivated by Romani culture. Considering the Shelby family was half Romani, it had fascinated you to hear them speak in Romani to each other. Polly even claimed she could predict a baby's sex and future because of it. And because you were in close proximity with the language, you had also managed to pick up a select few words, just not enough to hold a conversation. That is why you stuck to Arthur's side like glue, warily keeping your head focused in front of you.

"There are the other ladies of the evening, now we just have to wait for the lady of the evening" Tommy called out, expecting both of you to take your place beside him. Many of the Peaky Blinders were surrounding John like a support group, scruffing up his hair and teasing him. There was a crowd of people waiting apprehensively, some muttering little phrases under their breath, others taking silver flasks from their pockets and drinking their troubles away. The alter was adorned with two white cushions on the ground and an archway of flowers, one of the Lee brothers officiating.

When your eyes landed on the woman dressed in a long, cotton veil and a draping white dress, you weren't surprised to see her accompanied by Zilpha Lee. Much like Polly was the matriarch of the Shelby family, Zilpha Lee was the matriarch of the Lee family, making all the business decisions with Tommy. You had both met before when you were young, not thinking anything of the interaction. The dark-haired lady was grinning from ear to ear.

"She'd better be under 50" you heart John murmur, causing you to frown and nudge him suddenly.

Tommy turned to his brother, "Come 'ere" and he snatched the toothpick from John's mouth. Good riddance, you thought. Wouldn't want to have that between his lips when speaking to his bride for the first time. "Go on". He received a handful of supportive pats on the back, acting as the only thing really getting him up that aisle. Otherwise, the boy would've been sent running with his tail between his legs. Not knowing his bride, her personality or how she looked was a scary notion and you couldn't blame him. If marriage had been forced on you...

John knelt on the cushion beside his bride, squeaking from his weight. A dog bark echoed throughout the camp, otherwise, all was silent. "We're here today to join in matrimony, this man and this woman" Johnny Doggs began. Given the opportunity, Tommy struck up a stiff and casual conversation with his huffing sister, still on bad terms. Your eyes remained solely on John's back, observing as he turned around with the biggest smirk you had ever seen once his bride's veil had been removed. "Do you, John Michael Shelby, take Esme Martha Lee to be your beautiful wife?". The chatter between Thomas and Ada was too loud for you to hear the rest of the ceremony properly. "There remains one more part of the ceremony, the mingling of the two bloods. When the two families become the one family"

There was a knife slipped between the palms of the couple and their hands were intertwined. Esme's face was indulgent in a large, polite smile, her face dusted with freckles and her eyes the most beautiful shade of brown. "I now pronounce you man and wife!". Everyone rose, clapping feverishly. "Come on, John, kiss the bride, will you?"

-

The festivities carried well on into the night, lit with embers from a giant bonfire. There was cheery singing and dancing as well as more than a fair share of drinking. You smiled apprehensively at any Lees that looked your way but hadn't removed yourself from Tommy's side. Your face was caught in the light of sparkling fireworks, setting a beautiful glow on your features. Tommy hadn't taken his eyes off you the whole night.

He couldn't. Not when your serpent green dress hugged your figure, your makeup was just right and you stood timidly but loyally at his side. Goddamn... he even had the nerve to ask you to dance, which you had accepted after some convincing. The way you fit perfectly into his arms, melting into his body drove him crazy. When you span, the world seemed to fade away. In fact, when any other person, especially a Lee, even glanced your way, he felt his hand inching to his cap.

When a clearly intoxicated Arthur asked you to dance, he had almost lept from his seat in protest. You shook him off, going for a spin with Arthur before he insisted on stopping, disappearing behind a vardo. The splashing noise was enough to know that he had been sick, and you politely told him no for the rest of the evening. You weren't sure if you could handle the smell if you hadn't said no.

Finally, you had settled in a chair beside Tommy, happily watching the fire with a glass of whiskey sitting on the table. John was jeering merrily from his seat, holding Esme close to his waist. The couple appeared content. That was good enough for you. Even Ada, the heavily pregnant woman, appeared to be having a wonderful time. Between her chides, she would dance until she felt sick. One of the Lee members had taken fondly to her, causing you to wonder how Freddie would have felt about it had they not been on bad terms.

Nevertheless, it wasn't your business, so you took a cigarette to your lips.

Tommy decided that from that moment on, he couldn’t risk getting closer to you than he already had. Grace was the easiest escape, a distraction from what he truly wanted. He would pursue her, imagining that it was you moaning out his name instead of her. It would break your heart if you found out, but it would break your heart more if he loved you. He was consumed by desperation for you.

As you observed Ada, a watchful pair of eyes fell on you. “Should we say something to her, Tom?” you posed. “Tell her to slow down?”

“You think she’ll listen to me?” he scoffed. You reeled in your conversation, folding your arms on top of each other. You had become worried knowing that Ada had been drinking, hearing her practically beg to be spun again while dancing.

“I think you’re her brother. She has to listen. Please…”. You winced at the sight of the loose firecracker. Tommy stopped, putting his cigarette down and standing quickly. A smile made its way to your lips, although fading as soon as Tommy approached the dismissive Ada.

“All right, Ada, come on, have a rest, sit down” he beckoned. It was like something snapped in Ada, prompting you to join Tommy’s side. When she turned to face him, she stumbled, almost slipping in the mud. She swayed from side to side.

“Come and look, Esme! Come and look at the family you’ve joined. Come, look at the man who runs it! He chooses his brothers' wives! He hunts his own sister down like a rat and tries to kill his brother-in-law". It all came bubbling out of her, both Tommy and Arthur scolding her to quiet down. You could see the visible shock on Esme's face. "Now he won't even let me have a fucking dance! Not even at a fucking wedding!". Your jaw was on the floor, trying to put your hands on her shoulders to calm her, only for her to shake them off.

John's face had become as red as a tomato, practically spitting at his sister, "Sit her down".

"Ada, calm down. Calm down" Polly consoled, her face dropping as her eyes became downcast on the floor. Her eyes snapped to you, making intense eye contact, "Holy shit, water. Alright". Your heart skipped a beat, placing an arm on her to guide her away from the party. Ada became a panting mess as she was swarmed by countless relatives.

This was something you had been preparing to do since Ada became pregnant, Polly warning you that you may have to help deliver the baby. It was an anxiety-ridden task but not something you weren't educated on either. Your mother had been a midwife, so you knew the ins and outs.

"Jesus Christ Ada, you do pick your bloody times!". She urged them to get off of her, to give her some space.

-

Tommy had taken the wheel, you and Polly assisting Ada in the back of the vehicle. The whole ride was sweat-filled, the girl riding out the contractions while clinging to your arm mercilessly. All you could do was press down her hair, soothing her as she cried. You were sure she regret getting pregnant in the first place at that moment. It had even promoted you to reconsider what you wanted for your future as well.

“Hey, it’s alright. I’ve got you, Ada”

It was a train of cars that escorted you all back to Ada's house. Tommy, of course, drove in front, John driving at the back of the train. As soon as the car slowed to a stop, you and Polly leapt from the car, keeping the door open so Ada could crawl out. You took her chillingly cold hand and escorted her inside the building, eyes engulfed with bright floral wallpapers. The light pattering of Esme's feet could be heard as she entered the room, placing her hand on Ada's back as you both lowered her onto her bed.

She had dissolved into a whimpering mess.

"Ada!" Polly shouted in an elated manner from the entrance of the home, "The truce is on hold". As soon as she came rushing in, you could sense a tight-lipped smile on Ada, though hard to distinguish from her looks of grimaces. She was stripped of most of her clothing, layers upon layers of fancy and fluffy garments falling to the floor. Sweat was trickling down her forehead at an alarming rate as she screamed again, legs bare in front of her aunt.

"Keep going. That's right. Push!". Her groans were ungodly, shaking the whole house with her might. Esme put her hands to Ada's stomach to feel the baby, only to glance back up at you both with alarm.

"I think it might be the wrong way around. I attended three sisters". Your attention snapped to Ada and then her bump. Both you and Polly reached to feel the baby to which you could distinctly feel under her flesh that the legs were first. You and Polly hastily nodded in agreement,

"Yeah, I think you're right"

"We must lean her forward" you instructed, all of you taking her to pull her to her knees. Polly stroked up her back, attempting to bring any relief she could to her niece,

"Come on, not long to go now, darling. Push. Two. Three!"

The fresh sound of a newborn's cries filled the room.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

#the peaky blinders #thomas shelby #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x reader #peaky blinders #tommy shelby x you #female reader #she/her #cillian murphy

[runninguplenorahills]

Lenora you’re back!!!!!💕💞💕💞

How have you been?

Heyyyy✨🌞

I’ve been doing pretty great honestly. I got through my finals and I actually did quite well :)). I didn’t take the biology exam though because holy fuck I can’t even do simple math and we were supposed to do crazy equations, no calculators allowed💀. So yeah, didn’t study at all and woke up in a cold sweat like three days before the exam and quickly set myself on inactive because I would’ve definitely fucking flunked it. But English went great, got one of the best grades out of the entire course for my presentation I was sweating buckets over beforehand, linguistics went well as well and the rest was just pass or fail and fortunately I passed but I’m still waiting on a feedback for my pedagogy portfolio. Speaking of waiting, I spent weeks in February working on my art portfolio and applied for art school and I’m waiting for a response to that, too.

I also finally read “The song of Achilles” but it sadly didn’t earn its place next to my favorites, like, it was actually only three stars for me if I’m really honest. Currently I’m reading “Persuasion” (I’m about half way through) and that books actually pretty great but the first like 80 pages are just like, set up lmao. But after that it quickly gets better!!! I haven’t continued reading in a couple of days though which I should absolutely do soon because the new semester starts in two weeks and then idk how much time I’ll have to read. I’m actually taking British and American literature classes in the new semester which I’m pretty excited about!!!!

Oh boy, I also finally watched s5 of Miraculous and the alternate universe Paris special and the movie and bro, s5 was an absolute dumpster fire…. Actually fucking insane. But the Paris special was kinda entertaining lol, and I can’t lie…. the movie was pretty good. Like… it was honestly great hahahah. I also watched Cars btw! I have watched the first part before but never the rest and then my sister wanted to watch Cars so we did and yeah, Cars is amazing ofc. I also finally watched But I’m a Cheerleader which was all over the okays but it was funny and I loved the ending. I’m trying to remember what else I watched but I don’t remember anything else… hmmm… Oh!! Omg, I watched Christopher Robin and I didn’t not except that movie to be as good as it was. I was in genuine tears over fucking everything and yeah, very enjoyable. I also watched The Sixth Sense which was good, did not see the plot twist coming though, Like, spoiler! I literally remember thinking “oh.. so he survived I guess” when it says “next fall” like a fucking idiot 😭. I don’t think I watched any other movies though.

Wait, I also read the entirety of Jackson’s diary on webtoon and it was a fucking roller coaster.

Other than that I’ve been hanging a lot with my friends, especially those who moved to another city for university. There’s this café we always and in the past two weeks we’ve gone three times and you can borough games to play and we usually play scrabble which is always sm fun!

Oh and holy shit, I turned fucking 20!?!?! Absolutely batshit insane, I cannot believe it.

Also, I just kinda left tumblr very like, impulsively because I had finals coming up and thought it’d be distracting, but also, tumblr tends to suck the life out of me sometimes so I thought taking a break would be worth it either way. After finals where over I then had to work on my art portfolio and I have a huge procrastination problem so I stayed off tumblr because I knew it would make it worse and so I just left and didn’t reply to anyone, which, I’m sorry, I missed you and the other mutuals so much but I also don’t think that many people even noticed that I took a break in the first place. Anyway,I’ll probably dip when Uni starts again as well but I thought it’d be nice to catch up with y’all before that happens.

How have you been doing :))💓💗💓💗💓

#mail to lenora hills #very long very ramble had to guve you all the updates #it’s almost 4 in the morning like… that’s why i took a break from tumblr 💀

[lifesver]

@meatriarch said: it was just the two of them, now. alone in the shack, johnny had stepped out to go over to the house — dinner with his mother, common occurrence a couple times a week. this dinner just so happened to land on leland's birthday. unfortunately — but they knew, understood, there was little to protest about. not without suspicions being raised. instead, in place of having a nicer dinner together, they went out earlier in the day — and maria had managed to convince johnny to find something he could have lee help out with, away from the shack, for a little while. give her enough time to bake a small treat for him later on, after dinner. so when johnny left them later in the evening, and maria and lee shared their small dinner together, maria took to cleaning around the little kitchen and table — insisted that lee go ahead and take it easy, go off and get comfortable for the night. and despite his protests to help, she continued to insist, pointing off in the direction of the curtain, until pout crossed his face in defeat. she waited a few minutes, finishing with the dishes and drying off hands, before opening one of the bottom cupboards and leaning down, pulling out carefully wrapped package — nothing colorful nor intricate, but wrapped with care, to ensure nothing made what laid inside dirty. maria straightens and walks across shack and past curtain, over to the mattresses they all had, some time ago, pushed side-by-side, where lee was busy undoing boots along its edge. she smiles cutely down at him when he glances up at her, turning and dropping herself down beside him, and holds the package out to him, " had to be a little sneaky about this, worked on it while johnny kept you busy all over the place. its something simple, you know, but, i hope you like it, lee— " beneath all the wrapping lies denim — new jacket, a lighter wash, that she's been slowly adding little embroidery to. along top of the back? blooms of marigolds, dancing along below collar. trailing along shoulders to front, with small bundles of the golden flower above both front pockets. and a smaller surprise along cuffs of the sleeves — of clovers snaking along its edges. she watches him as he opens it, nerves buzzing in her chest. it wasn't much, given everything. knows that compared to birthdays he's celebrated before, this year probably wasn't one of his favorites — she wanted to do something, though, for him. for everything he's done for her. for always protecting her, comforting her, over the past almost-year that they have been here, with johnny. she watches him hold it up once unwrapped, to look it over, and she adds, " — i know the old jackets' seen better days...saw this one while we were out a while back in town. thought you could use a new one. "

he doesn't mind the quiet, or that johnny was at his mother's for the night. he doesn't mind his birthday passing like any other day of the year. it's hardly like he paid attention, anymore — part of it didn't feel worth mentioning. didn't feel particularly important to the life he lived, now. but trust maria to still make something out of nothing, and make it special for him. not that he needed anything — and he’d promised her as much, with a smile and a wave on his way out that day. but it still meant a lot that she had.

leland shoots a half-accusing eyebrow raise up at her; ❝ … so you were up to something. ❞ no wonder johnny had made up a seemingly endless list of chores for the day. it was sort of funny to imagine maria convincing him to play along, but then again — if anyone could twist your arm, it'd definitely be maria.

she puts down a neatly wrapped package in front of him, and leland’s expression settles into one of gentle questioning. his hands hover uselessly — but he doesn't say anything. probably because there's something nearly painful welling in his chest, and he's certain if he tries to speak, he'll just cry. instead, his brows furrow softly, and he begins unwrapping the gift slowly, careful even with the packaging. maria had worked hard on it, after all.

his thoughts are an up-and-down carousel in his head. on his last birthday, they'd been back at school. julie had baked a cake, and connie made him a bracelet he still wore. it had been a good birthday. but maria hadn't been there. she’d sent a letter, though, and photographs of the marigolds she’d found. he missed their friends. he knows maria does too — even with the sting that came along with those memories.

he remembers the night he watched them all disappear down that dirt road in the dark — he'd had the thought that he wouldn't be getting any older than nineteen. but they would all grow up. maybe they would have lives, and families. he had thought about it watching the world tilt, and spin out in the setting sun, the gentle bend of the sunflowers around him, and his blood darkening the soil.

he'd had that thought a few times, since then. when things were really bad. when he'd gone so far as to hand off his mother's necklace, and connie’s bracelet, to maria, entrusting her when he thought he might not see her — or anyone, again. because it's hard not to think of where this all started, when he was still nineteen. he’d made it to his twentieth birthday, and it's still hard not to feel the loss of something — like a knife in the ribs.

leland removes the denim jacket from its packaging finally, and stares at it a little dumbly. it’s a little different from his old one, but he sees maria’s magic touch, immediately. hand-sewn embroidery. golden flowers blooming in bursts along shoulders, twisted in leaves curling along the breast of the jacket. down to the little clovers lovingly detailed in the seams of the sleeves. how long had this taken her?

❝ maria, i— ❞ he swallows thickly, and his fingers tremble slightly where they smooth over the denim. he holds it up, and the light glints across the raised embroidery lines. ❝ you really… did this for me? this is... how can you say it's simple? ❞ he gives a wobbly laugh, to cover his brimming eyes. it doesn't really work. ❝ it's... really beautiful, maria. it's amazing. when did you find the time — ❞ he swipes at his eyes, and a quiet sound shakes in his chest, in his shoulders. god. where the hell had that come from? he'd been fine a minute ago. he'd been okay all day. but maybe all this emotional outpour had just been waiting, for the right moment to slip through the cracks.

leland lays the fabric over his knee. he wants to try it on for her — he wants to make this moment a warm one — but he's stuck feeling like he can't breathe. this was his twentieth birthday, and he might have forgotten. this was his twentieth birthday — and he hadn’t thought this was the kind of thing either of them could have, anymore.

despite everything, they’re still here. no matter what anyone else thought. no matter what the newspapers said. they could still have something normal. as his eyes draw along the embroidery, he can’t help but think of his childhood bedroom, and his old dorm room. maria's apartment. all their old things gathering dust. it had been a long time — but they had started to find things to call their own, again. new clothing, little wooden figures on a window sill. a handmade quilt, a bracelet in blue. and his mother's gold chain around his neck, again.

❝ sorry — i, uh. i don’t — i don’t know why i’m crying. ❞ he gasps out a shaky laugh, palming at his eyes again. dragging a hand through his hair. maria’s seen him cry before. maria’s maybe seen him cry more than anyone, now. maria who's always good to him, always gentle. always reminding him he was still deserving of those things. and the tears start to darken the fabric in spots, when he pulls maria into a tight hug, chin parked atop her head — mumbles into her hair, softly;

❝ … i love it. thank you. ❞

#( ☆ ) ⸻ THE FILM WHICH YOU ARE ABOUT TO SEE... / ic. #gg he’s wearing this always it’s the jacket of all time #sorry i tried to be soft but in my heart i knew: it’s nosy so baby boy’s gonna fuckin cry about this gesture #meatriarch