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aemondsbabe · 6 months

Text

Taunt

obviously, i feel very normal and chill about ewan's new performance in saltburn. anyways lmao this is my version of michael gavey from the vibes i got from him in the 5 seconds he's in the trailer! i have no idea if this is accurate to how he is truly portrayed in the movie! if the movie comes out and i'm totally wrong, then i don't care bc i got to have fun writing about a cheeky lil oxford student!!

summary: you're nearly failing statistics and the student your professor asks to tutor you seems to gain a sick satisfaction from seeing you squirm; he hates you...or so think.

pairing: michael gavey x reader

warnings: mature, 18+ (minors, do not enter!!!) no use of Y/N, afab reader, profanity, smut, piv smut, fingering, oral sex (m receiving), dom/sub, brief daddy kink (literally one mention), dirty talk, dumbification, humiliation (only a bit), size kink if you squint, mild angst but happy ending, choking i guess (barely), public sex (they're alone but like it's still public lmao), brief discussions of math -- please let me know if i missed anything!

word count: 10.5k (dear lord)

a/n: baby's first fic omg! if you enjoy this one and want to see more from me, please feel free to send in requests! (GoT, HoTD, Stranger Things, Marvel, etc!)

PRAISE | Taunt Part 2

MAKING AMENDS | Bonus

likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!

🌟add yourself to my taglist to be notified when i post new fics!🌟

“Right, so,” Professor Davies began, pulling a thick textbook off the shelf next to his desk, “Since we’ve only just returned from Easter holiday, I thought I’d go easy on you today.”

A few quiet groans could be heard around the room, a couple students turning to look at one another with grimaces; in the few weeks you’ve been in Professor Davies’s class, he’s never once gone easy on you. With a small sigh, you shuffle through your spiral notebook until you come to a blank page.

“D’you think you’ll go to the party this weekend?” Louise whispers, leaning over closer to you as she twirls a pen around in her fingers, “I heard this one is supposed to be fucking insane.”

“Like any of Felix’s parties aren’t insane?” You whisper back, smirking as you doodle a small flower on the corner of a page of paper, “Of course I’ll be there,” you murmur, watching as Professor Davies writes an intricate formula on the chalkboard, “I could really use a break, anyway…I’ve been so stressed recently.”

“Christ…” A boy, in the row of desks in front of you scoffs, just barely shaking his head as he copies down the formula, his handwriting sharp and choppy. You feel blood rush to your cheeks as you narrow your eyes, staring intently at his sandy hair. You didn’t really know him, this being your only class with him, but you’d seen him around campus, regularly passing by him in the halls. Oxford may be a large university, but when you’re on campus everyday, you begin recognizing familiar faces.

He didn’t run in the same crowds as you at all, and you got the distinct impression that he looked down on you and the rest of your friends, but you knew his name – Michael and that he was incredibly smart, his hand promptly shooting into the air anytime Professor Davies asked a question. In the few weeks you’d been in the same statistics class, you had yet to see him get a question wrong, watching as he grinned, cocky, everytime he was praised for correctly solving even the most intricate of formulas.

You, on the other hand, couldn’t be more the opposite, always shying away and praying not to hear Professor Davies call your name in his deep, baritone voice every time his eyes scanned the crowd, looking for a volunteer, or victim, more like. While Michael clearly enjoyed the class, practically glowing with an arrogant confidence as soon as he walked into the wood paneled lecture hall, you were simply here to check it off as a requirement of your major, hoping to survive the class with a C and nothing more.

It was annoying, you wouldn’t deny that, the way that smug smirk seemed to be permanently etched onto his face, how that stupid taunting glimmer was an ever-present fixture of his blue eyes — blue eyes which, seemingly, always managed to find their way to you, one way or another.

His attention was intimidating at first, his cold stare leaving you unsure of what exactly his intention was. Was he trying to challenge you? Trying to determine if he knew you from somewhere else? A small part of you, a naive part, hoped that his staring was meant to be affectionate; he was cute, you’d admit it! Always showing up to class in cozy knit sweaters, his wavy hair still ruffled and untidy as if he’d just gotten out of bed, gold rimmed glasses perched atop a strong nose.

You quickly tear your gaze away from the back of Michael’s head, biting your bottom lip as you begin copying down the problem on the chalkboard, pausing briefly when you see, from the corner of your eye, his head turn as he glances at you over his shoulder. You felt your cheeks flush despite yourself, that small, sanguine voice in the back of your head cheering.

“Now, then,” Professor Davies booms, dropping the textbook down on his desk with a cacophonous thud before sweeping his eyes across the classroom, “A bit of review before we really dive in…” He continues, pacing around the front of the room as he explains the various parts and pieces of the equation on the board.

“What do you think you’ll wear?” Louise asks, leaning over once more to whisper in your ear, you can smell her signature floral perfume on her hair, “I was thinking I’d do that new blue-ish dress I got, you know, the strappy one?”

“Might still be too cold for strappy,” you whisper back, half listening to the professor drone on as you continue doodling on your paper, pausing every few minutes to jot down a few haphazard notes, “I was just thinking I’d do a jumper, probably a skirt and tights–”

Suddenly, you hear Professor Davies call your name, your cheeks practically stinging as blood rushes to your face. Sitting up straighter, you finally find the courage to meet his stern gaze, “Since you seem all too eager to share your thoughts,” He continues slowly stalking towards you across wooden floorboards that softly creak beneath his feet, “Would you care to enlighten us with the solution to the quadratic equation on the board?” He comes to a stop, hands clasped behind his back as he patiently waits for you to answer, a small, knowing smile poised on his lips.

“I– uhm, well,” you stutter, glancing back and forth between your barely there notes and the chalkboard, throat growing tighter as you feel everyone's eyes on you, “Don’t you need to solve for G first?”

“And how would you go about doing that?”

“Well, you would…” You trail off, desperately trying to remember the lessons you’d had before Easter holiday, absentmindedly picking at your cuticle as you pray to be anywhere but here or for a hole to open in the floor and swallow you whole, “I…I don’t recall, professor. I’m sorry.” You finally say, not being able to meet his gaze as you stare intently at your lap, desperately willing yourself not to cry, even as you feel your eyes stinging.

“Perhaps, in the future, it would be of benefit to socialize with your friends outside of my classroom.” Professor Davies admonishes, giving a sharp glare to Louise as well, who manages an apologetic smile. “Yes, Professor.” You whisper, keeping your eyes downturned.

Finally, you hear the floorboards softly creaking once more as Professor Davies makes his way back up to the podium at the front of the room and once again resumes his lecture. You can’t help but pause for a second when you hear a small snicker from the tall boy in front of you, sensing as he peers at you over his shoulder once again.

“Would anyone else like to take a crack at the problem on the board?” Professor Davies asks, leaning against the old, worn podium at the front of the room. Like clockwork, Michael’s hand shoots into the air. Somehow, that makes you blush even harder.

Eventually, Professor Davies finishes his lecture and retrieves his dark leather briefcase from under the desk, pulling a thick stack of papers out and sitting them on the podium, leaning over it with a sigh, “I have your tests graded. Most of you did very well, you should be pleased with yourselves. Some of you, however,” He says pointedly, “Could benefit greatly from a closer study of the material.”

Slowly, he walks around the room passing back tests, throwing out a comment here and there as he did so. You already know you hadn't done well on that particular test and dread getting it back and confirming your suspicions, so you keep yourself busy, choosing to meticulously pack up your things instead.

“Mr. Gavey,” he said a few feet away from you, papers rustling as he slid the test across the wooden surface of the long bench desks, “Once more, an outstanding job! Top of the class, keep it up.”

“Thank you, Professor,” you glance up, watching as he takes the paper with a humble nod, that same, oh-so pleased smile gracing his angular face. He must sense you looking at him and quickly shifts his gaze in your direction, eyes glimmering with self-satisfaction behind his gold-rimmed glasses as his smile quickly turns into a smirk. Finally, you tear your gaze away from his with a small, bewildered huff. Why did he seem to get so much satisfaction from besting you, of all people? It’s not like you were exactly an academic threat.

“Ms. Bickerstaff,” Professor Davies says, finally appearing next to the table you and Louise sat at, “Not bad, a bit more effort next time and you’re sure to be on track,” he remarks, sliding her paper across the desk. Louise thanks him with a small smile as she flips through her test, eyes scanning over his marks.

Finally, Professor Davies stands before you once again, your paper the very last in his hands. You hear him mutter your last name before he slides the paper across the desk to you, and you can’t help but deflate as you see your grade; you knew it would be bad, but that? How on Earth were you going to recover your average? What if you had to retake the whole course? What if you failed out of Oxford entirely? Your parents had sacrificed so much to help you get here, spending years and untold amounts of money on private tutors and extracurricular materials, all to help you have an impressive application! Not to mention the money just for the course fees! Unlike most of your friends, you didn’t come from piles and piles of money and status – your family was alright, sure, but you were definitely several tax brackets below them.

As your thoughts spiraled, you felt Louise elbow you in the side at the same time you heard Professor Davies address you again. Shaking your head to clear your scattered thoughts, you clear your throat and finally turn to look up at him, “Sorry, yes, Professor?”

“As I was saying,” Professor Davies continues, tapping the papers in front of you, “I would like to discuss your performance with you today, after class. Please meet me at the front of the room before you go.”

“Yes, sir.” you mumble dejectedly, nodding as you quickly flip the test over, embarrassed at the thought of anyone else seeing your grade.

“I’ll see you later, babes,” Louise says a few minutes later as everyone is clearing out of the room, “Good luck!” She whispers, giving you a reassuring pat on the shoulder before making her way to the door.

“Thanks!” you smile weakly, swallowing the lump in your throat before picking up your things and heading to the front of the room. The afternoon sun is already getting lower in the sky, beams of light shining into the room, bathing rectangular swaths of the floor in bright, golden light and highlighting motes of dust as they scatter in the air. Only a few students are left in the classroom, some of them finishing up notes while others type out quick texts. As you walk by his desk, you notice Michael scribbling down notes in his planner.

You shuffle your feet nervously as you stand in front of the sizable oak desk that your professor sits at, watching as he adds a sticky note to the top of another stack of papers, “You wanted to see me, Professor?”

“Ah, yes!” He says, looking up at you over his glasses. He quickly caps his pen and stands, walking around the desk to stand in front of you, “I know this class has been quite the challenge,” he begins, leaning against the desk, “But, I think I’ve found a solution for you.”

“You have?” You ask, tilting your head in confusion.

“I think you could benefit greatly from a tutor, perhaps a peer who could explain the material to you in a different way,” he continues, “And I have just the student in mind.” Instantly, you feel a pit beginning to form in your stomach, biting your bottom lip as you watch Professor Davies motion for someone behind you to come up to the desk, “Mr. Gavey, if you could join us up here, please.”

You freeze when you feel him saunter up beside you, eyeing him out of the corner of your eye. He was so much taller than you, your head barely grazing his shoulder, as he came to a stop next to you, standing casually with his backpack slung over one shoulder.

Professor Davies once again turns his attention to you, motioning to Michael as he speaks, “Mr. Gavey here is one of my most capable students,” you can’t help but notice him stand up straighter at the comment, growing somehow even taller, “I’ve taken the liberty of asking him if he would be so kind as to assist you with some of the course work and he agreed.” You freeze a little at that, stunned that he would be so quick to help you when he seems to relish any opportunity to make you squirm. “I’ve given it some thought,” the professor continues, fixing you with a stern gaze, “And I’m willing to let you make corrections to your test and resubmit it for half credit.”

“Oh, thank you so much, prof–”

“However,” he adds, crossing his arms over his chest, “This will be the only time I do so. From now on, I suggest you see Mr. Gavey here on a regular basis; the material is only going to get more challenging as we begin this next unit.”

“Of course, professor. Thank you again.” You respond quietly, shifting uneasily as you stand between the two men.

“Right, well, now that’s sorted,” Professor Davies says, clapping his hands together once as he turns and makes his way back over to the desk chair, sitting down with a tired sigh, “I trust the two of you can come to an agreement upon when and where to meet. I’ll see you again Monday, have a pleasant weekend.” He says, waving his hand dismissively as he goes back to organizing his papers.

The two of you murmur your goodbyes before making your way into the hall, the hairs on the back of your neck standing up as he follows you out of the classroom. Eventually, you come across a small alcove in the hallway; finally turning to face him, you let your eyes sweep up his body, finally coming to meet his blue eyes, slightly hidden behind the glare of the hallway lights on his glasses.

“So,” you clear your throat and shift on your feet awkwardly, “Uh, what time works for you? I really can’t do Saturdays–” you begin, only to be cut off.

“Shame,” Michael sighs dismissively, a smirk pulling at one corner of his mouth, “Saturday is the only day that works for me.”

The tone of his voice and the mirthful glint in his eyes makes you very much doubt that, your gaze narrowing, “Okay, well Saturday’s are the only day I have off,” you huff, only growing more annoyed as the stupid smirk on his face grows with satisfaction, no doubt pleased that he’s being a nuisance, “Besides, I super can’t tomorrow, anyway. I already promised my friends I’d come with them to this party tha–”

“Oh, I know about your little party,” Michael scoffs, “Trust me, love, the whole damn class heard about that stupid fucking party with the way you lot were running your mouths earlier,” he chuckles coldly, continuing in an exaggerated high-pitched voice, one hand coming up to mime twirling a lock of hair, “Oooooh, it’s so cold, can’t wear the fuckin’ strappy dress, gotta wear me jumper and little slutty skirt, la-dee-dah.” He finishes with a final huff of laughter.

“What is your deal with me?!” You finally snap, glaring at him, even as you feel your face redden, “You’ve been a dick all semester and I haven’t done anything to you! I’ve never even talked to you!” Glancing around the empty hallway, you cross your arms over your chest, praying no one’s in earshot to hear your hissed tirade.

“I might not know you but I know plenty about your little friends,” he sneers, shaking his head like a disappointed father; the sight makes your blood boil.

“What does that even mean?” You demand, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. What did your friends have to do with any of this? None of them ever spoke about Michael, none of them even knew him as far as you were aware.

His face softens, if only for a moment, as he registers the genuine confusion on your face, smirk faltering as his eyes narrow. He leans in closer to you as he begins speaking again and you can’t help but get a brief smell of the cologne he wears, something warm and woodsy that makes you think of a bookshop and the smell of the forest after it rains, “Come on,” he starts, blue eyes flitting between both of yours as he looks at you intently, “Felix Catton? You and your little friend, the one from class, you go around with him, yeah?”

You nod, giving him another puzzled look, confused as to what the hell Felix has to do with any of his disdain, “Yeah,” you say slowly, drawing out the word, “But, what does he have to do with anything?”

Michael huffs once more, almost laughing to himself as he shakes his head, burying his hands in the pockets of his jeans, “See, we went to school together, him and I – some of primary, all of secondary,” he shrugs, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he traps you in his gaze once again, “And I just don’t fucking like the guy. Can’t stand him, never could’ve.”

You’re silent for a second, and now it’s your turn to flick your eyes back and forth, searching each of his for some sort of coherent answer and yet you come up empty. “But, what does that have to do with me?” You ask slowly, making sure to carefully enunciate each word.

“Don’t trust the people around him either,” he mutters, gazing down at his shoe, “Weirdos, the whole lot. There’s something…off about the guy. Can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something dark there, all around him. Like he’s putting on one big show. All his little gremlins do too, they all act the same.”

The two of you are silent for a moment, neither knowing quite what to say next. You chance a glance up at him, nearly gasping when you find him already gazing at you – an unreadable expression on his face. Yet a light blush still blooms on your cheeks as you quickly look away once again, your heart thudding so loudly you’re wondering if he can hear it – hell, you’re wondering why you’re reacting this way at all, why you’re so shy and skittish around him.

“M’not like that,” you very nearly whisper, finally seeming to regain your voice. Only to lose it once again when he takes a half step toward you, suddenly crowding you further into the small alcove.

He makes a small noise, damn near cooing at you, tilting his head to the side when he notices you flinch as he raises an arm, gently raising your chin with one hand, angling your head up to meet his gaze, that signature smirk once again taking hold on his face as he looks at you curiously, “You’re not like that, are you?” He asks, his voice low and raspy.

You quickly shake your head, blinking up at him, unsure of what exactly he wants from you. You feel your cheeks stinging for the umpteenth time today with how hard you’re blushing, a strange feeling taking root in your stomach the longer you stare at him, that small voice in your head positively cheering.

But, as quickly as whatever spell he seems to have on you takes hold, it’s broken as he suddenly lets go of your chin and steps back, casually pursing his lips and nodding to himself, coming to some unknown decision in his head, “Meet me in Bodleian, tomorrow at five. There’s hardly anyone up on the third floor on the weekends, so we'll be able to focus.” He says simply, turning on his heel to leave without even giving you a second to answer.

“But I’m bus–”

“D’you want a good grade or do you want to go get drunk with your creepy gremlin friends?” He asks, peering over his shoulder as he saunters down the hallway, raising an eyebrow at you over the shiny gold rim of his glasses, “S’your call, love.” He finishes with a shrug, disappearing as he turns a corner and leaves you standing there alone, frowning and dumbstruck.

“Bodleian at five it is,” you mutter to yourself, sighing as you turn and walk the opposite way, desperately trying to ignore the butterflies in your stomach and the fog in your brain.

Your shoes tap against the stone pavement as you walk up to the old library, backpack slung over one shoulder; reaching into a pocket of your backpack, you blindly grab for your phone as you pull open one of the heavy, old wooden doors and step into the atrium. Out of all of Oxford’s libraries, you had to admit that Bodleian was one of your favorites; it had such a soothing atmosphere – from the way the evening light trickled in through the old glass windows, to the intricate wooden decor, and the way the entire place smelled of the old, well-loved books that lined the countless rows of shelves.

Stepping to the side of the entryway, you check the time, your hand shaking a bit as you unlock your phone – 4:53pm, a little early, still. Sighing, you crane your head, nervously looking for Michael. Not seeing him, you decide to bide your time examining one of the tall bookshelves near the entrance, eyes skimming over their titles as you fiddle with the strings of the hoodie you’d decided to wear. Smiling, you lean up on your tiptoes to grab a copy of The Two Towers, happy to see a familiar book. Just as your fingers graze over the embossed gold lettering on the spine of the book, a large pair of hands grab you by the shoulders.

“Boo!” Someone whispers, close enough that you feel the warmth of their breath on the side of your neck.

You spin around with a small shriek, jerking your head to the side when a hand is suddenly clasped over your mouth.

“Shh! Hey, relax!” Finally managing to focus on the face in front of you, your breathing slows as your gaze meets a pair of round blue eyes. Michael’s face is only inches from yours, concern evident, even behind the mask of a smirk he wears. “It’s only me.” He says softly, smirk softening into a genuine smile that sends a frantic tingle down your spine, which you desperately try to ignore as you nod against his hand, gasping in a small breath as it lowers once again to rest on your shoulder.

“Hi.” Blinking up at him, you breathe the word more so than say it as you settle back on your feet, cheeks flushing as you realize he has his other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you forward ever so slightly, like he wanted to make sure your head didn’t hit the sharp edge of one of the shelves; the voice in your head purrs as the butterflies in your stomach summersalt.

“Hi.” He answers and you feel the hand on your shoulder twitch, the ghost of a comforting squeeze or rub causing the hair on the back of your neck to stand on end as some strange, warm weight settles in the pit of your stomach.

Suddenly, whatever spell the two of you seemed to be under broke and you quickly clambered away from one another. Michael cleared his throat, running a hand through his wheat colored hair as you tugged at the sleeves of your hoodie, trying to look anywhere but in his direction. “Should we–” He starts suddenly, nodding his head to a staircase at the other end of the room, “It’ll be quieter up there.”

“Sure!” You chirp, giving him a curt nod, “Lead the way, you seem to know the place better than I do.”

“Well,” he chuckles, keeping his voice low as he moves past you, “S’what happens when you don’t spend all your damn time at weirdo parties.”

You roll your eyes behind him, huffing as you start following him up the staircase, one of your hands gliding across the smooth, polished wood of the bannister.

“Sorry.” He says suddenly as you reach the third floor of the library, running a hand through his hair once again as he stands at the top of the staircase.

“What?” You ask, coming to a stop on the last step and looking up at him, tilting your head to the side as you lean against the handrail.

“For earlier,” he explains, gesturing for you to follow him as he starts making his way to the back corner of the large, open space, the one furthest from the stairs, “Scaring you, I mean. Didn’t mean to.”

You’re quiet for a moment, following him as the two of you walk past aisle after aisle of towering bookshelves. The area is definitely quieter than the main floor, nearly vacant aside from one or two lone students sitting at the long wooden study tables. It’s calm up here, evening light filtering in through large windows on either end of the long room, casting large shadows on the floor and vaulted ceilings.

Eventually, the two of you come to a stop at a table, the very last in its row, tucked away in a corner. “It’s alright,” you shrug, trying to keep your voice soft in the quiet space as you sit your backpack on the edge of the table, “I don’t know why I’m so jumpy today, maybe the tea from earlier.” You lie, hopefully smoothly, and quickly grab a pen and notebook as well, before sitting down.

Michael huffs to himself as he sits his things out on the table as well, like he’s laughing at a joke you can’t hear, “Maybe it’s all that tension.”

“Wh– tension?” You question, cringing at the urgency in your voice as you pray that he doesn’t pick up on it, shifting in your seat as he pulls out the chair next to you and plops down, completely relaxed as if he owns the place.

“The stress? That you were meant to be working out at Catton’s?” He gives you an odd look, resting his head against his hand as he leans his elbow on the table, “Couldn’t help but overhear your little conversation yesterday.”

“Oh…” You breathe, a pink haze settling over your cheeks once more as you fidget with your pen, acutely aware of how easily he seems to be able to make you blush.

The smirk on his face widens as he narrows his eyes, studying you in a way that makes your heart squeeze, your thighs clenching together as that heady weight from earlier makes itself known again in your stomach, “You can’t keep one thought in that head, can you, love?”

You blink, unsure of what to say, as two halves of your brain argue with one another. Why is he so mean? You wonder to yourself, eyes searching his, as you frown, And…God, why do I like it?

“Why don’t you like me?” You ask, finally breaking the silence with your small voice.

He scoffs again, shaking his head as if the answer should be obvious to you, “You don’t take it seriously. You come to class and whisper and gossip with your damn friend or doodle in your little notebook, but you don’t fucking listen.” He sits back up, frowning, “I work hard every fucking day in there, for fuck’s sake, I only agreed to help you because I want to be Davies’s teaching assistant next year! Yet you and Catton and everyone like you can just pay their way in here, collecting a little diploma from Oxford just so their parents can brag about it with their stupid fucking rich friends.” He finally finishes, turning his head to stare out the window.

“Told you, I’m not like that,” you whisper after a moment, voice wavering from the tightness in the back of your throat, “I’m here on scholarship, same as you.”

His eyes flit back to you, his frown deepening, “How did you know ab–”

“Like I’m not going to ask around about the guy tutoring me?”

“Fair enough.” He concedes after a minute.

Silence settles over the two of you again, like a stalemate, waiting to see who would crack first. Finally, you turn to him with a sigh, nodding to your test paper on the desk, “Can we just get this done? I don’t want to be here any more than you do.”

“Ah, of course,” he nods as he picks up your test, looking over the first incorrect problem, “Catton’s big important party. And you’re stuck here with a loser like me; must really be doing your head in, huh?”

You want so badly to correct him, to tell him that no, actually, for once, you were kind of excited to not be at one of Felix’s parties. You wanted to tell him that you’d hoped things would be different, maybe if it was just the two of you he would drop the arrogant asshole bit, that you stupidly hoped it was just an act.

Instead, you bite your lip, determined not to lash out and give him another reason to dislike you, “I don’t think you’re a loser, Michael,” you say, tiredly meeting his gaze, “Can we just focus on this now, please?”

He’s quiet for a moment, frozen like you’d said something groundbreaking. Finally, he nods his head, almost imperceptibly like he’d come to a decision you weren’t privy to, “Sure,” he says gruffly, grabbing your test and reading over the first incorrect problem, “S’not like I’m the one failing.” He finishes, his voice tight and determined, like he knew it was something he’d regret saying even as the words left his mouth.

See? You think silently, pointed words aimed at that stupid voice in your head, Told you so.

It’s barely an hour later and you already feel cross-eyed, groaning as Michael flips your test over to the next page and you see you’re only just now halfway done correcting the ones you’d gotten wrong. You hate to admit it to yourself, but his tutoring was helping — problems that you’d hardly been able to finish the first time seem far less daunting as he explains them to you. Even he seems less daunting as the hour goes on; shockingly, he doesn’t make anymore snide comments and you can tell that he genuinely enjoys talking about the subject, patiently helping you through each problem.

“Can we take a break?” You grumble, laying your head down on top of your textbook.

“What?” He scoffs, rolling his eyes as he checks his watch, “It’s hardly been an hour and you’re ready to give up?”

“‘M not giving up,” you mumble, “I just think we could use a little break…” You say hopefully, looking at him with a small smile. When he doesn’t break, holding your gaze with a frown, you sigh, “Just, like, ten minutes, please?”

You want to groan again when you see that formidable smirk make its home on his lips again, “Say please again.” He commands, his voice low.

“Huh?” You balk, nearly dropping your phone as you retrieve it from your pocket.

“Say please again,” he says slowly, his smirk only growing wider as he watches your cheeks redden, “Beg.”

“W-why?” You question, face burning as you try your damndest to look unbothered by his request.

He shrugs dismissively, “Makes you squirm,” he answers finally, leaning back in his chair, “I like that.”

“Why?” Your voice is so small you doubt he’d even know you spoke if his eyes weren’t fixed on you.

He hums, a satisfied noise, like you’ve finally managed to meander into a trap he’d set ages ago, “S’fucking cute,” he huffs out a laugh when he sees your eyes widen, “Makes you blush and act all dumb.”

You know you should be offended, but you can’t find it within yourself to care, “You think I’m cute?”

He chuckles, sighing, “That’s what you choose to focus on?”

“Do you?”

“Fine, yes.”

“Please, Michael,” you say suddenly, the words feeling practically punched from your throat, “Please, please can we have a break? Please, only ten minutes?” You beg, breathing hard as you quickly scan the room, shoulders relaxing when you don’t see anyone else sitting at the study tables.

You see the way his eyes widen behind his glasses, like he can’t believe you actually did it, before they narrow once more, overtaken by a satisfied gleam, “Ten minutes.” He says simply, leaning back in his chair yet again, letting his head flop back, relaxed, and closes his eyes.

You don’t move for a second, letting your eyes study the side of his face, looking over his sharp jawline and the curve of his nose. After a moment, you look away, deciding to pull out your phone.

A few minutes go by as you answer a few texts from Louise, telling her that you miss her too and how you wish you were at the party — a lie, though you can’t find it within yourself to care. You busy yourself for a while longer, watching a few people's Instagram stories, the volume on your phone muted as you watch your friends dance under colorful strobe lights, blowing smoke at the camera and clinking drinks together.

“I meant what I said.” You say finally, laying your phone on the table and picking at one of your cuticles.

“Hm?” Michael questions, not bothering to open his eyes.

“I don’t think you’re a loser,” you answer, fidgeting, “I never have. I think you’re…intriguing.”

“Intriguing?” He asks, finally sitting up and looking at you with a questioning stare, “How so?”

You swallow, tucking your hair behind your ear with a shrug, “You’re smart…you know you’re smart,” you start, voice small and shaky, “I like that.”

“You like that or you like me?” He’s looking at you like a cat playing with a helpless mouse, looking at you like he knows he’s already won a game you don’t even know the two of you are playing.

“You.” It comes out as a breath.

He doesn’t answer and eventually you look away from him, choosing to stare out the window at the streetlights outside, the sky dark.

Finally, the silence becomes overbearing and you break first again, “Thank you,” you smile at him, keeping your voice low even though you know the rest of the floor is vacant, even though the noise of the floors below has drastically faded over the last hour, “For helping me, I mean. You probably have a dozen things you’d rather do on a Saturday.”

He stays quiet for a few seconds, “I didn’t really have anything better to do,” he smirks, “No parties.”

“None?”

“Never,” he shakes his head, shrugging, “Don’t get invited.”

“Oh,” you answer simply, “Well, still, either way, thank you.” You smile again, but it falters when he leans forward suddenly, crowding into your space with a sly grin, so close that you can feel his breath on your neck.

“I know a way you could repay me, love,” he whispers lowly into your ear, your hair standing on end, “Only if you want to, of course.” He adds, his long fingers toying with a strand of your hair.

Your eyes grow comically wide as you process what he just said, “H-how do you want me to repay you?” You whisper, your eyes finally meeting his.

He laughs softly, letting go of the strand of your hair to rest his hand lightly against the side of your face, his thumb skimming over your cheek as he watches a rosy hue settle across it, “I can think,” he starts, thumb moving lower to skate across your bottom lip, slightly tugging the skin with it, “Of one very fucking good way to put this mouth to use, love.”

You part your lips slightly, letting the tip of his thumb into your mouth, just barely holding it between your teeth as you lightly run your tongue over it, heart skipping a beat at the way his lips just barely part in shock as you do. The voice in your head purrs again, roaring back to life, and you nod, smiling around his finger.

“Yeah?” He questions, smirking as he watches your lips twitch around his thumb, “”Y’wanna?”

“Yes.” You reply around his thumb, your hands coming up to hold onto his forearm, the fabric of his rust colored sweater soft under your hands.

“Beg.” He commands again, eyes twinkling.

You take in a breath, eyes slipping shut as your thighs clench around nothing – missing the way Michael glances down at the movement, a knowing grin forming on his face, “Please, Michael.” You practically whine.

“Ooh,” he coos, finally moving his thumb from your mouth, only to trail his hand down your neck, lightly resting it against your throat, “I think you can do better than that, pretty. Open your eyes and damn beg.”

You follow his orders, a small whimper skirting past your lips at the new pet name as you open your eyes, “Please, Michael, please let me repay you, let me thank you, please.” The words tumble out, your eyes wide and pleading.

“How’re you planning on doing that, empty headed little thing?” He taunts, the hand around your throat just barely tightening but it’s enough to make you let out a small, desperate whine. He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, moving close enough to you that the front of his chest is plastered to your side, his heart beating against your shoulder, “Ask for what you want, beg properly.” His breath fans across the side of your face again, the feeling of his lips brushing over the side of your jaw making you jump.

“Please, God, Michael,” you whine, squeezing your legs together so hard you’re surprised they haven’t fused together, “P-please let me suck your cock — to thank you, thank you for helping me.” You add quickly, breath shaky as you turn your head to look at him imploringly.

He chuckles, but he looks pleased as he leans back momentarily, craning his neck to make sure there isn’t anyone around, “Alright, alright, love,” he soothes, coming back to face you, nodding his head to the empty space in front of his hair, below the table, “Not God, but I’ll give you what you want.” He teases.

Your breath catches in your throat as you look down at the floor beneath the desk, then back up at him before nodding, “Yes, sir.” You push yourself off your chair, sliding down beneath the desk.

“Goddammit,” you hear him groan above you, running his palms over his thighs as he parts them, making room for you, “Keep that up, love, might even give you extra credit.”

You rest your palms against the tops of his thighs as you move between his legs, getting comfortable on your knees, the old wooden floor cool against your skin, even through your black leggings. Finally, your eyes settle on the sizable bulge, covered by his dark jeans, and you can’t help the small whine that leaves your lips. Slowly, you move your hands up to the button of his pants, quickly popping it open and dragging the zipper down, smiling when Michael sighs above you as he pulls his sweater up out of the way, exposing the pale skin of his stomach. You let your eyes roam over him, warmth settling between your legs as you spot the dusting of light hair that starts beneath his belly button and leads downwards, disappearing under his plaid boxers.

You move closer to him, crowding in between his long legs, as you hook your fingers over the tops of his boxers, before finally looking up at him, “Can I…?” You ask, nodding to where his cock is straining against the fabric.

“Don’t be shy now, princess,” he groans, running a hand through your hair as he stares down at you, “Get on with it.”

You keep your eyes on his as you pull his boxers down, just enough to free his cock, watching the way his chest heaves as he lets out another relieved sigh. Finally, you tear your gaze away from his as you look at his cock, gasping in a breath as you do. As far as dicks go, Michaels is impressive, beautiful even – long and thick with veins running up the underside, leading up to a flushed, leaking tip.

You take him in your hand tentatively, squeezing him lightly around the base, your confidence growing when he grunts, breathing heavier. Finally, you lightly lick the tip, eyes sliding closed at the pleasant, salty taste of his pre-cum. You take the tip of him in your mouth, humming around him when his fingers tighten in your hair, lightly pushing on the back of your head, silently urging you to take more of him.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he roughly groans, managing to keep his voice low, “Knew that pretty fucking mouth was good for something.” He moves his hips, impatiently thrusting his cock an inch deeper into your mouth, breathily cursing under his breath.

You start bobbing your head up and down over his length, taking more and more of him into your mouth, more of his pre-cum leaking onto your tongue as you feel his dick throb and twitch in your hand. After a moment, you take a deep breath through your nose and remove your hand, resting it on his thigh, as you take him all the way to the base, your nose nestled in the short patch of hair there as you breathe in his heady scent, your eyes glazing over as you savor the feeling of him at the back of your throat.

“Jesus!” He grunts, louder than he meant to, keeping your head in place as he thrusts his hips up again, keeping you in place at the base of his cock, “Fuck, that’s it,” he praised lowly, your center throbbing, no doubt leaking onto the fabric of your leggings, “Look at me, wanna see your eyes while I fuck your throat.”

You whine, desperately blinking back tears as you look up at him, trying to keep your breathing even. You hold his gaze as you stick your tongue out, licking lower, down toward his balls, relishing the way his eyes roll back as you do, stomach muscles twitching as he continues thrusting his hips up into your mouth, soaking his boxers and jeans with your spit.

“Oh, fuck, that’s it,” he groans, looking down at you, his eyelids heavy, “God, yeah, cry on my cock love. Fuck, you look so pretty crying on my cock.” He mumbles, talking to himself more so than you.

His words send a shiver down your spine, adding to the heat in your center, and you whimper when he finally moves his hand from the back of your head, allowing you to come up for air. You do, with a gasp, thin strings of spit connecting your reddened lips with the flushed head of his cock. You keep your eyes on his as you wrap your lips around him once more, running your tongue along the thick vein on the underside before sucking at the swollen tip, relishing the way it makes him clench his jaw and gasp through his teeth as you stroke the rest of him with your hand.

Above you, he smirks again, gently running his hand through your hair but making no move to press your head down again. He cocks his head to the side, studying you, grinning at the far-off, foggy look in your eyes, “Not a thought in that pretty head, is there?” He asks, bringing his hand down and gently patting your cheek; the ghost of a slap making your thighs clench, making your head dizzy with need.

You nod around him, moving your head up and down along his length. You feel yourself throbbing with need, pulsing with heat; almost automatically, your hand starts to wander, a small sigh escaping you as your hand presses against your center through your leggings. You feel a warmth settle across your cheeks again as you feel your own wetness, leaking through the fabric just as you’d suspected. You whimper as you press down again, your eyes falling shut as you let your hips grind against your fingers, the wet fabric creating a delicious friction against your clit.

Which you get to feel for all of five seconds before Michael is suddenly yanking your head from his length, causing you to yelp as he tugs your hair. “Did I say you could touch your cunt?”

“N-no,” you whine pathetically, eyes watering from the harsh hold he has on your hair, “I’m sorry, I wasn’t think—“ You try to explain, only for him to cut you off with another harsh tug, making you mewl.

“That’s a pattern with you, isn’t it?” He asks, looking at you with a condescending smirk, studying you again, “You were being such a good girl earlier, what happened? Hm?” He questions, pushing his chair back enough to pull you out from under the table.

You get to your feet, suddenly feeling shy in front of him once again despite having his cock in your mouth mere moments ago. “I…got distracted.” You answer finally.

“I got distracted….who?” He asks, looking up at you expectantly over the rims of his glasses.

“I got distracted, sir,” you quickly correct yourself, eyes frantically scanning the still vacant floor of the library, “I’m sorry.”

“That’s much better, love,” he drawls, placing his hands on your hips, “Now, what could’ve been so fucking distracting, huh?” He starts moving his hands, slowly, toward your center, still looking up at you, his eyes questioning. You nod your head, just barely but enough for him to understand, and any hesitancy from him quickly disappeared. “Could it be this, I wonder?” He questions sardonically, suddenly cupping your heat in his large hand, the warmth of it nearly making your knees buckle, even through the thin fabric of your leggings. He hums, the sound low in his chest, when he feels how much you’ve soaked the fabric,

“Oh,” you whimper, grabbing at his shoulders to keep yourself balanced as his fingers continue to tease you, rubbing circles into your clit, “Oh my God, fuck.”

“Christ,” he breathes, staring up at you with dark eyes, “So fucking wet, love, holy hell. Did you get this way just from sucking my cock?”

“Yeah,” you whine, nodding your head desperately as you try to swallow all the small noises you want to make in your throat, your hips rutting against his hand, “Please, sir!”

“Oh, so now that dumb brain has no trouble remembering damn instructions, huh?” He taunts, a wicked grin on his face as his fingers rub your clit in smaller, harsher circles, making you see stars, “Need your wet little cunt played with to be able to do as you're told?”

You nod your head frantically, tears nearly spilling from your eyes at the zaps of pleasure radiating from you, your walls clenching around nothing. Just as you feel yourself about to tip over the edge, he stops, jerking his hand away from you with a knowing chuckle, “W-what?” You question, eyes blinking open, “I was so close!” You whine, nearly stamping your foot on the floor like a petulant child.

“Told you,” Michael shrugs, pulling you to sit in his lap, your back against his chest as he wraps his arms around you. His breath tickles the side of your neck and face when he speaks again, “You’re so fun to tease, love, can’t help myself.”

You wiggle in his grasp, making him groan as your ass grinds against his hard length, desperately trying to get your hands free to touch your pussy again, nearly out of your mind with need. “P-please, sir, please touch me!” You finally gasp out, knowing he won’t give in until you do.

“Now there’s a good girl,” he says, voice pleased and cocky as he plants kisses along the side of your neck, “Since you asked so nicely…” He says, letting go of one of your arms, letting you grasp the arm still wrapped around you with your hands, as his free hand skirts down your stomach to the top of your leggings, pausing long enough for you to nod again, before he finally touches you.

You whimper, jerking in his lap at the feel of his warm fingers directly on your heat for the first time, spreading your wet folds with a satisfied hum. His long fingers move down to your entrance, gathering some of the wetness there, “You’re so fucking wet,” he marvels, dragging his fingers up to your aching clit, “Fucking dripping on my fingers.” He murmurs in your ear, nipping at the side of your neck and sending tingles down your spine as he starts rubbing tight, wet circles against your bud.

You tilt your head back, resting it against his shoulder as your chest heaves. A moan leaves your mouth, louder than it should be, and Michaels free hand shoots up, wrapping around your mouth. “Gotta be quiet, love,” he whispers, not slowing down the movement of his fingers in the slightest, “Wouldn’t want someone to interrupt, hm? Make me stop again?”

You squeeze your eyes shut, whining desperately against his hand as he moves his fingers against you, the coil in your belly winding tighter and tighter. Your whole body lurches atop his, making him suck a breath in through his teeth as you move against his cock, still hard and hot as it presses against your lower back, when he moves his hand lower, plunging two fingers into your tight heat with no warning. “Fuck!” You yelp, muffled against his hand; tears leak from the corners of your eyes as he moves his fingers, scissoring them into you relentlessly as his thumb circles your clit.

“S’fucking tight,” he mumbles lowly, voice vibrating his chest against your back, “God, you’re tight.” He grunts between clenched teeth, repeatedly crooking his fingers inside you as he fucks his fingers in and out of your heat, letting out small, barely there groans every time your pussy squelches around his fingers as he punches muffled whines and whimpers from you. He crooks his fingers up suddenly in a way that makes you see stars as you writhe on his lap, your knees shooting up off the floor as you attempt to curl up on yourself, “That the spot?” He teases, relentlessly rubbing his fingers against it as his thumb quickens against your clit. He adds a third finger without warning, curling them up against that rough patch inside you as he bites down on your shoulder, muffling his own groan as he feels you clench down on his fingers.

“You gonna come?” He mumbles, grinning like a cheshire cat when you frantically nod your head, tears leaking onto the hand still wrapped tightly around your mouth. “Open your eyes,” he commands, not stopping his movements, “Want you to watch what I’m doing to you when you fucking cum.”

At the promise of finally getting to come, your eyes shoot open as you pick your head up off his shoulder, looking down the length of your body to where his hand disappears under your leggings. You practically come undone at the sight, watching as his hand moves against you through the dark fabric, maintaining a careful rhythm. “Michael, please!” You whine against his hand, desperately trying to keep your eyes open.

He chuckles lowly, clearly proud of how quickly he’s been able to reduce you into a begging mess, the sound reverberating off your back. “Fucking come,” he commands, doubling his efforts, “Soak my fucking hand, love.”

The coil in your stomach finally snaps and you sob, eyes snapping shut as your whole body clenches, shaking in his lap, as fireworks burst behind your eyelids. Your entire core clamps down so tight he has to fight to keep his fingers within you, muting the sounds of his groans against your neck and shoulder as he feels your cunt pulse against his fingers. He doesn’t let up, pressing incessantly against that spot within you as you come, until he finally gets what he wants – both of you groaning together, noises muffled, as a stream of fluid seems to erupt from your center, soaking his hand and the inside of your leggings, though you can’t think enough to care at the moment.

“Goddammit,” he grunts, finally removing his hand from your leggings, running his fingers through your folds one last time just to make you squirm. Suddenly, he’s lifting you off his lap enough to turn you around, maneuvering you to face him. You’re practically boneless in his lap as he lifts you just enough to pull your leggings down over your ass, pressing his bare cock against your still throbbing center when he sets you back down, “Gonna let me fuck you, love? Hm? Want me to make you go dumb around my cock?”

You nod your head weakly, not bothering to lift it from his shoulder as you straddle his lap. He doesn’t make you beg this time, too desperate to feel your wet heat around him, as he swiftly lifts you up again, just enough to align his length with your entrance.

Both of you moan as he lets you sit back down, his hard length disappearing into your warmth. He holds the back of your head, pressing your mouth against his neck to muffle your cries; you can feel his jaw clench with the effort of keeping his own muted. He fills you deliciously, thick cock pressed against every part of you, as your clit presses against the small thatch of hair above his length.

“Fuck,” he huffs, the word hissed between his teeth as he squeezes his eyes shut, savoring the way your pussy pulses around his length, the way you desperately mouth and lick at his neck, “God, knew you’d feel good.”

Somehow, that remark works it’s way through the fog in your brain, “Hm?” you hum against his neck, your hands coming up to tangle in his golden hair, “You thought about me?” You whimper, words whiny and breathy as he rocks you against him, spearing you on his length again and again, head kissing your cervix just enough to knock the air from your lungs every time he lowers you back down.

He sighs, as if just now realizing what he’d said, and nods, swallowing down a moan before he speaks, “‘Course I did,” he admits, grinding you down against him, his hips pressed against yours. “Looked so damn pretty in class,” he continues, “So cute all, fuck, all flushed and embarrassed every time you got asked a question.”

His admission makes you clench around him, heat flooding through your system as you process what he’d said. Your clit grinds against his body again, just as the head of his cock brushes against that spot in your center, and it’s like your brain has been whited out, all you can do is mewl against his neck as he rocks you up and down along his cock.

“Fuck, I feel this sweet cunt getting tight, love,” he says, breathing heavily as he gets closer to his own release, “Y’gonna come?”

“Yes!” You whimper, voice high-pitched and broken as you nod frantically against the skin of his neck, now wet with your spit and tears as you rock yourself against him, moving your clit against the hair at the base of his cock.

“Hold it,” he commands softly, more breathing than speaking. He chuckles when he hears you whine, loving the way you mewl for him like a soft little kitten, and the hand still holding your head against him strokes your hair, soothing you. “Want us to come together,” he huffs, cursing under his breath as he feels you grow somehow tighter around him, “Fuck, I’m close just hold on.” The hand on your hip tightens, grinding you tightly against him, groaning as he feels your center milking his cock, your walls clenching around him desperately.

“F-fuck, Michael,” you whine, breath hot against the column of his throat as you feel yourself tipping over, “Please! Please I can’t hold it, please!” You beg beautifully, weeping against his skin, trying so hard to keep it down to a whisper so you don’t draw attention, not this close to your release.

“Where, fuck,” he curses, pulling your head up to look in your eyes, the blue in his nearly swallowed by blackness, “Tell me where.” He pants, his voice urgent.

“Inside me!” You breathe, cunt clenching around him as you feel him twitch inside you.

He groans, forehead resting against your shoulder for a second as he tries to maintain control, both of his hands gripping your ass hard enough to leave bruises, “Are you s–”

“Yes!” You nod, resting your forehead against his when he picks his head back up, “‘M on the pill.” You reassure him as you keep nodding. The two of you move together for a few more seconds, wildly grinding together, before the coil in your stomach is finally wound too tight, “Michael, oh, fuck!”

“Fuck,” he gasps, seeming to get somehow thicker inside you, “Come for daddy, fuck, be good and come.” He commands, his own voice low and frenzied.

Hearing him call himself that does you in, and you shatter around him, walls gripping him tightly. You open your mouth, unable to control a loud moan, which he quickly hushes by pressing his lips against yours, licking into your mouth as he thrusts up into your center harshly a few times, each rise of his hips accompanied by a grunt into your waiting mouth as you mewl at the heat of his cum filling you up, extending your own release.

The two of you stay quiet for a moment, breathing heavily as you sweetly kiss, tiredly pressing your lips together. Finally, you pull away from him giggling shyly when you meet his eyes, blushing as you feel his length slowly softening inside you. “Getting shy on me now?” He teases, smiling at you as he gently plays with your hair.

You smile back at him for a second before suddenly coming to your senses and remembering where you are, “Shit,” you whisper, hopping up off his lap, “I cannot believe we just did that!” You quickly scan the floor with wide eyes, shoulders visibly relaxing when you still don’t see anyone.

“Wasn’t in my plan,” Michael starts, tucking his member back into his boxers and zipping up his jeans, “But I’m certainly not complaining.” He finishes, smirking at you before standing. He leans down, helping you pull up your leggings. He doesn’t miss the way you grimace when the damp, now unpleasantly cool, fabric presses against you. “Sorry,” he apologizes, gesturing to them, “I should’ve…controlled myself better with that one.” He finishes, awkwardly scratching at his chin.

You laugh quietly, trying to play it off although you’re dreading the half hour train ride back to your flat. That feeling doubles when you look down, eyes widening as you see the dark patch around your crotch, hardly visible on the dark fabric but enough that it makes you nervous, “Getting home is gonna be fun.” You joke, turning to begin gathering your things.

You’ve gotten your textbook put back into your backpack when you feel a tap on your shoulder; turning your head, you look wide-eyed when you see him sheepishly smiling at you, holding his red sweater out as he stands in a band t-shirt, “Here,” he says softly, waving the sweater at you, “You need it more than I do and it’s my fucking fault anyway.”

You blush, taking the sweater from him with a small thank you, tying it around your waist as he busies himself with picking up his things, before putting the rest of yours into your backpack as well, “Oh, you didn’t have to do that!” You tell him as you finish situating his sweater around you, satisfied that the stain is covered.

He huffs out a laugh, “You sucked my cock on the floor of a library,” he jokes, eyes sparkling with mischief yet again, “S’the least I could do.”

You laugh, playfully shoving at his shoulder as you put your backpack on. The floor is truly, blessedly, empty as the two of you leave and walk downstairs, not seeing anyone on the second floor either and only a few stragglers on the main floor at this hour on a Saturday evening. He pushes open one of the heavy wooden doors at the entrance, holding it open for you as you duck under his arm. The door thuds closed behind you as you both stand outside the library, the air cold now that the sun’s gone down.

“I really like them, that band,” you say, nodding to his shirt, “Their last album’s really good.”

“Oh!” He says, eyebrows raising in surprise, “You know them?” He asks, smiling when you nod again, “Their new album is probably my favorite too, actually.” The two of you stand in a comfortable silence for a second later before he notices you shiver as a breeze blows through the stoney courtyard. “D’you live close to campus?”

“Half hour on the train,” you shrug, pulling your phone out to check the time, “I should probably go soon if I’m gonna catch the next one…”

“You could come to mine?” He asks, his voice hopeful, “It’s only a walk from here, maybe fifteen or twenty minutes?”

Your eyes widen, having not expected his invitation, but you nod nonetheless, “If you’re sure,” he nods, “Then, yeah! That would be great.” You smile, walking beside him as you start heading in the direction of his flat.

“Would you maybe want to get lunch sometime?” He asks, glancing down at you.

“I would love that,” you smile, your hand brushing against his as you continue down the sidewalk, “I think I might need more tutoring, too…”

His hand catches yours, your fingers intertwining as he smirks, “Will you suck my cock every time?” He teases, grinning as you laugh, the sound echoing off the buildings and filtering into the night air.

Told you so. The voice in the back of your mind echos as you lean your head on Michael’s shoulder.

tagged lovelies: @schniiipsel @arcielee @darlingofvalyria @aemshaircare @imaegontatgaryenwife0 @valeskafics @beautbuck @watercolorskyy @marysucks-blog @fan-goddess @drakonflames @helloworldiamnotarobot

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 6 months

Text

Choke On The Sun

PAIRING: John Price x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: You'd known John ever since the Academy, and even after losing touch, the love you had for one another was never gone. Like a snake, it had stayed hidden in unseen places. But it was always there.

WORDCOUNT: 13.8k

WARNINGS: Blood, intense gore, torture, detailed descriptions of torture i.e. electrocution, loss of a finger, gunshot wounds, knife wounds, discussion of torture, canon-typical violence, death, near-death experiences, guns, weapons, abductions, betrayals, intended for mature audiences, happy ending, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You remember a story you’d been told when you were a rookie—fresh off the cut and eager-eyed with far fewer scars. A more of a glass-half-full type of outlook on life, unknowing of what you’d experience during your years with the SAS: what choices you would have to make.

It went something like this.

There was a herd of deer that had jumped over the side of a bridge. On either end of that bridge, there were two trucks with their high beams on—not moving but sitting there; the deer got pressured. Spooked. One by one they just…hopped over and died on the rocks below—no noise above the breaking of bone and the clatter of antlers shattering to pieces.

You have to wonder if it was the fault of the first one who had jumped over for leading the rest to a quick end, or the drivers of the cars just trying to get where they needed to go; ignorant of the way they’d been ogling to see the panic in wide, black eyes. Either way, a whole herd of ten met their fate and left their bodies to feed the larvae and the birds.

The story had been told over drinks at a pub, at the time you’d taken an interest in it with no more than a slow comment of ‘poor things’ before you’d brought your glass to your lips. You don't know why you’re thinking about it now.

The timing could have been more opportune.

You send a bullet into the man’s kneecap, hearing the bone disintegrate and the flesh open like a flower. His scream follows, loud and hoarse—sobbing trapped behind a bitten tongue that drips blood down his chin.

Hand snapping up, you grasp the lower half of his face with a grunt, head shoving itself forward until you lock onto fluttering eyes and get consumed by a whining sob.

“I asked you a question,” you lick your lips, tasting sweat as it slithers down your skin. Your voice is slow and even, grip tight. With a shove, you push back the man’s face, wrist limp with the Basilisk as you wipe at your nose with it, unblinking, when you get to your full height.

The room wasn’t anything different from a million other black sites you’d been to. A single chair where your mark sits tied up, a desk that had been pushed to the wall, and a single door placed into the cracking foundations of a concrete wall. No windows. No vents.

Hotter than hell, too, and that place was something you were acutely in tune with.

“Anthony,” you say, waving your free hand as the scent of blood gets stronger, pools of it already on the hard floor. “I’m gonna call you Tony, alright?”

Tony yells, wrenching his arms against the zip-ties and screaming until his voice is hoarse.

“Damn you! I told you I don’t know anything!” He sobs. “My leg—I can’t feel my leg, oh, God it hurts.”

You frown, glancing at the door.

“Stop lying to me,” you look back, eyes unblinking in the low light. “You still have one left—tell me where your buyer is and I let you keep the ability to walk upright with a cane.”

“I don’t know his name—!”

“I don’t need a name, Tony,” you growl, irritated. “I need a location.”

“Copenhagen!” He wails, body spasming and hair dancing atop his head. “The warehouse is in Copenhagen, please, that’s all I know!”

You blink.

“Denmark?” You mutter, brows furrowing.

“Fuck!” Tony screams long, his skull tilting forward as he releases his guts to the floor through quick gasps. Backing up a step to stay out of the spray, you watch him silently; thinking. The flood of the man’s crimson fluids ripples. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

“Denmark,” grumbling to yourself once more, you shake your head and sigh aggressively. “Of course.”

Without another glance, you turn and exit the room, pushing your Basilisk into its holster as the gear on your chest clinks lightly like the sound of rain hitting a metal roof. The door closes behind you, voice calling to one of the guards as he looks up quickly. His face is pale. Tony’s wails still echo out; water filling a bucket.

“Get a medic,” is what you settle with—slipping past on a fleet foot and new intel to pass on to Laswell. She’ll be intrigued, no doubt.

One step closer, your mind hisses to you. Just a little bit longer.

It’s too late to gain a conscious now.

Emmett Kinsman had been dodging you for years—dodging the Task Force—but with one of his suppliers giving away a location you’d been unable to pin, there was hope for a swift resolution to this mess.

The radio on your chest sizzles to life.

“Hart, sit-rep. How’s it lookin’ on the black site.” Kate’s American accent leaks into the earpiece attached to you, the cord looping the back of your neck and inserted into the shell; a device of black metal and plastic.

“I have a location for Kinsman. Copenhagen,” you ease out, moving a finger to the earpiece and pressing. Glancing at the rows and rows of doors in this endless hallway of dark smoke and obsidian mirrors—you’re eager to get your boots to the ground. Your other hand snatches at the rag swinging from your belt, taking it out and rubbing at your face with it until the stain of oil and flecks of blood smear like frosting on a cake. “Where are the boys? I need to be wheels-up to meet them ASAP.”

“Coming to you.”

“They’re here?” Your face twists as the words settle in, confused. “Why? Thought they were tracking another lead in Romania.”

Kate’s voice is smooth in your ear, moving like water as you turn a corner, stuffing your rag back into your belt.

“Are you surprised?” The woman jokes in a monotone; you’d only taken it as such because you knew her dry state of humor. “Really, Hart, you know he can’t stop until you’re back at his side. I was going to tell you sooner, but you were…occupied.”

Your feet pause for a moment at the beginning of her sentence, instinctual heat moving the length of your neck until you clench your jaw and continue onward at a slightly slower pace—eyes narrowed on the floor ahead of you.

“It isn’t like that, Kate,” you mutter. A low hum echoes the line and you fight a scowl as a group of soldiers walk past. Itching at your forearm, you shake your head. “John just likes having everyone together on missions like these. If it had been different, I’m sure he would have told me to fly back to them regardless of the intel. We’re tight on time.”

“I’ve known you both for more years than I can remember,” Laswell sighs. “Don’t try that with me, Captain.” You frown, clicking your tongue. “They’ll be arriving on the tarmac—get ready for a quick exit. We need Kinsman by month’s end.”

“Copy,” you utter, removing your hand from the earpiece and glaring ahead of you. A still-air silence envelopes the hallway, the only sound of your boots to the concrete and the reverberation that booms after.

It was so quiet here.

John Price—Captain Price—and yourself had a… complicated history. You’d joined up together; gotten through SAS selection neck-and-neck until time and its grubby fingers had forced your lives in different directions. Like two vines of reaching ivy, it had only been three years ago that you’d seen the other again, though you’d heard stories as you’re sure he had about you.

Hart: not the kind that beats but the kind that bleats, you had to explain to most—you weren’t unknown to the darker side of the job and the people that specialized in it. Your file was stretched with so much black ink that when you’d gotten the call on your phone, an unknown number, you’d recognized the gruff voice behind it and the first question you’d asked was how the hell he’d gotten clearance to track you down.

“No hello, then, Hart?”

“Not one for pleasantries, John. Explain. Quickly.”

“Business as always.” He’s wasted no time, voice going to a low grumble over the line that day. “Laswell took in a favor. You’ve been busy, Love…Room for one more joint-Op?”

It hadn’t panned out to only ‘one more joint-Op’.

After the mission was over, it had been raining on base. The sky had shed tears from clouds deeper than the gray shades of your gear, splattering packed dirt and concrete. Above your head, the thin overhang off of the armory door had spared you some of it, but when the wind had shifted your clothes absorbed specks of water like spots on a fawn. Your eyes had been looking out—expression open.

When the man exited the building and came up beside you, you both didn’t speak for a long time. You had been aware of his form, devoid of vest and gear, while yours was still layered with it to the utmost degree. You’d expected to leave that night—a good old-fashioned Irish Goodbye with a C-17 already waiting for you to board. To carry you off to another hellish deed done with ravaging cruelty for the sake of people who would never even know you existed.

The storm had stopped you…or, maybe something else had.

“Good to see you again, Hart,” John had stated, still not looking over at you as his arms had crossed, feet situating themselves. “Been too long.”

You had stayed silent—watching. The drain across the street was flooded. Sticks and leaves stuck at the drain as a whirlpool formed; only dangerous to bugs and the bits of garbage blown in by the wind.

Only after the wind shifts again did you speak.

“And what has John Price been up to in that time?” Your eyes had slid to stare, piercing in the low illumination of the armory’s outside light.

A huff of a chuckle, the one you’d remembered in the days of selection—coated in mud from crawling through man-made trenches and a sharp smirk of a snap when the barbed wire had grazed his back.

There were too many stories here. Too many. So many it became impossible to wonder what could have been and what couldn’t—all that existed were the little moments of fondness.

The two of you were nothing else but souls long past redemption; stuck on that knife’s edge and waiting for the hand to shake and send you through it.

You are made of memories.

“That’s a story told over bourbon,” John’s lips had flickered, and you’d blinked slowly, head tilting. “Not anything worth reliving, yeah?”

“Everything is relivable, Captain. You just need to find a reason as to why.”

The man had nodded his head your way, conceding with his blank eyes ahead to the rain. A rumble of distant thunder had flown out, making your ears twitch. You couldn’t stop watching him now that you had the chance—the brunette strands; the fatigues, and that accent. The muscle you don’t remember him having in that specific place all those years ago. The wrinkles on his forehead from age and stress are shown in yours as a mirror.

Tall; formidable.

There was a tension in the air that you chose not to dwell on—the same that had been brewing for as long as you’d known him.

“I want you to join up with me,” the sudden comment had made your body tense, eyes snapping away. In your pockets, your fingers twitch with surprise.

“Join?”

“Thought I’d catch you before you disappeared again, yeah?” A sheen of slight embarrassment is over your skin. John chuckles again. “Extend a formal offer—Laswell was the one who suggested it.”

“Well,” you’d huffed, licking your lips. “Now I’m surely not accepting.”

“Let me fuckin’ finish, Love,” John’s lips were pulled in a slight smirk—beard shifting. A pause as the wind whips again, shaking the trees before he grunts. “One-Four-One. My Task Force. Been thinking I’d need someone like you, but I knew you’d never agree to it.”

“Oh?” Your brow raises.

“Not bloody stupid.” He sighs. “Thought I’d ask anyway. Give you a proper goodbye if you weren’t so keen on handing it out.”

“I don’t like goodbyes,” you mutter, hearing John’s feet shift—his boots scraping.

“I know.” It’s low and even—not a prod or a dig. An observation.

A hand is moved out to you, hovering.

There isn’t any need for words when you glance down at it, and then up at him; staring into those blue eyes that so perfectly illustrate the hues of a roaring river, hidden away in the confines of a verdant forest.

A slow smile pulls at your lips, and you see the corner of the man’s eyes soften.

“Knew I’d get one out of you again,” he mutters as you slip your hand into his, a firm and all-encompassing heat of flesh and care.

“Don’t get used to it, John.” Shaking his hand, you smirk, legs shifting.

“Never,” he chuffs, squeezing your limb.

You don’t know why you stayed under that overhang with him that night. You don’t think you’ll ever be able to explain it as you had looked up and seen the C-17 fly off without you in its cargo hold, hands resting on your vest collar and blue eyes watching you, slightly narrowed.

You never even verbally told him you were sticking around…it had happened like a stray cat under the porch of your childhood home; taken in and cared for. Just the same, John never mentioned it beyond paperwork.

Shaking your head, you blink back to the black site, turning that last corner and making it to one of the exits. Pushing the metal-reinforced door open, you shift outside and move a hand to cover the glare of the setting sun from your eyes, grunting.

Laswell’s voice peaks back in as you jog toward the far-off body of a whirling plane, three figures just managing to walk down the ramp.

“Hart? It’s Laswell.”

“Copy,” you say, knees taking the brunt of the heavy items you carry in pouches and have strapped to your form. “What is it?”

“The Task Force is a go for Denmark—when you get there, I need everyone searching; we can’t lose him again.”

“Affirm. I’m on it, Kate.” You breathe. “John and I’ll get him. It’s personal for us, you know that.”

“That I do. Make sure to keep your heads on with this, Hart. Out.”

You lick your lips, nodding even if she can’t see you.

Slowing as you near the plane, friendly smiles spark up from the two Sergeants. Gaz comes over, grasping at your shoulder and speaking above the engine behind him.

“Ma’am! Good to have you back.” Soap chuckles, tilting his head your way as you grasp Kyle’s forearm—squeezing in greeting with a twinkle in your eye.

“Surprised to see us?” The Scot calls.

You scoff. “Laswell gave you up.”

“Damn,” Kyle moves back, fixing the cap atop his head and glancing back at his fellow Sergeant. Simon nods from behind the two to which you respond in like. “She bloody betrayed us.”

“Not as much as Kinsman,” the mood sours; lips thinning as you speak firmly. “Where’s John?”

“Right here,” the man in question comes down the ramp, blue eyes meet yours. A second of inspection passes, eyes from both parties flickering up and down forms for any mistreatment—any ailments. “Kate already told me. We’re leaving now that we have you.”

Bumping Simon’s fist with yours as you pass him, you ascend the ramp, Soap muttering under his breath about the flight time from behind.

Standing beside John, you pause like a bird, eyes half narrowed. “You didn’t have to pick me up, you know? I could have gotten another plane.”

The man the same rank as you hums, making sure the men are all inside and taking one last look out to the black site, eyes missing nothing down to the concrete structure to the lights that will soon illuminate the pure nothingness of the fields of this area.

“Wait time would have put us back.” Tiny eyes blink, a hand coming up to rest on his collar as his face shifts to you. “You good?”

“Always,” you mutter without hesitation. “Nothing from Romania, then?”

He grumbles, clenching his jaw and taking in your words. “Negative.”

A silence settles in which you quirk your brow—a small flicker of a smirk makes him turn away and stalk back into the hull, grunting in annoyance. You follow on silent feet.

“That’s it? It must have been horrible, then. Care to explain?”

“Get in your seat, Captain.”

You hold back a low chuckle, walking beside him until you both come to the back of the plane—easing back into the hard plastic, you huff as you clip in your seatbelt.

It’s all relative silence until the large metal beast is in the air; everyone's bodies shifting as the floor evens out. John and you take long breaths and, feeling the occasional jostle of the plane, you occupy yourself by picking at the dried blood all over your hands as the flight begins—Tony’s blood.

Blue eyes blink down at you, watching from the side.

“He know anything important?” You stifle a yawn on your lips, one hand coming up to cover the open-jawed expression of tiredness.

Glancing, you shrug with a slow response of, “Only a location. Even then I don’t know if it’ll pan out like we want it to, John.”

Everyone had been hoping for more, but they also knew that you were the best at interrogations and information retrieval. If you had called it that the man only knew a city and nothing else, John wasn’t one to question you. He knew better.

A large hand shifts to grasp your right bloody one, picking it up and bringing it to his lap. You let him do it without protest, shoulders loosening at the roughness of his calluses moving across yours until the familiar ritual begins to take part like a black mass.

Fingers twitching, you hear a hum as John takes out a rag from his pocket, opening it with a flick of his wrist. Moments later, the water bottle on the seat next to him is taken and the droplets that are left are scattered like rain over the fabric until they absorb.

“All dirty, Love,” he grumbles as your eyes soften, watching him trace the lines of your palm with the wet rag—dabbing away the beads of red. Watching, you listen as he continues. “We’ll figure it out, eh?”

Blue locks with you, holding your gaze until the permanent set of his brows slowly loosens. “We will,” he reaffirms firmly.

“...I should have shot him when I had the chance,” you whisper to John, words low and tone nothing more than a mouse’s murmur; a small pebble hitting the ground. “Don’t lie and say it wasn’t my fault.”

“You’re going to fucking ruin yourself with that, Hart.” He advises, his cleaning of blood coming to a slow halt. “You did what you thought was best,” John leans in closer, not blinking as you try to move your head away with a half-hidden scoff. A damp hand grabs lightly at your chin, shifting it back as you blink in mild shock into John’s face. He doesn’t falter. “It’s all any of us can do, yeah?”

As if it were nothing, he lets you go and shifts his focus back to cleaning your hand. You watch for a long moment, oblivious to the elbows hitting sides from farther down the hull, quick glances tossed between Sergeants and a Lieutenant who quirks a brow under his mask, huffing a sound in his throat.

“If I had,” you force back the stutter in your voice. “More people would still be alive.”

“Maybe,” John tilts his head, the rag brushing the length of your fingers. “Maybe not. We don’t know that, do we? No use wasting our breath talking about it then. What matters, Hart, is how we fix this.”

You sigh, repressing a shiver as his thumb brushes scars and blemishes, moving like moss over stone.

“And we don’t leave our bloody problems for the next poor bastard, do we?” You puff air from your nose, shaking your head at the smirked comment. You watch John’s beard move with it—taking in the crinkling of his eyes and the way his knee hits yours.

“Wonderful pep-talk, Captain.” You lean your head back against the netted sides of the aircraft, letting your eyes flutter shut; oblivious to the way he watches you. “The service is lost on you—therapist is right up your alley.”

“Fuck’s sake,” John scoffs. “I’d sooner go back to the academy than that.”

“The food was utter shite, wasn’t it?” You agree.

“No need to bring it up,” John comments lowly, amusement thick in his words.

You don’t know when you fell asleep, but you do know that the pressure around your limb stayed there for a long while—the rag moving over every sliver of skin until only the base was left behind; like a painter creating an ocean scene, shrouded in mist, every bit of red was gone.

Your dreams are plagued by Emmett Kinsman. His sharp face; his sly eyes and his knack for being undetected.

He’d been a part of your and John’s class in the Royal Military Academy—when all was done, he’d graduated and begun to serve in the 22nd SAS Regiment just as the both of you had. There was never much interaction there, beyond shared drinks and a few good words, a single operation, but the bonds of brotherhood run deep. If given the chance over any deployment or service, John or yourself would have given your lives for him—for the boy you’d bled and persevered with to a point of utter loyalty akin to beasts; unrestrained by any threat of violence, sharp attitude, or past faults.

And in the end, he’d thrown that all away to get into bed with terrorists.

Location: London, England

Time: 1718

Operation: ‘Purple Cloth’

Your eyes rest behind the glass of the bookstore, gazing out over the street from the second floor with a level of new-found skill and a surety in yourself. Fresh off the cut, you aren’t overly eager for this, but you’re assured in your abilities.

There can be no failure.

Emmett is down below, sitting at a café and sipping tea as John is stationed at a building farther down the street; waiting. Another man, directly relaying information to Emmett, is at the café as well, sitting in the corner reading a newspaper and facing the individual you’re supposed to follow. Only the four of you for this, and you’re not overly familiar with half of them. John was your only shining grace.

“Target’s getting the bill,” you shift your head into the collar of your shirt, muttering. “He’ll move soon.”

“He carrying?” John’s voice slithers in, a soft murmur.

You stare, expression lax at the large body that shifts and stands with a tight shirt on, waving off the barista when she tells him to have a good day. “If I had to guess? Negative. Nothing big—no bulge at his spine. At the very opposite end, I’d say an X13 could be concealed and accessed via a slit in the pant’s pocket and in a holster at his thigh. They’re baggy enough for it, but the draw time’ll be longer. Drug runners are sloppy.”

John grunts, and you address Emmett. “How are we doing, Mate?”

A smooth, suave, tone moves into your ear. “Not too bad, Sweet Thing. Else, I'd be better if you were sharing a drink with me before I disappear.”

“Only in your imagination, Kinsman,” John interrupts, unimpressed drawl taking your attention. “Keep on it.”

“I swear I rank the same as you, Price. Where do you get off ordering me around like your dog?” The comment is so easily dismissed as a joke between comrades that there’s no hostility there.

“Since I was given oversight,” the amusement is easily taken in John’s voice. “I’m the one keeping your arse alive, eh?”

The other addition to your team speaks up, a voice that in the future you’ve already long forgotten. He says to cut the chatter, and you have to agree.

Emmett and the target are nearing an alley.

“I’m heading down,” you utter, already turning and heading to the stairs, swiftly moving down them and exiting the building.

“Copy,” John’s voice fizzles the line. “I’ll head them off.”

“Emmett,” you move to link up with the fourth member of the team as he joins at your side, both of you sharking a glance and a jerk of your heads. “Keep him away from civilians. We can’t deal with casualties in this populated of an area.”

“He won’t have a chance to shoot them,” the comment makes your brows furrow, the tone not a cocky gloat but rather...quiet. A moment of silence wafts out. “What in the bloody hell is that supposed to mean, Kinsman?” You frown tightly, your gut swirling with something unidentifiable. The X12 in the back of your baggy sweatshirt is heavy—suddenly ten times more so.

In the corner of your eye, you see John far across the way shift, leaning before on a trash can, now standing upright. You swear you lock eyes with him, both gifted in all sense when it comes to war. Perhaps it was ingrained into both of your DNA—a knowledge of all things deadly; of threats unseen. Some primal and horrible understanding spanning back to when man had first raised a fist to another.

“Oi,” your voice pushes. “What does that mean?” Feet pivoting, you move closer to the alley where the light shade of hair disappears.

The line is silent.

Silent before a loud gunshot rings.

Birds scatter, and you instinctively duck down, hand snapping to your service weapon as your eyes go wide. Head snapping about, you dash to the alley opening above the screaming; pushing past fleeing people.

“Hart!”

“He’s in the alley!”

“Do not engage until I get there, do you hear me?!” You’re already at the entrance, X12 ahead of you, and the safety flicked off with a heavy finger. “Hart!”

The body of your mark is on the ground—a bullet in the back of his skull.

“Fuck!” You shout, feet slapping the concrete as you zoom past. “Price—target’s down, Emmett shot him in the damn head, on his tail now.”

“Fucking hell.” The man is growling out at you, voice heated.

Your eyes snap this way and that, weapon at the ready as you take a sharp turn. At the very end of the opening, you see him.

Kinsman slips his service weapon back into the base of his spine, pulling at his shirt to cover the grip as a mass of the crowd is just behind him. He rushes quickly on long legs.

“Emmett!” Your voice makes him freeze. There’s a long pause before anything is spoken; you have your sights trained—a perfect line-up to the roundness of his skull.

“I had hoped to be fast enough,” the man tells you, head tilting to the side, “but I should have known you’d move head-long into danger without backup.”

“Hart,” John’s voice nearly startles you from the line. “Sitrep, now!”

“Why would you do that, Emmett?”

“There’s more to this than being pawns, Hart,” Kinsman growls at you. “I play my game right, I always come on top. I needed to earn their trust; our target had a price on his head and no one else could get as close as me. Well,” he pauses, “us.”

“I’m taking you in,” you grit your teeth, hands tight on the gun. You don’t even want to think about what he means by ‘their’ or his ‘game’. It was always word puzzles with this man—one second you had the right piece, and the next the entire picture had changed like sand in the waves of a tide.

“Are you really that torn up about a drug runner?” A scoff makes you hold back a snarl, but your resolve is shaking. This was a man you had trusted—now fast can something that was forged with steel break?

“He was just some filthy nobody, Hart.” Emmett starts walking into the crowd ahead of him, and in your mind you know if you take that shot you run the risk of shooting an innocent civilian. “I’ll be more than a nobody. Or a grunt soldier. People are going to know me.”

Bodies flee quickly—screams. Mothers, children, husbands.

Kinsman smirks, and as your finger tightens on the trigger, he’s already swallowed by the hoard.

“I’ll be seeing you.”

John and you sit in the safehouse, for a moment, surrounded by quiet and the smell of hot tea. One week in Denmark, and you have no leads. The other three are away, sleeping in the rooms down the hallway.

“You’re still thinking about him,” John speaks up, eyes on you. It’s blunt, but that was just how he was.

You peek your eyes open slowly, your body slouching in the chair and feet outstretched under the table. Your boot lightly touches John’s own. A long sigh exits your nose, grumbling on your tired lips.

“John,” you level, drawing the name out like the years of your life. A thin warning.

The man clenches his jaw slightly, bringing up his cup and taking a slow slip. You see the flesh of his throat bob with the liquid as it goes down, the overhead light of the kitchen only a single bulb of warm glow.

“Been chasing him for years, Hart,” he says when the item is back to the woodgrain. Voice a deep murmur—a scrape of vocal chords. “We both have.”

“He knows too much,” you reply. “I can’t let him get away again. Strategies, operators, everything.” Your eyes shift as your head raises, blinking away the sleep in your glinting orbs. “For years he’s been under our nose, getting away with who knows what—”

“Hart,” your rant is interrupted, and you stop with a snap of your teeth. Blue eyes lock a concerned sheen to them. “Breathe.”

Your face moves away, arms loosely crossed over your chest tensing.

John’s body shifts to you, leaning forward until his elbows are resting on his knees. He stares, brows a line on his flesh. You send a swift glance, lips pulling.

“...Stop that,” your voice murmurs, echoing off the walls of the kitchen. John blinks, not speaking as you move in your seat. The man tilts his head, a slow something making his lips go back slightly. Gradually, your face goes hotter, blinking at him a few times; sucked in like a fox to a trap. “John, quit it.”

“M’not doing anything, Love.”

“Bullshit,” you try and glare at the looseness of his expression, his smirk that makes your gut tighten. Goosebumps move up your arms. “You’re a horror.”

A low chuckle wafts out, John shrugging casually before he leans back.

He takes up his cup again and takes down the last of the remnants. “Go to sleep,” hits your ears as your pounding heart takes a breather. It’s a grumble on the air—not as much an order as it is a suggestion. “It’s late.”

You decide to sip at your own drink as well, eyes drooping at the steam that wafts around your face, nose twitching to the scents.

“You?” John hums, looking you up and down; seeing the fatigue you carry. You’d been relentless for the week you’d all been here, holding the few strings of the lead you had to your chest—five-fingered grasping with a desperate prayer to all things unholy.

“I’ll be here.” You tilt your head his way, eyes still half-closed in your seat. Your answer is easy, pushed out in a slow sentence.

“Then so will I.”

John sighs under his breath. It’s a moment before an exasperated chuckle moves through your earbuds. You smile, eyes slipping closed fully.

Yet, they startle back open as the cup is taken from your hands, your chair moved back firmly.

“Up you get, then,” John grunts, and his arms snake around you. Blinking quickly, your jaw is slack as you get taken up into a tight carry; John’s chest firm and your nose brushing the side of his chin.

Air getting sucked into your lungs, you stifle a hitch in your breath.

It’s only after he starts walking forward, hiking you farther up into him, and his fingers gliding over your clothes, that you start to relax. His heat seeps like a warm fire.

Head sagging to the side, you grumble into his neck as you miss his eyes looking down at you, eyes soft in a way only you would have been able to see. “Can walk, y’know.”

He hums, head shifting back to the hallway as he carries you to the last door on the right, bumping into the wood with his shoulder and shifting to walk in sideways so you don’t let your legs on the frame.

“Remember Preu? 05’?” John asks you, moving over to the bed and setting you down slowly, a tiny huff exiting his mouth. Your body sinks into the mattress, head to the pillow as your hand comes up to rub at your eyes. The man moves to grab the blanket at the end of the bed—knowing your trained habit of sleeping atop the comforter on operations; not tangled up in sheets just in case. He slips off your boots. “Carried you two miles.”

“I recall it,” you grunt, a tired flicker coming to your lips. “Bleeding out and all.”

“Well,” John hums, quirking a brow. “Wasn’t about to let my Hart die on me. Blood was the least of my worries.”

Your pulse flutters at the title, even if it’s just your codename and not the beating muscular organ inside of your breast.

My Heart.

But it’s never that simple.

A hand moves up your cheek, a kiss pressed to your forehead.

The both of you already know you love each other. It wasn’t a secret. You were smart; eyes sharper than a blade—you caught the way he watched you, saw the softness of his expression, and felt the drag of his hand. Just as he caught the way you stayed beside him, an ever-present pair of eyes watching his six. The content nature that only you showed him.

With feet so eager to leave at any moment, it said much that you chose to exist near him simply because you wanted to.

You loved each other.

Boil it down, and you’d both known even back in the Academy that it would be the two of you at the end of all things. The rivers said your name. The valleys rustled with the breeze of your breath. You saw John in the bits of water that sloshed the rocks and in the earth beneath your palms.

Over the years you’d been apart, the yearning hadn’t been any less sharp—any less potent. In every birdsong, the echoes of the other's voice flew and disappeared on wingbeats. In everything that existed, there was a fraction of what should be.

What should be.

“John,” your voice is a whisper, nothing more than a rustle of a cloth. He keeps his lips to your forehead, resting there for a moment against all sense and responsibility. John’s eyes droop down, lashes resting on the swell of his cheeks. “You know I love you.”

He takes a breath. Rain is in the air—the movement of a storm’s wind. A leaving C-17.

It’s a low mutter into your flesh.

“I know.”

You grasp at his wrist, pulling lightly. Without a noise, John slips in beside you, kicking off his boots with a single clop of the soles to the wood and the movement of your blanket. He grunts, pushing his nose into your scalp, arms going around your middle. Your head slots under his chin, lips to his Adam’s apple.

The house is silent beyond the murmur of the pipes—the buzz of awaiting electricity.

So many memories. So many lost dreams. It was akin to two skeletons lying in a grave of their own making, forever holding the bones of the other. Duty and honor are etched into the fractures.

But he still holds you, he still murmurs into your ear, “Sleep, Love.”

“And you?” You ask, mirroring the conversation in the kitchen.

John’s lips move along your flesh, moving into a soft smile as he glances down at you. His beard scrapes you delicately.

“I’ll be here.”

Then it is here you’ll stay, dreaming of deer and the way nothing could compare to how he held you in his arms.

—

“I have eyes on,” your head snaps up, blankly staring ahead as your fingers hover over the hanging beads of a wind chime. You stand outside of a restaurant in the heart of Copenhagen.

Laswell had sent in more eyes for the Task Force to use—local soldiers that knew the layout of the city better and where would be a good place to look. For days you’d been moving through the streets; far-off storage units and hidden buildings providing fruitless harvests. Anthony had said a warehouse, but that was panning out as nothing as well.

False information? Possibly, but unlikely. The man had been genuine in his pain and pleading, and it only served to confuse you more.

You had Gaz with you and five others, taking over as the leader of this fireteam while John headed the other with Johnny and Ghost. They were on the opposite side of the city, and you can’t help but compare this to the moment Emmett had become an enemy.

But divide and conquer was the only option in times like these.

Emmett had become someone, just as he said he would. The man was in charge of supplying arms to terrorist organizations all over the world, and with his knowledge of how the SAS operates as well as any number of special forces, he’d utterly disappeared off the radar.

A wraith of lies and murder.

He had locations all over the globe with his goods, shipped out for money and power.

And now you have a positive ID.

“Where are you,” your voice is hard and stiff, the body already moving back from the chime and leaving its little bits and bobs swinging.

“Café down the street,” feet nearly locking together, you continue down the street to where you know Gaz’s last position was. “He’s just…sitting there.” A pause. “You want to know what it’s called in English, Ma’am?”

“The café?” your brows furrow, jogging across the street.

“‘The Warehouse.’” Growling under your breath, you shake your head and send a curse into the air after a pause.

“I think the man thought he was clever,” Kyle’s voice is smooth and teasing.

“Should have shot his other leg,” you grunt. “You told Laswell? John?”

“Negative, I’ll get on it—”

“I’ll do it,” you interrupt. “Tell the others to group up at your position and spread out to create a choke point; we can’t let him get away.”

“Rog. Will do.”

You patch into John’s frequency.

“We have him,” you instantly breathe out. “Down Holbergsgade—café called ‘The Warehouse’.”

It’s swiftly that an answer hits you. “Get him surrounded, we’re coming.”

Your heart is moving rapidly, fast in your chest as you pass people and business quickly. You didn’t like this—didn’t like the similarities, the…nostalgic dread that builds. A café of all places? Sitting down? Waiting?

It was so ironic it made alarm bells go off.

“John,” you lick your lips, glancing at faces as they pass. “I think he knows we’re here.”

“Explain.”

“A café?” John’s low grunt lets you know he understands. “Just sitting there? He knows—he’s not dumb enough to throw away all of his secrecy just as we so happen to get here and begin looking for him.”

“How sure are you?” The man takes your words into account, and you hear his breath puffing as he runs to your location.

“Ninety,” you breathe.

“Then I’m callin’ it off.” Your eyes widen, feet skidding as you come to a stop.

You have no clue as to how far John will go to keep you safe—even if it means potentially letting one of the SAS’s highest HVTs go. There wasn’t anything that could compare to the thought of you getting in harm's way. Not you.

John had spent his whole life watching soldiers die in the worst ways possible; they haunted his dreams and he knew they’d follow him to his grave—men he’d led down paths that they never should have been on.

Not you.

Losing you would break what little was left of him, the remnants held on by tape and sheer stubbornness. One of the last old faces he could still look at anymore; could draw comfort from in the thin hours. To hold and to love.

You both knew you wouldn’t stand for it.

“No,” your voice cuts across, monotone. “I’m not allowing that.”

“Bloody hell, Hart, listen to me—do not,” John growls, making your spine tingle, “go after him. If he knows we’re fuckin’ here, we need to pull back and close off the area.”

You’re walking forward, that same pressure of a gun at the back of your spine. It was almost poetic.

A thought sparks. Years of knowledge and understanding lighting up.

Emmett was a snake.

A snake that liked to play games and prove points; greed stuck into his brain for reasons you can’t quite say for certain. Even if you did catch him, he would never tell the locations of his goods or the buyers.

But there was one way to find out. One way this might turn.

“There’s a tracker in my arm,” you speak, growing more sure of your actions with every fast movement of your body. The café is just up the street, and a head of blonde hair is a knife to your vision. “I asked Laswell to insert and monitor it years back when I had to infiltrate a cell before I joined up with you again. Cautionary procedure since I had to forgo my rig and gear.”

A sharp bark. He knew what you were insinuating. “Hart!” You were going to get yourself taken hostage.

“Get Kate to watch it, John.” You move off his frequency before he can comment again, half of a roaring refusal cut off. Speaking to Gaz with a restricted throat, you say, “Kyle?”

“Right here, Ma’am.”

“Good. Don’t engage—I’m moving in.”

A stiff breath is taken in. “W…what was that?”

You don’t reply, only saying, “Whatever happens, I order you and the others to stay back, yeah?”

Your hand pulls the earpiece out and shoves it into your pocket right as you slip into the chair directly across from Emmett Kinsman.

“Emmett,” you say in greeting, moving up a few fingers to a barista with a low call of your order. The individual nods and moves off before you lock on green eyes; they nearly make you flinch.

You can only imagine what Gaz is telling John right now.

Kinsman blinks at you, but he isn’t surprised. You were right.

“Hart,” the man smiles. His voice is still the same, though he looks older. “Pleasure seeing you again. Enjoying the sights of the city?”

“Not particularly,” you stare at him.

He chuckles, tilting his head before he brings his drink to his lips. He swallows and continues.

“You always were serious. No fun.” You take the insult without any emotion, blinking at him slowly. What was his play?

“Why?”

“You already know why,” he shrugs, dressed in a nice suit. “I’ve made a name for myself—my name will be remembered for ages.” A twinkle in his eye. “SAS soldier turned weapon supplier; isn’t it exciting.”

“It’s a disgrace,” you lean forward, only stopping your voice from rising as a cup is placed down in front of you by the barista.

Your face plasters a fake smile and you nod, moving it in front of you. Emmett watches with a smirk.

“I call it a change of heart.” He sighs, smirk simmering to a casual smile. “But I am glad to see you, you’ve been creating a big mess of things and I took it upon myself to have a meeting between us as old friends.”

“I’m not your friend,” you growl. “You’ve killed innocent people for no more than a fucking paycheck.”

“Well,” he snorts. “I don’t kill anyone. I’m the middle man—there’s a difference.”

Rage makes your eyes go to slits.

“And innocents, Sweet Thing?” Emmett leans in closer, face so smug and open you want to pull your weapon on him and worry about the consequences later. “What do I call what you do then?”

“A necessary evil,” you huff. “One I carry on my shoulders just like every other soldier does. One that was far better than supplying terrorists.”

Kinsman shrugs, moving back and picking up his drink, swirling it. “If you say so.” He hums. “You have to try the pastries here, you know. They’re very good.”

“I know you’re here because you expected us to find you, what I can’t figure out is why you broke your cover in the open instead of turning yourself in.” You look around at the faces in the outdoor seating, studying them trying to pinpoint if they’re civilians or in league with Kinsman. “Tell me before I decide to shoot you right here and now and end this regardless of hidden goods.”

“You already tried that, Hart,” Emmett laughs. “Pointing a gun at me didn’t work last time.”

“I’m not going to use a gun,” you ease out. “I’m going to take the butter knife on the table and slit your throat.”

“Uncivilized,” Emmet grumbles, frowning at the silver object near your hands. “It isn’t even sharp.”

“Good.” Green eyes narrow, unimpressed. He sighs, fingers moving in an outward gesture of exasperation.

“If you must know before the main finale, I wanted to bring you here to say that I’m thoroughly impressed with your drive.” You try to stave off the shock in your stomach at the words coming out like a charmer’s flute. Raising a slow brow, you’re caught off guard. Emmett chuckles. “You nearly caught me at several instances throughout our game of cat and mouse. Many times I forget who the assigned roles were even given to; I’m telling you that I had fun.”

You stare, face tight.

Emmett hums and his eyes go to slits.

“But every game has to come to an end. I’m growing tired of it.”

The building across the street erupts into a great ball of fire.

—

John hears the explosion in the air, the shockwave that leaves his body halting to look into the sky in time to see black smoke.

“Fuck,” he says under his breath. “Fuck!”

He rushes into the panicked crowd, memories stuck in his head and a bone-deep fear he’d been feeling since you cut the connection in your earpiece. Gaz had been relaying to him what was going on action for action—a football game, only the difference was that your life was on the line.

“Kate,” John shouts. “Get the authorities down here now! We have an explosion on Holbergsgade.”

“Explosion?” The woman’s voice is sharp and disbelieving. “What’s going on—”

“Hart’s in the bloody crossfire, there’s no time!” John’s face is tight, wind whipping past his ears as screams fly on the wind; crying. “The fool is trying to get herself taken fucking hostage for intel!”

Whatever else was said was lost to the wind—Gaz comes over the line, calling to him in a panic as Johnny and Simon join in.

“The entire building just went up in—”

“Fucking Christ—”

“Price, what is this?”

“All of you get down here!” John sprints past people on the ground, ripping his gun out of the back of his waistband. There’s no arguing.

When the Captain turns the last corner, carnage greets him.

The building across from the café was reduced to nothing but rubble and a still-burning flame. Eyes wide, John only looks at it for a few moments, too preoccupied with you.

Where were you?

His jaw clenches, eyes burning with rage. Such a perfect soldier yet such a flawed sense of teamwork, he had a feeling you’d try something like this—had left Gaz with you for that very reason. Fuck he should have been at your side. He should have known.

A low grumble moves through his lips, head snapping all around. There are bodies on the ground. Blood pooling under thick building material—fabric in the breeze.

“Hart!” John yells, running to the café and seeing the remnants of a fast fight.

The Captain’s heart drops to his feet, face burning with hellfire so much that a sheen comes to his cheek. His hand moves out to touch the handle of a butter knife that had been slammed into the table now half-fallen over, eyes stuck on only one thing on the ground under it.

Through the wails and the call of sirens, the man stares at the two long fingers sitting in the dust.

Never in his life had he felt a fear like this.

—

“I wanted to be kind about this,” Emmett fiddles with the wrappings of his bandaged left hand, only three fingers remaining. “I was going to make it quick.”

You’re locked in a cell-like room, head to the side and blood leaking out of a cut face. Burns travel up your arm, the sticky puss leaking out only serving to make you shiver. You don’t know where you are—don’t know what happened after you severed Kinsman’s fingers with that knife.

But you know the pain isn’t something that you haven’t already gone through before.

Your voice is hoarse but firm as it leaks out of you, vision spotty. You’d been thrown in here after a ride in the trunk of a car. The ground is concrete.

“...Don’t make me laugh.”

Emmett growls, eyes wide with hatred.

“Pathetic!” He barks eyes looking you over with disgust. “Look at what you did to my hand!”

His other hand connects with the bars of the cage, producing a metal ringing sound as you push yourself up with one arm, eyelids flinching in pain. Sitting up, your body falls back to the wall behind it, and you grunt when the air in your lungs is expelled. You lick at your dust-coated lips, your head ringing and your focus failing. Concussion.

“Least of your worries,” you roll your jaw, a wave of pain making your body seize up and your hands tense with quivering shakes. Your mouth opens with sharp pants. Bile pools in the base of your throat.

It’s nothing.

John will come soon. The tracker. If Laswell can get it working again, you’d be out of here and you would have whatever this location turns out to be and the intel that it can offer you—computer databases would be a one-and-done game. You would get names, coordinates, and buyers. It could all be over.

Your clothes are melted into your skin, and when you move, they peel away with the remnant of your epidermis. The flesh of your left thigh and arm had taken the worst of it—and the cut from flying debris over your left cheek hasn’t stopped bleeding.

Blood drips from it, and a loud ache makes your head pound all the worse.

You’ve gone through worse.

“I don’t know why I bother,” Emmett snarls, the crimson bandages thick over his hand. “But it isn’t a problem,” he says, moving his other hand to slick back his hair. “It isn’t a problem,” the man utters again. “You’re going to help me. Yes…I’ve made up my mind. I need you to understand why I do the things I do.”

Your brows furrow, but above this burning in your head, it’s hard to understand what’s being said to you. Shadows move and Emmett orders one of his men to open the cell door.

You fight the black dots at the sides of your vision, leaking until you’ve accepted the reality of yourself going unconscious. As your body slouches to the side, hands ruthlessly grasp under your arms and drag you to your feet.

“Everyone has a breaking point.”

—

“What do you mean,” John glares at Laswell, his arms crossed over his chest; hands tightly grasping at his biceps. “You can’t find her?”

“The tracker was old, John,” the woman tries to explain, furiously typing at her computer that rests on the table in front of her—her spine bent over as the rest of the One-Four-One stay in a limbo of anxious looks. “To get it working again, it would need something to restart it. I don’t know if you can see,” Kate’s eyes are hard as they lock with his, “but I can’t do anything if she’s not here first.”

“Well of course she’d not bloody here Laswell, fucking Kinsman has her!” He shouts, hands moving out in a display of aggression.

“Captain,” Kate rises to the challenge, hand moving flat to the table and glaring with the heat of a thousand missiles. “Do not take that tone with me.”

John snarls and jerks his head away, feet on the ground trading weight.

The man was borderline feral—all snapping teeth and sharp glances. Gaz had seen him like this only a handful of times, MacTavish even fewer. Ghost, of course, knew, but even his brown eyes wouldn’t leave his Captain, absorbed in the way he was unable to stay still for even a moment. He was in full gear, too. Had put it on directly after returning to a local base.

John was ready to go to war, down to the rifle that swung from a strap at his side, the ammunition stuffed to his chest—sidearm at his thigh. A rabid dog with intelligence and the knowledge of where teeth needed to be applied to a neck for a clean kill. Simon doubted he wanted it to be clean.

John was ready to rip people to pieces.

“Give me something,” the Captain says in a low growl, beard shifting. “Give me what I need.”

Kate splays her hands. “All we have is surveillance of a car leaving the area—the smoke covers all chances of the drone we had flying picking up a clear picture. John,” Laswell eases, standing up, “there’s only so much we can do. We need to wait—”

“We can’t bloody wait,” Gaz speaks up, “What’ll he do to her in the meantime?”

“Garrick’s right, we need to be on the ground with this.” Johnny nods, mohawk bobbing. “That’s one of our own—we’re not sitting around with our thumbs up our arses, Laswell. Not with Hart.”

Simon blinks, humming. Laswell’s eyes shift to him, near pleading for one to be on her side with this and see sense. Ghost shrugs. “I’m with them. Hart’s one of our own; we’ll do what needs to be done.”

John’s chest swells with pride while his eyes get stuck on your file on the table, your printed picture, and your black ink—he’d never loved an image more, but nothing could beat the real thing. He needed you back. He’d gone through hell with you for his entire life; you’d suffered with him and only locked your hands together and held on tighter.

That was love—that was duty.

John Price wasn’t against skewing his morals for the sake of your safety. You would always be his most important mission. The man didn’t want to think about what might happen if he found you too late.

“Give me the video of the vehicle,” he grunts, jaw tight and his eyes beady. His body slightly leans forward to Kate, love going lower. “Or I’m going out there myself.”

Laswell frowns tightly at him.

“I just sent it into forensics—they’re trying to get a match. Go out if you want, but I won’t be able to stop the firestorm that comes out of it.”

She closes her laptop and moves past him, sending one last comment into the stone man as he towers ever taller.

“She’s strong, John. If you’re smart, you’ll keep yourself out of the crossfire until we have a definitive hit.”

Her voice echoes from behind him as his hands slowly move to clench into knuckle-whitening fists.

“If Kinsman gets a tip we’re still onto him—you’ll never see Hart again.”

—

Day Three:

Your days start blending. One moment you hear the snapping of your bones, and then the next you’re wasting away in this cell—ears ringing and eyes buggy. So much blood. Blood on the walls—blood on the chair they strap you into in the other room; even stuck in the groves of your flesh.

You don’t think you can stop closing your eyes and seeing a deer at the bottom of a bridge drop-off. It’s stuck in your head like a virus; those car lights in the back of your mind just waiting for you.

There’s no sense as to what they do to you—all its purpose is, is to prove a point to Emmett. A sort of broken retribution for your interference and his fingers.

Vain man, really. You’d told him as much when he was watching you get your own finger torn off my pliers; spit it at him as the blood from your bitten tongue stayed his suit. You remember the feeling of the knuckle popping first, and then the burning heat of the flesh being twisted to the side. Two firm yanks and the flesh had sprung like elastic, fissuring, the tendon snapping.

You think you blacked out after that, but you can’t be sure. All you remember doing is screaming.

You woke up with your left pinkie finger completely gone, resting outside in the hallway to mock you from past the bars. Your eyes could see the bone sticking out of it, and all that was left on you was a badly cauterized stump.

When Emmett had come to gloat, you started slurring out laughter.

“I’m going to rip you apart.” Your broken body had jerked back and forth like a marionette doll, only succeeding in spreading more red over the floors as green eyes widened and went dumbfounded.

It sounded like a choking fish.

All he’d done was left, quickly passing the pinkie left limp on the ground.

Day five:

You can’t move your body as they dump you back into the chair—the drain below you flooded over with crimson and bits of hair; vomit and torn-off fingernails. You’re unable to open your eyelids fully.

A hand grasps at your face, yanking it up into the overhead light until a bucket of water is dumped directly over your head. Your body jerks, coughing and darting forward until you’re shoved to the back of the chair and the rope is tied around the front of your shoulders, the second at your wrists.

Trying to suck down air, you shiver with the strength of an earthquake. Whoever said that they would never be afraid while being tortured was a liar; whoever thinks that they would be able to push through it—a fraud. Emmett was right, everyone had a breaking point.

But you admitted yours would only come after your death.

Your legs are seized, bent up as you hiss as well as you’re able, teeth snapping.

They’re dumped back down into a bucket of ice-cold water as droplets drip from your nose—wet skin for the moment only holding streaks of gore. Even with your scattered mind, you know what this means.

Heart tight and eyes widening, you try to push back in the chair; try to fight the rope and the way your body won’t respond.

A battery is rolled up beside you on a metal cart. Jumper cables.

There’s a low chuckle at the way your face goes fearful.

—

John shoves open the door to Laswell’s temporary office, already talking before it hits the far wall.

“Do we have her?” His hands move beside him, brushing the grip of his sidearm. He hadn’t been out of his full gear for more than five minutes in days. Waiting day and night for any word; sleeping in it, eating in it. The forensics team had been stumped, unable to get more than a model out of the picture.

But this might finally give him something to act on.

Kate is moving, grabbing documents and her laptop, speeding past him and out of the door.

“Kate!” John shouts, following after. “Hey,” he calls, grabbing at her arm to stop her.

The woman only halts to say, quickly, “We have a hit. Follow me.”

John’s heart is rampaging, pulse wild under his skin as his gloved hands twitch. Finally. He can only smoke so many cigars—only think of so many scenarios until he feels he needs to vomit. You’d been gone for too long. Every moment had been like trying to walk with a cloth over his head; lost.

He’d grown stiff. Stiffer than normal. Everyone had seen it.

“Where is it, then?” John asks as Laswell pushes open the door to the meeting room, the other three already inside.

“A property outside of Copenhagen—bought through a proxy on a fund that was linked to blood money in South America; it all went directly back to Kinsman. It was found only ten minutes ago.” A pause. Electricity in the air. “But that’s not how we found it.”

“How,” Simon asks, moving closer.

John gives the woman his full undivided attention, hands moving to rest at his collar in a soothing gesture.

“Her tracker came back on.” Eyes go wide, all sharing rapid glances as Kate opens her laptop and opens a man, turning the device for them to see. “Same location.”

Johnny blinks, his eyes narrowing. “And what does that mean?”

“That can’t have just done that by itself,” Gaz mutters, brown eyes sliding over to John who’s stiller than a wolf. The Sergeant pauses.

His eyes are dead set on that screen. His thighs were so tense it was nearly like the Captain was about to sprint out of the room. Kyle’s face goes blank at that, never quite seeing the extent that your disappearance had on the man. His superior had bags under his eyes; far more pale than usual. His apparel was ruffled, too. Even in the more serious of situations, the Sergeant had never seen John so…out of it. He was always the one with the even head, even if he had a short fuse with certain things. Nothing was ever done without thought, he should say.

But this is something else.

“Torture,” Simon gives his two cents and John’s cheek twitches at the word. “Electrocution. They jump-started it and didn’t even know.”

“Bloody Jesus,” John breathes. Everyone had already had a hunch, but no one had wanted to name it.

It’s a low rumble that makes the rest of them freeze, though. It was so dead in tone that it even made Kyle’s spine lock up; Johnny’s eyes went a smidgen upward. Simon, although his face was covered, felt his lips twitch.

John looks at nothing but that dot on the computer screen.

“Am I green, Laswell?”

Kate looks at John. It’s like setting a hellhound loose.

“You’re green, Captain.”

—

You’re tossed into the cell and your body rolls along the floor, bouncing and flinching until your back slams into the wall. Air is forced from your lungs, coming out in a loud grunt before you land on your stomach in a heap. Staying there, your nerves are fried.

Every moment you think the twitching of your fingers will stop—the dance of your muscles responding to the aftereffects of electrocution, it only starts back up again. Your eyes blink rapidly; your clothes have the scent of smoke to them.

Gasping for breath, you feel like you’re drowning and being set on fire all at once.

Yet the question in your head was a simple one, one you’d been asking for days.

Where was John?

Emmett enters the cell, clicking his tongue as the metal hinges squeak.

“I’m not surprised it’s taking this long,” he explains. “But I am surprised you’re still alive, admittingly.”

A boot comes out and places itself atop your shoulder, pressing down slowly until its full weight is on top of you. Your mouth opens in a shuddering sound of a dying animal, blood dripping from your ears and nose.

“I know you’ve taken torture before—even taken a part of it,” Kinsman sighs. “But, shit Hart, you really do scare me when I know you’re strong enough to get through th—”

Your body jolts up, grappling Emmet’s leg and twisting it to the side. Regardless of pain—of agony—there’s such primal rage inside of you that what little adrenaline you can bring forth is all that more addictive.

The man collapses in a heap, gasping, but you’re already on top of him, wrestling your hand to his neck, missing finger and all. Blood moves, staining his precious suit and dripping from your mouth into his hairline. You bare down your weight on him, teeth clenched and eyes wild—one orb holding nothing but red from burst veins and the other full of a vicious gleam of ferality.

Hands snap up to your wrists, mouth opening in flapping panic.

But Emmett has grown weak; he’s out of practice. All of those years out of the SAS, giving up on the training of the body to match the mind. The idiot wasn’t even carrying a gun when he walked into the cell of a charging stag, its antlers dripping gore, sharper than any knife.

When the flaps of his eyes fall there’s no gloating speech—there’s no snort of a tall and proper victor. All you do is take the front of his face, grasp it, and start sending his skull back into the concrete floors.

Crack.

…Crack.

….Crack.

Only when the sound of his head breaking open meets your ringing ears, do you force your wheezing lungs to take a large breath.

Emmet Kinsman died as he lived.

A fucking piece of shit.

“Fuck you,” you spit on his corpse, saliva bloody; his jaw is loose as you release the man’s face, eyes bulging. Falling to the side, you groan in pain, your body curling into itself until you resemble a sleeping fawn. You’re shaking more and more with every second, coughing with the force of an earthquake until your shredded vocal chores force you to stop.

But the brain is a funny thing.

In times of danger, survival is the only thing that takes priority. It was why, in a long shove of your hand to the floor, with your bones creaking and your vomit meeting the ground, you’re able to stand. It isn’t enough to help you heal the snapped bone of your right leg, however, and in a steadily failing stupor, you drag it behind you. In this state, nothing else matters to you besides a simple command: get out.

Your shoulder slaps the metal of the cell as you stumble out of it, careening into the far wall and letting out a loud shout.

Eyes fluttering, you connect your temple to the cool concrete, trying to breathe.

It hurts too much, your mind says. God, I can’t feel my limbs.

A long trail of blood follows you down the hallway as you slide along the wall, using it as a brace.

You want to see John, you whisper inside of your head. You want to be held by him—be taken into his chest; cared for away from all of this fighting.

A trip back to Herefordshire with him, to go deep into the country together; rest in the green grass where no one can find you for just a few good hours. It didn’t have to be forever, you would say. Just a few hours. A few hours of sky and earth wrapped in a time loop of just your own.

You want to kiss him there. In the open, out in the wild. You want to stay by his side, your mind thinks as you stumble over the three dead bodies in the left corridor, bullet wounds in their heads. You want to be by his side forever, no more gaps in years, not more longing. It’s so close you can nearly reach out and grasp it—

Your name is yelled on a heavy breath, and hands capture your shoulders as you fall straight into them with no more strength.

Blue eyes lock with yours as you’re hurriedly settled to the ground, body limp and eyes trying to stay open.

Blue eyes on a grassy hill.

“Hart, fucking hell.” Hands move your body, pressing and sliding—finding every opening and spreading blood like water. “Fucking hell! Hey!”

You’re yelled at, and the ripping of pouches and the familiar sound of bandages being wrapped come to the back of your brain. A hand shakes your head, locked under your chin as you take slow, broken, breaths.

“Please, fuck sake, please,” it’s a desperate growl, so familiar and yet a world away. Your body is moved and manipulated as every leaking wound is packed with so much gauze it hangs out of you like you’re a mummy. The burns along your flesh are crust and infected, open skin peeling back.

But the pain is lesser now. Easier to manage.

There’s such a ruckus that it’s hard to focus on John—the man on the hill. In the grass and the wind. Brown hair moves in the breeze as white clouds roll past. On the air, there’s the scent of rain, and in the far distance, you can see a group of ten deer grazing, ears twitching.

Maybe you’ll ask them if they blame their leader, or the two trucks on the end of a bridge.

“Keep your eyes on me!” You blink into John’s tiny blues, that mist rolling back. You stare for a moment as he frantically screams into his radio; night vision rig on his head and all-black gear covering him from you. His face is pale, his eyes glossy. “Look at me, hey,” he blinks as he notices you watching, surging forward. “Hey, keep 'em open, yeah? You keep them fucking open, Love.”

Your chest is heavy.

“John,” you push out a flicker coming to your lips as your vision slightly unblurs itself to the sight of a flood of blood on the man’s body—an unimaginable amount.

“I’m ‘ere,” his accent grows deeper with emotion, one hand holding your cheek and the other at your shoulder, keeping you still to stop any additional damage. “I’ve got you, you understand me? I’m not letting you go, so don’t you think that I will.”

It’s a double-edged sword.

A smile peels back your chapped lips, red running from the corner of your mouth. You glance at his stained gear again. The abyss swirls at the corners of your eyes.

“Is that your blood, or mine, John Price?”

You hear him scream for a medic, and then it all goes numb.

—

You dream of deer on a hill, but every time you search for John, he isn’t there. You go past rivers—

“She’s dropping!”

“Get me the defibrillator!”

—past copses. Your voice goes high and low, but all the while you look, there’s nothing but a nagging feeling in the back of your head that you shouldn’t be here.

“Again!”

It’s a strange nagging, truly. Like falling asleep in the middle of the day and waking up in the night without any remembrance of what had happened prior. A displacement of the mind.

“We’ve got a pulse, Doctor, do we stop and—”

“No, I need to finish off the internal bleeding or else she won’t make it another day. Get me the cauterizer, now.”

You blink and grip your chest, a sudden pain sharp in your heart as the grass moves about your ankles. Coughing, you bend over, your eyes fluttering rapidly. In the deepest part of your eardrum, you hear a murmur of a voice you can’t place.

“The man came back, again. He’s been out there for days. He just…sits there, waiting until someone tells him something. He can’t come in, and I’m sorry about that. I’m sure hearing his voice would help more than mine, but you’re in too much of an unstable condition for that. If you get another infection, you won’t…hm, I shouldn’t talk about that. Everyone in school said only to talk positively to patients when they’re like this. I…I’m sure he’ll be able to come in soon. I think everyone calls him John if that rings a bell?”

“John?” Your eyes flutter open, sharp light above you making you snap them back closed. No one answers.

It’s a long moment before you find the strength to breathe in the oxygen from the mask over your face, taking a long and deep inhale before a slight cough makes your abdomen tight. You flinch at the pull of stitches, all coming from so many places, that it’s unwise to move too much.

Gradually, you open back up your eyes, pushing past the sting. Inside of your throat, the skin is so dried out you can feel it cracking at every articulation of your words.

“Where's…John?” When you shift your head to the side, no one’s there. No one’s even in the room, either.

Blinking through the haze, your lips twitch on your face, skin tight. With a slap of your weak hand, you grasp the oxygen mask and pull it down to your neck, grunting in mild annoyance at the medicated numbness of your form.

Your leg is in a cast—and your left side is tightly bound by wrappings to hide away the burns where skin grafts most likely live. With a glance, you see the missing pinky and the bandages that cover the strange remnants.

The facial wound will scar, you know, but right now it’s patched over and healing. That’s all you can ask for.

Sighing long, you blink slowly at the ceiling, licking your lips. You need water.

Outside, the murmurs are missed to you as your unmarred hand reaches for the nightstand table, where a half-drunk bottle of water sits next to a tray of food. Even if your stomach rumbles, water takes precedence. Your throat was like the Sahara desert.

“Forget something, John?”

“Bloody fork. The bastard gave me the slip. Dropped mine, needed to go back and grab another.”

“Oh, that’s alright—you could have asked one of us to get one for you. We’d hate for you to miss any time for visiting hours.”

“It’s fine; gets me moving, eh?”

“Just grab us if you need anything else!”

A low grunt is accented by the opening of the door; immediately you tense and pause, neck fighting itself to shift forward once more.

Wide blues lock with your own, and it’s like every pain fades away.

John’s jaw is slack hidden under the layers of his beard bristles, brows going atop his head in an instant. The sound of a dropping metal utensil echoes through the room.

You both stare at one another for a long time, and the murmur of nurses accumulates to some peaking through the crack; their expressions also going to shock. A few scurry off, probably to get a doctor.

“What?” Your hoarse voice asks, unnerved by this.

At the sound of your voice, John flinches forward on his boots. The nurses get shut out with beaming faces as the barrier closes with a small click of metal.

Walking to the side of your bed, John clears his throat, eyes looking you up and down in two glances. A million things are hidden in them. After an opening and closing of his mouth, which you watch closely while squinting, he speaks.

“How are we feeling, then?” You breathe slowly and in tiny puffs. John looks at the oxygen mask as if telling you to put it back on, but you refuse for a moment.

“Like shit,” you utter, voice cracking.

With a huff, John pushes away your reaching hand and gets the water himself, unscrewing it. Bringing it to your lips, you take it down as he speaks.

“Easy, Love.”

When you’d had your fill and the ache settled, you brought a hand to your head and rubbed at your injured cheek before John sighed and grabbed at it, intertwining his fingers with yours and lowering the limb back to your chest.

You stare at him, and he stares at you.

“I don’t know what to ask,” you confess.

“You don’t have to ask anything,” John mutters, and his face is tight with worry. “You’ve been in a coma for three weeks, all you need to do is ease back into it.”

Your eyes snap back.

“Tell me if it hurts,” He speaks slowly, moving on one word at a time so the realization doesn’t dwell in your brain. “I can get someone to come in, yeah?”

Your hand in his burns, and John pulls at the chair by the nightstand until he’s able to sit down in it fully with a tiny grunt.

“No,” you say, “no, it’s…I’m fine.”

Better now that you’re here, but your body is tense. Three weeks?

“Just need to take it easy,” the man states, thumb running up and down your knuckles. “You’ll be better soon.”

A dry look is sent his way, and he hides a soft quirk on his lips. “You’ll be better, Love.”

You hum, head moving back more heavily into the pillow.

“When do I get to go back?”

“When you’re healed,” he grunts. “Not a fuckin’ moment sooner.”

“We get anything on the other locations of the—”

“Hart,” you’re interrupted. Blue eyes stare at you heavily, digging past every shield you’d put up and every fear. What happened was still heavy in your mind; it pained you to imagine it, even the way John had found you—even if it was all glimpses. “Slow down. That’s not an order coming from a soldier, it’s a caution from an old friend.” John says, squeezing your flesh. His other hand comes to your shoulder, sitting there heavily.

“Breathe,” he orders, face gruff. “We always figure it out.”

You close your eyes and sigh, frowning.

A low chuckle moves along the air a second later.

“Never sit down, do you?” A flicker dances over your lips like a butterfly. “Impossible, you are.”

“You’re one to talk,” you huff, eyes shifting back to him.

He’s smiling at you, and you can’t help but mirror it right back at the sight. Your facial injury pulls and tightens, but you would welcome an ache like that for as long as it stayed. A scar born of the stretch of lips is one well-earned. Only John could ever make it a reality.

The man stares at your lips, his wide build eager to stay over you in this state. He can’t stop himself from caressing your skin; to feel you alive and breathing. Talking.

“Scared me,” John admits under his breath.

You blink, your smile fading slowly until it was like it was never there. Your body builds with guilt; also something only he could bring. “I’m sorry, John.”

A small thinning of his lips is what you get, accented by a hum.

“Hart,” he grunts. “I…”

John’s eyes closed for a moment before opening back up—spearing you with their gaze. Your tired eyes crinkle in confusion.

“What is it?” Over the tingle of your flesh from where he touches you, it isn’t hard to forget the world is around you when he’s here like this. You’re nearly trapped by his eyes, yet you welcome it eagerly. His voice moves out, accent and natural gravel, all.

“I love you.”

Your nose lets a chuff exit. Was that all?

“I love you, too, John—”

“No, Hart,” he pushes slightly harder, moving closer and licking his lips as he glances away. “No,” John looks you dead in the eye as you lay here battered and broken within an inch of your life—a risk that you took willingly as if it had meant nothing. The both of you weren’t new to this; you both knew that on any day you or he would do it over and over again until it resulted in death. That was the way of this game; this trial.

You had both always been content with that, but when had it changed?

Why was the thought of losing you more fear-invoking than anything else he’d ever encountered?

You watch him as his lips utter the words, lips close to yours and your eyes locked.

“I love you.”

Your voice is caught in your throat, stuck in the throws of a quick gasp. Not blinking, the man waits for you—waits for an answer to the earth-shattering confession. But it all came far easier than you would ever admit to anybody besides him. It was already known, after all.

All that remained was the pesky words.

“I love you, too.” You beam, words low with intimacy. “I think I always have.”

John chuckles, a large smile pushing at his reddening cheeks. “Good,” he nods, clearing his throat. “Good,” he says again. “Well, I—”

You softly connect your lips with his, and you feel him pause, breathing you down for a moment as hearts beat at the same tempo. He sighs, one hand coming up to capture your cheek, holding it there for you as you sag into it and live in this everlasting moment.

It’s there you had a revelation.

It was never Hart to him. John had never been calling you that.

He’d always just been saying Heart.

You breathe out a laugh, when you separate, beaming in a happiness you thought was long gone from you—stolen in the dark nights and sold through even darker deeds. Neither of you was worthy of this, of the love that breeds in broken things. Yet, here it is regardless. Here, among blood and the blue eyes of a man you’d known since knowing anything became important. You had always known it was John. And finally, finally, finally.

“I would marry you in an instant, John Price,” you breathe when you separate, not weak enough to stop the words from exiting from the deepest part of your soul.

His crinkled eyes watch, reverently gazing at every blemish and mark; everything he could learn new again. John’s eyes are as soft as you ever imagined them to be, and he gives them over freely to you.

He kisses you again and leaves the taste of his heavy, happy, chuckle tingling across your lips.

“Seems I’d better get on that, then.”

A/N: This fic is strangely nostalgic for me even if I just wrote it - I remember the first ever fic I posted on here was a rescue fic, as well as a John Price fic; it's amazing to see how far I've come in regards to overall content/story building and how my understanding of the character has evolved. This might not be the best work I've posted on my blog, but I'm glad to say I'm proud of myself and how far I've come. It's so wonderful that I can have this feeling for such a big moment and still feel so drawn back to the past at the same time. Totally not tearing up at the thought rn.

Thank you all very much for your support.

TAGS:

@sheviro-blog, @ivebeentrashsince2001, @mrshesh, @berryjuicyy, @romantic-homicide, @kmi-02, @neelehksttr, @littlemisstrouble, @copperchromewriting , @coelhho-brannco, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @fictional-men-have-my-heart, @sleepyqueerenergy, @cumikering, @everything-was-dark, @marmie-noir, @anna-banana27, @iamcautiouslyoptimistic, @irenelunarsworld, @rvjaa, @sarcanti, @aeneanc, @not-so-closeted-lesbian, @mutuallimbenclosure, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @gildedpoenies, @glitterypirateduck, @writeforfandoms, @kohsk3nico, @peteymcskeet, @caramlizedtomatoes, @yoursweetobsession, @quesowakanda, @chthonian-spectre, @so-no-feint, @ray-rook, @extracrunchymilk, @doggydale, @frazie99, @develised, @1-800-no-users-left, @nuncubus, @aldis-nuts, @clear-your-mind-and-dream, @noonanaz, @cosmicpro, @stinkaton, @waves-against-a-cliff, @idocarealot

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nogodsnomorales · 11 months

Text

Know that I am going to get pretty serious here, as this post is about Punkflower. I am going to talk about the age situation, the blatant racism ABOUT this ship, and to also talk about the ship itself*. There is also some talk about the shippers/non-shippers + Punkflower antis in general.

[*nothing negative! just like.. discussing it as a whole, because everybody needs to be aware of some important things. the shippers, non-shippers/people on neutral ground, AND the haters/antis.]

There is a BIG wall of text incoming, but all of it is organized to its very best at what I could do!! I first wrote this in docs, I did my best to make it not a whole chaotic mess to read through. It's a big post, but there's a lot of spacing and some text is coloured, so it will be very easy to read.

This is a very detailed and THROUGH post, so it is slightly recommended to read on computer for the best viewing experience.

[It's not needed as you can still just read on your phone/etc, I do want you lovely people to have the best viewing experience possible.]

There will be an expand button, so I will not clog your feed and the tags.

TDLR;

Dear punkflower shippers,

your prayers have been ANSWERED. DO NOT WORRY ABOUT SHIPPING PUNKFLOWER NOW 🙏

punkflower shippers, do not live in fear no more, for I am here now.

Sincerely,

tumblr user: godunforgiving

Edited Note (06/21); FYI, I am muting this! Read the edit change log at the end of this post for more information. If you have any concerns or inquiries regarding this post, do not hesitate and feel free to DM me!

punkflower talk/analysis(?) + talking about Hobie’s age

This entire post is a discussion of various things, of my own thoughts and opinions! Some of the talk is about the posts + comments I have seen other people say about this ship [mainly questioning and worried ones.] All of the pieces of information that I knew were scattered, so I wanted to gather all of what I could find, and put it in a singular post for those still worrying.

[Also where others can actually just refer to this post and just read thru here first, instead of having to spend a lot of time going through the Punkflower tag to desperately find info!]

I would have gotten this finished and posted days ago, but you know, usual IRL things slowed me down, and I had to spend my day in the ER yesterday, lol.. I’m okay as of now! Just have to take it easy, but I really did want to finish writing my ass off with this post, since I know it’s important to me and for many others out there.

Take your time to read through this, and please absolutely feel free to add any of your input/extra knowledge/anything that I should add onto this post. DMs can be the best, or just through the comments can suffice, because I can and will edit anything into this post [that is accurate aka there is backed up evidence/sources to go along with it.] If you do want to see something added here, just tell me and I'll see if I can manage!

I genuinely hope that this post can be helpful to you, as it will be helpful for me!

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Please know that; I will directly quote from many people, as all of them will be credited properly by being mentioned down below and leaving their username (that is linked back) with their respective quotes, because their own pieces of text really helped build this post! I cannot thank each person enough.

Do not be a piece of shit and go after or ‘witch hunt’ any of them. Respect their own privacy and being.

users mentioned (IOOA): @comfortingnightmare, @luvvnobo, @ghostspider-isms, @saltylemonade13, @artisan-is-bored, @bellamer, @uglynavel, @peachypea0ny (fyi, site is not allowing me to tag), @crownecromancer, @raspberryjars, @spideyzpoolsp, @hamiltonforpowerpoint

[If you are one of the mentioned people, and you want yourself to be removed or become anonymous, please let me know ASAP!]

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Notes:

If you are colourblind (some of the text is coloured fyi! colours used are blue, pink, and purple), or have difficulty reading text due to it being too small, or can't read the font, etc, please let me know! I can give you a google docs link of this entire post that is best suited for your needs. No, you will not be a burden to me. Your needs are very important, and I will want to assist with the best that I can do with that!

I, godunforgiving, am on a mix of a positive + neutral ground on the topic of shipping Punkflower. I absolutely adore the comic!Punkflower, and I am fond of ATSV!Punkflower with the way I view it. Reason why I said neutral, know that I am not against the ships by any means!! But I guess why I say that is because there wasn’t a lot of canon media to consume [ATSV!Punkflower], and I want more [Also note that I have NOT seen the movie yet.] I don’t usually ‘do’ shipping when it comes to various franchises, I guess it’s mainly just not my thing? But I do know that I’ve come to like Punkflower.

I do not ‘do’ discourses, nor do I intend to actively join them! This is my first time doing something like this / this being my first ‘discourse’, yet I hope for it to be my last. I made this post with the pure intention to help the Punkflower shippers. Do know that!! I know that many people do not like the topic of discourses, but this one and the problems I’ve seen revolving around Punkflower, I just have to say something. Bc idk if anybody else is going to [with the way I did this post], considering the mess that occurred days ago, but someone has to and has to do it properly.

I am autistic, so I may process words + information differently, or even ‘incorrectly’. So if a sentence doesn’t make sense, due to perhaps my misuse of grammar, etc, please do not hesitate to ask/reach out, and I can do my best to re-explain it to you.

Negative comments [and comments directly to this post where the person is actually spreading misinfo], will be deleted. Know that if you decide that you disagree with this post, then okay! I am not bothering you, just as I hope that you will revert to ignoring me, instead of hating on me. Please have the common decency to just be kind or even don’t say anything at all, and carry on with your day.

If you have any concerns regarding this post, do not hesitate to reach out to me.

this post was originally inspired by a friend, then originally created for @feuille-morte, but it is finished for the rest of the punkflower fans, ily all. take care of yourselves!! anything for these cute silly little guys ok (and the entire punkflower nation)

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let’s get started with an introduction.

“what is Punkflower?”

Punkflower is a slash [aka queer] relationship between two black male teenagers, Hobie Brown and Miles Morales. Usually, it is perceived a romantic relationship, as some other people only see the pairing as a platonic duo and such. I do not know more forms of Punkflower, but I will use the 'main' two forms in this post. Comic![SG!]Punkflower [SG is Spider-Geddon, a comic series first released on Sept 2018], and Across the Spider-Verse aka ATSV!Punkflower.

Think of it as the same ships with the same characters, but in different fonts.

Comic!SG!Punkflower has existed for nearly 5 years now, likely first existing sometime in late 2018 to early-mid 2019. Both Miles and Hobie are very close in age in the comics, at around 16 to 17 years old. Away from Spider-Geddon(?), but still on the topic of comics, Hobie is still 16-17 in the comics.

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“people are saying Punkflower is a problematic ship!”

The main [and probably only] source of this misinformation, is from a clip that was cropped to be posted with the intention of spreading heavy misinformation (We will get into that next.) So, as far as I am aware, and know; Punkflower antis are throwing around p/do allegations, because they hate the ship and they are outraged with people enjoying it. This hate is clearly rooted with racism, and homophobia. So, no, Punkflower is not a minor x adult ship!

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“the interview talk, what happened, and what is actually real?”

If you’ve watched the interview, you can easily see that they were talking about the brainstorming process of developing Hobie's early ideas for his character. A director mentioned that in the early concept stage, Hobie was originally going to be 19-20 [This wasn’t even our Hobie, but Prowler Hobie.]

A person cut a very small clip of the mentioned interview, and uploaded it, a clip that was EXTREMELY out of context.

The uploader cut out the part explaining that Hobie’s ‘original’ age had changed as his character was being developed.

So from this, and no context given, a lot of people were instantly quick to hate; since it was on purpose to make the entire ship, AND those who enjoyed the ship, look extremely bad. What happened was not okay, yet this disgusting behaviour is at an attempt to be justified [and those people are trying to justify literal racism and homophobia.]

“19-20 thing that the directors mentioned were Hobie’s early designs ideas but those eventually changed as his character changed. Even one of the directors said its up to interpretation plus even his VA was all hinty towards Gwen and hobie so honestly its up to you what his age is" - comfortingnightmare

As soon as the clip came out, I had started to see a number of people saying that, apparently, Hobie looked like he was in his 20s to his 30s** (while also throwing subtle/discreet hits towards the Punkflower ship), but this was after the clip came out.

**Literally saw someone on Tumblr say that he looked like 28, and trying to shut down the idea of Hobie being a teenager. Like be completely serious with me right now..

Things don’t quite add up here. This was because of WHAT Hobie only looked like, and now it just has to be racially motivated, as there are no solid explanations or reasonings for their behaviour and disgust. Those people just look bad [as they should.]

So, no, Hobie is not 19-20. Another director had confirmed that Hobie’s age is UP TO INTERPRETATION.

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[TLDR; The interview got taken completely out of context from a clip that made people start throwing SERIOUS accusations left and right.. Since more people actually later found out that the clip was taken out of context [instead of doing research], the situation died down, but people are walking on eggshells now. The haters were being desperate likely because Punkflower is a black queer/mlm relationship, since there is no solid explanation for this hating.]

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“So.. what can we interpret Hobie’s age as?”

That is where I come in! I have many reasons that can help you decide what Hobie's age is to you. And those many reasons are speculated on Hobie's age being 16-17, as many users already guess that Hobie's age is equivalent to a teenager's age. I also believe this idea, as there are many things that already support this thought process.

[But if you like.. (god, I hope nobody does) go through this list and conclude that Hobie is 18+ and continue to ship that Hobie and 15 yr old Miles (or any of the minors).. GTFOH.]

1. Hobie Brown in other media (I’m talking about the comics for instance) is commonly shown for Hobie to be a teenager at either 16 or 17 years old.

“Hobie is in fact labeled as ‘badmouthed teenager’ since 2014 and is 16-17 in the comics and that just because he doesnt have a confirmed/canonical age in ATSV, hes still in the age range of a teenager (16-18)" - luvvnobo

2. Topic of the spider-bite.

ATSV!Hobie is likely to be 16-17 years old (18 at the latest), meaning that he would have been bit at the ages of 13-15. So IF Hobie was bit 3 years ago / at 14 years old, then he would be 16-17.

Realistically, this really could have happened, considering Hobie’s living conditions! [aka what led to Hobie getting bit by a radioactive spider in the comics.] If he indeed gets bit at 14 years old (like how Miles and Gwen got bit at that age for example), then either 16 or 17 yrs old.

Again, with how he lived; if he got bit at 13 = 15-16 years old in crrnt events of ATSV. [If you don’t know of Hobie’s conditions, in the comics I’m pretty sure he, like, basically lived on the streets as a homeless teenager]

“During the "Spider-Verse" storyline, the Earth-138 version of Spider-Man is revealed to be Hobart Brown, originally operating as Spider-Punk. He is a homeless teenager who was transformed by a spider that was irradiated as part of President Norman Osborn's toxic waste dumping.” - Spider-Punk: Wikipedia

The topic of the bite / needing to know if Hobie was (x) age when he got bit, isn’t very serious, as he is already grouped with 3 kids.

3. It would be unlikely (and also weird) for a four man crew to be 3/4 teenagers and 1 adult;

WHILE ALSO implying that the mentioned ‘adult’ and one of the mentioned teenagers could’ve had something going on. [Even if nothing really happened (keyword = implying), and how Pavitr treated it in that way, implies that Hobie isn’t that much older than the three.] [I would have kept this reason combined with the Spider bite topic aka reason No.2, since it’s actually referenced off of pastelnightgale’s post, just that this paragraph alone is solid enough as a separate reason.]

4. Hobie’s mannerisms.

Note, I haven’t seen the movie, but I have seen many clips. From those clips, he’s definitely a teenager at least, it made me feel like Hobie was 16 or 17 years old. I’ve asked two of my brothers; they said that he definitely was their age [both being 17.]

“my two cents on the age debate is like. hobie doesn’t have the vibes of an adult even if his age is up to “interpretation”. like i’m eighteen and bro has definitely gotta be younger than that. he makes my “stupid younger sibling” sense go haywire." - ghostspider-isms

5. If you look up “how old is hobie brown”

You will already see many people speculating that Hobie is likely to be around the same age range as Miles and Gwen [if not a bit older.]

Again, Hobie is already 16-17 years old in the comics.

“in the spiderverse, we have seen that it is common for most spiders (gwen and miles specifically) to get bitten around 14. hobie states he’s been spider-man for three years, meaning he’s most likely 16-17." - artisan-is-bored

6. “Like if Hobie is really 19+ then why is it only a problem with Punkflower?? Wouldn’t the whole love triangle thing be a problem????" - saltylemonade13

Yes. It would be a SERIOUS problem. It also would make the other ships [Chaipunk, others with minors in them] very problematic and illegal ships. But Hobie isn't 18+.

7. Ageing down process happening to various characters in Spider Verse, and Hobie non affected?

If Gwen and the other spiders are aged down in Spiderverse, then it doesn’t make sense that Hobie was not aged down like the others.

8. Hobie literally hangs out around teenagers.

If an adult is constantly hanging out with other children, then that obviously would be the first problem. I wouldn’t really need to keep talking any more about this one. Because if a 19-20 year old was spending a majority of his time around young teenagers, ages ranging 15 through 17, and not really with anybody else his age or above, then yes, that’s already weird.

“it’s also implied that miles is jealous of gwen and hobie. why would the directors make a key plot point of the story be that hobie is a grown ass man hanging out with a bunch of teenagers? and that he might have a thing with one of them???" - artisan-is-bored

9. Genetics do not matter within age.

This is one of my most common quotes by now. Hobie is indeed very tall at almost 6 ft, yes. No, it does not mean that he is above 18+ years old. Hobie can be over 6 ft tall and still be 16-17 years old.

I have seen so many teenagers at drastically different heights, but still be the same age. Many of them being over 6 ft [180 cm], and still being in my age range, and having met a 5’10” 8th grader [aka 13 yrs old] years ago. Both of my previously-mentioned brothers are 6 ft and over 6 ft, yet they are only 17.

“people can look one age and be another." - artisan-is-bored

“hobie’s description as a character. hobie is a foul mouthed TEENAGER. that has been his description for the past five years." - artisan-is-bored

10. “how do i tell them Punkflower has been a thing since 2018 or 2019 and they have interacted in the comics (they are close in age)" - luvvnobo

11. “He has to be an adult, because he goes to pubs!!” Let’s be absolutely HONEST here.

“dude is BFF’s with the Riri of his universe, she can probably whip up a fake ID in no time and even if Riri isn’t in the Spiderverse, he still gets around and knows people. he’s definitely cool with someone who makes fake ID’s." - bellamer

What bellamer said. To add onto this, a pub is different from a BAR as well.

If you look up “what is a pub vs bar” your first result will be this.

To also add, all bars in England aren’t considered pubs.

“If you’re 16 or under, you may be able to go to a pub (or premises primarily used to sell alcohol) if you’re accompanied by an adult. However, this isn’t always the case. It can also depend on the specific conditions for that premises. It’s illegal to give alcohol to children under 5." From the official GOV of the UK website

But literally, let’s be honest here, Hobie would already know at least one person who will help him get in a pub, if he cannot do so himself. If Hobie is constantly going to pubs, then that does not mean he is getting drinks 24/7 when he is there, unless stated otherwise. Pubs focus on serving food and to give drinks [upon request] to go along with the meal.

Before 1995, children under the age of 14 were NOT allowed in pubs in England and Wales. And Hobie is definitely by no means 14. He is likely 16, or 17. He can already drink, with adult supervision, at 16 in pubs. But we know that Hobie is no law-abiding Spider-man.

12. “Hobie wouldn’t be able to own his own place!”

“it’s a key part of hobie’s comic backstory that he used to be homeless. once again, the breaking the law point still stands. wouldn’t be surprised if hobie bought an apartment with a fake ID, was squatting, or was staying in some sort equivalent of the community center that he used as his main group’s operation headquarters in the comics.” - artisan-is-bored

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I do not think that another director/anybody who worked on the movie will come out and say that Hobie is actually 18+ at this point. I CAN be wrong in the future, but right now, he is not, and there are my reasons for why I strongly agree with the idea of Hobie being a teenager.

ALTHOUGH, even IF a director comes out and says that ATSV!Hobie is actually 18+, obviously all of the ATSV!ships with him and the other minors should STOP RIGHT NOW. But as of now [06/13/23 (when I first wrote this)], and from what we already know, I do not see anything wrong with ATSV!Punkflower and my views.

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The racism revolving Punkflower is disgusting.

I’ve seen a lot of people bashing Punkflower when the whole misinfo-hobie-being-19/20-situation occurred, but ONLY with Punkflower [from what I’ve seen.] I didn’t see any of this happening to the other ships that Hobie is in / shipped with Gwen, and Pavitr.

I have not seen any, quite literally nobody, complaining about any other ship that isn’t Punkflower, and it’s insanely overwhelming and confusing?? People don’t complain when it comes to Hobie x Gwen, but if it’s with two queer black boys? Huge problem all of a sudden.

“Love how when it was Hobie and Gwen no one batted an eye but as soon as people started shipping two black males together all of a sudden everyone’s disgusted and outraged” - uglynavel

“none of y’all had a problem w gwen and hobie, but when hobie started getting shipped with miles and pav? y’all got pissed. get your racist and homophobic head out of your ass. even if hobie IS an adult in the movie, that still doesn’t mean that shipping him with miles in the comics suddenly isn’t valid. newsflash, gwen is MUCH OLDER than hobie in his universe.” - artisan-is-bored

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Other quotes, that I wanted to point out, but I didn’t sort them into a spot;

“There are a lot more weird problems in the ATSV fandom, yet people are worried about Flowerpunk and whether Hobie is of age, or not. Those problems are full on grown ass people sexualizing Miles, Gwen, and likely more. There’s already stuff about Peter B. and Miles ship, and THAT is an active problem on hand. More people need to worry about all of that instead of a guy who has an up-to-interpretation age (but is strongly, likely, a 16-17 year old if not an adult.)” - peachypea0ny

“I can’t even enjoy comic versions of punkflower without me being called a pedo or having multiple fucking comments telling me over and over that punkflower is a proship.” - uglynavel

“I’m sorry it’s just really not fucking fair what In THE ACTUAL MOVIE it can imply something between Gwen and Hobie but the SECOND people started shipping two black boys together then it became a huge fucking problem, here’s the thing if Hobie is actually older and they never say that in the movie but imply something to the audience that him and a sixteen year old girl could possibly have something between them THEN THATS GROSS I DONT CARE HOW GOOD THE MOVIE IS! But Hobie is always, in other crossovers and his comics he is around 16, he has met Miles before in canon the ship’s not new, it was just small.” - crownecromancer (Edited to make sense, by me, godunforgiving.)

“punkflower is originally a comic ship, its been around for ages before atsv, its normal for shippers to crossover into different areas where the same characters are. he doesnt have an age on his wiki and why would he be said to have a love triangle with gwen if he WAS 19/20, idk why ppl have such a problem with punkflower but not with hobie and gwen??” - raspberryjars

“this is what happens when you believe in misinformation on the internet. no, there is no age gap, because hobie does not even have a canon age. if you watch the interview, instead of 10 seconds of it, he says it was early concepts of hobie. another director has confirmed his age is up to interpretation.. so. yall rlly need to stop with this, its weird asl. this whole thing was rooted in racism and homophobia, stop spreading misinformation I BEG.” - spideyzpoolsp

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Another disclaimer/notice;

PLEASE, PLEASE STOP BELIEVING IN EVERYTHING THAT YOU SEE!! EVEN IN TIKTOK OR TUMBLR!

IF it’s a piece of information that could be misinformation revolving around Punkflower or Hobie Brown, or anything, DO find out if it is real or fake asap!

I’m using a method that I remember from my elementary school that was constantly talked about [can’t believe I’d bring it up in a post about a ship years later], however it really does pay out and work anywhere else tbh. The “Stop, Think, Act method”.

STOP = Pause, if it distresses you; then take a breath to calm down, avoid doing anything on impulse aka don't do anything without thinking carefully beforehand.

THINK = Instead of the “what is the problem, what are the options, best path forward?” in the method itself, we will reuse this but change stuff up that can apply directly to this post. So after stopping and calming down, we will think carefully and review what we already KNOW. If it’s where the piece of information is easily seen/known as misinfo, then you are good. If the piece of misinfo is affecting something that we already know, then we move onto the next step.

ACT = “Proceed with the best option. Act carefully, and revise if needed.” The best option forward from thinking, is to do research, and make sure that it is actually real, and not misinformation with lies laced within. IF it is indeed misinformation, then it is the best to alert others, with proof.

If you are thinking “But why even mention that method??” The best example to use this method is with the age discourse blowup. A LOT of people believed in the misinformation very, very fast. What should’ve happened is that the mentioned method should’ve occurred early, to help prevent most of the freak out and its damages. But many users may not have thought of that, or even know the method, so it is okay. At least it calmed down a lot as of now, just that people are now likely afraid.

[Note; I am NOT blaming anybody!! I also freaked out a bit too, but I stuck to what I already knew, until I found more information. At first I heard “Hobie is 19-20!!!!” I figured that it must’ve been misinfo through what I already knew, because adding all of what I knew and this uproar of info, it just didn’t add up from what I alrd knew. but I still researched and did my homework!! Just that more people should naturally second-guess things that they are suspicious of and also be aware of that method and to apply it online, as it is already useful in real life!]

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Wrapping this post up, finally.

It’s sad to see different Punkflower fans fight each other. But it’s also outrageous and annoying to see the plat!Punkflower shippers, who see Miles and Hobie strictly in a brotherly relationship, to throw the term ‘!ncest / pseudo-!ncest’ against the romantical Punkflower shippers.. Like holy shit, that doesn’t make you any better. Can people, please, stop throwing serious accusations against other people so nonchalantly?

These accusations are SO serious and life changing, even if it's pointed at the wrong person. But people are just too ignorant to realize that unfortunately.

“You see him (Hobie) as 19/20 who’s a big brother to the other spiders? Cool! You see him as 16/17 rebel teen amazing!” - hamiltonforpowerpoint

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End post.

Reblogs, likes, and comments of your own opinions of this post are so welcome!

Again, ily all and take care of yourselves!!

and again, if anything you think that should be added onto the post, let me know! have a great day everybody

A friend asked what’s up with the discourse, asked me to make a post, after hours of research - I absolutely fucking DELIVERED. Love you guys.

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Edit #1 (06/15); had to reformat some things since it just looked broken to me! Using the editor on mobile is a PAIN.. 0/10.

Edit #2 (06/16); an edit update! I rewrote some things (to hope to make the post sound more better), added some stuff in the notes section and some throughout the post itself, updated the crediting so the quotes used are credited and linked back to hell!!!! bc crediting others is awesome! and the post is also def over 4.2k words lol

Edit #3 (06/17); An anon told me that I was “misusing” the 'proship' term, so I edited the post. Proshitters can go to hell for all I care. To clarify, I am talking about problematic shippers. Edit #4 (06/19); oh my god 600+ notes?? i hope all of you are having an EXCELLENT month okay.. i love you guys <3 /plat

Edit #5 (06/21); I am muting this! I saw some people reply to this post, but I just do not have the ability to respond to them (Selective mutism), I did write “drafts” to them, but I do not feel like polishing it and responding. Just busy with other things, honestly! I may end up responding some time later, so yeah. If you have any concerns or inquiries regarding this post, do not hesitate and feel free to DM me!

Every once a few weeks I may check up on this post as well, until I stop altogether.

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911lonestarrewatch · 26 days

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Episode 3x04 Push Discussion Thread

Please feel free to use the comment thread and tags of this post throughout the week as a place to liveblog while watching the episode, discuss with friends, post your metas and thoughts etc. Anything you’d like to discuss while watching the episode is welcome!!

Please reblog this post for visibility!!

#911 lone star rewatch 2024 #discussion thread

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sickczyk · 3 months

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nevermore theories/rambles :-)

(!!!fast pass spoilers at the end!!!)

i've been SO excited for 90 to come out and to see everyone's discussions and theories about it. a really interesting theory that i've seen a lot iiis...

what if lenore didn't kill annabel and the deans manipulated her memories to keep them away from each other? (and, why do they need to drive them away from each other in the first place? mourn says something about how he doesn't know how lenore and annabel having a prior bond will affect the game. what could that mean?)

the prospect of this idea is pretty interesting. however, i don't quite think it's the case. if the deans really did manipulate annabel's memories, then why would she have manifested? if what the deans told her wasn't really what happened, then she wouldn't have manifested since the students at nevermore have to feel how they felt when they died in order to manifest. i did have an idea that maybe the deans can control when someone manifests, but i highly doubt that they have that much power. maybe they don't even have the power to tamper with memories. (regarding how the raven denies the question that lenore proposes as to whether or not the deans preside over nevermore, and claims that they're "newcomers.")

_____________________

FAST PASS SPOILERS!: (scroll to the other divider at the end if you don't want spoilers)

in 94, annabel makes a remark about prospero having a doctor's bag in his luggage. he was most likely a doctor of a sort. maybe that could have something to do with his fear of blood and being medically performed on and why his spectre is a plague doctor??? 👀

and kinda crack theory about lenore's death? also in 94, after lenore says how if she had bullets in her gun, he'd be dead ass meat, montrash says, quote by quote, de-yeehaw-ized:

"where do you reckon the bullets went? ... if you ran your mouth in life half as much as you do here, i'd wager they're at the bottom of some shallow grave lodged in your rotting corpse."

it seems that he's implying that lenore shot herself, which is a theory i've thought about, and seen circulating around before.

monty also makes a vague but related remark to lenore in the manor arc. while snooping through her stuff, he comes across her gun and says, again, quote by quote, also de-yeehaw-ized:

"do you even know how to shoot this thing? or is that why you're dead?"

this also implies that lenore's own gun took her out. very interesting that he continuously brings this up.

_____________________

thanks for reading this little brain dump. PLEASE feel free to continue this discussion in the comments, share your own theories, argue with mine, etc.

#nevermore #nevermore webtoon #webtoon #nevermore webcomic #nevermore theories #nevermore theory #nevermore spoilers #lenore nevermore #annabel lee nevermore #montresor nevermore #prospero nevermore #m00nspawn

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nanjokei · 11 months

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further guidance for newcomers coming from reddit

hi arriving redditors. here are some things i don't see most posts mention. this is for people who conquered the baby steps of joining the site. i think they're pretty important! also me clarifying on some stuff i've seen people word very vaguely consistently in their guides

under the cut because it's a chunky set of bullet points! with a few that also discuss how to keep yourself in a safe and fun browsing environment for yourself and others (mostly quality of life)

if you have any questions either send me an ask (anonymously is ok too) or reply to the post

you can enable a custom theme that shows on the web in your blog settings, if you so wish (blog settings > visibility) and then (custom theme toggle to on) this is the classic tumblr experience, but it's ok to want to hide your blog from the public. however you won't be able to link stuff on your blog to people without tumblr accounts

you can find custom tumblr themes by searching resource blogs like theme hunter or just in the tags in general (like "tumblr theme" or just "theme" and see where the other tags you may find to refine your search takes you)

tumblr is currently trying to enact changes to appeal to "new users" that make the website less friendly to its current inhabitants, such as fucking with quality of life and muscle memory and even stuff integral to the culture of the site. if you see people complaining, i highly advise against going "this sounds kind of nothingburger" and assisting in sending tickets to support the drive against such changes

there is a 250 post per day limit. you probably won't hit it though.. maybe? but people used to make post limit blogs (seperate email) for that. but that is for heavy usage users.

you can make as many sideblogs as you want. you are free to divulge whether or not it's you. of course use common sense to gauge whether or not it matters. but side blogs can be anything: maybe you want to categorize things, maybe you wanna make one into a huge fan page/blog for a specific hobby/celeb/show/game/etc, maybe a quieter space, maybe posts you feel don't belong on your blog, maybe even a blog where you reblog resources to exclusively. the possibilities are endless! (maybe not for porn, it's a little harder to skirt by these days even with muh community labels)

a lot of posts are incredibly vague about whether or not you can leave comments on reblogs. i think it truly depends. for example, if it's praise for artwork, i feel like it is truly best left in the tags. the artist can see it still! it shows up in their notifs when you reblog. in comparison, when it comes to funny text posts and pictures, you can comment as you like, but consider TPO (time place occasion). it helps to check the notes (comments only filter) to see if the quip or comment you wanna make has already been made or if OP made further comments later. again, it's a call to use your judgement and everyone has a different tolerance for this kind of thing

i see many people or perhaps most came from LGBTQ+ centric subreddits so i am surprised i'm not seeing this mentioned often: there are unfortunately a lot of terfs here. please stay safe. install shinigami eyes and engage in blocking sprees whenever possible.

in account settings, not blog settings, there is a section called "content you see". it has filtered tags and filtered post content. the difference is filtered tags is specifically for tags, for example, if you want to hide a certain show you don't like, you can have the site apply a peek-a-boo filter on it (this content contains #TAG, as in click to view). you ask, what if the person on my dash doesn't tag it as that? that's fine! it also takes into account the original poster's tags. the OP didn't tag it? then filtered post content might help. MIGHT. it's pretty helpful and unlike twitter's mute list, as far as my experience, it is not broken. for example, if you write [SHOW NAME THAT YOU DON'T WANT TO SEE] in plain letters (with aliases as seperate entries just to be safe) it will filter any post that has the words in the body of the post. pretty useful! use this to curate your dash further or even filter out triggers.

speaking of tags. a lot of people are also vague about this. i'll say it clearly. you can add whatever tags you want to a reblog. there's no limit (aside from character lim per tag)! there's no social faux pas, unless you're being backhanded at someone's creative work, like reblogging just to dunk on it or going "i like the art but not the character" etc. when it comes to your own posts, try to avoid tagging irrelevant tags (for example, if you're making a lot of posts that are tangentially about cardcaptor sakura, think about if it belongs in the tag or not. think of it as whether or not it deserves an OC flair on reddit). again, people's tolerance differs, but especially on older media and slow tags people do not appreciate random tangential text posts (for example "i wanna watch ccs!" and nothing else)

in terms of culture, tumblr has a weird balance between "you can ask for context" and "lurk for 10,000 moar years". i would not know myself. i've been here for 12+ years *shrug* you'll have to gauge it for yourself. most things you can google "[tumblr user] callout" and figure out from there LOL (yes that's usually what happens). i DO encourage trying to garner it from context, especially for terms.

due to the looser moderation(?) on here, LGBTQ+ and other minorities use their own discretion reclaim slurs freely. join in, or put the slurs in your filters. it's fine not to join in as that's your personal comfort, but this is a heads up that the culture is like this since i'm not sure how the moderation is in places like r/196 are. (sorry i used reddit for entirely different things ><)

DO NOT TAG D0NATION POSTS WITH #D0NATION OR ANY OTHER VARIATION. this is SO important. it's best not to tag donation posts AT ALL. tumblr internally flags them and suppresses the post. just reblog silently (d0nate if you can) and move on (censoring just in case lol)

search is useless for finding specific posts. give up before you even try. your best bets are google, asking for help on the dashboard, or just hoping it shows up on your dashboard one day (it probs will, maybe not immediately when you need it though)

i called old tags "slow" but not dead earlier: tags Do Not Die (though some just kind of randomly get wiped or lose posts, idk, it is some post-2018 indexing weirdness) so you can find fanart and posts from 2012 and it's ok to reblog! the essence of tumblr is the continued circulation of people's creations

please do not repost screenshots of tumblr posts unless they are no longer accessible (reblogs locked for example) 😭 i am seeing this happen already. this is the one thing from reddit you're gonna have to let go of. twitter and other place screenshots are OK (probably, some people don't like them). but don't let your page look like one of those r/(etc) post aggregate bots on twitter is what i'm saying. once you explore a tag enough times you'll know what is usually appropriate to post (usually derivative meme templates are OK, but don't overdo it (tho this just falls under "dont spam") (also this is MY personal preference, so if the climate of the tag houses a lot of memes, go ahead!)

in general reposting content that isn't your's is kinda eh. especially reposting people's art without explicit permission. there are art reposters who in the modern day usually ask for permission, of course there are internet spelunkers who repost content from old web and dead sites. there's a lot of nuance, but i highly discourage reposting things you didn't make yourself unless it's stuff like official art and whatnot. photography and other stuff from other people, use your judgement. and as an aside i know "stolen memes" are r/196 and other meme subreddit cultures but it's not exactly appreciated here and i feel like if the reposting gets out of hand tumblr users might get real tired of it. the humor isn't really the same here in that sense, i suggest posting them in a sideblog that archives such things so they aren't lost and/or keeping them in your community tags. ofc no one can stop you!! but the whole highly derivative fried meme thing is very reddit. the culture could not be more different even if we are similar in many ways. i mean this in the nicest way possible >_< if you're not sure, DON'T REPOST.

this is just advice from me, but when liveblogging a show, it's nice to tag it with a unique tag, such as #[your name/nick] plays [game]. i find it's ok to tag series name to some posts that are more substantial, people are happy to see others enjoy what they love, but using a unique tag also helps people track YOUR liveblog since they may save the tag to look at :)

put your age or whether or not you're an adult somewhere where people can see, (and your pronouns too or lackthereof). whether or not if it's on your bio, or an about page, or a carrd. please. it's a matter of curation and safety. some people don't wanna follow minors by accident and vice versa, just as a means to curate their space

people write alt text and image descriptions in the post bodies pretty often. yes it's built into tumblr, but either some people forget or the feature... refuses to work that time. yes it's BROKEN. if you feel like you can contribute alt text for an image in an adequate fashion, go ahead!

try not to reblog people's personal posts. asking people never hurts!

you can restrict non-followers from replying to your posts, or turn off replies all together. as far as i know it's not possible for seperate posts unfortunately, just a blog-wide toggle. when replying to someone specifically, be sure to @ them so they can see it!

for a long time, only the first 5 tags you used in an original post mattered. a lot of people still repeat this, but in my experience this seems to have... changed?? i can't say for sure, but my posts appear in tags beyond the first five. just to be sure, tag the most relevant things first! (or not, if you have your own strategy LOL)

you're free to not tag trigger warnings (it's nice to do it for others tho especially if they ask) but please tag flashing images as such. #epilepsy warning, #flashing, #flashing image, #flashing, etc.

REPORT BOT BLOGS. it blocks them for you anyway. just blocking doesn't do anything for anyone

you can add other people to a sideblog to make it a group blog. this is how blogs with mods work, or even collectives, it has a lot of uses in general so have fun with it! be wary it requires getting someone's email so be safe about that and try to do it with people you trust.

this is advice from me since i noticed after publishing this post that a lot of reddit users don't tag things. you don't have to btw!! but my advice that brightens up the website: if you reblog cool art, writing, music or photography (taken by OP) and you like it a lot, i highly recommend leaving compliments in the tags. we live in an age where creative creation is increasingly unappreciated and people are quiet silent— creators get no feedback therefore no encouragememt to keep creating. this is more like a personal plea, but like to reblog ratios have become DIRE. people are apathetic and scared to interact with people's creations even though on here they are actively ecouraged to. if you like art or fic etc i even more highly recommend you reblog it. likes don't do anything! reblogs = more eyes on it. let's support each other's creative endeavors 🩷

don't fall for the trap of trying to make tumblr into reddit, or trying to recreate the feeling of a subreddit. it's not gonna work. try to adapt. it's easier said than done but lol. rome wasn't built in a day. operate your blog like your own space rather than trying to recreate a hub. the tolerance for trying to change tumblr culture is super low and a lot of people who are much meaner than me will probably try to bully the idea into the ground. and people DO get mean. (like playground namecalling, but people have no reservations about it, so it's stuff that would probably get you banned on reddit)

if your post gets traction and the note notifications annoy you, deleting the original post will make the notifs stop coming. a lot of people reblog the post to keep it on their blog then delete the original to effectively "mute" the notifications permanently.

#196 #r/196 #reddit #r/tumblr #r/curatedtumblr #curatedtumblr #reddit blackout #reddit boycott #reddit migration #r/traa #i hope this reaches people bc i feel like some of this stuff is important #traa #r/ftm

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gallavichthings · 3 months

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Gallavich Lovefest 2024

Hello, lovelies! Here are the "prompts" for this year's Lovefest, as well as posting rules (please read those!). Under a read more because it's quite long. :)

How will it work?

Everyone who wishes to can participate. You can post any number of posts you wish to, and you can also treat these as ask requests (thus the numbers). Please remember to add your own impressions.

When will it be?

Technically on the 14th of February, but because of timezones and also because we all have other things to do, you can also post one day before or after.

How to post:

Reblog from Tumblr or link to the original fic/fanart/edit (please make sure it's the original and not just a Pinterest link or something of the sort). No reposting, please (that means, don't save the art/fic/etc. to your own phone/computer and make a new post with it). Please add a comment (it's ok if it's small) about why you like this. Also, either @ me in the body of the post or tag it as Gallavich Lovefest 2024 (this is so I can find and reblog your recommendations).

Can I make one post with several recs?

Yes, this year you can, as long as it's for the same category. Just don't forget you still have to provide a link to the originals and a comment for each.

PROMPTS

Something you did yourself that’s at least 3 years old

Something you did yourself that's between 1 and 3 years old

Something you did yourself in the past year and that's complete

Something you're working on (either a fic that's still a WIP or plans for future works - feel free to add snippets/sketches/etc.)

A fanart by someone else that’s at least 3 years old

A fanart by someone else that’s between 1 and 3 years old

A fanart by someone else that's less than a year old

A one-shot by someone else that’s at least 3 years old

A one-shot by someone else that’s between 1 and 3 years old

A one-shot by someone else that’s less than a year old

A multi-chapter by someone else that’s at least 3 years old (and complete)

A multi-chapter by someone else that’s between 1 and 3 years old (and complete)

A multi-chapter by someone else that’s less than a year old (and complete)

A WIP fic that's been "abandoned" (not updated in more than a year) but is still worth reading

A WIP fic that's currently "in progress" (last updated less than a year ago)

An edit (gifset/graphic/video) by someone else that’s at least 3 years old

An edit (gifset/graphic/video) by someone else that’s between 1 and 3 years old

An edit (gifset/graphic/video) by someone else that’s less than a year old

An interview with Cameron and/or Noel that you enjoyed

Your favorite picture of Cameron and/or Noel

A funny Gallavich post

A podfic (including a link to the the original fic)

A meta/discussion/analysis post/video/podcast

A Gallavich/fandom Tumblr blog

A Gallavich/fandom account in another social media website

An AO3 fic (yours or someone else’s) that’s at least 3 months old and got less than 30 kudos

An AO3 fic (yours or someone else’s) that’s at least 3 months old and got between 30 and 100 kudos

An AO3 fic (yours or someone else’s) that’s at least 3 months old and got less than 10 comments

An AO3 fic (yours or someone else’s) that’s at least 3 months old and got between 10 and 30 comments

Any fanwork (yours or someone else’s) that’s at least 7 years old

#Gallavich Lovefest 2024 #Gallavich #Gallavich Fandom #Ian x Mickey #Shameless US #events #mod post #Please share

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fellowshipofthefics · 3 months

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Welcome to Fellowship of the Fics!

Our goal is to share the various fanfics within the Tolkien fandom, as well as help authors with their struggles, if we can. Whether you write ships or gen, OC inserts, strictly canons, etc, it doesn't matter, we want to share your stories!

We have...

Monthly writing events!

The Hobbit: An Unexpected Collaboration event!

A queue designated to share your stories!

We share writing resources (and funny memes)

A discord server (all Tolkien fans are welcome!) to discuss Tolkien's work, and provide support for writers/artists with their creations!

Be sure to submit your fanfics to -> this form, or tag your fics with #fotfics, so we can share your stories!

Check out our masterpost with more info!

If there are any questions, comments or concerns regarding anything above, as well as the blog itself, please feel free to send us an ask, or you can DM one of the mods! @lordoftherazzles @ahufflepuffhobbit @fantasyinallforms

#lord of the rings #the hobbit #the silmarillion #rings of power #fotfics #fanfiction #fanfic #tolkien discord

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historical-fashion-polls · 25 days

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hello and welcome to historical fashion polls!

i'm so glad you're here and i hope you enjoy your stay 🥰

here (below the cut) you'll find all the relevant info related to the blog:

about the blog and the curator

image submission

requests

never hesitate to send in a message if you have questions, comments, or just want to say hi ☺️

this blog is dedicated to historical fashion polls!

currently, i limit myself to fashion plates, catalogue images, and other mass-produced fashion illustrations (explanation here)

the main timespan covered by the blog is 1770-1990 (explanation here)

however, i am happy to receive image submissions from outside these parameters – more info on making requests and submitting images below!

discussions about what content will be featured on the blog can be found under the tag "curatorial updates"

relevant decades and centuries are tagged on all posts

my name is charlotte (she/they) and i'm the curator of the blog! ☺️

i'm an art history phd student and aspiring professor studying late 19th century british and american art, primarily ephemera and "visual culture" (like fashion plates, book and newspaper illustrations, scrapbooks, photographs, etc.)

my main blog (where i talk about art history and music and make edits) is @ourstaturestouchtheskies

my ramblings can be found under the tag "the curator speaks"

my lovely conversations with all of you can be found under the tag "curatorial correspondences"

i'm very happy to receive image submissions from you all!

you can do that through the ask box, by submitting a post, or via direct message

image submission requirements (without these i won't be able to feature your image 😔😔)

please include the year or decade the image represents

please ensure that we can see the clothing clearly enough to get a sense of what each garment looks like

since this is a poll blog, please be sure that the garments chosen are at least somewhat comparable

if sending in images via dm, let me know whether you would like me to tag you in the post that features your image

as always, feel free to let me know if you have questions on any of these requirements! ☺️

i'm also very happy to take requests!

if you have something specific you'd like to see featured on the blog, send me an ask!

please just remember that the kinds of images i myself will source are primarily from fashion plates that span from 1770-1990 (more detailed info available above)

if your request is outside these parameters, i encourage you to submit the images you'd like to see featured! (more detailed info available above)

to give a sense of the kinds of things that folks have requested, both pending and resolved requests are available below

requests that i have received but for which i have not yet been able to add images to the queue

footwear

lower-middle class fashion

40s skiwear

late 19th c artistic/aesthetic dresses

historical sleepwear/nightgowns

armor?

requests that i have received and have either already been featured on the blog or are currently in the queue

masc fashion (late 18th c, early-mid 19th c, early-mid 20th c)

bloomers

headgear

swimwear

80s prom/bridesmaid dresses

20s tennis outfits

40s/50s pjs

#finally made a comprehensive intro post!!#historical fashion polls #the curator speaks #curatorial updates #long post #intro post

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jagibee · 1 year

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Call Me Luna Info

Hello dear readers, Mari speaking!

I just wanted to lay down some basic info about my story so that things are clear

- This story will probably not include super explicit smut unless or until I become more comfortable writing it, but due to heavy discussion of sex and suggestive scenes, this is an 18+ work, so it please respect that and MDNI

- The reader has an AFAB body and uses she/her pronouns and I think at some point I will have her wear skirts/dresses, and I decided to divide SKZ in half in regards to how old everyone is compared to the reader for the purpose of honorifics, but I looped Hyunjin in with the younger half since they were born in the same year. I also might have a background for character motivation purposes, so just oc family members and their secondary genders. Other than that, I try to keep it pretty neutral including race, religion, etc. Unfortunately I am limited to my own experiences, so if you feel like I’m not keeping it neutral or I am portraying something incorrectly or problematically, feel free to say something!

- I have ADHD and will deadass forget this story exists unless I have people interacting with me, so please do!

- My chapters will probably be over 1,000 words but I’m really inconsistent other than that so good luck

- This isn’t meant to be an exact biography of Stray Kids obviously so I’m not putting pressure on them or forcing them to be together or anything, also they have less managers and choreographers and sound people just because I don’t really feel like including all of that

- I’ll update when I want

- This is my story, so if you don’t like it, you can just leave without reading anymore!

- This story will deal with physical, verbal, and psychological abuse, as well as slight substance abuse, eating disorders, and mental health issues so please don’t read this if any of these affect you negatively

- Again, I can only go off of my experience so the way the characters in this story deal with things is not meant to be the “correct way” and it may not be relatable to everyone

- If you guys have any theories or ideas for what will happen next, let me know! It’s fun to see how people interpret writing (and maybe I’ll get my next plot point idea😁)

- I really don’t know what direction this will take so I’ll be adding trigger warnings as needed for individual chapters, and if there’s something that I haven’t tagged properly, please tell me! I want everyone to have a good experience with this story

- This story will have cursing, that’s just the way I think and write (and I think we all know the kids curse off camera)

- When any character uses English, I’ll show it like “‘“this”’”

- I’m shit at titles so….. we’re doing chapter numbers, but I might add chapter names later

- Tag list is open! You can send in an ask or message me if you want in! My tumblr is a bit fucked up so I can’t really respond to replies, but I always add you even if I don’t answer

- However, being on my taglist and being able to read my work is ultimately up to me, so if you do or say something that I dislike, I have no problem with blocking you

- I am fine with comments like “can’t wait for the next chapter!” but if it’s something more like “when’s the next part😡” consider it an automatic block, sorry not sorry!

- Liking and reblogging are always appreciated!

- Really, just have fun, stay positive, and (hopefully) enjoy the ride!

Info Regarding ABO

- omegas have heats three times a year for 7-10 days

- alphas have ruts twice a year for 3-6 days

- betas have slips once a year for 4-5 days

- heats include abdomen cramping, change of the omega’s scent, a need to nest, slick, and horniness for most

- heat suppressants are common, they don’t completely take away everything, there is still usually mild cramping, change of the omega’s scent and a need to nest, though they are pretty moderate

- ruts include a stronger scent of the alpha, possessiveness, need to mark their partner or partners, aggression, headaches, and horniness for most

- rut suppressants aren’t nearly as common as heat suppressants but they can tone down a rut to only include headaches, slightly stronger scent, and a bit of aggression

- slips include betas getting a stronger sense of smell and touch and they become very sensitive both physically and emotionally

- slip suppressants are very rare and only tone down a slip by about 20% while making the beta emotionally numb so many don’t like taking suppressants even when they have access

- there are no specific alpha scents or beta scents or omega scents, but in this universe, people can still identify someone’s secondary gender based on their scent

- scent glands are on the wrists and neck but if you put blockers on the neck, the body automatically stops releasing scents from the wrist gland

- scent blockers also lessen the wearer’s sense of smell

- wrist to wrist scentings are for acquaintances, neck to wrists are for good friends, and neck to necks are basically the equivalent of saying “I want you in my life forever” which can be platonic, familial, or romantic

And now onto the masterlist!

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emberfrostlovesloki · 6 months

Text

A for Effort [Hotch x Reader]

Photo credits: Left (Google) (Center (@hotch-girl) Right (@archaic-stranger)

Prompt: A meet-cute of how Aaron met the non-BAU reader at Penelope’s theater improv group show. And how Aaron accompanies the reader to host her Halloween extra-credit horror movie watch and discussion for her students.

Pairing: Hotch x fem presenting reader. The reader uses she/her pronouns.

Category: Angst/fluff/comfort

Word Count: 8.2K

Content Warnings: Canon typical violence (unsub drugs and beats teenagers, Hotch takes a beating, awkwardness, mention of being cheated on (reader’s boyfriend cheats on her with a best friend), mention of separation, light drinking, unwanted touch (a guy is handsy with the reader), vomit is mentioned (in the context of the film The Exorcist), religious themes, mention of intimacy (sexual touch over the clothes) If I missed any, please let me know.

A/N: This one is just me having fun. I did give my students extra credit where we watched a horror movie and discussed the elements of the film. I couldn’t help but picture Aaron there with me, so I wrote this. I teach English but I’ve made this story that there could be a plethora of subjects. I really like the meet-cute element of this story. It was fun to write. If you like this story, likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated. Below I have included some cultural definitions for my international readers. If you’re from the States, especially the South and you know what dance halls and cotilion are, then feel free to skip this. I just want to make sure my readers feel included. Please know I am not good at line dancing or swing dancing - I do ballet to this is not my personal dance style. Lastly, before I sign off, you can vote for the next Aaron story you want from me at this post (linked). I hope you have a great night - Love Levi

Definitions

Dance Hall: An enclosed space with a dance floor, a stage for live music, and a bar (normally). The space is pretty age-inclusive and most music is country. Couples and singles come and often mix and match partners. Some people go to show off their skills here. The dances are normally line dances or swing dancing which relies a lot on improv. The lighting is normally dimmed, though not as much as at a nightclub.

Cotillion: Essentially manners class. These can be after school or on the weekends. It’s associated with the debutant circle and court.

List with all stories

_y/n_ = your name

_l/n_ = your last name

_y/l/g/s_ = your local grocery store

_y/e/c_ = your eye color.

_y/f/a(s)/s_ = your favorite art (or science) subject - aka English, film, art, psychology, etc.

_y/u_ = your university

_y/s’s/d’s/b_ = your subject’s department’s building

Aaron sat down in the second to last folding chair with a very small grunt. The sound was so quiet that Spencer, who was on his right side, didn’t even notice that he had made it. The last case had seen Hotch tracking down a stalker who was preying on teenage girls, drugging and beating them severely before dumping their bodies on the steps of their parent's houses to be found the next morning. Aaron had experienced the strength of the forty-seven-year-old unsub as they had sprinted down an alleyway. The team had gotten to the fifth victim just in time. With Rossi, Spencer, and Emily taking care of the teen, Aaron and Morgan gave chase on foot. When both met a crossroads, each took a path. Aaron took the sidewalk to the left. Using all of his strength, Hotch had been able to catch up to the unsub. When they reached a dead end, the power balance changed. The unsub, Kevin Leery, realized his only means of escape was fighting his way out. The man quickly turned before Aaron, who was now pretty winded from all the running, could pull his sidearm. Hotch had been victorious, though, by the state of his aching body, he might not say so. Rossi had called the paramedics for him. The medics assured Rossi and the team, more than himself, that he would be fine in a few days. That there were no broken bones, just some bruised ribs, and a pretty battered left hand. Aaron’s attention shifted as there seemed to be movement behind the small curtain that was waiting to be raised. Hotch was glad for this distraction. He needed his mind on other things than his body. When Garcia had taken up improv as a hobby, the whole team was on board. Especially Morgan. Derek, at least twice a week would say, “Now Babygirl, when do we get to see a performance?” Penelope would blush and say, “When we’re ready. You can’t rush talent, and the whole troupe is still getting everyone else's vibe.” Aaron would give a small smile that he tried to hide when he overheard these conversations. Improv felt like the perfect art for his technical analyst. When the first performance was announced, Garcia printed fliers and invited the whole team to come and watch the show and then grab dinner afterward. Everyone had joyfully agreed. Aaron had marked the date on his personal calendar over a month out. He ensured that Jack could be at Hailey’s that day. The anticipation grew as the one-night performance loomed. Garcia had said a few things about breaking the fourth wall and audience participation. Hotch was sure that whoever was picked wouldn’t be him. Garcia knew him too well to let that happen. Part of him wanted whoever was making that choice pick to Derek. He thought it would be fun to see his friend on stage attempting to play an act. And Aaron knew that Morgan was easy-going enough to play along with whatever the group had him do.

Aaron’s thoughts were pulled from the curtain and any movement that may or may not be going on behind it as someone tapped his shoulder and asked, “Sorry is this seat taken?” Hotch’s eyes snapped to the woman who was standing in the small aisle of the tiny theater the improv group had rented out for the evening. Aaron’s gaze looked into the inquisitive face of the stranger, and he said, “Yes, I mean no, No it’s not. Feel free to sit here. Sorry.” Hotch wasn’t sure why he was being stuttery all of a sudden. Most of it was probably because the woman who was now settling into the chair very close to his was incredibly beautiful. However, what Hotch told himself was that this mystery woman was holding flowers and he wasn’t. Hotch stopped himself from face-palming. He had forgotten to bring flowers for Penelope. He would profusely apologize after and then pay whatever amount he needed to get a florist to drop off an arraignment when he got back home. The woman next to him with some trepidation given his recent slip. She made one final shift, as she set her purse and the flowers on the ground in front of her and pulled out the program for the two-act play. While doing this, she inadvertently brushed her thigh up against his. Aaron felt a rush through his body at the contact. Very quietly the woman said, “Sorry.” Hotch looked over, and she was looking at him as if she was making sure he was alright for the unintended contact. Hotch gave a small nod and said, “Don’t worry about it.” After the contact, the person sitting next to him seemed to be the only thing he could focus on. She had pulled her legs and body tight into the chair, to not touch him again. The light scent of her perfume washed over him with her body heat. They were just an inch or two apart, and Hotch couldn’t help but observe her as she flipped through the program with an interest. To not seem weird or be caught staring, Aaron looked to his right at the team. If Spencer had noticed his odd behavior, the boy-wonder wasn’t letting on. But when Hotch’s eyes moved one chair over, Rossi looked at him with eyebrows raised. This time Aaron couldn't stifle the sigh that he let out at seeing Dave’s expression. His best friend on the team was always on to him about lighting up. About living a little. Aaron always rebuffed these comments. He thought he lived plenty -- and nearly died in the field more than that. All of these conversations, stated or unstated, had started a respectful time after Hailey had left him. Hotch was sure Rossi, and the whole team had seen that his marriage had been crumbling as much as he did. Maybe they saw it before he did. If they had, they didn’t say anything about it apart from Dave, and one very kind comment from Emily. Prentiss had asked him one day late in the office, “Are you alright, Aaron?” It was a hypothetical question, and he replied, “I think I am. Thank you for asking, Em.” They had left it at that. Aaron still thought about that comment sometimes. There was a small movement from the companion to his left like they had heard his sigh and stilled their movements because of it. Aaron willed himself to not look back at the woman. Thankfully the lights dimmed and the curtain raised.

The play was about a man who worked at an office and was slowly losing his mind. The program said the idea was loosely based on the short story, “Bartleby the Scrivener” by Melville. Garcia played the perky secretary who was always badgering the lead about this private life. The play was funny. The dynamic between the actors was natural as they riffed off each other and the confines of the small narrative being built between them. As the first act ramped to conflict with the lead, a youthful-looking man with a mustache broke the fourth wall and said, “But Maddison," which was Penelope’s character’s name, "there’s something I haven’t told you. I have a fiance! And they’re in the room with us” The small crowd in the room all took an intake of breath at the revelation. Suddenly everyone in the small assembled crowd looked at each other. Penelope said, “Well get her up here this instant! I’ve got to meet her. She must be mental if she’s in love with you.” There was a second that with bated horror, that Aaron thought the lead was going to point at him. But the man’s pointer finger pointed at the woman sitting next to him. All eyes turned to her. Aaron could see her deflate a tiny bit. As the man on stage said, “Come up here, beloved. Come and meet the source of my madness.” The woman got up and as she moved toward the stage, he guessed that the protagonist hadn’t informed her beforehand that this would be happening. In the back of his mind, Aaron thought, “What a dick move.” The man helped the woman up onto the stage. She was wearing a skirt, and she was more careful that she didn’t flash anyone as she was hoisted up on the stage than the man helping her upward. At seeing this, something small in Aaron twitched up comfortably. When the woman was on stage, Penelope rushed forward and hugged the woman. Aaron could see that Pen had also seen what he had. Hotch could see in Garcia’s embrace both an act and a real gesture of comfort. Garcia pulled back and asked, “So, you’re cooped up with this old bat all hours of the day and night? How are you coping with that?” There was a tense silence while the audience waited for the woman to respond. The lead moved toward the woman, and his right hand found purchase on her lower back. The woman seemed to lean into the touch. Aaron immediately assumed that the two were a couple. It would make sense if the mustache man had picked her. The silence persisted. It lay heavy over the crowd. It became awkward as the woman looked at the man and the audience. Her eyes shone with anxiety. Finally, the man said, “Have nothing to say about me, darling?” At this, finally, the woman said, looking directly, intently at the man, “Oh sweetness, I could go on and on, and on about you. I just don’t think your friend would like what I have to say.” As soon as that line was uttered, the curtain fell, signaling the short intermission.

The crowd cheered and applauded as the cast and the woman were veiled. Aaron could hear Emily and JJ, and Derek and Rossi’s conversations about the show so far. They sounded so happy. As Hotch offered a comment to Spencer about the intricacies of Melville’s writing and how it related to the performance, he couldn’t help but think how the woman, when giving her one line had been acting as well. But some small part of her tone had indicated that it wasn’t all an act. That fact gnawed at Aaron like a dog on a bone. The intermission was short, only about fifteen minutes long. As the minutes ticked by, Hotch waited for the woman to return to her seat. After what felt like an eternally long ten minutes, she reappeared and moved down the row to her seat. Hotch offered her a hand as she steeped with high heels around her purse, program, and flowers to take her seat. Aaron looked at her closely as she sat. It was clear to Aaron that she was less joyful than she had been before the show had started. The woman’s makeup was smudged a bit, and he wondered if she had been crying during the brief break. When she was seated, Hotch removed his hand and the woman, very quietly said, ‘Thank you.” Aaron nodded and replied, “Of course.” The man had mentioned engagement on stage, and he couldn’t help himself from looking for a ring on her left hand. He found none. His wedding ring sat heavy in a box on his bedside table, reminding him of his personal shortcomings. For one tiny moment, his heart ached for his woman. Whatever it was she was going through. Aaron rarely allowed himself to have these extraneous emotions, but in the here and now, he couldn’t seem to stop them. The repetition of the lights dimming and the curtain raising once more stopped any further thoughts on the matter. The second half of the play was as funny as the first as the lead slowly lost his sanity and refused to leave the office, even under the direct order of his boss. Subliminally, Aaron felt called out at that element of the storyline. When the play ended there was thunderous applause and a standing ovation was given to the cast. Everyone slowly filtered out of the room and Hotch noticed as the woman moved to the front of the stage and kissed the lead on the mouth, handing her flowers over to him. Aaron turned his head away at the moment of intimacy between the couple. Something about what had happened during the play didn’t sit right with him, but who was he to comment on relationships?

At the dinner after the show, Pen was showered with the praise she deserved. When things had quieted down, Aaron had over-apologized about not bringing flowers, and Garcia had wholly forgiven him. He asked in a more subdued voice, “So the lead, Richard, he chose who in the audience got called up on stage?” Hotch tried to sound nonchalant but wasn’t sure if he was being convincing. Garcia didn’t seem to notice, and replied, “Yeah. He called his girlfriend, obviously. I’ve had a few conversations with _y/n_ before and after rehearsals. She’s really sweet, and too good for Rich if I’m being honest. I don’t think she appreciated being called out like that.” Aaron nodded as a few more pieces seemed to click into place in his mind. The night wound down, and Hotch managed to get some flowers to Penelope around midnight. It might have cost him $83.75, but it was worth it to get Pen’s text, with a picture attached of the bouquet thanking him profusely. Pen included every flower emoji available in the message. As Aaron got ready to sleep, his thoughts shifted to the woman. He thought back to Garcia’s comments and remembered her name: _y/n_. As he drifted into sleep, he hoped that she was alright. She was happy.

Neither _y/n_or Aaron expected to see the other ever again. But they did a month later. Hotch was doing his weekly grocery shopping at _y/l/g/s_. The person in front of him in line for the check-out had a scant four items on the conveyor belt. The items were a bottle of wine, some strawberries, a bar of 75% dark chocolate, and a dozen pink roses. Hotch sighed softly and thought, ‘At least someone’s having a good time tonight.’ As the woman who looked oddly familiar to him got to the cashier, they rifled through her purse to find their credit card. She softly said, “Shit.” The cashier told her her total of $25.47. The woman said, “I’m sorry I forgot my wallet in my office. Please just put everything back. Sorry for the inconvenience.” At hearing the woman speak, Aaron recognized the voice of the woman who had sat next to him at Penelope’s performance. The woman seemed to be ready to leave, but Aaron stopped her and said, “I’ve got it.” The woman looked over at him and recognized him immediately. _y/n_, “Oh, No. You don’t have to do that.” Hotch gave her a reassuring smile and replied, “Really, it’s no problem.” He added, “You did very good while onstage by the way. You handled it with grace.” The woman flushed. She said a soft, “Thanks.” After a second, she extended her hand and said, “y/n_, _l/n_.” Aaron took her hand and replied, “Aaron, Hotchner.” _y/n_��s palm was warm in his hand. Lost in the moment, and the woman’s eyes. Hotch asked, “Date night?” At hearing this, _y/n_ seemed to cringe a little bit, and he wondered what he had said wrong. From the small assortment of things _y/n_ was attempting to buy, date night seemed to check out. Date night with Rich, as Pen had said last month. Hotch stopped from sighing at the idea. The woman replied a beat later, “It’s a pity party, actually.” Hearing this, Aaron’s eyes furrowed. _y/n_ quickly clarified, “Let me reframe that in a more positive light. I am taking myself on a date.” There was an awkward silence after that statement and a more awkward cough from the cashier. Aaron stepped up and pulled his card from his wallet in the back left pocket of his jeans. Once he had paid for _y/n_’s groceries, the cashier started scanning his items. The young employee had started to put his groceries in the same bag as _y/n_’s items. Aaron thought about saying something, but he stopped himself. The young man working the till seemed flustered, and he didn’t want to add to the man’s distress. It would be okay if he paid for both groceries and their groceries, and then he could separate _y/n_’s items from his own. _y/n_ stood nearby, tentatively. Once Aaron had paid for his things he grabbed another plastic bag. He shifted through his own items to find _y/n_’s. As he put the four products into the new bag, he had to ask, “‘Pity party?’” Hotch missed the large flush and look of shame on _y/n_’s face as she said candidly, “My boyfriend, ex-boyfriend.. Rich. He kinda cheated on me with my best friend. It’s a whole thing.” Hotch couldn’t help himself from cringing at her honesty. At how painful that must have been for _y/n_. All that Aaron’s brain could supply was a soft, “I’m sorry? I didn’t mean to pry into your personal life.” _y/n_ shrugged her shoulders and said, “I mean, all of my friends and colleagues know. I don’t know why it would be much worse with you in the loop too. Plus you bought me my stuff and I appreciate that.” Aaron flushed again saying, “It’s really nothing given the circumstances.” He held his tongue after that. He had already said too much. Hotch couldn’t figure out where his brain went when he was near _y/n_, but it wasn’t his normal calm and composed self, that’s for sure.

Aaron let _y/n_ go to her car to not hold her up from her ‘date night.’ The recesses of Hotch’s brain wished he could get in the car with _y/n_ and join her in whatever activities she had planned for herself that evening. Hotch reprimanded himself for the thought. _y/n_ had just experienced a real pain, a hurt to the soul, and here he was longing after her like a puppy looking for some attention. For a pat on the back. Using more effort than he wished he had to, Aaron let the moment, the feelings for _y/n_ go. He had to for his well-being. He was certain that it was just fate that he and _y/n_ had bumped into each other twice. As Aaron drove back to his place and unloaded his groceries into his fridge, he found the receipt from the store. The four items from _y/n_ stood out at the top of the waxy paper. Again, he let all of those emotions, which he refused to address, go. Aaron fiddled with the buttons on his shirt and then took off his pants, as he moved into his bedroom. He decided to take a shower to clear his thoughts. Maybe to get another kind of relief that he had been missing since Hailey’s departure. Under the cascade of warm water, Aaron let go with his body and, as he began to dry his form with a warm towel, he cleansed his mind of impure thoughts. He wanted to sleep with an empty mind. One that wouldn’t make him feel guilty. As he drifted off, Hotch hoped _y/n_ had also found some kind of release that night.

Another month and a half passed before they had their third meeting. It had been the worst team bonding training of all time. The presenter had cheery slides and made high-school-level references to trust and honesty between team members and cohorts. JJ, Rossi, and Morgan had all looked at him with clear disbelief at what they were being subjected to in the hour-long training. When the presenter mentioned something about a trust fall, Aaron almost lost his cool. He could deal with many things, the long hours, the gore he saw weekly, the stress of leading the team, and his eyestrain, but he drew the line at being forced to endure this. He looked over his team with eyebrows drawn taught. When he looked at Garcia she was laughing unabashedly. The presenter was looking at Penelope unsure of himself. Aaron shot Garcia a look that said, “Please, stop now,” even though he wanted to join in on the hilarity of the situation. Once the team had been released from the presenter’s lecture, Hotch gathered the team and said, “Well I promise you all, that…” He gesticulated with his hands, demonstrating, that training, “will never happen again. If you want some real team bonding let's go to that dance hall Emily keeps trying to get us to go to tonight.” Hearing this Prentiss flushed, but she had been saying that it was a really good time and it was. Emily had had a few great evenings at the new dance hall. After a moment of silence, Rossi said, “Here, here. I for one need a stiff drink after whatever that was.” The whole team seemed to relax after this. At eight-thirty, the team arrived at the venue. The space was large and the lot was full for a Tuesday evening. Everyone had changed except Aaron, who had come straight from the office. He had ditched his jacket in the trunk of his car. His suggestion had been an attempt to take Rossi’s advice to lighten up. As soon as he entered the crowded space, he realized that he had miscalculated. Everyone on the floor, those seated at the benches and tables on the sidelines, and those getting drinks at the bar were dressed very casually. His slacks and loafers didn’t belong here. As a way to deflect from making him the odd man out, Aaron offered to get the first round of drinks. As he got the orders from the team, he moved to the bar, and some of the BAU members, Emily, JJ, and Morgan, found partners and moved to the wooden dance floor. With a slew of drinks in tow. Hotch moved back to his friends and colleagues. Rossi, Penelope, and Spencer took a few sips, as they watched the dancers move to the country music. Aaron knew that this was mostly a Southern culture thing, but he understood that dancing was a universal pleasure, even if he wasn’t particularly good at it. His mother had signed him up for cotillion classes in high school and he reluctantly went every week for a month. His mom had wanted him to grow up the perfect gentleman, and even though he maybe hadn’t picked up all the dance moves, he thought he succeeded pretty well at the rest of it.

As the songs changed there seemed to be some excitement at the center of the floor. A couple was dancing with skill and the other dancers gave them room to improvise their steps and tricks. It was showing off for showing off’s sake. As Aaron looked over the pair on the floor he recognized the woman as _y/n_ from the play and the store. His eyes widened and Hotch looked at Penelope who was also watching _y/n_ with rapt wonder. Aaron turned his eyes back to the floor and the woman was pushed, pulled, dipped, and raised in a multitude of ways and speeds. As _y/n_ was raised in the air, supported by strong arms on her hips, a few cheers came from the crowd and fellow dancers. The woman even waved her hand in acknowledgment of the praise. Uplifted and in the spinning lights, she looked so happy, like she didn’t have a care in the world. Unlike her time on stage, she looked like she belonged up there, floating on air. Hotch felt himself flush all over and he looked away for a second. Rossi watched Aaron’s reaction with more than a little interest. After the song was over there was a small bit of applause at the skill put on display for the crowd. The talented man that had been dancing with _y/n_ kissed her on the cheek chastely. From what Aaron could see, the two were just friends or maybe dance partners, but not much more. Of course, he couldn’t hear what _y/n_ said to him, but as she turned toward Hotch’s group, there were no signs of arousal in her face or body, just unabated joy. Aaron hadn’t seen her this happy before, and he flushed again. Aaron internally told himself to ‘get a grip.' _y/n_ walked toward their table, not noticing them yet.

As she got closer Penelope called out for her saying, “Hey _y/n_, what a surprise to see you here!” The woman looked up and spotted Garcia and beamed. _y/n_ quickly moved over to the huddle of FBI agents and said, “Heya, Pen. What are you doing here?” _y/n_ looked over Rossi, Spencer, and then at Hotch. Her eyes grew a bit wider at seeing him and she said, “And you…” It took her a moment to remember Aaron’s name. When it came to her, she continued, “Aaron.” _y/n_ looked between Garcia and Hotch and asked, “Y’all know each other?” Penelope, ever the enthusiastic conversationalist said, “We all work together. This is my team.” Garica pointed to each of them saying their names. Spencer smiled at _y/n_ when his name was mentioned and Rossi shook her hand warmly. As Aaron’s name came up, _y/n_ gave a soft smile and she said, “It’s nice to see you again, Aaron.” He swallowed and said, “It’s nice to see you too.” And it was nice. To see her so radiant made him feel good. _y/n_, Garcia, and Rossi talked a bit about her dancing abilities and she seemed to shy away from her talent. Garcia couldn’t help herself and asked, “Did you ever take Richard here?” Hotch froze for a moment, unsure if Garcia was aware of the breakup. _y/n_’s soft snort made him feel better as she said, “Are you kidding me? He refused to come because I was better than him at dancing and other people wanted to interact with me. All four pairs of eyes were on her as _y/n_ shared some of her personal life with them. For a team of highly skilled profilers, having someone be so open was a bit strange. Penelope helped cut the feeling and said, “Of course he wouldn’t. The man really needs to get over his own ego. He complained about you and whined for a mouth at least during practice. He still talks about it. Honestly, he’s pathetic.” Garcia saying this had _y/n_ laughing and replied, “Tell me about it. I wished I’d seen it sooner, but c’est la vie I guess.” Penelope nodded along, and after a moment _y/n_ said, “Well I’m going to grab a drink at the bar, but I’ll swing by later if you’re still around. It was nice to see some of you again, and to meet you, Dr. Reid and Dave.” The team all said some form of “see you later,” as she moved away from them. As she passed Hotch, he gave her one of his rare smiles, or more like she had drawn the smile from him. Again Rossi noticed.

Three songs later _y/n_ was back on the dance floor with a much less skilled dancer. The man had his hands all over _y/n_ after the first minute of music and _y/n_ was constantly moving his hands up, or stopping them from moving lower. She had said twice and to “cut it out” but the man was not listening to her. Hotch and Rossi watched as it happened. Both men felt uncomfortable with what was happening. After another minute, _y/n_ pulled back and away from the man, telling him off. Her face was set in a more sour look as she moved to the sidelines and away from her temporary partner. The man sought to follow her, but Hotch was out of his seat as he watched the situation unfold before him. Rossi breathed a sigh of relief as his friend did this because he was about to do the same and he felt that _y/n_ might be a bit more comfortable with Aaron than himself. Hotch cut the man off from moving any closer to _y/n_ and said with a clear, firm, and determined voice, “Out. Now.” The man didn’t argue and Aaron wasn’t sure if it was his fancy dress or the look on his face, but either way, the man left. Hotch followed him with a searing glare until he left the establishment. Once the guy was gone, he turned to _y/n_ she looked at him with half awe half admiration. He couldn’t pinpoint the second emotion, but it wasn’t negative and that’s what mattered to him. He took two steps closer, getting close to her. He leaned down a bit and asked, “_y/n_, are you alright?” When he looked at her this closely he could see a warmth in her _y/e/c_ eyes. She nodded and said, “I’ll be fine. Unfortunately, that kind of behavior can be par for the course here. Asking total strangers for a dance means not all of them are fantastic people.” Hotch nodded, saying, “Well it still doesn’t make it right.” _y/n_ felt her breath hitch a bit as he said this. He said it with sincerity like he really meant it. _y/n_ had seen plenty of guys try to defend her honor or other cliches like that just to go and disrespect her themselves. She didn’t sense that at all in the tall man standing in front of her. _y/n_ was also impressed with his commanding presence. It had only taken two words to make the man flee the scene. Two. Words. She wondered what else he could do with his voice alone. _y/n_ flushed and looked to the floor for a second. The fact didn’t pass Aaron by. After a second, _y/n_ looked up at him and said, “Can I pay you back for your help with a drink or a dance? I haven’t seen you out on the floor yet. I’d be happy to partner with you if you like?” Hotch shifted a little, suddenly a bit embarrassed. He didn’t feel like another drink. He normally stuck to one or two, and he’d already had a second beer. He wanted to dance with _y/n_ but his two left feet didn’t seem too convinced that he could cut it with someone as skilled as _y/n_. _y/n_ could see his hesitation and said, “I can lead if you like. We can do just real easy steps.” Aaron looked at her and saw that she wouldn’t be embarrassed with him. She genuinely wanted to be with him like that. Hotch flushed again, more lightly this time, and he said, “Alright, I’ll do my best to not trip over my own feet.” _y/n_ chuckled as they took his hand and led him to a quieter part of the floor. A bit away from the team, which Hotch was grateful for; though he was sure the team was probably watching him. He didn’t blame them, he’d watch too if he could.

The dance went well. _y/n_ turned out to be a skilled instructor for him. He did try very hard to follow the steps and let _y/n_ improv off his lacking moves. At one point _y/n_ even let him do a little spin, which was very awkward given how much taller he was than her. He had to let go of her hand to make the 360-degree rotation. They had both laughed good-naturedly at how silly it was. When he was being treated like this, Aaron didn’t mind not having control. After another song, the music took a sudden change from country and swing to slow sensual music. _y/n_ let his hands go and took a step back. Aaron looked around, not sure why there had been such a dramatic change. People were slow dancing now and he looked to _y/n_ for clarity. _y/n_ gave him a gentle smile and said, “The last hour is always slow music so those who don’t like swing dancing or line dancing get a turn. I think it’s nice. Inclusive in a way. Aaron nodded and said, “Oh.” He stood still for a moment. He looked to the ground for an instant wondering how he was going to ask if she wanted to continue to dance. Because he did want to keep dancing with her. When he looked up, she was looking at him. _y/n_ was biting down lightly on the inside of her cheek. She couldn’t see that her pupils were blown wide with desire. Her fingers were tapping against her leg lightly. _y/n_ wanted Aaron’s hands back in hers. Or behind her back while her arms rested on his shoulders. She wanted to be inexplicably close to him at that moment. Hotch didn’t say anything, didn’t need to say anything as he bridged the gap between them. His hands found purchase on her hips and _y/n_’s hand moved up to his shoulders. His hands glided over his chest softly. Aaron closed his eyes, and they both moved on instinct. With what was comfortable for them. _y/n_ melted into his touch, and his large hands gently landed on her body. They were warm and held her firmly like he was afraid that she might slip away if he let go. _y/n_ would be happy to reassure him that she would likely follow him to the ends of the earth even though she had only met him three times before. Aaron’s cologne smelled of rye and spruce, but it wasn’t the overpowering stuff teens and insecure men used with a heavy hand. This was refined. Elevated. It took a lot of what she had in her to not rest her head on his chest and take a deep breath. After two more songs, Aaron looked down at her and she seemed so at peace with him holding her close. And for the first time in a very long time, he leaped before he looked, as he leaned down further. He was slow, giving _y/n_ time to stop him, but she didn’t. Instead, she tipped her head up to meet his lips. The kiss was soft, respectful of how new and potentially strange this was, but neither could deny that the feeling was blissful. Hotch didn’t even care that JJ, Garcia, and Emily all had their mouths open in pure shock at his actions.

_y/n_ and Aaron’s relationship moved at a normal pace. As much as they had both been drawn to each other the night they had first kissed, both parties wanted to give the other space. To make sure things were comfortable and natural. _y/n_ wasn’t the type to commit to anything without fulling thinking and feeling it out. Aaron was the same for obvious reasons. But they had found a love and care between them, along with a passion that _y/n_ and Hotch had pretty much expected given the events the night at the dance hall. They both learned about each other, their jobs, and the intricacies of their lives. And after all that _y/n_ still wanted him, and Aaron was amazed at how nice it was to have someone steady to lean on. To care for while he wasn’t working. Someone had loved him back as intensely. As it turned out _y/n_ lectured _y/f/a(s)/s_ at _y/u_. And because of this, he was driving toward the university campus in _y/n_’s car with her in the passenger seat. They were chatting about his day in the office. Aaron was recounting some stories of Reid’s and _y/n_ listened with rapt attention. Hotch was being careful with his driving as it was near the college, which meant freshman with cars they hardly needed, and those partying a little too hard on Halloween night. They got onto campus proper and _y/n_ directed him to the parking lot. He had asked her if she wanted to take his car and she had reminded him that she had the faculty sticker on her windshield and he didn’t. She teased, “I don’t even think your FBI ID would persuade parking services. They are relentless in their mission.” Hotch had laughed at this and she warmed at hearing it. Aaron’s laugh sounded like a river running over smooth stones to her. It was gentle and mellow. Once they had parked, the pair moved to the _y/s’s/d’s/b_. The doors were still open given that some grad classes were still being held.

Three weeks ago Aaron had asked her if she was doing anything on Halloween and if she wanted to spend the evening with him. As _y/n_ listened to his question, she sighed and said, “I’m holding an extra credit opportunity for my students. We’re watching The Exorcist and then discussing it, but being with you sounds so nice. You could sit with me while we watch it and then hang out at my place after? That is if you don’t have Jack of course. Let’s not terrorize him so early on.” Hotch let out a breathy laugh and said, “Jack’s going to be with Hailey at some school trunk or treat event and he’s staying at her place to sleep off the sugar high. You’d let me sit in with you? In front of your students?” _y/n_ let out a little breath. She hadn’t expected him to say yes. She replied quickly, happily, “Of course I would! I mean most of my students know I have a partner, they might as well see you. And you can tell off students trying to canoodle while Regan gets possessed as have my eyes tightly shut.” Hotch chuckled and said, “Well I’ll leave the disciplining up to you, but I’m happy to be moral support and to calm your fear.” So they made the plans now they were walking the mostly empty hallways and up to the third floor. _y/n_ beeped into the faculty work room to print out the sign-in sheet and a guide for the most scary parts of the film for those who were like her; a scardey cat. As she moved into the small space and logged in to the computer, Aaron leaned against the door frame, filling the space. As the copies printed, she looked up at him and said, “I wish you’d follow me around all the time when I work. You could be a ghost haunting me.” Aaron smiled and said, “If I followed you around you’d soon learn that I’d fail your class. And we can’t have that, now can we?” The copies finished and _y/n_ grabbed them saying, “I’ve seen your writing, Aaron you are more than competent.” Hotch moved out of the way and his hand found hers as they moved to the lecture hall. _y/n_ had reserved the space because she expected a good turnout, the screen was large, and the audio system was reliable. _y/n_ asked Hotch to prop open the door with a chair. While he did this, she moved to the technology at the front of the room to the left of the lectern. _y/n_ signed into her Amazon and pulled up the film, checking the audio levels and turning on the closed captions for those who might need them. Aaron moved to _y/n_ and offered to take her purse for her. She smiled and nodded and he moved to the back of the room. He sat down near the center of the row. He called out across the space, “This good?” _y/n_ nodded and said back in a clear voice that carried in the space, “Perfect sweetheart.”

_y/n_ continued to stand at the front of the room and after another minute or so some students started to ramble in. _y/n_ instructed them to sign in on the sheet near the door. Many of the students had brought friends, roommates, boyfriends, or girlfriends along for moral support, or to laugh at the scary bits. _y/n_ had some casual conversations with some of the students and Aaron watched on with admiration. It was clear to him that _y/n_ had a connection with these young adults trying to figure life out for the first time. A few of the students noticed Aaron sitting at the back of the room, but none of them said anything to him or sat near him. It finally hit 7:30 p.m., and _y/n_ said, “Alright everyone, thanks for coming out. Let’s get going with the movie so you can all go out to the square or you’re older friends’s parties I’m not going to hear about on Thursday. Remember we’re paying attention so we can answer questions after.” Hearing this, the kids let out some laughs and chuckles. _y/n_ nearly forgot about the guides and said quickly, “Does anyone want a sheet with timestamps for the scares? Any other wimps out there like me?” There was silence and _y/n_ laughed at herself and said, “Alright guys, but don’t blame me when you have bad dreams tonight.” With that, _y/n_ started the film and moved to the door. She removed the chair and switched off the lights so the only light remaining was the two glowing exit signs on either side of the room. _y/n_ moved back to him and took a seat on his left side. It was dark and they were in the back, so she slipped her hand into his He gave it a gentle squeeze. True to her word, _y/n_ did close her eyes during some of the more difficult points of the movie. Now and then there would be some quiet chatter from the students. Some got up and opened the door to use the restroom. One student made it back to them to say they wanted to leave early to “go to their dorm.” _y/n_ smiled at the girl and said, “Okay, just make sure you’re signed in.” The teen nodded and said, “Thanks. See you Thursday.” At the end of the film, as Father Karras passes away, Hotch looks over _y/n_’s face. Her eyes were a bit misty. She had warned him that she got emotional at the end. She had looped him in because she didn’t want him to worry that she was so scared that she was crying, or crying for some other unknown reasons. As the credit started rolling, _y/n_ wiped her eyes and she moved to the front of the room.

She paused the movie and said, “Alright everyone, shield your eyes, the lights are coming back on.” Once the lights were on and everyone could see again, _y/n_ moved to the side of the lectern and leaned against it. She started by saying, “I’m going to make this quick because I’m sure there are places you want to be that aren’t here, and because I’m tired.” Hotch half knew that she wanted to be with him too, and it made him smile. _y/n_ asked, “So, what’s the tone of the film?” There was a brief silence, but then a young man said, “It’s camp.” That got a laugh from everyone and then opened the door for the class to bounce some ideas off each other. They spoke about theme and religion, and whether Regan or Chris acted as the final girl. They talked about Father Karra’s characterization and story arc. _y/n_ helped lead the conversation, but let her students talk and express their views. She asked, “So we’ve read the novel and seen the film and talked about the religious symbolism and overtones. So tell me what in the film is transubstantiated?” At this, there was a lingering silence. One girl offered, “Regan’s vomit?” _y/n_ chuckled and said, “Close, anyone else?” Aaron couldn’t help himself, because he also wanted to know the answer, so he said, “Is it Regan herself?” His comment reverberated to the front and twenty-one pairs of eyes turned to him. Hotch felt called out, but _y/n_ pulled the the student’s attention back to her by saying, “Yes very good. Now I can’t claim anything about authorial intent, but in my opinion, Regan is transubstantiation a literal transformation of her body and blood.”

_y/n_ quickly wrapped up the extra credit after that. A few minutes later Hotch and _y/n_ were back outside and headed to her car. They had stopped her her office for her to pick up a stack of papers that needed to be graded. Aaron smiled when he saw a picture of him and Jack pinned to the wall next to her degree. He leaned down and kissed her gently. As they pulled back, he said, “I love you, _y/n_.” _y/n_ hummed happily back at him. In the cold night, they moved across the campus grounds. It was dark and Aaron wrapped an arm around _y/n_’s waist, pulling her close to him. They passed by one of the emergency stations which looked to be broken. He looked down to _y/n_ and asked, “You keep a taser on you when you’re here at night, right?” _y/n_ looked up at him and said, “I carry pepper spray. I haven’t gotten a taser yet, but I will.” Hotch nodded as they walked into the parking garage. Aaron had done loads of research about the safety of the university once _y/n_ had told him where they worked. He had seen too many cases on college campuses to not be concerned for _y/n_’s safety. When they got back to the car, Aaron opened the door for _y/n_. She settled in and he moved to his seat. He turned on the heater and they cruised out onto the street. They talked a bit about the film, and Aaron asked why she cried at the end. What it meant to her. _y/n_ did her best to explain the real love and sacrifice Karras made to save Regan. How seeing Pazuzu restored his faith. _y/n_ made sure to clarify, “Even if a person doesn’t have faith, or that type of faith, I think pretty much anyone can see that he was finally at peace at the end.” Aaron nodded along, listening to her intently. After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Hotch asked, “So, how did I do Prof? Was my answer to your question actually right?” _y/n_ chuckled and said “I think you were right. Regan’s transformation was literal and it was the answer I was hoping for.” She looked over Aaron, his face lit by the streetlamps and dashboard. He was so beautiful to her and she added, “I give you an A for effort.” Hotch smiled at her comments, saying, “I’m happy to help. And hey, an A. You’ll make a good student of me yet.”

When they got to her place, they moved to the front door and _y/n_ pulled her keys from her purse and let them in. The bowl she had left out that had been filled with candy was now running low, and even though it was late, there weren’t going to be many more kids. _y/n_ moved to the counter and dumped more candy into the container. With that done, she locked the door behind her. Aaron and _y/n_ moved to her room and kicked off their shoes and socks. They changed into comfy clothes before crawling into bed. Three months into their relationship, they both kept a few pairs of clothes in the other’s space. In the bed, they were next to each other, the back of _y/n_’s head resting on his chest, her body positioned between his opened legs. Hotch’s hands moved over her chest and torso before moving lower slowly. He watched _y/n_ in the soft light of her lamps. Seeing her like this, seeing her care for her students, and for him made him nuzzle his face in her hair. It smelled of vanilla. As Aaron’s hand moved to a more intimate place, _y/n_’s intake of breath told him that she enjoyed what he was doing. She had told him many, many times that he was skilled in that area. The thought of her praise had him excited in his pants. Hotch asked in a low voice, full of desire, “Do you think I can get something more for my insightful comments than a hypothetic A?” _y/n_ squirmed a bit with pleasure before moving out between his legs. She moved to face him and kneeled in front of him. As her hand started moving over him and he let out a groan, she said, “For you Aaron, I’d do anything.”

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