#there's so much shame and anger in my body i don't feel like it's fair

[soras-art-haven]

Team Pixie Dust Admins!

Hey! If you liked to watch MandJTV around the late 2010s like little ol' moi, you might recall the existence of Team Pixie Dust, his frankly AWESOME on-the-spot evil team. I like the team idea, so I decided to design its admins!

(Didn't really feel like sketching and lining full-detail full-bodies, so I traced over an IbisPaintX chibi base. Also, I tried some new stuff with my art- tell me if you like it!)

Naomi: The most hardline traditionalist of the Pixie Dust admins- her aesthetic is even based on Cure Dream from the popular magical girl show Yes! Pretty Cure 5! She uses exclusively Fairy-types and pink-colored Pokemon- basically like the grunts, but much stronger. Personality-wise, she acts like your typical magical girl anime protagonist, but more cunning and strategic. She often butts heads with the other admins about their less traditionally "cutesy" aesthetics. She often makes a non-poisoned version of Pixie Puffs for Pixie Dust's own use.

Aiden: Team Pixie Dust's resident tomboy. She primarily uses Fire-types like Flareon, and has a bit of a weird idea of what she considers "cute". If she were in Paldea, she would have a Fire-Tera type Blissey. She's hotheaded and rambunctious, going heavily on the offense in battle. Her temper is short and she's quite the sore loser. She often uses foul language, or at least the strongest language she really can within the parameters of an E10+ game.

Azaela: Teased a fair bit for her ridiculously long hair, but she doesn't care at all- though to be fair, she doesn't care about much other than the Pokemon in her and the rest of Team Pixie Dust's possession. Her team consists of Grass-types and flower-based Pokemon and the like. She's quiet and reserved, a woman of few words. She's regarded as one of the strongest battlers in Pixie Dust, and for good reason- whenever she's not doing the dirty work for Pixie Dust, upholding their public image, or tending to plants or Pokemon, she's training her team to be its very best. Often the first to snark when the grunts do stupid stuff that makes their plans go awry.

Noelle: The main planner for the team, and practically Shayla's second in command. Her team mainly consists of Ice- and Water-type Pokemon. She's cold, cunning, and ruthless in battle. The most intelligent and strategic of the team by far, and did a lot of the work perfecting the Pixie Puffs formula. She knows how to use psychological tricks to get what she wants, and this has proven extremely helpful for Pixie Dust. She presents a charming and kind persona in public, often by Shayla's side during speeches. Despite her usual calmness, coolness, and collectedness, she tends to flip out when things don't go according to plan.

Extra notes:

Each one of them has one Eeveelution, as the Eeveelutions are commonly considered cute and still can fit right in with their respective type preferences.

Arceus help you if your strategy relies on outspeeding your opponents. These girls' 'mons all have maxed-out IVs and EVs in Speed, as that stat loosely corresponds to the Cute condition in Pokemon contests. Aiden and Azaela's Pokemon also have some pretty good investments in Attack and Special Attack, respectively, since those stats have a connection to the Cool and Beautiful conditions, respectively. Put it all together, and this team is pretty menacing all around.

At their ultimate defeat, while they're getting hauled off by the authorities, Naomi is breaking down in distress, Aiden and Noelle are breaking down in anger, and Azaela is mostly unfazed- if anything, she's merely dissapointed, like "ah... what a shame..." or something.

I'll make some proper art for these girlies later, so stay tuned for that!

#💮art i created!💮 #💮sora talks💮 #pokemon #mandjtv #team pixie dust #pixie dust admin naomi #pixie dust admin aiden #pixie dust admin azaela #pixie dust admin noelle #💮sora's ocs💮

[klodizzle]

100 tips from my mom who passed away two years ago

1. Chocolate is only a temporary fix.

2. A properly-fitting bra is not a luxury. It is a necessity.

3. Your happiness is your happiness and yours alone.

4. You are good enough.

5. You have to love yourself before expecting others love.

6. A man does not validate your existence.

7. Eat the extra slice of pizza.

8. Wear what makes you feel beautiful.

9. Love the world unconditionally. It's one of the only things that will remain after you. Be kind to it and leave as small a carbon footprint as possible.

10. The partners we choose are additions to our lives. They do not 'belong' to you, nor you to them. You are two separate people who chose to come together. It should always remain a choice.

11. Don't be high maintenance.

12. Wear sunscreen. Every day.

13. People love you because of how you make them feel about themselves.- When someone feels good in your presence they're going to want to spend more time there.

14. Don't judge others- it's not your job.

15. Walk with your head up and look people in the face when communicating.

16. Be honest and loyal.

17. Never, ever bite your nails.

18. You're beautiful with and WITHOUT make-up.

19. Learn from your mistakes. And mine.

20. Dental hygiene is not an option.

21. Your GPA is not a confession of your character.

22. There is strength in breaking down.

23. You don’t have to like yoga.

24. You have a voice for a reason- use it.

25. Take care of your feet. And your teeth.

26. The most important part of being beautiful is feeling beautiful. Do and wear whatever makes you feel beautiful, regardless of fads.

27. Lead by example.

28. Classy is a relative term.

29. Dance- Even if you can't. Don't be afraid of what others think. You'll have so much more fun if you aren't.

30. Learn to say no and mean it.

31. Be the fruit loop in a world of Cheerios. Stand out. Like what you like. Don't adapt to who others are. You are unique and there's nothing more beautiful than confidence.

32. Teach. In every way possible. Explain things, offer your experience and listen to others that do. Never forget that your ideas are much more valuable when paired with the experiences of others. Individually, we only know so much...

33. Learn to laugh at yourself.

34. Give back. Volunteer, teach, read, donate. It feels so much better to give than to receive.

35. A woman is a woman is a woman- Don't compare yourself to others. That also goes for men...

36. Take something from everyone that crosses your path. Note the thinks that you like or dislike about them and implement or remove those traits from yourself.

37. Cry, uninhibited.

38. Laugh until you can’t breathe.

39. Keep others secrets.

40. Eat soul food- often.

41. There is no shame in hoping for love. Don't be too desperate to find it. It can't be forced or rushed.

42. Play. You're only as old as you feel. Run through the sprinklers, chase down the ice cream truck and swing at the park every chance you get.

43. Do not take sex lightly.

44. I mean it.

45. Anna Karenina. I’d like it if you read it.

46. The world spins on the principle of inherent tragedy. Life isn't fair. The sooner you accept that, the easier it will be.

47. Be independent. Don't rely solely on someone else, financially, emotionally or otherwise. Always make sure that you are in a situation because you want to be. You have the right to change your mind as many times as you wish.

48. Put time aside for yourself. You will be a better partner and parent because of it.

49. Carbohydrates are not the enemy. Neither is your body.

50. Involve yourself in an organized activity of your choosing. Especially if it's something unfamiliar that terrifies you.

51. Listen to classical music-occasionally. Country music-often.

52. Sing in the shower. And car.

54. You are more than capable. Anything worth having requires hard work. If it comes too easy, it probably is.

55. Self reflect. Be accountable.

56. Don’t smile if you don’t mean it.

57. Mean your anger. Mean your sadness. Mean your pain. Don't play games with yours or others emotions.

58. I am always, always listening.

59. Bad associations spoil good habits.

60. Be silly.

61. Don't fear failure. It's how we learn. The only true failure is not trying in the first place. Everything else is just experience.

62. Be the best person you can be. Integrity is doing the right thing when no one is watching, regardless of benefit to yourself.

63. Come home smelly, tired, smiling and with a good story.

64. Your story isn’t really yours. Share it.

65. The most valuable thing that we have to offer others is our time. It's precious, don't waste it. Spend it wisely and appreciate it when it's given.

66. Well-fitting and modest is ALWAYS sexier than too small and tight.

67. The ugliest thing in this world is discrimination. Who are we to decide who someone else should love, what color skin they should have or what birth control options they should choose. Never, ever make someone feel inferior because of their differences.

68. Don't ask questions that you already know the answer to. The only validation you need is your own. On the other hand, don't be afraid to ask the questions you don't.

69. If you hurt, let yourself hurt. If you want to cry, cry. Everyone deals with life differently. Just remember, that it is no one else's responsibility to heal you. Although, some will try, it's not possible. You have to take the steps to heal yourself. Be open to it. It can't happen unless you're ready.

70. Humility and subservience are not synonyms.

71. Wash your face twice per day.

72. Be gentle to your body. It's the only one you have. It will carry you and frustrate you all at the same time, but just like life, what you put in to it will be proportionate to what you get out of it.

73. Science is really cool. So is literature. And history. And math.

74. People can and do change. Only, if and when they want to.

75. There is no substitute for fresh air or the calmness of water.

76. There is no shame in asking for help.

77. Despite the saying, love is not unconditional, it really is... You can't treat people poorly and expect them to stay. They won't. Nor should you. We get what we give.

78. Carry your weight. Do your best. That's all you have and as long as you put all the effort you have in to something, even if it doesn't work out, you will be able to walk away from it with no regret.

79. If you do what you've always done, you're going to get what you've always gotten. Change, although scary, can be wonderful.

80. That salad is not better than pasta and it never will be. Period.

81. You’re fooling no one. Nor should you try. Be yourself in every situation.

82. Find at least three green vegetables you can tolerate.

83. A smoothie is not a meal. Neither is ramen.

84. Expect the best from everyone and regardless of how many have wronged you in the past, trust everyone fully until they give you a reason not to.

85. Leave your baggage at the door. If you can't, you're in the wrong place. Go home and finish your work. Nobody deserves to pay for someone else's mistakes.

86. Take time off. Travel. Make memories. Never get too busy making a living that you forget to make a life. No one ever looked back and wished they had worked more. Life is about people, not material things.

87. There is a certain kind of man ( and woman) you need to avoid at all costs. It'll take awhile to recognize him/her, but once you do, never go against your instincts.

88. Be kind. Always- To yourself and others.

89. What other people say is right isn't always what's right for you. Go with your instincts and do what's best for you. You're the only one lying your head down on your pillow at night and the only one responsible for the choices you make.

90. Find something that makes you incredibly happy and never stop doing it.

91. Give thoughtful gifts. Never money or gift cards. Take the time to make someone feel special.

92. Form an opinion. Make sure it's based on fact rather than emotion. Don't be afraid to change it based on experience. Remain as open- minded as possible. You'll miss out on so much if you're not.

93. "I don't know" is not an acceptable answer. Especially in regard to feelings. If you truly don't know, take the time to reflect and find out.

94. Read as many books as possible. It's a wonderful thing to step out of reality and in to a book.

95. Argue with people when you need to. Stand up for yourself and what you believe in. Never let anyone bully you in to silence.

If it’s worth fighting for, fight fiercely.

96. Don't ever miss an opportunity to learn. Use every vehicle available to do so. Knowledge is power.

97. Don’t fight for acceptance. You can't please everyone, regardless of how hard you try.

98. Never miss an opportunity to tell someone how you feel. You never know when it is the last time you will see them,

99. Take pictures. Our memories sometimes fail us, our bodies change and we age. Pictures are timeless.

100. I'm proud of you. I love you and I will ALWAYS be here for you.

~Mom

[serpentspit777]

I'm nervous. Far nervous than I should be.

I went to the GEMS clinic yesterday to get an assessment to start testosterone. I was very nervous and excited at the time.

Since I began my journey of self acceptance, I've dealt with feelings of self shame and anger and have been whittling them down to acceptance. I thought about HRT for two years and I know the side effects by heart. I was ready.

The doctor listened to me. Though to be fair, I didn't speak much and he thought I didn't speak much English either. They offered me a translator. And they actually gave me quite a few pamphlets in Spanish which kinda was funny to me considering my second language is German. Anyways, then the doctor told me I sounded unsure and should read over the effects first for a month and bring it back either signed or not signed. And then after that, if I agreed, I was told there'd be another few weeks to a month of waiting.

I'm not sure what I expected. It's reasonable. But I can't help the feelings of frustration. I've waited for so long to be who I am, to feel more like me and look more like myself. I tried suppressing it, I tried to be "normal" and present as female and be happy with it. But I can't anymore. It's holding me back in life in so many ways.

The assistant nurses were surprised my doctor was going to make me wait so long also. I also tried to change my name in the system because I've had it as another alias but the doctor wouldn't let me and talked over me and told me I could another time.

I am frustrated. I understand, but it was so close I could taste it. The idea of not suffering so much anymore and being a step closer to feeling comfortable in my own skin was so close.

I don't make decisions on whims. I deliberate. This isn't a small decision. This is something that could tear my family apart. But it's also something that could offer me comfort in my own body and happiness.

I'm kind of shy talking about any trans topics in person. So I can understand the doctors hesitation with me. It's reasonable.

But again, I can't help the feeling of frustration and impatience after years of waiting. A month or two more? Agh...

[severelytalentless]

Chemistry Part 1

FlirtyFuckboy!Gojo x VirginLabPartner!Reader

I have the fattest crush on this idiot. This is mostly me fantasizing about interacting with him in college. I'm obsessed.

Probably going to keep this going. Maybe get Suguru involved later.

18+ Content: sexual scenarios and strong language, sexual harassment?, exhibitionism, teasing, dirty talk, dubcon, fingering

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(swoon - beach weather)

"Gojo, please. We have to focus." you plead with him, exhausted, as he plays around on his phone. The stick of his lollipop rolls around to the other side of his mouth. He shoots you a sideways glance over those trendy shades and smirks.

"Do you have a mouse in your pocket?" his eyes track down the scrolling screen in his hands.

"What?" you furrow your brow in confusion. You don't have the energy for his games right now. What is he on about?

"You said WE need to focus," he leans the chair back onto two legs, kicking his feet up on the table, "who is we? You and the mouse?" his nose wrinkles as he snickers to himself. His snarky grin is giving you a headache.

You huff and fix your glasses back on your nose.

This is absolutely pointless.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When your chemistry professor pulled you aside after class, you expected to chat about your senior thesis. Instead, he all but got down on his knees and begged you to work with Gojo on the midterm lab.

"I have no one else for him." You groaned and turned away.

"That's not my headache." You stuffed books into your bag, ready to leave this conversation.

"Listen, I know he's a bit troublesome but if you just-"

"Troublesome? A bit troublesome? Really, professor?" he sighed at the look you gave him.

"Y/N, can you please just do me this favor? You owe me for pushing that late submission through last trimester." he's still holding that over your head?

"Oh come on! That's nowhere close to a fair trade." You have too much going on right now to have Satoru Gojo dropped onto your plate.

He crossed his arms, "I've already paired everyone up."

You scowled at him and threw your bag over your shoulder.

"He's yours."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You look at your watch. 8:30pm. Jesus.

"That's it." You drop your pen into the spine of your textbook. He raises his eyebrows as you push back your chair and stand up.

"Wai-wait, where are you going?" He watches you let your hair fall out of the bun on top of your head and you walk out of the library study room without another word.

You run your fingers through your hair and sigh, releasing your frustration. You have a long list of problems in your life and he will not be making that list tonight.

"Not so fast tiger" he strides up beside you out of nowhere. You roll your eyes and keep walking.

"Where we goin'?"

"I need coffee."

"Oh, when did this become a date?" he straightens the collar of his button-down and puffs out his chest.

'Insufferable' you keep your mouth shut. You refuse to react, turning the corner towards the library cafe.

"Slow down babe" he pops the sucker out of his mouth and takes a couple big steps with those freakishly long legs to catch up to you.

"Not your babe." Your face feels hot.

"You could be.." he leans forward and flashes you a flirty grin as you walk side by side up to the counter.

"Ugh" you scoff and shoo him away, stepping up to order. He clears his throat and nudges in front of you.

"Yes! Good evening, I'll have a large hot chocolate with extra whip," he gestures to you, "and for the pretty lady?" you glare at him.

"...macchiatto, double shot, please." You turn and spit fire at him, "this is not a date, jackass."

He smugly whips his card from his wallet, "And yet, I'm paying for your coffee.." The wink he throws at you is lethal.

There's no way he isn't pleased by the blush in your cheeks. You try to convince yourself that it's the rage...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You just cannot stand him. Always disrupting class with stupid jokes. Erupting into obnoxious laughter out of nowhere in the back with his buddies. His whole devil-may-care attitude might pull other girls, but there's no way you have any feelings for this idiot other than irritation.

You've seen him in action all over campus. Tickling some little freshman under the chin outside the dining hall, making her giggle and flip her hair. Another poor clueless girl falling headfirst into his trap. You roll your eyes and go about your business. You don’t need any of that from him. You have purposely kept your distance for the last 3 years, doing your best to stay off his radar.

That didn't stop him from trying to peek under your skirt last week in lab. You were leaning over the table, reaching up for a beaker. You didn't notice him tilting back in his chair to lift the fabric with his finger until Suguru snorted out a squashed laugh. You whipped around and swatted at his hand. He shook his fingers and sucked his teeth,

"Ouch..I was just lookin’ honey..wasn't gonna touch.." that nasty little smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"GOJO. GETO. Knock it off!" Your professor barked from his desk, hearing the laughter.

"Sorry teach! She just looks so cute in this skirt today." He called out with absolutely no shame, eyes trained on your flustered face,

"GOJO! That's enough."

“really fuckin’ cute..” he added under his breath, rolling his lollipop on his tongue.

You'd never been so embarrassed. You flipped back around and snatched the beaker, holding the back of your skirt down, before rushing to the other side of the lab bench. Your cheeks burned through the rest of class. You will not be wearing that skirt to lab again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He stares after you. Your hair sways back and forth as you strut down the hall away from him. It brushes just shy of your belt loop. He bites down on his lollipop watching the way your hips swing.

You’re so fucking hot when you're mad...

He hums a groan under his breath and jogs to catch up.

"Okay stop.." He grabs your icy shoulder to try and slow your roll. You sip your coffee and shrug his hand off, you don’t even look at him.

“Look, I’m sorry, okay? I know I tease you too much.” You’re not buying it. Gojo is many things, but sincere isn’t one of them.

“Hey! I was just messing with you, you don’t have to be so-“ he trips a few steps past you when you stop dead, leaving him to spin back around.

“SO WHAT? So serious? So mean? Do you think I’m a bitch? How would you like me to act Gojo? HUH? What would please you? I’m not a little freshman play toy. I’ve had ENOUGH of your bullshit! We need to get back and get this fucking midterm done because I will NOT let you drag my grade down! Is that clear?!”

Your shoulders heave and your hands feel shaky from the cathartic release. That felt good. You’ve never raised your voice at someone like that. You tend to avoid confrontation, but he just brings the fire out of you. You glare at the open-mouthed dumbstruck look on his face.

Silence fills the hallway. He’s stunned. You’ve never seen him so still, or quiet. He finally shuts his mouth and you see his eyes flick to your left.

He moves toward you with a stern look on his face. Your stomach flips.

Is he mad? He’s never mad.

“Come with me.” He takes your arm.

“No, why?” You yank away and furrow your brows. He takes his hand off you and raises both in surrender. He lets out a heavy sigh, walks over, and opens the door to your left.

“Just come on.”

You stay put and examine him, weary of his change in demeanor. It’s not anger. Almost smells like defeat. You relent and pass through the doorway.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(drew barrymore - bryce vine)

You look around to find yourself in an unfamiliar, dimly lit area of the stacks. The school library is a labyrinth and you’ve never been in through this door before. The nearest light sits on a desk by the windows about 6 or 7 rows down.

You turn to see him placing his coffee cup in a gap on the shelf. You swallow hard, suddenly nervous and regretting the way you shouted at him. He doesn’t seem like himself. He steps forward and you step back, maintaining distance. You try to step back again but the shelves block you. You clutch your coffee as he gets closer than you’d like him to be.

“I’ve never heard you swear before.” His remark surprises you. He takes the cup from your hands and sets it on a shelf. His voice is hushed and you're not sure you like the way he's looking at you.

“Well you were pissing me off..” he’s in your personal space and you’re suddenly conscious of your breathing.

“Mm, that’s fair. Just didn’t know you used those kinds of words.” He gently teases you again and your face grows hot. You roll your eyes at him for the millionth time, trying to shake off this weird tension between you.

“Gojo, what are we doing in here?”

“You were making a scene.”

“I wasn’t, you just wouldn’t-“

“Have you ever been fucked?”

Your heart dives into your stomach.

His eyes flick down to your lips.

“I bet you haven’t.”

Is he messing with you again? This is outrageous.

“That’s none of your business.”

He clicks his tongue and drops his chin, leaning forward just a little more.

“Nah, I can tell. No one’s ever touched you.”

You hold your breath as his fingers ghost over the goosebumps on your arm. Sparks fly off your skin and your heart races around in your chest. His words tie a dirty little knot into your guts.

“Have you ever touched yourself?”

You huff at his audacity. Now he’s just being rude. He hums back and lightly bumps his hips into yours. You bump back into the stacks.

“Mhm, I bet you do it all the time. Does it make you feel good?”

Your eyes dart away to escape the intensity of his eye contact. He really has no shame. You see his grin widen out of the corner of your eye.

"D'you make yourself cum?"

Heat surges up into your face and down between your legs in the same instant. You try to hide it but you're completely flustered. He can see it all over your face. His cock throbs against his zipper, picturing you touching your own body.

His hand comes up by your head and he leans against the shelves, caging you in.

“Wonder what kind of pretty sounds you can make.” He just keeps going, you shift your weight, and flinch when his hand lands on your waist.

“What d'you think about with your fingers in your cunt?” Your eyes jump back to him at the vulgar words. He squeezes your waist and the little knot twists again. You pull a quick breath when he leans in next to your ear.

“D'you think about me?” He whispers too close, it triggers a wash of chills over your skin. Your walls tighten inside you. His hand starts sliding up the curve of your waist and slips under your shirt. Your exhale catches his ear as he cups your bra.

“Is that a yes?” He squeezes and his other hand moves to skate around your shoulder and under your hair. He blindly unclasps your bra through your shirt like he’s done it a thousand times. His fingers then quickly find their way to your nipples and start to play.

You bite hard into your lip to stifle your moan but he hears it in your throat. He smirks. This is your first time and it fucking shows.

“Your imagination ain’t enough, is it?”

His impish sneer wrinkles his nose and he bites down on the stick of his sucker before pulling it out of his mouth. Your mouth falls open with a sigh when he pinches a little harder and he drops it on your tongue. It’s cherry-flavored and you don’t think twice as you fold your lips around it.

Gojo likes what he sees.

“Pretty girl, I can think of so many things to do with that mouth.”

His knee nudges between your thighs and pushes up against your heat. You hum and your tongue curls around the lollipop. His hands leave your breasts to squeeze your hips and rock you on his thigh. You crunch down on the candy and grasp at his shirt at the sudden friction. Your breath comes out hot and you look up at him with big puppy eyes.

“You like that, hm?”

You nod automatically. Waves of pleasure radiate from your clit, and tug on the knot in your core. You drop your weight down onto him against your will.

What has gotten into you?

"D'you want me to play with you? Want me to show you how good this can feel?"

"Hng..ah.." he pushes into you, pressing you against the stacks. You paw at his shoulders to steady yourself as he adds even more pressure between your legs.

"There we go.." he sweeps your hair off your neck and his lips hit your skin. Electricity hums through your nerves.

"Ohh.." a hushed little moan rolls off your tongue. His hands slide back up under your shirt and continue groping your breasts.

"Such a frustrated little virgin.."

"Mmmh.." that moan came out a little louder, your whole body feels like it's resonating. He drags his tongue up your neck.

"I can fix that.."

It's just too much. Your head thumps back into the books.

"Oh my god.."

You've never felt anything this hot. It's similar to the times you've laid in bed exploring your own body, but this just feels so much better. You don't even care that it's him.

Maybe it's better because it is.

Gojo can’t believe the sounds you’re making for him. He’s finally caught his mouse and you aren’t even putting up a fight.

Little do you know, he's been simping over you since freshman year.

There’s something about you. The sweet innocence is there, but you also have this sharp little attitude that he just can't resist. The combination has always intrigued him.

And you don’t even realize what you do to him. You don't know how much you turn him on. He can't stand it when you walk into class wearing those overall shorts that hug your ass just right. That headband you wear is ridiculously sexy. And you’re so damn smart.

He daydreams in class about fucking you on every surface in the lab.

You’ve deflected every one of his advances, yet you always storm off with a flush in your cheeks. You’re the one thing he’s not allowed to touch. The toy on the shelf that he hasn’t been able to reach.

Until now.

"Don't play coy with me anymore," he whispers in your ear.

"Be honest. You liked it when I lifted your skirt last week, didn't you?"

You hum as he squeezes your ass.

"I saw those lacey little panties, y'know.."

He moves his thigh out from between your legs and you're embarrassed by the needy feeling that hits you. He looks at your desperate blushy face and grins.

"Are you wearing them right now?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You blink and he's already unzipped your fly. Your heart punches at your ribs when you feel his hand slide down inside. His fingers start rubbing into your slit through your panties and your entire body shudders. Your hands fly onto his forearm when he bumps into your clit. He pauses there and eats up the fervent arousal painted on your cute face.

“You can tell me to stop..” He knows you won’t. He keeps rubbing.

The sexual frustration is radiating off you like a heater.

He's so right. You’re dying to be touched like this.

Your mind is running in a hundred different directions, trying to decide what to do, but the way he's massaging your throbbing clit is melting your focus and dismantling your will.

He pushes in on your sensitive bud and you gasp, gripping his arm and shaking your head.

“Use your words, what d'you want me to do?” He rolls it around under his finger, pulsing pleasure through you like you've never felt before.

He bites the end of the stick hanging from your lips and takes it back. He rolls it to the corner of his smirk and waits for you to give in and answer him.

You know what you should do but the aching twist in your core won't let you.

“Mmph...don’t stop..”

“That's what I thought..”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Part 2

#jjk x reader #jjk fanfic #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #gojo satoru x reader #gojo smut #gojo imagine #gojo fanfic #satoru gojo smut #gojo simp

[kazuhasbunny]

Giiiirl, imagine you are on Baal's side, you are a general and commanding an army against the rebels' own general, Gorou.

You are all cocky and confident, your years of experience just keeping you aware enough so you won't be consumed by your pride. But oh, your face, when after all of those carefully thought out strategies and intensive training, you end up losing to that mutt.

He is insufferable. Even though his face and body is caked in a mixture only war can give-- blood, sweat and dirt, his smile is the biggest, smuggest thing you have ever seen in your life as a warrior. It does not help that you are on your knees, back stretching forward as the grip he has on your jaw tugs you up with such a force you won't ever believe an archer, a long distance fighter, would posses. The bodies of both sides lay scattered on the defiled land, but the purple spots decorate the most, as his last men stand straight and proud behind him, just as yours do, but the lack the attentiveness. Their tired and bored countenance ticks you in a wrong way. Why they don't look happy by this result?

Does your failure was already predicted? As if this end was something that was already calculated. Taken in account.

The man holding your jaw in a bruising grip let go of you, a mere blink of respite as the next second your left cheek explodes in pain, your vision swaggers for a second as you fall on your right side from the streght of that blow. You shut your eyes and concentrate on your breathing; the fight left you completely drained, as much as your brain screamed at you to stand up and attack that man, your bones and muscles protested as you tensed in hopes of getting up, but ultimately you only made yourself look pitiful.

Gorou turns to were his men are, his gaze lingering for a second on your laughable attempt. His focus switches to the army as he starts to pace from one side to the other, the victory was already decided, but the energy from the feat itself brought a surge of emotions within him.

Another quick glance at you, and something on his mind switched. He was wondering what to do with you; killing you off felt as a meaningless action, as the Shogun won't care for someone as low as yourself. You only were deployed to fight against them to gain time for the real force, to prepare and learn how strong the rebels actually are. With how confident you looked hours ago, it seems that your benevolent Shogun forgot to grace you with such knowledge before sending you off with a bunch of newly trainees.

"First of all, congratulations, my friends, for this well earned victory" Gorou began. The group of men on front of him quickly acknowledge his words, paying attention to what he had to say.

"Even if the outcome resulted as to what we--" He turns around, your eyes opened when he began speaking. You both made eye contact, and Gorou's smirk transformed into a full smile. Was it okay for him to fill such giddiness at the sight of your equally wounded pride and body? After all, he was the one to bring you into that state, he was the one to put you in your rightful place with just one arrow, kneeling on the dirty battlefield as the geo power incased on the arrowhead did its job in petrify you.

The glint of defeat on, dare he say, those gorgeous eyes of yours really made them stand out. Actually, as he approaches your form, he's starting to see some other appealing features he couldn't notice from a longer distance. What was the Shogun thinking, in even allowing you a spot within her number when you clearly weren't made for war?

"--Expected" his pause brought your attention to what he was actually saying. So they had all of this calculated...

"But now, all that is left to do, is tend to the wounded and take care of the dead. Yours and their sacrifice will bring an end to this stupid decree in no time. We need to prepare for tougher, real..." He gives you a glance "...battles from now on. Don't let this win get in your head"

The crowd quietly cheers between them, some of them patting each other on the shoulder for a job well done. All of that camaraderie made your stomach hollow, as you recognise the same speech you have told to your former men after a battle well fought. Those piercing blue eyes of his made you painfully aware of the consecutive part of giving a victory speech, about what is waiting for the losing side, the pit in your stomach grew in size and you really wished that it could swallow you whole before the man in front of you does.

Gorou thrills in your despair. That pretty face of yours plunging into dark dephts, your mind weaving one horrifying destiny after other speaks a lot of your character, as only those who have layed a cruel end to those before them can conceive. He knows what kind of thoughts those are, but as much of a monster as you are viewing him now, he won't do such a thing. He was quite merciful while deciding what your fate will be, even if he didn't pondered a lot in the few minutes after your fall, you are but only a child with a weapon, sent to die by that horrible woman.

And something he prides himself of, is learning from mistakes. He won't throw away something that can fulfill very well other duties than warfare ones.

"Sir! If I may--" a voice spoke between the masses of helms and spears.

"I know, I know. The general" Gorou waves off his hand, his eyes never stranding away from your form for far too long.

A groan escapes your body as his foot steps on your ribcage, not too hard but your weak body sense as if he had nails attached to the sole, your skin felt cold and as if it was being prickled by a ton of needles. He pushes your your body with a gentleness unexpected from an enemy, until you were lying on your back. The new position put pressure in the arrow wound on your right/left shoulder, your dominant arm, and for a second you were grateful of the rigidness granted by the geo element yet covering half of your arm or else you are sure you would have cried in pain, the last thing you want now is to show more weakness that what you are displaying.

"What I am going to do with her... I didn't know myself when we first begun this battle" Gorou continued. He removed his shoe from your chest to your side on the floor, so you'll be cage between his legs while he looks down on you. His arms crossed across his chest and he tilted his head to the side, as in assessing you, taking on your face just as covered in grime as his but not diminish your beauty in the slightest. He really made a good decision in regard of your fate.

The soldiers stood still, the atmosphere felt heavy like the air on a hot summer afternoon that feels stuffy on your lungs as your breath in. Their general had an unseen aura surrounding him, his usual careless actitud makes everyone forget that there's an animal side to him, although they aren't sure they will presence it for the first time, their captain is definitely switching towards that side... they even feel a little bit of pity for the woman under him.

"But as I see her like this, beaten, it makes me remember something of old, that the victorous usually sow. Can you guys guess what it is?" He squats over you, sweetly combing a couple of strands of hair out of your face.

Whispers break among the army after the question. One of them raised his hand, no barely 18 years old as he was one of the shortest in comparison to his bigger and wider shouldered comrades. The young recruit promptly lowered his arm as the general wasn't looking at their direction but that didn't stopped him from answering, eyes shining with excitement:

"They take something as a token of their victory, sir!"

Gorou hummed in affirmation. "Yes, they did. A spoil of war, if you may"

Dread washed over you. He wasn't going to kill you, as a way to demonstrate their superiority? To be taken as a trophy, a possession... He surely won't mean that, right? They are going to torture you and extract every drop of information that you have, until the last thing left in you is blood to shed on their hands as your usefulness is cut short like your troath.

You needed to say something. Anything, as long as it would arise anger within the young male, anything as long as you aren't degrade far from what you have been.

Gorou raised his eyebrows as you coughed. He wasn't expecting a monologue from you but neither silence. Your sudden wish of speaking made the men jump into action, their spears pointing at you with such terrifying speed made you realise furthermore that this battle was destined to end like this, another stripe to the tiger just like a new blow to your pride.

"Just kill me already. I won't say anything, and if given the opportunity, I will end it myself" you spat. You tried to transmit all of your pain, hate and shame in one stare, you won't go happy until you make that man see what you feel, how big your abhorrence is to his being.

All the males stare in silence, until the general himself chuckled. Your cheeks burn with rage, your teeth clenched together as you tried yo surf this flare of emotions. How dare he laugh like that! He already won and you won't speak a thing about the Shogun, why acting like that? Isn't the rebels supposed to act with nobility and fairness?

Gorou took a breath in. He's happy he didn't went for the traditional route and killed you.

"Aw, now you just proved me correct, sweetheart. I'll enjoy making you into a proper wife"

All of that just to say "Imagine being taken as Gorou's prize and he makes you his whore wife" LMAO

(Also? In the part that reader coughs? I wanted to put that Gorou spits on your lips because you looked thirsty AODJFJDC)

THIS 🙏 yes i’d love to be gorou’s housewife he should really take me in and train me to obey him . please i’d do anything for him

AND pleasee omg ... if u actually put that in i’d die on my chair it’s too hot i can’t hjnhnggrh

#eli.replies #anon #AAAA #this is so good i #am at a loss of words

[whump-town]

The Principle of Universal Causation

Ah-yo not two updates like two days (two days?? three?? I don't know, time has no concept to me honestly)

No warnings

Jack stuff this chapter

Chapter Four: My Old Man and Me

Cold hands were Jack’s guide through life.

A palm pressed to his cheek, rough calluses against his baby soft skin. Two large hands around his own, blowing warm air across tiny little fingers red from winter’s rage. Gently cold fingers against his throat, clipping his identical tie to his shirt as he stood in his father’s large shadow. A hand the size of his back pushing him forward as he gripped his bike’s handlebars with the intense fear of being let go, his father’s voice in his ear, just keep pedaling Jack. Just keep going!

He never equated the chill of his father’s skin with anything other than warmth.

Open arms waiting for him outside his elementary school. Butterscotch candies in large trouser pockets he could fit his arm down inside, all the way down to his elbow. Mahogany desks with stacks of papers and a manilla folder with his name meticulously scribed onto the tab with his own work inside – coloring pages his father picked out himself. Large popping fires every fall. Coffee that tasted suspiciously like hot chocolate. Bookshelves on the walls to hide the off-white paint – Charlie and The Chocolate Factory and Harry Potter shaping his dreams. Forts made out of the kitchen table and old bedsheets, waking  up with those cold hands holding him close.

For a long time, comfort is enough to prevent Jack from asking the questions on his mind. One will cross his mind, he’ll feel it begin to slip from his mouth but his father will look at him so sorrowfully Jack will lose his courage. Suddenly, he doesn’t care much about what his father’s parents would have been. He imagines his grandmother as a tall woman, probably like his own mother. Gentle and soft. He imagines a grandfather with a library even more dense than his father’s. One that requires a ladder to reach to the top of. He thinks Victorian and southern like apple pies and white christmas’ with snow covered trees and staircases to a bedroom he’ll enter and suddenly see his father at his own age within the walls. With bangs down in his eyes and a crooked shy smile.

He’s seventeen when he realizes how wrong his little fantasy is.

He takes the news very poorly.

He looks at himself in the mirror – as teenagers often do, searching his skin for imperfections and growing tight and hot with fury over things he cannot change. His hair is an ugly brown, not his mother’s fair blonde anymore.. He digs for pictures of her, bending his father from her side so that all he sees is her bright smile. He’s coming to understand his father’s tired sadness but he hasn’t yet gotten over his own burning shameful anger to grow as calm as him. All he has is the same understanding that the world has continued to spin out around them. He will grow older. His body has changed. And he no longer looks like the little boy his mother would have known. If he died today, she would not recognise him.

He looks like his father.

His eyes are brown now, the shade of old books in the library that nobody opens but he occasionally searches for just to touch their spines. To feel where the glue has come free, to feel the old fabric beneath his fingers. The same shade of sad brown as his father’s. Looking into the mirror he feels a strange departure from himself. Those books in the library are still themselves, are they not? Untouched for years. Coming apart at the edges. There are still words inscribed within them. Someone’s truths painfully bled into them.

Jack looks at himself in the mirror – sees so much of his father reflected back at him – and feels nothing.

Whose blood runs in his veins?

Whose truths have been poured so painstakingly into his mind? Into his soul? Into him?

Who is Jack Hotchner?

He thinks the answer is somewhere in his father’s truth.

It is not.

Aaron Hotchner was emancipated at seventeen -- an “aggressive” orphan with trust issues, the state homes suggested he be sent somewhere else for safety reasons concerning his own and other’s health. He needs higher security. More discipline. Someone to figure out if he’s homicidal or suicidal because it’s impossible to tell. The county lacks the kind of money they’d waste getting him anywhere and if he’s only a year away from eighteen then why bother? He’s seventeen with delays; his hyper-independence makes it likely he’ll meet an ultimately premature demise turning to drugs and crime for community and shelter. It’s the only place he’ll find people who will care about him, even if they only really care about how well he sells drugs or enforces those interactions. They’ve seen it before. He’s hardened. Gone. Seventeen but he looks like a war vet like he’s done things to survive that are so harrowing he’ll never forget them. He’ll never forgive himself for them.

He’s a waste of resources they don’t have.

No one has ever given up on Jack.

Cold hands, remember?

Lifting him up from the mulch, brushing the dirt off his jeans. Would you like to try again? Give it one more try. I’ll catch you if you fall.

Guiding his eyes along the page, take your time, Jack. Slow down. Sound it out.

Brushing the tears from his face, you can tell me anything. I love you.

Jack is walking to the library when he gets the phone call. He’s in a bad mood as is, stomach full of nothing and a headache from either the nicotine withdrawal or lack of caffeine – it turns out he’s more like his father than he could ever imagine. He nearly doesn’t answer. It’s Emily and he anticipates some long winded spiral of thoughts she’s had, all to wind up in a jumble because she never learned how to just admit love and regret and longing. She misses him and he knows it and it still pisses him off in that way intense things do young adults. The world is just so intense and, as it turns out, you never really shake off the bare boned anger of youth.

He takes the news numbly. Stands there on the sidewalk while other students pass him. Two conversing professors slip past, never breaking from their conversation. Jack’s eyes are on the sun, the purples and oranges of it’s descent deepening as the minutes slide by.

They can’t dance around heart failure as they might have a few years ago. He’s no longer so easily fooled. For a moment he loses himself in a memory, standing there watching the sun set. His father’s arm holding him to his hip, a cold hand raised to the sky, that's the little dipper, can you see it? Squint your eyes, Jack, just focus really hard.

He hangs up abruptly, tears streaming down his face. He’ll apologize later. Blame a bad cell connection or, a silly little thought offers, tell her he couldn’t stand to listen any longer.

He goes to class for the next few days as if nothing has happened. Sits in his spot and watches his professors walk back and forth. He leaves in the middle of one of his classes. Doesn’t say a word. He just stands up and leaves. Nearly forgets to collect his things.

He turns in absolutely shit for two projects, receives three emails about it before he can even get out of the city.

He takes the bus home.

It’s not until he’s standing on the porch of his home (home, he thinks oddly enough, how long until this place isn’t home?) does he realize he isn’t prepared for this. For a moment he considers that his key won’t fit in the lock. That he’ll be stuck out here in the cold until he’s brave enough to call someone. He’s not sure what he wants, if he’s relieved or terrified that his key turns the lock over.

Home still smells the same.

He can’t pick the individual scents but he knows them.

Earl Grey; seeped in the deep burgundy mug his father uses every morning, his first glass had before he’s even put on his clothes – he’s a tea man, despite what most people would assume.

Jack doesn’t like Earl Grey (his father says it’s the sort of taste you grow into loving, it’s tender and warm and he’s still too young and raw to enjoy such tenderness) but he’ll brew a small cup just to smell it. Maybe he does know something of tenderness.

It’s six in the morning and the birds are making noises on the powerlines, but the world isn’t awake just yet.

Jack lays down on the couch, presses his face into one of the worn throw pillows and just breathes. He was home not that long ago. Spent the summer agitated by the walls of his childhood. Changes come so quickly… had he spent any time with his father during his break? More than the same repetition of where are you off too? Do you know what you want for dinner?

He puts his things out on the coffee table, his suitcase of clothes by the end of the couch. He can’t face his old bedroom right now. He works. Reads over the emails his professors have sent, he’ll be wading through shit when he gets back. Have to offer them all some sort of explanation but for right now he just closes them out. Every shift of the old house causes his heart rate to spike, the anticipation killing him.

First comes the coughing. It’s dry and awful. He can’t unhear it, no matter how hard he closes his eyes to shut the sound out. He can imagine them leaving his father’s chest, forcing him forward with each sucking, hacking round. The familiar groan of the old hinges grinding against themselves as Hotch opens his door, steps out into the hall still coughing but softer now. Not nearly as forceful, he’s coming out of the fit but his diaphragm isn’t so quick to forgive. It’s one of those familiar childhood sounds Jack couldn’t identify until it wasn’t a typical sound anymore. He listens for his father’s slow footsteps, socks sliding against the carpet. He keeps his eyes on his laptop, afraid of what he’ll find if he moves his eyes.

Hotch uses the wall to keep himself upright, his rough hand sliding along the wall as he goes. His other hand is pressed to his ribs, trying to ease the ache. He bows into it. Caves into the pain. Until he lifts his head from his feet, squinting through the darkness of the early morning to see the light glowing from Jack’s laptop. He’s not entirely sure how Jack got home or when. He can remember talking to him in the hospital, faint conversations come to mind but nothing overly specific and certainly not Jack mentioning coming home.

He swallows thickly, trying to ease the sting of his coughed raw throat. “What’re you doing?’

Jack looks up. His father looks… normal. Tired – sleep is still lining the majority of his face in thick strain – but normal. Jack’s eyes move back to his laptop, “uh, looking at nursing homes.” He’s writing a paper for his english class but that’s not as funny. Not as clever. Besides, he doesn’t want to talk about class.

Hotch smirks, shakes his head. He keeps moving towards the kitchn, he can feel his legs growing heavier and he needs to sit down. “Just don’t put me  D.C.,” he asks.

Jack nods but he’s paying more attention to the slow way his father moves. He can remember the slow process of realizing how imperfect his father really is. Moving on from a mesmerized child, watching his superhero to the world’s harshest critic. He hated going into WITSEC with his father, and hated him for putting them in that position. He couldn’t imagine a worse hell than being sent somewhere unknown with his father. Now he feels his throat tighten, his world get a little harsher at the sight of the vulnerability his father can’t hide. The grey of the beard he hasn’t shaved. The stiff, pained way he walks. The paleness of his skin.

“I’ll get it,” Jack offers.

Hotch looks up, frowns, “I’m making tea.”

Jack knows. They’ve run through the same routine day in and day out for as long as he can remember. “Afraid I’ll poison you, old man?” He’s faster, closes twice the amount of distance in the time it takes Hotch to get to the kitchen table. He puts his back to his father but he still knows what’s happening behind him. He’d seen how shakily his father was standing, how tight his grip was on the chair.

He gets a simple grunt in response, not amused.

Jack remembers the morning his father first taught him how to make tea. They were in a rush, both late for work and school, and where Aaron’s own father would barked out something tense with stress Aaron had melted into routine. Swung Jack up onto the counter and showed him. Cold hands guiding Jack’s around the spoon, it has to steep – the tea needs a second to sit in warm water. Different teas need a different amount of time. This one needs about three minutes but between me and you, I always leave the bag in there. Jack had been mystified at this admission, his father breaking a rule…

He thinks about that day every time he makes tea.

Emily bought him an electric kettle for Christmas one year, the year after she got him a Keurig. It’s quite handy.

“Here,” Jack guides the mug down onto the table, pushing it to his father and watching him wrap his hands around the mug for a long moment before bothering with the tea inside.

When Jack was little he’d stand between his father’s legs in the morning, watching him intently as he drank his tea. Jack used to love watching him do everything but he especially loved how after a few long seconds of holding his tea his father would put down the mug and press his warm hands to Jack’s face. Cozy? he’d ask and Jack would nod his head.

His father hums.

He lost his words as they got older.

Jack settles his hips back against the counter, looks down that tile.

“Are we going to talk about why you’re home?’

Until that very moment he’d considered himself being here entirely his own decision and it was, he’s far too old to be commanded back and forth, but it was carefully orchestrated. He wouldn’t have known which bus to take if Penelope hadn’t sent him a guide. He wouldn’t have had the bus money if Dave hadn’t called to insist the transfer be made, fine, so you don’t come home, I gotta make sure my grandkid eats, okay? Just take it. Make an old man happy. They’d called him all week. Sent texts.

Now as his father looks at him from the brim of his mug, Jack understands he’s fully expected to swim without assistance. He’s not supposed to tell his father how he got home, even if he likely already knows.

“Do we really need to?”

His father lifts his eyebrows and Jack understands this as clearly as he does spoken word. Last year he took a communication course and on the first day his professor asked about communication. In the day and age of communication, you have languages at your fingertips. You can speak to anyone. In any timezone. But, what is more interesting than the verbiage we posses from our cultures and our spoken language, is the language we speak when we say nothing at all.

His father is monumentally gifted in the art of saying nothing at all.

“I’m not dating anyone,” Jack admits, pushing himself from the counter. “So don’t even ask.” He’s tired, the bus ride and sudden drop off of adrenaline is getting to his head. He wants to go to bed.

“I wasn’t going to.”

Jack rolls his eyes, shaking his head and mumbling under his breath, “liar.” He picks up his bag – leaving his laptop and books out on the coffee table – and throws it over his shoulder. “I’m going to go to bed,” he waves at his father. “Goodnight.”

He lays down in his own bed, looks at the plastic stars he can just barely remember his father lifting him up to stick in meticulous patterns, and listens to his father moving around the house. He turns over onto his side, blinks at the hot tears stinging his eyes. Fuck.

••••••••••

He sleeps for four hours before a tiny little fury of a toddler runs straight into his room. He lifts himself up on one elbow, squinting through the haze of his impromptu wake-up. “Hank.” He’d gotten used to this treatment in the summer. A toddler running underfoot. The fruit gummies are nice, though. “What’re you doing here?”

Hank comes up to his bed, hops right up onto the mattress. “Emmy burnt pancakes,” he says brightly.

Jack is going to ask a follow-up – why anyone would trust Emily to cook, why Emily is here… – when Derek pops in. He, at least, looks embarrassed about barging in. “Sorry,” he offers, scooping Hank up. “Hotch gave him like three popsicles.” Hank squirms where Derek holds him over his shoulder, more like a sack of potatoes than a child. “Kid is bouncing off the damn walls.”

Jack nods his understanding, “it’s fine.” He sits upright, rubbing at his eyes as he does. “He said Emily burnt pancakes?”

Derek nods, “bad.”

That is an understatement.

He steps out of his room a few minutes later, in cleaner clothes and little more awake, and is meant with the immediate scent of burnt pancakes. “Damn,” he waves his hand out in front of his face. “Why did you let Emily near the stove?”

Emily opens her mouth to fight, immediately rising to her own defense. Then she sees him, and her frown turns into a smile. “Oh my God, you didn’t say you were harboring a fugitive.” She pulls him into a hug, squeezing him tight. “How do you just keep getting bigger every time you come back?” She pulls him right back, eyeing him up and down. “Christ, you look like your father.” She shakes her head.

Jack shrugs, can’t really provide much of anything else.

Hotch clears his throat, “you wanna grab a plate?” He motions to the counter, “there is food Emily didn’t burn left.”

Jack goes for cereal, he doesn’t trust their ability to cook. He lets their chatter fill the background of his task. He takes the chair beside his father without much thought, there are no other options. They’re talking about work and doctor’s – he has no commitment to any of the debates. No side to pick. No idea what to say. But he does feel his father watching him after a moment.

“You didn’t need to come home.”

Jack looks up, shaking his head – he wants to argue. Why the hell wouldn’t he come home? His father is sick, dying. College isn’t going to get him anywhere right now. Textbooks and essays? Analytical academic writing isn’t going to get him through this.

That isn’t what his father taught him to do. You’re there for friends. You do whatever it takes to take care of your family.

This, Jack realizes, is what breaking a generational curse looks like. The difference between him and his father is that he was taught to ask for help. He took the bus ride here, the help he was offered, and he doesn’t plan on leaving. A sea of differences, mountains and valleys separating the two of them, for the sake of both of their safety. And suddenly all that rage kind of melts down.

Jack bumps his shoulder against his father’s, “and miss out on all the fun?”

#the principle of universal causation #criminal minds #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #derek morgan #criminal minds fanfiction #jack hotchner #hank morgan

[ulquiorrapleasecallmetrash]

To Submit (Sub! Ulquiorra x Male! Dom! Reader)

Thank you so much for the compliment love! Also I might have gotten too carried away with this scenario. There's a lot of things I like in this scenario so this was definitely more self indulgent to an extent! I just love submissive Ulquiorra so much so seeing him like this makes me coo coo bananas. 🍌 Either way, I hope you enjoy it! Click under the cut for the story!

----

Your relationship with Ulquiorra was rather a different one. Ulquiorra never cared for showing any kind of emotion before, especially not around the others in los nochas. It was amazing that you two were together in the first place. Still, you had manage to do something that no one had ever done before, you challenged him physically and mentally. You were able to prove him wrong by showing him that he had feelings, and urges that he couldn't control. It was difficult at first but you did it and it was well worth it.

" It is ludicrous to think you are able to change my mind. You are nothing but trash. "

You smirked at him, snickering at him. "So what you are saying, is that you are scared of me? You're the fourth espada certainly you're not scare of a mere fraccion proving you wrong."

There was a hint of something in his eyes that showed some kind of annoyance, he was never the one to initiate such unnecessary chatter with those who were weaker than him. He knew his strength and his worth to Lord Aizen, why would he need any more validation on his beliefs?

"I bet I am able to make you feel all kinds of "feelings". " You leaned over him, your face was only inches apart from each other. "And when I do, I will make you want more." Your gold eyes flickered into his green ones, watching him tense at your words. Ulquiorra was annoyed, he didn't have time for any garbage that tried to challenge him, but to say that he didn't have the slightest interest into the larger male was false. Still, he automatically knew that he was stronger than him and could kill him without even trying.

"I don't have time to be bothered by trash."

The taller, muscular arrancar used his hand to pin Ulquiorra against the wall, still unfazed by the towering man above him. "You claim to not want to be bothered by trash but maybe this time you're afraid that I am able to crack your concrete thinking. Am I correct, espada?" "It's a waste of time to interact with anyone as unworthy as you. You're still nothing more than garbage. Now move out of the way. " He pushed you aside, making his leave. You were becoming more irritated with him, why did he have to be so stubborn? You huffed, crossing your arms, "You truly are a pathetic individual. You're too self conscious to want to prove me wrong. I thought espadas are the strongest in los nochas. But you're apparently weak minded. " Ulquiorra halted his steps, you knew you ticked him off and you loved that you managed to get under his skin.

"All I am trying to say is that at your ranking you should both be physically and mentally strong, But denying my invitation just proves how scared you are of me. If you are truly strong then you wouldn't be scared to be proven wrong. Such a shame. " You sarcastically sighed out of disappointment, exiting the hall where Ulquiorra stood. You knew he was in deep thought, and you knew you gotten into his head. That was the point of all this, to prove that he was wrong and that was what you were going to do.

You knew he was going to come by eventually, it was all in the matter of when he would. He showed up up a week later, the look of confusion, and anger made it more satisfying.

"Well look who decided to stop by." You smirked, leaning against the door frame of your room. "Are you here to take up my offer?" Ulquiorra was silent for moment, still contemplating.

"Yes, I am." His answer was cold, short, and straight to the point. How interesting. "You opened the door wider, letting the shorter male into your room, closing it shut behind you. "I am still quite surprised that you are here. Sure, it took weeks for you to come but better late than never? " You watched Ulquiorra, his face was like stone, unfazed and unemotional as ususal. "Where to begin?" You said to yourself, you gently stepped closer to him, you examine his posture next, stiff and guarded, if you made one move he would attack in an instant, this might be a bit harder than you thought. You took your hand, lifting his chin up to get a better look at him, he truly was attractive, his beautiful sculpted face and hauntingly gorgous emerald eyes always left some kind of effect on you. He was like fine marble sculpture crafted by the most talented artist. Still, you couldn't wait to see him break. He was surprised, so much so he began to swiftly lift his hand to strike you. Before he could, a wave of spiritual pressure halted his movements stopping him instantly. His eyes widened, how was it even possible?

You shook your head, "Now now, in order to do this, you can't try to kill me every time I touch you. This is part of the experience. Are you going to play fair or am I going to have to bind you? " You leaned forward to him, flickering your forked tongue into his ear as you whispered into it, "Or are you going to call it a quits? Are you afraid of a challenge?" He was clearly irritated and it made everything even better. " I need an answer. " You firmly grabbed his chin, forcing his emerald eyes to stare in your gold ones. There was a long pause between you two, waiting for his reply felt like an eternity. "Fine." There was venom in his voice, he sounded disgusted with you, that won't do at all. "Since this is your first time I will let that disrespectful tone go. But remember to be careful of your actions." You used your reiatsu to let him go so he could move again, carefully watching what he would do next. He remained still, glaring up at you with pure distaste. "Now, where were we?" You gave him a devious smile, still holding his chin in place, leaning forward to kiss him. You could feel him tensing up against you, he had no clue what exactly this gesture was and if he should hate it or not. You licked his lips, asking for entrance, Ulquiorra's mind was racing, you could sense he had no idea what to exactly do. You decided to further encourage him, taking your hand and rubbing his groin, his eyes widened, gasping out once the bigger arrancar touched him, giving him the perfect chance to explore his mouth. You both moaned, you were sure if Ulquiorra wasn't so distracted he would have been mortified by the noises that he was making. You pressed your hands against him again rubbing him in circular motions, feeling his erection grow with each rub. Suddenly you stopped, stepping back from him to get a better look at him. As you thought, he had a look of horror written on his face, his face stained with pink from embarassment or arousal. "The pink on your face looks adorable on you. Let's see if I can make it darker." You smirked at him, " Take off your clothes, and look at me while you are doing it. " He looked appalled for moment, why stripping for you would prove to him about his supposed feelings that he has? "That is an idiotic thing to do. What does any of this have to do about "feelings" that I have? " You rolled your eyes at him, he was such a smart ass, good thing you knew exactly how to fix that. "I am not going to say it again, strip for me or I could bound you and do it myself." You warned, your eyes dangerously watching his next move. Eventually he complied , slowly unzipping his espada outfit and taking off his hakuma. He glared at you, he was angry, but watching his face slowly turn darker was so worth it. You examined every inch of his body, from his muscles to his huge package that he was gifted. You were surprised by how muscular he was despite his slender physique, he truly was sculpted wonderfully. "You have such a nice body, I am really impressed by this. " You took a hold of his dick, slowly stroking it. You leaned into him, whispering seductively into his ear, "Such a shame you are so stubborn, disrespectful and delusional. No one likes a pretty face with an ugly attitude. "

This ticked him off, he was almost too distracted to make another snide remark. "You're nothing but an overgrown imbecile. Your opinion means nothing to me." You were too entertained by him, seeing him annoyed was more than hilarious to you. "If that's really true then why do to keep giving me these snide renarks? If you really didn't care then you wouldn't be here in the first place." You rolled your eyes again, he really was a brat. "You are talkative aren't you espada? Instead, how about shutting up by sucking on my cock? Get on your knees. " He narrowed his eyes at you, he couldn't believe he was taking orders by someone as lowly as you. He we almost tempted to leave this instant but something etched him to stay but what? You begin to pull down your pants all the way down to your ankles. You watched him slowly getting on his knees, now he was face to face with your erected cock. Ulquiorra could smell the arousal that came off you, It was intoxicating but in a good way, unfortunately he would never admit that to you. " You do so much talking about how you're so right, and everyone else in inferior to you and they're garbage. Instead, how about you put your mouth into use. It's not gonna suck its self. " Ulquiorra wanted to be disgusted by this but the look on his face made him seem confused or even slightly intrigued by the length and girth of you. He leaned forward, giving a tiny lick at the shaft of your penis, he wasn't exactly sure how to go about this but you watched him slowly figuring it out, he was a smart man afterall. He began to lick your shaft faster, moaning in process. You bit your lip to conceal a moan, seeing him curiously licking you was so arousing to see. Once he finished soaking your shaft with his tongue, he glide it all the way up to the tip, hesitantly swirling his tongue, he looked up at you, watching your face distort in pleasure, for some reason he felt pleased that he was satisfying you. He kicked it up a notched, slowly taking you into his mouth, you were surprised that he was becoming more bold but you weren't complaining at all. You took one of your hands, tangling your fingers into his silky black hair, while gripping the other hand onto the horn of his mask. You encouraged him to bob his head, pushing his head down your cock some more. He was a quick learner, because he began to bob his head slowly at first before picking up a rythmn and movement. He took his pale hand, grabbing onto your cock, stroking it while he bobbed his head. Streams of moans echoed throughout your room from the both of you. Your cock twitched inside his mouth, he halted, confused on what to do next. " Swallow every bit of my come, if not then you will lick it off the floor. " You began to thrust into his mouth, gripping the horn of his mask tighter, with one last powerful thrust you gave in, spurting all of your cum into his mouth. You made sure his mouth milked every bit of it out of you, moaning out with pleasure. Once you were empty, Ulquiorra pulled away from your cock, he began to pant, mix of his saliva and cum dripped down his chin. You never thought you would see him like this, so vulnerable and pathetic, it was so erotic. You watched him catch his breath, his face pink, he looked so exhausted but also so needy for you. "You did an amazing job. You really are good little servant, so obedient when you're not running your mouth. I will now reward you." He looked up at you, his eyes was full of lust, you could practically smell his arousal from all the way up here.

" Lay on the couch. " Your orders were soon followed, you watched him lay himself on the bed, erection still standing as he panted, he almost looked feverish. "Do you need to come?" You asked him, he nodded his aroused panting picked up, " Say it vocally, I need to be a hundred percent sure. "

"Yes...please... " His voice sounded different, he was once sounded so cold and distant now replaced with need and lust. He was so polite and he carried his orders with such satisfactory, no wonder he is Lord Aizen's little lacky. It was a surprise Aizen didn't turn him into something more than just a loyal servant. "You're so polite. I will make you come but only if you tell me that I was right all along." Ulquiorra 's eyes widened, he seemed to snapped out of his trance and back to his original personality again, such a shame really, you preferred him with your cock in his mouth.

"You must truly be an imbecile to think I will admit that someone like you is rignt. " His voice had so much venmon in it, he was beyond annoyed that you put him through this mental torture. You let out a sarcastic sigh, "How unfortunate, and here I was going to let you off easy. Such a shame really, you were so polite and obedient like a servant should. Well, we see about that." You began to whistle, grabbing his long erect penis into your hand, causing a desperate moan to escape his lips. "You sound so needy Ulqui, how long can you really hold out? " You began to stroke his dick at a slow, agonizing rate, watching his face switch from annoyance to pleasure. Teasing him was one of your favorite parts, it was only a matter of time before he would give in. You began to pump your hand faster, occasionally squeezing it. You began switching up speeds, going slower one moment then faster another moment. He was now pulsating into your hand, you then took your hand off of him completely. He gasped, he was clearly in a situation and the only way to be fixed was to throw away all of what's left of his dignity which was barely anything. He was in agony and it was amazing to see him like this,you were so satisfied to see him like this, so desperate and pathetic for you. "Are you going to apologize and tell me I was right? You better answer quickly or I might get bored and just leave." His mouth gaped, you wouldn't dare to leave, would you?

" You wouldn't. "

You simply shrugged, "I don't know, would I? It all depends on you." It took several moments of silence of thinking for the espada, this was his final decision to make, should be give up his dignity just to be pleasure by this snake? The look on his face said it all, You finally broke him, " I apologize, you were right about... everything."

You gave him a genuine smile, "You really are a good boy, so unfortunate it only took you this long to admit it." You sped up your movement of your strokes, gently rubbing the tip of his penis with your thumb as well. You could feel him pulsate under your fingers again, his cries of pleasure was music to you. "Do you want to come?" You asked him, "Please... " He begged you, he sounded so pathetic it was almost too sad. You began to pick up the pace of your strokes, going so fast. "You can come." You told him, you heard a string of moans, watching him come several spurts of his cum all over your hands and his thighs. He began to pant, his face completely red, clearly exhausted from this whole experience. You took the come that was was on your hand, putting it up to his face. "Lick it clean. It's the least you could do since you made such a huge mess on my bed." At first you thought you would get another snide remark from him but it didn't came up. Instead, he licked your hand completely clean. For the first time he looked so innocent, he looked like a puppy trying to please his master.

Because that was all he was, after all he does play that part quite well.

----

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

#spicy content #ulquiorra shiffer #ulquiorra cifer #ulquiorra x reader #anime / manga #manga #imagine #bleach manga #bleach #bleach imagines #self indulgent #male reader #arrancar #espada #Arrancar imagines #anime imagines #reader #oneshot #bleach scenarios #Espada mastermind

[blindingdutchy]

lamentation | ONE

{peter parker x fem!reader AU}

based on All the Bright Places by Jennifer Niven

SERIES MASTERLIST

word count: 2,725

warnings: thoughts of suicide! unsuccessful attempt! depression, grief, angst

18+!!! minors stay away! TRIGGER WARNING.

Nothing made sense anymore. The world was upside down, all messed up, and you were hanging by a thread. How could it have been a year since the incident? How could you be okay with being older than her now?

Grief is something that nobody expects to be easy, but you never expected it to be quite so hard. Every day people promised that tomorrow would be better, but it never was. It never got better. It never got easier. You were fairly sure it never would, because if it still hurt this bad after thirteen months, twenty-two days, and six hours, how could one more hour, day, month, or year bring any sort of respite?

It couldn't. It wouldn't. Sometimes you wondered if this was your punishment. Maybe you felt this way because you deserved to, because you had earned a life time of suffering when you let her die. Sure, big sisters are supposed to look out for little sisters, but at the cost of their life? That couldn't go unpunished.

Every day was the same since she died. Wake up, wish you hadn't, feel everything and nothing all at once, and go to sleep. It was a strange and horrible existence; people weren't meant to feel so many big things at the same time. The guilt, the shame, the anguish, the longing... it consumed every part of you like a black hole until you were left with nothing. Until you felt nothing, thought nothing, you were nothing.

They were all the same until today. It was your birthday, your eighteenth birthday to be exact, and for once that ever present black hole in your chest was gone. Instead of waking up to the constant weight of all those heavy emotions on your shoulders, you woke up with the familiar numb emptiness you felt at the end of every day.

There weren't words to describe how much that terrified you. Every single day since your sister died, you'd wished endlessly for those painful feelings to go away. You'd begged for relief, for peace, and you'd taken solace in the hollow of the evenings. Waking up already vacant and listless did not bring the comfort you dreamed of.

You were officially older than her. You'd finally reached that first milestone she'd never reach, and the thought of it punched a hole in your chest so large you wondered if there was anything left of you at all. It wasn't fair--how could you celebrate the big ticket birthday she'd yearned for so anxiously? You couldn't.

You didn't deserve to celebrate. You didn't deserve to achieve all those goals she never had the chance to. You didn't deserve to live through all the years, experiences, moments that she never would. You didn't deserve to live.

It was all your fault, after all. It was your fault that she was there that day, it was your fault she lingered behind, and it was your fault she died. If you'd just gone shopping like she'd asked instead of insisting on going to the park, she'd still be here. If you hadn't frozen like an idiot, she'd still be here.

With a mind swimming with all the reasons everything would be better if you just weren't around anymore, you snuck out of your bedroom window. It was finally dark outside; you'd managed to make it through the day for your parents. But, with the day over, you couldn't hold on any longer.

The letter you'd written for your parents to find was tucked under your pillow, and with one final glance around the bedroom you used to share with your sister, you made peace with your life. This was for the best. Everyone would be so much better off if it had been you instead of her, and now you were going to make things right. It wouldn't bring her back, but at least you wouldn't be there as a reminder of what should have been.

As ready as you were, you didn't really have a plan. There were a million possibilities as far as how you could execute your desires, but none of them seemed right. It had to be fast, though, and something that didn't require much work. If it took effort, conscious thought and execution, you wouldn't follow through. You'd learned that the last time.

That was how you ended up on the roof of one of the more swanky apartment complexes. It was a tall building, taller than those surrounding it, and a fall from that height would surely do the trick. Strangely, the moment your feet dangled over the ledge with your bottom firmly planted in place, your mind went blank.

All those thoughts of the stress and pain you caused went silent, and you finally could breathe. With a deep exhale, your body relaxed for the first time since the incident; you didn't feel any of the bad things anymore. There was no pain, no grief, no sadness, nor were there any of those empty or numb feelings. You just felt peace.

The peace was short lived as you looked down to the street far below, though. This was it, this was the end, and suddenly your mind was racing with all the what if's. What if it could get better? What if it didn't work? What if this made everything worse? What if this was a mistake?

What if, what if, what if, "Whatever, just shut up." you gasped, clutching your head in your hands to keep it from spinning. "Get it together, (Y/N), this is the right thing to do."

Pulling out the letter you'd written to your sister, you opened it and cried for the first time in months. You'd long ago stopped crying; despite how many horrible things you'd been feeling, the tears just never came. But reading the words you'd written to her, thinking of her as you came to terms with your decision to join her, it was as if a metaphorical flood gate opened.

Thirteen months, twenty-two days, and seven hours. You couldn't wait any longer. You couldn't do it, do anything, anymore; you just needed to rest. The clock was running out, and your time was up.

"You can do this." you whispered, "For once in your life, do something right."

With shaky hands and weak knees, you scrambled up onto your feet and stood atop the ledge. You weren't that tall, but somehow the new perspective made the drop look so much longer and your stomach heaved with fright. Sobbing, you stumbled back to your knees and threw up the little bit of cake you'd forced yourself to eat earlier that evening.

You wiped the sick from your mouth and stood up again, this time with panting gasps for air and knees that shook so violently you feared you might fall before you were ready to. Maybe that would have been for the best, though, because the longer you looked down the more doubts you had. No one would ever know it was an accident if that were the case.

A sudden noise behind you startled you, and your heart seized in your chest as your knees gave out and you tipped dangerously over the edge. You didn't fall, though, because a sticky substance latched around your arm and dragged you back over until you were laying on the roof. For a moment you just laid there, staring up at the empty sky where the stars were all drowned out by the city lights, and you tried hard to figure out what had just happened.

"Are you okay? Oh--oh my god, are you hurt? What were you thinking? Shit, oh shit, Karen, what do I do?" A masked head leaned over your face, blocking the starless sky from your view, and all the feelings came flooding back like a tsunami. "Um, can you hear me?"

One feeling stood out against the current, and your body tensed as you were overcome with seething, white hot rage. An anger like you'd never felt before; you were furious. How dare he stop you? How dare he ruin everything?

It was Spiderman, the friendly neighborhood hero who'd been gallivanting around Queens for some time now, and that made you even angrier. Spiderman was one of them, one of the ridiculous superheroes who'd killed your sister without a single care in the world. He was one of them, and he'd just stopped you from finally fixing everything they had ruined.

You stood so fast you nearly threw up again, but you swallowed the bile down and hissed, "You should have let me fall. I wanted to fall."

Spiderman pulled you back with a firm grip on the web that was still wrapped around your arm, stopping you in your tracks as you stomped back toward the ledge. "Hey, stop! I'm not going to let you do this." he shouted, but his voice was more nervous than commanding.

"Get out of here, Spiderman. You're not saving the day by stopping me, okay?" you snapped fiercely. No matter how hard you pulled against the webbing holding you back, you couldn't break free. It didn't budge when you pulled at it, clawed at it, or even pried it. "What the hell is this shit?"

He pulled you in further, and you stumbled over your feet as you tried to keep your distance. "I'm not going to let you do this. You don't need to do this." he repeated, this time more firmly.

For a moment you were silent, studying the masked hero as he stared back at you with a hidden face. "You don't even know me. Why do you care?" you tried again, but your voice was softer, more fragile. The numbness was creeping back in again and you knew that you wouldn't be able to follow through anymore, even if he let you go.

"I do know you, (Y/N), and you don't need to do this. We can--I can help you. Let me help you."

Your eyebrows furrowed as you narrowed your eyes suspiciously. How the hell did he know your name? Did you know him? Even though your mind was running wild with unanswered questions, you seethed, "You can't help me. Unless you can go back in time and kill me instead of my sister, you can't fucking help me."

The eyes of his mask widened at your shout, and he stammered, "I--no, I can't do that, but I can help you. I can be your friend, you... you can talk to me. I know what it's like to lose someone, (Y/N)."

You scoffed, "Do you know what it's like to watch a family member die right in front of you? Do you know what it's like to see someone get killed, and it's all your fault? You can't help me!"

"I do, actually." he stated.

Your entire body slumped at the revelation, the anger leaving you as the numbness finally took over completely. It was silent for a few long moments as you cried noiselessly, the only sounds being those of your still frantic breathing and the bustling traffic far below. "If you know, then you know why I have to do it." you whimpered.

Spiderman dropped the web keeping you in place as you collapsed onto your butt, your legs too weak to support you anymore from exhaustion. "I know why you think you have to, but I also know why you're wrong. This isn't the answer." he responded, tentatively taking a few steps closer to you.

You didn't respond, looking up at him as you wiped your cheeks and nose weakly, and he took the chance to continue, "I'm going to make you a deal. I'm going to take my mask off and show you who I am. If you still want to do it after, fine, but at least you'll know who will be blaming themselves afterwards."

True to his word, his fingers creeped under the edge of his mask as he stared you down intensely. Your breath faltered as you watched, completely still as you realized he was serious. Spiderman was going to reveal his identity to you, and you knew that once he did it was game over. As much as you felt the world would be better off without you, you couldn't bare the thought of leaving someone behind to feel the way that you did.

So, stubbornly, you squeezed your eyes shut tightly and refused to look. "I'll wait here all night if I have to. Besides, I could just say my name, you know. I'm pretty sure you know me too."

"Don't." you pleaded.

"Open your eyes, (Y/N). You want this, right? Knowing who I am shouldn't change anything, then." he urged, his tone soft despite his harsh words. "It's Peter. Peter Parker. I've sat behind you in at least two classes since freshman year, and I've lent you pencils before. You always give them back, and you always let Flash copy your homework even though he's a total dick to you. You--"

Your eyes snapped open as you cut him off, "Stop! Just because you know things about me doesn't mean you know me."

It really was Peter Parker, and the numbness faded a little to make room for anxiety and guilt. You knew Peter had lost too much in his life; his parents and his uncle, too. Could you add your name to that list? Could you jump when you knew he'd blame himself for the rest of his life?

You couldn't. You wouldn't. Peter's brown eyes were filled with worry and sadness as he studied you, his mask clutched tightly in his fist. When you remained silent, he sat down and spoke quietly, "I know enough to know the world would suck without you. I could be your friend, you know, you don't have to do this alone."

"I don't need friends." you huffed.

Peter frowned briefly, before rubbing his nose and hiding it again. "I did just tell you my biggest secret, (Y/N), so I think we kind of have to be friends now." he finally rebutted, a faint twinge of humor in his voice, "You might not want friends, but you do need one. I'll be your friend."

You stared back at Peter blankly, uncaring as he shifted uncomfortably in your silence. Why did he want to be your friend? He already got what he wanted. You weren't going to go through with your plan, and he wouldn't have to live with guilt like you did every day. So, why was he still here?

Part of you wanted to believe he really cared, because he seemed to pay a lot of attention to you to notice the little things you did, but you knew better. He didn't really care about you. He only cared that you knew his secret and now you had leverage over him. You could out him if you wanted to, and that meant he had to keep tabs on you.

"I don't need friends." you repeated stiffly, "Don't worry, Parker. Your secret is safe with me."

His eyes widened as he stammered, "That's not--"

"Save it, Peter. Can you please just get this shit off of me so I can go home? I want to go to bed." you cut him off with a deep sigh, gesturing to the web that was still hanging from your arm.

He looked like he wanted to argue, to further plead his case, but after a few moments he visibly wilted and gave in. "It'll dissolve in two hours. I'll... I'll see you at school, (Y/N)."

It was a statement, but it sounded more like a question. You knew he was still hesitant to let you out of his sight, fearful that you'd go back on your word and follow through, and this was his way of confirming you wouldn't do just that. Achingly stretching up off the ground, you muttered, "Yeah. Bye, Peter."

Peter tugged his mask back over his head, but didn't make any move to leave until you were opening the door that lead back into the building. As you stepped through the threshold he gave a forlorn wave, before jumping over the ledge and swinging away. The door shut behind you as the weight of the world settled on your shoulders once again. You'd failed, like always.

#peter parker x reader #peter parker #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker fic #peter parker imagine #peter parker series #spiderman #marvel #mcu #peter parker x fem #peter parker x you #peter parker au #peter parker angst #peter parker moodboard #spiderman imagine #spiderman x you #tom holland imagine #tom holland #tom holland x reader #tom holland series #tom holland fanfiction #spiderman mcu #peter parker mcu #peter parker fluff #peter parker smut #peter parker oneshot

[darling-i-read-it]

Tough Co-Workers

Will Graham x reader

Word Count: 800

Warnings: assholes, insinuations to murder

Author’s Note: as I wrote this i went from mad to sad and so here is the result 

Summary: Will comforts you after a particularly bad day

Genre: angsty fluffsorta 

I don’t own these characters. They belong to author/director 

(not my gif)

Will heard the door slam shut loudly. He looked up from the book he was reading and you stepped inside, clearly annoyed and almost fumming out of the ears. He looked at you, wordlessly, but you didn’t look at him. He wasn’t even sure you had noticed him yet because of your anger. He closed the book he was reading quietly and you finally turned around, meeting his eyes. 

“Hey,” he muttered. You nodded stiffly.

“Hey.”

“You wanna talk about it?” he asked. You looked at the ground and clenched your fists. 

“Maybe after I shower and come down.” He nodded and shrugged.

“I’ll be here when you’re ready,” he promised. You nodded and disappeared into the hallway. Will hadn’t seen you angry often. He actually couldn’t remember the last time he had seen you mad at something that wasn’t the TV screen. That was only because the movie you went to see was particularly bad and he didn’t quite blame you. But seeing you come home from work like this almost concerned him.

He waited patiently for the shower to turn off and then you came into the living room. Your hands were shaking, he noticed. You walked over to him and sat on the couch beside him but it wasn’t long before he had you practically sitting on top of him.

“You’re freezing,” he muttered.

“It’s cold outside,” you whispered. He looked at you but you were looking out of the window. He wondered if it was something serious.

“What is it?” His voice was very quiet, like you were a scared dog. 

“Nothing serious. Just a bad day,” you whispered. He put his arms around you and you buried your head in his neck, the bridge of your nose pressing against his skin. You were still sort of shaking. 

“Clearly it was something.” You shrugged and he rubbed your upper arms. You shrugged again but let out a sigh.

“Just this girl at work. I don’t know, she really came at me for something I didn’t do when it was clearly this other chick's work. It just made me feel bad you know and then I fought with her then I came home and when I was driving home I listened to screamo music to stay angry then I took a shower and now I am here,” you muttered. He kissed your forehead and left his lips there as he thought about what to say next. 

With his lps still on your forehead he spoke, “I’m sorry people suck.” He had a small edge to his voice which was very indicative of someone who knew very well that people sucked. You leaned into his side and nodded a bit.

“I just needed to calm down.” 

The phone rang beside Will. He wasn’t going to pick it up until you gave him the okay.

“Answer it.”

He held the phone to his ear and then put it on speaker. It was your phone after all. 

“I sense something wrong,” Hannibal said over the phone. You and Will both laughed a bit and you put your head up so that you could see the phone. 

“How do you know?”

“There are very scientific reasons in which I wont’ get into,” Hannibal jokes. “So what is it?” 

“Just a girl at work. It really isn’t that big a deal. Will’s gonna get ice cream,” you said to the phone. Will laughed in surprise.

“I am?” 

“Yeah you are. I’ll drive with you , we’ll make an afternoon out of it.” He nodded and shrugged, figuring that was the least that he could do.

“Who, may I ask, was derailing your day?”

“Hannibal I’m not telling you because her dead body will be in tomorrow's dinner course with Jack,” you muttered. “But I appreciate the sentiment.” 

“You know I can find out,” Hannibal said simply.

“If you were to find out without me telling you that wouldn’t be too much of a shame,” you muttered, laughing a bit. “Don't’ encourage him,” Will whispered. 

“She continues to encourage you to get more dogs. I believe it’s only fair,” Hannibal said. You laughed, feeling much better.

“I suppose you’re right. We’ll talk to you later Hannibal. Be safe,” you said. 

“You too.” 

Will hung up the phone and you met each other's eyes.

“Ice cream?” you asked. He nodded.

“Ice cream.”

#will graham x reader #will graham imagines #hannibal imagines

[cosmicbash]

Would you maybe write something about a scenario where Em and Colson are hate fucking and Em never spends the night, but on a particular occasion, Colson is super sad/stressed and (while trying desperately to hide it) starts crying from the idea of Em leaving, so he stays and is really sweet? (Also, sorry if I went this twice–my computer's being really weird and I can't tell if it did it already!)

This isn't perfect but!! Everybody is on an angst kick and I wanted to join in so I'm using this ask 😤😤

They aren't dating.

Marshall's cock is drilling in and out of Colson's ass but that doesn't mean they're together.

It wasn't supposed to escalate to this. He's not supposed to be manhandling a stupidly long leg up in the air or swatting away the other man's helpful hands while he switches their position for the 3rd time. Hips never stopping their rapid punching forward to draw out more and more curses.

Paul wanted them to mend their beef. Come to a mutual ground of disdain at the minimum. Not bash heads together so many times over their short meeting they end up in bed together instead. Teeth and fists completely changing their plan of attack.

"F-fuck! Right there-" Marshall's definitely not supposed to be watching this annoying twink throw his long neck back and whine. Colorful arms stretching up above him to uselessly grapple onto the pillow behind his own head. "Please!"

This wasn't supposed to be the 10th or 12th time they did this.

"Shut up-" his voice is scratchy when it should be calm. "The whole floor is gonna hear you-" Paul thinks they're here mending bridges and discussing a feature.

"Then fuck me right-" Colson's voice is just as rough sounding. Marshall hates that he knows the difference between the twink's usual tone and this ruined one. How it will only get this way after he's forced his cock down the brat's throat one too many times in their foreplay. "L-learn- ah- where to stick it without directions dude!"

"Shut up." He's bruising Colson's thighs now. The dark red indents from his fingers are going to turn purple by the morning. Not that he's ever seen them do it in person at least, but the blonde never fails to send a picture over text every morning after. "Maybe if you tightened your pussy up we'd both have more fun."

Colson's chest is arching from his harder thrusts now. Voice climbing a little higher almost mockingly with each moan as he slams to the hilt.

Marshall wants to kiss him. Smother that annoyingly pretty mouth with his lips but it's not possible. Not in this position where the other man's unnecessarily large stature puts him so out of reach.

That's a good thing though, because they really don't need to be kissing. A few heated pecks here and there to get the blood pumping is one thing, making out while he fucks the blonde speechless almost feels too intimate to consider.

Theres no space for that in these brief hook ups from hotel room to hotel room, not when they still hate eachother too much for any of the burning heat they have between them to simmer down into a comfortable warmth.

"Stupid whore." His lips are pulling back in almost a snarl this time when he forces Colson over onto his stomach instead. Cock slipping free and almost losing the condom he's got slipped over it from just how quickly he pulls out. Like Colson's hole is challenging his accusation of looseness. "Fuck-" he just wants to smother the brats face down into the pillows. He tells himself his anger isn't from not being able to reach.

An impatient yank and the condoms tearing. Leaving Marshall all but ready to go put his clothes back on and storm out. There's a nasty swirl of emotions going on inside his stomach that he really doesn't want to risk bursting while they find and put on a replacement.

"W-what're you waiting for?" Colson's back is arching, and that pale mop he calls hair is lifting up to look back. So needy he can't even pause for one minute.

"Fucking condom broke- just, shit, just give me a minute-" Marshall doesn't even know where to look, not with all the blood pooling in his cock and his focus begging to be set on his rivals waiting body.

Colson put the thing on him, he can remember that much, one of those prissy little manicured nails probably scratching the elastic as he did it. He's sure he must have one in his wallet but that's across the room in his sweats, by the bathroom door. Where Colson's impatience about even waiting to let him finish his piss and get undressed had left him falling back into the door.

If he has to walk all the way over there to get it he might as well just go home.

"Forget it. I'm done." They shouldn't be fucking like this anyway. It's a major mistake.

"What?" Colson's fingers curling around his wrist is a new sensation. The wide look to his half hidden eyes punching something deep within Marshall's stomach. "We haven't even come yet-" there's a hint of hysteria in the blonde's tone and smile. "If it's because of what I said then- t-then I'll bite the fucking pillow or something alright? Don't be so dramatic dude-"

"I don't have another condom-" It's a weak excuse, they both know Colson evidently has some somewhere in the room of his own. But Marshall needs to take this brief chance to get out now before he loses it. The longer Colson stares at him the more nauseous that feeling bubbling up has him.

"...Forget it then-" the blonde's finally looking away, almost convincing Marshall that he's also second guessing this sex. But those long delicate fingers are still clutching onto his wrist and there's a palpable silence cutting through the air so thick he feels like he might choke before Colson's baby blues are meeting his head on once again. The shimmer of anxiety impossible to hide between long bangs. "Just do it raw. I-I'm clean and I- you- fuck," there's shame mixing in the look now, the grip the blonde has doubling down when Marshall reflexively tries to pull back. "Don't…."

Go. Don't go. Colson isn't saying it but Marshall can hear the word clear as day between them.

It's about the sex. He isn't satisifed yet. If Colson had cum already the bastard wouldn't be hesitating to kick him out. That's what Marshall's mind screams to reassure himself but there's still a hollow place in his stomach where he feels gutted by the look.

"...f-Fine." He tries to justify staying by remembering how annoying and painful blueballs can be. "But don't fucking text me tomorrow whining how my jizz is still leaking out of your ass."

His free hand settling back down on Colson's hip finally snaps whatever weird fog has blanketed the room. A forced sounding snicker muffling itself against the pillows while Colson's legs readjust to raise his ass. "If you can even get back inside without nutting old man-"

This kind of banter is more comfortable.

"Keep talking, I'm gonna fuck you until you're crying for me to finally finish."

"You wish." Colson's voice is still muffled but the slight challenging swing of his hips says more than enough.

Marshall's fingers instantly find their previous spot, each digit mirroring the small red dots on the opposite side of the younger rapper's skin. 

The lubes still nearby on the bed luckily, allowing him to be quick as he reslicks his achingly hard cock and squirts an extra dollop directly on his partner's hole for good measure. As much as he loves hurting the punk doing so in this way would only cause them both more trouble.

"F-fuck-" Of course Colson's as tight as a vice when he finally tries to push inside. The tight ring of muscle rejecting his entry just as vehemently as he's sure the boy's heart would. They can't do anything pain free, like the world is punishing them for continuing their facade. "Relax-" 

"Thought you said I was too loose?" Marshall can practically hear that smug little smirk Colson's sporting.

Defiantly his hips jerk forward a bit harder, until the blonde actually does cry out and his legs spread the tiniest bit wider. The tight clench Colson has evidently been giving his hole relaxing instantly to let him breach. A string of curses and clawing hands keeping Marshall from fully basking in the incomparable tight heat slowly engulfing his cock.

Even with a pillow clutched close against his face Colson is loud. Each noise climbing alongside his pace as he starts properly fucking his rival yet again. Until they're almost back up at full throttle and Colson's mesmerizing back is arching, a large hand jerking up to plant itself flat against the headboard. "Fuck, fuck, please, just like that Marsh, god- baby d-don't stop-"

The slip of a nickname doesn't escape Marshall's notice, he's just too focused on chasing down his own pleasure to properly care. Once they're done he'll mention it. Or maybe even just wait until tomorrow to text the brat a reminder, but for right now he keeps pumping his hips. Heart warming uncontrollably at the mere joke of being someone Colson can call baby.

Reflexively his palm claps down hard on the other man's ass, too sharply and sudden to do anything but sting. "Ah, f-fuck!" He's taking his anger at his own feelings out on Colson and it's not fair but he can't help himself.

The red imprint of his hand glares back in his vision long after a kinky smack should have faded and just the sight of it sticking around gets Marshall's pace growing a little erratic. He wants to tear the blonde apart, shred every bit of his being to pieces and then sew it all back together to see the taint his touch has created visualized as hundreds of scars. He wants to sully the blinding beauty he sees everytime they meet and everytime he glimpses back at the bed before he leaves. Just ruin Colson completely so that there's no other choice but him in the whole world for the blonde to turn to.

But he's not falling in love.

That would mean he's stupid enough to fall for someone who could never settle for him. That he's actively continuing to come back and push the bar with every hookup just to see when enough is enough and he'll finally be left on the otherside of the hotel room door. Or the one waking up alone in bed the morning after.

Marshall wouldn't.

"S-shit wait- I-" Colson's hips are stuttering back to meet his, the hand he's still got hugging the pillow abandoning it in favor of stuffing down between his legs. It's obvious the blonde's close. Marshall can feel it in the tight grip around his cock and hear it in that shaky voice. It's not until he doubles down to fuck the younger rapper hard enough to knock his slender body inch by inch further up the bed that Marshall realizes he's trying to hold out. "N-not yet, ah, fuck, s-slow down-"

"No-" he's close himself, chest heaving and balls tightening as it is. There's no way he's letting Colson try to change the pace now. "Save, fuck, save that edging shit for after I leave-" he's lashing out for control again but can't stop himself.

This time instead of pinching pale skin Marshall slides his fingers up into sweaty blonde hair. Yanking back until he's got the man's back arched perfectly and his mouth can seal in a bite to one pointy shoulderblade. Fingers snaking around to hold Colson up there by his throat. "Fucking take it like a good whore and come Kelly." 

In this position he feels unbelievably deeper and there's nothing to block out the blonde's gasps and cries.

Nails scratch quickly along his thigh but Marshall ignores them to keep rolling his hips. The need to make Colson finish first fueling his free hand to climb up to knock away the punks own. Quickly jerking up and down over the soaked cock the other man was trying so hard to squeeze and restrict.

"N-no, no, fuck, Marshall-" a hand's curling around the back of his head to pull him close despite Colson's protests. Every atom in the other males body seeming to reach out and beg and plead for him to come closer, to fuck him harder until they split through the magnetic field and combine into one. Marshall wants to kiss him again. Hates how he can't even see the brats mouth over his shoulder from his current position. His fingers fly faster and hips roll up firmer in retaliation. "F-fuck-" 

There's a wet sob breaking the moans in the air, piercing straight through his chest like a bullet while Colson's hips stutter back and hot release paints across his fingers. Sending him right over the edge himself. Body forcing them both forward so he can hump and grind his pelvis against Colson's ass down to the bone while he pumps and fills the twink up with his own release. The hands around his neck and cock turning into strong arms around the blonde's chest and waist like a hug.

It's the closest thing to a cuddle Marshall will allow himself. That he can't actually prevent his orgasming body from resisting.

There's so much comfort and begging from his body to stay like that, for Colson to never leave him in those moments that the rapper can't help but tear up a little himself.

But just as quickly as its come sensibility returns and with it the guilt and shame. Scaring his arms free and his body away from Colson's usually still trembling form.

"Wait-" fingers are grabbing his wrist again, weaker this time.

Marshall's still buried to the hilt, even though his chest has unstuck itself from Colson's museum print of a back tatt. Sorry is dancing on the tip of his tongue. Like it always does. Always too graceful to ever trip up and spit out though before he finally leaves.

"A-again." Colson's face is still buried in the pillow, eyes and nose planted firmly down while his chins pulled up.

"What?" A second round isn't completely crazy for them, sometimes when the anger is hot enough its even necessary but not tonight. Marshall shouldn't even be humoring the request, not with how fragile his emotions feel, but Colson's hand refuses to let go.

"Fuck me. Please. Just-" Now with his head clearing the rapper can finally notice how Colson's shoulders are turning inwards, how the tone of his voice carries a shake. "Do whatever. I-I dont care. Just don't- fuck, d-don't-"

Go.

Leave. He has to leave. 

"Colson?" The name feels strange in Marshall's mouth from all the "kelly"'s "brats" and other derogatory words he usually uses in it's place.

Wet baby blues peering back all but pin him in place whether he wants to leave or not. Their message clear.

"Please." A single word and it's as effective as a sledgehammer around his heart.

"I-" Can't. Shouldn't. "I'm not hard anymore."

On a normal night that kind of obvious embarrassed blurt of an answer would get the kid smiling, one of those rare soft warm looks where his crows feet and gums showed, that scorched Marshall's skin from how brightly it radiated affection. Each chuckle or snort following just another stone slamming hard against his heart.

Tonight Colson doesn't smile. Instead of crinkling at the corner to flash the only hint at Colson's slow aging those lashes drop just low enough to bubble up the small collection of tears already present. His pretty but thin lips quivering up and down to fight back a frown. 

A year ago this exact look was the center of so many fantasies. He had wanted nothing more than to see the blonde crumble and break apart in front of him like a pathetic mess.

Right now instead of satisfaction all Marshall's body feels is hollow. Like his heart has finally abandoned his chest and surrendered itself to the hopefully quick acting acids of his stomach. The rapper doesn't think he can possibly feel worse but then Colson's arching his body away from him. Slipping his soft cock free of that lingering tight heat and stealing away any trace of faux comfort he feels with every centimeter of separating skin.

"I'll take care of it-" Colson's voice is hoarse, like hes fighting down the threat of a sob while his body twists onto its side. The sluggish lift of a hand back towards his cock piercing through him like a killing blow.

"No." Now his throat feels tight too. Shame and guilt pouring down his spine at the thought of Colson pushing through his obvious pain and turmoil to jerk his cock back to life just so he stays a few moments longer.

"Please-" Baby blue eyes are shining at Marshall again. The fast slip of a tear down one flushed cheek only making his fingers dig harder into younger male's wrist. "Marshall-"

He can't do this.

"No-"

"Yes!" Colson's scream pierces the silence so suddenly he thinks his wars might be ringing. But the pure desperation painted in angry eyes keeps Marshall's own from flinching all the way closed. "I'll fucking find you viagra or- or suck your dick until my jaws sore-" now Colson's own fingers are cutting back, prying at the preventative grip he's got on the blonde's hand like a caged animal might. "I don't care what- just- you- you aren't- you can't-"

It hurts, and with the way Colson's legs are twitching beneath him Marshall knows a kick or knee to his gut might come next. None of it compares to how badly his throat tears when he speaks though. "I'm not fucking you!" Somehow he manages to put every ounce of finality in his voice that he intends. Freezing Colson's grappling and rambling in an instant.

The ensuing silence feels deafening. 

Colson's still staring at him. Pain and anger warring across his face in small twitches and ticks. Marshall's mouth just repeats itself. Quieter this time. The heave if his lungs breaking up his words in tight exhales. "I'm not….I….I'm not going to fuck you."

There's a million more words tangling on his tongue. The order jumbling and backing them up like a traffic jam until he feels like he can't even breathe anymore.

I want to stay. I'm sorry. Dont do this to yourself. Please. Don't cry. Colson-

"I'm sorry." Colson cracks first. Expression screwing up and the floodgates behind his eyes opening as he sobs. "I'm so fucking sorry Marshall-"

This time he doesn't resist that ache to kiss the blonde. 

It's messy and Colson's mouth tastes like snot and tears already but Marshall presses closer anywhere. Cradling the younger rapper's skull with his free hand so tightly he knows he has to be pulling out hair. The wrist he'd snatched pinned between their bodies in a way that makes his own ache. But he ignores all of that and kisses Colson harder. Smacking their lips and teeth against one another in hopes the words trapped in his throat might pour their way out and into Colson's. Down the blonde's own throat to reach his heart.

He kisses Colson until he can't physically do it any longer. The sharp sting of oxygen deprivation jolting through his brain and colored spots dancing behind his closed eyes before their lips finally part. 

Marshall wants to press so close he sinks down into Colson's bones. Join in with his marrow and spend the rest of his life repairing every broken piece of the beautiful man's soul from the inside out.

That's not possible though so he settles for pulling Colson close. Enveloping him in his arms the same way he wishes he had a dozen times over. Stabilizing him through every shuddering sob and heartbreaking tremble.

He's not falling in love.

"I got you."

He'd already crash landed there long ago. 

#emgk #asks #i love asks #im so fucking stuck with writers block #hopefully posting this helps

[shini--chan]

Okay, I've been wracking my brain to think of an ask for you because I know your writing is fire, and I don't want to waste it! If the mood strikes you, can you write a little yandere Levi in a universe of your choosing or constructing? I'm sort of interested to see how you imagine him as a yandere 😊

Thx, fam!

As I told you once before, this is the ask that almost made me forfeit my principal of answering asks chronologically. :P

So, this will be my usual mix of headcanons and Imagines if you don’t mind, since I have a lot of thoughts on this man and just don’t want to stumble into the snare of writing a full length story … yet.

I’ ll also keep this general, since the universe any Levi fic is set in just changes the nuances, and not fundamental character traits.

Also, I have to remark that it is already too late for me - I’m hip deep in academia.  

Yandere Levi Ackerman  

Captain Levi is a very orderly person, it is part of his lifestyle and how he interacts with others and himself. It is something he is really strict about and he wouldn’t tolerate anything less than perfect hygiene in a lover. To him, there is nothing less disgusting than poor body hygiene and should you start slacking off in anyway when it comes to taking care of yourself, a very fundamental aspect, then he won’t shy away from taking matters in his own hands.

You gasped as a bucket of water was frigidly emptied over head and you threw yourself out as your bed, expecting your assailant to have lunged onto you, should you have remained there.

Instead, he was standing right in front of you.

Somewhat shyly, you looked up into Levi’s pale face and sneered at the accursed object that he was holding in his hand. He sneered right back at you, the corners of his lips curled slightly upwards in disgust. A rather uncommon display of extreme emotion on his part, for being a commonly stoic man.

“Get up!”, he curtly barked to which you stiffly groaned. Sloppily, you got up, still groggy from being rudely awoken and not in the best mood because of it. The water running in rivulets down your body and made your sleep wear cling to your skin didn’t help either.

“What was that for?”, you whined, completely oblivious as to why he was being so imperious to you. What had you done to warrant such poor treatment?

“Don’t get cheeky now, little brat. You didn’t shower last night and went all sweaty to bed. You deserved what I did to you now.”

Him being orderly isn’t restricted to personal cleanliness, it is also about how disciplined a person is with themselves. Having had to live in harsh environments for his whole life, he is a firm believer in pulling yourself up by your own bootstraps. That also means that should you suffer from any mental disorder, trauma induction or not, he wouldn’t be very understanding. Not that he wouldn’t be concerned about your broken state of mind, rather he wouldn’t see how being kind and coddling you would fix it.

“You know brat, if you would stop sulking and feeling sorry for yourself, your life would start getting damn better”, he snarled at your cowered form.

Hunched over the table, you had elected to grab a beer to numb the pain that was ravaging your heart. Watching people die never became easy, especially when they were close to you.

“Just leave me alone”, you begged and raised the tankard to your mouth again. Yet before the wooden rim could touch your lips, it was shamelessly ripped away from you. Levi’s sharp grey eyes were honed on you, the fire of anger dancing in them. Just why did he have to play judge now of all times?

“No, you look like shit and you’re talking shit. Moping around wouldn’t make anything better you idiot. You need to your act together, not get piss drunk.” 

Furthermore, he needs to be in control. As soon as he feels like his vice-like grasp over reality is slipping, he does what all people do that are losing their power – he scrambles to re-attain it. And he doesn’t hesitate to utilize violence. On top of that he sees respect given, as power given, so he demands the piety that his position ought to give him.  It doesn’t matter that you’re his lover, if anything you ought to give him his due. Rows with him are literally the worst – be prepared to be swept of your feet! 

Roughly, you were slammed against the wall in a manner that knocked the wind out of your lungs with a crude sound. It was followed by a gasp as your ears rang from your skull having banged against the stone and your muscles and bones ached.

“What did you just say?”, Levi snarled, a rare look of utter rage on his handsome face. You knew it was a rhetorical question, he had heard you the first time around. But you were too steep in your own anger to not push your luck.

“Don’t be like that, darling”, you spat the last word as if it were poison in your mouth. Warranted actually, since you had been coerced and tricked into this relationship. “I said that maybe you should take a leave out of your superior’s book because all your shortcomings make you unbearable to be a runt. Somehow, I doubt that would work, though – you’ll always remain a sewer rat at heart.”

A wrong move – those handsome features contorted to something utterly ghastly.

“You know we wouldn’t have such problems if you could control that attitude of yours. And if you would show me respect”, he hissed as he pressed you further against the wall, so that you were sandwiched between stone and muscles to a painful degree. The hands grasping you by the front of your clothing didn’t help either.

Lips twisting into a snarl of your own, you countered: “Respect is supposed to be earned, Captain. I will only respect you if you respect me.” You were really insistent on digging yourself your own grave, weren’t you?

“You’re much prettier if you keep that mouth of yours shut.

“Consider the feeling to be mutual, brat. Why should I give you any respect if you won’t give me any? And remember, I’m above you, so I don’t owe you anything. You owe me the world.”

Levi also has a strict set of rules that he expects you to follow to the dot. A fair warning, however, he may change the one or the other spontaneously and not inform you of it until you’re bent over his desk. Also, it is common knowledge that he endorses corporal punishment and celebrates pain as a prim method to install discipline. He really thinks that bad behaviour can be beat out of somebody. He is also exceptionally cruel with his punishments. This can be traced back to how he was desensitized to violence at a relatively early age and revels in have people submit to him.

You had barely set foot in his study when he looked up from his paperwork and ordered you: “Come over here, and bend over the desk.”

Shocked by his harsh words, you nevertheless complied. You knew that resistance would only make matters worse. Still, as you bend over and pressed your cheek against the cool oak you asked: “What did I do wrong this time?”

Briefly, he stopped rummaging through the chest that stood by the window and glanced over his shoulder.

“Are you serious? Don’t you already know? And I though you weren’t so goddamn stupid”, he snapped.

Finally, having found what he was searching for, he turned towards you again. There was a semi-bored expression gracing his visage as he drawled: “I told you a thousand times before, pet. When you are finished with your afternoon chores you are to come directly to me. No chit-chat with somebody else, no fooling about and yet you disobey me again and again. Your ears really are just for decoration.”

You opened your mouth to protest but he carelessly cut you off: “I don’t care if they are your friends, you don’t need them. You just need me.”

Upon that you fell silent and closed your eyes in hopelessness as you waited for your punishment to commence. When do pain came after a minute of silence you dared to open your eyes and glance back.

Seeing that you were focused on him, Levi cleared his throat as if to say “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Then you remember and with a great amount of shame you bared your bottom and meekly requested: “Please Levi, my love, spank me thoroughly.”

As usual, it sickened you that he made you ask to be punished. It was his way of normalizing and justifying his abuse. And conditioning you.

A dark chuckle rumbled in his throat as he grabbed you by the nap as he pressed you against his desk. “There is a good little pet”, he whispered as leather made contact with your supple flesh. 

This man has a difficult time warming up to people. All the agony of losing those that meant the world to him repeatedly has caused him to become cold and reserved. That means that in his mind, you should view it as a privilege that you are the love of his life. Because of that, he won’t accept rejection. Also, since he hasn’t had somebody really close to him in ages, he will be very clingy and overprotective. The world has the habit of robbing him, so you won’t allow you to be stolen as well. Not to forget that he is a man of action – being passive or also relying on words to solve situations just isn’t his style. 

Your skin was on fire due to his ministrations, or rather because of the disgust they evoked. The arm around your waist that pressed you against him made you want to claw at his skin and his lips against the tender skin of your neck made you want to throttle him.

Yet you knew that it was just wishful thinking. Engaging in such protest would be futile since he was stronger and quicker than you.

“Look here Levi, I told you…”, you tried to reason with him but he just silenced your objection:

“Shush, sweetheart. Don’t ruin the moment.”

Then he resumed kissing your neck and collar bone, sometimes tugging at your skin with teeth in order to cause bruises. You tensed as his free hand snaked down your leg and hooked itself under your knee.

The captain is a military man and fairly intelligent. He knows how to deal with an enemy, how to assess their strengths and weaknesses and how to keep them contained. And also, how to best combat them and capture them. He really is the worst opponent you could meet on the battlefield.

So how to evade him? You take him off the battlefield, place him in a situation where aggression can’t help him achieve his goals. He is a military man, as said before, so he is accustomed to low context communication – words must be direct, and you must mean what you say so that they are no muck-ups. Little conversation and more orders and demands. Levi doesn’t have a silver tongue to begin with, quite the contrary actually.

That means he cares a bit for codes, since they are of use to him in his branch of expertise. But he cares little for symbolism since he has categorised that as sappy nonsense reserved for romantics. So, you have an avenue to express yourself that he won’t catch up on unless somebody explicitly told him what it meant. Consider yourself lucky, it is exactly this that will prevent you from going insane.

“Flowers? Again?”, he gruffly asked.

It made you look up from the novel you were reading to see him eyeing the tansy and peonies that you had placed in a vase on the nightstand.

You had to suppress a smirk and work to keep the self-satisfaction out of your voice as you meekly inquired: “They are there to give a bit more colour to the room. I can always put them away if you want.”

You were being obedient to him for a change and that was why he decided to allow you a few luxuries. Besides, since you were so affectionate in the past two months, why shouldn't he return it with gestures of his own.

“Keep them. I’ll just never understand why you like them so much”, he answered and then stalked over to the bathroom. Of course he would never comprehend it, with his spartan and austere tastes, just like you would never understand that the small yellow flowers meant ‘I declare war on you!’ or that the orange lilies that had been there a few days ago actually proclaimed your hatred for him.

Hopefully, he would never find out.

Intelligence doesn’t automatically mean that he is omnipotent or that he is an all-powerful overlord. It just means that he is quick to comprehend tactics and strategies and devise his own. He isn’t immune to mistakes. So, when he ropes you in, in his games, you have to play a wholly different game of your own if you want to get out. Military, remember? There are many walks of life that he is unfamiliar with, many possibilities for you to escape his clutches that he wouldn’t even account for.

Giddily, you smiled at yourself in the mirror. You barely recognized yourself, with all the paint and heavy cloth that decorated your body. Levi didn’t either, just how it was supposed to be.

You had spotted him in the audience as you had pranced about the stage, looking very disgruntled at not having you by his side or locked up in his quarters. Even you had heard the rumours of how a few days ago he had flown into a frenzy, searching high and low for something.

You were one of the few that knew it was someone and that someone was you. Knowing him as well as you did, you made the fair guess that he also wasn’t here by his own volition, rather his comrades had dragged him here in an attempt to distract him.

And you also knew that had looked everywhere he presumed you to be – in the forest, somewhere tucked away in his estate, in the taverns and at the city borders and at the docks. Just not amongst the theatre troop.

That would probably stay that way, and you could use the opportunity to escape him.  

Adding to the fact that he is bad at expressing himself like a normal human being, he is also very emotional underneath that stoic veneer. In combat situations, he has an outlet for all his pent-up emotions. Else you have to suffer his outbursts and mood swings. Nonetheless, the world isn’t a gigantic battlefield and if the right buttons are pushed, he could lose it at exactly the wrong time and place. Levi would lose badly at the game favoured in the royal courts of provoking-the-other-until-they-embarrass-themselves.

Levi was very close to unleashing his unholy rage and as a precaution, you had taken to stepping out of range. While you found the whole situation very amusing, you didn’t want to get caught in the crossfire.

“…however, since you come short on some things, I don’t expect you to understand that. Should I repeat what I said, in bitesize chunks  so that you don’t lag behind this time”, the nobleman prattled while he looked down on your “lover”.

Said man pressed through gritted teeth: “You filthy swine, go stuff all your pretty words up your ass.”

The noble emitted a fake gasp and murmured aghast: “You really are so crass. The rumours of you being a dwarf barbarian are true.”

That was the last straw for Levi. In the following minutes, a small crowd gathered to see what the commotion was all about and it ended in the guards having to restrain him. Really, it was hypocritical of the Ackerman to threaten you about causing a scene when he was the one prone to temper tantrums.

#yandere levi #yandere attack on titan #yandere aot #yandere snk #yandere x reader #x reader #yandere levi x reader #my writing #yandere levi ackerman

[geniusgub]

north//chapter ten

genre: angst

pairing: season ten spencer reid x female oc

warnings: panic attack, talk of maeve and that whole situation, death, mention of drugs and relapse

word count: 9.8k

summary: spencer gets to see another part of amelia’s ugly side and amelia gets more than she bargained for when she steps onto her balcony

also i just wanted to say that the panic attack described in this chapter is based off of my experience with panic attacks. nobody has the same experience, but this is based off mine. also part two, i don’t know how medication for panic attacks really work, what i wrote is literally based off my experience with migraine medication. so if it’s not accurate, then i apologize. i also apologize for taking so long to write this. school was a lot and my mental health sucks. but it’s here now!! enjoy

AMELIA

"Yaz, if you don't stop moving, I'm going to purposely poke your fucking eye out!"

"It's not my fault! Quinn keeps nudging me!"

"No, I'm not!"

I roll my eyes at the two girls in front of me, flicking my wrist to put the final touches on Yaz’s makeup. "You two need to shut up." I then grab Quinn’s shoulders and force her to move against the wall, right next to Yaz. They continue to quietly bicker with each other.

"So," Frankie speaks up from across my studio, lounged back in a bean bag chair, fiddling away with a camera of his own, "Lia, you're coming up on one year with your genius doctor FBI boyfriend, right?"

"Mhm," I hum, too focused on painting my friends' bodies to give a full and coherent answer.

"Do you guys have plans yet? Dinner? Movie? I don't even know what you guys do as dates. In fact, I don't really know much about this guy at all. Are we even sure he exists?" Michael teases, waving around his bottle of beer. Quinn squirms away from my grasp to take a sip of his beer and only comes back when I tug on her hand. 

"No plans yet," I mumble, biting my tongue for a moment as I focus on getting the swirls of blue and yellow just right. If the painting isn’t absolutely perfect then I’ll never be happy with the way the pictures come out. And if I’m not happy with the pictures that come from today then that just means I wasted my time today. "We don't make plans in advance, really. His job doesn't allow for that."

"His job doesn't allow for that?" Dani scoffs. "Stupid excuse. Horrible excuse. Men are trash. How can you be sure that all the time he’s spending ‘at work’ and not with another girl? Or maybe another guy? I don’t know, I don’t judge. Maybe he’s-"

"Dani," I hiss, twisting my head to send her a pointed look, "he's an FBI agent. He hunts down serial killers for a living. He travels for work on a whim and it’s not a big deal. He’s not gay and it’s rude to speculate about someone’s sexuality, especially if you’ve never met them."

"But don't you want him around him more?" Frankie jumps up from his seat and throws his arm around my shoulder, effectively pulling away from my work. He thinks that grabbing me will diffuse the situation, bring some humor, keep me from getting too upset. But it actually does all the opposite and I can feel a ball of heat growing and swelling in my stomach.

I’ve been friends with this bunch since college. We all went to Carnegie Mellon together and even lived in a house together in junior and senior year, but they aren’t always the best of friends. Clearly. They can be quite judgemental and exclusive when it comes to people outside of our friend group. Jenna and I commonly find ourselves sharing looks across rooms when one of our friends says something rude or stupid. They’re not the best, but we’ve been through so much together and they are all I have.

I push Frankie away from me as best as I can. "Do you guys just not like him because he's a federal agent?" The room goes silent and that's enough of an answer for me. I scoff, moving across the room to grab some more paint and squirt it into my palette. I wind up putting too much on my palette and groan, screwing off the top of the paint tube and trying to scoop the extra paint back in. The longer I try, the less gets back inside the tube and the more my frustration starts to grow, the more tears well up in my eyes. "You're complaining about my boyfriend who you've never met just because he works for the FBI. Ridiculous. Unfair."

"We get arrested all the time and all we do is spray paint empty brick walls," Dani protests, and, again, judging by the silence of the others in the room, I know that they have no problems with what Dani is saying. "It's bullshit! We should be able to express ourselves creatively without having to do art in the middle of the night and worry about being thrown in a holding cell."

"First of all; express yourself creatively on a canvas, not on someone’s property. Second; I can promise that you’re not getting arrested by federal agents. You’re getting arrested by cops and my boyfriend is not a cop," I growl at my supposed friends. I don't get angry easily. In fact, I'm a very patient person and I've been told that by many people on many occasions. My first instinct is to never get mad. Anger doesn’t get anyone anywhere. I prefer to have conversations instead of screaming matches and to hear out the other side's argument. But this is different. This is Spencer we’re talking about. I love Spencer more than anything and since meeting him, I know I'd do anything to protect him, even if that means arguing with my friends on his behalf. It’s not fair for them to be making these judgments about him. "You get arrested by Virginia Police so if you wanna hate anyone then hate them. Don't you dare all go hating my boyfriend for no reason. Don't hate him when you've never met him."

I throw my palette onto a table, not caring about paint splatter, and grab my phone, leaving my studio and heading into the fresh air. My heart is pounding against my tightening chest as I lean against the brick wall and slide down to an incredibly uncomfortable crouching position, tucking my head between my knees. The stance almost instantly makes my back ache and my neck sting but I ignore it. Maybe I deserve the pain. My breathing quickly gets more and more shallow and my head goes light. I try to lift my head to bring sunlight into my eyes, but my head seems far too heavy to move. I reach for my phone and it slips right out of my fingers when they tremble too much for me to get a grip on the thin metal. This feeling is helpless, painful, too familiar. I can’t seem to get a grasp on myself and I’m spiraling out of control more and more by the second. Every gasp for breath turns into a sob and every attempt to move my head turns into overwhelming shame when I notice people passing by are staring at me and whispering.

It's almost perfect that my phone starts to buzz on the ground and I manage to open my eyes enough to see that Spencer is calling me. I attempt another deep breath to calm myself down but it doesn't work and it only makes my grip on reality dwindle. It's getting harder to breathe and my eyes are stinging with tears. With every pounding beat of my heart, my chest gets tighter and tighter and tighter until it feels like someone has successfully squeezed my lungs flat. 

The buzzing of my phone should bring me back to reality but it just makes it worse. It’s an annoying, persistent sound that just won’t stop. It won’t stop. It just won’t stop. I want to answer, I need to answer, but I just wish the sound would stop. The way to get it to stop is to answer. Just answer. It’ll stop if you answer. You’ll feel better if you answer. I slam my hand down on the ground and grope the floor until I manage to grab my phone and bring it up to my ear.

"Hi, love," Spencer's chipper voice comes through the receiver, none the wiser to my current situation. He's been away on a case since early yesterday morning, having woken me up while getting dressed, kissing me goodbye, and leaving my apartment to get to the BAU. I would kill to have him here right now. Maybe he could talk me down and reteach me how to breathe. Maybe he could reinflate my lungs and kiss my hands until they stop trembling. 

I try to answer, but nothing coherent comes out. I let out a strangled sob, my fingernails digging into my knee so hard that I worry I might draw blood. My inability to communicate is frustrating and that ball of heat in my stomach rises up to my chest. The trembling overpowers me and I almost drop my phone again. 

"Amelia? What's wrong? Are you okay? Talk to me," Spencer says quickly, and it's only followed by more choked wheezes from me. "You've gotta breathe, okay? Take really deep breaths for me. In through your nose and out from your mouth.”

His instructions seem simple enough to do. Just breathe. That’s all I have to do. It’s simple. Just breathe. I open my mouth to try to speak to him, to tell him what’s happening, even though I’m pretty sure he can tell, but all that comes out is fragments of words and whimpers.

"It’s okay, you’re okay. You don’t need to speak. In through your nose, out from your mouth, remember? Can you try that for me?" I’m not sure how long I’m sitting there for, on the phone, trying to focus on my boyfriends’ voice as he tries to calm me down. It feels like I’m sitting for a few hours, but my tiny grasp on reality lets me know that it’s been ten minutes at the most. I just do what I can to focus on Spencer and what he is telling me to do and how I can calm down. I clench my fists and finally succeed in doing what he tells me to after a while, breathing heavily in through my nose, my chest burning as the heaving comes to a gradual stop. I breathe out and then repeat the process a few times. “There you go. You’re doing so well. I’m right here for you, okay? Take all the time you need.”

He continues to tell me sweet nothings and encourages me to breathe until my breathing has regulated and my head lays slack against my knees. Spencer lets just a few moments of silence go by to let me collect myself before he speaks again. “Are you feeling a little better now?” I gather enough energy, the last of it, to hum a confirmation. "Where are you right now?" Spencer asks next. Even just his voice calms me down. Maybe it's his experience with his job but he sounds so calm right now. Nobody in my life has ever been able to remain so calm during one of my panic attacks, leaving me to cry and heave and occasionally faint in private. But Spencer's voice sounds so soothing and calm and low that just him speaking helps me more than anything. More than any useless, overwhelming, smothering hug ever has. 

"Studio.”

"Okay. You should get home and get some rest. " 

"Mhm.”

"You shouldn't drive. I don't know if you did, but either way, please don't drive. Take the train or call someone to drive you home," Spencer pleads. "I was calling to tell you that we're on our way home. We closed the case and we're leaving in a few minutes for the airport, but don't wait for me. You need to go home and get rest. Panic attacks are really taxing and you need to re-energize. I'll come over when I get back but you need to get home."

"Amelia?" I hear Jenna's voice approaching me but I don't even bother to look up. "Are you okay?" 

I've exhausted my energy on speaking just those few words to Spencer so when Jenna gets close enough to me, I just lift the phone up for her. She crouches down beside me and grabs my phone, wedging it between her shoulder and her ear as she pushes my hair out of my face. I try to lean away from her touch but I can’t get very far. "Who is this? Oh, hi, Spencer. This is Jenna. She's right next to me. I can definitely bring her home. Don't worry, I'll get her home and I'll stay with her until you come around, it's no problem. I'll take her phone and let you know when I get her home. Okay, bye."

I finally lift my head and look at Jenna, watching her tuck my phone into her pocket, giving me this stupid, pitiful smile that I’ve seen far too many times in my life. A half smile that says, it sucks that you’re going through something but I only kind of care. "Mr. Genius says I gotta bring you home and keep you safe until he comes over and I don't feel like ending up in prison, so let's go, babe." I don’t have it in me to correct her to day Doctor Genius instead of Mister Genius. Jenna holds her hands out to help me up.

I bring my shaking hands up to hers and let her pull me to my feet and lead me over to her car, feeling weak and useless as she pulls the seatbelt over my chest. I pout as she dotes over me, humming casually to herself just so she can make this situation not so tense, but it just makes it seem like she doesn’t care. "Okay," Jenna says, hand poised on the passenger side door, "I'm gonna go kick everyone out of your studio and then we'll get going. Sit tight."

///

"Hi, Spencer, I'm Jenna,"

"Hi, Jenna. Is she okay?"

"Yeah, she's sleeping on the couch. She didn't even wanna go upstairs to bed so she asked me to put on a record and she just passed out on the couch."

Everything sounds foggy as I wake up what I assume is hours later in an uncomfortable position, curled up on my couch. My head is pounding and my eyes feel puffy and I'm now regretting not forcing myself to get into bed. I would have much rathered waking up with my duvet wrapped around me and my head on Spencer’s pillow. Waking up on this stiff couch with my toes virtually frozen and my head twisted uncomfortably on the armrest isn’t how I wanted to wake up post-panic attack. 

I open my eyes just in time to see Spencer setting his go-bag down beside the coffee table, sending me that same stupid, pitiful smile. "Hi," he whispers, coming to sit on the floor in front of me. He raises his hand to drag his fingertips along my cheekbone and the soft touch makes my eyes flutter closed. I’ve gotten used to being without him when he’s away on cases, and having Spencer with me makes all the separated days easier. I know that the moments like this make up for the times I lay awake at night, staring at the ceiling, because I can’t sleep if his arms around me and if I can’t hear his heartbeat. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Mm," I hum, but it's not much of an answer, not a satisfying one, at the least. 

"It's good that you got some sleep but you gotta have something to eat too. Do you want me to order something?" I nod slowly at his suggestion that I couldn’t care less about. I just want his hands on me. "Okay, I will. Sit tight, I'll be right back."

A whine falls from my lips as I reach my hand out for his, hoping to keep him from leaving. I just need his touch and his love and his affection to feel better. I don’t need sleep or food or anything he could possibly suggest that helps a person relax after a panic attack, based on this study I read. I love his facts but I just want him to hold me and tell me that everything is going to be okay, even if it doesn’t feel like it will. The boiling hot baths I usually take after a panic attack never do the trick. Nothing does the trick like physical affection does.

"Don't go," the words could barely be considered words, especially not after I mumble them through almost closed lips.

"I’m not leaving," Spencer crouches down again and presses a kiss to my forehead, and I’m sure he realizes that a kiss was the wrong move because I just keep trying to pull him closer. “I just wanna order you something to eat, okay? Let me bring you upstairs and get you in bed and then I’ll call for something. Is that okay?”

Spencer is sitting up on his knees before I even try to answer because even though he's posed a question, he doesn't need an answer. He knows how to help me from the studies he reads and he knows what needs to be done and he's relatively stubborn. So despite how my body feels heavy and how I wish I could just melt into the couch cushions with my arms wrapped around my boyfriend, I force myself to sit up. Spencer scoops me up and carries me up the stairs, setting me down in bed and tugging the duvet all the way up to my chin.

Spencer goes a bit overboard with tucking me in, but I don’t mind, as long as his hands are on me. And he is happy with his work, he finally takes off his peacoat and sets it on the edge of the bed. "I'm just gonna go run downstairs and order something and make some tea, okay? Did you take your medication?" He turns away from me and goes towards the stairs, digging his phone out of his pocket.

"Huh?"

Spencer halts himself from walking down the stairs, turning his chin over his shoulder. "Your medication," he turns his body towards me. "You know, for your panic attack?"

I shake my head, eyebrows furrowed so much that it makes my headache worse. "No, no, I don't have any."

My fuzzy brain can't exactly decipher the look on Spencer's face, but he turns his back to me yet again and rushes down the stairs. I let out a hum at his confusing reaction, but it turns into a disappointed whine as he gets further and further away from me. So, still in my post-panic attack state, I reach for Spencer's coat for some sort of comfort.

As I tug on it, something falls out of the pocket. I blindly reach for it and have every intention of tucking it back into the pocket it came from, but the cool metal of the object heightens my senses, as if the object brings me back down to earth. I hold Spencer's jacket to my chest as I lay back down against my pillows, looking down at the metal circle in my hand. There's a triangle on the front- or maybe the back?- with a Roman numeral one on it, with the words unity, service, and recovery around the three sides. I turn it over in my hand and find a compass rose with only north labeled.

"Amelia?" My head pops up when I tune into Spencer's footsteps on the last stair, his phone in his hand and his untied converse in the other. He drops his shoes on the floor and then leans against the wall, his eyes traveling down to the floor instead of on me. I can feel his shame from all the way across the room and how his embarrassment starts to consume him. He instantly shuts himself off from me and it’s so disheartening to see how easy it is for him to do so. 

"It fell out," I hold it out to him, despite our distance. "What did you order?"

Spencer doesn't move as I hold the medallion out to him, but all he does is tuck his hands in his pocket and study the patterns on his socks. "You don't wanna know what it is?"

I drop my hand against the bed and sigh, having used too much energy to keep my arm up for longer than two seconds, nuzzling my cheek against Spencer's jacket and trying to get a whiff of his cologne. If he won’t come to me then I’ll have to get a piece of him in my bed, even if it’s just the scent on his jacket. I need his comfort. "I know what it is, dove."

He takes a long breath and then walks over, taking the medallion out of my hand and shoving it in his pocket. "Pizza. I'm gonna go change and I'll be right back."

I hadn't even realized he had brought his go-bag upstairs at some point, but I only see it when he carries it into the bathroom. He doesn't shut the door all the way and I find myself wondering why. Maybe he doesn't want to completely shut himself away from me because he can tell I need him close. Or maybe because he didn’t want to rebuild his emotional walls around me, and closing the bathroom door would separate us. But I don’t have the time to come to a clear and coherent hypothesis before he has returned.

He's in a tee shirt and plaid pajama pants when he returns, dropping his bag onto the floor and letting out a heavy sigh. I watch him as he walks around the bed to grab his shoes and begins the process of shoving them into his bag, even though he doesn't need to. He knows he doesn’t need to clean his stuff up immediately. But I notice his medallion in his hand, squeezed between his pointer and middle fingers, and it makes me call out to him. His head whips over to me and I realize I have nothing to say. I need him beside me but he clearly has so much going on in his head and in all the time we've been together, I've never seen his medallion. That makes me nervous. Is this why he's acting like this? Is he thinking about getting his hands on a drug that will ruin his life?

I have nothing to say. But Spencer is staring at me, waiting for me to ask whatever question he thinks I’m needing to ask, as I clutch his jacket like my life depends on it, eyes half-closed as I start to struggle to breathe again. I open my mouth but nothing comes out and a tear drips down my cheek.

Spencer moves to kneel on the bed, pulling his jacket out of my hands and replacing the fabric with his body. "Hey, I'm right here, Lia, just breathe. Sit up for me, sweetheart," He places his hands on my waist and helps me sit up, coaxing my head between my knees. He somehow knows exactly what to do, despite not being able to see me during my previous attack. He knows just how softly I need to be touched and what volume to speak at without overwhelming me. "It's okay, it's okay, I'm right here, don't worry. I don’t want you to get worked up again." I manage to nod, and he kisses my forehead as a reward. Spencer just keeps holding me and whispering praises, tucking my head under his chin and rubbing my back with a feather light touch.  “There you go. There’s my girl.”

“I’m okay,” I whisper, but it’s more for myself than for him. 

“Yeah, you are,” he affirms. "Will you talk to me about these attacks and how I can help you?" His sweet voice is so buttery and smooth that I get lost in it, eyes fluttering and almost completely missing his question. I just want him to keep talking, to read me poetry or tell me random facts that I’ll probably never need to know. I just want him to talk, and talk, and talk, and break me away from the prison in my mind. I just want him to distract me.

“Um,” I lean into his touch when he brings his hand into my hair, scratching me behind my ears like a cat. But when I manage to open my eyes and look at him, he’s giving me such a serious look, one that says he means business, and I know that there’s no room for jokes or wit. “I don’t know. I’ve mostly dealt with panic attacks alone. I just let them happen and wait for them to be done.”

Spencer’s eyes widen in surprise but he quickly tries to hide his reaction, clearing his throat as a distraction, but it’s nowhere close to this distraction I had hoped for. “So you don’t know any coping mechanisms or take any medication for panic attacks?” I shake my head no. “Have you ever gone to a doctor or a therapist about this?”

Definitely not the distraction I was hoping for. I reach for the duvet and pull it over my head, deciding to ignore him. I manage to crawl out of Spencer’s lap and curl up on my pillow with my back to him, earning a defeated sigh from my boyfriend beside me. He takes a breath to speak but then the doorbell rings and I can only assume that means that dinner is here. Without a word spoken, Spencer climbs off the bed and goes to answer the door. I hear his chatting quietly with the delivery person before his sock-covered footsteps echo back up the stairs, and he returns with a pizza box.

Spencer just casually suggesting I go to a doctor or a therapist is so obnoxious and annoying and I truly can’t remember a time in our relationship when I was this mad at him. He talks as though a doctor's visit will solve all my problems and if taking a pill will turn me into the healthy, stress-free, mental illness-free girl that I want to be, but never have been, and never will be. I spent my childhood taking care of myself and my brother and I can keep doing that as an adult. I’ve gotten this far in my life, farther than I thought I would, so I’m not going to fix something that isn’t broken. 

Spencer sits at the foot of the bed and sets the pizza box in the middle of the bed, not saying a word as he opens it up and separates the slices. I sit up slowly, rubbing my eyes as I tuck my legs underneath me. I reach for a piece of pizza and lean over the cardboard so I don't get the bed messy. If the bed gets messy and crumby then Spencer won’t be able to sleep tonight, knowing that there’s particles of food all over the duvet. He seems to be on the same train of thought because he refuses to move the piece of pizza in his hand away from the box. If I wasn’t so upset, I’d be telling him how cute he is and finding his cleanliness endearing and suggesting that we eat at the table downstairs instead of my bed. But the tension is so thick that I could cut it with a knife, and I don’t have the energy to ease it. But apparently, Spencer does.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Spencer asks casually, keeping his eyes down as he takes another bite of his pizza. "The way you talk,” he pauses and considers his words very carefully, “you've clearly had panic attacks before."

"It's not a big deal."

"Amelia," the stony, serious tone of his voice makes my head pop up. He looks annoyed, as if he doesn't believe what I'm saying. I haven’t yet learned that lying to a profiler is useless. "You had a panic attack on a public sidewalk and it was so bad that you went nonverbal. Panic attacks happen to a lot of people but they're serious and debilitating and you should get treatment for them."

"Don’t tell me what I should do. I don't need treatment," I answer far too quickly. "I know you have your degree in psychology or whatever but I don’t need to hear it. I’ve taken care of myself for this long and I actually happen to think I’ve done a pretty good job at it, so I don’t need medication or therapy to interfere.”

Realization flashes on Spencer's face and he puts his piece of pizza down, leaning his elbows against his knees. "Seeking out help doesn’t make you weak."

I scoff and roll my eyes into the back of my head, but maybe that's just to avoid eye contact or to repress the tears that burn at my ducts. "That's not what this is about."

"I didn’t mention anything about my degree, Amelia,” Spencer snaps. “And all I’m trying to do is help you. You can go to a therapist and discuss coping mechanisms and figure out why you even have them or go to a doctor and get medication that will regulate attacks and maybe you'll get something to take after you get attacks, it'll be so much-"

"No!" I shout, cutting him off, my hands balled into fists as I struggle to rein in all the nasty things I want so badly to say, but that I know he doesn’t deserve. "I won't! I'm not! I'm fine without it! I've gone my whole fucking life like this and I don't need to be fixed!"

I decide it's the appropriate time to throw a temper tantrum and scramble off the bed, not even bothering to grab a jacket or a blanket or shoes or anything as I stomp down the stairs and throw open the door to the balcony. It's colder than I remember it being and the air instantly seizes up my bones, but I ignore the feeling as I close the door behind me. I lean against the railing and let a few tears silently slip down my cheeks, not bothering to wipe them and instead letting them trail down my neck and dampen the neckline of my crewneck. Fresh air used to always calm me down, but now, being alone on a balcony after fighting with Spencer, the air only feels suffocating.

A few minutes pass before I head the door slide open and Spencer steps out. I expect him to speak right away, to use his profiling skills to defuse the situation, but he doesn't. He drapes a blanket over my shoulders and as frustrated as I am at him and at the world and at myself, the tiny gesture makes me feel better. I'm craving his touch yet again and I wish he would just wrap his arms around me, but yet again, he doesn't. I tug the blanket as tight as I can around my shoulders and imagine it's his arms. His arms that are so close to me but feel like they are miles away.

"I've been a hypocrite." Spencer's voice is quiet, but not in the same way as it was during my attacks. No, before he was quiet for my sake. But now he seems quiet because he can't bear to speak any louder. Like if he hears his own words, he will combust and break down. "I kept something from you too."

I turn around and find that he's sitting down in one of the armchairs, another blanket wrapped around his shoulders. I, yet again, notice that his medallion is in his hand. But he's not trying to hide it, he's staring right down at it.

"Does it have anything to do with your medallion and why it was in your pocket?"

"Partly," he answers, and then looks up at me, pretty brown eyes already glistening with tears. If I wasn’t so upset, if Spencer wasn’t so upset, if the tension hadn’t carried outside, I would have poked his perfect nose and told him how cute he is when the tip of his nose gets red from the cold. My eyes are just focused on the medallion though, being passed between his fingers with expertise and never slipping out. "I'm clean, I promise. I wouldn't risk breaking my sobriety. I have too much to lose now. I've got you, and my job, and my team- my friends, Henry. But, um, yeah, there's something that I didn't tell you and I know that I should."

Partially born from my own selfish need for affection, coupled with Spencer's broken down state, I go and sit on his lap. He happily lets me do so, draping one hand over my thigh, holding the medallion there. I rest my head on his chest and wait for him to feel comfortable enough to start his story. I can feel his heart pounding against his chest and I stare down his hand, tap-tap-tapping on the arm of the chair. His nervousness is just as palpable as the tension.

"So, um, do you remember when we first met? You always like to point out how you're not the profiler here but did you happen to notice how nervous I was?"

"Mm," I hum, racking my brain for the memories of our first few coffee dates. I remember his strained smiles and his stuttered out words. I think back to us spending Christmas together and how, later on, he just blurted out an invitation to be his girlfriend that lacked finesse and confidence. He has always been nervous around me, but I always just thought that he was nervous with new relationships. It never crossed my mind that there was a reason other than anxiety. "Of course. The first day we met, I don't even think you took your bag off, right? I just thought dates made you nervous."

"Well, yeah, that's kinda true," Spencer sighs and when he tilts his head down, his lips brush against my temple. His warm lips bring a shiver down my spine and he holds me tighter against his cold body. "The truth is, about two years before I met you, I had a girlfriend, her name was Maeve. Our relationship wasn't really conventional. We, um,” he pauses and shifts his weight, “she was a geneticist and I saw her when I was having migraines, but then we started dating. We never met each other though."

His constant past tense is alarming. Was.

"We talked on the phone. She had a stalker from before I met her and she wanted to make sure that I didn’t get wrapped up in it. And we had to be safe so we only talked on pay phones. Only on Sunday's and never from the same phone twice. I thought I, um, I thought I loved her and then-" Spencer lets out a breath that sounds defeated, tired, helpless. He drops the medallion into my lap and his hands fly up to cover his face, another shaky breath falling from his lips. “I shouldn’t be telling you this when you're in such a fragile mental state. This is a lot of information and-”

"If you want to tell me then you can. I’m not a fragile little girl, I can take it. But if you don’t think you can then that’s okay too. I don’t need you to show me all the skeletons in your closet because you think you’ve been hypocritical.”

Spencer drops his hands, revealing his quivering lips and wet waterline. I return the medallion to the palm of his hand and close his fingers around it. "I mean,” he lets out the tiniest, saddest chuckle, “I was being hypocritical, being mad at you for keeping information a secret when I was doing the same.”

“Okay, maybe a little,” my slight teasing gets a more genuine laugh out of him, and he drops his forehead to my shoulder to hide it. “But it’s okay. I understand that there’s some things you don’t wanna share immediately.” 

Spencer keeps his head down, his hand in a tight fist around his medallion and the other on my waist, keeping me close. I can practically feel his fear and anxiety and his overwhelming pain through the tips of his fingers digging into my skin, and I want so badly to take it from him. I would gladly shoulder his pain so he doesn’t have to drag it around behind him like a suitcase with a broken wheel. But as badly as I want to, I can’t help him the way I want to and so I just need to comfort him to the best of my ability. 

"She got kidnapped and shot in front of me," he blurts out quickly, the memory obviously too painful to say gracefully. "I realized she was gone so the team investigated and we found Maeve and the unsub brought me inside where she was being held and had me see her for the first time ever and then killed herself and Maeve right in front of me and there was nothing I could do about it."

Sometimes I don't know what to say to Spencer. He sees the worst that society has to offer, and the worst took away the first woman that he loved. I don't always know how to comfort him. Sometimes he just wants to be held and would rather not verbalize his feelings. And although I don’t love it when he decides to not talk things out, cuddling and giving out kisses is easier than arguing with him and trying to get him to talk about things he doesn’t want to. So physical affection is easier. But right now he doesn't seem to want to be held and I don't know how to help him. He didn't want to tell me this but clearly, today hasn't gone how either of us has wanted it to go. I've been spontaneously panicking and he's now confessing that his girlfriend was killed. None of this is right.

It takes him a few minutes to start speaking again, but when he does, his voice is quiet. "I almost relapsed after that," his head finds home on my shoulder again, and his other arm wraps around my waist. He holds me tight against his chest, adjusting the blanket around me to make sure I’m always covered and warm. "When I first got clean, I brought my medallion with me everywhere I went. I couldn't leave the house without it. I brought it with me on cases, to the store, everywhere. Then time passed and I could leave without it, and I was really proud of that. But then Maeve died and suddenly it was like I was right back at square one. I couldn't go anywhere without it. I needed the reminder of all my hard work and dedication or else I would've easily relapsed."

"Is," my voice is shakier than I wanted it to be, "is there something that's making you wanna relapse now?"

"Stalking cases," he answers, and that's not at all the answer I was expecting. I’m not really sure exactly what kind of answer I was expecting, but it wasn’t stalking cases. "They're common and they're not always violent so we don't always investigate but when we do, I hate it. It’s like torture on those cases, just having to relive what happened with her. Hotch doesn't even let me take part in takedowns of stalking cases because we both know I wouldn't be stable if a hostage situation happened. So,” he tucks his head into my neck this time, and I can feel his lips on my skin, leaving light kisses to make up for the heavy topic, “yeah, that’s what I was keeping from you. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize, dove. I understand.”

I turn my head away from him and stare out at the city. The sun is setting and the sky is painted a pretty pink and purple, mixed together in a way I wish I could achieve in my work. But the people below pay no mind to it. They speed-walk to whatever their next destination is and keep their noses tucked in their phones, or to wave their hand for a cab and bark out orders and throw money at the person who spends their lives being chauffeurs to rude politicians and businessmen. Nobody cares to look up and admire the beauty around them, beauty that they won’t see some day. They don’t look up at the unnatural colors in the sky or check to see if the clouds have taken the form of a shoe or a candy wrapper. They just walk, and walk, and walk. They don’t care. Nobody ever cares. 

"I'm sorry," I choke out, tears suddenly pouring down my cheeks. I reach for Spencer’s hands, intertwining our fingers but keeping his arms around my waist. I don’t want to be without his comfort and his arms and his warmth. He seems to feel the same because he pulls me even closer somehow, my body completely flush against his. "I love you, Spencer, and you-” I hiccup, “fuck, you didn't deserve any of that."

"You're all I need in this life, Amelia. I didn't think I'd ever fall in love again but now I have you and," I can feel his hands shaking in mine, and although it’s hard to tell if it’s from the cold or from anxiety. "I just love you so much. Please don’t leave me."

"I’m never gonna leave you, Spencer Reid. Ever. I'm not going anywhere," I whisper, but I can't tell who it's a reassurance for. "I love you."

///

SPENCER

///

THE NEXT MORNING

///

No amount of nights turned into mornings at Amelia’s apartment could get me used to being woken up to sun beams in my eyes.

I scrunch up my face as the sunlight flows through the windows and almost blinds me. I roll over and reach towards Amelia's side of the bed, grabbing a fistful of sheets instead of a fistful of her. I let out a disappointed sigh and force my eyes open, popping one lid open to confirm my sad realization that I'm waking up alone. Now I'm understanding how Amelia feels when I have to leave for cases.

I can feel the heat blasting and it makes it bearable for me to exist in only my pair of pajama pants, so I don't bother to put a shirt on. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and check my phone, just to make sure there isn't a spontaneous case on a Saturday, and there thankfully isn't anything yet. So I run a hand through my hair that is probably wild and climb out of bed, making the trek down the occasionally terrifying floating stairs.

I pause on the last step when I peer into the kitchen, the dumbest smile appearing on my face when I locate my girlfriend. She's sitting on the counter in the kitchen with her legs up and crossed at the ankles, dressed in only an oversized white tee shirt and pale blue wool socks. Matching, unfortunately. She's wearing her normal butterfly necklace, I can see from here, but she's missing all of her piercings- nose ring and earrings. Her natural curls are out in full force and are only contained by one of her patterned scarves, wrapped around her head like a headband. She's holding an apple in one hand and she has a book resting in her lap but I can't quite see the spine to read the title. But this is one of the moments I'm thankful for my fancy memory, as Amelia calls it, because she looks so effortlessly stunning and perfect and beautiful that I'm glad I'll remember this moment forever.

I watch her for a moment. She wiggles her toes every few seconds and then takes a loud bite from the apple, flipping the page and darting her eyes across the lines. Effortless. Remarkable. I'm often blown away by her simple beauty. I wonder how she does it without trying. How she renders me speechless. How she makes me feel like a teenager in love. How she makes me feel like a lovesick puppy, galloping around at her feet with stars in my eyes. How she makes me feel like she's completely out of my league. How she makes me feel like I'm the luckiest man in the whole world.

When I decide that I have to get my hands on her, I step off the stairs. She still doesn't notice my presence, I credit that to my bare feet on the hardwood, and she only looks up when a floorboard creaks. She lifts her chin and reveals her stunning dimples, ocean eyes wide for me. "Morning!" she quips, tucking a bookmark into the page and setting her book aside. "Wasn't sure you were ever gonna wake up."

"I don't like waking up alone," I brush my fingertips along her leg as I walk closer, eliciting a shy giggle from Amelia. No matter how many times I touch her, she still gets shy about it. I peer over her legs and my eyebrows raise. "You're reading Rossi's book? What's that about?"

Amelia giggles, picking up the book and inspecting the cover. "It's more of a courtesy, actually. I bought all three books of his the other day and I'm planning on ripping out all the pages to use for a piece of art for my next exhibit. But I figured I'd read them first before I destroy them, you know? He saved my life as a kid so the least I can do is read his books before I destroy them."

"Hmm," it's not really at all the answer I was expecting. I watch her face as she plasters on a shy smile, kicking her feet like an excited child and clutching the book to her chest. I don’t have the heart to ask her any more questions about her decision to rip up Rossi’s books because I don’t want to wipe that smile off her face. "Interesting. Breakfast?"

"Not before you give me a kiss," Amelia's delicate voice balances out the horrors Rossi illustrates in his book as she brings her lips to mine. "If you're cooking, I don't care what you make."

"Sounds like a plan,” and just as I didn’t have the heart to question her art, I don’t have it in me to go further than an inch away from her lips before she decides it’s okay. So that leads to kissing for far too long, the book tumbling out of Amelia’s hands and onto her lap, my hands holding her jaw. Her lips are different in the morning, slightly chapped and not yet bleeding from being chewed relentlessly. But, for some reason, I prefer them like this. And I definitely prefer chapped lips to glossy lips that get all over my face and takes a makeup remover wipe to get rid of. I quickly flip through the last few images of Amelia in my head and notice she hasn’t worn lip gloss in a while. Maybe that’s for the better though. She won’t have to hear me complain and watch me rub at my lips and grimace when my hand gets sticky too.

“Okay, okay,” Amelia giggles, grabbing my hands and pushing them away, “let’s not get carried away. I am hungry.”

“Then why didn’t you make breakfast yourself?” I sass, turning on my heel to start collecting breakfast ingredients and feed my hungry lady. 

“Haha,” she snickers sarcastically, rolling her eyes at me. And a comfortable silence falls over us as I start cooking, occasionally glancing over to watch her thumb through the book. It etches a hopefully permanent smile onto my face.

"I do have a question, though," Amelia fiddles with the corner of a page, curling it between her finger and keeping her eyes down. I hum lazily in response, mixing pancakes batter, far too focused on making sure I get measurements correct to be able to make eye contact with her. "I don't wanna make you uncomfortable but your medallion- well, it," she sighs, obviously not able to find the words for what she wants to say.

It’s not my favorite topic of conversation so early in the morning, but I guess the sooner Amelia asks her questions and gets them out of her system, the sooner we can stop having conversations about my demons. "You can ask whatever you want to.”

"It's not a bad question, I don't think," she responds, and turns so her legs are swinging over the edge of the counter, facing me. "I'm just curious what the compass on the back means. It seems odd to me. I mean, the front says recovery and all but the back has a compass? I've never heard of these medallions having a compass on them."

"The designs differ," despite the relatively tame question, I busy myself by trying to create perfect circles with the batter on the hot skillet. She could've asked me about my experience with drugs and how it feels and she could have unknowingly triggered me, but no. She just wants to know about the compass. I guess that’s better than making me relive relapse or make me remember what a high feels like. "I've obviously been clean for more than a year, so the other medallions I have for other years have different designs on the back. But I always liked the one year medallion the best."

"Will you tell me why?" She presses gently, pulling her knees back up to her chest. I've seen her do this plenty of times, shut herself off from conversations, I mean, and I hate it when she does. On normal days, when she shuts herself off from conversations, I do what I can to put her at ease and get her to open back up. But if anyone should be shutting off from this conversation, it’s me. "You don't have to, if it makes you uncomfortable."

"Getting to one year is really hard," I admit quickly, keeping my eyes off her as I move the pancakes from the skillet to a plate. "So when I finally got to one year and I got the medallion, it was a huge accomplishment for me. And the compass? It’s just a thing that my program preached. North is always regarded as the right way to go, even though that’s not really true in theory, but I never pointed that out. But my program had us pick someone or something to represent north for each person. So that way, if anyone was ever going through withdrawals or cravings, we could think of that thing we chose and it would give us the motivation to get through a hard time. The thing would give us a reason to go north, the right way. Basically, the way to recovery. The way to go back home.”

“And what did you choose?”

“My job,” it’s such an unenthusiastic answer, no light or happiness in my voice. “My job was all I had at the time, but my job being my north never felt right. It was never really motivating. Maybe that’s why it was so hard to get past a year. I had nothing to look forward to.” 

"One more question," Amelia speaks, softer this time. "Can you come here?"

I look up and find that Amelia is resting her chin on her knees, giving me that same cute smile from before. I nod, scooping the last pancake off the skillet and putting it on the pile before walking over, dragging my feet. Amelia drops her legs and holds out her arms, wrapping them around my shoulders the moment I get close enough. I instantly melt into her embrace and tuck my face into her neck, feeling her fingers on the back of my neck, tracing small shapes and letters.

"I know that I didn't know you back then," Amelia whispers, warm breath tickling my skin, "but I'm proud of you. I'm proud that you're strong enough to keep your head up and stay clean. And thank you for trusting me with all this information. I love you so much."

My body is filled with that familiar warmth that I only feel when Amelia is around, and I can't stop the smile that comes to my face. The tears in my eyes dry up quickly at the praise. "Thank you for loving me."

"I always will," she pulls away and slides her hands up to my face, pointer fingertips tracing my jaw and up to my cheekbones. She swipes her finger across my bottom lip and then brings it up to my nose, poking it gently and giggling under her breath. She’s deep in thought, I can tell from the look on her face. "You know,” she smooths down my eyebrows and then her fingers follow my hairline all the way down to my jaw, “I’ll be your north," she suggests. "I know you always tell me that talking to me when you're on cases helps, but I wanna help you with everything, with every aspect of your life. I wanna help you with the ugliest parts of your life, and not just the ugly parts of your job. I'll be your north. I'll be your reason to come home and I'll be- I'll be like your guiding light. I'll be your lighthouse. I'll just," her hands halt on my cheeks and her legs twist around my waist, bringing our bodies flush, "I'll be your north."

My heart is pounding as I smile at her, the tears that had just dried up coming back tenfold. She's smiling her stupidly gorgeous smile but not even making eye contact, just staring down at my lips as she lets her brain settle from all the words she just vomited and as she holds herself back from her obvious impulse to actually kiss me. So I lean forward and peck her lips, untangling our limbs. "I'll be right back," I ignore the sting in my chest at the disappointment clear on her face as I pull completely away from her hold. But I kiss her cheek for reassurance before I disappear back upstairs, grabbing my go-bag.

I return to the kitchen with last year’s Christmas present in my hands and open up to the page I'm searching for, walking up to my girl. Her back is to me, pouring more batter onto the skillet to finish up breakfast. But the moment she puts the bowl of batter back on the counter, I swing my arms over her head and bring the sketchbook in front of her to show her a journal entry.

"I didn't always use it for sketches," I explain as she grabs the book from me, "but I use it. A lot. Read that entry," Amelia goes radio silent as she reads, and I rest my chin on my shoulder to read with her.

Amelia is my north. I always thought that I'd be alone for the rest of my life and I'd never fall in love again. I thought I had been scorned too hard and I'd never recover. But Amelia gives me a reason to want to go home. She gives me a reason to not make that reckless decision that comes to my mind in the field and she gives me a reason to not go out in the middle of the night and go searching for a new dealer. She gives me a reason to live and maybe it's wrong of me to rely so heavily on another person who could leave me just as easily as everyone else in my life has, but I don't care. She gives me a purpose and she's the reason I come home every day.

It's the little things she does that make me love her. I love seeing her face pop up on Garcia's video chats and I love seeing the snacks she leaves in my desk and the notes she leaves for me and how she always makes a point to clean my apartment when she's over. I've never met someone quite like her.

I didn't think I'd ever find a person to personify "north." I always thought that "north" would remain this mysterious entity that I would blindly chase after my entire life and remain following towards a life of recovery, or a life of constant relapse and pain. Or that I would just continue lying to myself and saying that my “north” was my job. But now I know that Amelia is that "north" that will always be by my side. As long as I have her, then I'll never have to chase after a nameless, faceless goal. I'll always have my north right beside me.

Amelia sniffles as she shuts the sketchbook, setting it gently on the counter. "Okay, fuck you for making me cry."

I toss my head back laugh, grabbing her waist to turn her around, taking the job of wiping her tears. "I’m sorry, love, that wasn't my intention."

"That was really sweet, dove," Amelia disregards her tears, throwing her arms around me and pressing her face into my neck. “I’m never gonna leave you, Spence. I want you to believe that. I love you so much. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know,” I clutch her waist in my hands as if that would keep her from leaving, “sometimes, I just feel helpless and unlovable and when I feel like that, I come to you.”

“Good. You’re not unlovable. I am so insanely in love with you and you’re never, ever getting rid of me.”

“Good,” I echo, pressing my lips to her shoulder and trailing kisses up her neck. “You’re-” Amelia’s stomach growling silences me, her cheeks turning pink as she ducks her head away. “Okay, alright, the mushy love fest is over. Eat some breakfast.”

“I’m sorry,” she giggles, turning in my arms to dish out pancakes for us, “I’m just really hungry and I wasn’t gonna make anything until you woke up. But the bottom line is that I love you and I’m always gonna be in your apartment, cleaning shit you don’t want me to and annoying the hell out of you.”

“Yeah, you definitely annoy me when you leave the curtains open and I get blinded in the morning.”

Amelia turns to me with the cutest smile, holding a plate of pancakes out for me. “At least you get to wake up next to me in the morning.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” I lean over the plate to give her what seems like the millionth kiss to the morning, “waking up next to you is pretty amazing.”

 TAGLIST

@bxnnywriting​ @babybloodstonebones​ @blameitonthenight21​ @feralreid​ @anepiphany​ @goldenalvez​ @reidscardigan​ @itsmyblogandillreblogifiwantto​ @stxrryspencer​ @m0rcia​ @whollytaciturn​ @thegingerfairchild​ @yasminwashere​ @shrimpyblog​ @blakes-dictionxry​ @anamelessfacelessnerd​ @wonderlandhatter​ @whxt-to-write​ @inkandexchange​ @just-call-me-non​

#nikos north fic #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x oc #criminal minds fic #dr reid #dr spencer reid #mgg #matthew gray gubler #matthew gubler

[marvelandimagine]

Re: Chopping a stranger's leg off out out of vengeance something irreparable and brutal and permanent --- incomparable // i think you missed the whole point of the anon. at first, i was really fond of the scene and i thought what ayo did was right and i find the dora badass but hearing the perspective of someone who is actually part of the community and feels hurt by it, i don't wanna overlook that because i've never been in their position. but yeah i believe the fact that we claim that chopping a stranger's leg off out of vengeance is not comparable to disabling one's prosthesis is what they find upsetting. weapon or not, it's prosthesis. it's part of their body, and pretty much functions like any other leg. so why cant we all treat it like a normal leg? why should the act of taking a handicap's prosthesis out of anger weigh less than chopping an able-bodied's leg??? it's not just prosthetics to them, it's their freaking leg! this can't just be based whether the act itself involves blood or not, you can't treat them with indifference. saying that it is also a weapon does not take away that you are gratuitously disabling a handicapped, it doesn't matter if you can put it back ---you missed the whole point--- you should not have done it in the first place, you should not have think that it was acceptable for you to use their incapacity to your advantage. that was far from strategic because that wasn't even a real fight, he was not the one who started it and being unecessarily violent. i was so amazed by that scene but this made me realized that it was kind of uncalled for. i love how the creators felt the need to add more stupefying stunt scenes and decided to feature WOC kicking white men's ass but with the context of the situation, the fight was uncalled for. maybe it would have been acceptable if they were fighting sam and bucky for interferring with them because mind you, they came for zemo, not captain america. john might have slightly provoked her but he still haven't done anything that drastic for them to resort to that kind of measure. ayo was really going to kill john if she didn't get stopped. heck, lemar didn't even say anything and they also tried to kill him. how is that strategic? i think bigotry is much more fitting. that's all :) x

Thanks for sharing your perspective, anon! I still don’t think the initial analogy holds (maybe if it was equated again to a temporary stun or isolated paralysis because that’s what basically happened here) but I do understand the anon’s point of frustration stemming from individuals treating prosthetics differently than original limbs. And it’s something I probably wouldn’t have thought about had I not engaged in discourse on here, which I appreciate. I’m not treating anyone with indifference. I understand how multiple individuals with disabilities are bringing their own experiences and feelings in their interpretation of the scene that differ from mine because we all come to experience media through our own lenses. And it’s good to have different perspectives and discussion so we can each consider the other’s point of view and maybe learn something new in the process.

I still think the context of it being a vibranium arm attached to a super soldier that was temporarily disarmed in the heat of a physical altercation matters and why I don’t see this as ableism. Bucky’s prosthesis does give him an advantage in a fight and Ayo disarmed it vs. Rocket taking the guy’s leg for shits and gigs in GOTG. If people wanna call ableism, I understand it much more in the latter than the former.

And a lot of the responses I’ve seen hinge on an idea of what’s “fair,” that it wasn’t considerate of Ayo to disable Bucky’s arm. These characters are skilled soldiers, warriors, killers, strategists with their own unique objectives and emotions. Politeness doesn’t take precedent and that’s just the reality. Was it considerate of Bucky to release Zemo knowing full well it would upset the Dora, specifically Ayo? Was it considerate of Tony to blow Bucky’s arm off in Civil War? Was it considerate of Wanda to manipulate everyone’s personal trauma in Ultron? This expectation to have everyone playing perfect and nice and sensitive to everyone’s personal issues and cut in these cloths of black and white good choice vs bad choice is naive and unrealistic IMO.

I also don’t understand your comment about bigotry .... if you’re saying that Ayo went after Walker and disarmed Bucky just because they’re white..... I 5 million percent disagree with that and I’m sure others would as well.

Also, this isn’t just directed at you, but so many people in my inbox only share their opinions anonymously whether agreeing or disagreeing with me and I don’t understand that ... like if you feel strongly about something, there’s no shame in attaching your name to it? Maybe I’m just old school Ron Swanson that way 🤷🏼‍♀️ And I like getting to know people!

#faws #faws spoilers #fatws spoilers #fatws ep 4 #fatws bucky #Bucky barnes #marvel #marvel fandom #fandom discourse #falcon and winter soldier spoilers #falcon and the winter soldier #winter soldier #Dora Milaje #gotg #rocket raccoon #just my take

[offrankies]

Don't Go Breaking My Heart (Again) || Frankie & Layla

timing: Sunday Morning (7/6), after Layla met with Nic. parties: @laylacooke & @offrankies​ summary: Layla finally comes home, and tells Frankie she killed a man. warnings: panic attack tw, some very minor violence, and lots of sad. 

Layla was quiet as she slipped inside the front door of Graham and Frankie’s apartment. Her hair was still wet and the clothes she was wearing were 4x too big on her; an old t-shirt and sweatpants Nic had let her borrow. And while her neck, wrists, and ankles had nearly healed, they were still somewhat raw and tinder from being chained up all weekend. But it was what she had done. What she had remembered she’d done, that made her feel the worst. She was quiet and the tears that had tracked down her face had long since dried. All she had wanted was to go to bed and sleep away what she had done. The guilt that was consuming her, and if she never woke up, she was fine with that.

The past three nights had felt like a nightmare. Frankie had managed to continue her normal life during the day - if by normal you meant being on the verge of a nervous breakdown and unable to carry conversations without ending up screaming or crying. But the nights were horrible, and she had only managed to sleep at all because her body couldn’t handle being awake any longer. Her eyes were glued to her computer screen, tired but not enough yet to fall asleep when the faint sound crunched leaves reached her ears, probably from her sleep deprivation, and then the door. Layla. The teen rushed out of the door, but her feet frooze the second she saw the red hair. She was a mess, wearing clothes that were definitely not hers, and… were those fresh wounds?! Tears immediately started forming on the corner of her eyes, making her sight blurry, her hand flying to cover her mouth as a choked sob tried to make its way out. Between her anger, pain and relief, she had no words for her.

Shit. She was caught. Stopping dead in her tracks, she supported herself with a nearby wall. Layla was so tired and worn down and her eyes were so sad. But seeing Frankie standing there on the verge of sobbing was the thing that broke her. Collapsing to her knees, she let what tears were left in her small, broken body fall out, while she crumpled under the pressures of what she had done. Would Frankie be able to see that? She still wasn’t entirely sure what powers the woman held, but if she could tell that Layla had murdered someone in cold blood, would she still want to be around the redhead? She covered her face in shame. Shame for what she had done and shame for putting those who loved her, especially Frankie, in so much pain, “I’m...sorry...Frankie...I’m...so....sorry.” Her words came out in broken, muffled sobs.

No matter what would happen, Layla would always be the love of her life, and that meant that Frankie would always try to put her happiness over hers. Watching her collapse on the entrance of the apartment brought a pain in her chest she hadn’t felt in months, not since she had woken up one day and the other was gone. She didn’t want to go through that again, she didn’t want to lose Layla again, and she was more than willing to push her own anger and pain to the side in order to comfort her. Without a second thought her feet carried her over, kneeling in front of her and wrapping both her arms tightly around her, pulling her in so she could continue sobbing in the comfort of her chest. Her right cheek was pressed against the top of her head, eyes tightly shut as her own tears fell and disappeared on Layla’s hair, and she softly hushed her. “Shhh-- you’re here--- Nothing else--- That’s alI I- I care about right now.”

Feeling the woman wrap her arms around Layla made her breakdown even more. Her body had gone limp in Frankie’s arms. How was she supposed to explain that she had just killed somebody? That she had taken a man’s life in cold blood and actually recalled every bit of it. And more importantly that a part of her, the feral animal part, enjoyed it. She couldn’t handle this information. Couldn’t process it, but maybe if someone else knew...someone else cared...Pulling out of Frankie’s arms, she looked up at her and spoke, “Frankie, I-I have to tell you something…” She raised up one of her arms and wiped at her eyes trying to avoid the injury to her wrist. She was broken. Pitiful looking and lost. And perhaps more scared than she had been the night her parents went after her.

Hazel met brown through glistering tears when the other pulled away, and Frankie finally took a good luck at Layla. Beyond her physical appearance and her desperate need to take her hand and kiss the damaged skin on her wrists, the older girl wore a shocked look as she realized something. “Your… your aura changed.” The words came out unconsciously as her hand moved to cup her girlfriend’s cheek, her focus now on the swirling colors around her. The colors were essentially the same - the familiar light blue mixed with the recent purple - but there were bright, red tinges all around it. She had seen them before, briefly, on other people but had no idea what they were - her knowledge limited to her grandmother telling her to stay away from people who had them. They were threatening to look at, and for a moment all her anger disappeared, curiosity taking its place, before she shook her head and  locked her eyes on Layla’s once more. “Listen- Before you say anything --- I love you. Fuck, I love you so, so damn much and if you do that again I swear to God I’m going to… to….” Her voice broke, her whole face wrinkling as she tried and failed to start sobbing again. “Don’t-- Don’t ever leave me again like that--”

Looking into Frankie’s eyes, the wolf took in every bit of sadness and agony that her girlfriend held. Her own heart was shattered, but what was left was starting to crumble and turn into nothing but dust. She hadn’t realized what this had done to Frankie. The memories it must have brought up and flashbacks of the night Layla had left for good. Going away like that, despite the fact that she had left a note, had to have been so hard, and it made the eighteen year old feel even worse than she thought she already could. How could she tell her what she had done? How was that fair to drop that on her? Maybe it was best kept a secret, unless Frankie specifically asked, “I-I just didn’t want you to get hurt. I can’t control what I am when the moon’s full, and if I ever hurt you physically or worse…” She shook her head, “Baby, I’m so sorry. I don’t know how many times I can say it or if it even holds value anymore…” Layla let her eyes fall, “I love you. I love you with every part of my being...that’s why I left back then and this weekend...I can’t lose you either. Not like that...not at the hands of the animal I’ve become…”

“Don’t say that--” Frankie cooed her, now both hands cupping Layla’s face, and she leaned forward so their foreheads were pressed together. She refused to believe it, no matter how many times Graham would tell her, or how much Layla believed it herself: she was no animal, she was no monster in her eyes. If anything, the teen in front of her was at the most fragile point she had seen her in their lives, the most human she had even been. “You won’t hurt me. I know you would never, ever do that, so get that thought out of your head.” Looking down, her hands fell so they were now laced together with Layla’s now not so perfect manicure, and she had to hold back a sob, the raw, red skin a painful contrast to her pale skin, and Frankie hated herself for not being able to protect her. “I don’t… I can’t go through this again. Promise me you won’t hurt yourself again. Not… on purpose, anyways.”

She closed her eyes as she felt Frankie’s hands on her face. Anytime her girlfriend touched her or spoke to her, it gave Layla a comfort and peace she had longed for after she left Nashville. And here she was, once again, in the presence of the most amazing human being ever. How had she been so blessed? She didn’t deserve Frankie. Frankie deserved so much better. But Layla knew she didn’t have the strength to do that or to leave her. Not again. Not knowing the hurt it had caused her, but especially because this was the woman she had hoped she would get to spend the rest of her life with, “Just know, I’ll never forgive myself if I do.” She watched Frankie’s hands fall and intertwine with her own. It was the heartfelt plea that got to her though, “I promise, but I don’t know how else to stop myself from hurting anybody...from killing again…” It had slipped out from the sobs that were now leaving her mouth. Frankie knew. She hadn’t intended for her to know, but now she did. And Layla immediately grew quiet, heart almost stopping in fear of what the woman’s next reaction would be.

It suddenly felt like a cold knife had gone through her gut, and her heart, and all her vital organs, heartbeat skipping a beat but not in a good way. The calm facade she had faked in order to comfort Layla suddenly broke, eyes slowly opening wide in shock as the realization of what the werewolf had done hit her. “Wh-What?” Killing? Frankie’s whole body tensed. “You--- What?” The idea of the other teenager hurting someone was surreal (she was a vegan, for God’s sake, she wouldn’t hurt a fly), but her talking about taking a human life was straight up a cruel joke. “I--- No-- Stop fucking with me---” But by the way Layla was crumbling in front of her, quiet yet still devastated-- it was definitely no joke, which only made it worse. With a joke she could get angry, she could yell at her to not do that and then move on with their lives. But actual murder? Nothing had prepared her for this- well, maybe Graham had, but her brain and heart were too struck to think, to be rational, but it was impossible. The corner of her mouth started to twitch as a horrified look slowly made its way on her face, and she unconsciously let go of her girlfriend’s hands, cradling her own against her chest.

Frankie’s reaction wasn’t what Layla had expected. In fact, she wasn’t sure what to expect. But she could feel herself sinking lower and lower. Like a piece of dirt. Something that needed to be thrown out with the garbage. When the woman pulled her hands away from the redhead, it made her jump and look down frantically at her own hands then to Frankie’s and back to her own. Her jaw was quivering, eyes wide. Heart shattered completely now. Even her own girlfriend; the love of her life, was disgusted with her. Swallowing the knot in her throat, she turned her head away looking past the woman she loved. She could no longer bear to look her in the eyes. What she had done was a crime. It was one of the worst things you could do; take a human life. As someone who had always fought her parents tooth and nail to save the lives of werewolves and other creatures, Layla had become the thing she had dreaded most...a monster. Without saying anything, the eighteen year old got to her feet, and began to move past Frankie, but paused. She wanted so badly to say something, but she didn’t know what. No words could ever explain how broken she felt and how much she had hated herself right now, and the hand she almost put on Frankie’s shoulder lingered slightly above, before giving up and pulling it back in without making contact. Instead, she went to the bathroom, shut the door, and locked it.

No matter how much she yelled at her brain to move, to go after Layla when she stood, Frankie remained quiet, unmoving, and her eyes fixated on the empty spot where the teen wolf had been as if time had frozen. The red tinges. Stay away from those. The only reason her grandma had told her that was because she knew. Because she knew what the scattered red surrounding an aura meant. They were killers, murderers, and her girlfriend was one of them now. NO. That’s not her. She desperately wanted to believe that it truly hadn’t been her, that it had been the thing, the wolf, the beast inside of her- but that would mean believing that there were two Laylas, and the whole point of moving to a new town to be with her would lose its meaning- it would’ve been for nothing. It didn’t matter what she thought now - if she had killed an innocent person, what guaranteed her that she wouldn’t hurt her next? The human’s mind was spiraling, her breath starting to quicken and sharpen, and what if she turned while they were sleeping - or worse, while they were surrounded by other humans and killed not just her, but others? No- No Layla wouldn’t- It had to be an accident. There was no way it had been on purpose, something must’ve happen, something must’ve--- That’s not her. That’s not her. That’s not 

Several minutes had passed, perhaps even an hour, before Frankie’s body was able to move again. It felt sore and weak and tired and for a moment she considered letting herself drift right there, in the middle of the living room, until Graham came home and found her asleep. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t just leave Layla, no matter what or why she had done what she had done. After everything they had been through, she needed to be strong not just for herself, but for both of them. 

Slowly, almost painfully, she dragged her feet to the only closed door in the small apartment, and with closed eyes, she pressed her forehead against it. “... Babe?” Her voice was hoarse from all the crying, her exhaustion no longer just in her head, but it came out soft, as if luring a stray animal that was too scared to come near people. “I’m… I’m so sorry. I’m an asshole, I---” She pressed her lips together, to contain a sob. “I didn’t- I wasn’t expecting to- to hear that from you at all and I just-- Fuck, I don’t even--- I don’t know what to- What I think about… that but-- I just--” A deep, shaky breath. “I love you. And-- No matter what you say or do or think I will--- Nothing will ever make me stop being utterly-- totally-- ridiculously in love with my best friend.”

Layla didn’t know whether to cry. Scream. Break something. So, instead, she just slid down to the floor. Silence was her best friend at the moment. Nothing she could say would ever change the fact that she had killed a man, and she feared what was going through Frankie’s mind. How could the woman she gave her heart to love her after this? Love her for what she had done? No, she wasn’t in control, but she was the beast. It didn’t matter how much she replayed it in her mind, even though she did every damn second since it had happened, she was never going to be able to change what she did or justify killing an innocent man. Instead, she simply sat there just being. Nothing more and nothing less. At this rate, if she sat on the floor of the bathroom the rest of her life and never came out, it would be just fine. Everything would be fine. But the silent tears rolling down her cheeks said otherwise.

It had seemed like an eternity before she heard movement. And in that long amount of time, her mind raced from all the people in her life. Frankie. Ari. Simon. Graham. Ulfric. Winn. The other wolves. Rio. Kaden. How many of those people wanted her dead or gone out of their sight? She knew that if Graham found out, she would be back on the streets, and that was the last thing she had wanted. Sleeping in elements with only God knew what lurking around White Crest? But more so than that, her mind went back to Frankie. Every time. How would this woman ever want to marry her after this?

As soon as Frankie spoke, Layla turned her head to the door, staring at it as if she could see through it and see the woman looking back at her. She listened to her plea, but there was no point in it. Frankie could never be an asshole. She had no right to apologize. This was all Layla’s fault. From the day she first defied her parents and everything in between. “Don’t apologize. I don’t deserve your love or your heart.” Her voice was flat. No emotion. How could a monster have emotion? “I don’t deserve anything.” She turned her head back to face the front.

The lack of emotion in her response felt like yet another stabbing in her chest. Was she rejecting her? “No-- Layla—" Her hands now pressed against the wood next to her face. “You—you deserve the whole fucking world, and the stars and the moon, and you deserve happiness and a long healthy life with kids and three cats and a loving wife that will love you no matter what--- You deserve me and everything the world has to offer---” Frankie’s words had started soft but had slowly turned more and more desperate, not able to hold the tears back any longer. It didn’t matter what she said or what she did now – Layla’s mechanical voice cut her open from head to toe, and the human was too exhausted, too scared, too in love to pretend it didn’t hurt anymore.

“Don’t--- Don’t do this.” The human choked on her own sobs, images of all the time they had spent together flashing in front of her closed eyes. The day they had met in school. Their first date despite neither of them realizing it had been one. The first time they held hands, at Layla’s house, watching Buffy. The first time they kissed, in the locker room after cheer-leading practice. The day Frankie asked Layla to be her girlfriend. The day Layla punched Denisse on the mouth because she had called them nasty lesbos. The day they had come out to their families. The first day they had said I love you meaning more than just friendship. Frankie’s heart was threatening to run off her body through her mouth. Was this it? Had they fought against earth, air and sea just to watch everything disappear one second to another?

Hand curled in a fist, waves of sobbing washing over her and drowning her in a sea of sorrow she didn’t have the means to escape, the only lighthouse that could guide her home so close yet so far locked behind a simple door. Knuckles met wood as Frankie hit the door once, and then another time, the muffled sobs turning into loud cries. Knees gave up, and her whole body crashed against the floor, arms wrapped around herself in a poor attempt to hold herself together. 

Layla leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes. Drowning out everything else, including Frankie’s sobs, the young wolf just listened to the heartbeat of the woman in the other room and the steady thumping. Since becoming a werewolf, it had been the way Layla connected with people. Knowing they had the same heartbeat as her. It gave her solace. Calmed her nerves. It was a way for her to relate and to still feel human. And it had been one of her favorite things to do when the two girls would just lay in bed and watch Netflix or talk or even just be still. Even as a human, Layla had fallen asleep to Frankie’s heartbeat more times than she could count. It’s why, when she had been living with Ariana, she would listen to Ari’s heart. To connect. But now that she was back with Frankie, she knew the rhythm like the back of her hand. Every missed heartbeat. Fast. Slow. And right now it’s all she wanted to hear. All she wanted to connect with. Not words. The meaning of the word sorry had lost its value with as many times as she had to apologize to people. And she knew one day, people wouldn’t listen anymore. It was human nature. Who would want to listen to someone say sorry a million times anyways?

As she listened, she got caught up in the steady pulsating, so much so that when Frankie began pounding on the door, it startled her, releasing the wolf. Feeling a slight shift in her body, she released a quick yelp at the pain. Chest heaving, she opened her eyes to find her hands had shifted, dawning fresh claws. The same ones that had killed a man only hours prior, and it angered her. The one thing that had brought her peace, and it was gone, because she couldn’t control what she was.

Climbing to her feet, Layla peered into the mirror seeing herself as dangerous and worthless. With her hands tightly balled into fists, she felt the razor sharp nails dig into her skin drawing blood. Between hearing how broken Frankie was and knowing what she had done, she couldn’t stand to see her reflection anymore and sent a fist as hard as she could into the mirror; glass shattering onto the sink and floor. Realizing what she had done, the teenager started crying again as fresh blood seeped from an injured paw. With her knees hitting the floor once more, she crumpled up wishing for her old life desperately, “I just want my old life back...I just want our life back...I didn’t mean to hurt him. I didn’t mean to…” 

The weeping and the need for air between each sob had made Frankie’s body fall almost into a rhythmically broken and sad tempo. Guilt was eating her, and had she been able to watch past the veil of her tears, she would’ve noticed any color swirling around herself had suddenly been drowned out by darkness, no color longer visible. It was painfully funny how all the feelings she had thought she’d never go through again after Layla had ran away were coming back, even more ruthlessly than before despite only being separated basically by 5 inches of wood. But could you blame the teens for feeling too much, too hard, and not realizing everything that the future had yet to show them?

The sound of broken glass took her out of her stasis, the realization of what it came from making Frankie’s head snap. Hands clawed at the knob as she desperately tried to get a hold of it and open the door, but was met with the subtle resistance the lock offered. “Layla-” Voice was high pitched and filled with panic, and fist met wood once, and twice, and more times than Frankie could remember. “Layla, please, let me in---” Everything she did felt like futile attempts at getting through to the young wolf, her words were useless and seemingly held no value to her girlfriend anymore. It didn’t matter how hard she tried, Layla’s voice was too soft for her to catch what she was saying, and all that did was turn her stomach even more. Slowly, her body gave in once more, except this time she wasn’t looking at the bathroom anymore, but instead rested against the door, her face wet, hands bruised and her heart completely broken.

Layla could barely look up at the door, when Frankie started begging for her to unlock it. Her mind was telling her one thing, but her heart was telling her another. She was shutting out the woman she loved, because her own brain had let the haunting thoughts of what could happen and what had happened, seep in, blocking out any logical reason to listen to anyone, including the woman desperately trying to get in. While her heart ached, something kind of fierce, in her chest. But she had somehow managed to calm down enough to let her heart win out over her head.

Pulling her paw to her chest, she used her good hand to reach forward and unlock the door, before sinking back down into herself. She wanted Frankie close. Wanted to smell her and feel her warmth and hear her heartbeat once more. She wanted to feel loved, but not out of what her head was saying was obligation. She wanted to drowned out the thoughts plaguing her weak mind and just love and be loved in return, but the looming thought of death and knowing what Frankie could see when she looked at Layla remained in the back of her mind, and she couldn’t shake the feeling of being judged by the one person who had never shown judgement towards her in the past.

Frankie wasn’t sure how much time had passed when she heard the door unlock. It could’ve been seconds, perhaps hours, but however long it had been, the tears flowing down her face hadn’t stopped at all, hazel orbs looking as empty as her soul and heart felt. When she moved to stand up, all her body groaned in what could only be described as a mix of exhaustion, pain, and sadness, but the young human paid no attention to it - whatever the human was feeling was once more pushed aside, the need to be next to Layla and cradle her against her chest bigger than anything. However, her hand stopped when it grabbed the knob. Opening the door meant there was no going back, and despite never having the intention to leave, entering the bathroom was a binding promise that no matter what happened next -more murders or worse- she’d stand by her side.

And the teenager was oddly in peace with that decision.

The creaking wood filled the silent apartment, and the first thing her eyes landed on was the broken glass mixed with blood that sat mainly on the sink, but that had still found its way all around the bathroom. She had heard it, but she still let a surprised gasp escape her lips, the first thing entering her mind being how she needed to clean that before Graham came back. But the mundane thoughts quickly left as she looked down at the broken girl, the aura swirling around her perfectly matching hers in color, except the werewolf’s still had the bright red spots in it. Stay away from the reds. Her whole chest clenched once more, but this time she didn’t allow her emotions to control her. She sank on her knees too, arms wrapping around the girl. “I’m sorry.” Frankie mumbled, and wasn’t completely sure if the apology was meant for Layla, for her grandma, or even for herself, but that didn’t take away how sorry she felt nonetheless. Arms tightened around her girlfriend, her chest pressed against her back and her face burrowed in her hair. “I’m here. It’s gonna be okay. We will make it okay.”

#wickedswriting #laylacooke #❪ ⋅ ⋆ —— ❛ para ❜ ❫ #p: layla #Don't go breaking my heart (again) #// alternative summary: the one chatzy that made sunny and i cry irl for three days #panic attack tw #minor violence tw