#I can’t draw back profiles to save my life

[dissingpair]

Matching

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Bad Faith Part One

Masterlist | Part Two

Pairing: Harvey Specter x Reader

Rating: Mature (Part 2 will likely be explicit)

Notes: Not beta-read because when is it ever. Welcome to part one of two!

There will ONLY be two parts! If you ask me at the end of part two where part three is, I'm going to point you back to this notes section!

If you asked me where part three is and you've been linked here, hi!

Length: 8k

Warnings: Angst. Angst angst angst angst; reader is going through a divorce; Reader's married surname is Hayward; unhealthy coping mechanisms; lovers to enemies to allies to lovers....did I mention angst by any chance? Cause—

Summary: There were so many resources about Steven Hayward from the last decade—interviews, profiles, filings. In all of them, Steven came off as a self-assured, cocky, pompous asshat, but a decent strategist. Those same profiles had described Mrs. Hayward as the trophy wife, the little woman behind the man, tending to the arrangements for their multi-million, 3,000 square foot penthouse overlooking Central Park. For as much as Harvey had forced himself to forget about her, he couldn’t forget her spirit, her determination, her desire to build a life, not to be handed one. None of the credit was given to her. None of the glory, none of the acknowledgement of what Harvey was certain were her blood, sweat and tears in that man’s holdings. 

The tears that she had seemed set to shed in his office were all the indication that Harvey needed.

It was a long, harrowing moment of silence as Jessica processed all that you’d told her. You fought not to sniffle into the quiet, but your eyes had steadily been leaking tears for the last twenty minutes. Jessica finally stood from her armchair, patting you on the knee and murmuring, “You need a drink.” 

You spluttered a weak laugh, watching her stride over to her luxe kitchen. 

“Gin and tonic?”  

“I would drink the gin straight at that point," You failed to tease.

“Things aren’t all that desperate yet.” 

Yet. How reassuring.

You looked down at the damp, crumpled tissues in your hand before you raised one, dabbing at the few remaining tears. It was another few moments before you heard the click of Jessica’s heels crossing back to you. 

“...Thanks for holding back.” 

She frowned as you looked up at her, taking hold of the glass that she proffered. 

“Holding back?” 

“The I told you so.” 

Jessica’s lips pursed, her head tipping with what you could only assume was a blend of indignance and pity. 

“I did, for the record.” 

“I know.” 

“I told you nothing good could come from tangling your entire life up with that man.” 

“You know, I think those were the exact words that you closed your toast out with at the wedding.” You took a swig, wincing at the overwhelming tang of gin. “Christ, that’s strong.” 

“Too much?” 

“No. It’s perfect, actually.” 

Jessica smiled, lowering herself to sit beside you. 

“Do you have lawyers in mind?” 

“For the divorce? No.” 

“I’ll give you recommendations.” 

“I appreciate that, but that’s not why I’m here.” You glanced doggedly toward Jessica. “I need your help…Untangling a few holdings. Things that I can live off of, or break apart and sell for scraps. I can’t even afford a divorce lawyer right now—let alone whoever you’d suggest.” 

“What?” 

“Steven locked all of my credit cards and froze our joint bank account. I tried reaching out to him, but he won't answer me, and the bank won’t unfreeze it. He seems to think that I’m going to drain the entire thing.” 

“Why does he think that?” 

“Probably because that’s what he would do.” You sniffled, looking down into your glass. “I have some money in savings, but not a lot. Not enough for me to live off of beyond a few months.” 

“Holy hell,” Jessica sighed. You grunted, head hanging as you felt the weight of her judgement. “Do you have any idea which entities you want to go after?” 

“Yeah.” You set your drink down, reaching out to where you’d set your bag down and drawing out a bland beige file. You’d spent the morning working up your courage to come over and tell Jessica the awful truth, and had also spent that time putting together the data to do it. You flipped the file open and passed it over. 

“This is every single property and holding company that I have my name on. I circled the apartment buildings that I want to sell, and the companies that I think would be best suited to my purposes.” 

“Is Steven on all of these?” 

“Only the ones that I put an asterisk beside, but I wouldn't be surprised if he came after the others.”

Jessica hummed, nodding. “You knew exactly what I’d ask for.” 

“Well, I know you.” 

She smiled, closing your file and setting it on her lap. 

“Then I’m sure you know what I’m going to say next.” 

The implication made your stomach churn with discomfort. You took the glass up again, taking a deep pull from it. 

“I do,” You admitted, nose wrinkling again from the sharp juniper taste, “And I know that you’re going to say that it’s the best course of action—” 

“The only course of action.” 

“That’s patently untrue. You have more than one lawyer at your firm.” 

“Not one that could handle a case of this magnitude.” 

“Not even Louis?” 

“Louis is like a french bulldog. Harvey is a pitbull.” 

“You know, that’s actually a really harmful stereotype.”

Jessica’s brows lowered in chastisement, and you looked back down into your drink for safety.

“Wouldn’t it be a conflict of interest?” You added. 

“How could it be? You’ve barely spoken to or looked at the man in eleven years.” 

Eleven years. Had it really been that long? 

“I know that you and Harvey parted on bad terms,” Jessica offered softly, and continued over your disbelieving scoff, “But you need to come out of this with the funds and the strength for a good divorce lawyer. Harvey can give you that.” 

“What if he doesn’t take the case?” 

“He will.” 

“But if he doesn’t?” 

“He will.” 

“Jessica.” 

“He won't have a choice.” 

“Oh, he’ll love that. There’s nothing Harvey likes more than being backed in a corner."

“That’s when he comes out swinging the hardest.” She plucked the emptied glass out of your hand, heading toward the kitchen again. “Would you like another one?” 

You sighed, slouching heavily against the couch and scrubbing your tired eyes. 

“I’d really just like that bottle of gin—and a straw.”

-- 

“Would you stop fussing? You look fine.” 

“I don’t care how I look,” You grumbled, though that didn’t stop you from reaching down and adjusting the skirt of your dress. You didn’t want to admit that Jessica was right, though you both knew that she was. She always had you nailed dead to rights, and that morning was no different. 

You had a slight headache from the drinks you’d had at her apartment the night before, but it was hardly the worst hangover that you’d ever had. You were already two coffees in and you were itching for a third, but you already felt like shit. A third one would just make your heart pound harder, your hands more sweaty, and probably send your anxiety through the roof. You were certain the conversation you were about to have would do all of that for you, so no additional coffee was needed. 

You drew in a deep breath, standing and tugging your dress down again as you walked over to look through out over the city. You could hear the ringing of phones behind you, the clicking of heels, the chatter of conversation. You were just waiting for his voice, waiting for his bravado to enter before he did, to suck the air out of the room. 

“...What’d he say when you told him?” You asked. 

“I haven't yet. I thought it would be more effective if we told him together.” 

“So not only is he being forced to take my case, but it’s an ambush.” You cast Jessica an unimpressed sidelong glance, brows quirked in disbelief. She simply gave a small shrug. 

“I know my associates.” 

“Mm, I bet.” 

“I understand I was summoned? Have I been so terribly missed? Whaddaya say we play hooky, go to the batting cages?” 

There he was—each question was just punch after punch after punch. Your mouth and throat went dry as your body seemed to divert all available liquid assets to the sweat beginning to wet your palms. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know we had company,” He added. 

“It’s alright. Harvey, you know Mrs. Steven Hayward.” 

Hayward. You had always hated the name. Hell, you couldn’t even believe you’d taken it, but you’d been so damn afraid of putting a foot wrong, wary of having someone change their mind again about marrying you. 

You turned to face Harvey, leaning back against the window and folding your arms across your chest, pressing your slick palms to your sides. It shouldn't have been so vindicating to see Harvey looking so gobsmacked, to watch the color drain from his face as his eyes caught up with his mind—as he came to realize, yes, that Mrs. Steven Hayward. 

“Mr. Specter,” You greeted flatly. 

“I—What’s going on?” 

It’s nice to see you, too. You bit the inside of your cheek to silence your snide remark. 

“Mrs. Hayward needs to dissolve and sell a few of her holdings, and I told her that I had just the lawyer for the job,” Jessica announced. 

“...Is that lawyer in the room with us?” Harvey shook his head a little. 

“You are that lawyer. You’ll be taking the case pro-bono.” 

“Pro—Jessica, those cases are reserved for people that actually need help, not for multi-millionaires.” 

That stung in a way that it shouldn’t have—but he was right. There were surely cases that were more worthy of his attention. Still, you couldn't deny the fact that you needed his help, and that your pockets weren't nearly as deep as they used to be.

“My husband is the multi-millionaire, not me,” You argued. 

“Bullshit.” 

“You wanna see my bank statements? I have a little over three hundred in checking, a few thousand in savings.” 

“Mrs. Hayward needs this resolved as quickly as possible, and without any of your usual pomp and circumstance,” Jessica cut in. 

“Why don’t you do this through a divorce attorney?” Harvey pressed. 

“Because right now, I can’t afford one.” 

Harvey pursed his lips, looking between you and Jessica. You watched his jaw tick, saw the thick bob of his adam’s apple shift his collar a little. 

“You have a list of holdings?” He asked, glancing toward you.

“Twenty,” You nodded. 

“To be chopped up and sold for scraps?” 

“Yes.” 

“Seems a little ruthless for you.” 

“It’s what needs to be done.” 

“And you expect me to do it?” 

“I expect you to do your job. If you can’t get over the fact that it’s for me, then you’re in the wrong business.” 

Harvey’s gaze narrowed, his eyes darkening irritation. Oh, you knew that look—like it or not, you had a flash of it like it was yesterday. 

“...Where’s the file.” 

Jackpot. 

“On the desk.” 

You weren’t about to hand it to him. Hell—you weren’t about to hand anything to Harvey Specter on a silver fucking platter. He walked slowly to Jessica’s desk, eyes dropping to the file that had been thickened with information on each of the holdings. He opened it, gaze scanning your original sheet before flipping a couple of pages. 

“I’ll need time to look this over,” He argued. 

“Obviously.” 

“I’ll call you.” 

“Great.” 

“Number still the same?” 

Bastard. 

“My new number is on the inside of the folder.” 

“Great. Is there anything else that I should know?” 

“Just that Steven and his cadre of sharks will likely stick their noses in the second they smell blood in the water.” 

“We’ll be ready.” 

“Good.” 

Harvey gave you one last look, one long, sweeping, analyzing look before he turned away, striding out of Jessica’s office. You slowly released a long breath, shoulders untensing as he got further and further away. You lowered your hands, shaking them out and blowing cool air across your shaking, sweating palms. 

“Are you sweating?” Jessica asked. 

“Are you not? It’s boiling in here." You yanked your collar away from your neck, fanning over your heating skin.

“You can relax. He took the case.” 

“Because he had to, not because he wanted to.” 

“He’ll get over it, and he’ll do his job.” 

“He’s such a grumpy asshole,” You sighed, walking over to the chair that you’d left your jacket and bag on. “But if you say you’re gonna keep him on the straight and narrow—”

“I will—” 

“—Then I believe you. I’ve gotta go.” 

“Where to?” 

“I have to go look at an apartment.” 

“Work never ends.” 

“This is personal. I need to find a new place. I've been in a hotel for the last few nights, and I can't afford to keep that up."

“Don’t you own your place?”

You shook your head, averting your gaze as you pulled on your coat. 

“The penthouse is in Steven’s name.” 

You’d had a few hours to forget the weight of Jessica’s judgement, but you felt it again in full force as she shook her head. 

“...I thought you were smarter than this,” She said after a moment. 

You looked toward Jessica, giving her a small, weak smile. “I’ll see you when I see you.”

“Do you want me to call you a car? On the firm, of course.” 

“No! No, but thanks. I should reacquaint myself with the subway. I’m going to be using it more often.” 

-- 

You managed to hold it together until the real estate agent gave you a moment to ‘get a better sense of the space’. She clearly had no idea who you were, which was a boon, and hardly looked away from her phone as she waved with one hand and typed with the other thumb. You turned to look around, heard the snick of the door closing, and just…Lost it. 

Your tears poured out like someone had reached into your head and turned on a faucet. You buried your face into your hands, uncaring of the fact that your makeup was going to run together. You’d given eleven years of your life to a man that was throwing you to the wolves, as if you’d never meant a thing to him at all—as if you hadn’t put your blood, sweat, and tears into building his empire—into what you had once thought was your empire, too. 

And what the hell did you have to show for it? You stood in a $3,200 392 square foot studio apartment of a six-floor walk-up in the West Village, wearing a $4,900 dress, standing in $600 shoes, a your $1,200 purse shifting on your arm as your shoulders shook with sobs. 

You sniffled roughly, chest hiccuping tightly as you finally began to calm. You reached into your purse, drawing out a compact and flipping it open. You swiped at your run makeup, taking up the pressed powder puff and dabbing beneath your eyes, and over the tear tracks in your foundation. God, just pull it together for the snot-nosed realtor outside. Tell her that you wanted to take it, get the keys, and start figuring out how you could get your things from Steven. You would need to make money in the meantime.

You looked down, shifting rocking back on your heels to get a better look at your shoes. 

You never did love this outfit, and you couldn’t have worn it more than twice. Resale couldn’t be too far below purchase, could it? Come to think of it, you had closets full of hardly worn designer outfits at the penthouse. You looked around the studio. You could spring for a few wheeled clothing racks, find a few reputable resellers. You could get good money for your dresses, your shoes, probably even more for the jewelry that you almost certainly wouldn’t be keeping. Steven always had brought you home a trinket from the trips that he frequently took without you—beautiful gems that you knew now were trinkets for guilt, or something like it. You were almost certain Steven didn’t really feel guilt, but he could play-act at it well enough. 

But you didn’t have to worry about that at that moment. And as soon as Steven did rear his ugly head, he would have Harvey to deal with. Considering your history, that shouldn't have been a very comfortable thought—but you had Harvey and Jessica in your corner.  

You closed your eyes and drew in a deep breath, deeper than you were able to draw before. You held it for one...two...three...And pushed it out slowly as your heated face began to cool.

Deal with the realtor first. Sign the lease, get the keys, and start getting your life back together. 

--  

“This isn’t going to be an easy one," Harvey warned. 

“Of course it isn’t. If it was, you wouldn’t have agreed to take the case.” 

“I didn’t take it, it was given to me.” 

“You poor thing.”

It left you without any sympathy, your gaze stone-heavy as you watched him. He narrowed his eyes, a smile set in place as he rocked back and forth in his chair. He tapped his pen on his lips for a moment before he rocked fully forward. You watched his gaze skate across the file in front of him. 

“The way I see it, there are four easy wins here,” He turned the file toward you, and you scooted forward in your seat to get a better look at them. “The two apartment buildings on the upper East Side, the one in the Village, and the brownstone in Park Slope. We can hack away at the other sixteen down the road, but we should move on these.” 

“Okay.” 

“The easiest win is going to be in the Slope. The assessed value is…” His brows furrowed, and he leaned over the file and squinted, as if he wasn’t quite seeing the number correctly. 

“Seven million?” You filled in. Harvey’s gaze darted to yours, brows raised. 

“Nice chunk of change.” 

“I want it listed for ten.” 

“That may be a little unrealistic.” 

“I’m looking for 8.5 in cash, if possible, so I’m expecting some haggling. I already told the broker as much.” 

“Alright. Which of these buildings are you staying in?” 

“I’m not staying in any of them.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“I’m not staying in any of them.” 

“Why is that?” 

“I’m pairing down, staying somewhere else.” 

“You could stay in any of these rent-free.” 

“The HOA and utilities are more than I can afford right now.” 

“We could bake the HOA into the contract.” 

“If Steven found out I was staying in any of them, he’d find a way to tank the deal from the outside.” 

Harvey’s expression tightened a little before he nodded: “Fine. I’ll need your new address for the paperwork.”

“May I use your pen, please?” 

Harvey pushed the file closer, passing the pen with it. You could feel him watching you as you jotted down your address, name, and number. Harvey draws the file back to himself, sweeping over the information. 

“Keeping your married name?” 

“I’ve put in the paperwork to change it, but that could take at least a couple of months.” 

“I have a friend that clerks for the Supreme Court of New York, I could put in a word.” 

“That’s a kind offer but don’t worry about it. Is there anything else that we need to discuss today?” 

“No, that about covers it. I’ll call you if our real estate department or my associate comes across anything that could be beneficial to your situation.” 

“I may have just uncovered something.” 

You turned at the sound of a new voice, catching sight of a young man standing in the doorway. 

“This is Mike Ross, my associate,” Harvey introduced, standing and holding a hand out toward Mike. “Mike Ross, this is Mrs. Steven Hayward.” 

Your name left him with a vinegary annoyance that you’d been hoping would be absent from this meeting. You stood, holding out your hand and offering Mike your first name. 

“Would you prefer to be, uh..." Mike’s gaze darted between you and Harvey. 

“I’d prefer you not to use my married name, if possible.”

“Got it. So,” Mike stepped between you and Harvey, opening the file that he was holding. “I’ve found an additional six properties where your name is the only one on the lease.” 

You frowned, brow furrowing as you stepped closer to get a look at the file. “That can’t be right.” 

“If Mike found it, it’s right.” There was an irritated thread of steel in Harvey’s tone, and you shot him a scathing glance. 

“The comment was one of surprise, not distrust.”

“Maybe next time you can keep your surprise to yourself and let my associate speak.”

“Just like you’re letting him speak right now?” 

Harvey’s jaw went tight, and you raised your brows as a knowing smirk curled your lips before you turned back to Mike and nodded: 

“You were saying?” 

Mike’s expression was riddled with confusion, but he snapped back into action. 

“Right—There are, uh…Three complexes in downtown Brooklyn,” He shifted through the stack of papers and drew out photos. “They were gutted for renovation, but work was stopped before any further changes could be made. They cited funding concerns.” 

That really couldn’t be right. Steven was rolling in cash like a pig in shit. You took hold of the photos, frown deepening as you got a better look at them. 

“What is it?” Harvey pressed. 

“I don’t recognize any of these.” You flipped to the next one, then the next. The walls in all of them had been stripped; the floors were torn up; the wiring of the ceiling was exposed. 

“What about the other three?” You pressed. 

“Uh—One house in the Hamptons, one in Cape Cod, and one in Gstaad.” 

“You’re kidding,” You said flatly, looking at MIke. 

“I am not. I take it you don’t know about any of those, either?” 

“Not a one.”

“Would you want any of them?” 

“Maybe Cape Cod.” 

“Not Gstaad?” Harvey asked. 

“Mm, not worth it. I don’t know how to ski.” 

“Still?”

You rolled your eyes pointedly before you nodded back to Mike’s file. “Do you have the paperwork for the properties?” “Yeah, it’s, uh…” He set the file down, sifting through for the paper clipped documents and lining them up on Harvey's desk. “These are…All of them…Separated out by property.” 

You went down the line, flipping through each of the pages and growing more and more frantic as you did. 

“None of these are my signature.” 

“He would’ve closed through a title company, I can hunt that down,” Mike commented to Harvey. 

“We can throw these on the list of what needs to be sold, or put them in a living trust,” Harvey offered.

“...I don't know,” You leaned away, shaking your head. You felt so unsettled; after the rapid upheaval of your life over the last week you weren’t sure how much more of this you could take. After this, you had to worry about the divorce, the tabloids, whatever the fuck else you were going to do with your life—You felt your throat going tight with tears, and you cleared your throat harshly, trying to dispel some of the feeling. “If they were good investments, Steven would’ve used his name on them.” 

“All the more reason for you to ditch them.” 

“I want them inspected first. I’m not throwing these on the market until I know what the hell I’m dealing with.” 

“We can take care of that,” Mike promised. You nodded, glancing toward him and offering a tight, grateful smile. 

“Not that you’re paying us to.” 

Harvey’s snide reminder was like having a bucket of cold water poured over you. Your hands curled into fists where they rested on your hips. You were just on the edge of slapping the guy—

“You can deal with me directly,” You offered Mike. “My number’s in the file. Thank you, for—” You waved your hand toward the file. “Uncovering this. I appreciate it.” You took up your purse and threw your coat over your arm, trying to hold back your rapidly rising tears as your face flooded with heat. 

“You’re just going to go?” Harvey asked. 

“It’s always worked for you pretty well,” You snapped. “Figured I’d give it a try.” You stormed out without another word, keeping your gaze staunchly set on the floor that you desperately wanted to sink through. 

--  

“I have…So many questions right now,” Mike shook his head as he watched Mrs. Hayward stride toward the elevators. 

“You know where to start. Get the inspections lined up, and then start prepping the filings for forgery—” 

“Harvey,” Mike raised his hands, chuckling with shock. “What—Was that?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Oh, please. The whole ‘if Mike found it it’s right’?” 

“Well, that’s true.” 

“That thing about her still not being able to ski? How do you know her?” 

“We’ve met, that’s all.” 

“It’s obviously more than that.” Mike searched Harvey’s gaze for a few moments. “C’mon, what’s your deal?” 

Harvey considered for a moment, his jaw working before he nodded to the right. “Close the door.” 

He lowered himself into his seat as Mike did as he asked, then turned back to him. 

“Mrs. Hayward and I…” Harvey’s expression tightened as he struggled with it. “We were…Involved for a while.” 

“While she was married?” 

“Before.” 

“How involved?” 

“We were engaged.” 

Mike’s eyes widened drastically, his brows making a jump toward his hairline. “En—What?” He laughed breathlessly. “The great Harvey Specter was almost nailed by that ice queen?” 

“Watch it,” Harvey warned; he was stunned as he felt a flair of protectiveness bloom in his chest. “She wasn’t always like that.” He glanced toward the property statements at the front of his desk, and he thought of the dismayed twist of her features. When she’d met his gaze, her eyes had been bright with tears. Maybe that was his fault, at least a little. He should’ve watched his tone a little more. He had surely made her cry enough, years ago. 

“What happened?” Mike pressed.

“I wasn’t ready.” 

“You broke it off?”

“...Something like that.” 

Harvey’s gaze flitted nervously toward Mike, and he could practically hear the wheels turning overtime in his head. It only took a moment before Mike’s eyes managed to widen further, his jaw dropping open in shock. 

“Oh my—There is no way.”

“I’m not proud of it,” Harvey raised a hand to stop Mike’s incredulous questioning. 

“Let me just make sure I’m on the same page here,” Mike shook his head. “You left her at the altar, she married this guy, and now you’re…Making jokes about the fact that she can’t ski or afford a lawyer?” 

Harvey’s heart sank into his stomach as he cut an irritated gaze across the desk. 

“I’m not proud of that, either.” 

“Didn’t stop you, though, did it.” 

“Are you finished with your lecture? Because you have a lot of work to do.” 

“On it,” Mike nodded, hopping out of his seat and restacking the paperwork into the file. 

“While you’re at it, keep your ear to the ground on that Park Slope property. The sooner the wheels are turning on that, the better. Use that number,” He tapped the file, “To call her, and send any documents to that address.” 

“Understood.” 

Harvey listened to Mike’s retreating footsteps as he twisted back and forth in his seat, restless in his discomfort. He pushed himself out of his seat in annoyance, unable to stand sitting anymore. Why had he shot his mouth off at her like that? He knew that she was going through it. He just figured when he’d first seen her in Jessica’s office that this situation wouldn’t be quite so hellish.

Steven Hayward was a billionaire, a former Forbes 30 Under 30 recipient. Harvey had done his digging when the engagement had first been announced—just a few months after Harvey had made the decision not to marry her. He’d assumed then that if she’d moved on so quickly, she couldn’t have loved him much in the first place, and the idea had solidified his decision not to go through with their wedding. 

Harvey had done his best to put her out of his mind, and he’d succeeded for the most part. But when Jessica had thrown this case at him, he’d gone back, done some more digging. There were so many resources about Steven Hayward from the last decade—interviews, profiles, filings. In all of them, Steven came off as a self-assured, cocky, pompous asshat, but a decent strategist. Those same profiles had described Mrs. Hayward as the trophy wife, the little woman behind the man, tending to the arrangements for their multi-million, 3,000 square foot penthouse overlooking Central Park. For as much as Harvey had forced himself to forget about her, he couldn’t forget her spirit, her determination, her desire to build a life, not to be handed one. None of the credit was given to her. None of the glory, none of the acknowledgement of what Harvey was certain were her blood, sweat and tears in that man’s holdings. 

The tears that she had seemed set to shed in his office were all the indication that Harvey needed. He scrubbed his hand across his face, trying to compose himself as he pushed the wounded memory of her away. 

Even footing. He needed to get the two of them on some kind of even footing. Every conversation couldn’t be a fight—it would just slow the both of them down. The sooner they sorted this out, the sooner they’d be out of one another’s hair. 

“Donna!” He called out, turning toward the door. Donna popped her head in a moment later, brows raised expectantly. “I need you to look an address up for me.”

“It’s in the West Village.” 

Harvey’s mouth worked wordlessly for a couple of seconds before he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing, “Mike?” 

“You shouldn’t have hired a super genius if you didn’t want him using that big brain.” 

“I was hoping he would use it for good, not evil.” 

“Oh, trust me, he is. Anything else?” 

“Lunch?” 

“It’s on the way.”

Of course it was. 

-- 

“This is everything?” 

“Yes. I checked and double-checked the list that you gave me before I left.” 

You nodded, planting your hands on your hips and looking over six industrial-sized trash bags that contained what you hoped were your tide-over funds. 

“The jewelry’s in there, too?” 

“Hey,” Aaron stepped closer to you, resting his hand on your shoulder. “When I say I got everything, I mean I got everything. I was this close to snagging a couple of light fixtures.” 

You laughed a little, nodding and leaning into the touch a little. You’d worked with Aaron Delaney for over five years at Hayward Realty. You’d hoped that he wouldn’t be in Steven’s camp in the divorce, and when you’d reached out to find out when Steven would definitely be at the office, Aaron had quickly jumped on your bandwagon. It had taken nearly three weeks, but he had come through. Not only had he told you when Steven would be out, but he’d offered to go into the apartment and get things for you. You hadn’t heard a thing from Mike in a couple of weeks, so you could only hope that everything was going smoothly on his end, but these bags would go a long way to bolstering your bitten budget. 

“You want my help cataloging it?” He offered. You shook your head a little. 

“No, god, you've done enough—and helped me lug this up six flights. Besides, Steven will be suspicious if you’re out of the office for too long—you’re too good an employee to be out of pocket for more than a few minutes. But if you’d like to be enlisted in mole duty going forward, I’m gonna need you to have your ear to the ground over there.” 

“You’ve got it.” He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Text me if you need anything.” 

“Will do, yeah. And thanks again, Aaron. Seriously.” 

“Keep your chin up, hon.” 

“Yeah,” You mumbled, turning back to the trash bags as Aaron headed for the door. God, you didn’t even know what was where. It was probably best to just go bag by bag, and hope all of the suits were together. You could hang the outfits up, take a picture, post it on the app that you were using to resell your luxury clothing. You could—and probably would—keep at least a couple of things for yourself, but you couldn’t go crazy. You’d need suits for your divorce settlement, and possibly for court…And for whatever the hell you wound up doing once this was all over. 

Because it would be over, eventually. There was a life for you on the other side of all of this, and you had to keep reminding yourself of that. Things would get easier, but right now, it all just…Fucking sucked. You had moved the few things that you had into the studio apartment, including your dresser, a bookshelf, a few books, and your favorite Eames lounge chair and reading lamp. You’d had to get a new bed—a full was all that you could use without overwhelming the space; you got a metal frame on Amazon that would get the job done, and you’d bought and built three racks for your clothing. You still hadn’t found an affordable couch, but you had found a nice oak grain bedside table on the sidewalk, with a handwritten looseleaf sign taped to it that read, FREE!!

You hadn’t had the chance to paint or put any personalizing touches on the space besides your furniture—no art, or knick knacks. The space was nearing functional, but you were certain that unpacking all of your clothing was going to make that a hell of a lot more difficult. 

You crouched down in front of the first bag, untying it and opening it. You could see some Scanlan Theodore, some Tuckernuck, some Bergdorf Goodman. This bag was already pretty promising. You sighed, taking the first dress out and wafting the fabric out. It didn’t need to be ironed or steamed, which was a blessing. You were already dreading how long this was going to take, but hell, at least it would give you something to do that wasn’t staring down the barrel of your dead-end future—

Okay. Okay, so not helpful, so not the time. You reached into your pocket, pulling your phone out of your pocket to find a podcast to listen to. There had to be something that you could listen to that would distract you from the monotony of filing and sorting your clothing out. You settled on one of your favorites before you began sorting through the first bag. You were right—a couple of Scanlans, two Tuckernucks, three Bergdorf Goodman’s–

Your sorting was interrupted by a knock on your door. You frowned, pushing yourself up. What else could be left? It had to be good if Aaron had lugged something else up six floors. You pushed yourself off of the floor, brushing the dust off of your sweatpants. 

“Alright, Delaney, what’d you forget?” You asked as you approached the door and tugged it open. 

The sight of Harvey Specter standing on your doorstep made your stomach want to violently unseat your lunch. His gaze swept over you critically, taking sight of you in your comfy clothes. Between the ratty old shirt, the sweats, and your fluffy socks, you were a far, far cry from the way that he’d become accustomed to seeing you in his office. 

“Can I, uh…” He peered over your shoulder, nodding inside. “Can I come in?” 

“I thought I was going to be hearing from Mr. Ross.” 

“Mike is busy, and we need to talk.” 

You couldn’t imagine what the hell you and Harvey needed to talk about. You didn’t want to let him in; you knew that what Harvey was about to see wasn’t what he was surely expecting. Your grip tightened on the handle before you drew in a deep breath nodding, “Sure.”

It was worse than you imagined. Harvey hardly got two steps inside before he stopped fully. Well, to be fair, there wasn’t a ton of space for him to wander around and explore; between the bed, the armchair, and the trash bags, there wasn’t much room for him to move around. You shut the door and pointedly cleared your throat, trying to jog him from his shock. As he faced you again, you could see him trying to mask his surprise, his brows drawing down over his eyes as he turned to a file in his hand. 

“You have an offer on the Park Slope house.”

“Why didn’t I get a call from my broker?” 

“I asked to deliver the news myself.” 

You frowned a little, taking hold of the file and flipping it open. Your eyes widened at the sight of a check paperclipped to the top of the files—for frighteningly beneath asking price. 

“I said I wanted it in cash.” 

“...I know that,” Harvey spoke slowly, as if he was dealing with a particularly difficult and over-caffeinated child. “That is a good faith deposit from the buyer.” 

“They’ve signed?” Your hands tighten around the file as your stomach flipped with excitement. “I didn’t ask my broker for a good faith deposit.” 

“No, I had it baked into the contract.” 

Your gaze flitted to Harvey, annoyance and admiration growing in equal measure. 

“I…Appreciate that,” You finally managed. “But in the future, please run any changes like that by me before you speak to my broker.” 

Harvey nodded, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Understood.” 

“Thanks.” You closed to file, certain that if you didn’t, you’d just spend your time staring at the check—at your first lifeline in this whole mess. “Anything else?” 

“We need to get on a more even footing.” 

“...I don’t know what you mean.” 

Harvey gave you a chastising frown, one that would’ve made you wilt long ago—but now, you simply shook your head and shrugged. 

“I don’t,” You insisted. “Unless you mean that you’ll stop out your thinly veiled barbs about what you think you know about me.” 

“I remember more than you think.” 

“I’m not the woman that you left at the altar, Harvey.” Your admission and reminder left a bitter taste in your mouth. You had to force yourself to hold his gaze, even as his expression flooded with discomfort. You could see him desperately trying to push it away as his retort bubbled up:  

“And I’m not the man that left you there!”

“No?” You laughed openly. “Because this all looks pretty fucking familiar. You’re a shark, Harvey, and you’re a dick. Lucky for the both of us, that’s exactly what I need you to be right now.”

Harvey’s jaw tightened, and you could see his hands curling into fists before he shoved them into his pockets.

“Let’s get one thing perfectly clear,” He seethed, taking a small step closer, “What I do for you over the course of this case is purely because of my reputation in this city. I’m going to do my damndest to get you the best out of all of these properties, but do not think for a moment that the job I do comes from any interest, any compassion, anything worth a damn.”

“What compassion? Anyone with compassion would’ve at least had the grace to do better than a goddamn post-it note in my bridal suite that just said ‘sorry’. It didn't even look like your handwriting!” You loosed a hysterical laugh that had been building in your throat as he spoke. “Or did you not even want that in there? Maybe one of my bridesmaids scrawled it to keep me from just throwing myself off the fucking roof!”

Harvey’s expression flickered again, and you saw some of the color drain from his annoyance-flushed cheeks. You turned away, stomach roiling with embarrassment and irritation.

“Thanks for the file,” You managed, forcing a steadiness into your tone. “Going forward, I really do think it’s for the best that you communicate with me through Mr. Ross.”

“Gladly. Have a nice day, Mrs. Hayward.”

Three long strides, the creak of the door opening, and then slamming shut. You flinched at the sound, fingers tightening around the file, trying to focus on the check.

One hundred thousand dollars was an amazing start. One hundred thousand dollars could go toward your rent, your expenses, buy you some time. Maybe you could get a nice bottle of gin—or a couple of the cheap bottles the size of your head, the stuff that tasted like paint thinner and knocked you flat on your ass until morning.

Maybe you could sell your clothing during the day and quietly slip into oblivion in the evening. You had nothing better to do with your nights. Almost none of your so-called friends had reached out after the news had broken—likely making the choice to side with Steven. He was the one that still had the money, of course, the position in society. His name was on the door, not yours.

Your name was on a 12 month lease, and on a check for one hundred thousand dollars.

sorry

Lowercase, hurriedly scrawled, ink smudged. You could still see the slightly crumpled post-it that had been sitting on your honeymoon suite vanity when you’d returned after waiting at the back of the venue for almost an hour. 

Harvey hadn’t copped to writing it. Maybe he didn’t want to—or maybe he really didn’t write it. Maybe he wasn’t sorry. Maybe he saw the shitshow that your life had become and was glad that he’d gotten out early.

You glanced around the apartment, eyeing the row of trash bags, the rickety furniture. At this moment, you couldn’t blame him.

You tossed the file onto your bedside table before walking back to the trash bags. Bag by bag, then steam what needed to be steam, then sort by brand. Plan of attack. You could get that man out of your head.

That man—which one was worse to think about just now—Steven or Harvey?

You shook your head, forcing yourself to dismiss both of them for the morning. You didn’t have any more time for what could’ve been’s. You had here, you had now.

And you had shit to do.

--

“Okay, two things,” Mike announced as he rounded into Harvey’s office. “One, the purchase agreement for the brownstone is signed and the payment is on the way to her bank account. There’s also an offer for the apartment building in the upper East Side. Two—“

“What do you mean, two?” Harvey frowned. “That’s already two things.”

“Fine, three—“

“Super genius and he can’t even count—“

“I got six emails from Steven Hayward’s representation this morning, disputing ownership of all of the twenty original flagged properties.”

“Damnit,” Harvey hissed. “Even the houses she didn’t know about?”

“No, so far, they’ve been conspicuously left off of the list.”

“Where are we with those inspections?”

“In progress, should hear back by the end of the week.”

“Good.”

Mike nodded, and Harvey returned his attention to his laptop. At least, he did until he realized that Mike hadn’t left the room.

“Something else that you need to say?” Harvey prodded.

“Aren’t you going to ask how she is?”

“Why would I need to know that?”

“Come on, Harvey.”

“She’s a client, Mike.”

“A client that you were going to marry!”

“And I didn’t marry her. What do you think that says about my wealth of feeling for her?”

Mike sighed heavily through his nose, muttering, “Alright.” He began to turn away, heading for the door. “Well, if you had asked, I would’ve told you that she’s putting on a brave face, but she’s getting to the end of her rope.”

“Well I didn’t ask, but thank you for that poetic and poignant diagnosis.”

--

“You have to go.”

“Of all of my priorities right now, the gala is not one of them,” You insisted. “I’ve got about a hundred more urgent matters right now.”

“Make this one,” Jessica insisted, leaning back against her desk, her arms folding across her chest. “You know how badly you’ll be lampooned if you don't turn up.”

“And I’ll be lampooned if I do show up. Besides, I don’t have anything to wear.”

“Wear something you’ve worn before.”

“I don’t have most of those pieces anymore.”

“Then rent something.”

“You do remember that Steven is being honored this year?” 

“All the more reason for you to show your face.” 

“Jessica—“

“What’s your plan.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your plan—when this is all over? Are you going to go back into real estate?”

“…It’s crossed my mind.”

“You know that they will never let you back in if you slink out the back door and try to come in through the front again. They’ve rescinded your keys, honey. May as well stay in the house as long as you can.”

“This metaphor is beginning to exhaust me.”

Jessica grinned. “I better see your name on the RSVP list by the end of the day.”

“Since when do you have access to that information?”

“I have my sources.”

You heard two knocks, followed by the increasingly comforting sound of Mike’s voice: “Sorry to interrupt.”

“Not at all,” Jessica waved him inside. “I’m hoping for a fruitful update.”

“Well,” Mike gave a small, nervous smile as he joined the two of you. “The good news is that purchase for the brownstone is moving through the channels, and there are interested buyers for the upper East Side apartment building. Unfortunately —“ The word made your gut swoop. “—Your ex-husband has come out of the woodwork. He’s trying to stake a claim on the properties, and on a hold co. We’re monitoring the situation,” Mike added before either you or Jessica could speak, “But I wanted to make you aware of what you could be facing sometime soon.”

You nodded, wringing your hands where they were folded in your lap.

“I appreciate the update.”

“Of course.”

“Why isn’t Harvey relaying this to me himself?” Jessica frowned. You raised your brows, glancing toward Mike, and fighting back a wave of amusement at his blatant deer-in-headlines expression.

“He had a—meeting,” He flubbed before jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “I should, uh–” 

Jessica’s brows raise skeptically, but she nods, and you bite back a laugh as Mike leaves the room with a measured hurry. 

“...Why do I have the feeling that the two of you are keeping something from me?” 

“I don’t know what you mean,” You shrugged, pushing yourself out of your seat. “Now if you excuse me, I have some clothes to package—” 

“And a gala outfit to find. I understand.” 

You turned from Jessica’s smug grin, rolling your eyes as she tacked on, 

“And don’t forget to get your nails done!”

You rounded out of the office, pulling up short as you slammed into someone. 

“Oh! Fuck, sorry!” You breathed as their hands landed on your hips to steady you. 

“...Don’t worry about it.” Harvey’s flat tone turned your stomach. You cleared your throat, stepping back and out of his hands. 

“I’ll watch where I’m going.” 

“Sounds like a plan.” 

You gave a firm nod as you skirted around him, face flooding with embarrassed heat as you strode toward the elevators. 

-- 

The gala. You’d completely forgotten about the gala until Jessica had brought it up. Six months ago, planning the evening had been the center of your world. You’d put a deposit down for a custom dress, had it fitted. Steven had asked you to coordinate a cocktail party for the two hours beforehand—an intimate gathering for 150 of your closest friends and associates. You sighed, leaning back against the hard subway seat and gazing at your appearance in the window opposite you. 

You could just see it now—the who’s who of New York’s real estate scene all swanning up to the penthouse, lounging fashionably, eating the hors d'oeuvres that you’d chosen and drinking the champagne that you’d ordered by the case…

…The champagne that you had ordered…

Come to think of it, those contracts all had your name on them, your contact information. Steven hadn’t been involved with a damn thing, save for the use of his credit card to put down deposits. He never did—he expected you to handle all of the coordination on the day as well; he would swan in an hour after the party started and do his scant duties as the host.

A devilish grin curled your lips. You were sure you still had all of the confirmations in your email. You could cancel all of it—the ice sculpture, the caterer, the champagne…Well, maybe you could divert one case to your new apartment, and cancel the rest. 

Oh, you could really see it now—Steven seething as he frantically checked his emails for any hint of vendors, any phone number or email that he could call to find out what the hell happened to the party that was to-be. You were certain that the tailor still had your dress—and you had a check for a hundred thousand dollars that you could dip into for a manicure. 

You stood as the train pulled into your station. You were suddenly looking forward to the gala.

Tag list: @missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight ; @recklessworry ; @amneris21 ; @ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage​​​ ; @lorecraft ; @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity ; @millllenniawrites ; @chattychell ; @dihra-vesa​ ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices​ ; @missswriter ; @thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @buckybarneshairpullingkink ; @mad-girl-without-a-box ; @winchestershiresauce ; @gina239 ; @technicallykawaiisoul ; @coldheart-lonelysoul ; @kathrinemelissa ; @jacxx2 ; @pillowjj ; @chanaaaannel ; @avampirescholar ; @kmc1989

[forwhump]

a/n; I know I say this every time but this is like my third post today so I am sincerely sorry I won’t stop posting lmfao idk what’s happening to me I don’t even LIKE posting it’s so scary but I’m getting addicted to the adrenaline rush I guess but I’m sincerely sorry you’re suffering the consequences

here we go again <3

tw/cw: mentions of noncon, graphic depictions of violence, beating, mutilation, guns, misgendering, transphobia, character death, major character death (but he dies all the time)

human weapon whumpee, revenge, creepy whumper (I think he’s creepy anyway idk)

Wren didn’t want him to know.

He’d done everything he could, as a matter of fact, to keep Silas from knowing, and at first, it had pissed him off. Not that he didn’t want him to know, but that he wouldn’t let him put a stop to it. That Wren would keep suffering in silence, knowing that if Silas had known, he would’ve done something. He would’ve saved him.

They’d argued about it, when Wren was well enough to argue with him again.

“No,” he’d said, like he was talking to a particularly stupid dog.

Silas scowled down at him. He was curled up in Silas’ bed, just like he’d been over the last few days, but there was more life in him, a bit more of himself, and the relief had only strengthened Silas’ resolve. He wasn’t gonna let this happen again.

“You’re a fuckin’ idiot,” he replied, “if you really think I’m just gonna sit here and let them fuckin’ touch you again.”

“That’s exactly what you’re going to do,” Wren told him.

“The fuck it is,” Silas said.

“You’re not going to do anything, actually,” Wren told him, sharp. “You’re not going to —“

“What are you gonna do?” Silas taunted, leaning in closer, raising his eyebrows. “You gonna stop me?” Wren had poked him really hard between the eyes. Silas recoiled quickly. “Ow?”

“You are going to get yourself killed,” Wren snapped.

He groaned loudly. “I am not.”

“Are you absolutely fucking kidding me?” He seethed. “You are. You’re going to do something stupid and you’re going to get yourself killed and you’re going to make me watch it happen.”

“Who cares what happens to me?”

“I do!” Wren snapped.

Silas heaved his shoulders. “Too bad.”

“Silas —“

“I’m not going to sit by and let them hurt you, Wren,” he said. “You can do whatever you want to me. You won’t stop me.”

“If you do something fucking stupid,” Wren spat, “I will never forgive you.”

They argued about it for a long time, in fact.

It was Silas, of course, who relented, because realistically, Silas can’t deny him anything. If Wren asked Silas to kill himself, he’d find a way to make it permanent. He’d pinky promised to keep his hands to himself.

He’d been lying.

It wasn’t intentional, but it wasn’t the truth. Silas just didn’t realize quite how hard it would be to keep that promise.

They’re sitting in the common room. Silas is huge, so he takes up most of the loveseat, but Wren fits perfectly in the spot next to him, warm against his side. It’s where Silas likes him best.

He has his head leaned against Silas’ arm as he draws something in the book he has opened across his knees, but Silas has no idea what it might be. Wren’s been working on it for the better part of an hour and Silas hasn’t looked at it once, hasn’t looked away from Wren’s profile, from the part of his lips, from the length of his eyelashes.

He only looks up at the sound of the door; the beep of a keycard being swiped, a fingerprint being accepted, the massive vault lock being turned. The door to their unit grinds open, and everything goes to hell.

Machine gun held across his chest, it’s a man they call Wound that enters. Especially cruel, he’s always been one of Silas’ least favourite soldiers. That cements as Wren’s back tenses at his side, and Silas knows. He knows. Wren doesn’t even need to tell him.

Wound lifts his chin at Wren, then angles his head towards the door. “The girl,” he said, in the commanding voice all the soldiers put on when they speak to the assets. “Let’s go.”

Silas can feel the way Wren’s breath hitches more than he can hear it, and he’s on his feet before he really thinks about it.

Wren reaches for his arm, but Silas steps away. “Silas —“ he starts to warn, but Silas isn’t listening.

He’s looking at Wound. Wound is an especially cruel man, and Silas knows that firsthand, but he doesn’t know the kind of cruelty that Wren knows. He can’t imagine. Wound is big, and he’s mean, and the thought of his hands on Wren’s skin doesn’t make him see red, but black. It’s a darkness that starts to swallow him the second Wren’s back tenses and that he’s completely lost in by the time he’s on his feet.

He’d promised Wren he wouldn’t, but he didn’t know. The darkness had already spiraled up and out of his control before he even knew it was blooming.

He looks at Wound and he can see Wren, just as he’d seen him that day that Silas had picked him up off the floor. The bites at his throat had scabbed, started to heal, but Silas sees them just as they had been when they were fresh, the puncture of teeth, the bruising, the blood that had pooled in his collarbones. He sees the bruises, in the shapes of hands and fingerprints, so brutal they had welted. He sees Wound’s hands.

Silas had promised to just sit there, but come on. Who could ask that of him? Really? How could he be expected to let this happen? Wren, scared at his side — is Silas just supposed to watch him go?

Like hell.

“Sit down, Park,” Wound commands, almost bored. “I’m not here for you.”

Silas doesn’t even say anything.

Wound is a big guy, a lot bigger than Wren. Silas is a lot bigger than Wound.

He swings, and he puts all his weight into it.

And Silas, quite unfortunately, isn’t human, and he isn’t close. Silas is a weapon. Silas was genetically engineered for violence.

He swings, and he puts all his weight into it. The bone and cartilage of Wound’s face are crushed beneath his fist.

The common room explodes into screaming and chaos. Wren is screaming at him. Hal and June might be, too, but they might just be screaming, panicked and confused. Robin must’ve come running, because the bass of his voice joins the clamor, just as panicked and even more confused.

Silas could give less of a fuck.

Wound drops to the concrete at his feet with a really wet, choking sort of sound. Silas leans down, throws his fist, and cracks clean through Wound’s skull. It shatters against the concrete like ceramic and his liquified brain spills out around him.

It happens quick. It happens too quickly for anybody to stop it, but not so quick that the soldiers standing guard detail don’t hear or see it happen. The thunderous footsteps of the cavalry enclose on the common room, so Silas riffs the machine gun from Wound’s limp hands.

“Silas!” Wren cries, but Silas doesn’t have the time to turn.

He hoists the gun and the first three soldiers to near him are blown apart by the ammunition.

Silas has never been allowed a gun. He’s starting to understand why.

It makes him laugh, probably a touch deranged.

“Stand down, asset!” A different soldier commands, gun drawn, but Silas snorts and blows his head clean off his shoulders. What little is left of it hits the wall behind him with a surprisingly loud sound.

He laughs again, even louder, especially deranged. It’s in his veins now and it spreads through him quickly, that darkness, that monster. Silas, usually, has a pretty tight leash on it. He isn’t the most emotionally intelligent, and he wouldn’t describe himself as a patient man, but he’s never let the unit — let Wren — see what he really is. They’ve never seen the field tests, the slaughters. Silas is sure they can guess what he’s capable of by looking at him, but they’ve never seen it. Silas was very careful to make sure they’ve never seen it.

He has no control over it now. His body isn’t his own, and the thing wearing his skin was trained for slaughter.

Another soldier he has a particular dislike for, a man they call Church, he creeps up behind Silas like Silas doesn’t know that he’s there.

Silas is kind of mean, so Silas lets him get close. Comfortable. Lets him think he’ll get to walk out of here. Lifts Wound’s gun and shoots a different guy in the dick. His lower body explodes into a mist of blood and chunks of meat.

Church lifts his gun, angled toward the nape of Silas’ neck.

Silas throws back an elbow and Church’s eyeball bursts in its socket.

“Fuck!” Church bellows.

With a grin, Silas turns, and swings his prosthetic foot into his kneecap. It crumbles, and Church falls, dropping onto the broken bits of his knee with another bellow.

He tips his head back and starts muttering something quickly and under his breath. Prayer, Silas had come to learn.

“You’re wasting your breath,” Silas says, and takes him by the chin, hooking his thumb behind his bottom teeth.

“No —“ he starts to say, and Silas rips his jaw from his face.

Church makes a sound like he’s underwater and Silas yanks his tongue from the hole that used to be his mouth. He chokes, and Silas hooks his fingers behind his upper teeth.

One of Church’s hands finds his wrist, pleading.

He snorts and rips his skull in half.

With it, he turns, and he tosses the top half of Church’s head at the soldier drawing nearest. He catches it in his surprise, and Silas grins at him as he grabs a fistful of his hair.

“Ah, fuck!” He cries, and Silas grins a little wider. He gets him to the ground, pins him there with a foot to the back of his neck, and he squirms. Silas stomps on the back of his head, leans all his weight into it, and he stops moving pretty quickly.

A different soldier tries to intervene, and Silas lifts the gun again. The soldier’s head bursts into blood and brain matter.

He doesn’t know how quiet it’s gotten until he hears Point’s voice, louder than anything else: “Silas.”

Silas tenses. Slowly, he turns.

Point is standing offside, just inside the common room. Wren’s on his knees on one side of him, his braid coiled around Point’s fist. Hal’s at his other side, gun to his temple.

Silas exhales slowly. “Darren,” he greets.

Point’s jaw twitches. “Why would you play with their lives like this, Silas?”

Something about it clears the fog a little bit. Wren’s face is shimmery with tears and Hal’s shaking like he might break apart. Silas sucks blood off his teeth and it isn’t his own.

“Don’t risk it, Darren,” Silas says.

“Stop fuckin’ calling me Darren,” Point snaps.

He shrugs him off. “Wren gets to call you Darren.”

“I fuck Wren,” Point spits, and then Silas isn’t in control of himself again.

He doesn’t even realize he’s moved, in fact, but then he’s in the common room, and Point’s throat is in his hands. He’s holding him clean off the ground, holding his mouth open with the end of the machine gun.

At the last second, though, he comes back to himself, and he pulls the gun out of his throat. “Any last words?”

Point, starting to purple in the face, still smirks at him. “Look out.”

And then pain explodes through the back of Silas’ head and everything gets really dark.

Not black, but dim, and when the light is turned back up everything is really blurry. Point is — where’s —

What’s — ?

And Wren is screaming, wailing, from somewhere really close but really far away, and Silas thinks, fuck.

He fucked up. Wren had specifically requested not to watch him die.

He lifts a hand slowly, and it shakes the whole time. It presses it to the bullet hole he finds at the back of his head. It’s hot to the touch, and for some reason that makes him really dizzy.

“I’m sorry,” he tries to say, but he doesn’t.

He vomits acid onto the concrete and keels over after it, face first. He gurgles just once before he dies.

[madamsnape921]

Dr. Daddy

Pairing: Frederick Chilton x female reader 

Warning: Sugar Daddy/baby

WC: 1847

Raúl Taglist: @beccabarba @alwaysachorusgirl @law-nerd105  @prurientpuddlejumper  @welcometothemxdhouse @thatesqcrush @itsjustmyfantasyroom @lv7867 @word-scribbless 

@plaidbooks @storiesofsvu @navalcriminalimagines

You grew up in a small town, but after completing grad school you found yourself in Baltimore. You landed a 9-5 job in your field and stuck with it for seven years, until the monotony of your daily routine became too much to bear. Every morning, you dragged yourself out of bed, went to work, and returned to your dingy and empty apartment. Once in a while, you would go on a date that either ended disastrously or was unbearably dull.

Eventually, the day arrived when you could no longer tolerate the situation. You had already prepared a resignation letter, and it felt good to put your thoughts into words. The letter was printed out, signed, and handed in right away. With your head held high, you left the office and made your way home. But as soon as you changed into comfortable clothes, the full weight of reality hit you.

You slumped onto your couch as your thoughts raced. You had impulsively quit your job without a backup plan. Thankfully, you had enough money saved up to last you through the month and maybe even the next. But what were you going to do now? You grabbed your phone and started scrolling through job listings. The more you looked, the more nauseous you felt. The idea of going back to another 9-5 job made you cringe. What other options did you have? Maybe starting an OnlyFans account? No, that wasn't something you felt confident in doing. But perhaps you were on the right track with exploring alternative paths now.

Over the next few weeks, you devised a rough strategy. You had recently begun selling photos of your feet on the internet and were pleasantly surprised by how profitable it was. You may have benefited from the money, but the process didn't really matter to you. Thus, you continue to seek out a more efficient way to make a living.

After a few months of wandering aimlessly since quitting your job, you finally found a solution. You made the decision to become a sugar baby. After signing up on a reputable sugar website, you waited for potential matches. And then, like magic, there was a notification.

Dr. Daddy: Hello, I stumbled upon your profile and was immediately intrigued. Your confidence radiates, but there is also a softness to you that draws me in. Your eyes sparkle like precious jewels and your piercing gaze demands attention. I’m Frederick.  

SmutSlut: Hello, Frederick! My name is YN.

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

Life was amazing! It had been almost a year since you first met Dr. Frederick Chilton. You spent most of your time attending social events as his "arm candy," and when you weren't out and about, you were having wild, passionate sex. It baffled you why Frederick didn't just pick someone to settle down with. After all, he was incredibly intelligent, undeniably attractive, and an exceptional lover. 

Your new apartment was incredibly luxurious, and you had never owned such an extravagant wardrobe before. Frederick had made it clear that he was the only sugar daddy you could have for the entirety of your relationship. He took care of all your expenses and spoils you with anything your heart desires. Everything seemed perfect, except for one small issue...you were starting to develop genuine feelings for him.

After much internal deliberation, you make the decision to confront Frederick about the issue. The worst that could happen is that he breaks things off, and you'll have to rebuild yourself and start anew. You send him a text message, mustering up the courage to address the situation head on.

YN: Frederick, I need to talk to you. 

Frederick: …

YN: It’s really important. 

Frederick: I can’t talk right now, YN. 

Well that was weird. 

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

It's been three weeks since you received the final text from Frederick, and your heart still aches. You've tried reaching out to him several times but have yet to receive a response.

Each passing day feels heavier as you struggle to comprehend Frederick's sudden disappearance from your life. The once vibrant and exhilarating world he introduced you to now feels dull and empty without his presence. You find yourself questioning every moment spent together, trying to decipher any hidden signs or warnings of his impending departure.

Despite your best efforts to move on, thoughts of Frederick consume your mind. His absence leaves a void that seems impossible to fill. Every knock on the door sends a jolt of hope through you, only to be met with disappointment when it's not him standing on the other side.

One evening, as you sit alone in the lavish apartment that once felt like a sanctuary but now feels like a gilded cage, a knock breaks the silence. Your heart races with anticipation as you make your way to the door, desperately hoping it's Frederick returning to explain his absence.

To your surprise, it's not Frederick standing there but a courier holding a small package. Confusion clouds your thoughts as you accept the package, thanking the courier absently before shutting the door behind you. Your hands tremble slightly as you tear open the package, revealing a sleek black box with an ornate letter 'F' embossed on the lid. Your heart pounds in your chest as you slowly lift the lid, revealing a stack of letters neatly arranged inside.

With trembling fingers, you pick up the first letter and unfold it. The elegant handwriting is unmistakably Frederick's, and your breath catches in your throat as you read his words. In the letter, Frederick explains that he had to leave suddenly due to unforeseen circumstances beyond his control. He expresses his regret for not being able to explain in person and admits that he never intended to hurt you.

Tears blur your vision as you read through the rest of the letters, each one detailing Frederick's feelings for you and his struggles with his own emotions. You realize that he had been grappling with his growing affection for you and had chosen to leave to spare both of you from potential heartache in the future. The weight of his words sinks in, and a mix of emotions swirl within you.

Despite the pain of his absence, you find a sense of closure in Frederick's letters. His vulnerability and honesty touch your heart, and you can't help but feel a bittersweet gratitude for the time you shared together. As you read the last letter, a gentle knock on the door startles you.

You set aside the letters and cautiously make your way to the door, unsure of what to expect. With a deep breath, you open it to find Frederick standing there, his expression a tumultuous blend of emotions.

"YN," he begins, his voice soft yet filled with intensity. "I had to come back. I couldn't bear being away from you any longer." His eyes search yours, seeking understanding and forgiveness.

For a moment, silence hangs heavy between you as you take in his presence once again. You struggle to keep your emotions in check as you realize he is using a cane, a new addition that sends waves of emotion through you as you process the change in his appearance.

"Frederick," you whisper, reaching out to touch his shoulder, "what's happened?"

He takes a deep breath, his eyes never leaving yours. "It's been... not easy. There were complications, YN. Injuries. But I'm okay now." He forces a smile, but you can tell it's strained. "I missed you, more than I ever thought possible."

You feel a surge of relief and happiness amidst the confusion and worry, but also a mixture of sadness and fear for the unknown. "What does this mean?" you ask, unsure if you're ready to face the future together.

Frederick reaches up and cups your cheek, his fingers gentle yet firm. "It means," he says softly, "that I want to be with you, no matter what. I know we have a lot to discuss and figureout, but I'm willing to face it all with you. I just can't imagine being without you anymore."

His words send a wave of warmth through you, and you find yourself leaning into his touch. "I don't want to be without you either," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

As you stand there in each other's arms, you can't help but wonder what the future holds for you both. With Frederick back by your side, the world seems a little less dark and a little more full of promise. You know that whatever comes next, you'll face it together, hand in hand, ready to conquer any obstacle that stands in your way.

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

Frederick made his way to the couch and carefully set down his cane. He then unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, revealing a perfect erection that made your mouth water. As he leisurely stroked his cock, he gazed at you with an intense stare. "Come here and suck Daddy's cock, little girl," he commanded.

 You hesitated for a moment, then approached the couch, your eyes never leaving Frederick's. With trembling hands, you reached out and wrapped your fingers around his thick shaft. As you began to stroke him, your other hand made its way up his body, caressing his chest, and eventually finding its way to his nipple.

Frederick's eyes rolled back in pleasure as you gently pinched his nipple, causing him to moan softly. His hand threaded through your hair and guided your head towards his erection. With a mix of devotion and anticipation, you opened your mouth and took his dick inside, savoring the taste of his precum.

As you sucked and stroked, Frederick's breathing grew heavier, and he began to thrust his hips, guiding his cock deeper into your throat. You gagged slightly at first, but the more you tried, the more Frederick pushed, until you found yourself choking on his member, your throat constricting around his girth. Frederick's breaths shortened, and his grip on your hair tightened, both of you caught in this intense, primal dance.

You pulled back, gasping for air, and Frederick's eyes met yours, filled with hunger and approval. His cock twitched in your hand, glistening with your saliva and precum. With a lustful growl, he pulled you up onto his lap. Without any warning, he pushed your panties to the side and plunged his member inside of you. 

“You okay, angel,” Frederick asked, concerned for your well-being.

You gasped, trying to catch your breath. “Yes, Daddy,” you managed to breathe, your body responding to his every touch.

Frederick's fingers found their way to your clit, rubbing it roughly as he thrust into you. Your nerves were set ablaze, and you could feel the familiar tightness building within you. Frederick knew just what to do, and soon you were arching your back, moaning in ecstasy as you climaxed.

Frederick kept up his relentless pace, and just as you thought you couldn't bear it any longer, he groaned and tensed, filling you with his warm seed. You both collapsed onto the couch, your bodies still joined together, hearts pounding in sync.

[intheorangebedroom]

Pleased to meet you, chapter 11

Summary: it's Sunday morning in the orange bedroom. You're at peace with your feelings, but Frankie's control starts to slip.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x French fem!Reader.

Rating: Explicit 🔞

A/N: Ngl I’m very nervous about this one. Nobody screams at me, please! They will be talking soon. I think 👀 (I'm working 6 days this week and the next, bear with me). Thank you to anyone still reading this story. My endless love and gratitude to @frannyzooey who saved my life with this chapter (and for a million other reasons ♥) Also, size kink like woaaa 🫣

Word Count: 2.5k (balancing last chapter)

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Chapter 11: Sunday Morning

It starts with a caress. The morning sun on your right shoulder. Followed by the soft, cottony fabric of the bed you’re lying on, on your left side. You slowly open your eyes to a sparsely furnished bedroom, bathed in mid-morning summer light, a pleasant ache between your thighs, your body heavy but rested. It’s nicely warm, the cacophony from a world outside the window distant and muffled, barely disturbing the room’s peacefulness. You can’t remember where you are.

You’re confused, but not alarmed. The room is alight with an orange glow. Orange like the curtains in your grandparents’ living-room, before your grandma died when you were five and a half and your mother had no other option but to take you back, before she married a wealthy man and you had to keep a low profile in your own home. Before your childhood ended. You feel safe, like you felt back then. You don’t know where you are, but you know that, for once, you don’t want to be then. You want to be now.

Your back is resting against smooth, solid skin, and you take in the lean, strong arms circling your waist. It swells inside you like a colossal wave, and you have to bite down your lips, for fear that your broad smile will tear up your entire face.

Frankie.

His chest rises and falls in an even, slow rhythm, so you remain perfectly still, not wanting to wake him, but his arms tighten their hold, drawing you closer. He nuzzles into your neck and breathes in your skin. A faint trace of you, something powdery and sweet, underneath the musky spice of him. You smell like him. He’s never experienced that before. Never fucked someone so much he’d infused them with his scent. He pulls you in closer, again, always, and you wrap your arms around his, your fingers entwined.

A kiss to your hair, and a sleepy, hoarse murmur as he asks if “you ok?” and you exhale your answer, “yes.” The word stretches in your mouth like a cat in the sun, like the last days of summer.

Yes. You’re more than ok, you’re dizzyingly content, while Frankie struggles to identify the uncharted warmth pleasantly numbing his mind, when your skin reaches out for him. Something he will never forget, something he will forever miss.

When you press your back against his chest, he brushes a smile in the crook of your neck, so you lean further back and the curve of your ass meets his hard length.

How long have the two of you slept? Long enough that his exhaustion is gone, and that the need to be inside you is gnawing at his insides again. A slumber so sound he didn’t notice when you crawled back into bed and tucked your body against his, wrapping his arms around your waist. A dreamless, peaceful rest, the first one since he enrolled, his mind a blissful void, barren of all ghosts.

His right arm loosens its hold, so his hand can roam over the smooth skin of your curves and slopes, running his palm along your sides, around your hip, over your belly. He goes about your breasts easy, cautious, considerate, brushing the back of his hand along the swell of them. When you whimper quietly, your head tilted back, seeking the contact of his throat with your temple, he gives them a gentle squeeze, one, then the other. His.

You reach back and take him in your hand, taking in the heft of him, so smooth, so heavy, so perfect, the vein on the underside pulsating in your light grasp. Your thumb rubs lightly at his round head, smearing a bead of precome, and you bring your finger to your mouth to taste him leisurely. Heat flares up deep inside your core, spreading to your chest and neck. Arousal pooling down your folds, you untangle your legs from his in a wordless request, squirming between his arms, and his low “shhhh” pours liquid fire into your ear, doing nothing to ease off the longing.

Frankie’s learned you, and he knows he has to open you up for him. You took so much, yesterday. And he’ll make you take more. There's only one day left. He nips at your pulse point to chase the thought away, a hard suck on your skin, you can leave other marks, and your body goes slack in surrender.

He swipes his tongue over the fresh, dotted red fleck, and traces a line of open-mouthed kisses down your neck, unhurried and languid, licking his way back up, relishing the salty tang on his tongue, the unique taste of you and him. His right hand trails your body from your breasts to your folds, and when his fingers part you gently, he finds you soaking wet.

With anyone else, you would be mortified to be this exposed in your need, but not with Frankie. Frankie makes you feel safe, safe and wanted, like it’s ok to be you, more than ok, like he's chosen you for you. And you can’t find it in you to care that your feelings are deepening far too quickly. It’s all the better if he knows. Let your body tell him. You want to make him feel that way, too. Because, beyond the way he makes you feel, you've chosen him, too.

Again, you feel his plush lips spread into a wide grin against you, a barely there stubble scraping your neck, and that’s when he says it. His voice a whisper laced with want.

“Oh baby.”

A sudden, sharp inhale quakes tour chest, almost a dry and repressed sob. You thought you heard him say it last night, but did you really, you were drowning in ecstasy, in fear, in him, but this one is real. It's undeniable. Your heart rabbiting along your veins, you close your eyes and hold on to him. You might just drown again. Frankie’s “baby” is all you ever want to be.

You jolt when he slides a finger inside your warmth, and his left arm holds you down on it as he begins thrusting in and out, his strokes shallow at first, deepening until he plunges into you to his knuckle. When he adds a second finger, you start rocking into it, and with his mouth still suckling and nipping at your throat, you’re trickling down his hand.

You whimper feebly at the loss when he withdraws the digits, bringing them to rest on your lips and with a light pressure, silently prompts you to open up for him. Diligent, eager, docile for the first time ever, you lick your own taste, and he purrs in your ear, “easy, baby.”

Oh, he registered, you can hear the smug smirk in his voice, and you give the pulp of his fingers a playful bite. The teasing is gone from his husky tone when he adds, “I want some.”

The sounds he produces are explicit, obscene, wet noises and rumbling groans vibrating against your skin, as he sucks his fingers clean of your slick and your spit. You wish you could see his pretty face, choosing to close your eyes instead, smiling to yourself.

His left arm draped around your waist, he slides you closer, angling the curve of your ass higher up on his hips. The back of his hand grazes the cleft of your cheeks when he slides his length between your thighs, parting the lips of your cunt, the movement excruciatingly slow, the fat tip catching at your entrance.

“Baby, you’re so fucking tight, I can't even get in” he pushes farther past your entrance, skating through your folds, the tip of his length coming to kiss your bundle of nerves. You squeeze him between your thighs and he responds with a hissed curse in your ear that fills up your brain with static white noise. Reaching down again, he presses the heel of his hand to your clit, grinding against your ass, fucking whatever you’ll give him, you nearly dissolve at the thought, all the things I wanna do to you, your face turned into the pillow that swallows your breathless whine of “oh god.”

It’s soft, sweet and delicious, and for a while he just he rocks against you, at a slow, steady pace, the increasing pressure of his forehead to the back of your head the only sign of his impossible restraint. You cover his hand with yours, and you press harder, until he lets go to grasp your hip again, an imperceptible increase in the pressure, pinning you down as his cock rears back and this time, he slips inside you. Gradually, carefully, inch by inch, until the darker curls at his base scrape your cheeks.

It’s a stretch, a delightfully painful one that has you pushing down on his ass with your hand to urge him deeper, your breath coming in short pants, but Frankie remains in control, once more setting the pace.

He doesn’t move, giving you time to adjust, and when he starts nibbling your earlobe, your cunt floods and clenches around him tighter than a fist, you think you could come right then.

“You’re so tight,” he repeats, sweat pearling on his brow, and your skin quivers under his warm breath, but really what he means is you feel so good, the sensation of your silken walls fluttering along his cock is inebriating and his grip around your body tightens, your flesh gushing through his splayed fingers, his mind a swirl of you feel too fucking good you’re too fucking sweet, he wants to stay like this forever; but he starts moving, long lazy strokes, it is the best you’ve ever felt, even better than before, and you almost forget yourself before you realise what’s different, your head jerking forward with a strained “fuuuck.”

He pauses, hiding his face into your hair, his eyes clenched shut and his jaw flexing in frustration. “I know,” he breathes, husky voice heavy with regret, “wait,” and when the heat of his body leaves yours, you moan at the loss.

You don’t move, his left arm is still loosely around your waist. You just lie there. You want it just like that and so does he, so you don’t bat an eyelash as you listen to the nightstand drawer creaking open and the plastic fold reaping, you picture him deftly sliding on the condom with one hand, this man has such competent hands, aroused by the mental image and dripping.

When Frankie turns around, he lowers his gaze to your lying figure and sees his shadow undulating on your back. It’s a minute before he can draw himself from the vision, transfixed by the golden light reflected on your skin and the juxtaposition of the black cutout of his silhouette.

He pecks a kiss on your shoulder and sits up. His hand, gentle and firm, guides you onto your stomach. You love the way he handles you, like your size is inconsequential to his strength. It contradicts everything you’ve been led to believe about yourself. Between his arms, you don’t take up too much space. Under his touch, there’s never enough of you.

Straddling your legs, he traces a path of wet kisses along the back of your thighs, nibbles on the swell of your round bottom. You’re loose and pliant for him, sprawled out on the white sheets, extending your arms and hugging the pillow, your shoulder blades rippling under the gleaming hue of your smooth skin. He watches again, keenly, fascinated, what he does to you, what he can do for you. His cock, wrapped in latex, lies heavy between his legs, but his mind is foggy, he needs a taste before he can do anything.

He gently lifts your hips off the soft bedding, and licks into you, a wide broad strip, from clit to hole. His.

You whimper into the pillow as he closes his eyes. It’s that nasty thought again, skirting the edge of his consciousness, invading his mind.

One day left. How is he supposed to let go of you, tomorrow? What time can it be? He slept too fucking long. Will you even stay the day? You might have things to do, plans with your dark hair friend, what if you want to go home. Home. He grinds his teeth, shakes his head. Your home is Paris. It puts an ocean between you, dark and fathomless.

He kneads the flesh of your ass, the control over his strength brittle, you can leave all the marks, and you writhe under his touch again. What if he bites at your hip? Right above the bone? Traces a deep indentation in your flesh. Will you let him? Will you jerk and scream? I’ll take anything you give me.

Get a fucking grip, Francisco.

His broad frame covers your delicate one and all shadows disappear as he leans down over you, rolling you back with him onto your side. As he lines himself up, he briefly repeats his earlier motion, coating the latex covering his length with your slick, fuck you get so wet for him, he can’t stand that fucking layer between you and him anymore, and it’s a conscious effort to unclench his jaw.

It's a hard drive into you, burying himself to the hilt, filling you up in one hard thrust, a shaky exhale through his nose as you cry out his name, so full you can’t breathe, can’t feel your legs. “Yea,” he groans, strained, crushing you so forcefully against him, you think your bones will shatter in his hands, and it'll still be fine.

One day. Only one day left.

“I’m sorry, baby,” and you hear it in his voice.

“Make me come, Frankie. Make me give you that sound again,” you coo, reaching back and threading your fingers into his hair, the gesture intimate, tender and soothing.

You feel his shoulders slump down in relief against yours. He draws in a steadying breath. He slackens his hold. He starts moving into you. Brought back to now.

His thick cock languidly drags along your walls as he goes all the way out before thrusting back in as deep as your snug cunt will let him. Your body's moulding into his, one arm braced around your torso, the other down your folds, and with the way he’s breathing heavy into the crook of your neck, the way he strokes his fingers in circles around your swollen clit, the way his skin shudders under the scrape of your nails, his silken curls twisted around your fingers, the heat of him flowing into you, beads of sweat at the base of your spine dampening his hair, you’re afraid you won’t last much longer.

It begins with a numb sensation just below your navel, that sharpens like the pull of a string. It radiates from your middle and crackles along your nerves like firework, it reaches up and down your body, to your toes and fingertips and your tits and your neck is on fire, your eyes roll to the back of your skull, you arch up in his arms, trying to hold on to his hair, you’re drowning, you’re floating, your cunt’s an endless flutter, you hear yourself mewling as you try to call out his name just before your mind goes blissfully blank, and it’s your complete abandon that tips him over, he follows you, his hips starting to stutter, the muscles of his belly pulled taut, his body curled up around yours.

****

Taglist (thank you 💕): @elegantduckturtle @mashomasho @lola766 @flowersandpotplantsandsunshine @nicolethered @littleone65 @bands-tv-movies-is-me @the-rambling-nerd @saintbedelia @pedrostories @trickstersp8 @all-the-way-down-here @deadmantis @hbc8

[kethabali]

Hello, I’m Ameera a 23 years old Muslim lesbian who is trying to come out, I’ve been in the closet with my girlfriend for way too long, because of how dangerous and hard it is to come out as a lesbian to a religious Muslim family, but me and my girlfriend have decided to do whatever it takes and risk it all to come out, do you mind supporting and encouraging us?, we have the plan to go away which is why I have my donation campaign pinned on my profile, if I raise at least that goal I can start the process with my savings, I can’t come out until I’d gotten my apartment and I’m away from family, so please support by donating if you can and help reblog though I know we all have what we dealing with, so I’m not imposing we just need all the support and encouragement we can get, check my pinned post for more information on how you can support, if you are a Muslim queer and you are out, please help with tips on how to make it less complicated, any word of advice is also really needed, we really wanna come out but we need y’all 🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️ pride please come through for us, I believe pride is for all

hi,

i wish i had some amazing life changing advice for you but the truth is that it's painful to be outcasted from your family and the trauma that comes with it doesn't leave your body for a long time. once i was safe i started to unpack everything and its a long process but really worth it when u start feeling grounded and less anxious

i'm not muslim but my family is so i was raised with islam and they did a lot of stuff to try to deter me from living my truth including literally kidnapping me while we were in bangladesh right before my flight back. the entire family would talk shit behind my back and only "respect" me to my face to keep up the niceties

it's family and that makes it hard to let go and accept that they may never come around, at least not in this life time but surrounding yourself with friends and support - your chosen family is so important. we have to help each other because who else will yknow

community is so important for queer people so i encourage you to seek out other queer people any way you can in real life and online. i don't know what country you live in but i've found even in the most homophobic conservative countries the queer groups are there even if very underground and disguised as other things. i hope you can get in contact with some queer organizations and hopefully they can help you gather funds and help with your move. also message me privately with ur city and if its my city or one i'm familiar with maybe i can find you some resources

for me queer organizations literally saved my life. when i ran away i stayed in an apartment run by a queer youth shelter and they weren't perfect, they had a lot of faults but it gave me sanctuary away from my abusive parents and a chance to explore myself and be a normal kid for a while (i was 17). queer organizations also helped me get many things; clothes, hygiene products, chest binders, hrt, support applying to aid programs, doctor appointments when my insurance was a mess bc i was a literal child and had no idea how to navigate healthcare. it was just a really good thing for me to have as i transitioned into adulthood on my own.

so i say find all the mutual aid and organizations available in your area connect with at least one queer person in real life and its likely they will know others and slowly you can build your network of resources. take care of yourself best u can, try to eat well and drink enough water, get outside at least once a day, journaling and listening to music helps me a lot with processing emotions, confide in ur girlfriend or friends, do ART i really recommend this one it can be very therapeutic and healing. any type of art- drawing, painting, knitting, photography, dancing, singing etc it's good to express yourself in some way when everything else feels so restricted. try to have something for yourself to keep holding onto hope when things get really bad like maybe a pin, some type of token to remind you of your truth and that things won't be this way forever. remember that the entire queer community would back you up in a heartbeat and so many people will love you that you haven't even met yet!

[uncouth-the-fifth]

imagine damian and the reader at the wayne gala. he gets jealous when he sees her flirting with someone else. he ends up pulling her into a bathroom and fucking her in front of a mirror while saying that other person can’t treat her like he does

and that’s how the reader finds out damian has feelings for her. all this time he acted like he hates her because he’s in denial

Title: More Than They Ever Said

Paring: Robin!Damian (18+) / Canary!Reader

Tags/Warnings: semi-public sex, oral (f receiving), vaginal sex, bathroom sex, slight underage drinking (reader is like 20 lol), mentions of golf.

Word Count: 7150

Notes: sooooo.... this def evolved beyond a drabble lol. the way gala sex kills me every time 😭 I was a little mushy w Dami here bc I miss his sweet side. This also sounded a lot like goldenspecs12's request from Wattpad, so I hope you don't mind that I meshed the two together 😚 I leaned toward Damian liking the reader more than being in denial, but that’s the only thing I sacrificed between the two requests. This one is my fluffiest and most romantic yet 💖

"can I request Damian w a Queen reader, like she's Oliver and Dinah's child? say the reader is a hero but not very active, like she comes in when her parents can't. so when she and Damian meet, they hit it off. The main request is that they sneak away at a gala held by Oliver and the reader and Damian have sex."

Ask to be added to my taglist for future posts!

The party was more fun than you thought it would be.

Benefits were usually chalk-full of old, wealthy people that thought they made good conversationalists. The board members of Queen Industries were tired of Oliver trying to escape their claws, so you’d been recruited in his place. While your dad got to play minigolf in the penthouse’s massive party floor, you were confined to the lounge, playing up what an intelligent, capable business partner you’d be when you were CEO. Fellow businessmen gruffed about their plans with you while their wives cooed and drank, pinching your cheeks.

You thought that you’d hate it, but the attention and the praise was nice. It made you feel like you were helping your dad and your family’s company, which was constantly criticized and judged for it’s choice in CEO. Everyone called your father a lazy silver-spooned idiot, but he was one of the only men in Star City who actually cared. By the time you had Q.I’s biggest donors laughing out of their seats, Dinah’s hands slipped over your shoulders and you were kissed on the side of the face. Thank you, she mouthed, and your position as family support-beam was covered.

Since most of the benefit-goers were at least forty years your senior, you gravitated to your dad. From the penthouse’s upper balcony, you could see his friends circling around the tiny green mats they were using as a makeshift golf course. Usually, Ollie made sure his public persona’s aim was as garbage as his taste in drink was. But tonight, he played as Green Arrow, who never missed. Not once. Especially when it came to Bruce Wayne, who’s golf game was abysmal at best.

But like Oliver, Bruce was a new man tonight. It looked like he was ready to break out the batarangs any minute now. The two men were barely civil about the viciousness of their competition, and if the view of the game from the balcony was interesting, then from below it must’ve been the greatest show of fragile masculinity ever displayed. You had to make fun of them.

The only opening in the circle of men, who all had their hands on their chins as Bruce lined up his next shot, was by the floor-to-ceiling windows to one side of the game. Just one man stood there, hands in his pockets. You slid next to him, unbothered, and squinted at the game.

Everyone in the crowd was dead silent. Bruce was lining up his golf ball so it would roll into a mug a couple of feet away, so you helpfully provided, “A little to the left, Mr. Wayne.”

Your words overlapped with someone else’s. Where you had said Mr. Wayne, they had said Father. Then the man next to you was his son, but...

You would have never guessed it would be him.

Reasonably, you knew that Robin was Damian Wayne. Oliver could be a little loose-lipped at times, and by his judgment you’d been a teenager just a year ago - what could a twenty year old do to Batman’s secret identity? Not much.

Until you saw Robin without his mask.

Damian was achingly beautiful. He was your age, but he stood and talked like he was much older. There was an angle to his shoulder that made him seem astute and sexy. His eyes fixed on you when you spoke at the same time, and they were a surprising mossy color that jumped out against his tan skin, like plants flourishing out of rich soil. There was just enough blue in them to make him seem haunting. Any moment, you felt like he was going to corner you and whisper your future throatily in your ear.

Looking into them, those piercing eyes, for longer than a second made you want to blurt, “You’re much prettier without your mask.”

But that would expose his secret to every golf-loving idiot in earshot, so Oliver had been wrong. A twenty-year-old like you could do fatal damage to Batman’s secret identity, but for Damian, the short-tempered, snappish leader of the Teen Titans, you would risk anything.

Damian stared, and you stared. He squinted, wet his lips, then turned back to the game. This was your only acknowledgment that he recognised you. His voice was deeper, smoother, than you remember it. “Queen.”

You shifted in your shoes, almost laughing in shock. “...Wayne.”

The game grew boring and Damian didn’t say anything else, so you said nothing too, sneaking glances at him. The last time you’d spoken to Robin had been in costume, when he’d thanked you for assisting with a mission. He’d really been thanking you for standing up for him. You didn’t team up often with the Titans, but when you did, you found that they were unusually snappy and mean with their leader. Not necessary on purpose, but you could tell that Damian couldn’t take as many bites as he pretended to. Standing up for him had been a simple thing. The good thing to do. Now, with that look in his eyes, it almost felt like he still thought about it.

He must have, because the kiss you shared at the end of that mission had glowed with heat. To be fair, you both may have believed you were going to die (before the team pulled through and saved you), so it could’ve been a heat-of-the-moment thing. But this was Robin - if he didn't want to kiss you, he wouldn't. And yet he did.

You’d kissed. And the energy of that kiss lingered between you now, drawing you closer together, putting tiny smiles on your faces. He was cute. Cuter without that mask on.

You stood in the stupid golf silence, feeling foolish. Flirting with boys was much easier in fishnets. It didn’t help how fine Damian’s profile was. He had soft, feathery lashes that occasionally touched down on beauty marked cheeks. His lips were even fuller from the side, forever drawn in a curious line. And those eyes, when they caught yours and danced away again, were much too nice to hide behind a mask. You couldn’t get that thought out of your mind.

When Bruce finally made his move, you leaned in to whisper something to each other at the same time, accidentally knocking shoulders.

“I - apologies,” Damian flushed.

“Oh, um, my bad,” you rubbed awkwardly at the spot where you’d collided. “...You were going to say something?”

Damian’s eyes flicked to your fathers, then to you, unimpressed. He lowered his voice so only you could hear. “They’re awfully hypocritical, don’t you think? Father snaps at me everytime I use my skills in public, and yet he’s putting with perfect aim like it’s not the very same.”

Chuckling, you rolled your eyes and scooted closer, ducking your voice into the bubble between your bodies. “My dad’s the same way. Don’t aim in the house, he says, unless it’s him trying to beat Bruce Wayne.”

Your company’s shoulders turned sideways, leaning into you. His breath ghosted the hair on your neck, standing it on end, and again that silky voice sent tingles down your spine. Damian must change his voice as Robin, because he never spoke like this then. So huskily, so low.

He shook his head. “Unbelievable.”

You watched him. He watched you. You ran your tongue over your teeth, and Damian subtly adjusted his slacks from his pockets.

At the same time, you asked each other, “Would you like to get a drink?”

_

Your hiding place was a loveseat in the lounge, between more businessmen and their ditzy heirs. The bartender was your family’s, so he smiled and turned down your request for a drink, courtesy of your dad’s strictness. Luckily, he didn’t recognise Damian. You watched him order it at the bar, his rings catching the light, the muscle in his arms peeking out from under his blazer.

“I think he suspected I wasn’t of age, so he only gave me one.” He took the place next to you, propping his ankle on one knee and lounging out like a panther. Damian offered the cocktail to you, once he’d decided the coast was clear. It was a cute gesture. “Is that acceptable?”

You fished a five dollar bill out of your purse. “Only if you take this for paying. Don’t think I didn’t see you try and sneakily get that past me.”

Damian scrutinized the bill, then you, somehow managing to be a smartass without opening his mouth. Instead of thinking about how nice it would feel to kiss the slight crease between his brows, you traded hands with him so the bill was in his and the drink was in yours. The gentle brush of you palm to his knuckles put way too many butterflies in your belly.

You talked about everything and anything. About home, family life, your cities. The best of it was when Damian dipped his head so only you could hear him, keeping your secrets close and your bodies closer. This was the only way he talked about Robin, so you circled back to any vigilante subject you could think of just so Damian would keep purring into your ear like that. Better yet, he was smart. Talking to him was engaging, and within minutes he'd entranced you, so you sat there talking for more than an hour. Around you, the party rotated and went on.

At one point, you took a drink of the cocktail and passed it to him to share. Damian placed his lips right where yours had been, licking up the cocktail salt and gulping it down slow, adam’s apple bobbing, like it wasn’t the taste of the vodka he was savoring.

Eventually, your bliss was broken. Damian was called over to his father, again, to discuss business, and he left you with your remaining cocktail and the memory of that mission. You couldn’t find a reason to move from your seat. When you’d realized that you and Robin had been led into a trap on that mission, it’d been too late, and your efforts to escape became more and more futile. All you could do was pray the Titans got to you on time. Robin had offered you his glove as the walls closed in, and you’d watched up-close as he assumed you were both about to die. The fear in his eyes was strange - like it was familiar to him. At the same time, you cupped his neck and he held your upper back, and you’d kissed fervently, sweetly.

Damian had put his forehead to yours, and promised even as the trap shrunk around you, “You were excellent. More excellent than they ever said.”

In the big picture, it was a strange last remark to make, and afterwards you’d been too happy about surviving to think about it. But in the moment, you understood. You were understood. Somehow, Damian had reached into your soul and gouged out the words you’d been dying to hear, from your parents, from anyone, and uttered them to you with burning conviction. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or maybe he meant it. Damian found you excellent. Someone, somewhere, didn’t think you were a failure.

Odd, how you’d never seen the face of the man you thought you’d die with (until now), and yet he saw you so easily. You watched him follow his father into the party crowd now, wondering. The Titans had saved you before you could ask what he’d meant. More importantly, before you could tell him the same. He was excellent.

_

Once you’d finished off your drink, you left it at the bar and grinned evilly at your family bartender. He rolled his eyes and slyly delivered you another, which, on your superhero schedule, would not have you drunk yet. Another heir to some big company was seated at your right, ignored by his father enough to look for some small talk with you.

He was one of the cute, nerdy types that were usually in awe of you. Girls, available girls, were typically rare at these kinds of parties, so he took you not having a boyfriend as permission to flirt with you. Unfortunately for him, your seat gave a perfect angle on Damian across the party floor. He was impressing the wives of Wayne business partners, who flocked around him like they’d flocked around you, pinching his cheeks. You could almost read their lips enough to guess what they were saying. What a handsome young man you are! Oh, Bruce must be so proud.

“...and then my father flipped over his kayak! Would you believe it? Two thousand dollars, thrown right in our family’s lake.” Your company snickered, howling at his own story.

You circled the rim of your glass, watching how Damian tried to teach some of the women phrases in Arabic. Unknown to them, they were some pretty funny swear words. It threw you into a bout of giggles, and the man next to you kept talking, spurred on by the noise.

The flock of hens around Damian receded, and his shoulders slouched in relief. That was cute, too. It wasn’t often that people understood how draining these parties were, but for people like you and Damian, it was a racetrack of endless, boring circles. Everything was a formality. Few things were genuine. Damian turned, and you caught his eye to let him know you were going to meet him. He nodded toward a side hall, his mouth a curious line again. If you looked at it long enough, it felt like a smile when he mouthed, escape?

Your company was still talking. He stopped when you grabbed his tie and planted a pity-kiss on his cheek, waving to him as you bounced away. “Sorry, kid. Not my type.”

_

You planned to bring Damian to the secluded balcony on the second floor to unwind, but instead, you were taken by the wrist and maneuvered into an empty powder room. It was colder than the steaming party air and smelled like champagne, with couches to sit on and mirrors to powder at. For a bathroom, the lights were warm and low. The noise of the party went quiet the instant the door was shut, like you and Damian had entered your own little world. No more circles. No more back and forth.

“Here,” Damian said, noting the mirrors. He tilted his head as he asked, like he was nervous, “Is this acceptable?”

“It is the ladies powder room, but I’ll give you a pass, since you’re cute.” You joked. Damian didn’t make a move to relax on one of the couches yet, hanging in front of you like there was more he wanted to say. There was more you wanted to say, too, but no good words came to mind.

But the silence wasn’t awkward. Again, Damian stared, and you stared. The glass he brought with him was set down. He put one fist on the counter beside the door, and like honey had been poured on your nerves, you realized how easy it would be for him to push you up against it. Kiss you senseless. Heat drooled off of him this close, and you wondered if he’d still lean in to whisper to you even if you were alone.

The lack of words drew to a point where something had to be said, anything, but his eyes felt so good on your skin and it was interesting to see him nervous. Something strange told you that Damian liked the silence, too.

You wet your lips with your tongue. Damian cleared his throat, and took a sip from his glass. “Was I interrupting something?”

“Between me and that guy?” You smiled gently, like you were reassuring him, and laughed to yourself. “Oh, man, you should’ve seen it, Damian. Poor kid really thought I was flirting with him. He’d totally convinced himself, it was hilarious.”

His profile was tense in the mirror, which you stole glances at to watch how the amber light played on his handsome skin. When Damian swallowed his drink, his throat rolled in the sexiest way, and immediately your mind fed you with visions of suckling, kissing, tonguing his neck.

“Why’d you ask?” Your eyes sparkled. Damian drew a step closer, and you used the opportunity to swipe a drop of alcohol from the corner of his lip with your thumb. “You jealous?”

It was the touch or the suggestion that made Damian pause. He didn’t stutter, but lagged over what to say, eyes vast and wanting as they raked over your face. “I don’t get jealous,” he clarified, “but… I do intend to be the only man to kiss you tonight.”

Damian’s hand took your chin. Your belly exploded with instant arousal, hitting you like a bullet of liquid lust. “You’re the only man who’s kissed me like that,” you whispered, taking his tie in hand. “I hope that’s always true.”

His voice had gone throaty. “May I kiss you again?”

Again, he reminded you.The two of you had kissed before, and it had been spectacular, terrifying, and excellent.

“Please,” you said, and Damian rushed to your aid.

Not a moment more was wasted. Curling his tie into your fist, you drew him in, slow and deep and wonderfully. Damian’s cologne hit you before his lips did, and both made your core throb for friction. Two broad hands slammed your hips into the door. His fingertips smoothed up the fabric of your dress, pressing you back and squeezing you in until you could feel his belt buckle against your belly. Damian was a sweet, magnetic kisser, chasing your lips like he was on a crusade to save them. Each time they met, he swam deeper. The point of his nose bumped against your cheek. You hummed your laugh against his lips, and Damian groaned as he pulled away, readjusting, twisting, testing the limits of the kiss. And you followed him at every step or more, revelling in his taste.

You didn’t want him to think you wanted the kiss to end, so you drew the hands braced under his blazer around his neck. Soon, that didn’t feel close enough, so you cupped each side of his face and pecked Damian until you were breathless. He brought you in until your arms were flat to his chest, the kiss almost vertical in its intensity.

He groaned when you parted, gasping and blinking just inches from your face. Your mouths were still connected by a thick string of drool, which hung until it split and clung to Damian’s chin and fell, marking a wet strip down into his collar. You panted, watching it go.

Damian left your waist to hold your wrists, keeping your hands around his face. He settled warmly into your touch, basking in it, and the pure enjoyment on his face made you smile. You wondered if anyone else had cared for him like this. If Damian had ever felt someone hold his face and treasure it. The thought gave you a strange urge, so you followed it.

You brought Damian’s brow level with your mouth and sweetly kissed his forehead. Then his nose bridge, then his temples. His face was so quickly warm that you giggled. In the most unsubtle way possible, Damian drew back his hips so you couldn’t feel the heat there, and closed his eyes, begging you to continue.

“I want you,” you whispered against his jaw.

Damian shivered. “You have me.”

You shifted one hand to his shoulder, giving yourself more room to nuzzle and kiss his neck. The line of drool was still there, so you cupped his skin and tilted his jaw up, and in one stroke, licked all the way to his earlobe. Damian’s moan poured from his mouth like a growing flood. You even felt his thighs press together between you, and pleasure tingled in your throat when he choked at the glide of your tongue.

He released your wrists, reached beside you, and locked the door with an audible click.

Then, Damian devoured you. Both hands hooked around your back, arching your chest into his, and finally, bringing his bulge between your hips. You clung to him for dear life, helpless as his teeth pressed into your neck like a vampire. Damian fed like one, too, suckling the skin there like he was starved. Your panties were so wet that you were desperate to get out of them, grinding your core against his.

Damian retreated, gasping. He licked the spit off of his lips and glared into your eyes. Bluntly, he said, “I want to eat you out.”

Once more, you kissed him, delirious with excitement. Your lungs burned for air, but your core burned harder for him. “Take off that suit and you can do whatever you want to me.”

His eyes gleamed. “I plan to.”

Quickly, you shoved your hands into his sleeves and pushed them off his shoulders, giving you a crisp glimpse at his carved shoulders. Damian's fingers blurred from button to button, but he saved the last for you on purpose. You worked in tandem and with little thought. If he could, Damian would steal a kiss, and you would bite his lip and chase him into more. When that last button was popped, his white button-down parted for a gorgeous plane of hard-earned muscle. His abs, ribs and pecs were pockmarked with scars, shrapnel marks and in some places, bullet holes. You stopped.

At your staring, Damian pressed his lips together.

“It's.. not appealing, I know,” he monotoned.

“No,” you disagreed, palming his stomach, “it’s impressive. All these do is show how strong you are, how long you've survived. You're so… built...” you didn't hide your thorough examination of him, “...I mean, we have to be to do what we do, but still… It suits you. It's sexy.”

You worried you'd ruined the moment with your babbling, but he glimmered under your praise. Damian brightened in the way only Damian could, smirking devilishly and towering over you like a supervillain.

“Sexy?” He pressed his naked chest into yours, whispering hotly in your ear. You could feel his silk tie pinned between you. “Does that mean I'm your type?”

You rolled your eyes. “Eavesdropper.”

“Temptress,” Damian replied, just as easily.

To claim your title, you found Damian's belt and pulled on it until the clasp gave. It made a satisfying whipping noise as you ripped it off of him, shouldered into his space to grab his waist in one hand, and cupped his throbbing boxers in the other. Damian's sigh came hoarsely and wanton from his mouth.

“Fuck me,” you demanded, grinning with delight.

Instead of wasting time on a response, Damian fell to his knees, a faithful worshipper. He did the gentlemanly thing and helped you kick off your heels. The tile was icy on your bare feet, but it only mattered until Damian ran his hands up your thighs. Sliding his fingers underneath the fabric, he bunched it up your middle, peering up at you smugly through his lashes. You could feel the debauchery of it - Damian, on his knees, tie hanging still from his neck, pinning you to the door. You, your legs spread and wanting.

Damian sucked in a breath. Your panties had an obvious wet patch, put there by him. He thumbed it carefully, watching your brows tense and your eyes close, basking in your initial whine. All of it enchanted him. You were soaking because of him, trembling because of him, marked because of him. There was not one place he would rather be than here.

Damian collected your sweetness and sampled the taste on his thumb, trapping it behind his smug smile. He ran his tongue over his teeth, spreading the flavor around his mouth, savoring it. As Damian rolled your underwear down your legs, his cock twitched in his open fly. You were beautiful. Oh, he was going to enjoy this.

“Put your leg over my shoulder,” Damian ordered, smirking, “I want to taste you.”

Warmth exploded in your cheeks. “G-go ahead.”

Gradually, you situated your leg across his back, pussy tensing at the touch of the cooler air. This didn't matter for long. Damian's warm lips nuzzled and kissed the thigh closest to him, painting messy reflective circles on your skin with his kiss. Even that made your legs tense wildly, so Damian shoving his wet, blazing tongue into the folds of you cunt pumped moan after moan from your mouth.

“Damian!” You yelped.

Oh, he definitely liked that. Damian pinched your ass and used his mouth so passionately that his head shook back and forth. He darted right for your clit, sucking it until his cheeks were hollow and humming smugly between your legs with every squeal. Parting your folds with one hand, Damian kissed your core just as dirtily as he'd kissed you. The dangerous glint in his eye never faded. He plunges his tongue inside you in earnest, slurping obscenely, purposefully. There's no need for Damian to shoot you cute looks or put on a show - his skill was the performance, because that skill was unbeatable. Your pussy was already tender, fucked nerveless by Damian's filthy mouth. He vibrated your cunt with a deep groan before he drew away, face dripping with slick like a pornstar’s.

“You're suitably wet,” he said, matter-of-factly, “would you like me to use my fingers?”

All the strength you had went into a weak, pleading nod.

Damian was polite enough to grant you your bearings first, letting you grip his hair and squeeze the counter before he resumes. You give him the sweetest, most precious whine when Damian licks you open again. He wisely starts with one finger and builds from there, earning you with pumps and curls of his digits. Damian's talents quickly become a currency, one that you exchange with mewls and pants of praise.

“So good,” you whine, “oh, fuck - fuck, just like that…”

Damian smirks between your legs, jamming his fingers faster into your sore pussy. Lust sizzles low in your gut, ramped up again and again by his thrusting. It’s so powerful that you roll and buck off the door, your hips in his face. You want him - want him more than you want anything.

“You're ravaging,” Damian hums between licks. His eyes are closed, but that only gives the way he touches you more meaning.

It’s so surprising from his mouth that your hold on his hair slips, setting Damian free. He pants, catching his breath, and it’s easily the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen in your life. The effort has slouched him from his knees to his calves, further spreading his legs and opening up the fly of his pants. A solid bulge has formed and spilled out there, straining to escape his briefs like an arm in a sling that’s too small, way too small, for someone of his size. Three of Damian’s fingers are still twisting inside of you.

Slowly, Damian tipped back his head and hung down, arranging himself beneath your cunt. “So beautiful.” His free hand splayed where your leg met your hip. “May I touch you?”

“I-I get it’s the gentleman thing to do, to - to keep asking, but fuck, Damian,” you cursed, “you can do whatever you want to me.”

Damian’s intense jade eyes were so dilated that you could barely make out the color. He dragged his cheek against your thigh, fingers still circling inside you, and grinned like a shark. It was probably a bad idea to give the heir to the Demon’s Head that much power over you.

His other hand squeezed your skin, slow to passionate, from your belly to your breasts beneath your dress. It’s clear by the way Damian looks at you that he loves what he sees. The texture of his veiny, calloused hands feels good on your waist and ass, dragging you closer to him. He chuckles when your back arches, when your nails press into his hands, his back muscles, throwing himself into his task. Damian’s nose prods your folds as he licks you clean, tongue dipping and sliding against your sore clit. It’s like he’s done this for you before, in this exact way. Though he utilizes his tongue the most, his lips too are brutal, matched perfectly to fit your pussy lips.

But that tongue - how Damian’s jaw isn’t tired, you don’t know. He parts your folds and latches onto your clit, flicking his tongue at superspeed until drool and cum bubbles from your sensitive core. Your back winds tighter at every vibrating lick, paralyzing the muscles in your legs with glorious pleasure. It’s so exquisite you start to melt to the floor like warm clay, only to be bolstered back up by Damian, both hands viciously squeezing your ass. He keeps going not for you, but himself, sucking down every last drop of your juices.

Shattered, you twist hopelessly into his mouth, chasing the strained feeling like it’s the last you’ll ever glimpse. “Fuck, fuck - D-Damian, ah…”

“Did it feel good when I made you cum?” He teases, “It certainly tastes good. All those filthy little noises you make for me…” Damian shakes his head at himself, like it’s too fantastic to indulge again. He leaves your clit with a satisfied kiss. “Beautiful.”

Once more, the words are surprising to hear from him. You always considered Damian the prude type, but here he is, on his knees for you, mouth and chin glittering with your juices while he teases you in low, sexy tones. At your surprised look, Damian has the gall to blush.

With his ring finger in his mouth, he ponders, “If a man has never said that to you before...” pop, “consider me surprised.”

“Never while finger-fucking me, at least,” you admited, legs still trembelling. “It was sweet. You… you meant that?”

It was hard to imagine Damian Wayne finding anything beautiful. Even you, who was pretty enamored with him, figured he would judge by quality or skill, not beauty. The words tasted new on his tongue.

Slowly, Damian stood and stretched, his shoulders tight after staying in the strange position for so long. Lifting his arms coincidentally let his waistband sit lower on his hips, flashing his green boxers your way while showing off the huge, carved muscles of his arms. Truly, Damian’s subtlety was unmatched. You didn’t mind his miniature bragging fest - not when he had so much to brag about. Eating you out had put an excited shimmer in his skin, so the gold-toned lights of the room reflected sexily off his sweat, already accenting his kissable tan.

“I did,” he told you, moving on to his sucking middle finger. His other hand played on your thigh, stroking it. “I’ve always been… drawn to you. Every mission we’ve had together. I have a profound feeling that we are very similar.”

You laughed. Not at what he said, but the timing of it. “Would you believe me if I said I felt the same way?”

Damian made a face like his heart was doing jumping jacks. “A few hours ago? No. But now…” he barricaded you against the door, first with his hands and then his hips, closed in so tightly that you had to look past your nose to meet his eyes. “Your crush is adorably obvious. I’m annoyed that I didn’t see it before.”

Your rounded your hands against Damian’s shoulders, then his tie. It twisted nicely around your fingers, silky and cold in comparison to your flushed skin. You were tempted to fix your dress, but nothing, not even the world ending, could make you leave this room.

“My crush is obvious? Damian, all you’ve done for the last two hours is sneak me drinks and imply how much easier it is to be around me.” You grinned, “What’d you say earlier? There you are, Queen. Finally, someone intelligent enough to speak to me.”

Damian shrugged. “It’s true. Your knowledge of bioluminescent ocean life is fascinating.”

“I can’t believe you said that after giving me head for ten minutes.”

“It’s actually been closer to twelve,” Damian smirked.

Playfully, you pinched Damian’s cheek, then pulled him by the tie into a starved, energetic kiss. He must’ve been praying for your permission to continue, because the plan he’d been forming is quickly put into action. You’re hugged, arms scooped under your back as you kiss him. Damian surrenders his mouth to a bit of revenge tonguing while undoing your dress. No amount of kissing will pull him from his task, but your hand is a special case - it smooths down the front of his boxers and Damian melts.

“Y/N,” he groans.

Damian petulantly resists the temptation to close his eyes, but your touch is soft and sweet, demanding him to yield. Your lips suckle on his neck and Damian’s knees buckle. If getting his mouth between your legs didn’t turn him on, then this will finish him for sure.

“I missed you. Kissing you.” You purr into his throat. “One could never be enough for me.”

Is this what it’s like to be wanted? Damian asked himself. The only possible answer thrilled him, and he found himself pouring even more passion into the kiss, into you, wanting to share that rush of affection. You respond to his every touch with vigor. Damian’s heart stalls each time your thumb strokes his face, each time the other strokes him through his slacks.

“Me either,” he rasped, and helped you out of your dress. His tone was shy, but his words held too much depth to be meaningless. I want a wealth of them. I always want to kiss you, was what he wanted to say, but Damian was too embarrassed to raise the words. This moment was too special to ruin with his hopeless romanticism. He kissed you again and again, and to his amazement, you kissed him right back.

“Fuck me,” you begged him between breaths. “Right here. I don’t care if we’re caught.”

I don’t care if we’re seen together. I want to be seen with you, I’m not ashamed of you.

Damian cupped your face and almost knocked you both over with the strength of his kiss. Nose-to-nose, eyes closed, he commanded, “Bend over the fucking counter.”

In a blink, Damian turned and there you were, open and waiting for him. The sink was hip-level, so the bend was nothing but perfect - Damian could fuck you from behind and watch your lust-blown reflection without issue. Your perfect pussy drooled leftover cum down your legs, making your sex shine in the light.

In the mirror, you watched Damian’s eyes darken in delight. His pupils followed the line of your ass to your back, appreciating it like an artist would, like he intended to paint you later and needed to memorize the greatest shapes of your figure. The marble was icy against your hard nipples, which Damian had exposed when he’d impatiently shoved down your bra. Now, he cupped one of your breasts as he bent over you, kissing and suckling his way down your back.

“Perfect,” Damian hissed.

Shyly pressing your butt back against him, you buried your face in your arms and bit your lip, waiting for him to open you up. Damian’s shadow came to hover over you, and in the mirror his eyes were vicious, pools of circling sharks. “Are you ready?”

“Mhm,” you nodded. “Take your time.”

Though you weren’t being sarcastic, Damian took it that way and pinched one cheek of your ass. “With you? I will.” Then, with the same smoothness, Damian asked, “Condom?”

“Pill,” you replied, and Damian nodded his approval.

His pants rustled as they fell down his legs. Where you couldn’t see, Damian committed the sight to memory - his cock in hand, your pussy spread open, all for him. You squeaked when his hot tip touched your cooling clit, and squeaked again when it glided down your pussy and tested your opening. He knew he’d found the way when you winced.

In an unsurprising moment of compassion (for those who truly knew him), Damian kissed the top of your head and offered you his hand. “Would you like to hold it while I…?”

You took his hand and squeezed it to your chest, squeezing him closer in the process, too. “Thank you. Go slow, for this part…”

Damian complied. His sweat-sticky chest hovered warmly over your back. Even if Damian was big, you were wetter than you’d ever been in your entire life - any pain would quickly slide into pleasure. He braced himself with a deep inhale, and a hot, sharp sensation told you that he’d entered you. Where you choked in a needy gasp, Damian poured out his version of a whimper. You both held it. Then, breath by breath, you were struck with the realization that you’d been dying to feel this for weeks, for months, and only now was that heat being satisfied. Damian’s tongue and fingers had come close, but this is what would cure that aching emptiness - his big, girthy cock.

The deathgrip you had on Damian’s hand loosened. “You look perfect,” he murmured into your hair, instantly making your core flutter. “Oh,” he chuckled filthily, “you like that? Funny, how badly that idiot at the bar wanted to be in my place right now…but it’s me who gets to pound into—”

“Damian,” you warned.

He smiled smugly against your neck. “Nothing.”

Dutifully, Damian withdrew his hips, taking all of the heat with him. When he rolled back in, a hot, tingling sensation roared over all of your senses, and you let the moan at the top of that tsunami loose. It was clear that he couldn’t fuck you like he wanted to with one hand fished down at your side, so he glued both to the base of your back and started to thrust in earnest.

“So full...” You mewled, and Damian became a human pile-driver.

Your head seemed to roll off your shoulders with every crazed, rhythmic slam, so you grabbed the faucet and held on for dear life. Every slap was so loud, so powerful, that you prayed this one random bathroom in the penthouse was soundproofed. Anyone walking past would know you were getting railed out of your mind. You tried to compensate by moaning and squeaking quietly, but with force came volume. It didn’t matter how silent you were, Damian’s hips, your ass, the squelch of him inside you - each noise filled the bathroom, echoing off the tile.

The only way you could think to describe him was filling. First, there was the hot, cinching tension of his hands fused to your waist. Then there was his cock, which begged to be squeezed more and more with every pass. You responded to each throb with a mighty clench, which bent Damian over you like an animal, gasping for breath. His balls were painted with your slick. The closer you came to orgasm together, the closer Damian came to you. His hands migrated to higher on your sides, then up by your shoulders, then around you, where Damian kissed your back and rubbed your belly while he made love to you. He talked more than he moaned. Your ear was filled with sweet nothings, with vicious promises of what he would do with a whole night alone with you.

Damian’s reflection was wild with lust. He met your eyes as he fucked you, whispering how beautiful you are, how good you take his dick. His deep green eyes were so dark you couldn’t make out the brown in them anymore. The long muscles on his arms drew taut with each thrust, making his biceps bulge and pin your hips to the sink. Soon enough, a bruise would form from the pressure. One of many treasures from tonight - you would be thinking about Damian in his crisp suit for months to come, and the mess he’d become with you now even longer. Your pleasure built and built and built, like a nail struck further into the ground with a hammer. A very, very big hammer.

“M’ cumming,” Damian husked, slowing his plowing to a sloppy glide. Even his endurance was spent, and you were glad he’d spent it all on you. “Where d’ you…?”

You braced your hands on the counter, then on one of Damian’s. Together, you smoothed his digits down your stomach and between your soft, abused folds. “Inside me, please, please please—” you begged him, “fuck, a-as deep as you can go.”

As a test of your flexibility, Damian turned in and kissed you. Just as he parted your lips with his tongue, he parted your folds with his fingertips, overriding your clit as his cock throbbed inside you to the hilt. He took the invitation as a command. Damian pressed in until you could feel his abs mold to your ass, then stuttered his hips in quick, agonized dips to get himself there. With his fingers and his cock putting stars in your eyes, you finished first.

The white marble counter fizzed in your vision, until all you could see was that powerful, endless white, humming in your mind’s eye. Still, Damian wasn’t finished yet. You bumped your temple against his chin and hummed, “Cum for me, baby… fuck, a-ah!”

Your pussy’s throb raced and raced until it spilled over, pulling Damian right under the current. One clench and he was done for, so the velvety, periodic squeeze of your cunt emptied his store. You hung there, spasming in unison, until that overwhelming heat spurted in a ring around Damian’s cock and flooded out of you. Only then did his fingers stop on your clit, and you settled warmly in each other's arms and tried to remember your names and who you were.

Damian pulled out, then snuggled back in. He would’ve been nervous any other time, but he’d just put his dick inside you, so a little instinctive cuddling could be forgiven. On shaky legs, you turned around and sunk into him. You could tell by how he was eyeing the sink that he was desperate to get clean again, so with one kiss (on the cheek), you set Damian loose.

In companionable silence, Damian cleaned up and you collected the clothes abandoned on the floor. Staring at the corner where you’d just had the best sex of your life put an embarassingly pleasant warmth in your chest. Interesting, how one terrifying moment could become something as special as this. Fascinating, how you’d felt like you’d known him all your life.

“You know… I think you’re excellent, too.” You told him, finishing off the knot for his tie.

Damian dipped his head to hide his smile, but something so bright was impossible to hide.

[sukunasbabymama]

Portrait.

⌗ Summary: when they bring their s/o to a meeting but the reader gets bored easily and starts sketching them in a notebook.

⌗ Pairing: Sanzu Haruchiyo, Kakucho Hitto, Ran Haitani.

⌗ Warnings: None, i guess.

⌗ A/N: I can’t draw to save my life so… yeah.

Request.

Sanzu Haruchiyo.

It was a late meeting and you were partying with him, so obviously he just threw you in the back of his car to accompany him to the meeting. Sadly, as soon as his boss starts talking about numbers and shipments you get bored so silently you take the notebook in your boyfriend’s hand and start sketching him, not wanting to disturb them.

As usual, he’s giving his undivided attention to his boss. He slides one hand over your thigh, kneading it softly, when you put your hand on top of his to caress it he looks at you and gasps softly.

“Who’s that?” He softly whispers.

“Haru.” You whisper back.

“He’s hot.” He says and you roll your eyes. “Just like you ba—,”

“Sanzu.” Mikey says in a cold tone, and Sanzu smiles unapologetically.

“Sorry boss, but the sketch is good.” Mikey frowns and walks to you, getting behind your chair and leaning a little to see, he raises his eyebrows with surprise.

You are gripping your man’s hand, nervous of the sudden attention.

“That’s good, mind to make another one of us? The meeting hasn’t finished.” The leader says, patting your head softly, you nod with a smile.

“Yes boss!”

“Call me Manjiro.” He smiles.

“UH? AND I CAN’T?” Sanzu’s loud ass says, you just laugh.

Kakucho Hitto.

It was uncommon for him to even have you in the same room with his members, but sadly Sanzu called him just when he was taking you to buy your art supplies so naturally you ended up on his seat. Since your boyfriend is the third in command, his boss is in the middle of you and Sanzu, you on the left and the other on his right. Not wanting to make Kakucho more stressed than what he already is by having you hear a lot of violent stuff, you take one of your notebooks and start sketching him, who was on the other side of the table explaining stuff that you don’t want to understand.

“Ohhh, that’s pretty.” Mikey says and you smile softly, embarrassed that the most powerful person in the scene is watching you drooling over your man.

“Thank you.”

“Can you draw the gang’s logo here?” Mikey asks, pointing at your notebook.

“Oi! Stop distracting him, babe!” Kakucho says, walking to you.

“Wha— I didn’t!” You say, frowning.

When he gets closer enough to see what got his boss distracted he smiles, leaning down to kiss your cheek.

“You made me a lot shorter now, love.” You nod, forgetting about everybody in the room.

“Last night I made you so tall that I wanted to see how this would come out.” You smile sweetly at him and he nods.

“Perfect, like always.” You look down, trying to surpass a giggle from coming out of your mouth.

“Please let the lovebirds go to their house. I can’t stand this.” Kokonoi groans.

“I do.” Mikey says, chewing on his Dorayaki, he looks at you and gives you a close-eyes smile. “Keep going with your love scene.”

“Boss!!”

Ran Haitani.

Today you surprised him by coming to his office to have lunch with him but found him already running to a meeting. Ran, being chaotic as ever, just dragged you with him, saying that y’all would have that lunch together yes or yes.

That’s why now you’re sitting in the middle of him and his brother, all sleepy from the constant numbers that Kokonoi is exposing at the moment. Naturally, you start drawing your man’s side profile on Rindou’s notebook, while playing with Ran’s fingers with your free hand.

After a while, he looks over at you since you haven’t talked not once, and gasps.

“My, my, that’s amazing love,” He murmurs, bumping his elbow to your side softly. You smile.

“Thank you.”

“Oh, so, can you make me with more mu—,”

“Bye.”

“I love you~”

“I don’t.”

Rindou just laughs at y’all shenanigans.

🔖: @saturnmitsuya @milliumizoomi @dai-tsukki-desu @haitanigigi @yunho-leeknow @melaninnntae @keimisan @welkinmoongrab @plutosexc @ccxiia @manjiroarchiviste @aasouthteranoswife @wockeshaa

[deancasbigbang]

Title: Salt & Secrets

Author: abi cosmos

Artist: lotrspnfangirl

Rating: Explicit

Pairings: Castiel/Dean Winchester

Length: 35000

Warnings: Alcohol use. Depression.

Tags: Two person love triangle. Mutual pining. Online relationship. Human!Castiel. Canon divergent. Sub/dom undertones. Dean Winchester wears panties. Angst with a happy ending. Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester. Hurt/Comfort.

Posting Date: October 5, 2022

Summary: Dean is lonely since Castiel became human. It’s been six months of throwing himself into cases, pining around the bunker, and radio silence between them. Charlie takes matters into her own hands, signing him up for a hunter’s networking website where he meets new hunter Steven. They hit it off, Dean enjoys helping him find his feet, and Steven seems to understand what Dean needs without ever having met him. It doesn’t take much to heat things up, but a new case brings Castiel back into his life, and Dean soons finds himself face-to-face with a little sin and one huge secret.

Excerpt: Charlie’s next mission is to get egg rolls and pizza, but when Dean gets to his feet, she presses a finger into his chest and pushes him back into his chair. "Not you. You fill out your profile so people don’t think you’re a bot, I’ll be back." "A bot?" Dean asks. "A robot." Charlie calls out, disappearing out of the kitchen with her car keys in hand and a swing in her step. She’s pleased with herself for this one.  Dean does what he’s told with a serious case of, What the hell am I doing? He ain’t putting his real name, but Charlie said that’s fine, instead he just fills out some generic info. He’s a dude. 30-39. Long time hunter. There’s an option to upload a photo. Dean scoffs; hell no. Finally, he checks his username: Scooby\D. Charlie had veto-ed his Impala suggestions for being too douchebag-dating app. He clicks save and is taken into a message board. Looking it over, he shakes his head with a huff.  Help with Latin translation! Ethics of killing the children of monsters Ammo for sale. Is my boyfriend really the king of the aliens? Best sharpening tools for axes Ghostfacers, are they in love? This was a mistake, he doesn’t need this. What’s he gonna find here? Nothing. He’s about to close the lid and grab a beer when he notices another question towards the bottom. The user is called Steven09, his ask is from two weeks ago and has zero replies. His account has no picture next to it, just a drawing of a salt shaker that matches Dean’s, the default icon, clearly. According to the little blurb below his name, he’s a guy, no age selected, but he’s a new hunter. Dean opens up the post. Does anyone know about cars?  Steven09, 16:23:  I need a vehicle, but unfortunately I have very limited knowledge. I would prefer it to be economically friendly and easy to park.  “Easy to park?” Dean mumbles to himself. “Buddy, if you can’t park then you can’t park.” He finds the reply button and a blank box below the original message opens out, encouraging him to use fonts and italics. Dean slowly types. Scooby\D, 15:57: I know something. You ever had a car before?  He reads it over, is he seriously gonna do this? Talk to some guy online about cars? On a freakin’ website for lonely hunters? "This is your fault, Charlie," he mumbles, pressing the button to post the reply and hurriedly shutting the lid. 

DCBB 2022 Posting Schedule

[scuttling]

Lean on Me

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairings: Aaron Hotchner/Gender Neutral Reader Word Count: 4,717 Tags: SFW, Fluff, 5+1 Trope, Obliviousness, Mutual pining, Aaron Hotchner deserves good things, Canon typical injury Summary: Five times you want to kiss the frown off of your boss's face, and one time you actually do it. *Requested by Anon. Link to AO3 or read below! “It doesn’t make sense.”

You stick a tack in a photo of a murdered woman—unfortunately one of many you’ve stuck to this board—and turn to face Hotch, who is looking over your handiwork with a quizzical expression.

“What doesn’t?” He takes a few steps closer, crosses his arms in front of him.

“Why would the unsub leave his comfort zone? The first six abductions occurred within five miles of the college, so why did the seventh and eighth happen almost twelve miles away?” He reaches for the board, traces his finger along the circle Reid had colored in on the map. “We profiled that he’s disorganized and far from confident, so why would he do that?”

He looks over at you, frowns, and not for the first time your gaze is drawn to the little crease between his eyebrows that always forms when he is puzzled, worried, confused, stressed, or otherwise unhappy. In short, it’s there kind of all of the time.

For the first time, though, you think of how easy it would be to lean over, press your lips there, smooth it out, and maybe even get him to smile for a change. He has a great smile, when he lets people see it.

You shake the daydream, rewind back to the question he asked, and wrinkle your nose in thought.

“Maybe his circumstances changed? It's summer now, and there are still classes, but students aren’t living in the dorms. Maybe he moved back home or got an apartment off campus that’s within that area—or a job.” He sighs, runs a hand over the back of his head, nods.

“I don’t know why I didn’t think of that. That’s good. I’ll mention it to the others.” He pulls out his phone, and you grab another photo, another thumbtack, but something stops you and you lay a gentle hand on his arm.

“You don’t have to think of everything, you know. That’s why you have us.” He exhales, his shoulders losing a little of their tension, and that forehead wrinkle gets a little less deep.

“Sometimes I forget that not everything needs to be done the hard way. Or by me.”

“What? You, Aaron Hotchner, doing things the hard way?” you tease, and you are gifted a glimpse of his rare, unfiltered smile.

“Okay, enough pointing out my flaws,” he says with a raised eyebrow, though he’s still smiling, and as he looks down to type out a text, you remember to pull back your hand.

“I would never.” He looks up from his phone at that—maybe at the conviction in your voice, which you hadn’t exactly intended—and his expression softens further.

“I know you wouldn’t.” You hold eye contact for a moment, and then turn to finish preparing the board, pinning up another photo of another woman and reminding yourself that they need you to focus on the task at hand. Two weeks later, you knock on Hotch’s office door, a stack of completed consults in your hand. He looks up, that familiar notch in between his brows, a scowl on his face; when he sees that it’s you, he tones it down a little.

“Draw the short straw?” he asks, and you figure that’s because everyone knows he is in a bad mood and they’ve been avoiding this office all day. You shrug.

“It was rock, paper, scissors, but yes.” He huffs a short laugh, and you smile, step toward his desk. “Anything I can do to lighten the load?”

“Technically you’re adding to it,” he says with a glance at the files in your hand, and you set them on one of the chairs with a purposefully loud thump and then take the other seat.

“Technically. But technically, you only need to review my consults; I can review theirs. Right?” He mulls it over a moment, like the thought never crossed his mind—of course Aaron I have to do everything myself Hotchner would never suggest such a thing, even as the team sits in the bullpen with nothing to do, seeing who can throw M&Ms into Spencer’s mouth from the furthest distance.

“Technically,” he agrees, and you pluck a pen out of his pen cup and take the first file off the pile, open it in front of yourself, careful not to cut into the workspace he’s occupying. You both smile softly down at your work, and you actively do not think about that wrinkle between his eyebrows.

About an hour later, he reaches for his mug out of habit but finds it empty; you stand, take it in your hand, and he makes a noise of protest.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” you say, and you walk toward the door. “I need some too. I’ll be right back.”

You pass through the bullpen—apparently the M&M contest led to a sugar crash, because Spencer is laying with his head on his desk—and grab your cup off your desk, take both to the break room to fill them.

Derek appears next to you as you’re stirring your sugar in.

“Coffee date with the boss?” he asks with a curious expression, and you shake your head.

“Of course not. I’m helping him with the overwhelming amount of paperwork on his desk so his mood improves, instead of just ignoring him.” You raise an eyebrow in challenge, and Derek scratches the back of his head.

“Never thought of that,” he admits, and you pat him on the arm and take your coffees back upstairs.

Hotch looks up at you as you set his mug down, says a soft thank you, and you grab the pile of files you brought up, separate them, and head back downstairs.

“You review mine,” you say to Derek, handing him a stack, “Emily take Spencer’s, Spencer take Derek’s, I’ll take Emily’s.” They look at you like they have no idea what to say, and you just smile, tap the top of Spencer’s head with a folder. “I’ll come back down and grab them in a little bit.”

“Yes, boss,” Emily says, and you grin on your way back upstairs. Hotch is standing when you arrive this time, looking out the window over the bullpen.

“What did you do?” he asks, turning to you, frowning again. You’re so close that kissing that wrinkle would be effortless. All you’d have to do is lean in.

You smile.

“I delegated, Hotch. You should try it some time.” You put your hands on his arms and guide him back to his desk. “Now what can I help you with?”

By the end of the day, his desk is clean and his bad mood is long gone. He closes the last of his files, sighs deeply, covers your hand with one of his, and says thank you.

The next morning when you come in, there is a steaming latte and a cookie on your desk, and you can’t stop smiling the rest of the day. Your next case is draining, children abducted and left for dead, and everyone is on edge, but no one more than Hotch. You’re fairly certain his face hasn’t relaxed since the initial briefing, and he’d be a prime candidate for the old ‘your face will get stuck like that’ joke, if anyone was up to joking.

The team catches the unsub, saves one child, but not until after three are dead; you take a late flight home because no one wants to stay another night in a town it feels like you’ve failed, and everyone curls up to get some rest except you and Hotch.

You try to read the book you brought along—a science fiction dystopian novel, something to get you out of your head and away from real life problems—but you’re a little distracted by Hotch’s sighing. It’s become an every-five-minutes thing, and while you’re definitely on board with sighing as a way to decompress, he’s not decompressing. He looks like he’s in pain mentally, exhausted physically; you’re not sure how everyone else was able to ignore it and go to sleep, but then you figure everyone else may not be as in tune with him as you are. As observant.

As in love.

Not that that matters: you know your issues, and some of his issues, and there’s the whole superior/subordinate thing which doesn’t really do anything for you except give you a stomach ache. It would never work out, even if he somehow, miraculously, were to love you back—and that’s a pretty big if in and of itself.

But still, you notice him, can’t help it, and the sighing is getting to be a little much. You sigh yourself, put your finger in between the pages of your book, and walk over to take the seat next to him; he looks over at you, frowning just like always, and you carefully close his file and set it aside.

Neither of you say anything to the other, just look each other over for a moment, and then you lean lightly against his shoulder and flip back to the beginning of your book.

“I still dream of the island. I sometimes approach it across water, but more often through air, like a bird, with a great wind under my wings. The shores rise rain-coloured on the horizon of sleep, and in their quiet circle the buildings: the houses grown along the canals, the workshops of inkmasters, the low-ceilinged taverns.”

You keep your voice low and soothing, and you are just turning to page fifteen when you feel the weight of his head drop onto your shoulder.

The crease between his eyes melts away in sleep.

You read until you make it home, and you wake him up with a gentle nudge before the rest of the team drifts back to consciousness. He looks at you, blinks slowly like he’s trying to remember where he is, and then gets a little sheepish when he puts two and two together, realizes he fell asleep on your shoulder.

You just shake your head, give his arm a squeeze, and head back to your seat to gather your things. You, Hotch, and Emily are catching the elevator to the parking garage—after staying two hours later to work on some rush consults straight from Strauss—when he looks at something on his phone that makes him groan aloud. You and Emily share a look, and you ask what’s wrong.

“I just remembered I’m supposed to have a treat for Jack to take to school tomorrow and it’s, what, seven thirty?”

“So just stop at the supermarket on your way home; no one can tell the difference anyway,” Emily says, but you and Hotch both shoot her a skeptical glance.

“It’s all about the treats at a school like Jack’s,” you supply, and Hotch looks over at you like he’s surprised by your comment. “If they’re not homemade, the parents talk. Plus there’s probably an allergen list a mile long: no nuts, no eggs, no soy, no dairy. You have to pick him up from Haley’s tonight, right?” You’re pretty sure, but when he nods he confirms it. “So pick him up, go home and get some dinner, put him to bed, and I’ll text you when I’m on my way over with the goods. I have a great recipe for vegan apple cinnamon muffins that will go over really well.”

“You really don’t have to do that; I’ll figure something out,” he says, but you just shake your head and pull up the recipe on your phone.

“Forget it, it’s already done. I have everything I need at home already; let me help,” you murmur softly, and when he looks at you with the furrowed brow that comes with accepting kindness from someone else, you almost forget it’s not just the two of you in the elevator. It’s only when Emily clears her throat that the eye contact breaks. He nods.

“Okay. Thank you; I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything.” The elevator dings and it stops at the parking garage; the three of you get off and head in separate directions for your cars. “I’ll text you.”

“Goodnight,” Emily says with a grin, and you wave at her, hop into your car, and head for home.

About two hours later, you show up at Hotch’s door with two dozen apple cinnamon muffins, and unbleached, whole wheat flour in your hair, and he has coffee brewing, a smile on his face.

“You don’t know how grateful I am,” he says as he ushers you into the kitchen, takes the boxes of muffins from your hands, and pours you a cup of dark, delicious coffee. You sip it slowly, savoring the taste—you should have known he’d have incredible coffee—even though it’s far too late for you to be indulging. Unless you’re working a case, you usually switch to decaf by three.

“I know you are. I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t think you’d appreciate the gesture.” You lean forward, open a box, and pull out two muffins, handing one to him. “I made a couple extra so we could taste test; if I accidentally put salt in instead of sugar, you’re on your own,” you joke, and you wait for him to taste it before taking your own bite.

“That’s delicious. There’s really nothing unapproved in here?” he asks, and you shake your head.

“Nope, it’s all healthy and allergen free, except for the flour, but that wasn’t on the list you sent.” He reaches a hand toward you, and you don’t realize, at first, that he’s brushing the flour out of your hair.

“Messy baker,” he teases, and your heart feels really full, being in his kitchen like this, warm muffins and fresh coffee, even if your hair is a mess. You smile, and he smiles back before dropping into that serious expression, eyebrow wrinkle and all. You think about brushing your lips there tonight, but this feels like two steps forward, and you don’t want to risk taking that step back. “Next time I’ll help you.”

“Oh, next time? You plan on needing my baking expertise again? Fair warning, this is the only recipe I know, so I hope you like apple cinnamon muffins.” You take a sip of your coffee, look up at him, and he takes another bite, nods his head.

“I do. Especially these.”

In a perfect world, what comes next would be a cinnamony, coffee flavored kiss, but the world’s not perfect, and you yawn instead. You look down at your mug like it’s betrayed you, and Hotch chuckles low.

“It’s decaf. I know you usually stop in the afternoon; I wouldn’t forgive myself if you were up all night because of me.” You have always been a person who falls in love with all the little details about someone, so the fact that he’s noticed this, remembers this, makes your heart beat a little faster. “I should let you go. You’ve done so much today, between staying late and baking for Jack—for me. You need to get some sleep.”

He’s right, it’s nearly ten, and you should be getting back home, but this is a moment you never want to end.

You just nod, though, and he reaches out to brush his hand over your back when he walks you to the door.

“Thank you again. I really appreciate that you did this for me,” he says, soft, like he still can’t imagine you would.

“You’re welcome, Hotch. Any time, really; I’m happy to help.”

You get home, clean your kitchen, and have a very late dinner, and the smell of good coffee and apples and cinnamon is still in your nose when you drift to sleep. “You didn’t hear what he said,” Hotch snaps almost a month later, with one hand splayed on his hip and the other on the table in front of him. The moment you saw him engaged in an argument with a member of the Sheriff’s department, fire in his eyes, you’d grabbed him by the arm and dragged him into a small conference room, shutting the door behind you. It took almost three minutes of staring at each other for him to say something instead of just glaring at you for interrupting the pissing contest.

“I don’t need to know what he said. I know you, and I know you handle people like that with a quick, sharp remark and then you wash your hands of it. You don’t argue back and forth, you don’t draw it out. You would have regretted it if you did that today, so I stopped you.”

“You think you know me so well, do you?” he asks in an unkind tone of voice you can’t identify, haven’t heard from him before; the expression on his face is familiar, though, a scowl that only puts emphasis on his handsome features—it’s unfair, really.

You exhale, cross your arms.

“Yes, and I know you well enough to know you’re irritated with him, not me, so cut the shit.”

It’s the first time you’ve ever been quite that direct with him, and certainly the first time you’ve ever sworn at him; your immediate instinct is to apologize, but he surprises you by huffing a laugh. The angry lines of his face smooth into something softer.

“You’re right, I’m sorry. He just—I can’t stand people like that.” He scrubs a hand through his hair in irritation. “We’re here to work—to do a job they couldn’t finish on their own. Not to be… objectified.” He mutters the last word, so low you almost don’t hear it, and then there’s a knock at the door. Derek enters.

“Sheriff wants a word, Hotch; do you have a sec?” With one last look at you, he nods, brushes past him to leave the room. Derek gives you the barest hint of a smile. “He was defending your honor, you know.”

You frown. You didn’t know.

“That jerk was talking about me?” you ask, clarifying, and he nods.

“Something about assuming you’re an athlete because he likes your ass. Set the boss man off.” You walk over to him and leave the room together, heading back to your workspace.

“Well Hotch is right, we’re here to work, not to be objectified. I can see how he would get angry.” Derek shoots you a flat, questioning glance.

“You think he’d be getting that worked up if it was my ass that guy was talking about? Or Emily’s?” The two of you stop outside the conference room, and you cross your arms, lean against the doorframe, frown.

“So what are you trying to say? That he sees me as being weak, thinks he needs to defend me? I'm as capable as either of you.” That may not be strictly true, because you’re a little more brains than brawn, like Spencer in that way, but you can hold your own and you thought Hotch knew that.

Derek just laughs, shakes his head, and ducks into the room. You follow, so confused.

“I thought you were just playing it close to the vest, but you’re oblivious, aren’t you?”

“Oblivious about what?” Emily asks, pen between her teeth, feet kicked up onto a chair, and you shrug.

“I’m still not sure. Hotch got into an argument with a deputy about me, and I asked Derek if Hotch thinks I’m weak and that’s why he felt like he had to defend me.” She smiles broadly around the pen, pulls it out of her mouth with a grin.

“Oh, honey. That’s not it. You know that’s not it, right?”

“I clearly don’t know what’s going on at all, so no, if you’d care to enlighten me,” you say, sinking into an empty chair. “I hate it when you guys are cryptic.” You love your team, but they have a habit of doing this all the time, saying things to each other with their eyes, or just a few words that don’t have any sensible meaning that you know of. It’s like they live to talk over your head, to say things without actually saying them.

“Okay. Hotch has a thing for you,” Emily says simply, and you blink.

Well that’s the very last thing you’d expected to hear.

“He absolutely does not.” You look at Derek, who’s making a face like you’re the one being crazy; you laugh out loud, can’t help it. “He does not. I’m pretty sure Hotch doesn’t have things, and if he did, he wouldn’t have a thing for me.”

“Why not? Because that would be too convenient, since you have a thing for him too?” Derek asks, taking the seat across from you, and you grab the nearest case file, flip it open and focus your attention on it.

“I care about him, the same way I care about all of you, and he maybe needs a little more care—but you guys are reading into things.”

Thankfully, you don’t have to say anything more, because Hotch, JJ, and Spencer return, and you all have a lead to work.

You can’t help but wonder if you’re being obvious about your feelings, though, especially later, when you get back to the hotel and the group decides to have a drink at the bar.

JJ and Emily hit the pool table while Derek and Spencer head up for drinks, and you are left sitting with Hotch at the table, pressed together in the inside corner of a booth.

“Tired?” you ask him, because he does look worn out, his tie a bit loose, his eyes a little red. You know he doesn’t get much sleep when you travel, and you can’t imagine he’ll go to bed even when this little detour is over.

“Always,” he sighs, but when he looks over at you, he smiles, just a little. “Just can’t wait to get out of this town.”

“Yeah, it gives Southern hospitality a whole new meaning, doesn’t it?” The people you’ve interviewed today are, on paper, quite respectable, but there’s a Desperate Housewives, ‘everyone is sleeping with someone else's spouse’ kind of thing going on, and it’s honestly exhausting. To your surprise, Hotch laughs.

“It really does. I don’t think I’ve ever missed the quiet solitude of my apartment quite this much.” You lean back against the vinyl of the booth, sigh.

“I miss my apartment, but it’s been too quiet lately. I prefer the sounds of someone else sharing space with me: the coffee maker percolating, the news in the background, the shower running, the sound of flipping the pages of a book or magazine.” You look down at your hands, because you’re getting a little more emotional than you usually let other people see. “Sorry. I’m not typically this open about being…”

You trail off, but Hotch looks over at you, concerned, the wrinkle between his eyebrows even more noticeable when you’re sitting this close. You think, just briefly, of running your thumb over it, but with your luck, Derek or Emily would see, and you’d never live it down.

“Lonely?” he finishes softly, and when you nod your head, he covers your hands with one of his own, bumps his shoulder against yours. “I get lonely too. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” You look up at him, feeling a little vulnerable, and his expression softens. “When we get back, maybe you could come over for dinner some night. Nothing fancy,” he clarifies, and you smile, “just two lonely people being a little less lonely.”

“That would be really nice.” You can see Derek and Spencer approaching out of the corner of your eye, and Hotch must too, because he removes his hand, slips back into the slight, persistent frown you have come to know and love. Derek looks at you, raises an eyebrow, and hands you your beer. You try to tell him to shut up with your face, plan to follow up later to see if that actually worked. “We have an agent down on the second floor,” Spencer says into his comms, and you immediately want to slap him in the back of the head.

“Don’t say agent down, kid; I’m like, slightly wounded at best.” You hold a hand against the stab wound on your side—the unsub honestly just grazed you, and you’d knocked him out with a single punch, which made you feel pretty awesome—and reach out the other so he can help pull you to your feet. Your hand comes up to your own walkie button. “I’m not down, I’m fine—just slightly stabbed,” you add, and Spencer is getting his cuffs on the unsub when Hotch and JJ burst through the doors.

Well, Hotch bursts. JJ follows behind looking strangely winded for one of the most naturally athletic people you know.

“What happened? Are you alright?” he asks, and you lift your shirt to show him the sluggishly bleeding gash.

“I’m fine, see? It’s not even deep. Spencer saw blood and got a little ahead of himself.” You turn to Spencer, who sticks out his tongue, then back to Hotch, who looks haunted and pale, with that goddamn wrinkle between his eyebrows again. He’s bent down, looking over your wound seriously—you’ve had worse, so much worse, that you don’t understand why he’s so worried about it—and then he leans up, presses a hand to your cheek, and pulls you close for a soft, tender kiss.

If this were a movie, right about now a camera would be panning around you in a circle, as you wrap your free hand around his neck, pull him closer, melt against his body like it’s all you’ve been dreaming of for months, and the two of you would break apart smiling, maybe even kiss again.

It’s not a movie, though, so you just bleed out against your hand and freeze, because Hotch is kissing you at a crime scene and you almost got filleted, so you’re not sure if this is a you got hurt, so I’d better kiss you kiss or an I’ve been wanting to kiss you forever, and you got hurt so I have to kiss you kiss.

When he breaks the kiss, you’re both breathing a bit heavily, and you don’t know what to do, so you just lean in and press your lips to that wrinkle between his eyebrows that you’ve been thinking about so frequently since the first time you noticed it. You brush a hand through his hair, and when you pull back, he’s smiling.

“What was that?” He covers your hand on your side with his own and helps get you toward the elevator so you can be patched up by the EMTs; JJ and Spencer are left staring, open-mouthed in your wake, with an unconscious unsub at their feet, but neither of you are concerned about that.

“I’ve been thinking of doing that for months now: to kiss that spot between your eyes so you’ll stop frowning for a change. Since I couldn’t, I decided to find other ways to help you stop frowning so much. It kind of became my life’s mission.” He sighs, puts his arm around you and holds you close while you wait for the elevator to bring you to the ground floor.

“I stop frowning when you’re around because you’re around, not just because of the things you do for me,” he tells you, and he presses his lips to yours for another warm, soft, perfect kiss. “I’ve been thinking of doing that for months now.” You tilt your head, make a sound of contemplation, and he chuckles softly. “What is it?”

“I think those cryptic idiots we work with might be onto something,” you say with a grin, and when the elevator lets you off and Hotch helps you toward the ambulance to be patched up, Derek and Emily are waiting with concerned looks on their faces. They must be pretty confused to see you’re grinning from ear to ear. “Hey, you guys were right; Hotch does have a thing for me!” you call as you walk past them, and when your wound is properly dressed and wrapped, you put your arms around his neck and let him kiss you until the frown and accompanying wrinkle are nothing but distant memories.

*The novel excerpt is from The Weaver by Emmi Itäranta.

Taglist ❤️: @thaddeusly @arsonhotchner @mrsh0tchner @ssahotchie @sleepyreaderreads @mintphoenix @meghannnnnn @disgruntledchowchow @azenpal @g-l-pierce @my-rosegold-soul @ssamorganhotchner @heliotropehotch @angelhotchner @qtip-blog @gspenc @wishuhadstayed

[readerstories]

Magic Fingers - Aaron Hotchner x male!reader

I got so many other ideas for fics with Aaron and male reader, this was just an excuse to write some “shorter” smut while I work on some longer fics. (AO3)

Warnings: smut, clothed sex

Wordcount: 2978

Summary: Working hard on a case you offer to give Hotch a massage, because the man is as stiff and tense as a block of wood. (And maybe you want to get your hands on him, but that’s neither here nor there).

The case had been hard, challenging, brutal, and difficult, which had caused the whole team to work on overdrive for the last few days with very little sleep. Which was why Hotch had ordered everyone back to the hotel to get some sleep, as none of you were going to get anywhere being as sleep deprived as you were.

He had tried to stay behind himself, but you had more or less dragged him back to a car while reminding him that even he was human and needed rest. Back at the hotel, in your shared room (because of course with your luck there wasn’t any single rooms left in the hotel for anyone in the team), you stretch before sitting down on your own bed, Hotch walking over to his.

You could see how tense he was, how much he needed to relax. Which was easier said then done when Hotch took as much responsibility as he did, always making sure everything possible was done to catch the unsub and save anyone who might get in harms way. Which was an admirable trait of his, but you could tell by his posture how stiff he had gotten over the last few days. The way he held himself spoke volumes to you, even though you knew he tried to shield it from the world and keep it to himself.

“Hotch?” He looks away from his jacket, the only item of his suit he has manged to force himself out of so far, while your jacket, shoes, and tie was long gone. You pat the edge of the bed next to where you are sitting, Hotch looks skeptical.

“Come on, you need to relax.”

“What does me sitting next to you have anything to do with that?”

“Let me give you a massage.” He raises a brow and you sigh, shifting so you’re kneeling on the bed instead.

“You’ve seen my resume, you know you I thought about going into massage therapy at one point.” Still, Hotch doesn’t move, so you know you have to do more to convince him.

“Remember when Reid had slept on his neck all wrong that one time after staying up way too late and I helped? Or when Morgan messed up his shoulder when going after an unsub and couldn’t sleep for days, and after a massage he finally could? It was the closest I’ve ever seen the man to weeping. Or when JJ was pregnant and hurting, but after letting me give her a massage she joked that if she didn’t love Will, and I wasn’t gay, she would have married me? Hotch, at this point I’ve given a massage to everyone on the team but you, so, get.”

You make a grabby motion with your hands. Hotch sigh, seeming to finally get how serious and stubborn you were being in that moment. He takes off his tie and shoes on the way over to the bed, but doesn’t do anything else, which makes everything a bit harder, but hey, you’ll take anything you’ll get. As Hotch sits down you’re greeted by the lovely opportunity to stare at his back without him noticing or caring too much, which would have been great, if you couldn’t tell how tense he was without even needing a single touch.

When you touch his shoulders he almost jumps, but he forces himself to calm down. Which doesn’t do much, because the instant your hands are on him you can tell it’s going to take a while and some effort to get him relax.

You slowly, ever so slowly start to move you hand, starting out gently at first to get a feeling for him. And ho boy, those are some serious knots if you’ve ever felt some. Your thumb barely brushes over one with some pressure and Hotch winces. You take a breath in trough your teeth, Hotch truly can’t be feeling any sort of pleasant right now, or really, ever you suppose.

“Hotch, if I really didn’t know any better, I would say your shoulders are made of wood with how stiff they are and how many knots I can feel.” Hotch grunts and starts to move like he’s about to stand up, but you drag him back down so he’s fully sitting again with your hands on his shoulders.

“Oh no, none of that, you’re not moving off this bed until all of them are gone and you can you know, actually be a little relaxed for once in your adult life.” Hotch scoffs, but doesn’t try to move again, which you count as a victory.

For the next, you don’t even know how long, your hands wander, squeeze, and press all over Hotch’s shoulders, loosing muscles and knots as good as you can while kneeling behind Hotch. Hotch is mostly quiet, only letting out sighs and the occasional grunt when an especially hard spot is made pliant.

When you’ve done as much as you can in this position you withdraw your hands, noting how Hotch is slumping slightly more forward now than he was when you started.

“Up the bed please, I can’t reach more like this.” Hotch turns so he can look at you over his shoulder.

“You’ve massaged my shoulders, what mor-”

“If your shoulders are any indication, you need a full body massage, so up on the bed please, front down.” You stare down Hotch, not breaking eye contact for one second. You’ve decided that he needs that massage, even if you have to tackle him to the bed to give it to him. He seems to have sensed this as he sighs, and above all miracles, does as you asked of him. He’s on his front, arms tucked under his head to use as a pillow, you now kneeling next to one hip.

Pleased with yourself, you get to work. You start where you left off from before, somewhere in the middle of his back. The knots there aren’t as bad as his shoulders, you suppose Hotch takes ‘bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders’ literally sometimes, but still you do your best to let your hands work over them until they are smoothed out and the muscles beneath your palms relax.

Over time your hands move downwards, and at some point right above the waist of his pants and his belt, your hands on either hip, they brush a particular point or points which make Hotch draw in a breath. Your hands pause before you speak.

“Sorry, you ticklish there?”

“A little.” Hotch reluctantly admits, mostly speaking at the wall he has been staring at for the last few minutes.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” You say as you file that little nugget of info away in a part of your brain you’ve dedicated to Hotch. You make sure to avoid that spot when your hands starts up again, instead moving to his lower back. There you find a knot truly worth your skilled hands, taking several minutes before you can move your hands from that spot. You realize you’ve accomplished your goal there when Hotch lets out a loud groan as you fell his muscles loosen beneath your hands, which you gather was an involuntary sound by the slight redness on his cheeks.

“See, I told you I was good.” Hotch doesn’t responds verbally, but nods, eyes closed now. You don’t say anything else, instead moving to his legs. You start at one ankle, slowly, slowly moving your way upwards, careful not to go to high for both of your comfort. You can tell when that is by a small twitch on Hotch’s leg, just above where you can feel the start of his boxers through his pants, and then you move down. You do however at on point press on a muscle on the backside of his knee that causes the leg to move on its own, which causes you both to laugh.

When both legs are done, you take your hands off Hotch and lean back, noting how his eyes are closed, almost like he’s sleeping.

“Turn around.” This causes Hotch to abruptly open his eyes and look at you for the first time since he laid down.

“What?”

“I haven’t done your front yet, and I’m not about to let you go with a half finished massage.”

“I-I’d rather not.” Looking over Hotch you quickly realize, with your profiling work and previous experience, why he’s not moving yet.

“If it’s an erection that’s nothing new.”

“Wha-”

“Your body is just reacting to stimuli, happens a lot with men, nothing I haven’t seen before. But if you really want to stop, we can of course do that.” You can see Hotch’s mind at war with himself. You say nothing, pretending that there’s a very interesting spot on the wall above the headboard.

It’s the movement of the mattress that alerts you to the fact that Hotch is moving, as the man himself says nothing. When you look at him, he has his arms over his face, jaw and mouth barely visible. What is very visible, is the erction pushing against the front of his pants, and though you would have liked to look, you only give it a glance. Hotch jumps when you touch his ankle again, but you don’t start just yet.

“Relax, like I said, nothing I haven’t seen before. Happens a lot actually, my hands are just that good you know, like a god or something.” Hotch huffs out a laugh, a smile briefly on his lips. You smile back at him even though he can’t see you, and then concentrate back on the task at hand.

Like before, you start at his ankles, working your way up. Hotch gets less tense almost by the second, breathing deepening as your hands work their magic once more. You don’t go very high on his thighs, actually now you’re lower than before, not wanting to make Hotch uncomfortable in any way.

Next is his hips, you start at the one closest to you and work your way up towards his shoulder instead of across his stomach. He still has his arms over his face, so you poke him in the bicep to get his attention.

“Arm please.” Hotch’s sigh is deep, but he moves his arm so you can take it. You’re gentle, well, as gentle as you can be while kneading out knots from tired muscles. His bicep is firm under your fingers, needing a lot less attention than his shoulders luckily.

When you’re done with that arm, you let it go, tapping on his other so he can move that of his face and switch it for the one you finished with. The angle of it is a bit awkward, and you probably should move for easier access, but honestly you can’t be bothered as you’re very close to being finished. However, your knee protests, telling your body that hey, moving is good as not to let limbs fall asleep.

But instead of doing the logical and probably better thing of getting of the bed and walking around, your tired brain decides to just move one leg over Hotch waist, intending to just move the other one over and after. Hotch draws in a slight breath at the motion and then something in your leg fails you, causing you to drop down on Hotch, putting most of your weight on top of Hotch’s crotch. Hotch moans out loud as his hands flies to your lower thighs and you go stock still.

“Fuck shit, sorry Hotch-”

“It’s fine, it’s fine, it-” Hotch draws in a deep breath and licks his lips as you worriedly watch his face. You’re mortified, you just dropped yourself on Hotch’s erection, holy fuck, shit.

It takes a few seconds to realize that you’re not trying to move of Hotch’s lap.

But Hotch isn’t trying to move you off either.

If anything, he’s keeping you there, a deathgrip on your lower thighs.

You take a few terrifying seconds to take stock of the situation before experimentally rolling your hips against Hotch. A flex of his fingers, but he does or says nothing as he stares at the ceiling. You on the other hand, is watching his face for any hint of what he’s thinking.

“If you want me to stop, I’ll stop, and we’ll forget about it ever happening.”

“Ah, um, fuck, shit.”

Silence, one, two, three beats.

“Fuck, move.” You start to get off his, heart already dropping to your guts, but instead Hotch drags you down and rolls his hips against you. This time it’s you who gasps, as your own dick twitches in your pants with the feeling of Hotch grinding against you. Hotch throws his head back, eyes screwed shut.

You’re quick to find your balance and leverage by placing your hands on Hotch’s chest, grinding down, moving as best as you can with Hotch’s own movements. Hotch is letting out a few low moans, which you match with your own as you move and watch the adam’s apple on Hotch’s throat move as he swallows. You want to lean down and kiss his neck, but fuck, you don’t know if you even can kiss him, if he will let you.

Hotch answers that question for you, as just seconds later his eyes open and he moves so he can look at you, catching you staring at him.

“Ah fuck.” Before you can even ask, he’s sitting up. You yelp as the movement causes you to straddle his thighs instead, and then in seconds there’s a hand on the nape of your neck, and even fewer seconds later you’re kissing Hotch.

Fuck.

His lips are firm, but pressing against you with a desperation you’re sure to match. His hands on your hips, holding you hard. Your hands go into his hair, tugging him even closer of that is even possible at this point, which causes him to moan low into your mouth which holy shit, that is, fuck, you can’t even think anymore you think.

The world shifts around you then, and you find yourself on your back, Hotch’s erection pressed against your own. It feels so good, so big and firm, and you want to feel more of him, but you can’t muster the brainpower to do anything about it, so you just tug at his hair and grind against him. Hotch seems of the same mind, as he doesn’t move to do much more either, just moving his hips against yours while kissing you within an inch of your life.

Which should be ridiculous, because you’re both grown men almost fully dressed still, but fuck, that makes it even hotter you think. Or, you try to think, as your mind is mostly chants of ‘more, good, fuck, shit, hot’ over and over again, Hotch’s name thrown in the mix for good measure.

Hotch moves away from your lips, but doesn’t move far, instead peppering kissed down your neck on the little skin he can reach. You moan and gasp, moving one hand from his hair to his back, trying to press him even more against you.

“Fuck, shit, I’m close, so close!” You frantically confess towards the ceiling.

“Me too, me too.” Hotch breathes against your neck, one hand moving so he can unbutton your shirt and get his lips on your collarbone. He starts to suck and bite at a spot there, and that is what does you in. You come just seconds after your shirt is open for him, moaning loudly.

“Fuck!” You hear Hotch mutter against your skin, and then a mutter of your name as he comes, in a low baritone that you think you will remember for the rest of your life.

You lay there panting for several seconds, or perhaps minutes, you’re not sure, just a mess of limbs, most of Hotch’s weight on top of you.

It’s hot, in more ways than one, which is what forces you to push Hotch off you, to get some air. He goes willingly, flopping down on his back next to you on the bed. A few panting breaths before you both turn to look at the other, smiles, then laughter as the situation sinks in. You’re surprisingly the first to gain somewhat of a control over yourself, grinning as you speak.

“We just came in our pants, what are we, teenagers?” Hotch pushes his weight up on his elbows, wincing as apparently something pulls somewhere.

“I don’t know about you, but I certainly don’t feel like one.” Hotch smiles as you, which you return, letting your eyes wander all over him now that you can. His hair is standing in a million different directions, there’s a blush to his cheeks, his clothes are rumpled, a wet spot is forming on the front of his pants, and he looks as fucked and blissed out as you, and most certainly he, feels. You hum, your attention going back to his face.

“We should get cleaned up.” You state, which Hotch nods in response.

“I think you mean you should get us cleaned up. My legs feels like jello right about now.” You raise a brow and he grins.

“I think your massage turned off something in my legs.” You huff, incredulous, but sit up anyway.

“I’m good, but not that good.”

“Well, the sex certainly helped.” You laugh and lean down to give him a kiss, which is mostly smiling lips pressed against each other.

“Flatterer.”

“Hey, what can I say, you got magic fingers.” You smack his chest and laugh as you get up to go the bathroom, your own legs a little shaky, which Hotch doesn’t comment on, but you know he liked by the way he grins at you when you get back to the bed.

[neutinya]

Some relationships are you, a human, with a human partner, and other are you, a human, and your 240cm tall monster bf, but that's okay - !! I included their backstory as well as the setting up of the general context for this AU below the cut so if you’re interested,,, do consider reading it fhdjdj;;; I'm really happy with how this turned out and it's super fun to draw monster tooru and his 4 arms lmao I'm super excited for this AU;;; I really wanna draw more of it dndjjxjd

Iwa is monster-hunter royal blood. However he doesn't want to be heir to the monster hunter shit so he decided to run away the day before his coronation??

As a kid he would play with all the monster animals near the forest which is where he met his lizard familiar and llama ceb. The day he runs away he brings them with him??

The moment he ran away from his kingdom and title as prince he was immediately hunted down by hunters sent by his own family for dishonouring them the Iwaizumi name. Like he's straight up wanted??? ahhh

Somewhere along the way he meets Tooru and they probably wouldn't get along at the start

?? Like they meet at some weird beer house?? And Iwa obviously sticks out because he's human and humans aren't exactly super welcomed because of the history between monsters and humans. Iwa being oblivious to the monster world obviously doesn't realise why this four armed dude won't stop pestering him in spite of his attempts to keep a low profile.

Tooru had approached him because he was sure if he didn't step in, Iwa would have been killed

Iwa was initially extremely resistant to Tooru's "advances" until Tooru whispers into Iwa's ear that "I don't know if you realised but almost every monster in this beer house is staring at you with the intent to kill, so unless you want to leave this place alive, play along and let me get you out of here"

And Iwa just looks around the room and he realises that Tooru was right so he plays along and they try to leave but one of the monsters in the beer house walks up to them and asks Tooru to back off so they could kill Iwa, and Tooru is just like "no can do, he's a friend of mine" and the dude is just like "move." But Tooru is adamant much to the annoyance of the other. A fight kinda breaks out, but much to Iwa's surprise, Tooru managed to take all of them down with ease

As they go aside, Iwa just asks Tooru why doesn't he want to kill him like the rest of the monsters and Tooru is just 🤷🤷🤷🤷🤷 Iwa apologises for causing such a big commotion and getting Tooru involved unnecessarily. Tooru says it's not a problem and Iwa not really having that much money on him, asks if he could return him in some other way? He offers a family heirloom at first but Tooru is just like "Not interested, although how about you let me tag along wherever you're headed?"

Iwa’s response is just "???" Tooru says "look, you aren't getting anywhere in these parts as a human, if I tag along, you won't have to worry too much about being killed and you returned the favour, it's a win win."

So that's how they kinda go off on their journey!!! Iwa actually learns a lot about monsters from Tooru who seemed much more knowledgeable than he looked (no offense to Tooru but that was Hajime’s genuine first impression) There were so many different types of monsters and Iwa was just?? So amazed and almost excited that there were so many things for him to learn and explore??

Like okay they had a bad first impression but he was kinda starting to like Tooru as a companion, listening to way Tooru told all those stories offered him a comfort that he never had back at home

Tooru did most of the talking honestly but Iwa was always intently listening and Tooru could tell he was intrigued and super attentive so he didn’t mind

He did ask Iwa about why he was wandering around in the first place and why the hell was he just traversing across the land with no plan or knowledge of the terrain. Iwa tells Tooru he ran away from his family but neglected to tell Tooru he was of royal monsterhunter blood. Iwa fires back the same question and Tooru responds saying “I get bored of spending all my time in the same old place every day.” neglecting to tell Iwa the fact that he too was of royal blood, the king to one of the many monster kingdoms. (Actually one of the most feared in fact??)

I was thinking the four armed form isn't his real monster form but a less scary version, he's actually a huge fearsome beast but he would walk around in this form to blend with the common folk. This also explains why people don’t recognize him, because if they really knew who he was, they’d be terrified of him.

Tooru is extremely flirty and generally enjoys teasing Hajime. Iwa's lizard does not like Tooru at all. It would be sitting on Iwa's shoulder, breathing small fireballs at Tooru whenever the brunette got too close- For example, when Tooru tries to wrap an arm around Iwa's shoulder or waist, Haji’s lizard would get extremely angry and began attacking him. Tooru is super upset about this tiny little creature preventing him from getting close to his new human companion, but nevertheless, he learns to pick moments where the lizard is asleep to try and engage with Haji

Sidenote, Iwa is a really fucking good archer and good at knives. He may not have had the heart to be a monster hunter, but he definitely had the physical skills to be one if he desired.

Of course there’s a bunch of shenanigans, but honestly speaking there’s also a good amount of sexual tension?? They have a lot of moments where they kinda save each other, whether it be having run ins with unfriendly monsters or humans, to navigating dangerous terrain and making hard decisions;;

They grow to be rather close friends I would dare say;; In fact, for the most part, Tooru would be Iwa's first genuine friend :(( Iwa was never given the luxury of having friends growing up. He spent most of his time training to be a monster hunter or learning about them, which is why he grew super attached to Tooru platonically at first

Once they have a pretty mean run in where Tooru ends up seriously hurt;; Iwa was so scared that he would lose Tooru at that moment;; Tooru fake dies to kinda tease Iwa but he didn't expect Iwa to cry, so as Iwa is there like "don't die on me you idiot-" Tooru "comes back to life" and is all like "awww is Iwa-chan crying because of me?" And Iwa, embarrassed, just punches him in the chest and wipes away his tears like "shut the fuck up asshole"

Tooru is just like "ow- I may not be dead but I'm still kinda hurt you know?" And Iwa feels bad so he just tries to play it off like "that's what you deserve dumbass" before treating Tooru's wounds. They end up spending the night at this cave near a lake where they decided to stay for a few days since Tooru was pretty beat up and the weather was pretty bad

Haji pretty much nursed Tooru back to health, finding berries, herbs and all that during the day in order to make medicine and food

I think at one point Tooru comments "You're really good at this kinda thing huh?" And Iwa is just confused like "good at what?" And Tooru elaborates "taking care of people. Not everyone can make medicine like you do you know?" And Iwa just says it was nothing and he learned most of it from reading when he was a kid

Also like I said the weather was pretty bad so imagine Iwa curling up next to his llama and lizard for warmth. Tooru finds it so fucking adorable??? Clearly the two of them loved Iwa and vice versa, but he couldn't help but feel a little jealous at the sight uxjxhdh

So like one night he just casually says "you guys sure look warm over there" and Iwa just looks at him like 😐

"I gave you my cape you know" and Tooru just "Monsters can't regulate heat like humans do, at least not my species" That was a lie but Iwa didn't know that, so he kinda just looks at Tooru funny before scooting over to Tooru and lying down next to him. His llama and lizard follow, and scoot on Tooru's other side so Tooru is kinda sandwiched in between Haji and the pets. Iwa just mumbles a quiet "now go to sleep dumbass" and Tooru just smiles like a fucking idiot

Iwa quickly dozes off but Tooru not so much, when he was sure Iwa was asleep he gently drapes the cape over Iwa instead before going to bed himself

The next day Iwa is the first to wake up and much to his fucking surprise, he was pretty much incapable of moving because Tooru had somehow wound up hugging him with two of his arms. He was so embarrassed he thought he could die so he could only stay there and not do anything. After while he realises that staying like that could only mean more mental suffering so he slowly tries inching away from Tooru to which he eventually succeeds

He does his morning routine which was to look for berries and herbs because Tooru needed quite a bit of medicine. Tooru was definitely close to being back to his healthy normal self but he still needed to make sure that everything was in check

[oscarseyebrow]

Here’s a prompt for you: 24 “Don’t mind if I do.”

Feel free to ignore this but I’m thinking AU Poe? Maybe something focusing on what his life would be like if he hadn’t joined the Resistanc? Thank you, love you 😘

gif by the wonderful @zoriis 💖

Rating: M Pairing: Poe Dameron x gn!reader Word count: 5k Warnings: Drinking, language, smoking. AN: Song lyrics taken (and changed) from Never Had. Masterlist | Taglist

The cantina is heaving by the time you finally arrive - late, as per usual. It really isn’t your fault. Whatever your friends may say -- if you ever make it to the table -- it’s not your fault. For every task you’d managed to wrap up at work, two more came across the desk for you and Maker, you really need to learn how to say no.

Leaving work late is the domino to topple the rest, which somehow sees you almost an hour late as you turn sideways, trying to squeeze between two groups of people. It’s so fucking busy and you don’t want to be here.

Come for drinks! They had said in the messages being exchanged throughout the day. There’s some live music on tonight. They’d then added. After the week you’ve had, the thought of drinks is a delight -- but not the live music. Not the packed cantina, full to the brim with people. You should have known it would be like this. Yet, here you are.

Everything is so warm and clammy in the dimly lit room; the heat from all the bodies mingling with very little space to dissipate between the walls and the low ceiling. It’s the kind of heat that wets your skin and causes clothes to stick to a thin covering of perspiration. You can already feel it as the smallest beads begin to build on your lower back beneath your layers. And you’re so desperate to reach the booth and relieve yourself of your jacket, but now you’re trapped. The fabric caught between the two bodies you’re attempting to squeeze between.

“Excuse me,” You tug and tug at your jacket, but to no avail. “Hey, can you… Just…” Another tug and you’re free; the abrupt release causing you to stumble backwards and straight into someone else. There’s a sudden yell that’s quickly followed by a wetness filling your boot and your jaw is already clenching as you glance down, seeing the empty glass rolling away and the contents of it now soaking through to your sock. Fucking great. Yes, please, allow this night to become so much worse than you could have ever foreseen.

Really, there are no words. You can’t blame this guy, you were the one to stumble into him and knock his drink out of his hand. But you still feel the unjustified rage bubbling in your stomach while you glare daggers at him. Without saying anything, you fix your jacket from where it has slipped down over your shoulder and then trudge the rest of the way to the booth; the trail of single wet footprints being left in your wake.

“You made it!” Zee, a friend from your previous place of work, is the first to spot you as she gets to her feet to throw her arms around your shoulders for a quick hug. “What took you so long?”

“Work.” You groan and give her one of those exasperated looks before moving to take a seat beside the others, but you’re quickly stopped by the hand of another friend, not allowing you to move any further.

“Last one in buys a round of drinks.” He grins up at you, clearly a few rounds deep already. In an attempt to keep your thoughts to yourself, you press your lips together in a tight line and look between all of the glasses on the table. They’ve barely been touched. “Hey, I don’t make the rules.” He then shrugs and leans back in his seat, looking all too smug with himself. If only he knew the tight thread your patience is hanging from right now, he wouldn’t be sitting there looking so smug. Finally, your eyes sweep back over to Zee and watch as she gives you a small, apologetic shrug.

Right.

With a heavy sigh, you turn on your heel and begin the struggle of pushing your way through to the bar; that unjustified rage bubbling away again with every shoulder and elbow that catches you as you weave between bodies. Finally, the bar is in sight, it’s only a few feet away and that’s when you stumble; hands quickly grasping for anything within reach to steady yourself as you gasp loudly. It’s a stomach turning moment, much like misjudging the last step in the dark. You lose your footing and know the floor is going to be greeting you real soon.

Thankfully, a hand catches hold of your arm to steady you and guide you forwards so that you can brace yourself against the wet bartop. When previously thinking if this night could get any worse, it hadn’t been a challenge to yourself. Yet, somehow, another domino topples over as you straighten up and turn to give your thanks to the stranger who saved you from the embarrassment of falling down. Your mouth opens but your words stall, not quite making it out as you meet the darkest eyes you’ve ever seen.

“I… Uh…” You stutter while drinking in the handsome face that’s still watching you with interest; eyebrows arching towards soft curls that have fallen free across his forehead from where his hair is swept back. Maker, he’s beautiful and all you can do is stare. “I…” You try again, but become very aware of the hand that is still holding your arm to keep you steady. A whole different kind of heat creeps across your skin now, adding to the warmth of the cantina while your eyes lower to the way his dark hair curls beneath his ear.

“Thanks.” You clear your throat, managing to force your unwilling words out. It starts as a hint at the corner of his lips, his mouth twitching ever so slightly while watching you before a smile finally curls over them. It’s a smile to light up a damn room. It’s vibrant and it radiates warmth as you watch the way his eyes crinkle, showing you how genuine this gesture is. Oh, you’re in trouble and your eyes are falling faster than you were only moments before. They come to land on luscious lips and that’s where they linger for maybe a second longer than they should -- they look so soft, so welcoming and they’re parting as he finally speaks.

“You doing okay?” Your saviour leans forwards a little as he asks that, allowing you to hear a voice that you swear drips actual honey. You should be embarrassed. But, you’re not. And for a fleeting moment, you find yourself smiling back at him, allowing him to captivate you and draw you in. It feels like the first genuine smile you’ve given since walking into this place, and you’re throwing it at a stranger you’ve just met.

“No.” You laugh, unable to help yourself. “I’m really not. I’ve been dragged here to see some shitty musician, I have someone’s drink swimming around inside of my boot and I have to buy a round of drinks because I’m late.” The man’s hand finally leaves your arm while he leans against the bar, keeping his body turned to yours now that you have seemingly caught his attention.

“Nice to meet you, Late. I’m Poe.” His hand extends towards you as he introduces himself and it takes you a moment for his awful joke to finally click. Oh. Stars. He’s witty as well as handsome. And as an automatic reaction, your hand reaches to take his, curious to know what his skin feels like as you shake it in greeting. Smooth, yet calloused. His palm holds a softness that his fingertips lack and you can’t help but wonder what his story is.

“That’s not-” You begin, as though considering correcting him and telling him your actual name, but you think better of it and simply shake your head with a small laugh. “You know what? Never mind.” Releasing his hand, you turn your attention to the bar and try to make eye contact with the server to let them know that you’re waiting. It’s so busy. You know this is going to take some time.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Poe doesn’t beat around the bush, does he? He’s straight in there, very forward with his offer while he continues to watch you long after your eyes have left him. But even as you stare at the coloured bottles behind the bar, you can still picture the jaw-line, covered with a few days worth of stubble which gives him a somewhat rugged look that counteracts the smoothness of his voice. And those lips. Full and perfectly even at the top and bottom. Your timing is all wrong as you finally glance back over at him and catch him licking at them after finishing his drink, waiting for your answer before ordering another.

You should go back to the booth. You’re here with friends, to see some live music and hopefully have some fun. But the longer you stand here, the more this offer seems much more appealing. They won’t miss you for one drink, will they? It can be quick. So you finally nod and force your eyes away from those lips, desperately trying to keep your face from showing everything you’re thinking right now.

“You can.” And so it’s decided. Tugging your jacket off, you’re hoping it helps with the heat and the way your hair is already beginning to stick to the nape of your neck, but it really doesn’t. It’s heavy and almost suffocating with all of the bodies packed inside of the cantina, yet, this man feels like a breath of fresh air. An attractive, bright, breath of fresh air and you’re desperate to breathe him in.

Poe makes a small motion with his hand on the bar and one of the servers walks down towards him, greeting him with a smile of familiarity. Interesting. This man appears to be known here, perhaps a regular - in any case, the two men know each other as they interact and Poe orders his drink first before turning to you so that you can do the same.

“Jet juice, please.” Poe watches you for a moment, silently storing that information to mind, or silently judging you from your drink choice, you’re not quite sure. But then his attention is gone and he slips the credits across the bar top to pay for the drinks. Even his profile is striking. You make yourself comfortable on the stool beside him while watching him, completely distracted from the chain of events that had brought you to this moment. It’s as though a domino in the line had fallen out of place, breaking the toppling effect to give you a break and as much as you don’t want to admit it, you find that you’re actually enjoying the evening now.

“So, why are you walking around with a drink in your boot?” Those dark eyes sweep back over to you again while Poe turns his head and after some consideration, his body turns, too. It’s now that you notice his shirt is open a button or two more than you’re expecting, revealing hints of a toned chest that’s covered in a light sheen under the lights. Maker, you can only imagine what his skin must feel like beneath your tongue. The warmth and the taste against the strong muscle while you drag it upwards along his throat -- no, stop. You need to stop. But you find that you can’t. Not now that your eyes follow the chain around his neck, right down to the ring that glints and glimmers against his chest.

Is he married? Was he married? You can only make up stories in your head about this stranger as you judge him based on what you can see.

“I bumped into someone…” You begin to explain.

“Do you do that often?” Poe’s response seems to bounce back instantly, the ball quickly falling into your court and keeping you on your toes in the most pleasant way.

“No, I got stuck. I mean, I got my jacket stuck. And then I stumbled and bumped into someone and…” You motion with your hands in an attempt to show him the way the liquid had fallen down your leg to fill your boot. His eyes practically sparkle as he presses his lips together in an attempt to keep himself from laughing at you.

“Don’t…” You warn him, despite a smile curling onto your lips again. “This is not a day to laugh at me, Poe.” There’s something that feels familiar in the way you speak his name, as though this isn’t the first time your mouth has formed the word. But, you can’t seem to place it. You’ve never met him before - That much you do know. You would remember someone this handsome.

“Is your sock wet?” The amusement drips from his voice now and he quickly glances back towards the bar as the two drinks are set down.

“Wet and sticky.” You laugh. Almost simultaneously, you reach for the glass at the same time as he does; your hand briefly grabbing his instead of the cold glass. The warmth is unexpected and not entirely unwelcome before you quickly snatch your arm back and throw an apologetic glance over at him. Somehow, you don’t think he seems to mind because he doesn’t flinch or try to pull back from the brief contact. Poe is still calm and collected as he pushes the glass towards you this time, helping you to avoid any further embarrassment. Why are you like this?

“Did you not think to take it off?”

“Take it off?” Your question doesn’t really answer his question as you take a sip of your drink and swallow down the bright liquid. It adds even more warmth to your body while it slides down your throat and seems to pool in your stomach, blazing a trail the whole way down. “I hadn’t really thought that far ahead.” You admit and then lick your lips to collect any lingering taste there.

That’s when you notice Poe’s eyes drop, almost in the exact same way yours had when mesmerized by his own lips. They seem to linger for a moment before he reminds himself to look back up to your eyes again, watching you with interest. You have his attention. And just to test that, you reach up to swipe your thumb against the corner of your lower lip -- his eyes instantly falling again to follow it. The initial attraction is no longer one-sided.

The sound of a glass smashing and cheering over the other side of the cantina breaks the moment as you both glance over, watching a group of friends laughing at a member of their group who had dropped a drink. Pity your boot wasn’t there to catch it. When you finally turn back to look at Poe again, he’s taking a couple of gulps from his drink; the muscles in his throat working with each swallow until he lowers his glass again. Look away. Look away. But all you can do is swallow thickly until he speaks again.

“Did you say you were here with friends?” That suave voice enters your thoughts and brings your attention to the present moment as Poe asks his next question, interested to learn more about you. He’s making easy conversation from the first thing you told him; your wet boot and the fact that you were here with friends to see some musician. Would you still rather be at home now?

“Yeah, they’re over…” You trail off as you sit up taller on the stool, attempting to look between heads and shoulders to spot your group in their booth. Eventually, you make eye contact with one of them and give them a small wave. “There.” Poe’s eyes follow yours to where more of them are looking now, pointing over at you and clearly having a discussion about the fact you're sitting at a bar with someone you’ve just met. You know, it’s not your usual style -- but there’s something about Poe that seems to draw you in after stumbling into his gravitational pull.

Poe also waves over to them and the look on Zee’s face is an absolute picture. You’ll fill her in about him later and how you ended up here.

“They look happy to be here.” He observes with amusement and he’s right. They really do. You’re not sure what they’re so excited about, but they’re practically buzzing as they talk amongst themselves while looking over at you again.

“They’re always happy to be here.”

“But you’d rather be at home?” Poe asks, as though he already knows your answer to that.

“Yes.” You tell him honestly and laugh again. “All day I’ve been thinking about drinking wine on my sofa and falling asleep.” Your truthfulness has him laughing this time and the sound is wonderful. It’s so rich and full of character as it rolls out from his chest, catching the attention of others around him. It’s a sound of happiness in its truest form; nothing forced, nothing fake - simply Poe enjoying the moment that he’s sharing with you.

“Yet, here you are.”

“Here I am.” You smile at him and take another sip of your drink.

“Willing to put yourself through the torture of listening to a shitty musician, just for your friends.” It’s you that laughs this time and you set your glass down, drying off the condensation against the side of your leg.

“You think he’s shitty, too?”

“Oh, the shittiest. Never seems to get any better.” Maker, he gets it. You’ve never actually heard the artist you’re here to see -- Hell, you can’t even think of the name now that you try, but Poe seems to understand. “But for what it’s worth, I’m glad you came.” There’s such honesty laced with his amusement and it momentarily catches you off-guard; your laughter falling silent while you watch him with a lingering smile.

“Yeah… Me too.”

An easy silence settles as you take the time to look over Poe’s face again, picking up subtle details that you may have overlooked the first time. The peppering of greys in his stubble, a small scar on his cheek and the way his eyelashes seem to fan out right at the ends of his upper lids. Those striking looks make it difficult to avert your eyes when his meet yours, so you hold them for a few seconds and simply smile at each other, as though already knowing where this encounter is going to end up.

But the man behind the bar interrupts the moment all-too soon; his presence in your periphery also catches Poe’s attention as he glances over at him.

“Is it that time already?” Poe asks and finishes his drink without ordering another. There’s a sense of disappointment settling in your stomach at the thought of this man leaving before you’d really got to know much about him.

“Got a few minutes, but they’re ready whenever you are.” The man taps the bar top a couple of times and then leaves Poe to it. But he’s already straightening up as his eyes find yours again and before he can say anything, your mouth is blurting out words you weren’t intending to voice out-loud.

“Are you leaving?” As much as you try to play this casually, there’s still a hint of disappointment in your voice and you know that he hears it.

“I am…” Poe trails off and then throws you a grin; it’s different to the smiles you’ve been getting out of him and you suddenly find out why. “Got some shitty music to play.” It takes you a few seconds, but then something clicks. A light comes on so suddenly in your brain and you feel your mouth open, then quickly close again -- a motion that you repeat a few times as everything begins to make sense.

“You’re-”

“I am.”

“No…” You trail off, feeling the heat of embarrassment rush to your face and the back of your neck. “Why didn’t you say something?” Maker, you’re mortified. You’ve been sitting here, indirectly complaining about being dragged to see him. He’s the shitty musician.

“You didn’t ask…” Poe trails off, as though it’s the most obvious point he could make. “But it was worth it. Your face, a real picture.” And then he pauses, as though he wants to say something before thinking better of it. Instead, he quips, “I hope your sock dries out.”

“Yeah, me too.” You smile and watch as his lips curve upwards to return it; the genuine quality of it bringing that same sparkle to his eyes before he finally steps away to make his way through the crowd of people. Within a few seconds, he’s gone from your sight and you exhale a heavy sigh before laughing to yourself. Maker. That was embarrassing, in the best possible way.

By the time you make it back to the booth -- luckily, with no more accidents -- the first song has already begun. Seconds. That’s all the time it takes for the cantina to fall silent; everyone seemingly absorbed in the man who takes command of the whole room with only his voice. There’s no theatrics, no big show -- just Poe. Poe, his guitar and a soothing voice that washes over the crowd.

And you have  to admit, he’s not a shitty musician. In fact, he’s far from it.

That melancholy voice stirs emotions inside of you that you weren’t expecting to feel tonight. They’re simultaneously heartwarming yet somber. His tones are gentle, yet rough. You’re no longer angry and frustrated at the events that had led to this moment; in fact, you’re far from it as you sit there with a soft, mellow smile on your face. Each song earns applause and sounds of approval from the crowd, causing the man on the stage to smile in the way that illuminates him brighter than the spotlight trained on him.

“There was no writing on the wall, no warning signs to follow... I know now, and I just can't forget... You're the best I never had.”

You can’t decide if it’s real or just wishful thinking, but it feels as though his eyes sweep across every so often to your direction, almost as if he still remembers where you had pointed out your friends to him earlier. You tell yourself that he’s not actually looking at you, not with all these other people in here who want to see him perform. But with each meeting of his gaze, it’s hard to convince yourself otherwise. It makes you feel almost giddy to think that in a cantina full of people, you still have his interest.

“In this motel, well past midnight... When I'm bluer than a bruise...”

It’s not a crush. It’s not. You’re not a kid, but it sure feels similar; it makes you smile and avert your eyes, it makes your stomach flip with a combination of excitement and longing to talk to him again. Maker, you want to be close enough to him to admire the way those eyelashes caress his skin with each blink, or the way his eyebrows raise to signal his amusement in conversation. You want to allow yourself to gravitate towards him again and lose track of time while appreciating the way he seems to listen to each word you speak.

But then, you swear everything momentarily stops. Everything around you becomes nonexistent, as though you’re the only person sitting there while your heartbeat kicks up a notch inside your chest.

“You come stumbling in, through the half-light, in your funny… wet boots.”

No, this isn’t a crush. In this very second, it’s a whole goddamn explosion of exhilarating amusement as you find yourself laughing out loud at the obvious change in Poe’s original lyrics. They don't even rhyme but they're about you. It’s endearing mockery and an attempt to draw you in. He knows that he has you because there’s a grin on his lips as he continues singing. Maker, how can one man be so kriffing charming?

Suddenly, you have a million reasons to be thankful you accepted the stupid invitation to come here tonight

You sit and listen to Poe’s captivating voice with a soft smile on your face, reveling in the intimacy he’s created between you with a simple reference to your shared joke. Despite the fact that this place is packed and he has a large audience hanging onto his every word, it almost feels like he’s singing for you.

As soon as the set is over, the bustle of the cantina resumes; everything becomes far too loud again. You can’t deny it, the good mood that you’re now in, mixed with the flow of drinks through Poe’s show has a relaxing buzz settling through your limbs while you try to keep up with the conversation going on in the booth.

“Another drink?” Zee motions to your empty glass that you’re still holding in your hand, having unknowingly finished it while distracted. You weigh your options and shake your head.

“No, thanks. I’m going to grab a smoke.” You politely decline and wait until she slides out of the booth so that you can follow as you pick up your jacket and slip it on. It’s still far too warm in there to be wearing layers, but you know the air outside carries a bite tonight.

Thankfully, your attempt to get out of the cantina is much more successful than the one getting in and you’re soon wrapping your arms around yourself as you step out of the way of the doors, trying to keep in some of the warmth you’d been willing to leave you earlier. Even from outside, you can still hear the muffled rumbles and voices coming from the other side of the wall.  A faint smile settles onto your lips as you slip a cigarette between them and make quick work of lighting it up.

No sooner are you exhaling the smoke and watching it curl upwards towards the cloudy sky, than the door to the cantina opens again and there’s a momentary rush of warm air spilling out into the cold night air. Your eyes slide over and that smile begins to curl further onto your lips as you watch Poe look to his right, then to his left before he spots you.

“Hey, Late.” His movements are almost a copy of yours as he steps out of the way of the door and comes to stand in front of you instead. “Your friend said I’d find you out here.” Of course she did. Your eyes move over Poe’s face, noticing that some of the curls you’d been staring at earlier were now damp and clinging to the skin around his temples from where he’d clearly been sweating while performing.

“Had to make my escape…” You trail off and lean back against the wall while you watch him. “Could only take so much of that musician.” This earns you a laugh while you pull the small, compact tin from your pocket that has your rolled cigarettes inside and offer it to Poe. “Want one?”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Poe doesn’t need to step as close to you as he does while accepting one of your cigarettes, nor does he need to rest his hand against yours while dipping his head when you offer him a light, but he does. And the smallest contact of his hand brushing against yours creates the same tingling sensation as it had when reaching for the glass at the same time.

Poe frowns slightly as he takes a deep drag from the cigarette and then exhales slowly; his tongue licking at his lips, which momentarily distracts you from everything else. The lower one glistens in the lights strung up outside of the cantina and it takes every bit of self control you have not to step forwards and kiss him. And he knows it. It’s written all over his face while he watches you without saying anything.

An easy silence settles as you take turns drawing from your cigarettes; you, still leaning against the wall and letting your eyes drink in every inch of him while he stands before you, doing the exact same. Occasionally, you share a smile when your eyes meet his and hold him in a lingering gaze. He’s still just as handsome as the moment he caught you; his striking looks having stolen your words from you while you’d tried to compose yourself.

But now he was so much more. Charming, yet a tease, with a voice that could melt like butter and ooze a delightful softness. But there was something about him that was rough around the edges; a rugged energy that drew you in and made you want to know more.

“Do you want to grab some food with me?” Poe finally speaks after what feels like the longest time. Food? With this man? Your smile tells him your answer before you’ve spoken a word, yet you still take a few seconds to keep him hanging before you finally nod.

“I’d like that.” Your answer has that smile curling over his lips again as the corner of his eyes crinkle softly.

“Yeah, me too.” Poe throws your last words to him from earlier right back at you as he holds out his arm, and with the final drag on your cigarette, you discard it and push yourself away from the wall so that you can link your arm through his.

Maybe coming to see a shitty musician hadn’t been such a bad idea after all.

--------

Taglist: @the-scandalorian @fett-ching @ohkarabast @salome-c @dinjarin-baket @meanperegrine @uncle-kenobi (hope you don't mind me tagging you, fellow poe hoe 💖) @the-little-ewok @mypedrom (didn't forget you this time sweetie 💖)

[pascalpanic]

Begin Again (Marcus Pike x f!Reader)

Inspo: Begin Again by Adam Melchor

Summary: Dating apps never pair you with the right people. Until you come across the profile of a handsome, pancake loving FBI agent named Marcus.

W/C: 4.8k

Warnings: lots of talk of food, language, late night deep conversations, some sadness at the end but nothing intense? reader has a pet cat, is that worth a warning? idk

A/N: HI GUYS this is my first full length Marcus Pike fic! I really hope you like it!! thank you so much to @theteddylupinexperience and @sanchosammy for being my best editors and proofreaders and idea givers!!!

note: PLS listen to the song before/after/while reading! it’s one of my favs and it really goes along with the story

Over the course of your adult years, you’ve become convinced that dating apps are complete and utter bullshit. The algorithms never work right, never pair you or any of your friends with anyone worth seeing in person. Maybe that’s just the problem; maybe it’s not the apps but the people. Whatever the answer is, whatever reason you’ve never found success in the endless swiping, you’re through with it.

That was before last week. The rainy Tuesday night left you in your apartment, alone, to succumb to the cold spring dreariness. Over a cup of hot tea, you’d downloaded the app again. Might as well try, right? You have nothing to lose. If worst comes to worst, catfishing an annoying guy is always a blast. The good news is that this app requires you as the woman to make the first move. That’s kind of a downside- you never know how to start conversations- but at least you can’t get unsolicited dick pics right off the bats. Life is full of tradeoffs, you suppose.

You begin again. The app becomes your favorite pastime. Bored at work or home? Dating app it is. Left. Left. Left. Boring man after boring man. One labeled himself super-straight: absolutely fucking not. One holding a fish: nope. A man who describes himself as a gym rat: not your type. It’s a boring way to spend your lunch break, you’re aware, but the entertainment value is fun if nothing else. There are a lot of strange men out there.

After a few days, your luck seems to turn around as the photo of a man with brown hair and warm brown eyes pops up on your screen. He has a scruffy beard and wavy hair, and the way his smile tugs at the corner of his lips makes your heart flutter. He’s really cute, you have to admit. You read the bio next.

Marcus, 35

❗️ Washington, D.C.

Got forced into making this, but optimistic. Lover of art, dogs, and time to relax. Always down for breakfast for dinner and cuddling. Looking for someone with a sense of independence, love of travel, and a sleep schedule equally fucked up as mine. Must love pancakes.

Must love pancakes. That’s absolutely adorable. You immediately think of your cat, named Pancake, and you laugh and swipe right, hoping the man already thought the same of you. Your eyes widen with excitement and you almost laugh out loud from your giddy state when you see the little logo indicating it’s a match.

The first message you send him has to be perfect. You ponder your options for a minute, frowning and furrowing your brow as you think. You don’t want to come on too strong; you’re not trying to sound like you want a hookup. A simple one-word greeting wouldn’t be enough.

You could comment on something from his bio, you realize as you read it again and again. Maybe ask him about his dog? No, that’s too awkward. You want it to be about him, something that can draw him in. Talk about traveling? No, you don’t want to sound like you’re bragging about the places you’ve gone in your life.

Pancakes. Pancakes are good. You love pancakes. You think for a second more, debating what to say, before inspiration strikes and you send off the message before you can stop yourself.

-

Marcus Pike has essentially felt the same as you. He’s a somewhat charming man. He’s had his fair share of relationships, but they never quite work out. His ex-wife, now long gone and blocked from his phone, was an absolute failure of a relationship. He’d gotten close to what felt like true love with Teresa, another FBI agent, but she flaked at the last second.

Maybe the constant here was that he met them in person. When Marcus falls, he falls hard and fast, down an endless spiral of emotions with no escape. Maybe if he met someone online, it would be different. His best friends had all encouraged it, and on a night out not long after Teresa left him, Pike set up his own profile. He liked that the app didn’t require him to make the first move. It’s refreshing.

Marcus had seen your profile hours ago, on a mindless phone break from his work. He’d swiped right too, stunned by your smile and the lovelines you radiated even through the phone. He crossed his fingers for a good part of the day, hoping you’d swipe right on him too.

His day is busy, leaving him no time to fiddle with his phone and distract himself. He eats in the cafeteria, checking up on his phone. After lunch, he’s walking back to his office when his heart flutters as he sees the dating app indicates he’s had a match. He looks at it and swallows hard before stopping, moving to the side of the hallway to allow others to pass. He’s breathing hard, and his heart speeds up when he sees that you are the one that matched with him.

He knows how this app works. He has to wait now, to let you make the first move. He can’t even write a message until you send one. So he pockets his phone again and continues on his walk.

He’s determined on his walk, rushing back to his desk so he can sit and be thoroughly enthralled in waiting for or receiving your response. His phone buzzes several times with notifications, one of which he prays is you. When he finally sits, he opens the app ceremoniously and has to hold back a genuine laugh when he sees your first message.

Blueberry or chocolate chip?

Marcus shoots back a text nearly immediately. Sorry, what?

Your bio. “Must love pancakes”. Blueberry or chocolate chip?

Marcus is absolutely beaming as he leans back in his chair, crossing his legs. Blueberry. Always. I hope that’s the right answer :)

Unfortunately, it’s not, but you’re cute so I’ll let it slide

You called him cute. It makes Marcus’s heart flutter. Come on. There’s nothing like the warm blueberry popping in your mouth.

There is. It’s when the chocolate chips are all melty and creamy.

God, Marcus is already painfully into you. You know what… at least you love pancakes. I’ll let it slide. You got a favorite place?

Anywhere I can get ‘em. You seem like quite the connoisseur, do you have one place in mind?

Jane slams down a stack of files on Marcus’s desk. “Paperwork overflow, Pike. Can you get these done tonight?”

Marcus is the fastest in the office with paperwork, which often leads to him being the one that flies through the files in the place of the people who actually filed it. He nods. What else is there to do? “Sure.”

Jane claps him on the shoulder and wanders off. Marcus watches him in slight annoyance. The best place in D.C. is definitely Sandy’s. Hey I gotta go, text ya later?

I’d love that :)

-

It didn’t take long for your texting to move from the dating app to actual texting. It happened within the same day, in fact.

Marcus messaged you some hours after the initial conversation. Your phone buzzed while you were doing yoga in your apartment, your cat curled into a ball beneath your stomach as you held a downward dog. You nearly collapsed on top of Pancake as you fumbled to sit cross-legged on the end of your yoga mat.

The message from Marcus is bright on the top of your screen. Hi. Sorry that took so long. Work stuff.

Smiling, you take a swig from your water bottle and lean back against your couch. Not a problem. Understandable. What do you do for a living? It’s a loaded question in D.C.; they could range anywhere from politicians to their rich sons to artists and athletes.

I work for the FBI, actually.

Your eyes light up in excitement. That’s the coolest shit I’ve heard. What do you do? Are you an agent?

The man’s responses don’t take long at all. He must be waiting in the chat to respond. The idea makes your heart flutter. Yep, I’m an agent. I work in international art crimes.

You certainly didn’t expect that for an answer. Wow, okay, that’s even cooler than I thought. I was about to call you Agent Pancake but I think my girl would be disheartened...

Snapping a photo of the way Pancake is nuzzling into your side, meowing for snuggles, you have to laugh as you send the photo his way. Funny you love pancakes so much. This little muppet is named Pancake.

Marcus responds with a barrage of heart-eyes emojis, which makes you laugh aloud and scoop Pancake into your lap, stroking her strawberry-blonde fluff. She’s an absolute angel. Like her mother, I’m presuming.

Your cheeks flood with warmth and you can feel the tips of your ears turning hot too. You’ve never even met me, Agent…? You trail off the text, asking for his last name.

Pike.

Agent Marcus Pike. What a nice sounding name. It sounds official and strong and you really like it. Cute last name. Might steal it from ya someday ;)

You don’t normally flirt this shamelessly, but he’s so goddamn cute and funny. You cross your fingers behind your back that this isn’t just a facade, that this is Marcus himself texting like he would to anyone else. You got a phone number?

As you laugh, Pancake paws at your chest to grab your attention, nails nearly digging into the stretchy fabric of your yoga tank top. “Watch it,” you scold her softly and remove her paw from your chest, picking her up and giving her a kiss on the head. Sure do. You want it?

Yes please.

You send your number his way and moments later, your phone pings with a text from an unlabeled number.

Maybe: Pike: hey, it’s Pike :)

You: hey… dammit, I really want to call you Agent Pancakes, but I think my fluffy little heathen would be offended. I don’t know what to save you in my phone as...

Agent Pancakes: Save me as whatever, I suppose. Not my problem, right?

-

The texts became more frequent. Over the course of three weeks, you’d stay up late talking like teenagers, knowing you need to go to bed but unable to bring yourself to do it.

You learned that his middle name was Mauricio, that his mother wanted him to have at least something a little more Latino in his name. You told him the story of how you’d adopted Pancake as a kitten from a shelter and she woke you up one morning with her claws entwined in a snarl of your hair. He told you about his ex-wife and ex-fiancée, Teresa, and you responded that he deserved something better than that. You can already tell that he’s a good man.

At the end of three weeks, you shot Marcus a text. Things seemed to be going pretty well.

You: Hey, you want to do a video call sometime soon?

Agent Pancakes: I’d love that! I’m free tonight if you are.

You: Always free. Shouldn’t you know that?? Doesn’t the FBI spy on us through our phones and whatever?

Agent Pancakes: well, I do work in art crimes. Even if we did, it would be a totally different thing

You: Good.

An hour later, you fidget with your hands as you sit on your couch, the laptop propped up across from you and ringing for a video chat. Marcus’s profile picture bobs on the screen as you wait for him to pick up.

Marcus’s face and apartment fills your screen, and you automatically grin. “Hi,” you giggle and wave, absolutely enraptured by how cute his real smile is, not the forced one in the photos.

“Hey. Nice to kind of-finally meet you,” he tells you and waves back. The wall of his apartment is nothing exciting, but his facial expressions already have you falling. Those big brown eyes compliment natural but ridiculously pink lips, and his brown hair is neatly done. It looks like he’s wearing a tie and a dress shirt; probably his work gear, you suppose.

“You too!” You tell him, unable to stop smiling. “You shaved.”

-

Marcus’s heart jumps out of his chest when he sees you ringing him. He barely has time to flop on the couch and turn it on, propping up the camera across from him.

God, you’re so gorgeous. Your giggle is infectious, making Marcus laugh softly at god knows what. Your grin is equally as contagious, making him smile back. He rubs his jaw in response. “Yeah, yeah. I tend to keep it clean there. Stubble takes too much maintenance, and I have this little patch where it never quite grows,” he tells you as he juts his chin to the camera, touching the spot where his beard can’t grow.

“I like it either way,” you assure him, shrugging a little. “How was your day, Agent Pancakes?” Your voice is the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard, even with the granulated audio over this shitty app. Agent Pancakes makes his heart flutter. “No, not you!” You groan as Pancake climbs onto your lap. “Hi. Your twin wants to say hi.”

Marcus’s smile widens. “Oh my god, hello cutie pie,” he chuckles, launching into baby talk. “What a pretty girl. You make a good Pancake.”

You smile and rub her fur, grinning. “She’s my baby,” you chuckle and set her aside. “Yeah. I’m busy. Leave me alone.” Pancake meows in protest. “Shut up, I’m on a date,” you whine.

Marcus’s ears perk up. “This is a date?”

Your eyes widen as you turn back to him. “I… yeah?” You ask, wincing a little.

He grins back at you. “I like it. And I’m really in love with the idea of seeing your face when you talk.”

“I like your voice,” you flirt back, but you mean it. “It’s so pretty. Do you sing?” You ask mindlessly, studying the way his brow furrows and his eyes convey exactly what he’s thinking.

He chuckles softly. “I used to. I haven’t in a long long time.”

“You’ll have to sing for me sometime.”

When he shakes his head, his neatly gelled hair tries to break free. A strand does, falling in his face. “You don’t wanna hear it, I promise.” He removes his tie, and you can’t help but watch the movement. It’s incredibly sexy.

A mischievous smile makes you bite the inside of your cheek. “No, I really do, I really think I do.”

Marcus rolls his eyes. “Only if you try the pancakes at Sandy’s sometime. I promise you, they’re the best pancakes in the District. I’ve never had the chocolate chip pancakes, but if they’re anywhere near as good as the blueberry, they’re fantastic. And they’re open 24 hours. I go there a lot for late night case work.”

You smile at that, getting cozy on your couch and hugging your blanket. “That does sound nice. I love a good all day breakfast,” you say with raised eyebrows, the teasing in your voice. “Okay, human Pancakes. How was your day?” You ask him again, intent on hearing his answer. Not only is his job fascinating, but he’s adorable when he explains things.

Marcus frowns, and that makes you instinctively frown too. “Well, it’s been good. We’re tracking a huge smuggling ring right now, but since we’ve pinpointed a stock house for them, I might have to travel for a while.”

You frown. You’d been hoping you could have a real date soon, at least. “How long is a while?” You ask him curiously, sipping from your water bottle that sits next to you.

“Couple weeks. No less than a month, probably. I’d… well, I might have to go undercover, which means we couldn’t talk for a while.” His eyes are apologetic, showing that he hates this news as much as you do. “And… I’d leave maybe tomorrow or the day after.”

Your heart sinks. “So soon,” you say with a sad smile, a desperate and lonely chuckle. “Well, if you want to come home to me, I’ll be here.”

Marcus’s smile perks up just slightly. “You would be the best thing in the world to come home to. And I’ll have the scruff back by then.”

“Yes!” You exclaim and laugh, pumping a fist in the air. “I think you’re really cute anyway, but I really love the scruff,” you shrug shyly.

“Maybe I’ll grow it out just for you.”

-

The adrenaline from his first technical-date with you prevents Marcus from sleeping. The call lasted hours, the two of you covering almost everything important in your lives. You talked about your favorite television programs and politics, your parents and your favorite pizza toppings. Talking with him was like nothing you’d ever experience, a connection you’d never thought a dating app could offer.

After several hours, during a lull in the conversation, Marcus suggested the two of you log off. It was around 11 P.M. now, and, even though Marcus has a sleep schedule like a raccoon, he figured you should sleep. He blew you a kiss through the camera, which you pretended to hold to your chest and grin at him.

But now it’s an hour later, just past midnight, and Marcus is antsy. He doesn’t sleep much anyway, but your face is running through his mind like it owns the place, and at this point, maybe you do. Marcus sits up in bed and sighs. He knows the proper remedy for this: Sandy’s. Throwing on a rare pair of jeans and a leather jacket over the white v-neck he wears, he slips on his shoes and makes his way to the tiny, 24-hour diner.

-

The adrenaline is coursing through your veins too. You text any of your friends that will listen, rambling about how beautiful Marcus’s face is and how wonderful it was to finally hear his voice. You pace your apartment, petting Pancake as you pass her perch on the arm of your couch. You try to do a little yoga to calm down but you can’t stop smiling. Marcus occupies too much room in your brain to try to think about anything else.

When it’s just after midnight, hunger strikes. You realize you never ate dinner, too preoccupied with talking to the handsome man to even consider microwaving something from your fridge. Talking with Marcus has instilled you with a love for pancakes, and you think to yourself that maybe Sandy’s would be worth a shot. It’s open late.

So you toss on a jacket and pick up your purse, slinging it over your shoulder and leaving your apartment. You toss the book you’ve been reading into your bag, planning to read it while you sit and eat. Pancake gives a sleepy meow of protest but you just smile and lock the door behind you.

The diner is just as small as Marcus described it to you: just a short line of booths along the windows and a smattering of tables in the middle. There’s a colorful, warm-toned tile floor that juxtaposes the warm green of the walls and the smell of fresh coffee and pancakes wafting through the air. Quiet classic swing music filling the atmosphere. You can see why he likes it: it automatically makes you smile.

You sit in one of the booths, facing away from the door, and the kind waitress takes your order: chocolate chip pancakes and an English breakfast tea. The air conditioning is blasting, making you chilly. You tighten your jacket around yourself and sip the tea when it arrives, adding cream and sugar.

Cracking open the book, you cross your legs and lose yourself in the book. The restaurant has a calming aura, and you can feel the tea warming you from the inside. It’s fitting that Marcus loves this place, you think to yourself.

When the pancakes come not long after, you take a bite and almost groan in happiness. It’s absolutely delicious: Marcus was most definitely right. Disappointingly, you have to go to the bathroom about three bites in.

Even the bathrooms are cute, you discover. When you return, someone else sits a booth away,  another lone diner at this godforsaken hour of night, facing the door. You can see the back of what appears to be a man’s head, neatly trimmed brown hair and a brown leather jacket over their neck and shoulders. Sitting back down, your back to the other customer’s, you return to your book and continue to eat your chocolate chip pancakes.

The customer and waitress are talking, but you don’t pay much attention, too enraptured by your book. It’s quiet again after the man puts in his order, and you enjoy the soft jazz music that makes you tap your foot in time against the tile.

There’s a buzzing and the melodic sound of a phone’s ringtone; one of the defaults that a phone provides. Your heart skips a beat as you hear the man pick up. “Agent Pike.”

That can’t be your Agent Pike, can it? You turn and listen and realize it’s definitely him, from his voice and the way he holds himself and the stack of- of course, blueberry pancakes and a hot coffee set in front of him.

“Yeah. Yeah. Okay. Sounds good. Let me write that down.” Marcus types something into his phone. “See you then. At the office? Good. Alright, see you.” He hangs up.

Standing, you tuck your book back in your purse and put the bag over your shoulder. With one hand, you grab your plate of pancakes, and the other grabs your tea. You set them down across from him and slide into the booth, grinning. “Huh. Agent Pancakes, here, in the middle of the night. How unusual.”

Marcus’s tired face lights up in excitement. “What?” He laughs, his eyes scanning your face. “Why are you here?”

You shrug and take a bite of his pancakes, sighing. “Had to see if they were worth the hype. I couldn’t sleep, you got me so excited.” The blueberry pancakes are absolutely fantastic, just as good if not better than the chocolate chip ones on your plate. “Damn, you were right.”

“Hey,” he laughs and pulls his plate closer to his chest. “Don’t touch my pancakes.”

You make pleading pouty eyes, frowning a little. “Can’t we share?” You tease. It already feels like you’ve known him for years, even though this is your first time seeing him in person.

Marcus sighs. “I suppose,” he says and rolls his eyes in sarcasm, pushing his plate back out so you can access it.

-

Marcus is beyond stunned, absolutely enraptured in how beautiful you are in person. If he thought he fell on that video call earlier, he’s now reached the very bottom of that cliff, the impact of your everything stealing the air from his lungs. God, he wants nothing more than to kiss you right now, on those lips coated in blueberry juice and maple syrup.

The two of you spend quite some time so there, just talking and continuing the conversation where it left off before. The waitress refills Marcus’s coffee twice and your tea once. “So who called you when you were sitting alone?” You ask him as you bring the white porcelain mug to your lips, sipping at the creamy tea.

He sighs. “Guy I work with, his name’s Patrick. He’s a douchebag, I can’t lie,” he says with a chuckle, and his heart flutters at the way you give a soft laugh back. “Just telling me the details. I leave in about 6 hours. I’ll be in Singapore for a couple of weeks.”

“Singapore?” You exclaim, eyes wide as your fork clanks against your plate. “You better be able to contact me.”

He shakes his head. “I told you, I’m going undercover. I can’t.” He sighs, and he dares to reach out and touch you, to reassure you that he’s there and himself that you’re real, that you’re right there. “Will you wait for me?”

Your heart melts, from an already slush-covered river to a rushing rapids. “Of course, Marcus.” It makes his heart skip a beat. You’ve called him lots of nicknames, but never his real name. Something is painfully intimate about it. “I like you a lot; why wouldn’t I?” You ask, shrugging as if it’s the simplest thing. “Distance makes the heart grow fonder.”

When you finish your meals, Marcus picks up both tabs, despite your protesting. “Can I walk you to your place?” He asks as you both stand and adjust your jackets.

You nod and take his hand. The lights of the city are seemingly extra dim tonight, leaving the street lights to illuminate your beautiful face as the two of you stroll along. You have all the time in the world, don’t you? It’s 1:30 in the morning. You’re both already evading sleep desperately. A little more time together can’t hurt.

His hand never leaves yours, his fingers lacing through your knuckles. You chat quietly, as if you could wake the sleeping city from the peaceful blue drone of a weeknight morning into its daily splendor of horns and hordes of speedy pedestrians.

Marcus bumps your shoulder with his, making you stumble a little to the side and laugh as you look up at his gorgeous face. His face reflects the love you’re both feeling, almost giving the city around you a pink glaze of warmth from the rose-colored glasses you must have placed over his eyes.

The walk draws to an end, as you stand at the entrance to your apartment building. Marcus’s body looks so soft and inviting, and you dare to wrap your arms around his neck and hug him to your chest. “I don’t want you to go, Agent Pancakes,” you murmur into the soft skin of his neck, which is starting to get a shadow of stubble.

Marcus kisses the top of your head. He doesn’t move either, prolonging this time you have together before he can’t see you. “I don’t want to go. I’ve never wanted to stay here more than I do now, but I have to.” His arms wrap around your waist, strong and safe.

Lifting your head, you look up at him, your noses practically touching from the proximity you share. The world feels like a bubble around you two, like some impenetrable one-way material that makes it so if Marcus leaves now, he can never come back. “Well, it’s gonna be a long time, a month or two,” you say with a sad smile. “We’ll have to begin again.”

Marcus shakes his head, his brown eyes almost welling with tears. “There’s no one else I’d want to begin again with.” With that, he looks in your eyes, the question hanging there. Wait for me?

Always, you respond silently by pressing your lips to his, kissing him slowly in the orange glow of your apartment building’s entrance. He kisses back, his lips tasting of coffee and maple and blueberry, yours tasting like chocolate and tea.

You squeeze your arms tighter around him, getting on your tiptoes to be as physically close as you can to him. He has one hand on either side of your rib cage, holding you there as he kisses back with all of the passion and love he has.

It can’t last too long or he’ll never leave. He won’t be able to. He breaks away after a few moments, his lips close to yours. He presses your foreheads together, arms encircling you again. “I have to go. I have to be at the office in an hour.”

You lift your head and your brow furrows in confusion. “Then why did you take so long to walk and eat with me?” You laugh quietly.

Marcus shrugs. “Didn’t want to leave you yet,” he admits, his eyes trained on yours. He gives you one last painfully gentle kiss. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you more,” you say with a sad smile. “You’ve been my distraction lately. Whenever I’m bored, I text you.”

He sighs, the confession increasing his frown. “I’ll be in an entirely new place, without you.”

“But I’ll be here, in my same old life without you in it.”

The words punch a hole through Marcus’s heart. It’s true; he’ll have new distractions, new things to do. You’ll be here with a Marcus Pike-shaped hole in your heart. He kisses your forehead, the wheels turning in his head. “If you get a call in the next few weeks from an unknown number, be sure to answer it, okay?”

You nod and smile softly. “You need to go. Go.”

He nods and his hand squeezes yours. “I can’t wait to begin again with you.” With that, Marcus Pike, Agent Pancakes, whatever you want to call him, the man you’re highly suspecting might be your soulmate, walks off into the slightly chilly D.C. night.

-

taglist:

@remmysbounty @mishasminion360 @blo0dangel @binarydanvvers  @sleep-tight1 @apascalrascal @randomness501 @spideysimpossiblegirl @notabotiswear @pedro-pastel @sanchosammy @lv7867 @greeneyedblondie44 @hunnambabe @astoryisaloveaffair @emesispo @pedritobalmando @magikfanatic

[katesbridgerton]

If you’re still doing fic prompts: kaysanova mortal au h/c & broken bones (not drawing on current events for this one, not at all….)

Hi Liz! I hope your expectations are not too high because I had the idea and immediately wrote it haha anyway, I still hope you enjoy it. Thank you for sending the prompt. 🌻

Nicky is empathetic. If anyone can put themselves in someone else's shoes to understand a situation, that person is Nicolò di Genova. The fact that he is on the verge of losing his patience with his own boyfriend says a lot about how things are going.

Joe broke his hand when he fell on the street. Being a smart man, he put his hand on the floor first to not hurt his face… but if you ask him now, he is going to tell you that he regrets it deeply. Why? One would wonder. Because he can't draw.

And in the first week, Nicky understood it's what Joe works with, more than that, it's what he loves to do. But when the love of his life started complaining about the situation 24/7 like his hand was the only good and useful thing about him, Nicky started to lose it slowly.

That's how they ended up in the middle of an argument.

"Yusuf, please. What are you going to do? Stay inside feeling sorry for yourself? The doctor said you're going to be fine!"

"You don't understand," Joe answers in a crying tone.

"You don't let me help you or take care of you. You don't want to go out, I don't- I don't know what you want!"

"I need to draw. I need to draw," he reaffirms. "What I don't need or want is you!" he says like a petulant child.

That's the breaking point. Nicky storms out of their apartment and goes to the bar to meet their friends by himself (because they always meet at the same place every Friday).

"He said that?" Andy asks, taking a sip of her beer. "Joe said he doesn't need you?"

"He doesn't need me or wants me," Nicky answers. "Fuck! You're not rushing him to come back to work. I don't understand, I just don't," he drinks his wine in one gulp like it will help him swallow the words he had heard earlier.

Nicky can’t wrap his head around it. Sick Joe is the sweetest and neediest person, who wants Nicky’s attention all the time. What is different this time? Did he meet someone new? Are they going to break up?

"Maybe he just needs some time alone? And I think you could use some too," Quynh says. "It must be exhausting to be around him acting like that 24/7. Joe is the nicest person, I don't get it."

"Well, welcome to my team," Nicky rubs his temples. "Booker, any advice?"

"I would say have more patience, but you're already a fucking Saint, so no. I don't have any advice.”

"Anyway, where's Nile?" Nick asks. "Did anyone check on her? Is she alright?"

"She texted. Said she wouldn't be able to come today because she needed to help a friend with something," Quynh answers.

When Nicky arrives home later that night, he has no idea if he still has a boyfriend, if he wants to get inside or how Joe's mood is gonna be. He takes a deep breath, before unlocking the door. When he steps in, he bumps into Nile who murmurs an apology and leaves.

Joe is on the floor of the living room surrounded by papers and pencils. Nicky looks down to find drawings of himself, all the different moods he had that week. Including the one during their argument today, his narrowed eyes and his expression full of frustration.

"Nile helped," Joe says in a happy tone. "She helped me draw almost everything that happened in the past week with you. Now I have it and I can save with the rest," he turns to look at Nicky with a smile on his face. "She said she would help me until my hand heals so I don't miss anything. See?" He picks one from the floor. It's Nicky's profile. "You when we were watching a movie two nights ago!"

Nicky is speechless, but at the same time, he has a lot of questions. He turns around, closes the door, locks it, then turns to face Joe again.

"You- Joe, do you always draw me?"

Joe nods. "Some people like to take pictures, I like to draw you because when I do, I know exactly what I was feeling in that moment and," he smiles again. "Yeah, I have them all and whenever I'm sad and you're not around, I look at them and I just- I feel you."

Joe stops for a second, before continuing.

"I'm sorry for what I said earlier and for how rude I was. I didn't mean to be, it's just very frustrating not being able to draw your perfect features. I love you."

"I fucking hate you, Yusuf," Nicky says. "What the hell? Even in our argument, you have to be adorable. What kind of shit is that? I was worried that we were going to break up and you were upset because you couldn't draw me?" He walks towards the couch and sits in front of Joe. "Your communication skills are awful! I hope you know that."

"Are you, are you going to break up with me?" Joe asks, confused, scared.

"No! I'm going to teach you how to behave though, that will happen," Nicky chuckles, relieved. "What the fuck, Joe? How's your hand?"

"To be honest? I kind of forced it a little bit today and I know I shouldn't. I know, but no one gets your eyes as I do, so- yeah, I don't regret it."

"Did you eat anything?"

"I'm going to shower and then get something to eat. I ordered food for Nile but I was kind of feeling awful because of our argument so I didn't want anything."

"Okay," Nicky shakes his head, still in complete disbelief. "Our friends think you're an asshole, by the way."

"Well, I guess I deserve that," he rests his chin on Nicky's knee, their eyes properly meeting for the first time that night. "Nico, can you help me?"

"I thought you didn't need or wanted my help."

"Oh, I didn't. Not for drawing. I love you, habibi. But you don't have the talent."

"Smartass," Nick smiles. "You have so much to learn, Joe. So much."

"Teach me, please."

Joe bites his lower lip, and Nicky feels his entire body reacting to it.

[wanderinginksplot]

Hi! Coul you do a Hunter x Jedi FemReader fluff. Myybe They are reunited after a long time and they hang out in secret.

Hey! It took a few days, but here’s where this prompt took me:

Hunter + Jedi F!Reader + Fluff

“Steady!”

“Watch the far side - it’s tipping!”

“We need another few troopers over here to help balance it!”

“It’s too heavy!”

“Stop, men,” you ordered, your calm voice cutting through the clamor with ease. “Let me get it.”

Lifting the heavy crate with the Force was simple, one of the first things you had learned to do in the Temple. From there, transporting it to the correct section of the hangar wasn’t any more difficult, and you accomplished the task with ease.

“Still showing off, General?” a rough voice asked from just behind your ear.

You turned around, already smiling at the familiar face. “Sergeant Hunter,” you greeted. “I had no idea you were on-planet.”

He shrugged, the movement flowing with grace that would have made even a Jedi jealous. “We picked up a new member for the Batch. We needed to have him cleared on Coruscant before we could risk taking him into action.”

“And?” you asked, already thinking about how you could help. Force-healing wasn’t your strong suit, but you could pull a few strings to get the right padawan to the GAR headquarters. If Hunter needed something, you would do everything in your power to get it for him. He had saved your life often enough to deserve that dedication from you.

“And he’ll be fine,” Hunter reassured you. Gesturing to the flurry of men working to unload your gunships - each one painted with a flattering caricature of your profile with a lightsaber held out in front of you - he asked, “How did the mission go?”

You shrugged. “It went as well as can be expected, I suppose.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means- Well, it…” you sighed. “This war never seems to have a true victory. There are always losses, and those sacrifices don’t always make sense given what little is accomplished in return.”

Hunter raised an eyebrow. “That’s what we’re made for. Sacrificing.”

You hated hearing that, no matter how often it had been repeated by the Kaminoans, the GAR, and the Jedi Council. These men weren’t a product and their lives weren’t something they should expect to lose simply because they had been created rather than born. They had names and personalities, painted their armor with patterns in your favorite color, and some troopers even asked for permission to use your handprint in their designs. Hunter’s casual defense of what you saw as the fatal flaw of the Jedi Order made your stomach lurch and your spirits drop.

“So they keep telling me,” you agreed, mustering a smile for Hunter. “It was a pleasure seeing you, Sergeant. It has been far too long.”

"Wait," Hunter called and you paused in turning away. "What did I say?"

His earnest question only served to make you feel worse. "Nothing, Hunter. The problem seems to be with me. I just need some time away from the war, the loss."

Hunter's eyes cut a neat contrast against the darkness of his tattoo. "I can't help much, but how about some time spent with an old friend?"

"I have to go make my report to the Council," you hedged.

"After that, then," Hunter suggested. "I'm not gonna twist your arm about it, but you're the one who said it's been too long since we saw each other."

You gave a small smile at that. "That's true. Meet me at Dex's Diner tonight?"

"Comm me when you're leaving the Temple," Hunter instructed, giving a respectful nod as the two of you parted. 

As soon as you had finished with your report and washed the grime of a long mission from your skin, you contacted Hunter and started your journey to Dex’s Diner. The small restaurant had been a Coruscant staple for years, but it had recently seen a huge surge in business. Not only did Dex make fantastic food, but he served meals to anyone who wanted to buy them. The Besalisk had a firm open-door policy, especially where clone troopers were concerned. Off-duty clone troopers were a common sight in the diner, laughing and mingling with Coruscanti civilians.

Hunter was already inside, having secured a booth tucked away in the corner. While clone troopers were far from rare at Dex’s Diner, Jedi were seen less often, especially since the war had begun.

Still, you slid into the booth across from Hunter and gave your usual order to the serving droid. Surreptitiously, you input your credit information as well, paying for the entire meal before it had the chance to deliver a total.

“What is that smile?” Hunter asked, offering one of his own.

“Nothing,” you said, waving off his question. “So, what have you and Clone Force 99 been up to since I saw you last?”

Hunter blew out a breath. “It’s been - what? A year since we saw you?”

“Yes, nearly that,” you agreed, trying to keep the edge of sadness from your voice. Early in the war, you had been on a series of missions with the Bad Batch and had planned to keep working with them, but a member of the Jedi Council had sensed your attachment when you returned planetside. You had been reassigned and ordered to cut ties with the enhanced troopers before the attachment grew stronger.

You had reluctantly done as you were told, but saying goodbye to Clone Force 99 had been difficult. In retrospect, that was likely a good sign that you were indeed getting attached to these troopers. However, that hadn’t stopped you from meeting Hunter today, the first time you had ran into him since following that order. It was with a surge of guilt that you realized you had taken care not to let any other occupants of the Temple see you leave. You hadn’t wanted them to ask where you were going…

“Hey,” Hunter said sharply, drawing your attention back to him. “Where did you go?”

“Nowhere in particular,” you excused yourself. “I’m sorry, I missed what you said.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Hunter told you. “I just sat here and watched you get lost in your own head. Stay out of there. After all, I don’t get to see you every day.”

“Fair enough,” you conceded. “How have things been going for you out there?”

Hunter shrugged. “Pretty well. We haven’t found another Jedi who works with us as well as you did, but the few we’ve been assigned to have been competent.”

From Hunter, that was high praise indeed. “And who have you been assigned to?”

“Well…” he mused, “We did a few missions with General Unduli and you know we usually work with Commander Cody and General Kenobi. We did just finish a mission with General Skywalker, though.”

“And how did that go?” you asked, smiling at the thought of the GAR’s most unorthodox squad working with the Jedi Order’s most unorthodox Knight.

Hunter rolled his eyes dramatically and launched into the story of rescuing one of Skywalker’s troopers who had been captured by the Separatists. It was horrifying to think of one of the Republic’s soldiers in enemy captivity for so long, but Hunter nearly had your sides splitting when he talked about Captain Rex brawling with Crosshair, Tech leaping onto the back of some winged creature, and Wrecker demolishing an entire Separatist fleet.

“I bet Wrecker was thrilled!” you said to the last point, still laughing.

“He was, of course,” Hunter agreed, sending a soft smile your way. “He’ll forever be looking for ways to top that mission, so I guess I have Skywalker to thank for that.”

“Oh, I needed this,” you sighed, wiping a tear from the corner of your eye.

“Want to talk about it?” Hunter asked. “I get the feeling you haven’t been happy about much lately.”

“Oh-” you stammered, his insight stunning you for a moment. “I don’t know if there’s any particular reason…” 

“If you had to think of one, then,” Hunter suggested. 

You blew out a thoughtful breath, trying to gather a year’s worth of abstract thoughts and quickly stifled smiles into a cohesive summary. “It’s… hm. It doesn’t feel… right, to laugh and joke when soldiers like you and your brothers are working so hard and so seriously to win battles. It seems- seems almost like ignoring their sacrifices. People are dying every moment, and being happy feels… frivolous, somehow?”

“You aren’t sacrificing people, if it makes you feel any better,” Hunter told you consolingly. “Just clones.”

You had stood from the table before you knew what had happened. Hunter stared up at you in surprise, a rare expression from a man whose senses allowed him to predict behaviors so well. 

“I don’t think this meeting was a good idea,” you told him bluntly. “I’ll see you later.”

“Wait-” Hunter started, trying to rise from the table, but he was interrupted by the arrival of the serving droid. The droid, oblivious to things such as tense silences, began busily unloading its tray of food onto the table, its position trapping Hunter in his seat.

You watched in silence as the table was set to the precise specifications that the droid had been programmed to deliver. Hunter, avoiding your gaze, fiddled with his silverware, ruining the droid's perfect symmetry with only a touch.

When the droid had finished and rolled away, Hunter looked up at you, confusion and guilt mingling on his face. He gestured to your plate. "Please?"

You eased back into the seat after a moment of thought. Hunter couldn't know why you were upset if you didn't give him the benefit of an explanation.

To give yourself a moment of thought, you unfolded your napkin and spread it across your lap. When you were done, you made direct and unblinking eye contact with Hunter. "It hurts me when you talk about the troopers like their lives have less meaning. Like they deserve nothing more than death to achieve a goal."

"That's what we were told all our lives," Hunter countered carefully. "At least the regs were told they could die in sacrifice for the Republic. We were told that we deserved to die because we were different."

The disgust and self-loathing in Hunter's last word made you reach out and cover his hand with yours. You made no effort to influence him - you respected him far too much for that - but you tried to convey your sympathy with a touch.

"And now you know that isn't true in the slightest," you reminded him. "I can't change a moment of your past, but we can all impact our shared present to create the future we deserve."

Hunter's warm fingers flexed under yours as he flipped his hand over to weave your fingers together. 

"That's why you're the Jedi we keep asking to be assigned to," he said with a fond smile. "You don't see us for what we can do for you, for the Republic. You just see us."

You raised your eyebrows at that, your heart feeling lighter than it had since the early days of the war. "As if the Bad Batch could be tied to a single Jedi…"

"For you?" Hunter pretended to think about it. "I think we could give it a try."

With a shared smile, the two of you turned your attention to the food you had ordered. Neither of you commented on your hands, still intertwined on the table between you.

---

A/N - I originally had a different ending in mind, but I liked this one too much to change it. I’ll leave it up to you to decide what happens when Hunter realizes that you’ve already paid for your food! 

Thanks for the request, @dreamingofclones! I hope you enjoyed!