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i-hate-spitelout-jorgenson · 2 years

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Nonononono I would love to hear you get into why you despise the hidden world i am always ready to add more reasons to my list

This is gonna be super messy and infodumpy but you asked and I deliver. fueled by rage, 40°c/100°f weather and no aircon.

First of all, The Hidden World was NOT exactl up for success. The first two films had two people workin together: Chris Sanders and Dean DeBlois. in the first film they were both directors, in the second one was a director and one was an executive producer. The first two are regarded generally as some of Dreamworks' best work, only really tailing films like Shrek and Shrek 2. The Hidden World isn't. I cant say I know a lot about what Sanders and DeBlois individually contributed to the films, but I can say this with confidence: DeBlois does not understand the dragons on a fundamental level. Time and time again the dragons are shown to be intelligent, capable understanding human speech and sarcasm, being fully sentient and sapient just as we are. For whatever reason, DeBlois never seemed to get this. Thats why The Hidden World treats the dragons like wild animals with instincts and a call for the wild when theyre shown to not be like that at all. At some point during the film, Astrid says, "What did you expect? You gave him his freedom, Hiccup." (paraphrased). Thats bullshit. And thats not even headcanon, its just bullshit. The whole idea of dragons being called away by their instincts to start a family and move on was already done in Gift Of The Nightfury, and it did it better! Literally the entire point of that short was that the dragons CHOSE to come back. They didn't want freedom, they wanted companionship - which clearly they understand as deeply as we do. Toothless is a special case, because its debateable that he never had those instincts to begin with. To that I say: Why didn't he have them to begin with? What was different about this time? That he SAW the lightfury? Gift Of The Nightfury was made to explore the idea of dragons laying eggs as a part of their instincts. If laying eggs is part of the instinct, why did Toothless and the Lightfury only do that like fifteen-twenty years later? And I dont have an answer for that. DeBlois did not direct Gift Of The Nightfury, but he worked on it. He watched the project grow and go through all of its developmental stages and came out of it learning apparently nothing. How To Train Your Dragon and How To Train Your Dragon 2 (as well as its respective TV shows) recognised the dragons as a very expressive, very complex part of the universe that have friends, familial ties, personalities, morals, emotions, understanding of human language. They dont get this treatment in The Hidden World. In The Hidden World Toothless is reduced to a romanticised, horny house dog.

DeBlois also doesn't seem to fully grasp the bond that the dragons and riders have. Toothless specifically has repeatedly risked his life for Hiccup. Off the top of my head, he saved him from that avalanche and risked being buried alive or dying of hypothermia; he (several times) swims far too deep to attempt to rescue Hiccup; he dives into the Red Death's fire to save hiccup; he deters, oh I don't know, a BEWILDERBEAST in order to protect hiccup. He has never truly in his life chose something over Hiccup. And you're telling me the Lightfury shows up, SHOOTS AT HICCUP, and Toothless still risks it all for some pussy? Like seriously? That bitch would have been GONE within seconds.

Now, I can't find a source for this, so take it with a grain of salt, but just like how the original villain of the second film was Valka, apparently the original pitch for the third was that they find a cave full of Nightfuries. First of all this wouldve been so much more interesting. I cant speak for Race To The Edge, but the ENTIRETY of Riders of Berk, Defenders of Berk, and even How To Train Your Dragon 2 lead up to the idea that maybe Toothless wasn't the last of his kind. I couldnt tell you how many times its alluded to in the show alone. And you're telling me, after, what, seven years, your answer is just, "That guy killed them all"? Which brings me onto Grimmel.

The selling point of Grimmel is that he's smart. He's the most intelligent villain they've fought yet. Personally I think thats fucking stupid. Thats not only blatantly untrue in regards to the actually intelligent antagonists they HAVE faced, hes also just not that smart. When he presents the ultimatum, among other things, Toothless could literally just shoot him. When he shows up in Hiccup's hut, Toothless could literally just shoot him. Even if hes fireproof (which i dont remember if he is) hes not momentum proof. A better point of interest on Grimmel would have been, "Hes the first villain weve really seen actively murder dragons." (Unincluding the red death). Which, ok, maybe. Hes still boring.

The designs. the designsbfurghensnebdndbd d

OKOK SO. Lets start simple. Toothless is so chunky. They really didn't understand what makes Toothless intimidating. Hes scary because hes sleek and aerodynamic and not because hes a beefy macho wrestler. Hes a panther! Thats the intimidation!!! And i guess I cant put it off anymore so lets talk about the Kids Youtube monstrosity this film gave us i guess.

The lightfury is... a mess. in every way. The dragons in the series are very dramatic and stylised, sure, but in a very intentional way. A Monstrous Nightmare's teeth are in no way practical but they go with the big bad carnivore idea. A Deadly Nadder is not at all expressive compared to other dragons but neither are birds, which it resembles. Most boulder class dragons would in no way be able to fly, but it adds to the idea that they are heavily armoured and underestimated. In the case of the Nightfury, it makes sense from an evolutionary standpoint. It has large eyes because it lives in dark coastal caves. Its black because it is mostly nocturnal with hunting. It has echolocation BECAUSE of said dark coastal caves. However, when it comes to the lightfury, the design is... lacking. Smushed face not at all practical for fishing. Certain bird of prey and even dinosaurs (e.g spinosaurus) have distinctively long, thin mouths/beaks FOR FISHING. Lightfuries are not aquatic, and since they are presumably an evolution branch away from nightfuries, they probably cant spend too long in the water. Lightfuries have strangely smooth, round features. Its tail fins and wings being round make. next to zero sense. For the first film the creators took a pilots class to understand how flying works. I didnt. but i dont think that work, especially not for one of the fastest dragons. Its legs are weirdly shaped and It. Fucking. Sparkles. Its sparkly. Its 2019 fella I thought we learnt our lesson with Twilight. Shes so unneccessarily feminine its gross. And sure, The idea of variation between sex is shown but in very minor incidences. For example, The main differences between male and female Nadders are the curvature of the horn on the nose and which jaw is out more (overbite/underbite but idk which is which).

The Lightfury is also. Mean? Literally a softcore manic pixie dream girl? Its not even the cliche of like, she teaches him about the wild while he teaches her about stuff he learnt in "captivity" and theyre both endeared by the others ideas and home lives. She actively puts him down for everything and leads him on at the same time? its very strange. Also, Toothless' mating dances couldve worked on a Nightfury. We dont know. Theyre different species at the end of the day.

And the worst part about the Lightfury to me is that all of these issues are so easily solvable. For design, you have at least 2 options:

1. Make her a Nightfury.

I recognise they made her white so they were easy to tell apart. solution: Albino. done.

2. Make her a variation of Nightfury.

Plenty of people on this site have pointed out itd be plausible that there are, for example, Northern Nightfuries that live in harshly cold environments and are bulky and stong! Toothless seems like a wifeguy anyway let the man have a beefy wife

I've expressed this before, but I think that the ending is very lazy. Just tacking it on at the end that they have to leave bc they dont want more films. I have read the books before. I dont remember a lot about them, but I do remember that very little tracks. Like a couple of character names and thats basically it. Theyve NEVER attempted to replicate the books before, why start at the end of the final film? Its not even like there was very much motivation behind it. The dragon riders always win. I genuinely believe that the third film would have benefited from killing off Snotlout.

And yeah. I love him, hes my favourite character, this blog is centered around how much i hate his shitty dad. But his character went NO WHERE in the last film. Id even argue he got worse. Snotlout is a character where a lot of the appeal comes from the hope that he will be better. And he is! Compare his behaviour from The first few episodes of Riders Of Berk to the end of Defenders Of Berk. There is probably less than a year between them and it is night and day. He goes from being a school ground bully who neglects and actively deprives his dragon of sleep to someone who would maim, kill, die for him. You get to Race To The Edge and he is still the same cocky asshole, but he cares so deeply about his friends. He is inconsolable for days when Hookfang is thought to be leaving him. He cries of happiness at the wedding of his cousin and the girl he liked. He shows, more than probably anyone in the series, incredible growth. And then The Hidden World happens. To name a few things, he:

- Flirts relentlessly with his aunt

- Mocks his cousin's recently dead father ("Who died and made you chief?)

- Competes for power with Hiccup

And I think that killing him off would check the boxes of being closer tied with the books, Giving him a full redemption, and giving Hiccup a (albeit extreme) reason to send the dragons away. At that point Hiccup would have lost his mother (although she lived), his father, his leg, and his cousin (or best friend depending on interpretation) to dragons or to fighting FOR dragons. Thats got to be enough at some point.

Back on the subject of Hiccup, he was so... off. He's an absolute nerd when it comes to dragons (/pos)! He would never find a species of dragon and get upset that Toothless spent time with it, especially not A FURY???? He spends the whole film talking about Toothless and the Lightfury as if hes an over protective dad which again leads back to the ides of DeBlois not understanding the dragons fundamentally. The joke, to my understanding, is meant to be that he is treating his pet like his son that just started dating. But Toothless isnt his pet. Toothless is his friend. Thats not the relationship at all. And again, Hiccup wouldn'nt be??? upset???over that???

Ruffnut lost ALL of her nuance and interest and is now just "stupid." Tuff is... okay, i guess. Fishlegs is reduced to being motherly and feminine when hes otherwise CONSTANTLY shown being extremely intelligent and would also NEVER leave out Meatlug???? Ive already spoken about Snotlout, and Astrid is now just kind of. Hiccup's sidekick?? What happened she was literally so cool and stern and cutthroat and genuinely had chemistry with Hiccup. Now shes just there to give him advice. Dont get me wrong, I love the conversational parallels that have with the first movie, but they dont feel earned. they feel like its trying to leech off of nostalgia of the first movie. She also looks physically very different for some reason.

TL:DR, The Hidden World is a movie aimed at kids for a franchise that was always aimed at families. the themes are dull, characters are ooc, designs are ugly, and the problems are easy fixes

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itsmrvlxh50 · 2 months

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Thanks @cherikdogfood for tagging me, I really enjoyed answering these questions.

Are you named after anyone?

Yes my great grandmother, and they told me she was a viery fierce and strong woman, she had also resisted to the Bulgarians during their occupation of Thrace in WW2. I am proud to be named after her!

When was the last time you cried?

Like real, physical tears? I never cried like that as far as I remember. I am physically unable to cry and currently working on that with my therapist, yk letting myself feel things. But this quite sobbing, when my team got knocked out of thecup a couple of months ago because of a shitty referee. I tend to get angry when feeling overwhelmed so I usually shout.

Do you have kids?

No, unless you count my pets

What sport do you play/have played?

A lot! I mainly did horseback riding my whole life but I also played basketball for about three tears and my team were in the first youth league at the time. I also played handball and tennis and did track and kick boxing. I also played football (where you kick the ball with your feet) for three years and I was a goalkeeper, I would have played in my national team if I didn’t have so many injures and an acl surgery during my second season and my exams and also the covid pandemic during my third season. But if I have to sum up, I do horseback riding for 15 years and football for 3, I hope I get back to it one day.

Do you use sarcasm?

Yeah, more now that I grew up.

What's the first thing you notice about people?

How tall they are, and their colour of their eyes!

What's your eye color?

Blue!

Happy ending comedies or horror?

Happy ending comedies, B99 is a huge fave of mine.

Any talents?

I am a very good artist, I draw very well on pen (but I barely post it) and I have been writing screenplays ever since I was 5 y/o. I have a talent for languages as well but I barely use it since I hate learning grammar. I can speak 3 so far (my native Greek, English and French) and I still work on two more (German and Italian).

Where were you born?

Greece!

What are your hobbies?

I am a scout, I love horseback riding, I love to draw and write, watching movies and our favorite football team with my sister and play lots of sports. I also like to go for a run at 06:00 in the morning and recently got into watching F1.

Any pets?

Yes, my dog Teddy, my mom says he is a mini copy of me but he is afraid of everything in this world and I am of nothing. I also count my sister’s cat Kitty and my brother’s parrot Corey since we all live in the same house and because they are younger than me, I used to help take care of them.

How tall are you?

180cm (I think it’s 6ft)

Dream job?

Military officer! I want to join the Air Force.

Favorite food?

Rice with schnitzel and white sauce with mushrooms, cheese and bacon.

I know I am supposed to tag more people but I really have no idea who to tag, so I didn’t.

#about me #games

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eirian-houpe · 2 years

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Hello, Cedar, dear! It's your bread-scent loving Santa! You made me feel warm and nostalgic reading your answer! And, as fate does it, right after reading your reply I've stumbled upon bread scented candle which I immediately bought (well, not bread, but croissant, but it's somewhere in that space haha). Now I made it my own special ritual to light this specific candle while I create your gift 😌 I hope you're having a good week this far, and today I'm here to ask you some more questions (bc your Santa is nosy af)! 1. Do you consider yourself a funny person? How can you describe your sense of humour in a few words? 2. What is your top-3 Rumbelle fics? 3. Aaaand of course, which Anyem pairing do you like the most? Is there one that has taken your heart? Sending you love and only positive vibes, xoxo, Santa

Hello, Santa. I am having a reasonable week so far - though it's only Monday, but it was a good Monday, so I guess that counts for something, right? Just four more days until Winter Break begins!

I love your questions, and I shall try to answer them in the same way that I have the others - but without going on too much. I do that sometimes, you know.

The first question. I don't really consider myself a funny person. I mean I guess I might be, but I don't see it that way. It's a tricky thing to be funny when MDD and anxiety have their twin hooks in you. You know, the person I think that does manage to be funny even with all of her mental disorders is a writer called, Jenny Lawson. She wrote a couple of books that I love to pieces, one is called Let's Pretend this Never Happened, and the other is called Furiously Happy. They're a scream if you ever get the inkling to read something like that. As for my sense of humor, I have an incredibly dry sense of humor (inherited that from my dad), and sarcasm is my second language - I'm quite fluent.

My top three Rumbelle fics? Oh boy! Now you're asking the tough questions. Without a doubt, I'd have to say The Long Game by @emospritelet without whom I wouldn't even be a part of the Rumbelle community. It was her fic that first made my dip my toe in the Tumblr Rumbelle community. Another of my favorite fics is Awake by @peacehopeandrats. I love the concept, (and I love the show that gave the inspiration for the fic too). I'm hoping they will find inspiration to write more of it. My third is a tie really between Jupiter's Water and Fortis Fortuna Adiuvat both of which are by @deliriumsdelight7. I just can't choose between the two.

The Anyem pairing threw me for a bit of a loop, because of course I read Anyelle first of all, which is a much easier question to answer. (It being Rushbelle). But Anyem... that's a tricky one. I can't honestly say that I've read many Anyem to be honest. However, thinking about it, (quite hard), Nadia Sierri/Robert Sutherland. I think that one would be interesting.

Hope you are also having a good week so far, and are keeping the Gabriel faith. :) This time of year my mind runs to Jethro Tull though. Solstice Bells.

#rumbelle secret santa #Eirian's Santa

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troubatrain · 3 years

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want you to want me - m. tkachuk

a/n: i’m awful at intros but this fic is my whole ass child. i started it months ago and i picked it up back and then i just couldn’t stop writing. now we’re at a whopping 10k words and i’m really happy with the way this one came out. i hope you guys like it as much as i loved writing it.

big thanks to @hookingminor @igor-shestyorkin & @tkafuckit for reading this as i wrote it and gassing me up ily all sm

warnings: smut

You were Matthew’s dream girl, and you didn’t have a fucking clue. You were leaning against the cold metal bleachers of your former high school, chatting with whatever teacher probably wanted to hear all about that shiny NWSL contract you signed right out of college with the Chicago Red Stars. It was well deserved, a few national titles in college put you in the position in the first place, and Matthew respected the hell out of you. You wouldn’t know, by the way he never seems like he actually wants to speak to you and the few snide remarks about your sport in general. That started forever ago, when Matthew royally fucked up any chance he had with you later in life because he was a competitive asshole.

It started when you were twelve, and middle school was nothing short of a mess. Matthew was growing into his own, adding a near foot to his height over one summer while his father and coaches doted on the fact that he was getting bigger. Getting bigger meant getting better, and for a few years winning was the most important thing in the world. But, becoming a hormonal preteen came with something else, feelings about the girl who sat three rows behind him in almost all of his classes.

Then third period gym class came around, and Matthew was a competitive monster. The kind of kid who took that way too seriously, and you accidentally became public enemy number one. You were the only person in his class who could even come close to beating him at anything, because you were just as much of an athlete as he was. Soccer had become your craft, and much like Matthew, you declared you’d go pro one day. So, Matthew did what any other insecure twelve year old boy would, he teased you relentlessly. It was awful, but by the time Matthew had gone off to play for the National team you had forgotten about his bullshit.

Apparently, you’d done something in a past life to warrant dealing with Matthew for longer than you ever anticipated. Jamie was your little sister, and Taryn’s best friend. Best friend was probably understatement, the pair were inseparable on and off the field. They trained together, they played on the same teams and that meant way too much time with the rest of the Tkachuk’s. You learned quickly, that the rest of their family was wonderful and Matthew seemed to be too thick headed to fall in line.

You tolerated Matthew, brushing his silly remarks off just like you did when you were younger. The thing was, Matthew didn’t want you to just tolerate him, but he didn’t know how to get you to stop hating him. You make your way over to Matthew who’d been standing next to his brother since the start of your sister’s game.

“Hi Brady,” You greet, tapping Brady on the shoulder who pulled you into a bone crushing hug. That annoyed Matthew the most, the way you seemed to love his siblings and despise him. In your defense, nobody was more supportive of your professional career than Brady, who’d made a promise to catch a game the second he could, “Hi Matthew.”

You were waiting for something from Matthew, an acknowledgement for finally achieving a dream of yours. You’d gotten the congratulations from the rest of his family, a massive celebration because Keith thought you deserved it. Matthew probably didn’t think you did. You could practically hear his smug little voice about how much his recently inked contract was compared to yours, because you’d heard it since you were kids. He used to rip on your athletic abilities every chance he could, something about how it didn’t matter how hard you could kick a ball you couldn’t hold a hockey stick so he was just better.

“You’re here!” You hear the chipper voice of your little sister approach, Jamie’s sweaty postgame arms wrapped around your waist. You’d been in Chicago, signing some paperwork and looking into finding a place to stay when you had to go for camp. You promised you’d make it back in time, and your flight landed less than five hours ago but you made it.

Matthew bit the inside of his cheek to keep his smile to himself, watching his own sister push past him to see you. Taryn loved you, because sometimes she just needed a big sister and her brothers were in another country most

of the time. It was the part that killed him the most, seeing you with his family. You fit right in, a fierce athlete with drive that rivaled his own. Brady side-eyed his own brother, watching him instead of the scene unfolding in front of him. He was frustrated with his own brother for not just telling you the truth, that he teased you because he was an idiot who didn’t know how to handle having a crush on you.

But Brady was going to do it himself if his brother didn’t.

***

Matt, you don’t have a girlfriend right?

Matthew knew damn well he should not have answered his sister’s question, but when he realized her best friend had been sitting right next to her in the kitchen, his curiosity got the best of him. So he did, telling his sister he was single and sparing her details of any of the girls he’d gone on dates with the past year. That was his life is Calgary, a constant revolving door so no one would see what was underneath layers of sarcasm and angst. But every summer, he’d come home and wonder when he’d start to build a life for himself, and if he’d ever find that person to do it with. That was when his brain would start to wander, fantasies of a future that always seemed to involve you. He loved to imagine it, the years that you’d both spend supporting the other’s dream. Matthew would do anything to make sure you achieved yours, and he thought you’d do the same. Then you’d both settle down, the big house with the white picket fence and a shiny ring on your finger Matthew put there himself and years of arguing about what sport your future children would play - he’d even consider letting you have just one.

Unfortunately, none of that could be real until he figured out how to get you to hate him less. Taryn apparently had the same idea, and had been scheming with your sister for months. The two girls were looking at Matthew with devilish grins on their faces, like whatever they came up with would totally work.

“Y/N doesn’t have a boyfriend,” Your sister hums, sipping the smoothie they forced Matthew to drive them to go get, “It’s sad actually-”

“We think you should date,” Taryn explains, Matthew’s eyes went wide. His sister didn’t know the whole story, or just how far back this stupid fued went. Taryn always loved you, so Matthew just kept his remarks to himself.

“I know you know Y/N doesn’t like me very much,” Matthew explains, “So tell me how that’s going to work.”

“Apologize to her, if she can forgive me for anything she’ll forgive you,” Jamie sighs, thinking of all the times you’d shown her mercy when she didn’t deserve it.

“You’ve got to be sorry,” Brady interrupts, mouth full of food while he goes to go look for more in the fridge. He turns around, Matthew’s eyes giving him daggers, “What? You were a dick to her for years, you’ve got to fix that first.”

It didn’t take much convincing after that, Taryn had already planned out what Matthew should say to you. Matthew wasn’t going to repeat those words, because he knew exactly what he’d say to you if he ever got the chance. He was trying to fix his past, because the way he acted towards you was the one thing he regrets.

So with the help of your little sister and the Find my Friends app, Matthew was pulling up to a soccer field he’d been to plenty of times. He used to run through the park nearby, catching a glimpse of your practices when you were in high school and Matthew was an afterthought. He hops out of his car, smiling when he could see you running drills alone. You were dribbling the ball, counting to yourself while you were weaving through cones you set up.

“I’ve never been good at those,” Matthew calls out, walking over to you while you stopped and caught your breath, “I kick the cones with my skate every single time.”

“Maybe you’re not as good as you think you are,” You tease, grabbing your water and guzzling it down, “What are you doing here?”

“I, uh, I came to apologize?” Matthew admits, knowing his face was probably bright red. He was nervous, the good kind like he got before a big game, “I was just an insecure kid then, and you didn’t deserve what I did just because I was afraid you’d beat in something.”

Matthew left out the part where he felt like he was still that kid all the time. All of those insecurities about himself seemed to be picked up by every reporter in Canada when he was there. You bit your lip, pretending like you were trying to debate whether or not you should forgive Matthew at all. In reality, you would have forgiven him ages ago if he’d just apologized sooner. It was so long ago, and sometimes you thought Matthew’s constant taunting made you better. He was pleading, baby blue eyes staring at you sadly while he waited for your answer. He looked like he didn’t think he deserved to be forgiven, shoulders slumped while he tried to read your body language. It was something you noticed about Matthew forever ago, he could have everything in the world but when he looked at you he seemed almost sad.

“I mean I could forgive you, but only if you beat me,” You cross your arms, raising an eyebrow at Matthew, “If I win, I don’t have to and if you win all is forgiven.”

“Really? Isn’t that why we were in this situation to begin with?” Matthew points out, crossing his arms at you.

“I thought you weren’t that kid anymore,” You remind of his own words, testing him to see if he’d put his money where his mouth was. Matthew smirks, chuckling to himself, “C’mon Tkachuk let’s see what you got.”

Matthew shook his head, laughing and lining up next to you. You both counted to three, sprinting down the field at full force. Matthew knew his height was the only thing working to his advantage while he tried to keep up with you. You were nearing your finish line, and Matthew didn’t think he was going to win. You were going to forgive him regardless, but Matthew didn’t know that. His arms stretched out, grabbing your waist and pulling you into his chest. Matthew turned his body around, stepping over the line before you did.

“God, you’re such a fucking cheater Matthew,” You hit his chest, Matthew’s hands still firmly placed on your hips.

“I didn’t want to lose,” Matthew admits, all of his smug attitude diminishing immediately, “Just want you to forgive me.”

“I’ll forgive you if you never pull that shit on me again,” You poke his chest, slipping out of his grip and running to your stuff before he could notice how nervous he was making you.

No. Absolutely not. You told yourself while you checked your phone, rolling your eyes at the warning text from Jamie that Matthew was on his way, you couldn’t have anything but indifference to Matthew Tkachuk. It got harder everytime you saw him, the past few years had been nothing short of kind to him, he was growing from a dumb immature boy to a man more and more every summer. You turn around, peeking at Matthew who was sitting down and catching his breath, a winning smile on his face, the same kind he had the very first time he schooled everyone at floor hockey in middle school.

Maybe you could be friends.

***

Matthew liked having you as a friend, mostly because as of right now that was all he was going to get. You definitely didn’t trust him, which was valid considering Matthew had been a dick to you for years, but he was working on it. He had to, that uncontrollable feeling that he cared about you was getting harder to shove back down with every year that passed.

“You’re friends now, you don’t need to stare at her like a creep anymore,” Brady scoffs, watching his brother gawk at you from afar. Matthew couldn’t help it, you just had a glow about you, you always did, but somehow in the summer you were golden. Tonight you looked even better, maybe it’s because you smiled at him when he walked instead of scowling like you usually did.

“He’s in love with you,” Steph giggles, sipping her drink and giving Matthew a side eye, “He’s been staring at you all night.”

“He apologized to me,” You confess, holding in that little secret about Matthew’s visit to the field even from your best friend. You had the same friends, the same group of people who’d been pushing the two of you to work it out for years. It wasn’t that you didn’t want them to know that they no longer had to worry about one of you blowing up because the other was there, you just wanted everyone to let it go too. Matthew deserved a little forgiveness, you could only imagine the pressure he felt on himself back then, and while he didn’t totally deserve your protection - you were going to give it to him, “Don’t-”

“Oh wonder why, I know it’s because he looooves you,” Steph teases, “Did you forgive him?”

“Yeah I mean we’re both older and I’d like to think he’s wiser, and besides our parents are way too close,” You knew this was going to be your excuse for a while. It was better for everyone that you forgave him, Jamie and Taryn spent more time together than you’d spend with anyone and you're just as close with the rest of their family. It wasn’t untrue that it was in fact for the best, but that didn’t mean Matthew’s stupid dimples didn’t persuade you before you could think about anyone else, “Can we stop talking about this?”

Matthew’s eyes didn’t leave you once that night, especially after the way Steph downed tequila shots and convinced you to join her. You deserved to celebrate, you’d accomplished something Matthew knew was your biggest dream because it was the same as his. He was proud of you, not that he’d gotten a chance to show it.

“If you’re going to go pro Y/N, you’ve got to start keeping up,” Brady chirps, watching you stumble over your own feet to walk over to him and Matthew. Matthew had seen this once before, a level of drunkenness where you turned into bambi but that was so long ago he never thought he’d see it again.

“I’ll go pro in beating your ass Brady,” You snap back, shooting daggers over Brady who was already cracking up, “Hi Matthew.”

“Hi,” Matthew’s voice was small, a weird sound considering he was usually the loudest in the room. Brady scoffs, walking away from the two of you before he snaps at how hopelessly in love his brother was. You turn your head in confusion, your mind far too hazy to realize why Brady was so annoyed in the first place, causing Matthew to chuckle, “Want to play? Might be best if we’re on the same team.”

Matthew’s thumb shot over to the beer pong set up on the other side of the room, a mischievous smirk on face, “I mean if it’s for the best.”

Matthew’s arm wrapped around your shoulders holding you close to his chest while you both played pong was definitely not for the best, and it wasn’t helping that stupid crush you had on him. You could feel Steph’s stare from the corner of the room, and you look at her to mouth a don’t at her. It was nice having Matthew on your team, finally a moment where instead of arguing with each other about who’s elbow was clearly over the table - you got to do the same thing to Brady.

“Brady you’re cheating,” You call out, Matthew’s head thrown back in laughter at your seriousness.

“You heard her Brady, elbows over the table,” Matthew breathes out, his body still rumbling with laughter at his little brother’s expense.

“Oh look at you two, you’re just gonna raise some winners one day aren’t you?” Brady chirps back, both happy to see you getting along and annoyed once he realizes that means he was going to get roasted by both of you now. You felt heat rush to your cheeks, tucking your face into Matthew’s arm in hopes no one saw the way you shrunk at that stupid joke.

“We’re winners right now,” Matthew calls out, his last ball landing in the cup and sealing the game for the two of you. Matthew would raise winners with you, it was something he thought about from time to time, but those thoughts were never going to see the light of day, “Alright drunky I think it’s time to get you home.”

“You can stay, I’ll just catch a ride with someone,” You waive Matthew off, who shook his head no at you before you even started speaking.

“One, my dad would kick my ass if he knew I left you,” Matthew starts with, holding up one finger with another on the way, “Two, we’re friends now and I’d like to make sure you don’t die before you see a pro game.”

Matthew had seen you this drunk before, but what he didn’t know was that getting you home would be more difficult than he thought. You started in the direction of your house, but apparently you were a runner and a speedy one at that. Now you were barely two blocks away from Matthew’s parents place and if he could at least get you there he’d be able to call it a night - which wasn’t fucking easy.

“Alright I’ve had enough,” Matthew huffs, jogging to catch up with you and scooping you into his arms. You were hanging over his shoulder, Matthew making his way down the street with the house in his sightline. You could have cared less, laughing your ass off while Matthew walked up the stairs and finally placed you back down on your feet, “Be quiet, go up to my room and get some clothes and go sleep in the guest room.”

You weren’t quiet, not at all and Matthew was amazed not one of his parents came down to see what all the chaos was about. After Matthew had to walk you up the stairs, running back down for some water and hoping you weren’t a disaster by the time he got back - he found you in his bed. You were curled up right in the middle, an old London Knights shirt on your body, Matthew’s favorite. Matthew grabs his comforter, throwing it over your body. He sighs, leaning against his door frame and smiling to himself at how comfortable you looked, flicking off the light and retreating to the guest room.

Matthew hated the guest room. He hated how hard the mattress was and after a few hours of no sleep and tossing and turning - he gave up. Matthew hoped no one else was up, but not to his surprise his mother was already in the kitchen, and judging by the look on her face, she knew who was upstairs.

“Care to explain?” Chantal smirks, raising her eyebrows at her son. Matthew’s face got red, his landing on the back of his neck to cover the blush.

“She fell asleep before I could even get her to the guest room,” Matthew shrugs, hoping his mom wouldn’t push it any further, “I, uh, apologized the other day.”

“Good,” Chantal hums, a knowing look on her face. She didn’t like to push Matthew, her one kid who seemed to be a little rougher around the edges than the others, but that silly feud never sat right with her, “Here, bring her a coffee, I’m sure she needs it.”

Matthew nods, grabbing the mug his mother was holding out and starting to make his way up the stairs. He heard the tell her you made it from his mother and shook his head. He knew what she was thinking, especially with the way Chantal seemed to talk about you. His mother thought you were nothing short of perfect, and Matthew would be a liar if he didn’t think the same thing.

“Did I fall asleep here?” You’d woken up confused, your question only answered by the jerseys hanging on the walls, you were in Matthew’s room. You rub your eyes, the door creaking open way too loudly for how dead you felt.

“Only after you almost fell down the stairs and ran three blocks in the wrong direction,” Matthew chuckles, sitting on the edge of the bed and handing you the mug, “You know you’re fast right?”

“Yeah,” You muse, smirking to yourself and taking a sip of coffee, “I’m sorry I did that to you, and stole your bed - I can go.”

Matthew stopped you, telling to finish your coffee and relax and he’d drive you home after. You fell into a comfortable conversation, something Matthew never thought would happen.

And watching you walk up to your steps in his shirt still wasn’t something he thought he’d see, but it was better than he imagined.

***

“Hey it’s Jamie, can’t get to the phone right now…”

You groan, tossing your phone onto your bed and continuing your pace around the room. It was well after midnight, and your sister had been out all night, and past her curfew. Usually you’d cover for her, definitely taking the prize home for the cool older sister who picks her siblings and their friends up from parties. That’s what had you so worried. Sure, Jamie was a teenager and she snuck in a few little white lies with your parents just like you’d done, but Jamie always told you the truth. She’d check in with you more than her parents, letting you know that she’s going to be out late but she’s safe and if she needed anything she knew who to call. You texted sometime around ten, just checking in since it was Saturday and you were sure she had a more riveting social life than yourself. No answer. Then eleven rolled around and you didn’t hear anything, so naturally you double texted and now it’s twelve thirty and you still haven’t heard anything. You cross your arms, looking at your phone as if you could will an answer into existence. You grab it, dialing a number you weren’t even sure would work.

“Hello?” Matthew’s voice appeared on the other side of the line, clear confusion in his voice. You let out a sigh of relief, hoping Matthew would have the answer you wanted to hear so desperately.

“Is my sister at your house?” You ask, biting your lip and throwing on a pair of sweats so you could pick her up and murder her for scaring you like that. You were sure it was innocent, Jamie slept over at Taryn’s all the time, staying up way too late watching movies or when Jamie would hide going to a party from your much stricter parents.

Matthew tells you to give him a minute, and you can hear him walking through the house. By the time you heard a door open and a small fuck under his breath, your stomach dropped, “She was supposed to be home by midnight.”

“Alright, thanks anyways,” You sigh, “Do you know where they might have gone? It’s just, Jamie hasn’t answered me in hours and she usually does even if she’s out past curfew and I’m just-”

“I’ll be at your house in ten,” Matthew says, his keys alright in his hand and his foot halfway out the door. He was more mad than worried, sure his sister was out a party past curfew. Matthew was her biggest brother, and he was far more protective over her than Brady ever could be. He hated when she did this, and Matthew was pissed. You waited on your steps, Matthew car coming into view while you sprung up and practically sprinted into his car.

“You look mad,” You observe, as if it wasn’t completely obvious. You knew why, trying countless times to remind Taryn that her brother loves her and that’s why he’s like that. You thought he could go a little easier on her, but you wouldn’t dare get in the middle of that.

“I am mad,” Matthew grits out, knuckles white on his steering wheel while he drives slowly down the street. You just drove, in hopes you’d find what was obviously a house party and hopes your sisters were inside. You squint, hoping your eyes weren’t fooling you.

“Wait, pull over I think I see my neighbor,” You yell, Matthew’s foot flying on the break and you hop out. You were right, the bright orange tuft of hair you saw was like a miracle, “Hey Henry have you seen my sister?”

“Oh yeah I think she’s still inside,” Henry points to the house behind him, music blasting and a party in full swing, “I think she’s with Taryn.”

Matthew hops out of the car, grabbing your hand and pulling you into the house with him. Matthew’s fingers were laced with yours with every step he took, weaving through the crowd in hopes you’d see them. It took three bedrooms and a laundry room until you finally saw Taryn standing in the doorway. Her eyes went wide, and you pushed past them both to see Jamie with her head in the toilet. She was fine, well she was definitely in deep shit, but it wasn’t the worst thing to stumble upon. You throw her hair up, your attention moving to Matthew yelling at his sister in the hallway.

“Why didn’t you call someone,” Matthew yells, trying so damn hard to not completely snap on his baby sister. Taryn yells that her phone had died and then Jamie got sick and she didn’t know what to do. Of course they didn’t. You were probably more sympathetic, and you knew just how pissed off Matthew could get. You get up, pushing Taryn back into the bathroom and telling her to watch your sister.

“Calm down before you talk to her, please,” You plead, grabbing Matthew’s shoulders, “Besides, I sort of need some help right now.”

There it was. The very moment Matthew realized all along you could’ve been helping him. Your hands were wrapped around his biceps, a finger gently rubbing the skin right under the sleeve of his shirt. Every bit of anger disappeared from his body, a calm feeling replacing it. He knew you were right, and he’d be thankful for it later. Matthew knew he had to do the right thing by you, and he nodded, willing to follow any directions you gave him.

Matthew carried Jamie out of the house, getting both of your sisters in the car and finally heading back to your house. You knew he was still pissed off, a present frown on his face so you just took the chance. Just like he’d done before for you, you grabbed one of his hands from his steering wheel, lacing your fingers together. You caught the smile on his face, your thumb rubbing over his hand while his shoulders seemed to just relax. Once

Matthew finally helped you get Jamie inside, a night of laying on her floor to make sure she was okay ahead of you stood in the doorway with Matthew across from you.

“Thank you, I know we’re working on this friendship thing but you really didn’t have to do that,” You were eternally grateful, wrapping your arms around Matthew’s waist and tucking your head into his chest.

“You’d do the same thing for Taryn,” Matthew hums, knowing full well he definitely owed you for being Taryn’s replacement sibling with him and Brady in Canada for most of the year, “Get some rest okay?”

“Wait,” You stop Matthew, grabbing his hand one more time, “Don’t kill your sister, please she’s just a kid-”

“You’re way too easy on them,” Matthew chuckles, shaking his head at you. He knew Taryn was probably scared, and after he calmed a bit he understood where you were coming from. That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to tell her that if she ever pulls that shit again - he was going to rat her out to their parents.

And when Matthew finally got back in the car, he could see his sister’s grin in the backseat, “Don’t say it.”

She held your hand, are you sure you’re not going to malfunction now?

***

Maybe you were spiraling.

You’d been waiting for this moment your entire life, now you had a few more weeks until camp started and you were afraid. You knew you were good enough, you had to be. But what if you weren’t? You could feel the anxiety settling in, a feeling you hadn’t felt since Matthew told you soccer wasn’t a real sport in fourth grace. It’d been eating at you for weeks, deteriorating any confidence you had left in yourself. So you started pushing yourself even harder. The harder you worked the less like you were to fuck it all up. Your muscles were sore, your body was tired and it was just all becoming too much.

And Matthew noticed.

You were pushing yourself too hard, even the time you were supposed to relax with your families before your seasons started was being spent training. He understood it, the term first round exit lived rent free in his head every single time his skate hit the ice over the summer, but that didn’t make it okay. You looked tired, sluggish while you moved because you were running twice a day and training in between. And he was pissed everyone seemed to be fine with it. You should start working harder then Matthew. If it bothers you so much maybe you could join her. It wasn’t that he was jealous of your work ethic, he was worried. Matthew’s eyes followed you as you ran past his house again. The third time in one day, he’d finally decided he had enough.

Matthew took the walk to your house, charming the pants off your mother for her to tell him you were upstairs because you just got back in. He knocks twice, hearing a come in from the other side.

“What are you doing here?” You question, rolling one of your ankles that just seemed to be getting more swollen every time you started to practice. Matthew noticed it, your hands freezing one you caught his gaze.

“You’re overworking yourself,” Matthew stands his ground, he knew you could have told him to fuck off because no one hates advice they didn’t ask for quite like him, “Don’t tell me I’m wrong.”

“That’s rich coming from the kid who’s played with more broken bones than anyone I know,” You remind him of a few mistakes Matthew’s made playing through injuries he really shouldn’t, “I’m not fucking frail.”

“That’s not what this is about,” Matthew scoffs, it never once crossed his mind that he thought he was tough enough to play through injuries but you weren’t, “It’s about taking a break so you don’t get hurt.”

“I’m fine,” You huff, getting up and trying your best to hide the pain in your ankle when you stood on it. You fell forward, Matthew catching you in his arms and putting you back down the edge of your bed.

“Tell me what’s wrong?” Matthew asks with soft eyes, he bent down to take your ankle in his hand and inspect it the best he could. It was swelling, probably from the amount of pressure you’d been putting on your body with no breaks.

“What if I never score a goal?” You whisper, teary eyes finally meeting Matthew’s. His brows shot up, alarmed at how one of the best athletes he’s ever seen could feel the same way he felt right before his first NHL game. Matthew sits down next to you, hand on your thigh while you let out a cry, “What if I’m just a bust? Like I get there and nothing works and I suck.”

“You’ll score eventually,” Matthew scoffs, understanding how ridiculous you sounded but just how you felt at the same time, “Everyone does.”

“You scored like four games into your fucking career Matt,” You remind him, Matthew smiling a bit that you knew that to begin with. It would have been impossible not to know, or pretend like you didn’t keep a few tabs on his career. Matthew Tkachuk was a legend in the making, and whether or not you could feel butterflies in your stomach every time he dropped the gloves was a secret you’d take to the grave.

“I got suspended my first season too,” Matthew jokes, a teary eyed laugh escaping your lips, “I’d put down money you score in your first game.”

“Well good thing you have money to lose,” You sigh dramatically, the fear of fucking up still on your mind.

“You’ll find your groove, all legends do,” Matthew promises, throwing his arm around your shoulders. You snuggled into his side, a realization that he was becoming a comforting presence in your life with each passing day, “And if you don’t, you can always hide out in Canada with me.”

“Matty!” The same silly nickname Matthew introduced himself to you on your very first day of kindergarten slipped through your lips without realizing it. Matthew hadn’t been called that in ages, but it was welcome from you. You push his chest, “That’s not making me feel any better.”

“What if I told you the only reason I was so mean to you was because I was intimidated by how talented you were?” Matthew confesses, scratching your head with his fingers, “If I win a cup one day I think I owe you one.”

Matthew didn’t mention that in his wildest fantasies of raising that cup over his head, you were there. He’d owe you one and he hoped it was because you were there for him until he got there. Matthew saw it the same way every time, you’d tell him to go see his parents first but he’d fly right past them to get to you - the person who accidentally pushed him to be his best. He had plenty of daydreams about you winning too, remembering times you used to brag you’d go to the Olympics one day, and he hoped you were right. He wanted to see you succeed, more than anything, and he thought it would work.

“Legally you have to let me drink out of it,” You muse, shutting your eyes and letting yourself just rest against Matthew.

“It has to be Bud Light,” Matthew teases while watching you fake a gag. You grab his outstretched hand, letting him pull you up. His hands rested on the side of your face, eyes flickering to your lips for just a second. He wanted to kiss you, but he knew he had to wait. Wait for you to be ready. Wait for you to settle down. Or even just wait until he thought he had a real shot at forever.

Forever with you.

***

Matthew was kind of pissed off.

The press didn’t bother him, none of that mattered and at the end of the day Matthew was able to sleep at night knowing he was a good teammate and a decent person most of the time. This one got him though, some writer criticizing the A on his jersey, and how someone who plays like he does didn’t deserve a letter.

A letter he earned.

You could tell something was off, the way Matthew had been running alongside you was aggressive to say the least. He insisted he came with you, something about forcing you to take breaks. He was being your friend, even though your sisters seemed to disagree. Taryn’s words were replaying in your head, Matt doesn’t even care if I get hurt. That didn’t mean anything, those two had no idea what love was and Matthew caring about you a little bit didn’t mean he loved you. Besides, the way he was acting right now told a completely different story.

“Are you mad at me?” You finally slow down, sitting on a rock that was next to the hiking trail you were on.

“No?” Matthew stops dead in his tracks, his heart sinking to the pit of his stomach that he fucked this up too, “I’m fine, don’t worry about it.”

“No, tell me what’s wrong,” You push, crossing your arms and narrowing your eyes at Matthew. You could tell he was pressed about something, his neck covered in a red flush the same way it used to.

“Some stupid article about my letter, don’t worry about it,” Matthew grits, repeating his words again. His defense was up, even after you confessed to him that you were scared of not being enough.

“Get the fuck out of here with the tough guy act Matthew,” You challenge him, poking him right in the chest, “If we’re going to be friends you need to cut that shit out.”

“You really want to hear it?” Matthew barks back, fully yelling at you, “I’m tired of people thinking I don’t deserve things because I threw a few bad hits. Do you know how it feels to have everyone think you’re shitty? No you don’t, because you’re so fucking perfect that my own parents like you more than me.”

You stood there, silent while you tried to figure out how to tell him that simply wasn’t true. His entire body was shaking, the anger coursing through his veins like you’d seen many times before that. Matthew looked like he did the first time you hit a homerun in gym class, except this time it was because that same pressure never got released. You couldn’t come close to understanding the way he probably felt. You didn’t have the comparables in your own family, the constant reminders of Brady’s points tally compared to his, let alone the career his father had.

“Matty,” You whisper, grabbing his hand and running your fingers over the scars on his knuckles, “Why is this bothering you so much?”

You were sure this wasn’t the first time someone’s said he was a pest, and it sure as hell wasn’t going to be the last. Matthew sighed, the better part of his brain screaming at him to stop before he lost you too.

“I’ve felt like this forever,” Matthew whispers, eyes fixated on your hand in his, “From the moment I started getting bigger, there’s just been this pressure to play a certain way and act a certain way. I was a fucking kid, and while all of my friends got to go wherever they wanted all I ever did was practice. Then I finally get to where I wanted and I’m still getting shit on.”

“Except no one thinks you don’t deserve to be where you are,” You whisper, quiet words as if you were going to startle him, “And I know it doesn’t make up for things people say, but the people who love you think you deserve it.”

Matthew nods, pulling you into his arms and holding you close. Your arms wrapped around his waist, his words mumbled against your forehead, “I needed that.”

“I know,” You nod, smiling wide up at him, “And we need to practice more because you’re too slow, soooo catch me if you can!”

You slipped out of his arms, running away with a giggle and a smile. Matthew stopped for a second, his Neanderthal brain checking out your ass while you jogged away and his more logical one trying to process what just happened.

But what mattered most was that whatever you did worked and that meant something to Matthew.

***

Just admit you think he’s hot.

You wanted to kill your sister for making this weekend harder than it had to be. You were doing a good job at just friends with Matthew until Jamie was curled up in your bed while you packed for a lake trip with your friends. She pushed it for hours, rambling on about Matthew is actually your type and Taryn swears he’d be a good boyfriend if someone just understood him. The problem was, you were starting to see her point. Matthew had a glow up a few years ago, like one summer he’d gotten home and you were infatuated with him. It used to annoy you, because he’d been such an ass to you that you hated how attractive he was. Then things changed, and now looking at him was just frustrating you. You were terrified about the way he made you feel, like everything would be okay with one look of those blue eyes and a smirk. You felt like he had your back, a vast change from how you used to feel and it was just getting hard to hide it anymore.

Especially when Matthew looked like he did right now. He was holding himself up on the dock, shoulders broad and glistening in the moonlight above you. All your friends were inside, moving their party away from the water as the night lingered on. You wanted to run your fingers through his wet curls, the temptation was almost too much.

“I’ll be in Chicago a few times you know,” Matthew hums, enjoying the time alone he was getting with you. Anytime without Brady teasing him about what the Tkachuk’s had been referring to as the hand holding incident. He didn’t want them to think he didn’t want you, because he did, but he just needed to move at his own pace.

“You want to come see me play?” You ask, leaning back on the palms of your hands. You were surprised by the kind of man Matthew had become, it was a completely different person that he used to be. He cared so much about his loved ones, and you were starting to feel like maybe you had a place there.

“Actually thinking you could come see me play,” Matthew teases, sarcasm dripping from his words. You lifted your foot up, kicking some of the water below you to splash him, but he’d caught your ankle before you could. He stopped for a moment, running a thumb over your skin, “This looks better.”

“Don’t make you admit you were right,” You whine, Matthew swiftly pulling you into the water with him. You yelp, the water way too cold for any normal person, “It’s freezing.”

“C’mere then,” Matthew grabs your waist, pulling your body against his. His hands were splayed across your back, heat radiating off of them. One of your hands was on his shoulder, your other on his chest. You could feel his heart beating quickly, his eyes locked on yours, “Middle school Matthew would be so jealous of me right now.”

“Why’s that?” You hum, running your fingers along Matthew to play connect the dots with the beauty marks on his skin.

“Because he had the biggest crush on you,” Matthew confesses, his grip on you a little tighter, as if he was afraid you’d slip right through his fingers again, “But he was too thick headed to do anything about it.”

“What about grown up Matthew?” You ask, biting your lip. Matthew was practically holding you both up in the water, pressed so close together you could hear the hitch in his breath at your question, “Is he too thick headed to do something too?”

You wrapped your legs around Matthew’s waist, pressing your lips to his and tugging on the curls at the base of his neck. He pushed you up against the dock, helping you back up and pulling himself up next to you. You grabbed the back of his neck, latching your lips back on his. His hand was on your back, fingers toying with the back of your bathing suit, “Think we can get upstairs without anyone noticing?”

Matthew was cool most of the time. He never faltered under the pressure from his career, most of the time, and he definitely didn’t fold when it came to a pretty girl. You had him in the palm of your hand, every part of his brain malfunctioning in response to your words. You bit your lip, wondering if you’d read this entire situation. Matthew rubs a thumb along your lip, “When are you going to realize I’d do whatever you asked me to?”

The two of you snuck up the stairs, giggles and stolen kisses left in your wake. You open the door, Matthew’s hands still toying your bathing suit top, “Just take it off already Matty.”

“Don’t have to ask me twice,” Matthew breathes, his lips pressed against your neck while the garment falls to the floor, “So fucking beautiful.”

You back hit the mattress, Matthew’s hands running up your body slowly. Slow wasn’t in Matthew’s vocabulary, but he was taking his time just in case he never got this opportunity again. His fingers hooked under your bathing suit bottoms, sliding the wet fabric down your legs. You looked so beautiful, spread out just for Matthew like he’d dreamed about numerous times. His lips moved down to your breasts, teeth grazing against your skin while his tongue swirled against your nipple. You let out a breathy moan, Matthew’s ego boosting from the sound. You plucked at his curls while his mouth moved down to where you were craving him most, a gentle kiss to your clit, “Matty, please.”

“I didn’t peg you for the type to beg,” Matthew hums, pressing feather light kisses around your core. He stopped, gripping your thighs and looking up at you, “You sure about this?”

“Yes, please,” You whine, pussy dripping from Matthew’s hot breath fanning over it. Matthew chuckles darkly, fingers digging into your thighs when he flicked his tongue over your clit. You moan, completely unbothered by the blaring music a floor below you. Matthew didn’t seem to be bothered either, his tongue teasing your entrance while his nose rubbed against your clit, living for the way you were whimpering above him, “Matty-”

“Close baby?” Matthew groans, slipping a finger inside of you and curling it. You back arched, his name falling through your lips was enough to answer his question. Your legs shook, pleasure washing over your body from Matthew and all of it just felt so right. Matthew’s lips were latched to your skin until he finally met your eyes again. He smiles softly, nudging his nose with yours while you caught your breath, “So good for me.”

“Should’ve known you were that good with your mouth with the way you run it,” You tease smiling against his lips.

“Not with you, not anymore,” Matthew promises, soft blue eyes looking into yours, he meant it. He didn’t know how else to make it clearer, he wanted you. You kissed him slowly, hands trailing down his abs and stopping where his shorts hit his waist. Matthew kicks off his swim trunks, cock springing free. You grab the back of his neck, pulling your lips to his and rolling over top of him and straddling his waist. It was criminal how good you looked on top of him, “Gonna ride me babe?”

You nod, lining his dick up your core and lowering yourself on top of him. You let out a whine, Matthew’s smug smile on full display once he realized it was because of how big he was, “We don’t have to if my dick’s too big.”

“Oh shut up,” You roll your hips, watching the way Matthew’s head fell back, smirking because he really thought he had control here. Matthew’s hands gripped your waist, moving your hips faster. His finger flicked over your clit, causing you to lunge forward on top of him. Matthew flipped you over, wrapping a leg around his waist so he could hit your g-spot. Your hands gripped his shoulders, nails leaving scratches Matthew was going to wear pride later. You were seeing stars, noises leaving your throat you’d never even heard yourself make, “Fuck, Matty, I’m gonna cum again.”

“Look at me,” Matthew grabs your chin, pressing his forehead against yours and watching while your eyes roll back with pleasure. Your pussy clenched around him, his own cum spilling into you from the sensation, a loud groan following. Matthew pressed a kiss to your forehead, his cock still buried inside of you, “I wasn’t bullshitting you, I mean every word Y/N.”

“Matthew,” You whisper, running a finger along his back, “The distance…”

You didn’t mention everything, the way that if this was real it meant it would end up ripping you both apart. You were set to live in a different city, Matthew all the way in another country. The way your dreams included a spot on the U.S. National team, and the idea that wanting to be with Matthew would hold you back was terrifying. The way his dreams probably meant staying in Calgary forever, a C on his jersey and a cup over his head. It wasn’t going to be easy, you weren’t ever going to be the doting girlfriend he probably needed. There would be years of travel schedules and games that overlapped, and a part of you thought that maybe Matthew wouldn’t be able to do it. You’d get a year in and he’d find someone who would be there more and finally you’d end it.

“We can make it work, baby I want you, I always have and I probably always will,” Matthew starts, baring his soul to another person for the first time in his goddamn life, “I want to support your dreams and have you be there for mine. I’m all in here, I don’t know how else to tell you.”

“Can I have some time?” You plead, holding onto Matthew’s shoulders because you knew he could leave and tell you to never speak to him again. Matthew sighs, understanding the way you were shitting yourself about starting your own professional career, remembering the way rookie Matthew would have died before he considered settling down that first year, “Please don’t leave me-”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Matthew promises, rolling over and letting your rest on his chest, “I’ll wait for you.”

You smile, snuggling closer to him. Matthew didn’t sleep a minute that night, running every single scenario that could possibly happen with the two of you. Matthew was sure it would work out, it had to, because if it didn’t he wasn’t sure he’d be able to recover.

So now all he could was wait.

***

You know this is creepy right?

Matthew stares at Sam, punching his teammate in the arm lightly and telling him to shut up. He had a night off in Chicago, and after four straight hours of staring at your contact in his phone, Matthew finally just bought the tickets. He’d been good at keeping his distance, you needed space and he respected you enough to try and give it to you. He wasn’t doing so hot, Matthew consuming more soccer games than hockey games at this point. It started with your first game, because how was he supposed to just pretend like it wasn’t happening? You scored too, and it took everything in his power not to call you to tell you that not only was he right, he was insanely proud of you.

And he’d been hearing it from everyone. Your sister thought it was bullshit, Taryn and Jamie almost had Matthew on a flight to Chicago ready to show up like a terrible Lifetime movie. Brady thought it was hilarious the way Matthew was simping like this for one girl. Now, his teammates were on him, wondering why on Earth their friend who historically ran through women faster than he did mouthguards could be this hung up on someone he had a crush on in middle school.

“What number is she?” Sam asks, sipping the beer he forced Matthew to buy after making him go along with this.

“Nineteen,” Matthew smiles, pointing down at you on the field. You looked so happy, warming up with one of your teammates and a bright smile on your face. It seemed like a good fit, your team and your new city, and it made Matthew’s heart grow four sizes.

“Did she choose your number?” Sam jokes and Matthew mumbles something under his breath, “What?”

“It was her number first,” Matthew admits, not wanting to ever confess to another soul that you crossed his mind when he kept that camp number. Sam howled next to him, leaning over his seat and cracking up at his teammate.

You looked out in the crowd about halfway through the game, rubbing your eyes to make sure you weren’t seeing things. That tuft of curls was hard to miss, not to mention you knew just how big Matthew was. He was far too into the game to realize you caught him, up in arms about a call against your team that was valid but he’d argue it wasn’t. You asked for space, and it was getting harder to stick to your guns. Especially when he was making it so clear that he wanted this.

And whether or not you went to his game the next night, was a secret you’d take to the grave.

***

You were so close you could have tasted it.

While the final seconds of your season came to a close, all you could do was hold your head in your hands and hope no one caught the tears. A semi-final loss was devastating, but a semi-final loss where there wasn’t anything you could have done differently was even worse. Every athlete had off nights, a point Keith pushed right before you left to start your season, and he was right. Unfortunately, that was this game. Your biggest fear had come true and there was nothing you could do about it now. The game was over and you weren’t moving on.

And Matthew watched it.

Matthew promised you space, and he swore he’d give you the time you needed to settle down. But, this was something he couldn’t ignore. He could tell you were off, your entire rookie season was almost perfect and watching the way you folded during this game was gut wrenching. Matthew knew better than anyone, losing sucked. So he took the chance, grabbing his phone and shooting you a text he’d been waiting to send.

Doors open in Calgary.

and I’m so fucking proud of you.

It was the very last text you saw before you went to bed that night, tossing and turning for a few hours thinking about that loss. You couldn’t stop, every bone in your body was aching and you didn’t know what to do. So you bought a flight, packed your shit and was walking down the hallway to Matthew’s apartment without a second thought. You’d left him on read, calling Brady in the middle of the night and asking for his address, who gave it to you reluctantly with a reminder that if you needed to see him this badly you should rethink the needing time thing.

Matthew let out a groan when he had a bang at his door at three in the morning. Noah definitely was trying to walk into the wrong apartment again, and Matthew was grouchy when he whipped his door open. Except it wasn’t Noah after he’d had too many. It was you, teary eyed with your shit in a suitcase and a broken heart.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” You admit, whispering something you never thought you’d say to anyone, “I just didn’t do enough-”

Matthew didn’t say a word, pulling you into a bone crushing hug and holding you as tightly as he could. You didn’t need to hear it from him, about how things were out of your control and you did your best. You didn’t want that right now, you wanted him, “Baby…”

“Everything hurts,” You whimper, finally just letting it all out. You were bruised and battered from the season, the physical pain alone was enough to upset you, let alone the loss you just took. Matthew carded his fingers through your hair, letting you soak his bare chest with your tears because he wouldn’t have it any other way. You came back to him. You came back to him when things got too tough because you trusted him to bring you some peace, and he was happy about it.

You passed out sometime after that, your tears finally running dry and the exchaustion taking over your body. Matthew woke up early the next day, grateful for the optional morning skate so he could stay with you for just a little bit longer. The sun was just starting to peek through the curtains in his room, a calm snowy morning in Calgary so the city was just a bit quieter.

Matthew settled on breakfast, working away in his kitchen with the only thing he knew how to make. Tell her you made it, his mom’s words from just a few months prior in his head while he cooked. You padded out his bedroom, one of Matthew’s god awful beer shirts hanging from your frame while you wrapped your arms around his waist and pressed a kiss into his back, “It’s cold here.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Matthew hums, internally pumping his fist when he felt your lips form a smile against his skin. You turned your head, pressing your cheek against his against and letting out a laugh, “What’s so funny?”

“You framed my jersey?” You ask, your eye catching a jersey that was way too familiar. It was hung up beside Matthew’s from his first all star game, both number nineteens staring back at you.

“Why wouldn’t I? You’re my favorite player,” Matthew hums, a blush covering his cheeks, “I’m so proud of you.”

“You keep saying that,” Matthew finally turns around, pressing a quick peck to your lips.

“I’ll keep saying it long after we both retire,” Matthew speaks, words clear and sure because he’s had plenty of time to practice this one, “I’ll say it when you win a World Cup gold, I’ll say it when we have kids, I’ll say when you play at the Olympics. I’m going to say it over and over again.”

“But…” You trail off, all of those same demons you’d been fighting when it came to your whatever this was with Matthew, “What I’m not around enough for you?”

Matthew knew what you were thinking about, he’d thought about it plenty too. There were countless sleepless nights where all he did was wonder if you’d find someone in Chicago who could support you better than he could. He’d do his best, he swore he would, but in order for you to be happy, your passion came first. There was always going to be times when he couldn’t be there and it killed him.

“You’re more than enough,” Matthew promises, his lips ghosting over yours, “I want you to seize every opportunity in the world, I just want to be there to tell you that I love you and use the goat emoji on Instagram when you do.”

You let out a laugh, Matthew’s smile wide enough to see his dimples you loved so much, “I think I want to stay a little while.”

“I think you should,” Matthew agrees, capturing your lips in his, “Besides I’m playing tonight and I think I need to show off now.”

“You’re a cocky asshole.”

“But now I’m your cocky asshole.”

***

One year Later

You had a good reason to be late.

You swore Matthew couldn’t possibly be mad at you for this one. You’d missed your flight to Calgary, a few days post a second loss in the semi finals that you’d been taking much better this time around. Mainly because Matthew wasn’t there, but his stupid smile and words of encouragement where there on facetime hours later. That wasn’t the reason you were late, the reason you were late was because you’d received the most insane news of your life and it was an important phone or that flight. You’d caught the next one, legs shaking not to just call him and share the news, but you needed to tell him in person.

You’d finally gotten by the doors to the locker room entrance, out of breath from spriting there from your cab. There was Matthew, tapping his phone and staring at the clock on his phone with furrowed eyebrows. He was still in his suit, tie pulled a little looser, a nervous habit you realized he had some time ago, “Matty-”

“Don’t call me that just because you know you’re late,” Matthew huffs, already ready for the pout that would have followed so he’d forget all about the fact that you promised you’d make it on time. He holds his hand out, waiting for the handshake he made up in the car on the way to the first game you went to after he finally locked it down. You laugh, slapping your hand against his and letting him pull you closer for a kiss.

“They want me on the National Team,” You mumble against his lips, the words spilling out of your mouth when you pull away with an excited smile. Matthew stood there stunned, while you shuffled your feet in the little dance you did when you were really happy. He grabs your cheeks, pressing kisses to your lips again and again.

“We’re celebrating after this, holy shit,” Matthew cheers, still stunned by your news, “I love you so much.”

“I love you too, now go score a few goals so we have even more to celebrate,” You kiss him one more time, pushing him before the door before he was late.

“Anything I do seems unimportant now!” Matthew calls out, a light laugh to his voice as he watched you walk away to go sit in the stands.

And that’s how Matthew thought it should be.

#matthew tkachuk #matthew tkachuk imagine #my writing #nhl imagine #nhl imagines

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imagining-in-the-margins · 4 years

Text

Show Me the Ropes (S.R.)

Request: I’d love to read your take on Spencer being introduced to BDSM. Maybe the team has a case and they investigate a club. One of the submissive/dominatrix is interested in him and teaches him the ropes (pun intended). Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader Category: Smut (NSFW, 18+) Content Warning: Exhibitionism, Public Sex, BDSM, roughhousing, heavy petting Word Count: 9.75k

MASTERLIST

It was a calm Friday night in Washington, D.C. and the air smelled of cherry blossoms, dogwoods, and adventure. Just inside the five star hotel suite was a collection of oversized coats not fit for the weather. They weren’t meant to keep us warm; they were meant to keep us safe from prying, judgmental eyes.

Past those coats, though, that’s where the real fun was to be had. Sadly, it wouldn’t be had by me that night. Or at least, I thought it wouldn’t.

My nail tapped absentmindedly against the wine glass in my hand, which attracted the attention of the man beside me more than anything else. It certainly didn’t do anything for my nerves. Still, it was obvious that of the two of us, I was more comfortable in our current situation. I couldn’t blame him; it must have been strange to be there while on the clock.

“You know, this wouldn’t have been nearly as uncomfortable for you if the serial killer had decided to start killing people before our monthly munch.” I said quietly, hoping that it was the kind of innocuous joke that might appeal to an FBI agent currently stuck inside a BDSM event. But to say it did not land would be a dramatic understatement.

Without even moving his eyes from their position settled over the crowd, the man apathetically answered, “I’ve been to a munch before, and I’m not uncomfortable.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” I answered just as quickly, taking a bored sip from my drink and continuing to inspect the tense body language he presented to me.

In his defense, there were a few reasons that he could have looked the way he did. His hands were shoved in his pockets, his shoulders back and his head held high. They could all just have been signs of attempted confidence, or perhaps even real arrogance. But the thing that gave him away was in the subtle movement within his pockets where I could tell his hands were balled into fists. His jaw, sharp and raised, was clenched so tightly that I was surprised I couldn’t hear the grinding of teeth.

Something was making him angry, nervous, or aroused. And God, did I hope it was the third one.

“When did you go to a munch?” I pressed, insisting on having a more interesting night than what had happened thus far.

He did not share my enthusiasm.

“Not relevant.”

Holding my glass in the air, I gestured to the three piece suit he was currently wearing as if to ask the reason he wore such apropos clothing. “Was it for work? Or—“

He didn’t let the word ‘play’ ever make it to my tongue.

“Not relevant.” He said more sternly now, finally turning to look at me with a glare that sent very inappropriate shivers down my spine. Luckily for my sanity and the taxpayer dollars, though, I’d grown accustomed to stymieing pesky thoughts of that particular type.

“You’re quite the conversationalist, Dr. Reid.” The sarcasm dripped from my lips the same as the legs of the red wine trailed down the glass in my hands.

“Don’t call me that here.”

I should have rolled my eyes. My body should have reacted to the order with the stubbornness I’d instilled over years of dedicated practice in avoiding the urge to cave to the will of men. But I didn’t roll my eyes, and instead of recoiling, my legs turned toward him, my hand finding a comfortable spot on his lower back as I stepped forward.

“Then what would you like me to call you? Just doctor?” I whispered quietly enough to coax him closer. And whether he knew it or not, his face tilted ever so slightly, closing the gap between us that little bit more. There was another reaction to the title, but it was too fleeting for me to place it.

I wanted it to happen again. I wasn’t sure why — what it was about this frankly rude man that made me want to provoke him, but it was the strongest thing I’d felt in months, and I wasn’t ready to let it go. So, my hand gently drew a line up his spine, landing at the base of his neck and lacing through the brown mop of curls that was too soft for his own good.

Everything about him was enigmatic, but nothing more so than the way he stood rigid and unflinching at the overly intimate contact, even as my breath fanned over his ear.

“That’s a title fit for a dominant.” I purred, “I might as well just call you sir.”

“Which role do you prefer?” He asked, a seemingly genuine curiosity in his cadence.

I rewarded his sincerity with honesty and a shrug. “With you? I’m not sure yet.”

His hair fell from between my fingers as he turned his face to mine, our lips inches apart as he responded with a stern, cold tone, “Then call me sir.”

The way my body responded was downright virginal, which was a word I wouldn’t have used to describe myself in quite some time. But there was no other way to describe the naive, bubbly joy that threatened to spill out with my labored breath.

Maybe it was the challenge, I thought; that was the reason that I wanted to close the gap between us. I wanted to see him get to the point where he lost the composure he clearly worked too hard to maintain, his facade of stoic apathy falling away.

“Do you like to share, sir?”

Although he tried not to alter his face, I saw the slightest twitch of his lip and the flash of anger in his eyes. “Why are you asking?”

My hands were running over his shoulders, trying to remain occupied with the collar of his shirt. “I have a scene in a little bit, so you better get ready to pretend if you don’t.” I said as innocently as possible, purposefully avoiding looking at him with the hope that it would only exacerbate any jealousy that might appear.

But he seemed to be aware of my tricks and employed a few of his own.

“You’re not actually my date, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

I pouted, releasing my hold on him now that he had made it clear he wasn’t going to fall for the simple moves that other men succumbed to in seconds. I’d found that with men like him, distance was usually better than intimacy. That was okay; I could play hard to get. Hell, most of the time, I wasn’t even playing.

“Aren’t you going to be distracted?” My hands felt so restless now, finding any errant hair or wrinkle in my outfit to correct. I hated to use the word “anxious” to describe myself, but that’s what it felt like.

Why would I feel that way, though? He was right. He wasn’t my date, and he probably wouldn’t even be watching me when I was up there. Really, I should have hoped that he wouldn’t watch me, considering he was here to find someone murdering young people. But you know, studies have shown that individuals often consider themselves invincible, and I never said that I was a good person.

“I’ll be distracted, but not in the way you’re implying. I’ll be monitoring the people in the crowd.” This time when he whispered, it made sense why. Not like a bystander would know what he meant, anyway. He honestly just sounded like a voyeur, which was totally commonplace at my events. It was kind of why most people came in the first place.

Still, the idea of him ignoring me on the stage seemed a little ridiculous. Granted, he’d never seen me perform before— and he had been surrounded by overtly sexual acts all night without ever so much as batting an eye, but this was different. Because the obvious truth was that to Spencer Reid, something was different about me. I didn’t know what, but I knew it was something.

“I have a feeling it’ll be harder to ignore me than you think.” I teased, finally meeting his eyes. What I found was worth the buildup.

“Who are you performing with?” He shifted the topic so swiftly I swore I got the conversational equivalent of whiplash.

“Jealous already, sir?” My fingertips splayed across my chest; I feigned that trademark coquettish nature that dominant men would die for. But he just kept staring, his eyes narrowing just enough to be noticed, a clear warning that I should answer his question, lest I lose his interest altogether.

“A friend. He was one of my first partners. Don’t worry though, there is no romantic affiliation.” I mumbled through a sigh, waving a disinterested hand. If he wouldn’t let me play games, there was no point in talking at all. It wasn’t like I was allowed to actually sleep with him while he was here, anyway.

…Right?

“Why would I care about that?” He sneered, his nose scrunching up as the disgust remained long after the words ended. It was adorable, how he could be so expressive and so completely oblivious to to it at the same time.

“I just wanted you to know.” I explained, “Figured it might make it easier to watch… unless you like the idea of me with another man.” That was less of an attempt to make him jealous than a genuine attempt to find the real answer, which would undoubtedly be hidden behind whatever came out of his mouth next.

And it was an interesting answer on both counts.

“I’m not a cuckold, and you don’t belong to me.”

The way my lips curled into a small smile that eventually grew over my cheeks was too obvious to hide, so I didn’t even try. “Not with that attitude, I don’t.” I laughed, my hand finding its way back to his arm before I had the wherewithal to stop it.

There was a retort on the tip of his tongue, but he never said it. Our attention was so focused on each other that I didn’t even hear my friend approaching until Spencer glanced up to acknowledge his presence. Even then, his hand on my shoulder shocked me enough to send a jolt through my body.

I tried to play it off as a gentle squeeze of Spencer’s arm, but I think he knew that I had just gotten lost in the private world we’d shared for the past few minutes.

“Duty calls.” My hand fell from his arm, still tingling with the warmth of his body heat that I longed to feel in so many different places. I looked up at him one last time, wanting to see his full expression when I asked the question I’d been waiting for ever since I first put my hand on him.

“Should I think of you, sir?”

“Do whatever you want.” He grumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets and taking a step away to distance himself both from what had already happened and what was fast approaching.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then.” I said with a small curtsy, “Thank you for your permission, sir.”

As I left, I felt his presence stay with me in the form of his gaze burning into my back. I knew two things in that moment; that Spencer Reid saw something in me the same way I saw something in him, and that he definitely would not be able to ignore me for long.

—

(Y/n) was too smart and too beautiful for her own good. She had a good head perched on perfectly sculpted shoulders, and God, did she know it.

She wasn’t wrong to be confident; she had every reason to be proud. She was a successful woman who spent her days being praised by numerous men, with even more people undoubtedly lining up for a chance at earning her affection. But for all her confidence and poise, she never once registered as arrogant. She probably should have been at that point, considering the recognition she’d earned.

On the stage, she stood still and silent as he removed her clothing, taking off each piece slowly and carefully like she was a porcelain doll at constant risk of being shattered by careless men. She didn’t have to do anything. Her eyes were closed, a small smile on her face as she was unveiled before the crowd like a present meant just for them.

I wanted to take her in; to memorize the way the light hugged the gentle curves of her body so that I could imagine what it might be like to have her. But my eyes were stuck on her face as she contentedly sighed at the cool air nipping at her skin. How could I look at her body like this, knowing that it wasn’t only for me? If I was going to have her, she was going to be mine in every sense of the word— at least for the night.

Her eyes remained shut as she leaned over the table, and I found myself walking around the back of the room to find a new viewpoint where I could still see her face. I wanted to watch her as another man touched her because I wanted to know how she might react if I did. The fantasy in my head begged for the most accurate representation of her wanton desire, and she was presenting it to me on a silver platter and with a leather flogger.

With each gentle snap and swish of the thick fabric, she would cry out with an equally matched enthusiasm. I couldn't see the marks they left, but I knew that they existed. I could see the resistance in the tiniest tremors that shook her thighs.

She was exactly the kind of woman that I needed. The kind of woman who wasn’t afraid of darkness or power. It was obvious in her stance that she was both comfortable and proficient at wielding both. Maybe that’s why watching her on that stage was driving me insane.

When they’d all grown tired of her pathetic whimpers, the flogger had been put aside in exchange for a set of hands. I’d never touched her, but I felt like I knew what it must be like. With just the sighs and gasps she’d produced in our brief conversation I could imagine how easy it would be to manipulate her body until she was nothing but trembling pleas.

But his hands were sloppy and careless as they roamed over the planes of her back now marred with welts. He hit her in a way that elicited sounds, but never the right ones. She never stopped giving them, though. I understood why she called it a performance; so much of it was as fake as the lashes she’d glued on her lids.

She locked eyes with me so intensely from her position on the stage that I had to interpret it as a challenge. Between the whorish moans, she bit down on her lip before letting half of it slip from her teeth. I could feel the meaning hidden behind the gesture, and it filled me with rage.

Because even after being awarded years of practice touching her, he was still doing it wrong. She was putting on a show that neither her partner nor her audience had earned. The most she was getting out of this was a half-hearted satisfaction that the crowd enjoyed her presence enough to ignore the falsity on display.

Why did she stroke his ego when he did nothing for her? And why did everyone just believe it? Could they not see the fight in her eyes? The clarity that communicated her own resistance to falling into that space where she could finally let go of all the tension she held?

I wanted to give it to her. I wanted to show her what her true boundaries were— how much more she could handle before she broke. And then after I had her, shattered in pieces in my hands, I wanted to put her back together again, leaving behind small traces of my existence in the cracks.

She was exactly the woman that I wanted.

“You ever see a woman and immediately fall in love?”

The stranger beside me broke me from my reverie, and thankfully reminded me that I wasn’t here to find a woman. I was here for work. But it was obvious with just a single glance that this wasn’t the man I was looking for— the admiration in his eyes as he watched (y/n) was too pure.

He’d fallen for her. It was understandable.

“I’m not that much of a romantic.” I answered with partial honesty. The truth was that I might have described myself that way at one point, but between losing my first love and three months in prison, I had lost the naïveté required to fully believe in a happily ever after.

Everything was hard. True happiness came from finding a person willing to weather the storms with you. I knew that’s what he was asking, and I should have just admitted it. But instead I opted for the vague half-admission, “But I can appreciate the potential I see in people.”

And there was so much potential in her it filled me with the most intense type of frustration. I wondered if the other men saw it, but it didn’t seem like they did. They were too caught up in their basest desires to see past them. They couldn’t imagine what it might be like to hold her life in their hands and want to protect it with their own.

I could see it. I could see her on her knees in front of me not because that's where I told her to be, but because that's where she wanted to be.

“You know, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but a few of us overheard and needed to clarify...” He began again, speaking much quieter now as he leaned closer to me. “The Mistress, does she really call you sir?”

The question was fascinating in its simplicity. He sounded genuinely shocked and morbidly curious. I figured I would put him out of his misery.

“Yes.”

She wouldn’t want a man like him, anyway.

“You lucky bastard. How did you manage that?” He chuckled, cementing my theory and proving himself to be too self-absorbed to see the answers displayed in front of him under shimmering chandelier lights.

“How do you think?” I didn’t mean to sound so defensive or cruel. I really wasn’t intimidated by him; he was just irritating. Not only was he a waste of time considering he wasn’t the man I needed to find, but he was also distracting me from the only other person in the room I wanted to hear from.

And it was hard not to hear her. The acoustics of the room made it feel like she was surrounding me. Even over the whispers of the gossiping onlookers, I could hear each breath. At times it felt like I could even hear her heart. But on closer inspection, and with any thought at all, I realized I was hearing my own pulse as it tried to find hers.

“I don’t have a single fucking clue. I’ve been here for 4 years and I’ve never once seen it happen.”

But that... that was interesting. I turned to him, unfortunately unable to hide the confused excitement that spread over my face like a wildfire in a drought ridden forest. The man who'd had nothing to offer me seconds prior now held the key to the Pandora’s box currently bent over on the stage.

He knew this was the only time I’d care about what he had to say, so he drew it out as much as he could. Raising a slow hand to point to the woman watching us with glassy eyes, he quietly announced, “The only person she’s ever submitted to is up on that stage with her.”

I looked back at the man behind her, but only for a second. I hated to admit that she was right, but it was simply too hard to ignore her. Granted, at the moment it was only hard because I could see the way her legs began to shake, the tremors spreading over her body until she could barely keep her eyes open any longer.

I say barely because her eyes stubbornly remained open, even as they began to roll backwards. Her focus, though weak, was insistent.

She kept her eyes on me. Not once through the haze of pleasure did she ever look away, staying true to her word to think of me. I hated how much it affected me, but I wasn’t going to fight it.

My eyes didn’t remain on her, and I turned to the man with a possessiveness that was powerful enough to erect the hair on the back of my own neck.

“Not anymore.” I said with the utmost confidence that, unlike (y/n)’s, had hardly been earned. Not yet. It would be soon, though, if I played my cards right.

And not to brag, but I’ve always been good at cards.

“Understood. I’ll let the others know.” He conceded, lifting his hands in a final act of defeat. Before he left my side, he granted me one last thought that would haunt me for the rest of the night.

“And good luck.”

—

Normally I would say that there is nothing sweeter than the satisfaction of being told that I was right, but I think Spencer made it possible. From the minute my scene ended, he watched me from a distance with an obvious cloud of discontent that kept everyone away. Occasionally, his eyes would dart around the room as he remembered he needed to actually look for the person he had come for.

Because Spencer hadn’t come for me, I reminded myself. After the night ended, it was very possible I wouldn’t ever see him again. At least, not on my territory.

Why did that make me sad? It was the only thing I could think about when I grabbed a glass of wine, like that wouldn’t make it harder to figure out.

“Alcohol is going to dramatically increase your bruising.”

I nearly choked on the much too sweet liquid, my instincts having failed to warn me about the man who’d clearly approached me faster than he should have. Once I was able to comprehend what he’d said, I turned to him with the trademark smirk of the cat who got the canary.

“Would that upset you, sir?” I gently purred, running my hand down his arm before attempting to intertwine our fingers. He didn’t let me. “Do you not want to see another man’s marks on me?”

My feminine wiles clearly needed some work, or in the very least I needed to better understand what made Dr. Spencer Reid tick, because I was getting nowhere. His jaw stayed steady in its pressure, and when he turned his head to look down at me, his expression remained unmoved.

He didn’t say anything; he just stared. It said enough to make my hand tremble under the weight of the glass, which I quickly drank from to ease the tension. Spencer didn’t like that, either.

Feeling the sudden need to defend myself, I explained, “Normally I don’t drink when I’m here with a date.”

“So stop drinking.”

I jerked at the order, and without even noticing I tried to pull my arm away from him. But, having sensed the shift before myself, Spencer grabbed my wrist before it got too far.

Staring down at the vice like grip he held on the wrist that had been bound moments before, a creeping warmth spread through me at the realization. “I was under the impression that I was here as an escort for an FBI agent on duty. Is that what I’m here for?”

The flicker of insecurity in his eyes was vibrant enough to alert me of my mistake. His grip slackened, his eyes falling down to it before he lowered my arm to my side completely. A sudden tender expression of care that contrasted all the events that had led to it.

“Well, well, well…” I whispered through a smirk, placing my half-filled glass on the table beside the empty ones. “My apologies, sir. I misunderstood the nature of our relationship.”

While I spoke, I pressed my hands against his stomach, feeling the muscles tense at my touch. My adrenaline felt overwhelming; it was even stronger than it had been while I was being flogged in front of an audience, and I didn’t know what to do about that.

“You’re going to blow our cover.”

It was a fascinating comment for many reasons. What particularly interested me was the way it emphasized his current priorities, while also ensuring that our physicality increased.

He didn’t stop my hands, even as they slid down to rest on his belt. He looked away, and I felt the coldness of his absence. I didn’t like it.

I didn’t like a lot of the interaction, most notably the fact that I was quickly becoming hooked on his attention. I craved him not like a drug, but like a warm bed after a long day, or a cup of coffee on a dreary autumn morning.

I wanted him so badly, I forgot everything beyond Spencer Reid with full willingness. I threw myself into that longing and refused to look back.

Two of my fingers slid under the top of his slacks, my nails dragging over the soft skin of his stomach before I pulled him as close to me as I could with my hand behind his belt buckle. Taking full advantage of the proximity, I leaned into his body so that I could whisper in his ear, “Then you should do something to claim me quick.”

There was no time wasted, Spencer ripping my hand from its resting place and twisting my wrist in his hand. “Fine.” He seethed, dragging the both of us to the nearest table and practically tossing me over the wood. My hands barely broke the fall, and a dark chuckle left my lips at the level of callousness he could display so easily.

I hadn't realized just how much I affected him.

“Take off your clothes and bend over.”

The hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention, a strange sort of unfamiliar warmth blooming in my chest. It was a curiosity, a burning desire to learn everything about the man who was so comfortable throwing women against tables.

“Yes, sir.” I sang more than said, quickly stripping from the little black dress designed for easy removal and letting the fabric fall to the floor. He never told me to turn around, so I didn’t, although I wanted nothing more than to show him my bare chest. I wanted him to face the depravity of the order, knowing full well that the only fabric beneath my dress was a pathetic strip of lace barely covering between my legs.

Slowly lowering myself onto my elbows, I rested my head against my arms and closed my eyes. There was no way for me to really know what he was planning on doing, but I could maintain my air of apathy and confidence until I found out.

When the smooth wool of his pants brushed against the back of my thighs, I sighed at the smallest semblance of contact. Because as delicious as anticipation was, I desperately wanted him to touch me. I’d watched those hands all night, wishing that I could will them to do something.

And something they did, albeit not what I expected.

I should have recognized where we were - On a better night, I would have. But that night, distracted by the mystery and exoticism of the foreigner in my world, I failed to notice that he’d thrown me straight onto an aftercare station.

The coolness of the gel wasn’t what I expected from him. His skin had always been near scorching in the little contact we’d had. It was still appreciated, though, covering my skin without care for where exactly the wounds were. No, his hands were indiscriminate. They simply wanted everything.

That was, until he slid one over my shoulder and around my neck, lifting me from the table and holding me just far enough away that I wouldn’t touch him. Still, my head was craned back far enough for him to whisper in my ear.

“Were you expecting something else?”

“I’d never doubt your intentions.” I hoarsely replied, smiling through the damned butterflies bursting through me.

He tapped his fingers gently over my pulse, his breathing shallow and stuttered over my ear as he softly corrected me. “Your heart rate says otherwise. Are you lying to me?”

I could hear the restraint in each syllable, and I moved my head the little he would allow. “No, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

Satisfied with the apology, he released my neck to continue his thorough exploration of my body. Each movement was deliberate, purposefully avoiding any area that might signal how badly I wanted him. At least, that was what I felt in the way his fingers would press just hard enough to register a hint of pain before they moved again.

“You’ve got quite a lot of men enamored with you.”

It wasn’t news to me, but for some reason, hearing it in his voice took the breath from my lungs, my stomach tensing when he pulled me against him despite the dampness of my back. The fabric scratched against the marks, forcing me to feel everything from before, but this time in his hands.

“You’re so used to getting everything you want. You’ve been spoiled rotten to the core.” There was a sharpness, a disgust in his voice that couldn’t be entirely faked. In fact, none of this could be faked or performed.

He could tell me all he wanted that this was part of the show, but no one else could hear the filthy words he was growling into my ear.

“Up there? With that boy? You call that submission, but it wasn’t. You still had all the power you wanted.” His nails digging into my hips were no longer subtle, and for a minute I worried that they might tear through the lace and leave me entirely bare. Not that I would have minded; the thought actually excited me.

But nothing could excite me more than the way his voice warped, his register so low that the words scratched his throat on their way out. “You have forgotten your place. You have forgotten your purpose.”

It was funny, how easily that voice could drown out all other sound. It wasn’t just noise, either, I realized — Spencer Reid was less a normal vacuum and more like a black hole, consuming any semblance of time and space until he was all that you could see, hear, or feel.

“And I think... it’s time someone reminded you.”

He knew it, too. With his fingers sliding under the band of my underwear, his other hand returned to my neck, squeezing until I finally opened my eyes that I hadn’t even realized I closed.

I was forced to view the crowd that had formed around the table, no doubt wondering what the fuck I was doing. The truth was, I didn’t know, either. I didn’t particularly care to figure it out. All I knew was that all of my thoughts were dominated by the man who was dangerously close to the true point of no return.

Make no mistake, it wasn’t sexual intimacy that I was scared he would venture too close to. Sex wasn’t the sun for this Icarus, that much was obvious.

He was having too much fun. I felt it in the way his hand came to my face, cradling my cheek and turning me away from the interested onlookers and back to him. It was very much like him, I determined. He couldn’t handle my eyes anywhere else for very long — not while he wanted my attention.

“You may speak.”

Can I? It wasn’t a question of manners; I was trying to gauge my own ability to comprehend his words and form a coherent response.

“Yes, sir. Please.” Close enough, I figured. There was clearly only one thing he wanted, and it didn’t require any magic language.

He just wanted my submission, and that was what he had won, without any fight at all. I was almost glad there was a crowd; someone could watch this unfold and tell me tomorrow that it had actually happened. Because in that moment it felt like a sickly sweet dream, and I was caught in the saccharine taste of his title on my lips.

“Please teach me, sir.”

Teach me I said, but we both knew I meant touch me.

Spencer obliged the request, abandoning his previous teasing to finally touch my breasts, kneading them gently in his hands. I gasped at the contact, feeling a bit silly at how responsive I was. The arching of my back meant more contact between us, and I prayed that he was as grateful as the tent in his pants suggested.

It was so easy. It was too easy, slipping into this other world with Spencer.

I should have known that things are never that easy.

“Do you see the man watching you in the corner to the right, with the black jacket and tinted glasses?”

There is a certain kind of strangeness, that unsettling feeling in the pit of your stomach that happens when something breaks your perception of reality. There are many words that are attributed to that feeling, be it uncanny valley, nostalgia, or deja vu. I didn’t know what to call the way that question felt, though.

I was too lost in him to question it, shaking off the unease by following his directions until I landed on the person in question.

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know him?”

It was a different kind of hurt, I decided. It definitely wasn’t the kind practiced by a sadomasochist. I cleared my throat and tried to knock aside any expectations that I’d rapidly formed despite knowing better.

“I’m sorry, sir?” I croaked, sounding more confused and pathetic than I would have liked. Because I knew what was coming, and I knew that I wouldn’t be able to handle it. But I had to, because my world was watching, and Spencer was not a part of it.

“I’m asking for the case.”

Sex wasn’t the sun, and Spencer wasn’t Icarus. This was not a Greek tragedy at all, and yet there I was, a mess of remnants of who I used to be in his hands. He could wash me away without a worry in the world, and I would be that much less without him.

“Um, sorry. Actually, I-I…”

Why couldn’t I breathe? How did that man, the foolish, naive, callous man know how to break me down to more pliable parts? And why would he, knowing that he’d leave them scattered in his wake, with no way to come back together again?

I hated him. That fire he’d lit in me raged through me, and I wanted to let it burn him, but it felt like all I could do was release the smoke before it suffocated me, instead. Maybe that’s why my chest was heaving, feeling too hot under his hands, and I stumbled back into his arms that wrapped around me in a gentle embrace.

“Shhh. It’s okay.” He whispered, his arms creating a barrier from the rest of the crowd that immediately dispersed at the first sign of distress. “I’m stopping. It’s okay.” Spencer reassured me, turning me around to offer his chest as cover for the storm of my own panic.

“Sorry, I need to… I—“ I didn’t have a way to finish the sentence, but I knew that I needed to get away from him. I didn’t care about the indecency of my nudity; everyone here had seen me in much more compromising situations.

But they’d never seen me cry. Not like that, anyway.

The world spun around me as I shoved my way free, fighting every urge to run. Poise, control, grace. I repeated the words like a mantra, trying to hold back the burning in my eyes from the smoke filling my lungs.

I left so quickly that I think it took him a minute to catch up. Even in the high heels, I could walk faster than he could collect himself-- and my clothes I’d carelessly left behind. I heard him following. I also heard him call my name as I shut the door of the private restroom, turning the lock and promptly collapsing on the floor.

I thought he would understand I didn’t want to talk to him if I simply ignored him, but I could tell by the soft rap of his hand against the door that I was sorely mistaken. I didn’t care; I didn’t answer.

But, of course, my noncompliance would irritate the man who had just succeeded in stripping me down to nothing and claiming me in front of the people I’d promised would never see that side of me.

“I have your clothes.” He said, quietly and with an unbecoming insecurity.

Biting down on my tongue, I swallowed the lump in my throat that threatened to make my voice tremble. “Thanks. You can leave them out there.”

“I need to talk to you.”

If I could have thrown something at him, I would have. Was it juvenile? Yes. Would it be immensely satisfying? Also yes.

“I don’t want to talk, Dr. Reid.” I said instead, trying to tap into the voice and persona I donned with literally every other man. But, like the best things always do, it disappeared on me when I needed it the most.

I expected him to fight for me, but he didn’t.

“Okay. I respect that.” He said, and I saw a sliver of light disappear from the side of the door as he hung the dress on the handle.

Why did it hurt that he didn’t fight to talk to me? I sounded like a teenager. I felt like one, too. I felt so childish, throwing a tantrum in the bathroom in hopes that he would chase after me. But even when he did, I hated him for it.

So why didn’t I want him to leave, either?

“Is he still here? The guy?” I called after a second of pure panic when I didn’t hear his presence anymore.

“No, he left after you did.”

He was still here. But there was no way to know how long that would continue. After all, I’d just succeeding in scaring away the reason he was here by having the stupidest sub-drop of all sub-drops, considering I wasn’t his fucking submissive.

“I’m sorry.” The word felt too natural on my tongue to still taste like blood.

“Don’t apologize.” It was an order, and a stern one at that. In a way, his voice was more demanding in its softness than the violence of his lower register.

“Are you alright?” He asked, and I could tell he expected a lie.

“I’m perfectly fine.”

And a lie is what he got. Any partner worth a damn would catch it in an instant and know that it was the most dangerous kind to leave untreated. Spencer wasn’t my partner, though. I hoped that he might let it go, cut his losses and leave me a mess for another man to clean up.

“(Y/n)…”

No such luck. The healthy communicator inside me screamed thanks and praise at his stubbornness, but unfortunately for the both of us, that voice wasn’t the one who controlled my mouth.

“I said I’m fine. There’s no point in you still being here, right? If he’s gone?” I asked, unable to stop my traitorous throat from exposing the fact that I was crying to anyone who could hear. Between choking on a sob and a pathetic tremble, I had to acknowledge that this was not going to be a good night.

Spencer was trying to formulate a a response, something to justify him staying and trying to help me even though we both knew he needed to leave. He was doing something good for the world with his work. He didn’t need to sit here and console the girl who'd seen him as a game and cried when she realized that he’d played her first.

I always was a sore loser.

“You already talked to everyone else you planned on meeting, so you can leave.” I explained before he had a chance to argue otherwise.

I heard him sigh, and the door creaked when he leaned against it. “Yeah, I can leave.” There was an undeniable powerlessness underlying the words.

Saying that he could leave was very different from saying that he wanted to.

But I wasn’t going to lose the opportunity to end this humiliating ordeal as quickly as possible. I stood up, wiping the tears from my cheeks and hoping that their origins would be attributed to physical pain rather than heartbreak.

“Okay. I’ll walk you out.” I announced, looking down at my body for the first time since he’d touched me.

I looked the same, but I wished I didn’t.

“It’s okay. I can leave on my own.” He returned, sadder but less hesitant.

I should have fought him like he had fought for me. I should have asked him to stay, opened the door to bear the consequences of our game to him and hope that it made him feel something. We could have gotten through it so easily if he wanted to. But if he didn’t want to, I wasn’t sure if I ever would.

“Okay. You have my phone number.”

Which voice would he hear, then? Did he hear the teenage version of myself, begging him to utilize the excuse? Or did he hear the adult that should know better, ordering him not to call me back unless there was a good reason to hurt us both again?

“Take care of yourself.” It was the last order he gave that night, and the last I thought I’d ever hear from him.

“I always do.” I replied, still unsure which of us I was trying to convince.

—

It was Friday night in Washington, D.C., but there was nothing calm about it. From the frantic road-raging maniacs stuck in the streets trying to flee the city to the nervous energy of the month’s munch, my mind was a disastrous jumble of contradictory thoughts and emotions.

It had been over a month since I last saw Spencer Reid, and we parted under an unfortunate set of circumstances that were… regrettable. The more I’d thought about it, the more embarrassed I was by my juvenile reaction. I'd considered calling him with an apology several times, but he never showed me any indication that such contact would be welcomed.

That was, until the munch. Seeing his name on the roster was strange. It was like butterflies and nausea wrapped in one; my crushing fear warring with the fluttery joy I felt. I tried not to look for him in the crowd, but found myself watching the clock instead, wondering if he was really planning on coming.

I knew his schedule was unpredictable, and that his possible presence didn’t necessarily mean that he was coming for me. Still, I couldn’t stop myself from hoping that he was coming to see me. I told myself it was because I wanted to hear his explanation - to hear his apology. I just had to keep telling myself that, hoping that eventually I would believe it.

But when he walked through the door, shedding the coat to reveal another goddamn three piece suit beneath, I knew that I'd never stood a chance. My feet were taking me to him before I ever gave the order, and before I knew it my hand was on his arm, a clever smile on my face to mask any potential insecurity.

“I thought I saw your name on the roster.” I said, somehow able to maintain my confident, sing-song timbre.

Then he had to go and smile, a small chuckle falling from his lips and mingling with my words in the tense air between us. “I’m glad to see you didn’t remove it.” He only somewhat joked. He didn’t move his arm, but I took my hand back, anyway.

“Why would I? Everyone is welcome at my events.” I gestured to the room, much less scandalous this time around. Most people were in things you’d see on the street, although there were a few more formally dressed men, like the FBI agent to my left, who were clearly looking for something specific.

And apparently, Spencer was looking for something very specific.

“Can I talk to you? In private?”

The question caught me off guard even though I’d dreamed of him asking it. My arms came over my chest and almost knocked the contents from my glass. “I-I need to ask permission.” I pathetically replied, glancing around the room for literally any man I recognized.

None of them were there that night. Of course.

“I don’t mean to go all profiler on you…” He started, narrowing his eyes and tucking his lips to hide his smile, “but you’re drinking.”

At first I was just confused, glancing back at him like I wasn’t holding a half-empty wine glass. But once he pointed at the drink, I just scoffed. “Nothing gets past you, does it, sir?”

Shit!

“I’m sorry. I didn’t ask your permission to call you that.” I quickly followed, the honorific still playing on repeat in my mind. I’d only been with him for a few hours one night over a month ago, and I already couldn’t break the weakest habit?

“It’s alright.” There was a finality to the statement, a warning not to push it.

It made me want to. I wanted to push it because I wanted to see how much he loved the idea of me still thinking of him. I’d validated any arrogant belief he might have held— he got his answer of whether or not I still thought about that night. It felt unfair, but then I reminded myself that he’d showed up, so clearly, he thought about me, too.

“Can we? Talk?” He asked again, this time taking a step toward me and letting his hand fall to my lower back. I swore it was just to see if I would tremble at his touch.

I didn’t.

“Sure.” No sooner had the word left my lips than he whisked the two of us away to the closest empty room. I had no idea how he found it so quickly; it was like he’d come in with this exact plan already mapped out. I felt like he was rushing, trying to catch up for lost time.

But once the door shut, time returned to its regular pace, and his approach felt so much slower in comparison. I couldn’t tell if it was because I was scared what would happen when he got to me, or because I wanted my hands on him as soon as possible. It took everything I had in me, but I managed to keep them to myself.

Spencer opened his mouth for a second, but nothing came out. I could see the gears turning, but it seemed like he was just as lost in this situation as I was. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he told me that he hadn’t been in a relationship in some time. At least, not one like this.

When he did speak, it was decidedly worth the wait.

“I came here to apologize to you.”

And despite feeling like the weight of the world had been lifted from my chest, I still laughed at the thought.

“That’s not an appropriate reason to come to a munch.” I chastised, taking a sip from the drink I hadn't even realized I was still holding. I didn’t want him to see how much the words meant to me. I didn’t want him to see me as weak as he made me feel. “You could have just called me.”

“I wanted to see you again.” He tried to correct, but I cut him off again, albeit mumbled and a bit annoyed.

“Still not an appropriate reason to come here.”

“I wanted to see you again in this context.” Spencer was clearly growing tired of my obstinacy, but at the same time, there was a playfulness there. Just like last time. I was starting to get the idea that he liked the idea that I could match him in both stubbornness and sarcasm.

“Because it ended so well last time?” Without context, I might actually have sounded angry, but my true feelings were obvious in the way my body leaned towards him and sought any contact it could.

“Listen, I understand that I made you uncomfortable. I take full responsibility for that.”

A good start, I thought. It didn’t last long.

“… But you also were aware of the parameters of my being there, and you were the one who instigated the scene.”

I snorted at the way he forced himself to continue the sentence despite a laugh starting to form through the words. It was refreshing to know that at least in this heavy conversation, I didn’t have to feel like a child. If anything, we felt like… friends.

“That doesn’t sound like a very good apology to me, Dr. Reid.” I teased, downing the rest of the contents of my cup to free my hands. When I licked the leftover liquid from my lips, his eyes darted down to the movement, and took a lot longer to return to my eyes than they should have.

I lifted my eyebrows to remind him that I was still waiting for his response, and he cleared his throat and, presumably, any lingering lewd thoughts.

“I’m sorry that I got so wrapped up in the fantasy that I forgot my job comes first. And I’m sorry that I hurt you in the process.”

It was what I'd wanted to hear, so why did I feel a little guilty after I’d gotten it? Why did I feel like I’d somehow tricked him into admitting some secret? He just made me feel so… stupid.

“The fantasy?” I'd meant to think it, but I said it aloud. His response didn’t disappoint.

“You’re a very beautiful woman.” He said, dropping the volume of his voice when we realized how close together we’d drifted. “That should come as no surprise to you.”

He was right; it shouldn’t have been surprising, and it wasn’t, really. I knew that some people found me desirable. For heaven’s sake, I had a collection of men who regularly trusted me to satisfy all of their wildest desires. But to hear that he wanted me badly enough to envision being one of those men was… exhilarating.

That being said, it still wasn’t enough to distract me from the grudge that stood between us. It was that small, nagging voice that demanded to be heard.

“You hurt my feelings because I thought you were only using me for your work.” I spoke quickly and with as much apathy as I could muster, waving my hand to dismiss the childish words as they came. After I’d said it out loud, it just seemed to ridiculous.

Thankfully, Spencer agreed. “That’s not true. I’m sorry that I ever gave you that impression.” He whispered, our bodies finally finding each other again in the quiet solitude of our own little world.

He made me feel so different, so ready to let go. He made me want to serve myself to him without reservation just to see how he would use the opportunity. And that feeling was so rare that I’d almost forgotten how overwhelming it could be.

So, I redirected the tension to more comfortable territory.

“Have you ever been a submissive, Dr. Reid?”

“No, I haven’t.” He answered without a single doubt or pause. It was a deliberate decision, and one that he’d clearly thought through on several occasions. That alone told me all I needed to know.

“But you’ve wanted to?” I asked, starting to gently sway our bodies in something that only vaguely resembled dancing.

“At one point or another, yes.”

There was undeniable honesty in his voice, but at the same time it was so obvious that he was hiding something. It wasn’t a dealbreaker; it was understandable. Most of us have some part of us that we keep to ourselves. But if I was going to pursue this relationship— which I was certainly going to do— then I needed to see it. Eventually.

Spencer was a man of science. Surely, he would understand the logic of it, no? “You’ll never be able to truly sympathize with me unless you’ve been on the other side.” I tried to appeal to any rational voice I could, but I was cut out so forcefully that it almost felt like a physical blow.

“Plenty of dominants never experience a submissive headspace.”

“Those men aren’t you.” I shot back before he could advance any other part of that argument. I wasn’t going to listen to that nonsense, or even bother going into the societal problems that forced men into dominant roles. Realistically, Spencer definitely knew about them; he was choosing to ignore them to reach the conclusion he wanted.

“I can teach you.” I said.

The world stopped, or it felt that way, at least. Maybe it was because Spencer stopped the swaying, or maybe it was because I saw so many walls rapidly form between us with just a few words.

“To be submissive?” He asked, ready to deny the proposition before he even understood what I was saying.

“To be a better dominant.” I clarified, bringing the gentle rotation of the earth back to its previous glory.

But we weren’t out of the woods yet, with Spencer’s curiosity quickly turning into suspicion.

“Out of the kindness of your heart?” He wryly replied, his hands gaining courage as they spread over my lower back, keeping me close even as his words tried to push me away.

How peculiar.

“Hopefully you will reward me with the fruits of my labor.” I sighed, acting like this was hard work rather than an absolute pleasure. Like I hadn’t been dreaming of the chance to explore this universe he’d awoken in me.

“That’s quite a long term request for the second time we’ve met.”

I told myself I was doing this to find his submission, but at the same time I knew that he already had mine.

“You’re free to say no.” I gently reminded him.

“I know.” He softly answered, letting his gaze cover every inch of my face, committing to memory the way I looked when I asked him to be mine.

“So are you interested?” I begged in the form of a question.

What Spencer did next was irritating, teasing, and so very much like him. Dipping down closer to my face, he waited until my eyes fluttered shut in anticipation of his lips on mine before he answered.

“Yes.” He whispered, his lips barely touching mine with the movement.

And then he let me go.

The air should have felt cold in his absence, but it wasn’t. His body heat lingered like a warm embrace that would last long after he left. Because that’s what men like him did — they became a part of you.

“Good.” I said, trying not to look as utterly rattled as I felt.

The asshole was smiling, watching me struggle to maintain my independence without him to lean on. Trying to pretend like I wanted to do anything other than throw myself in his arms and see where he took me.

I cleared my throat, hoping the sound would drown out the way my heart screamed for him. “Call me to set up our first meeting.” I instructed, digging through my purse for a business card like he didn’t already have my number. I just needed something to do with my hands. But he already had me figured out, nodding along with my bumbling movements until I abandoned the pursuit altogether.

“I need to get back to my guests!” I said way too loud and far too excited, clapping my hands together and avoiding his eyes. Because I knew that as soon as I looked at him, I would think about the fact he’d almost kissed me, and I'd let him know I wanted him to. “Feel free to stick around and socialize.”

“No need.” He should have smirked at my open display of longing, but he didn’t. He smiled, genuine and gentle. “I got what I came for.”

“Well. Take care of yourself, sir.” I didn’t hide the affection or the honorific this time. It felt good; it felt right.

“Until next time.”

Neither of us wanted the interaction to end, so when he opened the door I gave a stupid little wink with what I hoped would be the last word. “It’ll be my turn to do that, then.”

The joke landed well enough for him to chuckle. I walked with him to where his coat stayed hanging, and the silence didn’t feel suffocating. Once he was fully dressed, he did that thing again where he obviously wanted to say something but changed course before he could.

“Have a nice night.” He said, instead, and I decided that it was good enough for me.

“You too, sir.”

I was so sure that he’d given me the win and let me end the night on my terms and with assurance that my handle on his heart was just as strong as his on mine. But then he stopped right before his exit and said the one thing I wasn’t expecting.

“Spencer.” He said.

“You too, Spencer.” I corrected.

And when he left, the feelings didn’t. I could still feel his hands on my back and his breath on my skin. Because that was what men like him did.

They lingered. They became a part of you.

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid smut #spencer reid series #reid request #spencer reid request #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid self insert #criminal minds self insert #criminal minds smut

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cursestothemoon · 3 years

Text

I Won’t Say I’m In Love

Fred Weasley x Fem!Slytherin!Reader

Read the summary here

Warnings: Language, suggestive themes

Word Count: 2569

SERIES MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST

(i found the picture on google, there is a name on it but other than that i am not sure who owns it. I do not.)

The leaves, newly fallen from the on coming of Autumn, crunched under the feet of hurrying students. Hogwarts had begun it’s new school year, witches and wizards were hurrying from boats and carts to get into the castle and catch up with friends. Just outside of the dining Hall was a sea of students, chattering with friends, everyone staying in clumps of like colors.

Gryffindors stayed with their own, as did Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs were the ones to intermingle the most, having friends in almost every house. Then there was the house of Salazar Slytherin, a proud bunch, robes of green tightly knit together leaving no room for outsiders or stragglers, not that the other houses (excluding Hufflepuff) thought highly enough of the green and silver house to make friends.

Y/n L/n, a proud member of Slytherin stood proud with her friends and housemates. Her chin was held high, a playful smirk painted delicately on her features as she listened to Blaise Zabini give a recount of his summer holiday. Blaise had always been a nice boy, his mother was a beautiful woman who was familiar with the front page of many high end wizarding fashion magazines. Then there was Lily Webberforth, another pureblood from a family of wealth, she was in Y/n’s year and a cherished friend.

“Father said he’d be purchasing a new peacock for the manor, though he couldn’t decide between albino or not.” Draco informed.

Draco Malfoy had wormed his way into the group during second year, a good kid...when he wanted to be, but absolutely snotty otherwise.

“Y/n, how about you wear my jersey for the first game of the season?” Adrian Pucey asked, arm slinging around Y/n’s shoulders making her internally cringe.

She was never a fan of being touched and Adrian seemed to be all for it when it came to her. They were in the same year and he’d been trying to convince Y/n to make it official since third year. She preferred to play with him rather than commit to him. It was easier that way, being able to differentiate her feelings from an early age, she knew she didn't particularly like him, but they had a few good nights and now she can’t shake him. He had become rougher over the years, harsh and controlling with an affinity for blackmail.

“No my clothes are just fine, Pucey, thanks.” She shrugged off his arm as Lily snickered at the exchange, finding joy in giving Adrian a look that told him ‘better luck next time’.

Adrian, not the biggest fan of rejection then turned to Lily in hopes of getting a jealous rise out of Y/n.

“What about you, Lils? You’ll wear my jersey won’t you?”

Lily shook her head, “I’m on the team with you, clear why you're not in Ravenclaw isn't it?”

Y/n laughed at the comment and moved to stand next to Lily, away from Adrian. Luckily, he got the message, for now, and left to find Marcus Flint.

“Have you seen the twins yet?” Lily asked, leaning closer to Y/n to make sure she wasn't overheard.

The girl gave her a questioning look before asking, “Why would I go looking for them?”

“Their hair’s come in nice, looking a bit shabby last year, remember?”

“Yeah, they’ve finally cut it?”

Lily shook her head, her eyes glowing with excitement, “Even better, it’s grown out a bit longer. Real nice looking, George looks rather well I’d say.”

“I always figured you had a thing for him.” Y/n laughed.

“Oh please, you and I both know that you love how much attention Fred gives you.”

Y/n tried to respond, really she did, but she was both out of words and interrupted by Lily again.

“Look, here they come.” Her voice was quite as she nudged her head in the direction behind Y/n.

Y/n turned slowly, in no rush to give Fred Weasley the satisfaction of having him know they were talking about him. When she did finally meet his eyes she couldn’t help but agree with Lily, his hair had grown out quite handsomely and he seemed to have reached an impossible height, well over the six feet he towered at in the previous year.

“Ladies.” They greeted simultaneously, Fred eyeing Y/n as they neared.

She gave a silent nod to them as Lily vocally greeted them with a reserved, “Hey.”

“News is that the first match of the season has our houses against each other. Shame isn’t it, Poppet? You can’t cheer for me.” Fred asked, arms crossing in front of his chest and lips stretching to a smirk.

Anyone could tell Fred was proud of his large frame, as a beater he worked hard for his toned arms, and thick biceps but his height was a complete natural gift bestowed upon him by the gods and he wouldn’t waste their generosity.

Y/n snorted, “Oh yeah, makes me feel empty inside when I can’t cheer for you, Weasley.”

“I know, no need to tell me. I fill you right up don’t I?”

The comment made her sneer at him, but she was unable to say anything back as her house was called into the Great Hall for the beginning of the year feast. Fred watched her leave as George poked fun at his inability to charm his way into her heart with innuendos and sarcasm.

It annoyed Fred, it was common knowledge that you had been with a few guys, some people even going as far as giving Y/n an undeserved title for it. Unfortunately, common knowledge happened to be a common rumor made by people who disliked her. Fred didn’t know this however and her constant rejection made him wonder, what did all those other guys have that he didn't?

Y/n and Fred had a back and forth relationship, neither being afraid to throw jabs at the other with the underlying tone of flirtiness yet both of them knowing the line not to cross. Fred thought she was ethereal, the way she seemed to glow as she walked through the halls had him weak in the knees. Her voice was buttery and soft, a velvety quality that seemed to grasp onto each of his heartstrings. Fred was head over heels for her and he hated it so he used sarcasm and a condescending tone to combat his feelings. Over time this developed into a false belief that he really didn’t like her, she was cunning, sly, and so easy to hate when he couldn’t love her.

Lily and Y/n sat in potions class, potion already brewed and completed as they gossiped in hushed tones and watchful eyes.

“So, anything new with Weasley?”

Y/n didn’t need a first name to know who her friend was referring to and she groaned.

“No, and there never will be.”

A loud groan emitted from Lily’s lips, “When are you gonna stop lying to yourself? I can see right through you.”

“There is no chance, no way that I’d ever fall for him.”

“You’d never fall for him or you’d never let yourself?”

The following silence was just as good of an answer as any, and Lily gave her a smug looking knowing she had won the argument.

Class ended shortly after that exchange, Y/n and Lily now having a free period chose to hang out in the room with the goblet of fire, watching as people put their names in. It was only last night that Fred and George had voiced their complaints quite loudly at the age restriction and Y/n was excited to rub it in Fred’s face that she was of age. Of course she wasn’t going to put her name in the goblet, she had better things to worry about than some tournament.

Lily and Y/n entered the hall at seemingly the wrong time, seeing as Fred and George had run through the doors leaving the girls in their dust. The whoops and hollers from bystanders made Y/n roll her eyes much to Lily’s amusement.

“How can you not be annoyed by their arrogance?” Y/n asked incredulously.

Her friend shrugged, “They are amusing.”

Y/n ignored the comment as they neared the twins.

“It’s not going to work.” She sing-songed loud enough for them to hear as she walked by.

Fred and George heard the comment and made a b-line for her and Lily. Fred plopped down behind Y/n, his face turning to meet her eyes, George doing the same to Lily.

“You don’t think that, do you Lily?” George asked Lily with a feigned look of childlike innocence.

“Come on, Poppet, have a little faith in me.” Fred said, a sarcastic look of pleading falling over his features.

For extra effect Fred jutted out his bottom lip making Y/n laugh at his ridiculousness, and oh how he loved to have her attention to himself.

“It’s incredibly dimwitted.” Y/n answered.

Lily nodded, “See that there?” She pointed to a white line around the goblet as she continued, “it’s an age line. Dumbledore drew it himself -”

“Meaning something as pathetically dimwitted as an aging potion isn’t going to get past it.” Y/n finished.

Fred tsked as he shook his head, “That’s why it’s so brilliant.”

“Because it’s so pathetically dimwitted.”

The twins stood up abruptly and Y/n’s eyes followed Fred’s figure. The way his jaw flexed as he drank the potion and his hair flopped when he jumped down from the bench with George made Y/n lose grasp on her emotions for just a moment.

He was good looking, she couldn’t deny it. Fred Weasley seemed to be built by the gods, his hair burned as that of Ares’, and his face chiseled to the likeness of Apollo. But Y/n had been there and done that with pretty boys, all of them were the same and wouldn’t give in to another one. She refused to let herself fall for him, afraid of the repercussions of really loving him.

The fire let out an angry growl that brought Y/n’s mind back to that room and what was happening, with good timing too as she then watched George and Fred get thrown a few feet in the air and land away from the age line. They sprouted long grey beards and got into a tussle on the floor.

The sight made Y/n giggle before she quickly regained her composure and acted as unbothered as possible making Lily roll her eyes. It would’ve been a fairly enjoyable time, regardless of what Y/n would’ve told Fred, but Adrian Pucey walking into the hall made her shrink in her chair as she grimaced.

“Go, don’t think he’s seen you yet.” Lily whispered, eyes trained on the other Slytherin.

Y/n nodded and hugged the walls as she made her way to the door, hopefully, unseen. She celebrated too early, and her face fell as she heard the unmistakable tone just as she made it through the doors.

“Running away from me?” Adrian called, his smirk evident in his words.

She stopped, turning to look at him as she spoke, “Don’t be so surprised. You ought to have realized by now your company isn’t wanted.”

“Come on Y/n, give us a chance. You know you want to.” He said coming closer to her.

“Really, Adrian, I don’t.”

Adrian reached out to pull her under his arm and forced her to walk with him, the act making her tense up but he didn’t seem to mind. He leaned closer to her ear, his breath hitting her skin making her incredibly uncomfortable.

“You’re mine, you know that don’t you? And no fucking ginger is going to get in my way.” He growled.

“You’re disgusting.” She spat, eyes burning with the anger of Hephaestus’ greatest fire.

Adrian laughed as he leaned closer to Y/n’s ear making her give an uncomfortable shiver, “Careful, darling, your feelings are showing.”

“Miss me, poppet?”

Fred Weasley’s voice was chipper and cheery as he greeted Y/n in their first class of the day. He had just woken up and it showed, his red hair looked as though it was hastily brushed through with his own fingers and his eyes still a bit puffy. He looked positively endearing as he took a seat at his table with George, just behind Lily and Y/n.

“Ridiculously.” Y/n mumbled, not looking up from her Herbology book.

“We’re only a few weeks in, what could you possibly be studying for?” Fred asked as he leaned over his desk to catch a glimpse at what you were looking at.

You glanced at him momentarily before looking back at your book, “Just giving myself an idea of what to expect.”

“Not a bad idea.” George said, considering doing it himself.

Fred gave him a funny look before turning his attention back to the girl in front of him, chin resting on his hand propped up by his elbow on the desk. She wasn’t paying attention to him, instead focusing on the book in front of her. She was slightly to the side allowing Fred the perfect view of her face without giving her the satisfaction of knowing he was staring at her.

Y/n’s hair fell in gentle waves down to kiss the top of her hips, she had fring that framed the length of her face and parted in the middle that was incredibly voluminous. Her eyes were focused with intense determination as she read, face relaxed as she was completely absorbed in what she was doing. Fred noticed early on that she rarely laughed, a genuine, eye crinkling, giggle but instead always had a look of unbothered casualness. He couldn’t understand this, not in the slightest, seeing as he was sure he had smile lines forming already.

He wanted to know more about the ethereal Slytherin, he craved it with everything in his being. Something about her drew him in, held him in place and refused to let him go.

Deep in thought, Fred failed to notice her eyes now looking at him with a curious glint and her hand coming out to poke him with her index finger.

“Alright, Weasley?” Her eyebrows were furrowed and Fred shrugged off the bubbly feeling he got in his gut.

He smirked, “Aw, do you care about my well being? Georgie hold me I may swoon.”

George laughed and shook his head at his brother, Lily joining in on the laughs as she watched Y/n’s face contort to one of distaste.

“Oi, Freddie’s got himself a girlfriend.” Lee Jordan, a close friend of Fred and George’s called from his table on the other side of the greenhouse.

Fred gave a short chuckle, his defenses coming up instantaneously as he tried to ignore the burning of his cheeks. And maybe if he hadn’t been so keen on putting down any and all rumors of him having feelings for Y/n he would’ve noticed the shy smile that graced Y/n’s lips as she turned her face away from the boys.

But alas, he didn't, and instead opened his mouth to shout over to Lee.

“My standards aren't that low, mate. I’d just as soon shag a goblin, Godric knows they’d be less bothersome.”

Taglist

@freddieweasleyswife @anywherebuthere

#Fred Weasley #Fred Weasley imagine #fred weasley x reader #Harry Potter imagines

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spactcle · 3 years

Text

you say it first

Archive of Our Own Link

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Fandoms: Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia Relationships: Bakugou Katsuki/Kirishima Eijirou Language: English

Summary: “I can’t tell him.” “Why not?” “Because then he’d know.” Kirishima and Bakugou seek advice from their friends about UA's worst-kept secret (except, apparently, from them).

“I think I’m in love with Bakugou.”

Kaminari is bent over his homework, cheek resting on his fist. His shoulders freeze, he doesn’t look up from his workbook, but his pen stops scrawling across the page. After a few beats, he lifts his chin and plops it on his fist instead.

“I mean… obviously.”

“What?”

“Dude, c’mon. I know I’m me and this will sound weird but let’s get serious and study, please? My grades don’t have time for you to state the obvious.”

“The obvious?” Kirishima pops up from where he's sprawled out on the ground, looking at Kaminari in disbelief. “How did you know?”

“Everyone knows, slick,” Kaminari retorts, sarcasm dripping from the nickname. “Now we have finals next week, can we please focus?”

“Everyone?”

“Okay.” Kaminari’s hands clap together and he snaps his workbook closed. “Clearly we are focusing on the wrong thing. Why are you bringing this up,” the tip of his finger jabs as his closed workbook, tapping at it for effect, “now?”

“Why have you not brought it up?” Kirishima accuses, arms gesturing widely.

“Because I thought you knew!”

“How would I know?”

Kaminari jabs his finger accusingly at Kirishima instead now. “They’re your feelings, Kiri!” His finger curls back into a fist and he brings it to his lips, brow drawing in with concern as he thinks. “Your weird, weird feelings. But still.”

Kirishima blows a raspberry at him, leaving his lips out in a pout with the gall to look offended. “How are my feelings weird?”

“Bakugou is an emotionally constipated trash can,” Kaminari deadpans. “And you’re… I don’t know? Whatever the opposite of that would be.”

“Diarrhea recycling bin.”

A beat. Kaminari’s face pulls back into a disgusted grimace. “Really could have done without that mental image.”

Kirishima shrugs and starts to nervously pull at his hair. It’s a Saturday and he didn’t style it today, just has his bangs pulled into a half ponytail behind his head. Kaminari has told him to just chop it off but Kirishima insists that it’s part of my brand, and besides how is Blasty going to call me shitty-hair if I don’t have any?

His confusion is what’s most baffling to Kaminari. They’re in their third year and it feels like Bakugou and Kirishima should have figured each other out by now – they know one another better than anyone else could, so how are they so bad at this? Kaminari figured out his feelings for Jirou the previous year, Midoriya and Uraraka got together just a few months later, and even Kendou and Tetsu finally stopped beating around the bush. Now that he thinks about it, a lot of people more emotionally dense than Kirishima have confessed to their respective partners, like Todoroki and Tokoyami.

One of Kirishima’s sharp teeth hangs over his bottom lip as he chews at the skin. It makes Kaminari feel a little bit bad. But only a little. He really should have joined Jirou and Momo for studying instead.

“Why are you bringing this up now?” he repeats his previous question but without the edge to his voice, trying to exercise patience for his friend.

Kirishima collapses on the table, voice muffled by his arm. “Because I don’t know what to do.”

“Tell him.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

Kirishima lifts turns his head up slightly to glare at him from over his arm. “I can’t tell him.”

“Why not?”

“Because then he’d know.” He hides his face again.

Kaminari rolls his eyes so far back he’s surprised he doesn’t see the inside of his skull. “That’s usually the idea.” Kirishima’s answer is a wordless scoff, tongue sputtering around words he can’t form. “Just tell him. There’s no way he doesn’t feel the same.” The sputtering worsens and Kirishima snaps his head up from the table, gawking at Kaminari as his face turns as red as his hair.

“I said I was serious!”

“Yeah, seriously blind.”

“What?”

This time Kaminari is almost positive he sees his skull, but that could just be his vision whiting as he strains his eyes. “Kirishima Eijirou,” the full name absolutely required to get his full and undivided attention. “The fact that you and Bakugou have got it bad for each other is the worst kept secret in the entire school – except, apparently, from the both of you. I’m almost positive that there’s some kind of bet going around about when you two will stop being complete boneheads and make it official.”

Kirishima’s eyes wandered around the room as if searching for a cosmic answer to all his problems. “We… bet? Bakugou… I’m…”

“Yes. Now can we please study? And you can deal with your love life later?”

Kirishima’s cheeks grow big as he puffs them up with air and stares blankly at their workbooks. Kaminari gives him a full minute then clicks his tongue and starts to pack up. “Alright. I’m going to leave you here to process. Good luck, bro.” He sets a hand on Kirishima’s shoulder as he wraps his other arm around his schoolwork. “I know I said it was weird and all – and in my defense, it is – but I think we’re all rooting for you two.”

Lips formed around words that didn’t seem to want to come out of Kirishima’s mouth and Kaminari just sighed, patting him on the back before making his exit. He really should have just studied with Jirou and Momo.

- - -

“I think Kirishima is in love with me.”

Uraraka looks up from her place at the desk. She spins in her chair to find Bakugou collapsing on her bed, then she looks to find the hidden camera that someone must have hidden in her room. No one pops out of her closet laughing, and Bakugou is laying on his back staring at the ceiling, arms lying limp at his sides. He’s frowning in the way that he only does when he’s encountered an obstacle that he can’t quite figure out. So, this isn’t a prank.

“Why are you telling me this?”

He snaps up, rage normalizing his expression again, and argues, “Who the fuck else am I supposed to tell?”

Uraraka frowns at him pointedly and his lips fall out of the snarl and into a resigned grimace, a sign that she has come to recognize as his apology. “Kirishima, for starters.”

“Fuck that.” Bakugou flops back onto her bed. “Why should I have to do anything when he’s the one in love with me?” He gestures wildly at the ceiling like it’s the one that he came to for advice on his love life.

“Are you in love with him too?”

Instantly, his expression closes off. He turns his face away from her and lets his arms fall back to his sides.

“Bakugou?”

“Shut up. The hell are you asking for anyway?”

Uraraka’s cheeks blow up with air before she huffs at him. “It’s the obvious question.”

“The fuck it is.”

“If Kirishima burst in here, just as rudely as you did, and declared his love for you – what would you do about it?”

Bakugou’s head turns away from her, but she can see the back of his neck redden and she isn’t big enough to not feel satisfied by that. He’s treating his and Kirishima’s feelings as if it’s some huge secret and revelation – but she, Deku, Todoroki, and Tsu have a bet about how long it will go before one of them does something about it. Iida disapproves.

If it happens in the next week, the pot goes to Todoroki.

Her bet starts the week after.

He’s lucky that Uraraka is at least a big enough person to help him now instead of waiting.

“Probably something along the lines of,” she clears her throat, bringing her hands together and resting them against her cheek, then continues in a high pitch, “oh, Kirishima, I love you too! Sweep me off my feet!”

Bakugou sits back up before she’s even finished, hands poised to attack, and face screwed into a scowl, but the effect is decidedly lessened considering the deep blush coloring his cheeks. “Shut the fuck up if you want to graduate, round face!”

She leans back in her chair, lifting an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Bakugou, you obviously have feelings for him. This wouldn’t bother you so much if you didn’t.”

“It doesn’t fucking bother me.”

“It bothers you that he hasn’t said anything.”

“It—” His mouth snaps shut and his eyes dart away from her. His ears also start to turn pink and then he zeroes in on her with a sharp glare. “You bother me.”

Uraraka rolls her eyes and waves him off. “Everything but Kirishima bothers you.”

“He bothers me too.”

“Because he hasn’t told you that he loves you.”

“Fuck off.” He throws himself backward on the bed, again, arms crossed over his chest as he glares are the ceiling instead of her.

She observes him. Over the years, she’s learned to read Bakugou – being one of the few to earn his respect early on had those perks, if it could be called that. But she knows when he’s thinking too much – which is what he’s doing right now.

“Bakugou, why are you here?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Do you need me to tell you that you need to tell him?”

“I don’t need you at all,” he snaps, but there’s no heat behind it.

She ignores him. “You should tell him.”

Bakugou makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. “He’s the one that always goes on about manliness. What the fuck is manly about keeping shit to yourself?” His arms uncurl from his chest and his fingers make a fist. “Fucking own up to it.”

“Well, you’re the one that always says you do what you want,” she points out, tilting her head to the side. “So… if you want Kirishima, then shouldn’t you say something?”

He doesn’t reply, and his arms fall back onto the bed. Uraraka shrugs and turns back to her desk. Their finals are coming up after all and he interrupted her studies.

“I’m fucking going to sleep,” he says finally, pushing himself off the bed.

“Or you could help me study,” she offers without turning around, voice airy. She knows the answer to that.

“Fuck no.”

“Oh, that’s right. You only ever help Kirishima.”

There’s a small explosion as the door slams behind him, but Uraraka smirks and isn’t big enough to not feel satisfied.

- - -

What the fuck does Uraraka know anyway? She’d shacked up with Deku a year ago, so Bakugou clearly overestimated her judgment and overall sense.

Truthfully, not that he would ever say this out loud, Bakugou doesn’t know why he went to her room. He doesn’t know why he was so tracked on this when his main objective should be elbowing his way to the top of his class. Finals were soon for fuck’s sake. What the fuck was he worrying about Kirishima or feelings for, anyway? He is Bakugou fucking Katsuki, and he is going to be the undeniable number one.

Hands clenched into fists, the right one still steaming from his outburst at Uraraka’s last words, he takes the girl’s elevator down to the common area. Water first, then he’ll take another practice exam before sleeping. He shoves his clenched hands into his pockets and stalks across the common area.

It’s dark outside and the rooms here are empty, everyone already separated into studying groups or gone to bed. If this was two years ago, Bakugou would already likely have been asleep. He didn’t normally stay or socialize in the common room, and if he did it was only for a few minutes or maybe an hour. But Kirishima persisted and it was annoying. He wouldn’t fucking leave Bakugou alone or stop nagging him about hanging out with his peers more (Your friends, Kirishima would correct him, but Bakugou only started calling them peers in their second year). How was he ever going to connect more with their classmates if he just holed himself up in his room to study?

Fuck you. I fucking help you, don’t I?

Exactly! And now we’re best bros!

When the hell had Bakugou asked for more friends? He hadn’t even asked for the one!

But, honestly, he’s quietly glad he’d been forced out of his room, even if he won't admit it out loud or say it in so many words. Some – and only some – of his classmates were actually pretty cool. His friends from before hadn’t really been friends. Lackeys, maybe… Kids that were taken with the boy with a great quirk and a domineering personality. Other bullies, he reminds himself. And he’d been fine with that at the time. He hadn’t needed anyone else, and he hadn’t wanted them. He would think that other people would hold him back, ask for things, for compromises – or worse, look down on him.

Then Kirishima decided they were friends and Bakugou hadn’t really done anything to stop that from happening. It changed him… for the better.

Fuck. He needs to stop thinking about it. He’s got more control than this.

Bakugou gnaws at his lower lip, glaring at the bouquet of flowers sitting on the coffee table. Blue bell-shaped flowers that he couldn’t be bothered to remember the name of. What he does remember is everyone’s look of surprise when it had been Todoroki carrying those flowers, and with the confidence that he always seemed to possess, walked right up to Iida and asked him on a date. Four-Eyes turned redder than Todoroki’s left side and started sweating so badly that his glasses wouldn’t stay on his face. But the takeaway from the story for Bakugou was seeing Kirishima’s soft, almost sad smile and the awkward way he laughed it off when Bakugou asked him what was wrong.

Well, more specifically Bakugou asked, What the fuck is wrong with your face?

The petals were starting to wither at the edges, but Class 1A had really come together to keep them alive for this long, though he’s pretty sure it was the girl with the vines in 1B that was doing most of the work. The two classes met and hung out a lot more than they used to. It was always so damn loud now.

Scowling, Bakugou keeps moving toward the kitchen. Yeah, maybe it had been the wrong thing to say. Maybe. Like he doesn’t already know it was the wrong thing to say.

Are you in love with him too?

“Fuck,” he swears, throwing open the fridge. The water bottles were running low, and he frowns, taking one of the last four after a moment of consideration.

When he rights himself, he starts to close the door when Kirishima comes around the corner. Because of course he does, and of course he has his shitty hair down and not styled since Bakugou always thinks he looks so goddamn pretty like that. He looks just as caught off guard to see Bakugou. “Oh, hey man, what’s up?” He asks, his hand going to the back of his head and that fucking adorably shy, little smile on his lips – the one where Bakugou can only see his top teeth and his eyes crinkle a little.

You should tell him.

Bakugou grits his teeth at the thought and wills away the blush that threatens to dust his cheeks as he remembers what Uraraka said. “Water,” he grunts, the fridge door standing awkwardly open as a physical barrier between them. “What are you doing down here?”

“Snack,” Kirishima replies, with a small shrug as he moves closer and further into the kitchen. “Kaminari abandoned me to go study with Jirou and Momo, I think.”

“You think?”

And dammit the huffy little laugh Kirishima lets out, the one that Bakugou recognizes as him being embarrassed makes his heart stutter in his chest. “Yeah. I was distracted…” He starts absentmindedly looking through the cabinets as he speaks. “Thought some food might help, though.”

Bakugou shakes his head at Kirishima. “You’re always getting distracted. You need me there to keep you on track.”

Kirishima glances at him with that smile. “You study by yourself on Thursdays,” he replies with good nature as he moves to the next cabinet, the one full of nothing but dishes. When his eyes return to see the contents, he still stares into it like he’s looking for something, clearly feigning interest and clearly still distracted.

“You could’ve asked if you were having trouble,” Bakugou grumbles, his brow wrinkling as he watches.

Kirishima lets out another awkward laugh. “Yeah, I guess I could,” he agrees. He doesn’t move from the dish cabinet.

Is he pointedly avoiding looking at Bakugou now? A frown lowers on Bakugou’s lips and he stares at Kirishima’s profile for a long moment, waiting for him to say something else. Kirishima fills silences, not Bakugou. Kirishima doesn’t avoid eye contact, Bakugou does. Kirishima doesn’t stare into dish cabinets when he’s hungry and looking for a snack, Bakugou—well, no, he doesn’t. He shakes his head, annoyed with where this thought process is leading.

Bakugou doesn’t shy away from conflict. And neither does Kirishima. So…

“What the fuck are you doing, shitty hair?”

That seems to startle him, and his eyes tear away from the dishes. “Oh! There’s no food in here.” His sheepish laugh returns, but this time it’s annoying because that's the one he uses when he's trying to brush something off. “Guess I’m still distracted.”

“No. You’ve been acting weird all day.” Ever since the Todoroki-Flowers incident, but Bakugou doesn’t say that.

“Have I?” Kirishima asks, closing the cabinet as his eyes dart around the room and look anywhere but Bakugou.

That makes him grind his teeth. He knows Bakugou hates being answered with questions. He was going to wring this shitty-haired, perfect piece of shit’s neck. His gaze zeroes in on Kirishima and he narrows his eyes. “Kirishima.”

At the sound of his name, ruby-red eyes find Bakugou’s own, and he blinks rapidly. “Uh…” He stutters as sharp teeth worry at this bottom lip and Bakugou hates the way he can’t help but follow that movement. Pink dusts Kirishima’s cheeks and Bakugou’s hand clenches into a fist as he tries to avoid moving over there to touch and see if his cheeks are warming with the color. The bottle crackles in his hand as he squeezes it. “Sorry, Bakugou. I’m really just a little distracted, honest.”

Bakugou looks at him, his expression gradually easing out of irritation. He feels like there’s something in his throat and he still hates it. “Tch. Just come get your damn food,” he says, stepping away from the fridge like an offering. And he hates that he knows that Kirishima will recognize that as Bakugou looking out for him in his own way – that it’s his way of saying eat something and maybe that will help.

He hates it even more that it works.

A knowing smile flits across Kirishima’s lips and he nods. He says something that Bakugou doesn’t register because all he can think about is that Kirishima is moving closer and stepping around him to take a look in the fridge. He stands back, watching the back of Kirishima’s head as he looks through what he could eat, and the proximity makes Bakugou’s chest feel full, and his hands sweat, and he hates it.

No. Fuck. He doesn’t hate it.

Bakugou, you obviously have feelings for him. This wouldn’t bother you so much if you didn’t.

Uraraka really got in his head. Because she was right. It did bother him. Kirishima was good with feelings. He was the one that was always encouraging Bakugou to embrace his emotions – shit, all the nights they’d spent staying up talking after Bakugou woke from nightmares to a panic attack and Kirishima could hear him through the walls. Kirishima vocalized his worries and his anxieties, he used them to talk and relate to their classmates and lower classmen, hell, even villains. Because Kirishima was good.

It bothers you that he hasn’t said anything.

Of course, it bothers him! Why should Bakugou have to take the initiative here? He was never the one who had to take the initiative before. Kirishima brought him into a friendship kicking and screaming, but that didn’t deter him. Even on Bakugou’s worst day, he knew Kirishima would still be there.

Are you in love with him too?

Fuck.

“Kirishima.”

Kirishima rights himself and looks back at Bakugou like he’s surprised to hear his name again. He turns around and he’s backlit by the light from the fridge like a goddamn angel and fuck if he isn’t the prettiest thing Bakugou’s ever seen. Bakugou’s brain feels like mush for the first time in his life and all he can do is glare at Kirishima’s confused face while he tries to decipher what exactly possessed him to say this stupid, wonderful, infuriating, amazing boy’s name.

Well, you’re the one that always says you do what you want.

Before he manages to catch up with himself, Bakugou finds himself stepping into Kirishima’s space and reaching up to hold the sides of his neck. He's never done this before because no one has ever caught his attention like this, no one has ever felt so close to him as Kirishima, but fuck if it isn’t perfect when he presses his lips to Kirishima’s, swallowing the small gasp that passes his lips.

Kirishima is still for a few beats, but he moves just before Bakugou begins to worry that he made a mistake. His hands find Bakugou’s hips, and he presses back, tilting his head into the kiss.

Bakugou might not know what he’s doing, but even to him, it’s clear that Kirishima does. The hands at his hips don’t stay there for long as they wind behind him to lie flat against his back, just under his shoulder blades as Kirishima bends and pulls Bakugou up into him – when did he get so damn tall? And he will never admit to the noise that he makes into Kirishima’s mouth when his tongue pushes gently into his mouth, or to the way his arms secure around solid shoulders as his fingers twist gently into red hair. He’ll die before he ever says he feels lighter and over the moon and like he’s having a moment straight out of those stupid American movies that Ashido likes so much.

The kiss is slow and sweet and everything like what he thought a kiss from Kirishima would be, because now that he’s actually kissing him, he will admit to thinking about it before. He lets Kirishima explore his mouth with his tongue, letting him lead and he’s never been so happy to follow.

As it slows to a stop, their lips press together in a lingering way and it’s Kirishima that finally pulls away. Despite the way he’d been so confidently and thoroughly kissing Bakugou, his eyes are completely full of questions and some uncertainty, wide and staring at him.

Bakugou looks back at him and realizes they’re still wrapped around each other and he’s a little out of breath. He doesn't know what he did with the water bottle he had in his hand, but it's gone too. No, right now, nothing else matters. So, he sets his jaw and tightens his hold slightly on Kirishima’s shoulders. Resolve. He’s full of resolve. He’s Bakugou fucking Katsuki, and he goes after what he wants.

“I do what I want,” he says, his voice sure even if a bit winded. “And I want you.”

The way Kirishima’s eyes light up and a slow, blindingly happy smile creeps onto his lips sends Bakugou’s heart into fits and his stomach turns upside down with fucking butterflies.

“You want to do me?” Kirishima asks, a laugh tinging the back of his throat.

Moment ruined.

Bakugou’s cheeks warm faster than his quirk and he knows he’s turned the shade of Kirishima’s hair. “Fuck you,” he says, putting a hand on Kirishima’s face and shoving him away as that piece of shit laughs – and goddammit if it’s not Bakugou's favorite sound.

He pulls away, pushing off of Kirishima’s face as he goes and extracting himself from his arms. He storms away, hands balled into fists at his sides as he swears at himself because he doesn’t know how to fucking do this. The door to the fridge closes somewhere behind him and Kirishima’s laughter follows him to the elevator.

“Oh, come on, that was funny and you know it!” He says, catching Bakugou’s upper arm and letting himself get dragged onto the elevator as the doors pull open.

“No, it wasn’t,” Bakugou snaps, but all the fire there is just to mask his embarrassment. “I take it back. I hate you.” He shrugs off Kirishima’s hand and jams his finger against the button to their floor.

It doesn’t deter Kirishima in the slightest. It never does. “No, you don’t,” he laughs brightly. He takes his hand back, but steps back into Bakugou’s space as the doors close. “You like me.” His hands find Bakugou’s waist, and he turns Bakugou to face him, his lips pressing warm against flushed cheeks.

Bakugou turns his head slightly away, his hands grasping Kirishima’s forearms, but he can’t find it in him to pull away. “The worst,” he mutters, but still leans into the kisses pressed along his cheekbone.

A low chuckle rumbles through Kirishima’s chest – oh, oh that’s a new one and Bakugou doesn’t know what it means and he’s a second away from worrying about it because he’s gotten to the point where he can recognize Kirishima’s laughs or nonverbal cues and that’s new, but then Kirishima is stepping forward and pushing him back slowly. He presses against the wall of the elevator and it’s cold through his shirt but Kirishima is warm at his front and oh okay, fuck. There’s a little huff that works its way unbidden from his throat and his arms are moving without thinking as he clings to Kirishima.

“The worst, huh?” Kirishima grins, nudging his nose against Bakugou’s cheek for his attention.

And he gives it to him, turning his head back and letting Kirishima kiss him silly again. He feels hot all over, in a way that doesn’t have anything to do with his quirk. The cold at his back is exhilarating, somehow, as Kirishima presses him against the wall. He’s vaguely aware that the elevator has stopped moving and the doors are opening but he doesn’t care because Kirishima’s tongue is in his mouth again and it’s such a weird feeling but so, so right when it’s Kirishima.

Those lips trail away from Bakugou’s and he grunts at the loss, but then bites down on his bottom lip as Kirishima makes his way over his jaw and mouths at this throat. That’s when a whine – a fucking whine – forces its way past Bakugou’s tongue. His hands drop to Kirishima’s shoulders and he grits his teeth. “Fuck,” he growls, forcing his voice lower.

Then this mother fucker giggles and pulls away – and Bakugou honestly doesn’t know which one he’s more pissed off at – smiling at him. It’s blinding. “You’re so cute,” he exclaims. “I like you so much.”

“Shut up,” Bakugou groans, digging his fingers into Kirishima’s shoulder and ducking his head as he feels his cheeks redden again.

“Say you do what you want again! Say that you like me!” Kirishima pleads, laughing the whole time.

“Fucking—” Bakugou cuts himself off, not even sure what he wants to say. “You—” He growls unintelligibly again, and pushes Kirishima away from him, even if it is the gentlest push he thinks he’s ever given in his life. He slams his finger on their floor again, and the doors open immediately. He stalks around this laughing, amazing mother fucker and into the hallway, making a straight line to his room.

As always, ever since they were first-years, Kirishima follows. And he’s still laughing like an idiot, and there’s a section of Bakugou’s chest and stomach that is absolutely giddy, and he grinds his teeth instead of smiling. “Bakugou,” Kirishima calls, elongating his name and fuck it’s cute and he’s going to wake the entire floor up and if that happens Bakugou knows that he’ll die.

The door recognizes his fingerprint – a security measure that the school added in last year, but Bakugou knows it’s because some people just couldn’t ever keep track of their damn keys – and the door opens. Kirishima still follows him, stopping the door with his foot and a hand flat on the door. Damn, he is so lucky that Bakugou wasn’t slamming it because he didn’t even harden.

“I just want to talk,” Kirishima says, smiling sweetly at him. The laughter has mostly subsided, but it still shines in his eyes.

Bakugou’s heart thumps loudly in his chest, and he softens. He loves this boy and it’s so weird to think that so openly to himself now, but he likes it.

“And then, maybe you can cross a few things off your to-do list.” Kirishima waggles his eyebrows, that sweet smile turning into a knowing smirk.

Nope, nevermind, Bakugou hates him.

“You shithead,” he groans. But despite that, he walks away from his door and makes no move to close it again. A silent invitation for Kirishima to enter which is wholeheartedly taken.

It amazes Bakugou how relaxed Kirishima is in his room. He treats it like his own, acting perfectly at home and comfortable as he collapses on Bakugou’s bed. Meanwhile, Bakugou’s brain is reeling. It’s like there are red flashing lights in his head that are screaming at him, Kirishima is in your room and on your bed, as if Kirishima hadn’t ever been here before.

But it’s different now because he just had his tongue down your throat in the elevator and you’re hoping that he does that again, his brain points out.

And it’s fucking right, and Bakugou doesn’t remember the last time he’s felt this unsure in his own space. At least not about something this stupid. Sure, there had been his first year where he was the reason that his childhood role model and reason he decided to become a hero had to retire because of him. And the fact that, at the same time, his childhood rival was starting to rise to his level and surpass him. Kirishima had been by his side then, though, and that made things just a little better. And it made him want to be better. But now Kirishima was in his bed and laid out like a fucking angel—

“I can hear you thinking, babe,” Kirishima said, looking up at him with that smile again. The soft one that Bakugou thinks is probably the reason he fell in love in the first place.

Wait. Babe.

Fuck, he’s on fire, he knows it.

Kirishima laughs and holds out his hand, gesturing for Bakugou to take it. “Come sit down. Don’t worry, I promise I just want to talk.”

Bakugou feels so tense. His shoulders feel like they have rocks on them, but he takes Kirishima’s hand and the sweat that’s layering his palm doesn’t seem to be a bother as he’s tugged forward and onto the bed. “I’m not worried,” he grumbles, crossing his legs under himself, sitting across from Kirishima and he knows that his lie is utterly unconvincing in his presence.

The reassuring look on Kirishima’s face is almost enough to make him actually not worry. “Yeah, okay, tough guy,” he chuckles, looking down at their hands and rubbing his thumb over the top of Bakugou’s. It feels nice. Really nice. Bakugou didn’t know he could like physical touch this much, but it feels so genuine coming from Kirishima, who’s one of the only people who’s never been afraid to touch him. And now he’s holding dangerous hands so gently and, fuck, lovingly.

Bakugou can’t decide if he wants to pull away because it’s overwhelming, or dive in headfirst and drown in it.

“I’ve liked you for so long,” Kirishima tells him quietly.

Bakugou wants to say I know or That’s because you have good taste or something confident but instead, his throat feels too dry and he swallows, watching Kirishima’s hands stroke his own.

“I kinda… love you, actually.”

Bakugou dives. Kirishima’s not going to let him drown.

“Me…” He clears his throat when his voice comes out scratchy. Kirishima looks up at him and he looks hopeful, which Bakugou thinks is stupid. He doesn’t need to look hopeful, he should already know. Kirishima knows him better than anyone. For fuck’s sake, Bakugou had been the one to move first – for the first time in their friendship. Relationship? Shit.

“You?” Kirishima prompts him, and Bakugou realizes he’s just been staring at him like a dumbass.

“I love you,” he finishes because Kirishima deserves for him to actually say it, even if his voice is an embarrassed, low grumble. Not just say me too or yeah or some kind of quick exchange where Bakugou gets to leave it unsaid while Kirishima keeps carrying the burden of initiating everything. He doesn’t need Kirishima to initiate everything. He’s Bakugou fucking Katsuki.

Kirishima’s smile puts every other smile in his arsenal to shame. This one is Bakugou’s new favorite. This is the one he’s going to think about every waking second. The one that’s going to get him to do whatever Kirishima wants, and he’ll do it happily behind a mask of annoyance because that’s just how he is and Kirishima accepts that about him.

He’s Kirishima fucking Eijirou and Bakugou is so damn in love with him.

It is weird to say, though. Bakugou has never said those three words together before. But it’s not a bad weird, and he still feels like himself. That’s how he knows that it’s true.

“I love you, too!” Kirishima exclaims, reaching for him and cupping his face gently at the jaw.

“Yeah, you said that already,” Bakugou replies, averting his gaze for a few moments for his own sanity before inevitably being pulled back in by the magnet of Kirishima’s pure joy.

“And I’ll keep saying it,” Kirishima insists. “Can I kiss you again?”

“I’ll be fucking pissed if you don’t.”

Kirishima’s lips are already on his by the end of his sentence, because he already knew the answer would be yes. It’s just as good as the last three kisses, and Bakugou wonders when he’ll stop keeping count.

This one is different though because Kirishima is pulling Bakugou closer but they’re sitting down. But he wants to be closer, too, so he moves and it’s strange. But this is clearly not the first time for Kirishima, because his hands are on Bakugou’s waist to help him move and arrange them in a mess of limbs where Bakugou sits on Kirishima’s lap. Now his hands are on Kirishima’s neck and he’s above him for the first time. Hand spread over his back and the tension in his shoulders melts away. His eyebrows are scrunched together, and he feels so helpless but safe like this.

Then laughter once again bubbles up from Kirishima but this time Bakugou ignores him. He’s just happy. That has to be all it is. But it doesn’t stop and increases a little when Bakugou experiments with his own tongue, sliding it over Kirishima’s lips.

Bakugou pulls back and glares down at him. The tips of his ears are red. It’s not like he’s ever kissed anyone before so, of course, he doesn’t really know what he’s doing but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t do it confidently. “The fuck are you laughing for?” He frowns.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Kirishima says. One of his hands leaves Bakugou’s back and covers his face, pressing the pad of his finger under his eye, tears leaking out of the corner. “This is just crazy. I just went to get a snack.” He pauses, wiping at his eye and looking up at Bakugou with consideration. “Well, actually. I mean, I guess I did kind of get one.” He grins and his hands go back to Bakugou’s sides, looking him over appreciatively.

“Shut the fuck up,” Bakugou groans, dropping his head onto Kirishima’s shoulder. It takes him a moment to realize how natural that was, so he doesn’t move, turning his head into Kirishima’s neck.

“Does this mean you’re my boyfriend now?”

“Fuck off.” His voice is muffled on Kirishima’s skin and he fists his hands in the back of Kirishima’s shirt.

“You would miss me too much.” And fuck, if he isn’t right about that.

“Maybe,” Bakugou concedes, a little huffy.

Another bright laugh and this time Bakugou doesn’t try to stop the smile that creeps onto his face. “Alright, so now we can hold hands walking to class. I want to cuddle in the common room on movie nights too, okay?” Bakugou scoffs indignantly, but he’s ignored as Kirishima continues with his list, “You have to kiss me good luck before the big exams, too. And before we go on patrol. Oh! I wonder if Fat Gum would let you patrol with us, sometime!”

“You wanna be the one to ask Endeavor?” Bakugou retorts.

“Oh. No.” He feels Kirishima shake his head before he turns down and kisses Bakugou’s forehead. It’s so sweet and domestic and it’s a gesture that Bakugou doesn’t recall ever experiencing before. It makes him feel warm and he picks his head up to press a lingering kiss to Kirishima’s lips instead.

“I will, maybe, do some of that,” he says, knowing full well that he will do all of it if it means Kirishima will keep smiling like this at him, about him, for him, because of him.

“Can I tell everyone that you’re my boyfriend?” Kirishima asks, brushing a gentle hand through Bakugou’s spikes.

Wow. He really likes the sound of that. Kirishima’s. His. Boyfriend. Which also means, Bakugou’s, mine. It means he’s Kirishima’s and Kirishima is Bakugou’s. He doesn't mind being someone's if that someone is Kirishima.

“…yeah,” he agrees, nodding.

The smile. Yeah, that’s what he wanted to see.

“Can I call you Katsuki now?”

“You’re a menace.”

“You can call me Eijirou.”

“Get out.”

Bakugou isn’t sure how long they stay in his bed. They switch between kissing and talking for hours, and he knows it’s getting late because he’s exhausted and falling asleep on Kirishima’s shoulder. He vaguely realizes that he never studied more, which means Kirishima didn’t either. But they were distracted. He’ll make them study tomorrow and hold kissing hostage until Kirishima passes his practice exams.

To avoid Aizawa’s wrath, Kirishima eventually picks himself up to leave and Bakugou finds himself following him to the door. More lingering kisses by the door and Kirishima complains that he doesn’t want to leave and makes another joke about a to-do list. Bakugou pushes him out by his shoulders, Kirishima cackling and holding up his hands in surrender.

“Goodnight Katsuki,” he smiles, kissing him one more time as he leans back in the doorway.

“Goodnight,” Bakugou insists, mostly closing the door.

“Hm?” Kirishima hums, followed by another peck on the lips.

“Goodnight Eijirou,” he says again and receives a very triumphant look from his boyfriend. Fuck, he really likes that. Kirishima’s beaming like he’s won, but Bakugou doesn’t feel like he lost.

“I love you!”

“…yeah, yeah, you too. Go to sleep!”

It takes a few more tries, but he finally gets his door to close. He can practically see the heart emojis coming off of Kirishima as he leaves.

Finally, he collapses in bed, curling up under his blanket. He stares up at his ceiling blankly for a few minutes before he smiles, biting down on his lips to try to stop it. Then he finds himself laughing quietly, barely a breath and mostly out of his nose, but he’s laughing and he’s so happy.

No. No, he doesn’t hate this at all.

#kiribaku #bnha #bakugou katsuki #Kirishima Eijirou #uraraka ochako #kaminari denki #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #mha #p: my writing #ff: bnha

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astringofmadhousefloozies · 3 years

Text

Dorm Party

Yuu rescues Idia at a party, or Me throwing several jokes I wanted to make into a single fic.

Content warnings for coarse language. Find more in my Twisted Wonderland Fanfiction tag! And sent me an ask if you liked anything, I’m much like any other motherfucker on this website and thrive on positive feedback.

~*~*~*~

TXT: yuu help me i got waylaid by extroverts

You roll your eyes and reply back.

Y: aight who is it

I: music club

I: help me

Y: remember, they try and include you because they genuinely like you

Y: what are you guys doing

I: i was getting food and they took me to scarabia to eat with them

I: get me out get me out get me out they keep asking me questions

Y: okay

Y: but why didn't you say you were busy

Y: or were going somewhere

I: you ever see kalims face when you tell him no

You had. He covered it up really quick, but that half-second of kicked puppy was heartbreaking.

Y: can you eat just enough to be polite and then bug out

Y: they know it's a lot for you

I: how much is that

Y: like, a small plate or something?

I: if i eat a plate i can go to the infirmary and leave got it

Y: NO

~*~*~*~

At least the spread wasn't all Jamil's cooking. He might cook like a god, but he needed a break sometimes, and takeout can be fun.

"Alright, so when he pumped the blood through the tube, it was supposed to come through in like, a steady stream, but he'd fucked up. So there were bubbles in the tube, but when you filmed it? it came out realistic-"

"I can confirm that."

"Lil, no."

"Lil yes." He sipped at his drink. "We should probably stop this conversation before they lose their lunch."

"Aww, why." The sarcasm was barely audible, but you couldn't help but smile at Cater and Kalim. Cater was the better of the two; Kalim had gone downright ashy from shock. You shuffled through the cans by the table before sliding him a ginger ale. "For your tummy, baby."

"Thank you." His colour had bounced back well before he took a sip. "You sure like telling stories about blood."

"No, that was about practical effects. I can start talking about blood if you want." You leaned your head back. "What do you think? Should I?"

Idia, who had been using you as a human shield ever since you showed up, shook his head and went back to ripping bread into increasingly smaller pieces before eating them.

"Yuu, look at this." Cater passed you his phone. The carefully staged, enstickered selfie of a Magicam influencer, with bouncy curls and double-peace signs.

"Oh, she's cute. I love her earrings." You held the phone up long enough for Idia to nod at with a small smile, before it got passed around for everyone to coo over. "You interested in her, Cater?"

"Ah, some. We've been chatting." He looked a bit dreamy, thinking on it. "We're going to try and meet up next break and see how we like each other in person."

You smiled. "Good luck, dude. She's definitely your type."

He laughed. "I do like them very cute, don't I?"

"You do, yeah." You turned to Kalim. "What do you like in someone? You probably have a type."

Kalim leaned back and thought on it. "I really like... Shining dark eyes and silky flowing hair."

You managed to disguise a snicker as a cough. "Tall and elegant, too? Always looking out for you?"

He looked up in wonder. "How'd you know?"

"Just a guess."

Lilia chimed in, full of mischief. "What about you, Idia?" You felt him stiffen in surprise against your back. "What do you like?"

"He likes 2D girls." He immediately swatted you.

"You're not 2D. And we know your type." Lilia narrowed his eyes at you. "Tall and pale and interesting looking."

"One of many." You leaned back, and Idia immediately wrapped his arms around your waist, audience be damned. "And who could blame me? Look at him."

"Please don't." He tried to scrunch behind you, but even if you were wider, he was much taller and couldn't fit.

"Aww." Cater had such a warm smile on his face. "Love at first sight?"

You shook your head. "You have to work for love. But," You looked back at your pretty blue boy, holding you tight even as he looked away in embarrassment. "The first time I saw you, it was like you snatched the breath from my throat. I'd never seen anything so beautiful in my life. I never even imagined anyone could be so beautiful." You leaned to nuzzle the spot where his jaw met his neck, and he swallowed. "And lucky me, it's the same every time I see you. You're a blessing on my life, and every day you look at me and smile makes everything worth it."

The silence was broken by Kalim giving a light sniffle. "That's beautiful, wow."

"Way to set the bar, Yuu." Lilia had his head propped in his hands. "So, was it mutual?"

You laughed. "I don't think so." You settled back into Idia, bright burning pink. "What did you think of me when you first met me?"

"..."

"Idia."

~*~*~*~

Your name is IDIA SHROUD. You're a THIRD YEAR STUDENT at NIGHT'S RAVEN COLLEGE, and everything is TERRIFYING BEYOND MORTAL KEN. You suffer from the effects of a TERRIBLE ANCESTRAL CURSE, which makes the already fraught experience of high school JUST, SO MUCH WORSE. The only things you truly enjoy are MEDIA OF A GEEKY NATURE and your MAGITEK LITTLE BROTHER. If it were up to you, you would BRICK YOUR DOOR SHUT AND NEVER LEAVE.

But, tragically, you sometimes must leave and face the mobs outside. At any moment, you could aggro them all with the sheer sin of your terrible presence, and the teachers had no sympathy for your low-tier, introverted self, and insisted that you had to show up to some classes in person. Even though telecom had come so far! You'd think you'd have pull, with your grades, but it was not the case.

Anyway, some first years had crashed a chandelier within days of being here, and you'd only found two to tell to leave you alone forever. When you found the two boys standing with a third, holding perhaps the most wonderful creature you'd ever seen in your life, you went over to explain how it was going to go. Only it didn't turn out like that.

She - what a cliche, the new student at a one-gender school being the opposite - turned to look at you. Enormous puffy eye circles that rivaled your own, close-cropped dark hair, eyes of no particular colour, all in a soft, pimply face with a double chin. This was the one that caused all the trouble?

Her smile dropped away immediately, replaced by wide eyes and slack jaw. She didn't blink, only stared directly at you, though you, muttering an endless stream of something you could not hear as she refused to stop looking or even blink. You knew a bad time when you saw it, and fled the battle before it could begin. You only just heard a voice go "Who WAS that?" before you were out of earshot, running back to your room as fast as possible.

~*~*~*~ "A curse?" You couldn't stop laughing, and that managed to set everyone else off. "You thought I was putting a curse on you?"

"Well!" He threw his hands up. "What was I supposed to think? I didn't know what that face meant and that made the most sense!"

"You do have a... intense look when you see something you like." Lilia laughed. "It reminds me a bit of Howl sometimes."

Kalim added, "No, it's more like she wants to eat whatever she's staring at."

Idia inclined his head in agreement, and Cater made a similar guesture to you. "You're all terrible," you said, but smiled as you did.

"Lilia, you never told us what type you had."

"Oh, Kalim," he said with eyes wide, "I'm much too young to be thinking about romance."

"I have forty-five minutes of footage that says otherwise," Cater said, waving his phone.

"Alright, alright." He rolled his eyes. "I like a lot of types of people."

"You've never flirted with anyone here at school." You thought for a moment. "Well, seriously, anyways. You're real friendly and that can be kinda flirty in itself."

"That's not true," he corrected. "You just don't know who it is. But," he added, "it's not a student. You're all too young for me."

Everyone stopped to consider this, before Idia spoke up. "It's Trein. I remember when I came in with you sitting on his desk."

Lilia pouted. "He still hasn’t bit. And he knows."

You covered your mouth. "I should have known you're a geezerfucker."

"I don't think it counts if you're older than said geezer."

Lilia leaned over to Idia. "I'll tell him you said that and then no one in this room will ever get a passing grade or a playdate with Lucius again."

Everyone changed the subject, and the evening continued with success.

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland fanfiction #idia shroud #lilia vanrouge #kalim al asim

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cowboy-anon · 3 years

Text

Weston’s Wild West Whump - 2

I DID IT! I FINISHED IT. Holy cow. XD Anyway, it’s a bit of a longer piece. Today, we learn a bit more about Weston, we’re introduced to Graham’s men Dee and Sunders, and we discover Graham is not someone you want to mess with. Enjoy! :D

CW : Animal corpse used as a metaphor, bribery mention, broken bones (and the symptoms that accompany them), concussion, cowboy shenanigans, gun mention and threat (not real), hogtie threat (not yet realized), knife mention, mild cursing, somewhat degrading language, thieving mention, touch of low self esteem, vaguely implied unsafe home life.

(I’m new to content warnings, so if I’ve missed something, please don’t hesitate to let me know! :D )

Tagging: @milk-carton-whump, @unicornscotty, @abitefullofwhump, @alliecat5594, @ihaveacrushonjester (Let me know if you want to be added or removed from this list!

2 - Good Ol’ Righteous Cowboy

Weston has only met Graham twice before this. Once, last week when he came to investigate the ranch’s missing cattle. “Sheriff Graham Miller,” he’d introduced himself. The way he’d carried himself, charming and self-assured, Weston was sure the culprit would get theirs, and if Johnson was lucky, he’d get his cattle back before Weston moved on.

And then Weston found that handkerchief caught on the barbed wire fence, “G.M.” embroidered on it in a stunning shade of blue. As far as leads went, it was pretty thin, but that blue thread and those initials—there was no way it could be a coincidence.

Which is what led him to his second encounter, dressed in Johnson’s clothes, pretending to be a wealthy man in search of some cattle for his father’s failing ranch. Of course, Weston was nowhere near wealthy, and his father’s ranch, he’d remembered with a shudder, was doing just fine, but wearing Johnson’s Sunday best, he sure as hell looked the part.

But with Graham being the one to show him around, he could only see so much. Weston was walked past rolling pastures and prize-winning cattle, sure, but no proof.

Which is what led him to his final attempt at getting it, not exactly a third encounter but one that led to it—this one—kneeling in front of two of Graham’s men, a lasso tight around his middle and with his right ankle throbbing painfully with every heartbeat.

Despite their lack of history, when one of Graham’s men pistol whips him across the face, it feels strangely personal. Weston can feel the malice, sees the satisfaction on the left’s face when his own snaps sharply to the right. The shock of it almost overwhelms the burn. Almost.

Weston stays there for a second, hunched over with his eyes squeezed shut, reminding himself to breathe, letting out a pained groan instead. Another breath, this time bracing. He shakes off the stinging pain and rights himself with a tight lipped smile.

His tongue darts out over his bottom lip, tastes blood. Yeah, he’s sporting a split lip now. He winces at the pain, more an ache than a burn now, and blinks back involuntary tears.

When Weston raises his eyes again, the man has his revolver in hand, arm pulled back to strike him again. God, he hates to admit it, but he flinches, tucking his face into his shoulder, waiting for the blow.

He hears the grunt of effort, expects his view to whip right again in a burst of pain when he hears, “Stop playing with him, Dee. Get his legs.” When Weston doesn’t feel the strike, he allows himself a glance in the direction of the voice.

It’s the man on the right, face stony with purpose.

The man on the left, “Dee” Weston assumes, shoots the man a venomous glare, then turns to look at Graham, who’s digging into the saddle bag of one of the horses.

Graham’s not paying attention when the butt of the gun slams into Weston’s temple.

Weston hits the ground hard, landing heavily on his shoulder, cheek pressed into hot rocky dirt. His head, oh God. He gasps against the blinding pain, eyes skewed shut as he gapes like a fish out of water.

“Dee.” Between the ringing in his ears and his ragged breaths, he hears it, a low reprimand but not a surprised one.

Weston forces his eyes open to look at the two men now looming over him, but he ends up shutting them again. When did the sun get so damn bright?

“You wanted me to get his feet, Sunders.” Sunders. That’s got to be the other man’s name. And—wait, they’re still talking. Focus, Weston, focus! “ —think he was gonna let us tie him up that easy? Graham likes Randy clueless. The sooner he’s tied up, the less questions we gotta answer. Get me?”

Randy? Who the hell’s Randy?

Weston lies there for what feels like ages before the more important thoughts make their way back to him. Graham’s here. Dee and Sunders, they’re going to tie him up. His ankle’s shot, he’s got that lasso around him that’s not going to let him go anywhere.

And all three of them are armed. Great.

Weston worms his arm out from under him and eases himself up until he’s propped on an elbow. For a moment, the world spins. Forget cotton. His head’s full of sloshing water, distorting and disorienting and all too heavy for what it is.

He wants to lie back down, let whatever’s going to happen happen. He’ll feel those ropes dig into the tender skin of his wrists and bite into his swelling ankle. Will they make him walk? No, not with a hogtie. He’ll more likely be draped over the back of a horse and taken back to the ranch, where—

Where what? Who knows what’ll happen back at that ranch? And what the hell is he thinking, lying back down and giving in? He shakes his head with a sneer. If he’s going to that no good sheriff’s ranch, he’s going angry, not complacent.

So he pushes himself up until he’s sitting again, lightheadedness be damned, and squinting at Graham’s back, legs stretched out in front of him, he calls, “You needed three guys to get a hold of me, Graham?” It comes out a groan, nowhere near as snarky as he wants it to be, but it’s dripping with sarcasm nonetheless—and based on the smile that sneaks over the sheriff’s face, it catches his attention. “Why, I’m flattered. ‘Course, I probably should’ve expected as much.”

Dee’s at eye level in an instant. He grabs a fistful of Weston’s shirt and jerks him forward, lips curled up in a snarl. “Why, you—”

But Graham just laughs from his spot by the horses.

Dee’s eyes, still shining with murder, flicker with confusion, and Weston’s gaze snaps over to Graham, doubled over with warm, genuine laughter. What the hell?

The grip on Weston’s shirt wavers as the seconds tick by. Finally, Weston clears his throat and says, “Sure, I find your stupidity funny, too, but—”

Graham’s gun is trained on him before he can finish.

“Dee,” Graham says, motioning with his revolver. It’s a command. Dee barely spares Weston a smug grin before pulling his hands from Weston’s clothes and stepping into place between Graham and Sunders.

Graham squares his shoulders and, accent thicker than Weston’s ever heard it, he says, “What’s funny is you talking about stupidity.”

Weston knows he should be scared, and he is. He feels it, unadulterated fear, making its way to his shaking fingers, twisting knots deep in his stomach, watching him stare down the blackened barrel of this gun, telling him, Give up, give in. Maybe he’ll let you walk away.

It’s so damn tempting.

But Weston has already given in to too many people like Graham with the promise of walking away too many times, so despite everything, he balls his trembling hands into fists, meets Graham’s eyes with a pained smirk, and says, “Please, do tell.”

Graham grins.

“Good ol’ righteous Weston Casey.” He shrugs past Dee and Sunders and makes his way towards Weston, digits lazily fingering his gun’s trigger, blue eyes scanning him and the barely concealed shock on his face. “Yeah, I’ve heard about you. Hardworking, dependable, new in town. You rolled on in here just last month, didn’t you?”

Weston doesn’t answer. Instead, he changes the subject. “What do you mean, ‘righteous’?”

Graham stops by Weston’s feet and sits back on his haunches, eyes trailing idly over his body. “I mean your absurd morals,” he says. “I’d heard about it before, but I saw it clear as day when I came to Johnson’s ranch yesterday. You were angry for him.” He laughs to himself, toying with the trigger thoughtlessly.

But the hammer’s still standing tall by the frame, not pulled back. So the gun’s not cocked yet. It never was. That’s good news.

“It’s a damn shame,” Graham continues. He’s looking at Weston’s face again, a tiny knowing smile on his lips. Did Weston’s realization show? “The bribe I would’ve paid you—beyond generous. Not that you would’ve taken it.”

“What’s this got to do with stupidity?” Weston cuts in. He’s stalling at this point, he knows it, but he needs something—anything—to distract him from the fear bubbling just beneath his surface.

“Well, we’re talking about you, aren’t we?” Another flick over the trigger as Graham’s tone shifts, almost amused. “A good, quiet stranger rolls into town, surely minding his own business when something not quite right goes down. A few cows go missing. Nothing special, nothing new. Cattle go missing all the time around these parts. But being him, he decides he wants to investigate.”

Graham’s voice darkens then. Weston forces himself to be still under Graham’s scrutiny as his eyes travel over his left leg, then to his right. Then to his right ankle, swelling like a cow’s carcass in the summer sun under his jeans. “And he finds out a little too much,” Graham continues. “And he gets in a little too deep. And he decides he wants to do the right thing. Which, in itself, is not a stupid thought.” Graham glances back up at Weston. “But his—your—morals, they get in the way of some really great opportunities. A guy like you would fit into this cattle rustling operation real well.”

At that, Dee’s expression visibly sours behind Graham, but he stays quiet. Smart or scared?

“I know you won’t take the bribe,” Graham says lowly, “but how about a fair trade? Your work for my money, plain and simple.”

Weston scoffs to himself. His heart is in his throat pounding so loud he can hear it, but it’s not even a question. He meets Graham’s eyes through his mop of hair and says, “Over my dead body.”

He means it.

Graham stares at him, and for a second Weston thinks he might burst out laughing again. But he just smiles, more to himself than Weston, seemingly thinking something over.

He tucks his gun back into his holster, shoots Weston a big grin. And then his gloved hands shoot out and twist his right foot hard.

Weston’s broken bones in the past. He’s felt that wet snap of the initial break. He’s felt the numb shock before his brain catches up with his body. He’s felt that nauseating pain that accompanies every jostle and movement of the site.

But he’s never felt anything like this.

Weston shrieks, white hot blinding, agonizing pain that he feels all the way to his fingertips in sharp, involuntary spasms. Overwhelming, all encompassing. In this moment, Weston is pain.

Too much, too much, too much! It’s blaring in his head like a siren, that fear. His face goes hot, then cold. Tears run down his cheeks, but he’s too focused on gritting his teeth against another wail to care.

“See, I gave you a chance just then,” Graham says over his cries. “I offered you a job, nice and respectable like, and you turned it down—and for what?” He leans in close to Weston, a hand still twisted in the fabric of his pant leg. “A few meaningless morals? If you ask me, that’s awful stupid of you.”

Graham wrenches his ankle again, and even though Weston knows what to expect, it’s just as awful as the first time—worse even. Bone grinding on bone, leather on swollen, hypersensitive, hot-to-the-touch flesh.

He throws his head back with a broken sob. “G-Graham—!” Weston doesn’t know why he says that. He doesn’t even realize it’s him saying it, not in his current state, concussed and half delirious with pain.

But he definitely hears “Yes, Weston?” through the haze, barely registers Graham’s hand leaving his leg.

The twisting’s stopped, Weston knows it, but the pain hasn’t. He still feels it, twisting, twisting, the rough seams of Graham’s leather gloves on swollen skin. And he feels dread, prominent, telling him this isn’t the worst to come, not by a long shot, that only makes it hurt worse.

He hasn’t felt a dread like this since his last month at the family ranch.

As the worst of the pain melts from his limbs, just enough for it to be bearable, his wits start to come back to him, and it occurs to him that he cried out Graham’s name in an agony-induced panic. Then Graham had asked him a question: “Yes, Weston?” His stomach drops at the thought.

What had he been looking to say? Would he have begged? “G-Graham, please stop! Please!” Or would he have bargained? “G-Graham, I won’t tell a soul, I swear!” Maybe, Weston realizes with a thick swallow, he would’ve accepted Graham’s terrible offer, helping steal cattle for the man he’s grown to hate in the last twenty-four hours to save himself. “G-Graham, I… I’ll do it.”

Graham had called him righteous.

Weston is a coward.

“Weston, you wanted to say something to me?” Graham is grinning, blue eyes glimmering with mirth. He wants to know what he was going to say just as much as Weston does.

Weston stares at his feet. His ankle is back to that constant throb, but the muscles in his foot and calf are still twitching and seizing from Graham’s rough hands. “Yeah, I did,” he says quietly. “I wanted to tell you, ‘Graham…’”

He shakes his head, sets his jaw, meets Graham’s eyes with a steely gaze. And then he spits at him, fueled by what little fight he has left, “‘Graham, get your damn hands off of me.’”

Righteous. Coward.

Liar.

Graham stares at him for a long moment before rising to his feet, that stupid smug grin still on his face when he looks back down at him.

“I like you, Weston. I really do,” he says, vaguely apologetic, “and you’ve made a lot of stupid decisions today that I could forgive you for. But that decision you made just now, making an enemy out of me? Real stupid.”

Graham turns on his heel and shoulders his way past Dee and Sunders again, only this time he stops between them and, in a voice just loud enough for Weston to hear, he says to them, “Now, I know I told you two to get him trussed up.” The look Graham gives Weston is chilling. “So tell me, what’s he still doing with his hands free?” Graham casts a final glance at Weston before Dee and Sunders make their way towards him for the second time.

This time, they don’t hesitate. Sunders pockets his knife, walks behind Weston, and tugs his arms behind his back, holding them together by the wrists. “Grab the rope from my horse, Dee,” he calls.

But Dee is standing by Weston’s feet, smiling a malicious smile. “His legs first,” Dee says.

Weston can’t see Sunders’s face, but he can hear the exasperation in his voice from behind him when he replies, “There’s no way he’s going anywhere on that ankle now.”

“I know that.” Dee crouches down by Weston’s feet, eyes running down the length of his right leg. “But I want to start with his legs.”

Sunders sighs and drops Weston’s arms back to his sides, already aching at the joints from the position.

“I’ll hold him down.”

Sunders takes his spot next to Dee and puts pressure on Weston’s thighs, holding him still while Dee goes for Sunders’s rope. If Weston didn’t know better, he’d think they were trying to help him.

But he does know better, and he knows their intentions are anything but pure.

He could shove them off, Weston realizes from his spot on the ground. He could, and if he tried, he could get a good solid kick on Dee when he gets back if he uses his left leg. He’d sure as hell deserve it.

But watching Dee take his place by his feet again, Weston doesn’t. Smart or scared, righteous or cowardly—Weston doesn’t know anymore. He just glares at Dee.

Dee smiles back at him. “You got him, Sunders?”

“I’ve got him.”

“Good.”

Dee feels the rope in his hands, tests its strength with a few sharp pulls. Then he turns to look at Graham.

Graham nods at him from by the horses.

When Dee turns back to Weston, he’s grinning from ear to ear, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“I’m gonna enjoy this.”

#weston's wild west whump #weston's wild west whump part 2 #cowboy whump #my whump writing #whump #whump writing #whump ocs #pistol whipping #why did i choose to use so many italics #i swear that made the transfer from google docs to tumblr like 6000% harder XD #thank you for reading!#the mystery that is weston is slowly being unraveled #so stay tuned for that!

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sabraeal · 3 years

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Traffic Lights Are Burnin’

[Read on AO3]

Written in honor of @nebluus‘s birthday! She asked for some WFB, and of the options I gave she chose the next part of our Six Flags saga...only the beginning scene of that chapter ended up ballooning out into this so...it ended up being less Amusement Park Shenanigans and more Wholesome Boys Will Be Boys Content. I’M SURE MADI WILL BE JUST FINE WITH THAT TOO 😂

“Are you making an omelette?”

English is not, functionally, Mitsuhide’s first language. Not that he thinks of it like that-- first or second, third or fourth; there’s no ranking in his life, no moment in which one language followed another. There was English with Mama and quebecois with Papa; a plan quickly scuttled by Mitsuhide being the fifth Lowen sibling. Refusing to be pigeonholed into a single language no matter how many times Mama repeated consistency is key, his brothers mostly spoke a tossed salad of both and assumed he’d understand the lettuce.

Coupled with the fact that all his cousins lived in Toronto anyway, Mitsuhide had hardly begun talking himself before it became outside quebecois and inside English. Unless they left the province, in which case it was a free-for-all that left his few monolingual aunts and uncles dizzy.

Which is to say, Mitsuhide only becomes aware of the precise inner ranking of his languages in moments like this, where gut immediately kicks out a dry ‘j’essaie.’ The translation is vetoed on the grounds that although in quebecois he’s never met a word he couldn’t steep in sarcasm and smuggle in a sacre, he prefers to keep his English so clean it squeaks.

You’ve got it all backwards, Kihal had told him as he sweltered under the San Juan sun, English is fake, you can be as much of an asshole as you want it in, it doesn’t count.

It’s true, there’s something that’s more real to him in French, that’s more real about him, but, well-- there were far fewer cousins to tattle on his potty mouth this way. And now that he knows Obi...

Well, if Kiki ever made good on her threats to teach him any of his “church swears,” he’d probably never sleep easy again. So instead, he scrolls through his mental rolodex of possible appropriate replies before settling on, “Would you like one?”

Zen glances up from his array of pamphlets, glossy paper glaring beneath the overhead lamp. It matches the way Zen is looking at him. “We don’t have time for that.”

Mitsuhide frowns, giving his eggs one last vigorous whisk before pouring them into the pan. “There’s always time for breakfast. It’s the most important meal of the day.”

He glances over just in time to see Zen’s grimace. “Shirayuki really could be your sister.”

There’s really no reason he has to look so horrified by the idea. His brothers may all be broad shouldered, barrel-chested giants, but plenty of his cousins made pocket money in high school through catalogue modeling. And they’re all very nice girls.

He doesn’t mention it. A conversation never ends well if you have to whip out photos of female relatives to prove your point. “Would you like one?” he repeats instead, a safer tactic overall.

Zen’s nose wrinkles beneath some dubiously drawn eyebrows. “Are you putting spinach in there?”

“Kale,” he agrees. “And chicken.”

“In a breakfast omelette?” He clucks his tongue, just the way the Wisteria’s chef would when he attempted to cook at the estate. Quel dommage, he would say, sighing over the cutting board, why would you do that to perfectly good eggs? “Why would you do that?”

Because these muscles don’t come cheap; Mitsuhide chokes down a truly staggering amount of chicken in order to keep them. Roasted, of course-- boiled is technically better for protein, but even he has to draw the line somewhere. The eggs have less, but they are calorie efficient; he’d eat more of them if he could stomach the slimy, snake-like sensation of swallowing them down hard boiled.

But explaining his diet regime usually ended with glazed eyes, so he settles for, “I could always put something different in yours. There’s ham.”

Fancy ham, Obi calls it. It’s just from the deli counter, fresh sliced from whatever quality cut’s on sale, but considering how the first time Obi saw a charcuterie board, he shouted, Oh, Lunchables!--

Well, Mitsuhide can accept that maybe they have different benchmarks for fancy. And somehow just the simple act of calling it that does make it taste better. Or at least more satisfying when it’s shoved between a Hawaiian roll and deli cheese.

There’s a soft shuffle by the kitchen door, and a wild thatch of bristle peeps around the frame. Mitsuhide shakes his head with huff. That’s a new one-- just think the devil’s name and he appears.

Obi lopes into the kitchen, all long limbs and smooth movements, blurring right into the background without any effort at all. He’d gotten Mitsuhide a few times when he’d first moved in, popping up wherever it was sure to be the most inconvenient, grinning like a cat with feathers in its teeth. But once you knew the trick of it, well-- it’s no effort to keep the kid in his sights.

Which is why he has a full, uninterrupted view when Obi slips right up to Zen’s elbow, and asks, “Whatcha doing, chief?”

“Wah!” Pamphlets fly up, a glittering flock of wings swooping beneath the lamp. Zen slaps them down before they can skitter off the table’s edge. “Obi! Make noise for fuck’s sake!”

“Sorry,” he sing-songs, not a sincere note in it. Two long fingers pluck a pamphlet off the wood, twisting it between them. “What’s all this? They starting to put theme parks on exams now?”

“No.” Zen scowls, snatching it out of his hands. “I’m just making today’s itinerary.”

Mitsuhide slides his omelette onto a plate, turning just in time to catch the glance Obi sends him. It somehow says is he fucking with me while also implying I’ll hold him down if we gotta send him to the doctor. “An itinerary?”

He leans a hip against the island, fishing out a fork. What was it Obi always said? Dinner tastes better with a show. Time to find out whether it extends to breakfast too.

Zen fixes Obi with a look that could have had trenches with all its affront. “You can’t go to an amusement park without a plan. How else do you get on all the coasters?”

“It’s only Six Flags New England.” A week ago, the name alone made Obi flee like a cat from a bath, but now every syllable drips with derision, like a sommelier reviewing boxed wine. “They’ve got what? Superman?”

Mitsuhide shoves a corner of his omelette in his mouth. It’s not as good as a sausage, mushroom, and cheese, but, well, it’ll do. “Bizarro.”

“Bizarro.” Obi scoffs. “See? Nothing. Besides, I thought you were the kind of guy to spring for fast passes, boss.”

Zen’s always been sensitive; the sort of kid who tended to pop off when a situation came to a simmer instead of trying to turn down the heat. When Izana had been sitting president, he’s spent half his tenure fielding tense calls, sometimes even climbing into a towncar at a moment’s notice to be taken back east. The school, he’s always say, lifting a shoulder, my brother is proving to be a challenge, and my mother is...unreachable.

He’d thought this Zen kid must be like the ones he knew on the ice, punching first and asking questions later, complaining about being put in the box. All temper and no temperance, Mama used to say when she drove him home, can’t talk when you got plastic between your teeth.

But then he’d met him, undersized and stick-limbed, living in that house with people paid to be invisible. A kid with too much on his shoulders and too many eyes to watch him stumble under it. He’s come a long way from there.

So when Zen squirms in his chair, red already starting to lick up his neck, Mitsuhide doesn’t enjoy it. On the contrary, Zen’s discomfort is his discomfort, a failure of him to keep the watchful eye on him that Izana asked him to.

But it also doesn’t stop him from adding, “Shirayuki believes that waiting in line is part of the amusement park experience.”

Obi looks as though he’s just been told it’s his birthday and Christmas, all rolled into one. “Of course she does.” His mouth sharpens to a wicked grin. “So you’ll be lowering yourself to the peasant’s lines today, huh, Your Highness?”

“Don’t call me that,” he grumbles, swatting him away. “No one’s being lowered anywhere. We won’t be running into any of them so long as we get there early and hit the coasters in the right order.”

Obi coughs. Or at least, makes it sound like he is. “Uh-huh.”

“Where is Shirayuki anyway?” Zen glares at the empty doorway, brows heaving like thunderclouds over the bridge of his nose. “I thought you said you’d get her.”

“I did.” Obi twitches his shoulders; as good as a shrug, from him. “She’s getting ready.”

“It’s been fifteen minutes.” Zen’s glare changes target to him, thunder rolling in the tone of his voice. “Shirayuki doesn’t take this long to get ready.”

When Mitsuhide glances up, chewing around another stab of egg, kale, and chicken, Obi’s eyebrows are already there to meet him. His head tilts, just the barest degree; this is your show, big guy.

Mitsuhide coughs, trying to clear his throat of leaf bits. “Girls,” he starts, the ground sinking beneath him with each word, “like to look nice. Especially when they are on, uh, dates.”

“This isn’t a date,” Zen informs him, more than a little put out. “Obi’s going.”

The sound Obi makes can only be termed as distressed. “I didn’t want to.”

For exactly this reason, is what he doesn’t say. Doesn’t even show it on his face, though it has to be lurking beneath it, considering how he--

Well, considering nothing Mitsuhide knows for sure. But certainly a few things he reasonably suspects.

“Chief.” Obi flips the chair next to him, straddling it. “You know, I really thought it couldn’t be true. I really wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt. But to hear you now--” he leans in, one narrow brow raising the same time his voice drops-- “you really do chicken out when it comes to getting chummy with Doc.”

Mitsuhide nearly chokes on his chicken.

Zen’s red all over, like someone pulled him from a boiling pot and put him on a plate. “You don’t know that.”

“Sure I do,” he says, so easy. “Doc told me.”

“She said that?” His skin’s so flushed Mitsuhide’s half afraid he’ll pass out, but instead he just collapses against the ladderback, head buried in his arms. “Shirayuki?”

“Pretty much.” Obi sighs, hands braced on the table. “I mean, is it so hard to say she looks nice when she dresses up? Or that you like her hair, or--” he stumbles, shaking his head-- “no, not the hair. Too loaded. But you know, one of her floaty little numbers. Her freckles. Something.”

“I have!”

Obi lifts a dubiously narrow eyebrow. “Like when?”

“Ah...” Whatever the answer is, it’s not helping his blood flow problem. Mitsuhide nearly opens his mouth, searching for a good way to make himself a target-- “The Big E.”

Well, there goes that plan.

Obi’s inquisition crumples into confusion. “What? When did you--”

Every word ekes into the air with the utmost resistance. “When she was wearing your hoodie.”

“When she was wearing my--?” Gold eyes round to coins. “Chief.”

For a solid minute, that’s the only reaction-- wide-eyed disbelief, earned from two sides. But Obi coughs, mouth twitching, and it’s a snort, a smirk, and--

And then Obi launches himself away from the table, both hands still gripping the edge as he falls apart utterly. The chair’s back keeps him from putting his head between his knees, but spiritually he’s there, tears tracking down his cheeks as his laughs wheeze out of him

One hand finally slaps the table, like he’s asking for a time out. Zen frowns down at him, red finally fading to a painful pink. “It’s not that funny.”

“It is,” Obi squeaks, and Mitsuhide has to shove his last bite of omelette into his mouth to stifle his own noises. It’s no good-- Zen whips around and gives him the same glare he’s been saving for Obi.

“If you don’t cut it out,” he says loftily, “I’m going to let a freshman stay in your room.”

Well, that brings Obi up. “Fine,” he coughs, voice still ragged from laughing. “But still. My hoodie.”

“The sleeves hung over her hands! It was cute.” Zen huffs, folding his arms over his chest. “Fine, if I’m so bad, why don’t you two show me how it’s done?”

There’s a pause, long and loaded; enough that Mitsuhide glances up from his plate to see just what tomfoolery he should brace himself to break up--

Only to find Zen staring at him.

Intellectually, Mitsuhide is aware that Zen is a Wisteria. He met him through Izana, after all; he’s been over to the manor, he’s even met their prodigal mother on one of her rare stopovers between vacations. But when he thinks of the name, it’s Izana who springs to mind, the gears churning behind his eyes.

It’s not often that Zen reminds him of his brother; Cookie’s always said that Izana takes after their mother with that long and lean model build, while Zen has always been Kain’s child. But now, now--

He sees it, and it sends a shiver right through him.

With a quirk of his lips, Zen says, so like Izana that if he closed his eyes he wouldn’t know any different, “You first, Mitsuhide.”

Obi’s mouth curves into a leer. “Yeah, Big Guy. Show us the skills that got you Ms Kiki.”

This probably isn’t the time to tell them that it wasn’t him who got her; Mitsuhide hadn’t been trying to do anything more than be the friend she needed, to be a person she could confide in, could trust. People like that were thin on the ground for girls like her; heiress tended to make men see dollar signs instead of personality. But Kiki--

Well, she had other ideas. Ones he’d only cottoned onto when she climbed on top of him and shoved him against the couch cushions with her mouth.

“D-Don’t look at me!” he manages, trying to busy himself with anything. But there’s only a plate to be put in the sink, and a pan to be wiped. Not enough to fake a decent amount of responsibility. “I’m not--”

“Aw, c’mon, Big Man. Don’t leave us hanging.” Obi leans back, grin so wide it practically splits his face. “Lemme paint the scene. You’re single, Doc is adorable, and she’s waiting there--” he gestures to Zen, who flutters his eyelashes in precisely the way Shirayuki doesn’t-- “for you to make your move. Go!”

He could point out he’s not single, and that he doesn’t have any plans to change that anytime soon-- but that only ends in one way: a two-pronged mockery with additional ridicule provided by the impending arrival of his better half. He could also point out that of all the people in this room, he’s the only one who hasn’t wanted to date Shirayuki, but-- well, the problems with that one were obvious.

Instead, Mitsuhide takes in a deep breath, learns on the counter, and says, “Why, Shirayuki! You’re looking beautiful this morning. Those shorts really flatter your legs.”

There is a long silence, and then to everlasting embarrassment, they burst out laughing.

“Her shorts?” Zen’s hand is pressed to his chest, like he needs support to keep upright. “That’s all you can think of? Her shorts?”

“Well, Obi said not to do her hair,” he protests. “Complimenting her dress seemed like low hanging fruit. I was trying to be unique.”

Obi doesn’t even bother to remain horizontal, sprawling himself over the long forgotten maps. “So you went for her legs?”

“There’s nothing wrong with legs!”

“Oh, no, of course not,” Zen sputters out in an effort to keep his mouth straight. “Definitely a very neutral place to comment on.”

“Definitely not known for being attached to things like asses.” Obi’s mouth twitches, as much a sign for danger as thunder rolling in the distance. “Or puss--”

“I was not trying to comment on that.” He’d felt bad for Zen earlier, but the sentiment doesn’t seem mutual. “It’s not typical, sure, but Kiki never seems to mind when I compliment--”

“Kiki?” Zen squawks. “Kiki?”

“Well, I think we’re all learning a little too much about Big Guy today,” Obi wheezes. “Mainly that it’s Ms Kiki that chased him, and not the other way around.”

“Yeah.” Zen shakes his head, long and slow and solemn, like a doctor about to give a terminal diagnosis. “No game at all.”

Mitsuhide’s not a competitive man. Sure, he was forward on the ice, the kind of player that got sent to the box before the end of the first half and slid right into the captain spot when it was vacant. Aggression is part of the game, competition laced in every turn of his skate and lift of his stick, but that’s a different situation, a different language--

But it’s that part of him that surges beneath his skin right now, that makes him want to saunter over and put both hands on that rickety, painted wood until it creaks. That makes him want to take a full minute to bend down, showing off every centimeter of his one-ninety plus, and ask real low if either of them has made a girl beg on their cock lately, but--

He puts it in its place. That sort of talk always sounded better en français anyway.

Zen waves his hand, slipping his pamphlets out from under Obi. “Anyway, enough messing around. Are you still making omelettes, Mitsuhide?”

“Ohh, omelettes?” Obi spins to him with wide eyes. “Can I get mine with fancy ham?”

Mitsuhide blinks. “Wait, aren’t you going to do your take?”

“Nah.”

Zen shrugs. “Joke’s over.”

“So I just did that for no reason--?”

“I wouldn’t say no reason,” Zen wheedles. “It was very educational.”

Obi grins. “Mainly about how Big Guy likes legs--”

“Oh,” drawls a voice that makes his body go cold and hot at the same time. When he turns, it’s Kiki leaning against the jamb, a single elegant brow raised, excusing amusement and menace in equal measure. “Am I to take it that the show is over?”

“K-kiki,” he stammers. “How long--?”

“Hm.” She saunters over to the counter, slipping onto a stool with a casual grace that still leaves his mouth dry. “Long enough. I have to admit, I was looking forward to seeing a display of Obi’s fabled moves.”

“Ms Kiki,” Obi simpers, pressing a hand to his chest. “I’d be happy to give you a personal demonstration anytime.”

Both her brows raise. “Did I say I was desperate?”

He’s saved from Obi’s answer by Shirayuki padding into the kitchen, flushed and breathless. “Oh, you were right Kiki! Everyone is already ready. Sorry to make you wait.”

There’s a hesitation in the air, and Mitsuhide can’t figure it out, not until he sees-- she’s wearing shorts.

Shirayuki blinks. “Is something wrong?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Kiki hums, sending him a gaze so wicked it should be illegal outside the bedroom. “Do you have anything to say to her, Mitsuhide?”

“No!” It comes out a little too harsh, a little too loud. “I mean, I, uh...like your sandals!”

“Sandals,” Obi snickers, a sound that’s only covered by Zen’s hushed, “Shut up.”

“Oh!” She blinks down. “Thank you. I got them at Payless. I, um, don’t think they make them in your size.”

“No,” he manages mildly. “I don’t imagine they would.”

“You do look real cute, Doc,” Obi chimes in, slinking out of his seat to circle around her. “Did you dress up for today?”

Zen makes a noise, somewhere between a choke and a gasp, but even with the pink brushing her cheeks, Shirayuki’s too used to his antics to do much more than sigh.

“Of course I did, Obi.” Her fists perch high on her hips, cocked as she talks to him. “It’s the last time we’re all going to be going out together, isn’t it? What could be more special than that?”

Mitsuhide may not be a competitive man, and especially isn’t a malicious one, but when Obi’s jaw goes slack, the tips of his ears darkening just the slightest bit, well-- he does indulge in the slightest bit of schadenfreude.

“Well,” Zen says, a little sharp. “Let’s get going.”

“Aw!” Obi whips around. “What about fancy ham?”

“I don’t think you need--”

“Oh, I haven’t had breakfast either!” Shirayuki adds, eyes wide. “Do we have time?”

Zen hesitates, and then with a sigh, relents. “We’ll stop at Dunkies.”

#obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #The Wide Florida Bay #modern au #my fic #ans #mitsuhide gets so few POVs in the fic I can't help but let them get away from me okay #he's a gift #the actual six flags chapters are gonna have rotating POV #and it was just supposed to START with him #but then i was like WHAT IF I INCLUDED THE SCENE FROM BEFORE THE CANON DATE #and now we are here

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ffangirlingsince2001 · 3 years

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The Great Upheaval of Percy Weasley: Dangerous

Percy Weasley x OC

Summary: Classes begin and a past warning creeps into Elle’s mind.

Warnings: Language, making out, angst

MASTERLIST

Dangerous -adj.- the words you didn’t dare to say aloud but your eyes screamed without dignity.

***

The strange thing about snogging Percy Weasley, is that Elle seemed to notice him a lot more often. She was sure they had classes together before this year, but she had never cared to notice him. Now, she was in her third class of the day, and it was the third time she could spot his red hair at the front of the classroom.

And unfortunately for her wandering mind, the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher was late. The moment she wasn’t moving, or working, or doing something else to keep her busy, she was dropping further into a daydream that always managed to turn into a nightmare. That was how everything had been going since she arrived for her fourth year of Hogwarts. Now, beginning seventh year, nothing had changed. That was why Percy was so perfect. He was the perfect distraction, the final extra-curricular activity to completely fill up her schedule. He didn’t know it of course, and she wasn’t about to tell him, she just hoped he wouldn’t give up on their little agreement any time soon.

She wasn’t even sure he was going to agree to it. The night he had dragged her into an empty classroom, she hadn’t doubted his lie one bit. If she were McGonagall, she would have called her in too after getting a look at her schedule. Yet, it had been a lie, and now that little empty space she had been unable to fill with classes and studying and work was filled with Percy Weasley.

She snorted. Pretty, perfect, Percy Weasley was meeting her in dark classrooms late into the evening. Who would’ve thought the perceived worst of the worst would be fraternizing with the crown jewel of her class? Certainly not Elle Wilton, and she was one hundred percent sure neither had he.

Before she was able to drift further into the sheer shock of it all, Professor Lupin threw open his door and strode inside. She watched him with acute attentiveness from the back of the classroom, doing her best to not let her eyes stray to the boy sitting front and center.

“He’s kind of hot in an old dude sort of way, isn’t he?” Dinah muttered next to her and both burst into laughter as Elle pretended to gag. Their outburst didn’t go unnoticed and the stern, but kind eyes of their professor flitted back to their desk.

“We alright ladies?” The class turned to face them. Dinah blushed as Elle held in laughter, both shaking their heads quickly, doing absolutely nothing to convince the man. Thankfully, he was no Professor Snape, and simply nodded before returning his attention to the rest of the class. Their peers turned around as the man to speak, all except the head boy, whose attention seemed to linger on the girls a bit longer. She sent him a look, begging him to turn around before Dinah noticed, and for once in his life he listened to someone other than himself.

The class went better than most, and by the end she was feeling hopeful about the year (frankly, she was just glad it wasn’t another Lockhart). There was a quick pop quiz, just to see what they knew, and then he dismissed them without homework.

The two girls quickly packed up and began their rushed trek towards Transfigurations. While Lupin might have been late, after six years they were certain McGonagall wouldn’t be. Avoiding moving staircases and ghosts that wanted to have a conversation longer than the time they’d been dead, they burst through the doors with five minutes to spare. They made their way towards the same desk they had sat at for the past six years, when McGonagall called out to them.

“Not this year, ladies. Ms. Wilton, front and center.”

“What?” she yelled, jaw dropping, eyes wider than dinner plates.

“Now, there’s no need to yell. After the incident last year, I can’t risk it,” she tsked, but Elle wasn’t going to give up her beloved seat without a fight.

“The incident was nothing.”

“You turned your desk into a lion, which proceeded to chase Ms. Baker’s gazelle around the classroom before drenching half of my students in gore. I would hate to see what sort of incident you consider something, Ms. Wilton.”

“It was excellent transfiguration, professor.”

“Indeed, but we were making owls.”

“Professor-.”

“My decision is final, now please join Mr. Weasley.” Somehow, he had managed to slip in during their argument and was now sitting front and center, like every year before. Elle sent her a glare, but there was nothing more powerful than the stern look of Professor McGonagall. Groaning loud enough for everyone to here, Elle dragged herself forward, plopping down beside Percy.

He didn’t look at her, he didn’t need to for her to know that he was very aware of her presence. The way his entire body tensed was enough. She leaned into her hand and watched McGonagall return to her desk.

This was ridiculous, she had done things just as insane, worse even, and she had never been dragged to the front of the classroom. This was something else, and if Elle was making any guesses, she assumed it had to do with her schedule. Sadly, she dragged her fingers across the desktop, already missing the messages she and Dinah had carved into the desktop over the years.

It was stupid to be this nostalgic over a desk, but it was either sadness, or rage, and rage was far more likely to get her a month’s detention.

The lecture began, but she wasn’t really in a listening mood. She considered taking a nap, just to spite the professor, but Percy was having a coughing fit beside her.

“Are you dying?” she snapped quietly, a little harsher than she intended. However, he didn’t seem offended, merely nodded towards the parchment he was taking notes on. Scrawled in the top corner was a small note.

‘Astronomy tower, 9?’ was all it said, but the message was clear. She snatched his quill from his hand and draw a small smiley face beneath the invitation. He seemed to puff with pride as he took the quill back, returning to his notes.

And Elle couldn’t help but grin.

She was sure the grin would remain, for another hour at least, but McGonagall quickly swished it away with a few simple words.

“Ms. Wilton, I need to speak with you after your class.” As if the day couldn’t get any worse. The bell rang, and from her seat, Elle watched both Percy and Dinah leave out opposite doors. “Step into my office.”

“I don’t want to be late for my next class.”

“I’ll write you a pass.”

“I’d rather be on time.”

“Ms. Wilton, enter my office or face detention.” Elle considered detention, she really did, but she settled on standing and marching past McGonagall and into her office. She plopped into a chair and waited for the professor to take her own seat.

“Professor Sprout doesn’t like tardiness,” Elle announced. They both knew it was a lie, Professor Sprout hadn’t given a damn about tardiness since before Elle attended Hogwarts.

“I want to talk to you about your schedule.”

“It’s fine.”

“You’re taking ten N.E.W.T level classes, interning for Madame Pomfrey, and working Quidditch matches.”

“I said, it’s fine.”

“The homework load will be more than last year.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Then you understand my concern.”

“And I’m saying your concern is misplaced.”

“Ms. Wilton, I understand-.”

“You do not seem to understand anything! I have repeatedly told you it is fine; I understand the burden and I am willing to accept it. I will not fail, just as I have not failed every year before. So, please excuse me, I-.”

“Elle!”

Elle froze as she stood, turning to look at the professor who had not once used her first name. She waited for her to continue, to say anything after her uncommon lack of professionalism, but she remained silent, fingers clenched around the quill in her hand. Elle quickly left, throwing her bag over her shoulder as she sprinted through the empty classroom, boots pounding against the floor in tune to the angry pounding in her chest.

The rest of the day occurred without incident. Herbology was as interesting as always and Charms was a breeze, even Professor Binns held her attention. By the time her classes were finished, both her anger and the dinner tables had disappeared. She cut straight to the library, working until her eyes cried for relief and her mind bled.

Before she knew it, it was 8:55 and she was heading towards the Astronomy tower. The door was held open with a thin book that she casually swooped up before shutting it behind her, locking it with a swish of her wand.

“Percy?” she called into the emptiness, but there was no response. She peered around the corner and found him leaning over a stack of books, looking no different than she had mere minutes before. “Hey, Head boy,” she called again and this time he jumped in surprise, whipping out his wand to defend himself. “Woah, easy buddy, I come mostly unarmed.”

“Bloody hell, Elle,” he stammered, stowing his wand away once more as she laughed.

“That rhymes,” she said as she sat, still laughing at the petrified look on his face. He stowed away his books, glancing at her over his shoulder as he did so.

“What do you mean mostly unarmed?”

“My womanly wiles, of course,” she teased, licking her lips as she leaned closer.

“So completely unarmed you mean?”

“Is that sarcasm from the ever-serious Percy Weasley?” He only grinned and closed the gap between them. The newly familiar taste of tea with one too many sugars brushed her tongue as he kissed her.

Suddenly, the worries of the day took a back seat as he pulled her closer. She climbed over his legs and straddled him, never pulling away.

“Woah,” he muttered, wrapping his arms around her back. Their school robes punched together as they kissed, pulling them closer together. With annoyed fingers, she yanked his robe off, tossing it to a small heap beside his books. He tried to do the same but only succeeded in groping her chest. “Sorry,” he muttered, mistaking pleasure for discomfort as she let out a high-pitched gasp, startled fingers grasping his shoulders.

“No, no, you’re good,” she muttered breathlessly, shedding the robe on her own. His hands slipped down her back, tense fingers accidentally pushing against knots in her back. Not that she minded, a massage was a massage, even if it was on accident. His hands landed on the waistband of her skirt and something from the past fluttered between her legs. She didn’t know if he was aware that he was pushing the barely clothed apex of her thighs closer to his belt buckle. She certainly wasn’t going to tell him, not when she was having so much fun.

Testing the waters, she rocked her hips forward. Unlike last time, he didn’t pull away. In fact, he pulled her closer, pressing every bit of her against his chest. He bunched her skirt between his fingers, urging her to continue. When she moaned, he didn’t startle, only joined her when it was able to slip through his pride. It seemed that Percy Weasley was as fast a learner as he claimed. Not only was he a fast learner, he was a lot more respectful than she was used to (or preferred). His hands never touched the skin beneath her skirt or wandered to her chest, they remained firmly nestled in the folds in her skirt, only occasionally straying up her back. That would have to be the next lesson.

When she pulled away for air, dark pupils blown to ridiculous proportions. He was staring at her like she had the answers to questions he didn’t know yet, and that scared her.

That really fucking scared her.

“Elle,” he whispered, still panting.

“What?” she asked, but he didn’t respond, only kissed her again. She was glad, she was sure whatever was going to come out of his mouth would have been the last thing she wanted to hear.

Dinah had always warned her about virgin boys.

“They’re too good at it,” she always said, a proclamation of the unfairness, “They look at you like you’re some sort of angel, and then they’re proclaiming they’re love before you can get their pants unbuckled.” Elle had always rolled her eyes at that, but for a moment, she knew what it was like to be looked at like an angel.

Percy was different though. He wasn’t going to fall in love with her, that very idea was laughable. Percy was reasonable, and practical, and followed through with his outlandish goals.

Plus, he was only an average kisser.

And Elle was only an average liar, even to herself, because what he was doing was anything but average.

That night ended like the one before it; with a final kiss that left both wanting more (but nothing more than another) and Elle leaving him alone in the room of his choosing.

Dinah had no idea what she was talking about, virgin boys were as harmless as they came.

Taglist: @andromedasstarship

#percy weasley #percy weasley fanfiction #percy weasley fanfic #percy weasley imagines #percy weasley imagine #percy weasley angst #percy weasley smut #percy weasley fluff #percy weasley x reader #percy weasley x reader smut #Percy Weasley x reader imagine #percy weasley x reader fluff #percy weasley x reader angst #Percy Weasley x OC #percy weasley x oc angst #percy weasley x oc smut #percy weasley x oc fluff #percy weasley x oc fanfiction #the great upheaval of percy weasley

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kyidyl · 3 years

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Kyidyl Explains Bones - Part 3

Well, I had this halfway done and then TUMBLR ATE IT, so let me start again. UGH.

(These posts are collected under the KyidylBones tag. Do with that information what you will, lol.)

So what are we getting into today? Sex determination!

Ethical Note: I’m adding this bc not everyone who sees this post saw my post yesterday and this is important info, especially on Tumblr. Anthropologists of all stripes are well aware that sex and gender are extremely complicated. Trust me, we know. But we still do sex determination for a few reasons. First, because missing persons databases are arranged on a male/female binary, and if we’re comparing a set of remains to that database to identify the remains then we need that info. Second, demographic info for populations that have disappeared is important, even if those populations are historical. This might shock you (<--sarcasm), but written records are usually either lacking or inaccurate. Third, if we know the sex of the skeleton we can compare that to the grave goods and learn some interesting cultural things, including possibly being trans, because none of the signs of being trans survive physically in the skeleton. So I am going to be using male/female binary language, but it isn’t to exclude the wide variety of sexes and genders that don’t exist on that binary, it’s because it’s what I’ve got to work with. And if you have questions about this, feel free to ask, but please be respectful.

Alright, so there are some vocab words for today’s post and I had them all nicely written out in an easy to read paragraph, but it got eaten, so I’m just gonna present them in list fashion this time:

Characteristic - All physical markers of human variation exist on a spectrum because humans are varied and we invented the categories to begin with. If something is characteristic of, say, a male? It means that it is very, very distinctly male. It matches the stereotypical expectation of what you’d see in a male. It’s a standard for an obvious example of a given thing.

Landmark - A landmark on your bones is a feature of the bones that is always in the same place. We use this to help us identify a bone and to help us know what side it is on. IE, your lesser trochanter is a bump on your femur (thigh bone) that is on the inside towards the back. It’s always in that spot, so we know which direction it should face and ergo which side it would be on. Landmarks are unique to the bone in question.

Foramen - A hole on a bone. The big one in your skull that your spinal cord goes through is the foramen magnum and it literally means big hole. But there are a lot of little ones all over your skeleton so your nerves and blood vessels can do to your skeleton what the weirwood did to Bryden Rivers. I said what I said. ;)

Bilateral - Both sides. Humans have bilateral symmetry and so one side is symmetrical (externally and WRT your skeleton, but not always your organs.) to the other. You can split us down the middle and the two sides are basically the same.

Ok, so there’s another set of terms that you need to know, but I’m going to be copying and pasting this into every post going forward so I’m making it separate. Anyone who works with any kind of anatomy uses these terms to be very specific about the location of something on the body. They are:

Anterior/Posterior - Front and back respectively. I remember them because my mom used to say posterior when she didn’t want to say butt, and because A comes before P the way front comes before back. Sometimes people say dorsal and ventral, and I remember that because a dorsal fin is on a whale’s back.

Proximal/Distal - Near and far vertically in relationship to the center of your body. I remember it because one end of the bone is in close proximity to me and the other one is distant.

Medial/Lateral - Near and far horizontally in relationship to the center of your body. I remember it because medial is closer to the middle of my body, and lateral isn’t medial. Also, if you are reading left to right L comes before M and you’d get to a lateral body part before a medial one.

So, where to begin? How do we know what sex people were assigned at birth from just their skeleton? Let’s start with what everyone is most familiar with:

The Pelvis

The pelvis of an adult human is a really common thing for an archaeologist to find. And by the time we find it, it’s usually in three pieces (excluding your tailbone aka last vertebra). Your left and right hip bones, called the innominates, and your sacrum. Mind you, the pelvis is made up of a number of bones, but they all fuse in adulthood except these three (fun fact: I’m so used to using the individual names for them that I had to *google* the word innominate.), so this is what we usually find. If it’s a kid, they still survive well because they’re thick, heavy bones, but they aren’t fused. Another fun fact, the bumps of bone that you feel under your ass are called your ischium and I’m only telling you that because I think it’s a fun word to say. Your hop bones, like the actual entirety of the flat bladed part at the top, that’s called the Illium. I like that word too. Aaanyway, here’s a human pelvis:

(Source)

These are actual bone specimens in the top down view, both are women, but they are of different ethnic origin.

(Source)

This is a cast (IE, plastic), front view of a male pelvis.

You can see those 3 pieces I’m talking about. The only joint there that remains unfused is the sacroiliac joint, IE, where the two halves of the pelvis join the sacrum. However! You sacrum is technically a series of fused vertebrae and your spinal cord runs almost all the way to the very tip. There are some conditions which cause these not to fuse, or to not fuse properly, or to not properly encase the spinal cord and it causes all KINDS of issues. But anyway, yeah, your sacrum is a really tough hunk of bone because it carries a lot of weight. The bit in the front is called the pubic symphysis and, despite what certain tumblr posts would have you believe, having children does NOT leave a notch on the inner side of it from the muscle tearing away tiny chunks of the bone. In fact, it is hotly debated whether or not pregnancy leaves behind any skeletal evidence at all.

Alright, so basically speaking, females make da babies and males don’t, so the different equipment is differently shaped......

.....wait, no, that’s not right. Let’s back up. Male and female humans are differently proportioned and their center of gravity is, on average, different. This is the whole thing about men having upper body strength and women having thighs that can crush watermelons. This is on *average* (I will be saying a lot about averages in these posts.) true. And so the physics of the forces exerted on your bones is different. Males are top-heavy, and so their pelvis is shaped in response to their gate and muscle structure because the pelvis supports and distributes the weight of your entire body. And bipedalism means that the shape of the pelvis is very, very different depending on the weight distribution. These changes to the pelvis are really obvious, which is why we can tell from just a few bones whether or not a hominin was bipedal. It changes the *entire* body.

It is true though that the pelvis of a female is different than a male, because a female pelvis has to be able to support the weight of a developing child while still allowing the individual to walk. So the interaction of average size, a uterus, and the bipedal gate means that male and female pelvises are a different shape.

Here is a comparison:

(Source)

So firstly, that angle is called the sub-public angle, and because a females pelvis is wider and flatter than a male’s (when viewed from the front) it’s wider in the front. This also gives any babies more room. Secondly, you can see the difference in the tilt of the sacrum - in the female you can’t see the tailbone. This, again, is due to the confluence of weight distribution and the necessity of passing a baby’s head through that space. It would be a lot harder to push it out if you had a tailbone in the way. Lastly, you can see that the shape of the circle when you look top down and bottom up are different - wider on the woman because of the same reasons I’ve already mentioned. There is one more major difference between the male and female pelvis, and that’s the sciatic notch:

(Source)

Characteristic of male on the left, intermediate in the middle, and female on the right (and dang, she was young, too.). Thinner is male, wider is female. Usually you can fit your thumb in a female’s notch but barely or not at all in a male. I personally find the subpubic arch and the sciatic notch the easiest to use because, fun fact #2, those 3 sections are a bitch to hold together with your hands and that makes it hard to see the other shapes. The amount of sacrums and pelvic bones I’ve accidentally dropped while trying to determine sex....it’s a lot, ok? It’s a lot. I only have two hands and pelvises are big.

There are also several less obvious ways of determining sex from a skeleton, so you guys should definitely visit the source for the above image because they go into it deeper and there are several excellent images of public bones.

So how else do we determine sex? The next easiest way is from the skull, because the features are distinct and skulls survive well.

The Skull

In my opinion the easiest landmark to use on a skull for sex determination is the jaw. There are several features of the jaw that can be used here - and, mind you, when determining sex we measure every small and large sex-linked feature according to a scale and then average it all out. We never look at any single thing (although sometimes the individual has something so characteristic that you can’t help it. The individual in my position has a brow like a neanderthal, so it was pretty obvious.). Anyway, there are several features here but the easiest is to look at the shape of the lateral distal posterior portion of the jaw. It’s called the masseteric tuberosity. Basically, it’s a little bit of bone that sticks out of the back of your jaw. It’s one of the attachment points of the masseter aka chewing muscles attach. Because males have stronger muscles pulling on that part of the jaw and exerting more force, it flares out further for them when you look at it from the front, like this:

(Source)

It’s that sticky-outy thing thing that I circled in red. Here is an example of the same thing on females:

(Source)

Female jaws are rounder, and so that bit is less defined, flares out less, and is not as sharp as it is on males. And this is a reminder that these measures aren’t absolutes - humans have a lot of variance in them. The female asian and the male on the right both have somewhat atypical structures, while the female european and the two other males have a very characteristic structure.

The two other easiest to identify are the shape of the brown line and the shape of the chin (the mental protuberance). Here is an image of the comparison:

(Source: Pinterest, but this images are from the Human Bone Manual text that I use and I used this image so I wouldn’t have to make my own. :P)

You can see in the profile that the female skull has a higher, more vertical forehead with less pronounced brow ridges. If you look, you can also see that her chin protrudes less in profile, and is softer and less pronounced in the frontal view. The angle under her teeth is less severe.

So these three things, the chin, the brow, and the jaw, are the easiest to identify the most likely to be characteristic of the sex of the individual. But, if you compare the images I’ve used here you’ll also notice that there are other differences in the skull. Females have more of a slope to the bottom of their jaw, the bump on the back of their heads (the occipital protuberance) tends to be far less pronounced; and this is the case for all muscle attachments generally speaking. On average, males are more easily able to build muscle mass and are larger, and so their muscles pull harder on their skeletons and create larger muscle attachments. The round, blunt thing to the right of the back of the jaw that sticks out from the skull (the mastoid process), is also at a different angle and is larger in males. This is another case of the muscles being bigger and stronger - the mastoid process is where several of your jaw and neck muscles attach.

There you have it, then. The easiest ways to tell the sex of a skeleton. :)

This post has been approved by Gage the science doggo:

#science #anthropology #skeletons #human remains #human skeletons #education #KyidylBones #archaeology #bioarchaeology #humans #bones #human bones

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iatethepomegranate · 3 years

Text

We are not alone in the dark with our demons, Chapter 10

In which Caleb buys a house in Rexxentrum with Beau and Yasha, becomes a professor, is showered in love and support, learns how to be a person again, and tries to protect those like him from going through what he did.

Content warnings: Panic attacks, vomiting, Caleb's backstory

Chapter summary: There's not a lot Caleb can do right now, but he can teach a hurting teenager a new spell and reunite him with his very much alive parents.

Chapter notes: I 100% believe that Astrid knows the Nein call Essek "Hot Boi." Chapter title is from Ghost by Jacob Lee.

****

Chapter 10: And I'm just a stranger who could be a friend

The first thing Caleb did was flip to the page in his spellbook where he had transcribed the Sending spell. It was far into the book. As he pulled out his copper wire, Felix made a sound of surprise.

“You learned this recently?” asked Felix.

“Ja, I travelled with a cleric friend for a long time who had the spell,” Caleb replied. “Not Caduceus; he was there too, though. Jester seemed to enjoy casting it at everyone, even mere acquaintances, so I never saw the need for it.”

“What made you learn it?”

“Jester insisted a few weeks ago, so I could talk to her while we were apart. I knew another wizard who could teach me, and we were spending a great deal of time alone together exploring Aeor, and exchanging theories.”

Felix, despite his distress, was absolutely smirking at Caleb and he was not about to deal with teasing from an actual child. “So… exchanging theories in Aeor? Is that what old people call it now?”

“Hush.” Caleb ran Felix through the basic somatic motions of the spell, before demonstrating it himself. “Hallo, Caduceus. I am teaching Felix the Sending spell. It will take a few hours. Let me know if anything happens.”

“Hey, Caleb. Beau has the monks looking for Nico. They’re playing nice with the Volstrucker, apparently. Don’t miss dinner.”

“Right, so you can have a single two-way exchange out of the one casting,” said Felix. “What’s the word limit again?”

“Twenty-five words. Now, this is a third-level spell. It will take some effort for you at the moment.”

“I’ve been to school, Bren. I know what spell levels are.”

“Call me Caleb. Or Professor Widogast, if you prefer. I do teach here now.”

“Fuck off.”

“Caleb’s fine.”

Felix rolled his eyes. “Whatever, Professor.”

This was better. Caleb could work with impetuous children. Most children he knew were like that. Caleb could tune his behaviour to whatever Felix seemed to find most calming. Or at least distracting.

Felix had great attention to detail, methodically copying out Caleb’s transcription of the spell and yet still finding excuses to make fun of Caleb along the way. It was comfortable, more than Caleb had expected. Felix only knew him by reputation, and one put forward by Trent, no less.

Maybe it was the shared trauma. Maybe it was the fact Caleb was teaching him something. Or because Caleb, despite being a professor here, wasn’t trying to inhabit a position of authority over him in the way Trent had.

Snacks were delivered to the room about halfway through the process. Felix paid it little mind, and that was painfully familiar.

“Felix.” Caleb could not believe he was enforcing a break. That he had become the kind of person who would pull a focused wizard away from study for mere human needs such as food. But he was responsible for Felix, at least for now, and that was a frightening pressure.

“Busy.”

Caleb closed his own spellbook, taking away Felix’s source for transcription. In its place, he put a bowl of fruit. “Eat.”

Felix paused, his pen hovering over the page, frowning. Then he slowly set it down and sullenly grabbed a plum. Caleb sat back against the wall, nibbling on a handful of grapes.

“Don’t forget to stretch before we get back to it.”

Felix rolled his eyes. “Why are you like this?”

“Listen, I’ve had many people do this for me in the last year alone. So I’m paying it forward, and you are going to accept that.” Caleb tried to throw a grape into his mouth, and missed. He grabbed it off the floor and popped it into his mouth. Chewed. Swallowed. “It’s good for you.” If any of the Nein had heard him say that, they probably would have fainted from shock. It was easier to give this advice than to follow it himself.

“I can see why Trent fucking hates you.”

Caleb snorted. “Oh, this does not scratch the surface of Trent’s problems with me.” He threw another grape, catching it in his mouth this time. “Did anyone tell you what my friends and I did to him?”

“No.”

“Well, he tried to ambush us at Caduceus’s family home. One of my friends may have ‘acquired’ evidence of his experiments from Vergesson, and he was upset that I refused to entertain his ego while busy with bigger problems. By the time we were done with him, Astrid and Wulf were on our side, my friends had permanently glued a silencing collar around his neck, and used the leftover glue to stick his hands together. And that glue was in the shape of a dick.”

“Bullshit.”

“Ask Astrid. She activated the collar. Or Beauregard. She put the thing on him.”

Felix had that look of a teenage boy who was trying not to look impressed, hiding it behind a veneer of sarcasm. “Okay. I will.”

They finished their break, stretched, and got back to it. Felix was clever, eager to learn. It brought back memories for Caleb. Good memories, as tainted as they now were. And as much as he was worried for Nico and grieved for what had happened, he was also indescribably relieved they had been able to stop Felix. If he could help Felix reclaim even the smallest amount of good from his stolen childhood, he would take that as a victory.

Astrid looked in on them as Felix practiced the somatic motions around his copper wire, his muscle memory already secure. With a few minor corrections, he would be ready to cast.

“Almost finished?” she asked.

“Almost,” said Caleb. “Felix, that was very good. Just watch that you fully complete the motion right at the end, and hold it until you finish speaking your message. With time, you can find your own method.”

“You learned this method from your special Aeor friend?”

Caleb sighed. “No, these somatic components are developed from watching several casters perform the spell. My colleague provided the basic framework to learn the spell, but his somatic components are more intricate than my own.”

“So he’s your fancy special Aeor friend.”

Astrid chuckled. “It’s not the silliest nickname he’s had. Now, focus. The Martinet is sticking his nose in our business and we need to get you out of here.”

Felix wordlessly practiced the gesture again, meticulously correcting his errors. He ran through the motion a few more times, becoming more confident each time.

“I think you are ready,” said Caleb. “Remember: twenty-five words. Consider them in advance. It may be worth telling Nico he can reply to you.”

Felix nodded and closed his eyes, counting on his fingers under his breath. And then he cast. “Hey, Nico. It’s Felix. I heard what happened. I’m okay. They stopped me. I hope you’re okay. You can reply to this message.” The barest pause. “Love you.” Felix held his breath, listening out for a reply.

Caleb let him have ten seconds, before breaking the news. “Felix. If he has not replied yet--”

“I know,” Felix muttered. He grabbed his spellbook, hugging it to his chest as he deflated, and Caleb’s heart broke. “Just… get me out of here.”

****

Astrid’s teleport brought the three of them back to Blumenthal. The path was muddy from yesterday’s storm. Felix gripped his spellbook tighter, raking his eyes over the buildings around them. The way he held himself, shoulders hunched, inches from bolting, reminded Caleb far too much of himself mere months ago.

“Felix,” he said. “We need to speak to your mother and father, but we will not put you in a situation you do not think you can handle.”

“I don’t know if I can do this.” And wasn’t that just painfully familiar. They had barely made it a few steps before he froze, closing his eyes against the vision of home.

Astrid looked to Caleb, silently begging for him to do something.

“Felix,” said Caleb, completely panicking on the inside, “we will not force you to do anything you don’t want to. Okay? Let’s walk for a bit. Take deep breaths. If we reach your house and you don’t want to go inside, I will stay with you and Astrid will talk to your parents. Is that all right?”

Felix nodded, and he took a step. Then another step. And another. They walked together down familiar but unfamiliar streets. They were in a different part of Blumenthal than they had been yesterday. Caleb blocked out most of it, concentrating on getting Felix through the next few minutes. His own shit did not matter right now.

Felix’s body language remained tense. His head stayed down, barely keeping an eye on where he was going. His fingers flexed around his spellbook. And Caleb was planning. A hundred different options.

Caleb refused to force this boy to face his parents before he was ready. If the time came, and he couldn’t do it, he would need somewhere else to go. Somewhere away from here. If Astrid allowed it, there were a few options. Veth in Nicodranas would take Felix if Caleb asked, but he wasn’t sure if Felix would feel comfortable being around a family like that, especially with a small child. Or Felix could stay at the Lavish Chateau, but Marion was a busy woman who had been through enough on Caleb’s account. There was the Gentleman’s hideout, but Caleb wouldn’t want to leave him alone there. He could take Felix to the Blooming Grove, where the Clays would willingly care for him, but taking a boy who almost killed his parents to a graveyard was possibly not the best option.

There was Reani, wherever she was, but he wasn’t so sure that Felix could handle her on his own, or that her rigid morality had shifted enough to take him in without killing him if she found out even a fraction of the shit he did while under Trent’s power. Taking Felix to Nila and her young family, who Caleb believed had returned to her clan, would bring up many of the similar issues as taking him to Veth. And the Guiatao clan had suffered greatly at the hands of the Iron Shepherds, including many deaths, so Caleb wasn’t sure that would be a good place for him to cope with nearly killing his own parents.

And Caleb was not putting Felix on a pirate ship, so that ruled out Fjord, Jester and Kingsley.

They could always bring Felix back to Rexxentrum and he could either stay on Astrid’s estate (possibly too traumatic) or with Caleb and the lesbians, but Ludinus was poking around and that could get messy. Not to mention the whole “harbouring a Drow fugitive” thing.

Caleb circled back to Veth. If Felix could handle it, he would feel most comfortable taking the boy to her if he wasn’t able to go home. Caleb hadn’t told her what happened yet; he was not looking forward to that conversation. Even if it would help him in the end.

Of course, this all depended on Felix. If he agreed to go home, this would be irrelevant. But Caleb felt better having come up with a plan.

They reached a quiet street. Felix headed to the house at the far end, partially concealed by a granary. Caleb thought, with faint nausea, that even the physical isolation of their parents’ homes could have been a factor for Trent.

Felix made it all the way to the small vegetable garden out the front of the house, but faltered between the carrots. He stared up at the modest house. A single-storey affair, small even for a family of three. The front door was painted cherry red. The boy’s lips parted; no sound came out. His eyes traced the features of the house - the red door, the two small windows, the thatched roof in need of maintenance.

A woman’s face appeared at the window. And the door flew open.

“Felix!” The woman ran out of the house, and Caleb was just barely able to take in her simple dress and heavy coat, blonde hair gathered in a loose bun. But as she got close, Felix stepped back, wide eyes fixed on her face, as she spoke in rapid Zemnian. “No one has heard from you in weeks. Where have you been? Are you okay?”

“I can’t do this.” And he was backing away. “I can’t.” He tore his eyes from her, and ran.

“Go after him,” Astrid told Caleb. He wasted no time chasing after the boy. Caleb had run from a great many things in the past few years, but he was not the fastest man alive. But he was fast enough.

Felix barely made it around the granary before he collapsed into the grass. Gasping for breath.

Caleb knelt beside him. “Felix, listen to me. You’re okay. Slow down, breathe. Let the air fill your lungs. Feel the grass beneath your hands.”

Felix dug his fingers into the dirt, gulping in air. He was listening, at least. Being on the other side of this was not especially familiar to Caleb, but he had coached Essek once or twice. He could do this. They could do this.

Of course, Felix barely knew him, so it wasn’t like Caleb could just hug him. That would probably make things worse. So he would have to use his words.

“Felix, you got this. How does the grass feel?” Caleb gave Felix a moment to process, and then he supplied options, taking a pause between each. “Is it dry? Wet? What colour is it?”

Felix coughed a little, sucking in a shaky breath. “Wet. Green.” His hand slid across the grass. “Short. Muddy.”

“Good.”

Felix leaned away and vomited onto the grass. Then he staggered to his feet, grabbing Caleb’s shoulder for support. They moved a little further from the house, and Felix leaned against the granary, knocking the back of his head against the wood. And he laughed, that kind of unhinged, hysterical laugh that was not funny at all. Caleb knew it well.

And then he was in tears. Caleb reached for his shoulder, carefully, and Felix didn’t shake him off.

“I was going to kill her,” Felix said quietly. “If you hadn’t… I almost murdered my parents. I love them. I love them… and it didn’t matter. I was going to… oh gods....”

“Felix,” Caleb said, and did a very poor job hiding the tremor in his voice. “I am so glad we found you.”

“What the fuck does it matter? I would’ve done it.”

“Felix, as somebody who did… it matters a great deal.”

Felix stared up at him, eyes wide and wild.

“I will not force you to go home if you’re not ready,” Caleb said, pulling his voice back under control. “All I will say is this: I would have given anything to see my mother and father again. I almost did. And I know it hurts to look at your mother, knowing that you were going to end her life because of a lie. But you didn’t. She is still here. So is your father. And you have time to heal, all three of you.”

Felix wiped his face on his sleeve, cleared his throat. “Okay. Danke.”

***

Astrid was seated at a small dining table with Felix’s mother and father. Nobody got up from the table when Caleb brought Felix in, though it took visible restraint from his parents. Felix took after his mother--blonde hair, blue eyes, soft features--but he was closer to his father’s build.

The father tore his eyes from Felix with visible effort, and when his gaze fell on Caleb, he froze. And Caleb recognised him, and his wife. Friedrich Schneider and Louise Fischer--probably Schneider now. They were a few years older than him, but he could recall playing together as children.

“I heard you were back,” said Friedrich. “You were helping Nico out yesterday, ja?”

“Ja, I was there,” Caleb said carefully. “As were Astrid and Wulf.”

Louise pulled out the chair next to her. “Felix, come here.”

Felix, still gripping his spellbook like a lifeline, shuffled over and fell into the seat. Caleb sat next to Astrid on the opposite side of the table to the family.

“I have given some details of Master Ikithon’s arrest,” Astrid told him. “We were just about to discuss options for support. If you would?”

“Ja, of course.” Caleb compartmentalised his old memories and focused on the task ahead of him. “We are organising a support group for Ikithon’s former students. We are still nailing down those details, but we will be sure to pass them on. I have also been appointed as a teacher at Soltryce Academy, and we are hoping to put the students back into school when they feel ready.”

Louise and Friedrich grasped at Felix, who curled in on himself but did not complain.

“We just got him home,” said Louise. “After everything Astrid has told us, why would we let him go back?”

“The students in Felix’s position are at a delicate stage of development,” Astrid said, with little inflection, and Caleb sensed she was compartmentalising as well. “They are quite skilled, but have lost the guidance they had. That is dangerous. Good or bad, Ikithon was…” She sighed, and the mask melted away a little. “He engineered this situation. We were dependent on him. Even those whose families still live. Bren, you have been out of his influence longer. Do you have thoughts?”

“Ja, I do.” Caleb had spent his fair share of time soul-searching in the past few weeks, as well as the past year as a whole. “Ikithon shaped each of his students in a very specific way: patriotic to a fault, willing to do anything to get the job done, and unfalteringly loyal to him. It is a gradual process. By the time you realize it is happening, you have already done terrible things at his command. For most, there was no way out. My situation is unique, because I was able to escape in a rather dramatic fashion, but it has taken years to shake off the influence he had on me. I was alone and homeless for most of that time, and let me tell you: almost every fragment of positive change in me happened in the past year, because I had a support network. I found people who cared about me, and they learned how to help me. It was a group effort. I am now in a position to offer that kind of support to others.”

“Say we let him go back,” said Friedrich. “Will he have to live in that place?”

“Not all the time,” said Astrid. “You are not far from Rexxentrum, so I do not see a problem if he wishes to come home regularly. Bren and I both live off-campus if he needs a break but cannot make it to Blumenthal.”

“You do not need to decide now,” said Caleb. “The seniors do not start for another few weeks.”

“We’ll think about it,” Friedrich said flatly. “What happened to Nico?”

“He did it,” Felix said quietly. “Had a breakdown. Ran the fuck away.”

“We have people searching for him,” said Astrid. “Bren taught Felix a spell to talk to him, if he likes.”

“He prefers Caleb,” Felix muttered.

“Danke, Felix.” Caleb had not expected Felix to speak up on his behalf, not when he had his own shit going on. “Astrid gets a pass and, well, your parents knew me when we were children. I go by Caleb Widogast these days, but I will answer to either name.”

“Why the change?” asked Friedrich, still in that flat tone of distrust.

“I went by many names after I escaped Master Ikithon,” said Caleb. “For safety. I gave that one to a woman who eventually became my best friend. Now, it’s my name. But, for you, I don’t mind.”

Both Friedrich and Louise did not look trusting. At all. A mere muscle twitch from openly glaring at Caleb and Astrid, really.

Louise sighed, and some of the hostility dropped. “Thank you for bringing Felix home.”

“We will check in regularly,” said Astrid.

“Felix can message either of us with the spell I taught him,” said Caleb. “If he so wishes.”

Things were too tense to continue much conversation. Caleb and Astrid said their goodbyes, and left. They did not speak, except for Astrid’s short incantation to teleport them back to Rexxentrum.

They landed on the outskirts of the Shimmer Ward. Astrid immediately combed her fingers through her hair, hands shaking.

“That was…” She groaned softly. “Thank you for coming. I will keep you updated on the search for Nicolaus.” She turned on her heel and marched deeper into the ward, pausing for a split second, before she continued onwards without looking back.

Caleb slowly worked his way back to and through the Tangles until he was home. He couldn’t fault Astrid for being distant right at the end. The last twenty-four hours had been intense for everyone involved.

It was close to dinnertime as he reached the house. He entered his side and shut the door, leaning against it as the strength left his body. He’d done it. Today had been two-thirds of a shitshow, and he had made it through.

Felix was home with his parents, and he had the means to contact Nico, and Caleb himself, if he wanted. That was a win.

Nico, however…

Caleb knew, intellectually, that it had been a freak occurrence. A series of imperfections had tangled together into a knot, and that knot had been Nico’s escape. Almost every wizard in that room had more than one try at countering Nico’s spell, but they had not been unable to unravel it. Nico, empowered by panic and grief, had thrown all he had into a powerful fireball, and had the adrenaline to power through what should have hurt him a great deal.

Caleb hoped he was okay. Physically, at least. Psychologically, Caleb knew he wasn’t.

He sat on the floor, resting his back against the door. And he tried something. Coil of wire in hand. “Hello, Nicolaus. This is Caleb Widogast. You may know me as Bren Ermendrud. I was with you today. I’m sorry we frightened you. Be safe.”

He didn’t expect a response, and he did not receive one. A small part of him feared Nico wasn’t responding because he was dead. It was all too likely. There was no way he hadn’t been injured in the blast. Once the adrenaline wore off, the pain could’ve taken over and left him vulnerable to any number of attackers.

Gods, if after all this, Nico had died on the side of a road…

Caleb was tired. But he forced his fingers to cooperate, and worked through another casting.

“Me again. I want you to know: Trent Ikithon is in prison for what he did to us. You’re welcome in my home, when ready.”

Again, no response.

“Caleb?” A form slid into view at the top of the stairs, blending into the dark, but Caleb knew Essek’s voice anywhere.

“Ja,” he said, with the remaining strength he had. “Felix is home. We have both tried to message Nico, with no response. I…” He didn’t want to speak it into existence, so he shifted the morbid statement on his tongue into something more positive. “I hope he’s alive.”

Essek floated down the stairs and sat beside him, squeezing into the remaining doorspace. “If he's anything like you, I would expect nothing less.”

“Danke.” Caleb dropped his head onto Essek’s shoulder, and let himself rest.

#critical role #caleb widogast #shadowgast #astrid beck #professor widogast #cr2 #my fics #fanfiction #the pomegranate's professor widogast fic

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