#and the constant irritation & looming feeling of 'I Need To Escape'.

[mechawolfie]

my dysphoria is NOT debilitating my meds DO work and i can LEAVE MY ROOM WHENEVER I WANT TO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[thegirlwhorideslikeasamurai]

Things to read while Can You Hear My Heartbeat is on vacation #4

Beneath the Shine of a Thousand Spotlights

Summary:

Viktor had forgotten when he had last felt the rush of adrenaline giving way to drunken euphoria. As the photographers raised their cameras, he hid the emptiness in his heart behind a dazzling smile, sculptured to perfection in two decades of competitive figure skating. Flashlights ripped through the arena like sheet lightning on a murky summer night. Viktor swept back his hair and lifted the golden disk that hung heavy around his neck to his lips. A collective sigh rippled through the crowd as he performed the ritualistic kiss of his medal. Viktor flashed the press another star-smile. Then he hopped off the podium. Twenty years of being Russia’s poster athlete have drained Viktor Nikiforov off the passion he once had held for his sport, but caught up in duty and habit he cannot escape the icon he has become. Thoughts of retirement cross his mind when a drunken Japanese Cinderella dances into his life, stirring a dream of life and love beyond scores and medals. But that which sets his heart on fire also holds the power to throw Viktor into an even darker state of mind. This canon story covers the four months between the GPF and Viktor deciding to become Yuuri’s coach.

Tags: Depressed Viktor, light angst, character study, Viktor lives in his own world, the making of Eros and Agape, lonely Viktor, creative burnout, past Nikimetti, Yakov and Lilia are still married (but for how long?), this story made my beta cry

Excerpt:

“How do you feel having broken your world record in the free programme for the third time?”

“Where will you compete next?”

“Now that you’ve won the Grand Prix Final more often than every other skater in history, what is your next goal?”

“You kept surprising the audience season after season. Do you ever run out of ideas?”

“There have been rumours circulating about you wanting to retire. What are your thoughts about your future career? How will you reassure your fans?”

Viktor tucked his black necktie into the waistcoat of his dark-grey three-piece suit and regarded himself in the mirror. As so often, his silver-blonde bangs exhibited an irritating life on their own. He returned to the bathroom.

I wish I had known my hair would do this before I had it cut, he thought as he fixed the stubborn cowlick with hair wax. Now, it’s too thin to let it grow long again. What late-adolescent fit made me think short hair would give me a more mature image?

One last time, he checked his mirror image before he returned to the bedroom. The day had been crammed with gala practice, interviews, gala, and more interviews he had braved with non-committal answers and his star-smile. Now, one last social function loomed ahead and he would survive this one with more star-smiles and non-committal answers.

What people took for the beautiful and mysterious ice prince was a carefully crafted façade. Never give the press what they’re lusting for. Information was power, and Viktor preferred to stay in control of what he wanted to reveal.

They’ve been talking about my retirement as if I’ve already announced it.

Suddenly, he was choking on the sadness that had been lurking at the edge of his mind during the competition. He had thought it was gone. Why was it back? After three days of competition, he had no energy left to deal with this. And all because some overzealous fan had interpreted his expression during his recent performances as a growing contempt for his craft. As if Viktor’s presentation stood in contrast to his season’s theme.

Just two more hours. I don’t need to stay until the end. There will be champagne and music, and small talk. It’s just a different kind of performance. I have scripts for that.

But he was deluding himself. Unlike a programme that relied on muscle memory and an intense, innate focus, social functions demanded constant attention. Just the thing to look forward to after competing had drained Viktor of the energy he had scraped together to get through the event in the first place. And the Russian Hero was expected to attend even more than any other skater, and Viktor hated to disappoint.

There was a knock on his door.

Taking a deep breath, Viktor composed himself. I kept myself together for a long weekend. I can manage another couple of hours.

He picked up his blazer from the comforter. “I’m coming!”

He opened the door and stared right into a red-cheeked face framed by short blonde curls.

“Chris!”

His friend grinned. “Curious. Your hair doesn’t look like that, dear.”

*end of excerpt*

Reblog appreciated 💙💜

[soobibabe]

only you chapter three

← back to previous chapter | forward to next chapter → pairings: kang taehyun + reader series masterlist

You pace your office, the words of Chairman Kang echoing in your mind. The Maldives. A trip with Taehyun. The very thought makes your blood boil, yet you know there's no escape from this charade. You need a plan, and fast.

You’re pulled from your thoughts by a knock on the door. It's your assistant, Minji, with a folder of documents you need to review before the end of the day. You take it with a nod, trying to focus on work. But the impending trip looms large in your mind, a constant distraction.

Your phone buzzes with a new message.

Kang Taehyun: Heard about the big trip yet? wish i was there to see your delightment

You roll your eyes, clenching your phone tightly. His smugness is infuriating.

you: fuck off Kang Taehyun: Cute. See you at the charity gala tonight?

Your heart sinks. You’d almost forgotten about the event. Of course, he would use this as another opportunity to flaunt your nothing far of faux relationship.

The Grand Seoul Hotel is buzzing with activity as you arrive at the charity gala. The event is a who's who of the city’s elite, and tonight, you and Taehyun are the center of attention. You spot him across the room, looking effortlessly suave in a tailored suit, his eyes scanning the crowd until they lock onto yours. A smirk tugs at his lips.

“Y/N,” he greets you with a mock bow. “You look... presentable.”

“Taehyun,” you reply, forcing a smile. “Nice to see you managed to comb your hair for once.”

He chuckles, offering you his arm. “Shall we?”

You reluctantly take it, the cameras flashing as soon as you step into the main ballroom. Reporters swarm around you, firing questions about your relationship and 'future endeavors'

[Later, at your table]

You sit next to Taehyun at the head table, enduring endless small talk with donors and socialites. Throughout the evening, you exchange barbed comments with him, each trying to get under the other’s skin.

“I must say, your acting skills have improved,” he says quietly, his smile never wavering.

“I’ve had plenty of practice dealing with insufferable people,” you reply sweetly. “You included.”

His eyes flash with amusement. “Touché.”

The auction begins, and you’re grateful for the distraction. But even as you focus on the items being bid on, you can feel Taehyun’s gaze on you, assessing, calculating.

During a lull in the proceedings, he leans in close, his breath warm against your ear. “We should discuss our strategy for the upcoming week”

You stiffen but manage to keep your voice steady. “And what, pray tell, is your grand plan?”

“Simple,” he says. “We act the part. Make it convincing. It’s in both our best interests.”

The night drags on, and by the end, you’re more than ready to leave. Taehyun, ever the gentleman in public, insists on escorting you to your car. Once outside, away from prying eyes, the facade drops.

“Just so we’re clear,” you say, turning to face him, “this trip changes nothing between us. We’re doing this for our families and our companies, nothing more.”

“Agreed,” he replies, his expression hardening. “But don’t think for a second that I’ll make this easy for you.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” you snap, climbing into the vehicle. “Goodnight, Taehyun.”

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he says, watching as you're driven away.

July 19th, 2024

You wake up to an email from Chairman Kang with the detailed itinerary for the Maldives. You skim through it, noting the luxury accommodations, the planned activities, and the numerous opportunities for public appearances. Every detail is meticulously planned to ensure you and Taehyun appear like the perfect couple.

You can’t help but feel a pang of irritation. Chairman Kang’s manipulation knows no bounds.

On a brighter note, the trip won't be just you and Taehyun. This, you only found out last night through the Chairman himself. He's on casual texting terms with you already...

Honestly, if he wasn't Taehyun's grandfather, you would've been flattered by his determination to have you marry into his family.

He went all out with the invites. The guest list contained names of men and women you hadn't seen since you graduated. It almost intrigues you, but you remind yourself of the reason you're in this in the first place.

July 22nd, 2024

Your luggage is being escorted through the airport by your staff. Taehyun is beside you, both of you surrounded by your body guards as you walk to your private jet provided by the chairman.

When you step inside, you're greeted by big smiles and familiar faces. To your surprise, it fills you with a sense of warmth.

"Y/N! Its been so long c'mere" you're called from the other side of the vessel. It's your college friendgroup, its been a while. "Waittt, Sana, Kazhu, Chae, Haein. Where's Iseul?" you inquire, not being able to mask your excitement.

"Couldn’t get the time off, yk her idol schedule" Chae answers, but you already guessed it. "How have you been? We missed you, Ms. CEO" They all agree. Taehyun appears at your side again, this time putting your carry on on the top shelf for you. The simple action causes the girls to look at you with prying eyes.

"Or should we say Mrs?" Kazhu scolds you.

"We're not even offical yet chil-" "We found out at the same time the reporters did, you know how sad that made us" Haein pretends to sulk.

"Okay let me start from the top" "You must. We thought you guys hated eachother miss 'he's the bane of my existence'... was it all a lie?" now they're all fake sulking. Its adorable.

You spend the first 3 hours of the flight chatting away, until all the laughter and gossip put the girls to sleep. You've missed these talks.

The lights in the jet are all dim, LEDs painting the sleeping faces blue.

You desperately need to pee, not thinking that through prior to saying yes to every drink the flight attendant offered.

Now, you have to walk into the other, separated half of the jet. Where Taehyun and the guys stayed. Fortunately for you, they were all out like a light too.

As you walk through to meet the end where the bathroom was, you happened to take a tumble over one on the mens outstretched legs. How convenient.

An arm wraps around your waist, bracing your fall. You lift you head to meet the big doe eyes already looking at you. "You can't seem to leave me alone can't you? You're even falling for me now" How did he know you were gonna trip? His eyes were just closed... "I'd love to stay and banter some more but i have some serious urination business to tend to, let go please" and to your surprise, he obeys, no questions asked. odd.

Once you're done, you make you way back to your seat uninterrupted this time. Sound asleep as soon as you switch the seat setting from chair to bed.

When you finally land, you’re greeted by the warm, tropical air of the Maldives. A private car takes you to your resort, a stunning array of overwater villas stretching out into the crystal-clear water.

Everything's perfect. All but one thing. Theres only one keycard handed to you and taehyun. A shared room.

You walk in together, if the tension wasn't already awkward enough, you both notice at the same time that there's only one bed.

"I'll sleep on the-" you say at the same time, pausing in sync.

"I'm sorry i don't know what my grandfather's thinking" his voice is full of what seems to be sincerity.

"We can't ask for another room right? there are so many eyes on us it'd look weird" Taehyun nods in agreement.

"You can take the bed, i'll sleep on the sofa" There's no point in disagreeing, so you end the conversation there. Instead focusing on the scenery around you.

The villa is breathtaking, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the ocean. You step out onto the deck, taking a deep breath of the salty air. For a moment, you almost forget the reason you’re here.

Taehyun’s voice cuts through your thoughts. “The view is beautiful, isn't it?"

You turn to find him leaning against the doorframe, watching you like he's trying to assess what you're feeling. "Yeah, it is." "Lets get changed to go meet the others. Your grandfather organised a party by the sea to 'set the vibe' of the opening night" you both laugh at the description. Its the first time you and Taehyun shared such a light exchange.

You make your way outside, seeing way more faces than you expected.

Taehyuns best friends are all here too; Choi Yeonjun, the founder of Korea's largest fashion company, Choi Beomgyu, this generations highest paid male east asian model, Choi Soobin, owner of the most successful video game production company in South Korea, and Huening Kai, one of the most famous male soloists in the idol industry.

You're impressed at the mere thought of how much it would have cost the chairman to get all of these people here, for a week at that.

While taehyun rejoins his group, you enter the crowd, greeting as many guests as possible, engaging in small talk and thanking them for coming.

It doesn't take long for you meet to eyes with what feels will be your demise. Myeong Sora is across the room, approaching Kang Taehyun.

A nasty wave of deja vu engulfs you, leading your body toward the direction of her movement. There is no way you're letting lucifer’s spawn herself ruin this night for you.

You reach Taehyun before she does, grabbing a hold of his arm and making conversation with the men he was previously bantering with.

Once taehyun registered the source of your sudden action, you exchange uneasy glances. As she makes her way toward you, you see a glint of mischief in her eyes. "No way! Y/N, Taehyun," she says, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "What a pleasant coincidence, I landed here for a solo trip a few days ago and came here tonight for some air, now i’m hearing talks of a party?" Sora turns her attention to Taehyun, her smile widening. "It's been too long, Taehyun. How have you been?" You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Sora’s presence is already grating on your nerves. Just as you’re about to excuse yourself, Taehyun’s hand subtly rests on your lower back, a silent request to stay.

"We were just about to join the party by the sea," he says, guiding you forward. "Care to join us, Sora?"

"I wouldn't miss it," she replies, falling into step beside you both.

The beach party is in full swing, with lanterns casting a warm glow over the sand and the sound of laughter and music filling the air.

You spot your friends gathered near the bar, and they wave you over. Taehyun reluctantly releases his hold on you as you approach them, giving you a brief moment of respite.

"Y/N! Over here!" Sana calls, holding up a cocktail.

[to be continued]

A/N: this is my least fav chapter so far, but the i promise it gets better in the next one, i was burnt out when i wrote this

tags: @lunathewritingcat @taehyhunnzly

add yourself to the taglist

© all rights reserved soobibabe on tumblr. do not cross-post, copy or translate etc.

[sunflowerabyss]

The Phoenix Rises: Chapter 8

Pairings: Older!Remus Lupin x Fem!Professor!Reader

A continuation of the Charms of Fate series.

Series Masterlist

Plot Summary: Starting your third year at Hogwarts as the Charms professor proves to be difficult without having Remus by your side as you face new and irritating challenges at work, as well as joining a secret society.

A/N: Sorry for dropping off the face of the Earth for a bit. I started college and it's been hectic! Anyway, enjoy!

Warnings: Angst

________________________________

The next month was a whirlwind of chaos. Juggling between teaching and attending Order meetings and stakeouts, exhaustion became a constant companion. Even though you managed to spend weekends with Remus, it felt like your time together was slipping through your fingers. The increasing presence of Tonks added an extra layer of tension, her subtle advances persisting despite having dialed down from when you first met her. Remus, ever oblivious, remained untouched by her advances, making it challenging to direct any frustration toward him.

Work at Hogwarts had transformed into a dreaded ordeal. The atmosphere, once vibrant and engaging, had deteriorated into a nightmare, thanks to Dolores's oppressive presence. Her intrusive supervision loomed over everyone, making each day feel like an uphill battle. A sigh of relief escaped your lips as the last class concluded. The prospect of stepping outside for some fresh air became a beacon of solace in an otherwise overwhelming routine.

Navigating the corridors, you could sense a commotion ahead. Curiosity propelled you forward, and as you reached the courtyard, a disconcerting scene unfolded. Dolores and Sybill Trelawney stood at the center, surrounded by a sea of students. Sybill, tear-streaked and distressed, stood next to her belongings scattered at her feet. Dolores's stern expression communicated a harsh reality.

You quickened your pace, furrowing your brows at the unsettling sight in the courtyard. Students huddled in groups, whispering urgently, while Dolores Umbridge stood tall, a disapproving figure next to the distraught Sybil Trelawney.

"What's going on?" you asked a passing student, who looked at you with wide eyes.

"Dolores is kicking out Professor Trelawney! It's crazy!" the student whispered, their voice filled with a mix of shock and excitement.

Your heart sank, and you approached the scene, catching snippets of the conversation. Dolores's high-pitched voice cut through the air as she spoke to Sybill, her tone condescending and dismissive.

"You can't do this," Sybil stuttered out, her voice watery.

Dolores held up a piece of paper, "Actually, I can.

"Sybil Trelawney, your so-called 'prophecies' and vague predictions have no place at Hogwarts. Your services are no longer required," Dolores declared, a cruel smirk playing on her lips.

Sybill, on the verge of tears, pleaded, "Please, Dolores, you can't do this. I have nowhere to go!"

Dolores responded with a cold laugh, "Perhaps you should have thought of that before filling these students' heads with nonsense. Hogwarts needs serious educators, not charlatans."

The surrounding students watched in silence, some in shock, others in anger. You felt a mix of emotions – sympathy for Sybil and an intense frustration towards Dolores's unwarranted cruelty. As the crowd murmured in discontent, you couldn't help but think about the injustice unraveling before you.

The tension in the courtyard escalated as Dolores continued to gloat, but relief washed over you as Professor McGonagall arrived, a stern expression on her face. She approached Sybill, offering a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Shh, shh, my dear," McGonagall said, her voice soothing.

As the two women held each other, Dolores couldn't resist taking a jab. "Minerva, is there something you'd like to say?" she sneered, a malicious glint in her eyes.

McGonagall turned to Dolores, her lips thinning with restraint. "There is a great deal I would like to say, Dolores, but I'll save it for a more appropriate time."

Just then, the grand doors to the castle swung open, and Dumbledore strode out, his usually calm demeanor marred by a visible anger. The atmosphere shifted as all eyes turned to the powerful wizard.

Dumbledore, with a stern expression, turned to Professor McGonagall. "Minerva, would you please escort Sybil back inside?" he requested.

Sybil, still teary-eyed and emotionally overwhelmed, reached out to Dumbledore as she walked past him with McGonagall. "Thank you, Professor Dumbledore, thank you," she repeated, gratitude pouring from her voice like a balm for the wounds inflicted by Dolores Umbridge's harsh actions.

Dolores, undeterred, addressed Dumbledore, "Dumbledore, may I remind you that under the terms of Educational Decree Number 23, as enacted by the minister--"

Dumbledore cut her off, his voice stern, "You have the right to dismiss my teachers. You do not, however, have the authority to banish them from the grounds. That power remains with the headmaster."

Dolores smirked, defiantly adding, "For now."

Dumbledore, not willing to engage further, turned away and addressed the students, his voice commanding, "Don't you all have studying to do?"

He walked away, leaving a trail of subdued murmurs in the courtyard. The weight lifted from your shoulders as you released a breath you hadn't known you were holding. The injustice seemed momentarily halted, but the lingering presence of Dolores Umbridge reminded everyone that darker times loomed over Hogwarts.

____________________________

The flames in the fireplace crackled as you sat on the couch in your living quarters, the trio of Harry, Hermione, and Ron joining you. The atmosphere was tense, and Hermione voiced her frustration, "That foul, evil, old gargoyle. We're not learning how to defend ourselves. We're not learning how to pass our OWLs. She's taking over the entire school."

The radio is playing in the background and you can faintly hear the Minister's grating voice speak softly through the speakers. "Security has been and will remain the Ministry's top priority. Furthermore, we have convincing evidence…that these disappearances are the work...of notorious mass murderer Sirius Black."

You rolled your eyes, calling Fudge every bad name in the book. Caught in a slight daze, you jump when you hear a voice coming from the fireplace.

"Harry."

You and the three young students look towards the fire, Sirius's face emerging from the ember and soot.

"Sirius," Harry said, kneeling down. "What are you doing here?"

"Answering your letter," Sirius replied. "You said you were worried about Umbridge. What's she doing? Training you to kill half-breeds?"

"She's not letting them use magic at all," you retort, rolling your eyes once again.

Sirius let out a snort. "Well, I'm not surprised. The latest intelligence is that Fudge doesn't want you trained in combat."

"Combat?" Ron wondered aloud. "What does he think, we're forming some sort of wizard army?""

"That's exactly what he thinks. That Dumbledore is assembling his own forces to take on the Ministry. He's becoming more paranoid by the minute. The others wouldn't want me telling you this, Harry…but things aren't going at all well with the Order. Fudge is blocking the truth at every turn and these disappearances are just how it started before. Voldemort is on the move."

The weight of Sirius's words hung in the air, and you couldn't help but feel a bit panicked. Between this toad-faced twat and no nose Nancy, on top of lesson plans, grading, the Order, it was almost...too much.

As the trio and Sirius discussed the dire situation, you interjected, "We can't let Umbridge control the narrative here. Hogwarts should be a place of learning, not a breeding ground for fear and prejudice. We need to be prepared for what is inevitable."

Hermione nodded in agreement, "You're right professor. We need to find a way to resist her influence and keep learning. Knowledge is our best defense."

Ron chimed in, "And what about Dumbledore? Why isn't he doing anything about it?"

You sighed, "Dumbledore's hands are tied. Fudge has the Ministry wrapped around his finger. We need to figure out a way to defend ourselves and the school without relying on the official channels."

"It won't be easy, but we can't let them win," Harry replied.

You nodded, "Agreed. We'll need to be strategic and find allies within the school. Strength in unity." Before you bid your goodbyes to Sirius, you couldn't help but ask about Remus.

Sirius hesitated before answering. "He's okay. Misses you like crazy. He's been going on more missions. Sometimes alone, sometimes with..."

"With..?"

Sirius sighed. "Tonks. Well, he doesn't invite her, she kind of just tags along. I'm not sure what her intentions are, but I make sure she knows he's in a happy, committed relationship." You groaned in annoyance, ignoring three curious sets of eyes on you. Sirius turns his attention back to everyone. "I'm sorry I can't be of more help. But for now, at least, it looks like you're on your own."

And just like that, he was gone. You threw your head back against the couch, sighing deeply. Great. Another thing I need to worry about. A girl who doesn't know when to take a hint.

You feel tears well up in your eyes. You try to blink them back, but one falls down your cheek regardless of how much your eyelids flutter. You feel someone take your hand and you're surprised to sees it's Ron. You use your free hand to wipe you're face.

"Godric," you half laugh, half sob, "I'm sorry, I don't know what's the matter with me."

"It's okay Professor," is all he said. The four of you sat in silence, comforting each other.

_____________________________

"Dumbledore's Army?" you asked rather loudly, munching on chocolate sent from Remus, hunched over your desk, grading your students' homework. Everyone was out for the day, either going to Hogsmeade or lounging in their respective common rooms.

"Shh!" The trio hissed, casting a glance over their shoulder to the slightly ajar classroom door. You stop mid-chew, looking up at them, an eyebrow raised.

"We've been thinking, with Umbridge tightening her grip on the school, we need to do something. Dumbledore can't openly oppose her, but we can."

Hermione leaned in, her eyes reflecting the intensity of her thoughts, "We want to start a secret group, a defense class. Dumbledore's Army, to teach students how to defend themselves."

Ron, ever pragmatic, added, "It's not just about us. The whole school needs it. Especially since Dumbledore is gone."

You listened attentively, a mixture of concern and determination etched on your face. "Starting a secret society is risky, but I understand why you'd want to," you replied quietly. "How can I help?"

Harry looked relieved at your support, "We need a place to meet. We can't risk Umbridge finding out."

Hermione nodded, "And we need someone trustworthy to help with organizing and logistics. Dumbledore's Army has to stay off Umbridge's radar."

You set your chocolate and red pen down, leaning back into your chair. You noticed Ron trying to take a peek at whose work you're grading, snickering when he sees it's Fred's a giant red P in the top right corner. You scowl at him, pushing your papers in a desk drawer.

"I'll tell you this bit now," you begin, "you can't use this classroom." Harry began to open his mouth in protest. You held up a finger. "But, there is a room that might be able to aid you. It adapts to our needs and provides a level of security that other places can't guarantee. The--"

"The Room of Requirement," Hermione interjects in a whisper, "Of course." You smile slightly at her.

"Great. So where is it?" Ron asked.

You shook your head. "I don't know. It moves around the castle and only appears for those who is in need and actively seeking it."

"Guess we better start looking. Thanks Professor," Harry said, the three leaving your room.

"Be careful!"

____________________________

The weekend had finally arrived, and with it, the anticipation of seeing Remus at 12 Grimmauld Place. As you opened the door to the building, a sense of excitement filled you. However, the atmosphere inside was tense, and Sirius, appearing in the hallway, attempted to divert your attention away from the dining room.

"Hey there! What's the rush?" Sirius grinned nervously, blocking your path.

You tried to smile back, but your eagerness to see Remus outweighed any interest in Sirius's playful banter and you were starting to grow irritated. "Where is Remus? Is he in the dining room?"

Sidestepping his attempts at distraction, you pushed him aside and walked into the dining room. Your heart sank as you saw Tonks practically in Remus's lap, both of them laughing. Suppressing your frustration, you loudly dropped your bag on the table, drawing their attention.

Sirius followed you into the room, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Ah, I see you're back! Ready to join the fun, I see."

You shot him a look, silently asking him to drop the act, but he only raised an eyebrow in response.

Remus stood up, a radiant smile on his face. He was genuinely happy to see you. However, your excitement quickly turned to anger. "We need to talk," you gritted out. His smile faded, and he nodded, following you upstairs to his room.

Remus's expression turned concerned as he observed your demeanor. "Everything alright, love?" he asked softly.

You hesitated, feeling a surge of frustration mingling with hurt. "I'll explain in a moment," you replied tersely, not wanting to have the conversation in front of Tonks.

"What the bloody hell is that, Remus?" you demanded as soon as the door closed behind you. He looked genuinely confused, asking what you meant. "Tonks! What is going on with you and Tonks?"

Remus's brow furrowed in confusion. "Nothing, why do you think that?" he replied, genuinely puzzled.

"Because every time I see her, she's bloody all over you!" you retorted, your frustration boiling over. "I know we don't see each other as much as we used to," you continued, your voice tinged with a mixture of hurt and frustration. "Is it because she's younger, prettier?"

The words hung heavy in the air, each syllable laden with the weight of unspoken doubts and insecurities. Remus's expression flickered with a mix of surprise and hurt, his features contorted with a mixture of emotions.

"It's not about that," he started, his voice strained with the effort of trying to explain. "It's just…"

"Just what?" you interrupted, your tone edged with impatience. "Just that she's more convenient? That she's always around?"

Remus's gaze wavered, a flicker of remorse crossing his features. "It's not like that," he insisted, his voice tinged with regret.

"Then what is it like?" you demanded, your voice rising with frustration. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're letting her take my place."

The hurt in your words was palpable, a tangible reminder of the distance that had grown between you. Remus's expression softened, a hint of understanding in his eyes.

"I never meant for you to feel replaced," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "You mean everything to me."

The sincerity in his words tugged at your heartstrings, stirring a whirlwind of conflicting emotions within you. Despite the hurt and doubt, a part of you still longed to believe him.

"I want to believe you," you admitted, your voice barely audible. "But it's hard when I see her always by your side."

The admission hung heavy in the air, the unspoken tension between you threatening to suffocate any semblance of resolution. Remus's expression softened, his concern evident. "I'm telling you, Y/N, it's not what it seems, believe me. Tonks is just a good friend," he reassured you, reaching out to touch your arm.

But your frustration only intensified as you confronted Remus about his obliviousness to Tonks's advances.

"Remus, how can you not see it?"

Remus's brows furrowed, his expression shifting from confusion to defensiveness. "What are you talking about?" he retorted, his tone tinged with irritation.

"I just told you what I'm talking about!" you shot back, your frustration bubbling to the surface. "I'm tired of seeing Tonks all over you, and you doing nothing about it."

Remus's eyes narrowed, his jaw tensing with frustration. "You're being ridiculous," he snapped, his voice tinged with annoyance.

"Ridiculous?" you echoed, disbelief coloring your words.

"You're being insecure," Remus retorted, his words cutting through the tension in the room. His tone was sharper than you'd ever heard it, and it stung more than you cared to admit.

"Insecure?" The word hung in the air, heavy with hurt and disbelief. "Is that what you think?"

Remus's expression softened for a moment, but it was fleeting. "Look, I don't know what you want from me," he continued, frustration evident in his voice. "Tonks is just a friend. Nothing more."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" you shot back, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and sorrow. "Because it doesn't."

Remus sighed, running a hand through his hair in exasperation. "I can't keep having this conversation with you," he muttered, his eyes avoiding yours.

"Then maybe we shouldn't be having any conversation at all," you replied, the words bitter on your tongue. With that, you turned and left the room, the weight of disappointment heavy on your shoulders.

As you stormed down the stairs, tears streaming down your face, Sirius intercepted your path, his concerned voice breaking through your turmoil. "Hey, wait a minute. What happened?" he asked, reaching out to touch your arm.

You recoiled from his touch, shaking your head in frustration. "Not now, Sirius," you muttered, your voice thick with emotion. Pushing past him, you continued your descent, your heart heavy with the weight of betrayal.

At the foot of the stairs, your eyes locked with Tonks's, who sat there casually sipping a glass of water. The smugness in her gaze only fueled your anger further. Every fiber of your being wanted to lash out, to retaliate against the perceived betrayal.

Instead, you bit back your initial impulse, the urge to dump the water over her head subsiding. With a bitter edge to your tone, you muttered, "He's all yours," before turning on your heel and storming out, leaving the bitter taste of resentment lingering in the air.

[the-genius-az]

Back at it again with the Ludwig XIV- I mean Azula absolutist fic

====

The thick robes of the Firelord flew behind her as she marched down the cold halls of the Palace. Maids scattered and hurried out of Azula's way as quickly as they heard her heavy footsteps approach. On a good day, the Firelord might only lightly punish them for taking up space she so rightfully owned. And on a bad one...the public would get another execution to watch.

Azula stomped into Katara's bedroom with a loud call of the waterbenders name.

There was no answer, yet Azula could feel the irritated energy of her soon-to-be radiating from the windows.

Stepping onto the golden-railed balcony, Azula took a look around. And sure enough, Katara was leaning against the shimmering railing on the far edge of the tiled balcony, her face stubbornly facing away from Azula. Katara didn't even acknowledge her Lord. Azula bit back a scowl that threatened to crease her features before she stepped closer.

"Katara."

No answer. Not even an annoyed huff.

Azula glared as she stood next to her. Katara refused to cooperate even further. She was dead set on staring at the horizon of the city. Azula's eyes narrowed, the snarl finally engulfing her face as she loomed over the waterbender.

She was The Firelord. The most powerful being on the archipelago and even beyond the bounds of the borders. She, Azula, should be bowed down to, not ignored, and dismissed without a second glance. Her anger bubbled and burned her insides while she stared at Katara.

How dare she... Does she not care that Azula is Agni personified?! That Azula the Sun itself? Her inner flame raged as Azula grabbed Katara's face in her own crushing grip. Ice cold blue eyes met white-hot mad amber ones, each fighting for dominance over the other.

"I will not have this disobedience present in my Palace! You answer when you're called to. You are at my beck and call, and you will obey."

Azula stepped right infront of Katara, blocking any escape. Her anger heated the air around them, turning the warm evening into a blistering sauna.

"Or have you forgotten what happends when you refuse?"

Azula hissed out, her other hand gripping Katara's still healing wrist. The waterbender had snuck out of the Palace a while ago, determined to escape the power-hungry Azula. But she underestimated Azula's devotion and need for control.

A fully fledged search was carried out for weeks with Azula refusing even a minute of rest for her search parties. In that time, everyone suffered from Azula's nerves snapping, having a chance to get close and personal with her scorching fire. The Palace reeked of charred and burnt flesh for days after.

Katara was found in a insignificant coastal village trying to board a boat to the Fire colonies in an attempt to escape Azula. Safe to say, she failed and got immidiately taken back to the Palace.

After she was returned to her rightful place, she got branded by Azula's iron grip as soon as the Firelord had her back in her grasp. She now sported two big burns in the shape of a handprints on her wrists and sores down her entire body from Azula's harsh bedroom treatment.

"...what do you want? Here to give me more useless junk?"

"No."

Katara raised an eyebrow, clearly taken off guard at Azula's words. But...Azula only really interacted with her while trying to win her over with overly expensive gifts and to spend the night in her bed. What could she mean? The piercing glare of the Firelord's golden eyes sent a chill down Katara's spine. Whatever it was, Azula meant it seriously.

"I came here to put you under strict house arrest. You are not to step a foot outside your room, you are forbidden from talking to any of these peasants-"

Azula gestured out towards the maids scurrying around the Royal grounds, doing their chores as fast as they could lest they be met with the wrath of the Lord they served.

"-and you are to have constant supervision."

Kataras brows furrowed once the words settled in. Having guards follow her around the Royal Gardens was humiliating and annoying enough...and now they will guard every entrance her room...the complete loss of freedom that Katara so loved made her eyes widen in bewilderment as Azula's words sunk in fully.

"W-what...?"

Azula could practicaly smell Katara's turmoil. Oh, how she loved having this affect on people. The level of uneasiness and fragile calmness surrounding Azula's aura was strong. Strong enough to set off even the most cruel and stoic of politicians and ministers and convert them into sweating, stuttering messes.

The Firelord's perfectly manicured finger came to tip Katara's head backwards, the nail digging into the soft skin of her neck.

"I will know everything you do. Every move you make. Ever word you mutter. If you wish to help those low-lives, why don't you live like them as well?"

A dark, sadistic smile stretched across the previously harsh Lord's features, her sharp teeth glistened in the evening sun and making her appear all that more malevolent. Katara knew better than to speak again while Azula's hands were anywhere close to her neck. So she held her tonge.

Clearly taking Katara's silence as a win, Azula leaned closer to her ear, her crushing grip loosening around Katara's face. The Firelord leaned closer, her warm breath brushing the shell of Katara's ear. It felt less like a normal exhale and more like a warning from a dragon right before it spewed fire.

"I would think twice before refusing me again..."

Azula whispered in Katara's ear, her hand placed heavily on the others shoulder. There was no space left for arguing. With one last warning glare, Katara was standing alone on the balcony, left to listen to the lock on her door scratch and creak closed.

=====

Kinda hate how it turned out, but whatever

-Squid

Bro, I think you accidentally posted your fic here!

I love it, although it bothers me that Azula abuses her girlfriends, she wouldn't do it! She is so devoted that she would die before hurting them. 😭

[broomballkraken]

Title: Old Habits Die Hard

Fandom: Octopath Traveler 2

Pairing: Throné/Rai Mei

Word count: 1749

Warnings: None

Summary: Throné travels to Ku to attend Hikari’s coronation, but she is quickly reminded how much she hates large crowds. As she retreats from the festivities for some fresh air, she finds that she isn’t the only one trying to escape from something…

Written for Octopath Femslash Week 2024 Day 1, Prompt: First Meeting

Even after she had gained her freedom and left behind her life of thievery, Throné still hated large crowds. Too many people making noise and distracted by whatever festivities were happening made for prime public assassination conditions. Yet, she had traveled to Ku nonetheless, to attend the most important event in all of Solistia: the coronation of the new King of Ku, Hikari.

It had been an impressive ceremony, with people from both the Eastern and Western continents in attendance. The cheers of joy and mirth from the crowd celebrating the start of a new era of peace were deafening, but Throné still found her right hand hovering over her thigh every now and then as if her hidden dagger was still there, ready and willing to take the life of a potential threat. The habit irritated her, and was a grim reminder of the horrible life that she had thankfully managed to escape.

Luckily, the coronation came and went without issue, and Throné currently found herself in Castle Ku’s grand ballroom, hoping that she didn’t look as uncomfortable as she felt. The possibility of an assassin lurking about still loomed over her, and even though Throné knew that there was no danger, she still couldn’t shake her feelings of unease.

“Ah, Throné! I’m glad you could make it.”

Pushing herself off of the pillar that she had been leaning against, Throné managed a small smile when Hikari placed a hand on her arm before pulling her into a gentle hug.

“Yeah, me too. Congratulations, Your Majesty,” Throné teased, and she chuckled when his cheeks flushed pink.

“I wonder if I’ll ever get used to being called that...Did you see the others yet?”

Throné nodded. The rest of their former traveling companions had also made the trip, and she had spoken briefly to each of them to catch up: Osvald and Partitio had moved to Clockbank together, and Throné was happy to hear that Elena’s memories were slowly returning; Ochette was as peppy and crazy about meat as ever, and Castti had updated everyone on how the recruiting for the revived Eir’s Apothecaries was going; Temenos had become the new pontiff - in spite of his constant habit of openly criticizing the gods - and Agnea had just come off of her first dance tour of Solistia.

“What about you?” Throné smirked and raised an eyebrow. “Did you ask Agnea to save you a dance yet?”

Hikari brought a fist to his face and cleared his throat, and his beet-red cheeks told Throné all that she needed to know. “Ah, I - ahem - do believe that someone is calling for me. Enjoy yourself, Throné.”

“Yeah, I’ll try...” Throné trailed off as she watched Hikari head off in Benkei’s direction. Her face fell as the stuffy warmth of the ballroom and noise of the partygoers started to overwhelm her, so she made good use of her stealth skills and snuck outside without anyone noticing.

Letting out a sigh of relief, Throné closed her eyes, letting the cool night breeze wash over her face. She braced her hands against the railing while gazing out at the garden below her, and she was amazed at how many different plants could grow in this harsh desert environment.

The sounds of quick, heavy footfalls hit Throné’s ears, and her hand snapped to her thigh as she spun around. Her eyes narrowed when a woman rushed past her, and she pressed a finger against her lips when she caught Throné’s eye before concealing herself behind a large hedge.

“Hmp, now just where did she run off to?”

Throné’s brow furrowed when a haughty man stumbled into her tranquil refuge, and she crossed her arms over her chest, her lips pursing when the man gave her a skeevy once-over.

“Oh-ho! What ever is a beauty like you doing all by yourself out here, hm?” he said, wagging his eyebrows as he slowly swiped his tongue over his lips. Throné almost gagged as the taste of bile rose up in her throat; she completely understood why that woman wanted to get the hell away from this cretin.

Eyes narrowing into a glare, Throné bared her teeth at the man and her right hand twitched against her thigh. She didn’t have a dagger on her at the moment, but she wouldn’t need one to incapacitate this kind of lowlife, if it came to that.

“Get lost. Now.”

The command came out as a low growl, and the way that the man immediately deflated before turning tail, tripping over himself to get away from her made Throné roll her eyes. Shaking her head, she turned back to the hedge when she heard a long sigh of relief.

“Gods, I thought I’d never get rid of him...” the woman mumbled as she shook the leaves out of her braided, sandy blonde hair after she had left her hiding place. She gave Throné a small smile when her icy-blue eyes moved up to lock with hers.

“Thanks for the help. I would have knocked him out myself, but I didn’t want to cause any trouble for Hikari...”

Throné gave the woman a once-over; she certainly looked like she could have taught that creep a hard and painful lesson. Her impressive arm muscles were clearly on display due to the sleeveless dress that she wore, and she was a bit taller than Throné, which was something that she did not come across too often.

“I’d like to have seen that. Would’ve made things a bit more exciting around here, anyway.”

The woman laughed at that, and she rubbed at her chin as she studied Throné’s face. “You are...one of Hikari’s friends, right? Who aided him in his quest to defeat Mugen?”

“Yes. I’m Throné.”

“Rai Mei.” She held out her hand, and Throné took it, giving it a firm shake. “Thank you for supporting him. I…regret not being at his side as well.”

That name was very familiar, and it didn’t take long for Throné to remember exactly where she had heard it. It was in Stormhail, and she was one of the friends that Hikari was trying to track down to help take back Ku from his brother. Throné hadn’t been there for their meeting, as she had been preoccupied with consoling a distraught Temenos after the horrific loss that he had experienced.

“So, what brings you out here, Throné?” Rai Mei’s question pulled Throné from her thoughts, and she shrugged as she leaned back against the railing.

“I’m...not really a fan of huge gatherings like this,” she said with a wave of her hand, and Rai let out a long sigh and nodded.

“It’s the same for me. I don’t know how Hikari can stand all of the attention...”

Throné chuckled and crossed her arms over her chest. “He’s a natural born leader, that’s for sure.”

“He really is,” Rai said with a smile, and Throné was given pause at how beautiful it was, “I am truly blessed to call him my king, and my friend.” Throné felt her face start to heat up, and she quickly turned her attention back to the garden.

Rai followed her gaze, and her smile grew wider. “Oh, are you interested in desert plants, Throné? I can tell you about some of them, if you’d like.”

“Sure.”

As Throné listened to Rai’s explanation of the plants, she couldn’t help but feel uneasy. That feeling of always being watched, of being stalked by her own prey, and even her own family, crept up in her gut again and caused a shiver to run down her spine. She knew, she knew that she had nothing to worry about anymore. Her scars ran deep, however, and Throné was painfully aware that it would take a long, long time for them to truly heal and for her to finally know what true peace felt like...

“Why do you do that with your hand?”

Throné winced as she was snapped from her thoughts, and she glanced down at said hand, which was hovering over her thigh again. A melancholy smile crossed her face and she sighed, clenching and unclenching her fist a few times.

“Old habits die hard...but I’m happy to say that I’m starting to break this one.” Rai only hummed and gave a slight nod in response. Throné let out a relieved sigh, grateful that she didn’t pry; she didn’t want her... colorful past ruining the celebratory mood.

Silence fell over the two women, but Throné noticed that Rai was chewing on her bottom lip, and she could only speculate as to what had her thinking so hard. The awkward tension in the air became almost palpable, until Rai finally turned to Throné and looked her in the eye.

“Here, this might help with that bad habit. Can’t do that if your hand is already occupied, right?”

Throné’s eyes went wide when Rai reached out to take her hand, and the nighttime breeze felt that much cooler as it brushed over her flushed cheeks. Rai offered her a small smile, and as Throné returned it, she slowly entwined their fingers together.

“Thanks.”

Throné didn’t know what to make of the sudden, comforting warmth that blossomed within her chest, but she did know that it had everything to do with Rai Mei. It seemed odd, as they had just met, but something about the way that Rai carried herself made Throné feel calm - and even safe - for the first time in a long, long time.

“Has anyone…shown you around town yet, Throné?” Rai asked, casting a sidelong glance at her as she rubbed the back of her neck with her free hand. “If you’re not busy tomorrow, maybe we could...” Rai waved her hand as she trailed off and averted her gaze, and Throné was endeared by the cute blush that had covered her cheeks.

“I’d like that, Rai Mei.”

“O-Oh, great!” Rai said with a nod, before her head snapped up and she pointed at the sky. “Ah, it looks like people are releasing paper lanterns tonight.” Throné’s gaze followed where she was pointing, her eyes going wide and a smile slowly spreading across her face at the beautiful sight.

Throné hated gatherings with large crowds of people, but as her hand remained entwined with Rai Mei’s while they watched the beautiful display of lanterns slowly rise into the star-filled sky, she found herself grateful that she had been invited to this particular one...

[gryfflepuffinthetardis]

Prologue Part Two: May 1-3, 2005— Zoe’s First Case: The Boston Poisoner

Summary: It’s Zoe’s first case with the BAU, going to Boston which she hates more than any other place, stopping a serial poisoner and Zoe shows hints of having a constant darkness looming around her.

Warning: Mentions of Suicide; Blood; Pain; Slight insight in the thinking of a suicidal person; Possibly incorrect pharmacology; Hints at past trauma; Hint at a stalker; Description of COPD; Slight unethical behavior; Possible slight inconsistency at some point I think

"There is nothing more dangerous than a smart woman who is focused and unimpressed."

"Boston's got a serial poisoner." JJ said, Zoe refrained from making a face, she hated Boston more than any other city in the world. She had a guttural instinct to get the hell away from Boston—despite her going to Harvard—thinking about Boston made her want to vomit and she knew why but… it was complicated. Alexander could’ve lost his job if she told and she had no wish to revisit that particular area of Boston sooner than necessary and one day it would be necessary. "There have been twelve bodies in the past six months."

"Twelve bodies? Why is this the first we're hearing about it?" Spencer asked.

"Because up until the last victim they were deemed suicides. The last victim was found with defense wounds before he punched the floorboards until his hands were bloodied and he died." JJ explained.

"Why'd he bloody his hands?" Morgan asked.

"They don't know but he had the same poison that the last eleven victims had so they've deemed all of them as possible murders."

"When do we leave?" Alexander said.

"Wheels up in thirty. Alexander, you help Valdez with her go bag." Hotch said and they all left the father and daughter.

"I know what goes in a go bag, Dad." Zoe said. "This was like a second home to me."

“Zoe. Make sure—” He started to list to his daughter who listened anyways. “Several packs of clothes, your medicine, your guns, your self-defense tools, your stimulation toys, your inhaler…”

“Dad, I don’t need an inhaler.” She sighed, irritatedly.

“You had cardiac asthma. It relieves the acute symptoms!” He said, loudly, speaking over her irritation.

“Dad, I’m a medical doctor. I have an MD attached to my name. I know what an inhaler does to cardiac asthma and it’s not very effective against fluid buildup in the left side of my Frankenstein heart.” Alexander went to protest against this description of her heart but she continued to speak. “And I only had it when I was a baby and toddler. I haven’t needed it in thirteen years. My heart got stronger as I grew.”

“And remember to also bring your notes, bring some of your mum’s books…”

“Dad, please. I’ve been on the jet more times than I stepped into my high school homeroom, and it’s better than when it was road trips.”

She faltered, images flashing back of being in the car with… with Zarah.

“Dad, I’m fine. Go. And don’t tell anyone!” She hissed.

She kept her body language ambiguous, she could feel other members looking at her. Ten minutes in and she had already had an argument with the only co-founder currently not on medical leave, granted Alexander tended to argue with people. It was no secret that he wasn’t as mentally stable as most of the other FBI agents. Alexander had been considered for the Unit Chief when Gideon went on medical leave by the section chief, a haughty, arrogant, and rather unpleasant lady named Erin Strauss who Zoe despised deeply since the Amerithrax case in 2001 when Strauss blamed Alexander Noble, Alex Blake, and some other agent when the wrong suspect was arrested in order to save her career. There had been a huge trial and Zoe, barley two months from escaping an eight-month torture she largely couldn’t remember had to fly from Harvard back to Quantico to vouch for her father some weeks after the ordeal.

The only reason this hadn’t hurt Alexander’s career was the fact that since February of that year, both his children had gone missing and only one showed back up, clearly traumatized from the experience and not the same. Zoe had always been stoic and violent but after she came back, she rarely showed signs of her other personality traits. She had gotten better but now it was happening again with her recent trauma again.

Alex Blake hadn’t been so lucky, she and the other agent had been demoted, their reputation damaged while Strauss’ remained “clean”.

Alexander wasn’t deemed mentally suited for the job. Strauss claimed it had nothing to do with his bipolar disorder even though no one had said anything about that until she brought it up but it was also due to the fact that the BAU was aware that Zoe intended to join and she had helped before as a child. So if that came true, that would be a conflict of interest as anything remotely concerning his daughters, always was.

——————————————————————————————————

Zoe stepped onto the jet, fifteen minutes later, she hadn’t stepped onto this plane since she was found four years ago. Her memory flickered back to the car rides. While the car rides had been longer than the very fast jet, they had been wonderful family moments. Zarah would be reading the books Zelena had left behind while Zoe sometimes would stick her head out of the top of the car so she could feel like she was flying.

“Trouble flying?” Asked a voice and she turned to see Spencer Reid, smiling politely at her.

“No. Just remembering something.” She shook her head and got on board.

——————————————————————————————————

"What I don't understand is why he kept punching the floorboards if the poison was only mildly painful." Morgan said as Zoe stared at the picture of the dead boy with bloodied hands, he was around fifteen or sixteen with red hair.

"Maybe so it would look less like a suicide." Zoe suggested, softly.

"What was that?" Hotch asked her.

All the attention was on Zoe now.

Zoe sat up and explained her theory. "Maybe he was trying to make it look less like a suicide as possible. Maybe he realized that the other eleven weren't suicides either and knew unless he proved otherwise his death would be considered a suicide as well so he went all out. People never listen to words until dramatic actions are taken, then they ask why no one said anything. That's the mindset of most suicidal people. So he had to take dramatic action to prove this wasn't a suicide. He fought his killer, giving himself defensive wounds and then bloodied his fists to prove that he wasn't trying to commit suicide."

"How would you prove it?"

"The poison is relatively painless. At most, it feels like an overdose."

"How do you know that?" Morgan asked.

"I have a degree in toxicology." Zoe said, like it was no big deal, "You would take this if you wanted a relatively painless death, so why put yourself through the pain of punching the floor until your fists split open and the last bit of life drained from you? It's true. People don't listen unless dramatic actions are taken; only then do people start asking questions. Some people don’t listen when suicidal people try to explain things to them but they still ask why they didn’t say something when they were alive. Only in this case, it's to explain why it's not suicide." 

——————————————————————————————————

The Boston police department was familiar with Hotch and Alexander from a case in the late nineties; Zoe, to avoid being recognized had held back.

“You okay?” Spencer asked, noticing Zoe staring at a Wanted poster for the aforementioned serial killer.

“Yeah.” She lied, “Just not a fan of Boston.”

Understatement of the year.

“They never caught him, you know. You know, according to his biography, the reason he stopped killing was because he was either dead or in prison for an unrelated charge” Spencer rambled.

“That’s bullshit.” Zoe said, sharply shook her head.

“What?”

“He’s not dead and he’s not in prison.” She shook her head, still staring at the poster with what Spencer deduced was almost personal distaste, “He’s too methodical for that.” 

���Then why’d he stop killing if he’s not dead?” Spencer asked.

“Maybe someone made a deal with the devil.” She said, darkly.

Spencer was about to ask what she meant when Hotch called them over.

“Valdez. Reid…”

“Please, Zoe.” She said.

“Zoe, you have a degree in toxicology and pharmacology, you check the coroner's reports, Reid, you go with her.” Hotch said and Alexander looked like he wanted to protest but withheld himself from doing so.

——————————————————————————————————

"Are you okay?" Spencer asked Zoe during the cab ride. She looked at him from her six-minute stare out the window. "I know I don't really know you and something tells me you're..." He changed his wording, "Something tells me that that's not going to change soon and not because Garcia tried to snoop in your file and couldn't find anything."

"I'm fine, Reid." She said, "Just... the last time I was in Boston... wasn't exactly a positive experience."

"When was this?" Spencer asked.

"Oh, about eight weeks during January and February in 1998."

"This didn't by any chance happen to be during..."

"Oh, about." Zoe cut him off.

"Yeah, how old were you then?"

"Twelve." She said.

She considered telling him what else happened but due to circumstances she held back. She would surely be questioned about what she saw and why she never said anything. It was too risky, it’d get her dad in trouble and could get people killed.

——————————————————————————————————

The coroner showed them the body of the last victim.

"Richie Rousseau, age seventeen. Shame. Kid had four-point-zero GPA, full-ride scholarship to Harvard. He had an IQ of 165."

"Impressive." Zoe said, "did you determine what drugs were in his system?"

"Toxicology report should be back within the hour."

Zoe examined the broken fists of the dead teenager with a gentle and professional touch. "Wow. He shattered his bones. His bone must've fractured at least a full minute before he died. He kept on punching. And I thought I was persistent.”

"Could he have been hallucinating?" Spencer asked.

"They emailed me the toxicology report but the network is down. We're waiting for the computer specialist."

"Well, I have a degree in computer science, I could take a look.”

"No need. He's here." The coroner said, waving the specialist in which neither young genius paid much attention to.

"You have a toxicology degree, a pharmacology degree, and a computer science degree along with the degrees needed to become a profiler?" Spencer asked.

"Yeah, I have twenty-four degrees." She said as if this were perfectly normal.

The former twelve-year-old high school graduate's jaw dropped. "No way. You're only nineteen years, six months, and one day old."

Zoe quirked an eyebrow at him.

"I, uh, I... I time things. I didn't mean for that to come off as creepy but Garcia did send me a few things about you like that your birthday is on Halloween. My birthday's that month too. The twelfth. How do you have so many, by the way?" Spencer rambled, awkwardly.

Zoe just smiled at him, finding his quirk of rambling rather endearing, she was always happy to meet another social outcast or at least someone who felt like one.

"I, uh, I started college classes when I was five. A… the daughter of a family friend helped." She shrugged. "I'm a bit of a genius, in everything except math really."

"You don't like math?" Spencer said as if he couldn't understand that. Statistics were his life.

"I despise math, but I was apparently qualified to be a genius in most types of intelligence." She said, rolling her eyes, she would rather be tortured than do math.

"Did you ever take an IQ test?" Spencer asked, he wouldn't be surprised if she was as smart as he was at the very least.

Zoe's eyes went past Spencer and to the specialist—a guy in his late thirties who looked familiar.

She walked past Spencer and to him, "Hi. I'm sorry but you look really familiar."

His eyes went to her and she resisted the urge to shiver. She didn’t know why but…

"Oh, I think we met once or twice, little one."

This time she did shiver as a voice that haunted her dreams came back to her. "Pequeño".

"I don't..." She started when she spotted a horrible scar peeking out from under his collar and it clicked. She refrained from having her body language change.

"You know, I think we have..." She looked at the nametag, "Kevin Baskin." 

"There you go, the network should be up and running." The man told the coroner and went to leave, giving Zoe a knowing smile that unnerved her. It wasn't one she'd expect from him, it had more confidence and arrogance to it, like how some people (usually feminists) metaphorize the big bad wolf's relationship towards Little Red Riding Hood. "Have a nice day, Zoe." He said in an undertone.

"How'd he know your..." Spencer started.

"Are these the tox reports? Do you have any for any of the other victims?" Zoe cut him off.

"The drugs were all the same." The coroner said, handing over the report.

Zoe raised her eyebrows at the paper, "Alright. Wow. That's a lot. Uh..."

Zoe fumbled with the pockets of her black leather duster coat and pulled out a small notebook and reached into her satchel, searching for something before pulling out a steel pen with a sort of handle before she started writing down all the drug names, ignoring the odd look from the coroner and the scrutinizing look from Spencer.

"Are you neurodivergent?" Spencer asked bluntly once they left.

Zoe looked at him with a deadpan look and asked, "Are you?"

——————————————————————————————————

"Did you determine what kind of drugs poisoned the victims?" Hotch asked once they returned and Zoe immediately flopped into an office chair with wheels.

"Yeah, but to my knowledge no drug has all these effects. There's Benzodiazepine which is in anxiety pills like Xanax which explains why only the last victim died in stress, I looked into Richie, the last victim's medical history, he had severe anxiety and insomnia and he may have built up a tolerance for it which is why he freaked out. There's both fluticasone and beclomethasone, both of which belong in the Corticosteroids class of drugs or more simply Inhaled Steroids, this mostly causes hoarseness of the voice and possibly even voice loss, making it a bit difficult to scream for help. Ketamine..." Everyone had noticed how she had started with a chain fidget thing.

Morgan looked at Spencer, still skeptical of Zoe who pursed his lips.

"Why does that sound familiar?" Morgan asked.

"Because it's a date rape drug. Most likely in this, it's used to weaken and/or disorientate the victims so they can't run off for help.” Zoe responded “And... cyanide."

"But then Richie wouldn't have time to bloody his fists like that."

"It's... it's a different kind of cyanide I've ever seen. It's slow-acting but painful. No single drug has these effects and there's only evidence of one pill being taken.”

"So the UnSub has been making their own drug out of other drugs." Hotch summed up.

"Yeah, basically..." Zoe said and she took the notebook from Spencer who was accidently reading the profile she wrote.

——————————————————————————————————

They had mapped out the locations the victims were last seen before being found dead and where they had gone missing but there was no apparent connection other than "random spots in Boston."

Zoe had been paired up with Hotch, Spencer, and Morgan. With Hotch, it was a time that could only be described as "deadpan". He often had to remind her to be professional due to her impulsiveness and natural instinct to rebel.

She conflicted the most with Morgan, who had trust issues with even those he’s worked with for years. Despite working with Alexander for six years, he only knew that Alexander had two grown up daughters and there was a situation with them four years ago, where they went missing but only one came back just a month or two before Morgan joined the BAU.

Morgan though he had to admit he liked her. She was observant, quirky, sarcastic, funny, and highly intelligent. She had a tendency for rebellion which he had to warn her against. They had similarities in their background too, what with being born the child of law enforcement, Zoe claiming that most of her family were law enforcement but she didn't specify which parent was in law enforcement and what kind of law enforcement or that most of the other half of her family were criminals. She too had a parent die when she was young, all she said was her mother had been murdered when shew as a baby. Little did they know, they had even more similarities in their childhood trauma-wise than they thought, both determined to never let the team ever know and pretend it never happened.

She got along the most with Spencer which was an unusual occurrence to both of them, due to their neurodivergence, socially awkward antisocial introvertedness, rather geeky interests like science or science fiction or even philosophy, and their high genius-level. Their personalities clashed at the same time, Spencer was shy and never spoke up when he was interrupted (which was a common occurrence), he was also quite modest with his intelligence, his showing off being more habitual and accidental than on purpose, he was obedient and followed the rules. He was often serious, seldomly making jokes, and quite kind to everyone, even those who were being rude to them.

Zoe, while being shy and having insecurities of her own, she masked it with sarcasm, smiles, jokes, and false apathy, she snarked when people interrupted her which was often since she was short, young, and a girl. Zoe often showed off her superior intelligence (occasionally after playing dumb) to embarrass those she felt deserved it but she was clearly also modest with it as she didn’t boast or show off about it for no reason, she seemed to be allergic to obedience and rebellion seemed to run through her veins but Spencer could see she was kind to those who were kind, she was empathetic, especially to those she could see were struggling or in pain or hiding something.

It became clear to Morgan and Spencer that had ADHD—hence her constant need to be doing something and difficulty at paying attention and focusing—and having Cyclothymia Bipolar which was essentially a mild version of Bipolar disorder.

Alexander walked into the evidence room where Zoe was putting copies of the profile into a box to transport them.

"What are you doing?" Alexander asked, handing his daughter a highly caffeinated hot chocolate with extra chocolate and her pill bottles for her ADHD, Cyclothymia, PTSD, anxiety, and depression.

"I thought we could visit Tom Shaunessy, you remember him?"

"Do I remember him? You're joking right?" Alexander asked his daughter, sarcastically.

"He retired in 2000 but you know, we're not Hotch." Zoe said.

——————————————————————————————————

The father/daughter duo knocked on Shaunessy's house door and a woman opened it.

"Hello, may I help you?"

"Hi, I'm an old colleague of Tom Shaunessy and I was wondering if we could use his help on this new case."

"What are your names?"

"I'm Special Agent Alexander Noble and this is Special Agent Doctor Zoe Valdez." 

"Oh, yes. He's mentioned you two a few times."

"How is Shaunessy?" Alexander asked as they were let inside.

Zoe heard a soft sound behind her and trained to always be on high alert, Zoe glanced behind her at a bush that was moving slightly. It could've just been the wind but she could swear she saw a dark mass moving behind the bush before it stilled.

Uneasily, she tore her eyes away and she went inside.

"His health started to worsened at the end of 1998, he had to retire in 2000, since then it's been steadily getting worse." Shaunessy's nurse explained.

"What is it?" Zoe asked.

"COPD."

COPD was short for Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease; it was a chronic inflammatory lung disease that obstructed airflow from the lungs.

People diagnosed with this may be able to live up to ten or even twenty years after the diagnosis, but that was only with mild COPD and if well managed. Zoe knew that Shaunessy had had a fit at work in 2000 which resulted in him collapsing and being rushed the the hospital and being diagnosed. She didn't think he would make it twenty years after diagnosis as much as she hoped so.

"Oh." Zoe said.

Alexander and Zoe entered his room to see Tom Shaunessy, an elderly man in around his late sixties to early seventies. The room was decorated with awards that had been presented to him—a Service award in 1996, newspaper clippings of his cases, and an Outstanding Service Award.

"Detective Tom." Zoe greeted.

"As I live and breathe, little Zoe." He smiled, his hand shook as he gripped his can. Zoe could feel his overly sympathetic look that made Zoe feel like a victim—she hated that feeling, she trained her whole life to not feel that feeling.

"I told you..." She deflected, "smoking kills. COPD's most common cause is cigarette smoking and the risk increases with the amount and duration of smoking. Passive smoking or breathing in secondhand smoke can also contribute."

"Still as smart as you were." Shaunessy said. “What are you two doing here?”

“There’s a poisoner in Boston.” Zoe said

They showed him the files and everything they figured out as they consulted the retired detective but eventually they had to leave, Zoe felt like something was just on the tip of her tongue but she couldn't figure out what it was, she was distracted in the car from her father's theorizing but an absent-minded recognition that she didn't fully process was that the taxi driver had been the same every time she took a cab.

——————————————————————————————————

Zoe looked over the files while she messed with an ADHD fidget hand massage ball.

She dropped her head on the table in frustrated laughter, "I had graduated from the best colleges in the world with Master degrees before I even started having my monthlies and wearing bras and I can't figure this out..." She picked her head up and slumped back in her seat. "I blame Boston. It's distracting me too much." Then she grabbed a chocolate from the L.A. Burdick Chocolates that Alexander had bought and Spencer and Zoe had eaten the majority off.

"What's wrong with Boston?" Spencer asked.

"Boston's shit!" Alexander said, walking past them.

Then her comment before that came back to her. Colleges.

She rifled through the files of the victims, the youngest victims from fourteen to eighteen, all had high GPAs, most had full-ride scholarships. The young adults from ages eighteen to early twenties went to the best schools. Zoe knew, she had graduated from the majority of them. The older ones had graduated from them too. 

"It's... it's about intelligence." She realized.

"What?" Spencer asked.

"Look. Richie had a full ride to Harvard," She rattled off the rest of the colleges of the other victim.

"The UnSub wants to be clever. Prove that he's cleverer than them."

"I'll run this by Hotch." Spencer said and went off to give a longer explanation of this to their Unit Chief.

She watered the chocolate down with her highly-caffeinated Mexican hot chocolate, letting the hot cinnamony beverage burn her mouth as she thought, the world melting around her as she got lost in her thoughts.

The killer likely interacted with all of the victims but it's likely the UnSub was someone no one would've noticed. They had found footage of them all getting into taxis but none where they were seen afterwards... the taxi driver... of course, no one pays attention to taxi drivers. Her phone beeped and she checked it to see a message.

Unknown Number: He said you'd be the one to figure it out. That you were smarter than everyone else. I'd like to meet face-to-face and see it for myself.

Her eyes darted about the station, no one was paying attention to her, so she stood up and walked to the window, moving the blinds with her fingers to see a taxi in front of the station.

She texted back: Who's he?

She got a call instead...

Her eyes flicked up to the rest of the police station and she answered. "Hello, taxi driver from hell?" She quipped.

"He said you were a snarker too."

"Who is he?" She repeated her text.

"You know who."

She clenched her jaw. "Yeah, so he's still alive? Not in prison or dead?" Her tone had a sardonic mocking bite to it.

"You know he's too good not to."

"I wouldn’t use the word ‘good’.” She growled. “What's to stop me from telling everyone here that you're the killer?"

"I can drive off, you can't see me, you don't know my taxi number and I'll kill more people. Maybe I'll sneak some poison into the coffee your team loves so much."

She turned looking at her team, fear mingling in her eyes.

"Don't you dare touch them." She growled.

"Then come out, little one."

Her nose scrunched up at the nickname and her eye twitched. He hung up and she looked at the team and she made a call to Quantico as she collected her things, casually, stoic even to a profiler.

"The All-Knowing Penelope here." Garcia quipped.

"Garcia, I need a favor but don't tell the others yet." She said as she picked up Spencer’s rather nineties-like phone. Her phone had protection, she was a talented hacker with secrets that she didn’t want people to know but Spencer wasn’t. His phone was easier to track.

"Why?"

"Because I'm about to be the killer's next victim. They can follow me, this is the only way he'll confess, if he’s bragging about his plan to his next victim to show how much smarter he is than me. I need you to tell them in a few minutes and to track Spencer’s phone which I just stole."

"What are you going to do? He'll kill you." Penelope panicked.

"No, he wants to be smart. He thinks I won't be able to figure out his trick. He thinks I want to prove I'm smarter. I just need to stall while he confesses." Zoe said, "If I fail... I'm going to send you a picture of either a license or an ID."

"Wait, Zoe..."

"Goodbye Garcia." Zoe said and hung up.

She started to leave, "Zoe, where are you going?" Alexander asked, concern for his daughter.

"Going out for a bit of air. I'll be fine." She lied, her tone steady as can be. That what happens when you’re the daughter to two of the young co-founder/profilers of the BAU and are raised by one of them and the others—Alexander Noble, Jason Gideon, David Rossi, and to a less extent, Max Ryan. (And David Rossi, practically being compulsively unable to take a break from the life, read criminal profiles to her instead of bedtime stories, and then she begged the others to do it—only Gideon refused). She was able to profile since she was a toddler and knew how to keep from people knowing she was lying.

She arrived outside and got into the taxi, seeing the man.

"Hello, Zoe."

"Serial Killer." She addressed in an almost pleasant greeting tone as she brought up the camera on her phone and took a silent, subtle picture of the taxi ID in the back, his name was Ian Keller. “So... it's obviously not a money thing since this cab smells like a urine factory." She sent the picture and the snarky comment to Garcia as he started to drive off.

"I'm not a serial killer. I never killed anyone. Those people killed themselves. I simply spoke to them."

"What's stopping me from texting the agents upstairs now or arresting you myself?" Zoe asked as she pressed the recording feature on her phone.

“I won’t run. I’ll sit quietly and they can arrest me.” But she had no evidence. Only circumstantial evidence. And while they dug into his past, someone else could get hurt. "I'll never tell you what I said to make those people kill themselves. You'll just be as stupid as everyone else. What do you really care about?" He asked.

He thought she was arrogant in her intelligence like him, but she wasn't. She knew knowledge was infinite and it was impossible to know everything. If she knew everything, where was the fun in that? She didn’t need to validate her knowledge. She didn’t feel threatened by Doctor Spencer Reid’s knowledge. Like him, she didn’t believe IQ tests could accurately quantify someone’s intelligence. She only showed her intelligence when needed and to tear someone down a peg. She didn’t like bullies, even if they don’t meant it; doesn’t mean their words don’t hurt others.

"But you're going to kill me like the others." She said.

"I didn't kill them. They killed themselves..."

"But you spoke to them. Blah. Blah. Blah. This isn't a TV show. Answer a question like a normal person!" She said with irritated sarcasm, "How'd you know the moment I figured it out."

"He likes you. You know that." Keller said, she speculated that was the only reason he wasn’t lashing out at her sass, she could tell he wanted to, but he was scared. "He's been watching you."

Zoe had moved the phone so the rustling covered his words and she pressed the pause button. "I noticed. I thought he wanted to stalk the other one." Zoe spat out bitterly in a dark undertone.

"Where's he gonna go? He was watching you and I've been following you." She pressed continue.

"Why me? I'm not the only genius on this case." She asked, ignoring the “he” as she had and would for years now.

"But you're the only one who can get into the mindset of a serial killer. He said you'd make a great one. That you’re his other half.”

Zoe’s eyes darted up to him, darkening. It had started to drizzle during their conversation and Zoe took the opportunity to wipe her phone and cover up his words.

“Are we going to stand here all day and talk like high school students or are you going to show me the cabbie’s impressive intelligence?”

The cab driver returned to the driver’s side of the car and opened the passenger’s door and got into the driver’s seat.

As Zoe circled the car, she took a picture of the license plate and sent it to Garcia before she got into the passenger’s seat.

She took a picture of the taxi driver’s ID too and sent it to Garcia.

The car ride was quiet, just full of him, mentioning "him" and Zoe had given up on pausing the recording, if she kept covering it up, it'd be suspicious.

Zoe, however noticed a photo on the dashboard. A worn photograph of two kids and presumably their mother but she was cut out. The kids were about mid-teens, mid to late middle school to early high school, but they'd be around Zoe's age by now based on Zoe's math.

His clothes were out of date and... ah, there is was. Those red dots on his skin. And he was sweating. Her eyes went to the spot in front of the gear shift where people often put things. There were tissues crumpled up and spots of red on them. Zoe leaned to the side and saw on the floor of the front of the car were even bloodier tissues. He was hiding the most obvious signs.

"Not much of a talker, huh?" He asked.

"I tlak when needed. I prefer to observe." She said.

Penelope called Morgan, "Talk to me, baby."

"She... Zoe made me promise not to tell you but she found out the murderer is an Ian Keller, a taxi driver and she got into his cab as it was the only way she could get an actual confession from him." Penelope explained emotionally.

"Zoe went with the killer!?" Morgan asked out loud.

Spencer looked back to see Zoe gone as Alexander grabbed the phone from Morgan and asked loudly, his only heart pounding so hard and quickly, it could be mistaken for two hearts, "What!? Where is she?"

"In the cab, she's recording the conversation, she took Spencer’s phone and I'm tracking his phone as we speak."

"What are we doing sitting in this shitty station! Crappy fluorescent lights and cockroaches and loud cell phones and the smell of urine!" Alexander was raging, his Scottish accent thickening.

This was not exactly out of character for him.

——————————————————————————————————

"Where the hell are we?" Zoe asked as if she were annoyed that they were lost and buddy-buddy, when Keller stopped the cab. It was full-on raining by now.

"A Boston education college." Was all Keller said before getting out, circling the cab and opening the door.

"As opposed to what? Boston baking college? Refrigerator college? Clown college?" Zoe deadpanned before lighting up in a sarcastic way just like her dad does, "I got it! Taxi college. Because you're clearly not great at your job, it felt like it took us an hour to get here while you droned on and on and on and on." She dramatically lulled her head side to side with every “on”

"We're going in." He said, shortly, clearly irritated with her.

"What? You late for class?" She snarked.

He pulled out a gun and pointed it at her, but she just looked at him, annoyed, rather than showing any sign of fear, not even a flicker. The only reaction she had to the gun pointed at her head was a half-eye roll and a soft exasperated sigh.

"As if you're the first to hold a gun to my head." She scoffed and got out, muttering, “It’s honestly starting to get boring…”

She followed him inside the empty college, glancing at a nearby security camera.

——————————————————————————————————

"I'm running facial recognition as we speak." Garcia said after Alexander had nearly shouted at her to hurry her eccentric butt up.

"Why would she just go with him?" Spencer wondered in the backseat between his frequent squeaks and squawks of fear at Alexander's dangerous driving.

"He probably offered her an ultimatum." Hotch said as he clung to the top of the seat belt.

"LOOK OUT FOR THAT PEDESTRIAN!" Spencer screamed.

"Oh, she's on the street. She knows the risk she's taking." Alexander said, dismissively.

——————————————————————————————————

"What do you think?" Keller asked as they entered a math classroom. Zoe's least favorite place to be.

"Umm...” Her tone was already dripping with sarcasm as she looked around as if she hadn’t already realized what kind of classroom it was and hated it as she did with most things associating with math—the most boring of all the shapes. “Well, I'm being held hostage by the most boring serial killer ever, who takes like an hour to finish a sentence and I'm in the math classroom, being forced to socialize with someone I don't know." Zoe deadpanned, "I can't think of a worse place to be." 

After what was actually a fifteen-minute car ride (Zoe’s ADHD and made it feel like an hour) of her making constant snarky, sassy, sarcastic, and sardonic comments, he should’ve expected a reply like this.

"Well, you're the one who's going to die here." He said, making another attempt to take control of the situation but Zoe rarely let people do that.

Zoe tilted her head at him, giving him a calculating look and said, "No, I'm not." She didn't sound cocky or arrogant, just calm as if stating a fact.

"That's what all the victims say."

Victims. She hated being thought of as a victim.

"That's what all the serial killers say." Zoe retorted as if sassing a bully. "So, is this where you bore me to suicide?"

Keller sat down. pressing his lips together and Zoe sat down across from him, sitting casually, if slightly disrespectfully.

"Bit risky, taking me away in front of the Boston police with the FBI?" Zoe asked.

"Nah. This is a risk." He placed a bottle with a pill capsule on the table.

Zoe looked at it for a mere few moments but didn't react in any way, her amber eyes darted back to Keller with no sign of fear in her eyes. Her expression was utterly impossible for him to decipher.

"Ooh, I like this bit. ‘Cause you don’t get it yet, do you?" Perhaps he was trying to convince himself of that.

I have an inkling and by that I'm pretty sure I know your whole—or at least most of—your plan.

"But you’re about to. I just have to do this." He put down another bottle, completely identical to the other.

Zoe still didn't react. In fact, she barely even looked at the second bottle.

"Weren't expecting that, were you?"

"No. That's exactly what I was expecting." Zoe deadpanned.

Keller's eye twitched as he realized Zoe was telling the truth.

"You're a proper genius, aren't you?" Zoe said, her voice dripping with patronizing sarcasm.

"Don't look it, do I?" Keller asked, "Driving a taxi. But you'll understand in a minute.

"I think I understand plenty but clearly it's desperately important for you to think you're the smartest person in the room." She said in deadpan honesty.

"Chances are it'll be the last thing you'll ever know."

"Explain your little game, taxi man, and we'll see what the chances are." She challenged.

"There’s a good bottle and a bad bottle. You take the pill from the good bottle, you live; take the pill from the bad bottle, you die." Keller explained to a still rather unimpressed Zoe.

"Both bottles are of course identical.”

"In every way." Keller confirmed.

Oh? What interesting phrasing.

"And you know which is which." 

"Course I know."

"But you think I don’t."

"Wouldn’t be a game if you knew. You’re the one who chooses."

"Why?"

"Because I'll kill you."

She leaned forwards, placing her folded elbows on the table, still showing no fear as she spoke with a dark undertone, “You think I fear death? I've accepted the inevitability of death a long time ago. I'm accustomed to accepting my death." 

"I haven’t told you the best bit yet. Whatever bottle you choose, I take the pill from the other one—and then, together, we take our medicine." He said and then placed a water bottle on the table, she look just a moment longer to examine this seemingly ordinary bottle of water—ordinary to any ordinary person but she was not an ordinary person. This water bottle had been open before and sipped from.

"Who said I wanted you to die? Trust me, you deserve it more than any of your victims, you're a by-proxy serial killer. I reckon your victims suffered the effects for about an hour before a slow and painful death."

"It's this or the gun. I won’t cheat. It’s your choice. I’ll take whatever pill you don’t." Liar! "You didn't expect that, did you, Miss Zoe?"

"Yeah, I did actually," She said and she leaned forth, "And it's Doctor Zoe Valdez, to you mister taxi cab man." She leaned back in her chair. "Is this it? This is your master plan? I'm so overwhelmed... at how underwhelming this plan is."

"You think it's just chance?" Keller asked.

"No, I think you cheat. Now I try to use as little math as possible because it hurts my head and I find it numbingly boring. Thirteen bodies from a fifty-fifty chance. It's not probable. There's something you're not telling me here. Something you didn’t tell any of the victims.” She reasoned.

"You tell me. You're the genius. He told me that your IQ is estimated to be in or near the two-hundreds."

Zoe licked her lips, a glint of hatred and resentment flickering in her amber eyes, simultaneously.

"Let's put that to the test, I'm going to profile you." She challenged.

"That's not the game."

"My turn, my game!" She snapped in a tone of slight childish pettiness but still dark sternness.

"Profiling's just intellectual guesswork." He stated.

"Oh, you think so?" Zoe asked with a mocking questioning lilt in her voice as she smirked, loving to prove people wrong and she was born into this lifestyle. "You have kids, I saw a picture of them with the mother cut out, if she were dead, she'd be there, so she got custody, the photo was old, I'd say about five years. And it hurts, not being able to see your kids. Neither wants contact with you. Why should they? You always indicated you were smarter than them; you pushed them and made them feel less than when they didn’t do as well as you thought they should. You're wearing that stupid cabbie hat so clearly you're not in the habit of being around other people. Your other clothes are just as stupid. Your skin is pale and you have petechiae—those tiny red dots on your skin—that only appears when capillaries bleed, leaking blood into the skin. You're sweating despite it being raining, night, and spring, you have some bruising and it's fair to assume that you get out much and you drive a taxi, therefore most likely your skin is sensitive to bruising, I saw bloody tissues in the taxi, they're always there, so nosebleeds and possibly you’re coughing up blood. Your cervical lymph nodes are swollen, and your liver is visibly enlarged. Leukemia. Cancer of the blood. How long do you got? You're in your older years of middle-aged, I'd say sixty and given by the state of you, I'd say you have less than a year?” She changed her mind, shaking her head only half a shake, “No, less than half a year."

"Four and a half months."

"Oh, dearie. And you get off on the fact that you've outlived the people you killed. Not only that but most of them have all either been quite youthful men and women or middle-aged women, so given that your kids don't want to see you, not even now that you're dying. You resent them but you don't want to hurt them. They're intelligent, really intelligent like you, despite the constant criticism you called parenting, so you kill young geniuses. But why, a cabbie? You could be a college administrator? A scientist. But why a cabbie?" She tilted her head, sorting through the possibilities in her head, crossing out the ones that didn’t hit at rapid speed, “You couldn't afford college growing up, did you? Then your wife made you drop out when she was pregnant, didn't she? You've always resented her for that and now you're going to die without having done anything with your life so that resentment has turned into an all-raging hatred—loathing, so you're killing surrogates of your children and your wife.” A small pause. “Do you still think profiling is just intellectual guesswork?"

Instead of admitting he was wrong, he nodded at the bottles, "Time to choose."

She didn't even look at them, just continued to look at him.

"What if I don’t choose either? I could just walk out of here." Zoe said, "They might have realized I'm missing by now."

Her father definitely knew and was most likely freaking out. He was such a drama queen.

Keller just sighed and raised the gun to her head, but she still didn't seem impressed or even fearful.

"You can take your fifty-fifty chance, or I can shoot you in the head. Funnily enough, no one’s ever gone for that option." 

Zoe’s lips curled into a smirk. "I’ll have the gun, please." 

——————————————————————————————————

"What is she doing!?" Hotch demanded Alexander outside as they listened to the recording live due to Garcia's hacking skills into Spencer’s phone.

"She has a plan... I hope." He said, hopefully.

——————————————————————————————————

"Are you sure?"

"Definitely. The gun." She nodded.

"You don’t wanna phone a friend?"

"What friends? I’m a violent antisocial tomboy who could’ve graduated high school by age nine if I wanted." She asked, "The gun.” She put on a mocking tone with a mocking pout, “You do know how to use it, don't you, old timer? They did have guns when you were growing up right?”

He pulled the trigger and a few bubbles came out. Zoe couldn't help but try to catch one like when she was a child but they all popped.

"I know a real gun when I see one." Zoe said.

"None of the others did." 

"Well, they didn't grow up around firearms and violence like I did." Zoe said, sassily.

——————————————————————————————————

The BAU team breathed out a breath of relief.

“Good call. Good call.” Alexander breathed, his hand on his heart. She was going to give him a heart attack.

——————————————————————————————————

"Well, this has been very interesting. I look forward to the court case and hearing what a shitty dad you were to your kids. I rather enjoy seeing the looks on remorseful serial killers' faces when they see the trauma they've inflicted on their families or the looks on the abusive parents' faces when they realize their abuse contributed to their child becoming a serial killer." She said, she thumped her hands against the table in a rhythmic way and pretended like she was going to leave... purely for humiliating him more with her superior intellect.

One may think it’s cockiness and arrogance, but it was just fact and the benefit of constantly being underestimated.

"Just before you go, did you figure it out... which one’s the good bottle?

"Yep." And then she smirked, "Child's play. Noble effort though.” She said her first last name with a bit of an accent between South British and Scottish like her dad’s accent.

——————————————————————————————————

"That's the word. We're going in." Alexander said and was the first through the door.

"Does Noble seem a little off?" Morgan asked Hotch.

"Off?"

"A bit more... neurotic?" Spencer added.

"More off and neurotic than usual?" Hotch deadpanned, as he knew and understood why, and then headed inside after Alexander.

——————————————————————————————————

"Well, which one, then? Which one would you have picked, just so I know whether I could have beaten you?"

Zoe knew what he was doing. Trying to goad her into proving how smart she was. But she wasn't that arrogant. She faked arrogance sometimes but she was rather modest about her intelligence compared to how she could be. She only acted like that to take arrogant people down a peg.

"Come on. Play the game."

Zoe slowly walked back to behind the chair but made no effort to sit back down, not even glancing at the pills.

"Really, what do you think?" He asked, standing up and approaching the young woman, "Can you beat me? Are you clever enough to bet your life? What's the point of being clever, if you can't prove it?"

The door burst open with everyone (minus Spencer who wasn't authorized to have a gun at the moment due to his terrible aim) pointing their guns at Keller.

"Ian Keller! FBI!"

"How?"

"Did it not occur to you that I went missing and no one bothered to call." Zoe asked as she took out her phone and stopped the recording feature.

"What's that?"

"It's a recording feature, old man." She said, "I got your full confession. You wouldn't tell the police but you would tell a victim who you deemed smart enough to rival your intellect."

"But you don't know the answer."

"I'm not some egotistical detective determined to prove that I'm the smartest. I don't need to know everything. I can't. It’s impossible and I’m fine with that. But I do know that neither of those pills are poison. They're placebos. It's improbable that you win a fifty-fifty chance thirteen times but there's one common denominator. The water. You didn't create the drugs, you turned drugs into poison."

"How long did you know?" Keller asked, grimacing.

"I suspected literally the moment you showed me the first pill." She said and turned to the others, “Did y’all have fun storming the castle?”

"Ian Keller, you're under arrest." Hotch said as he handcuffed the man.

BANG! CRASH!

A bullet went through a nearby door window and hit Keller in the shoulder. 

Zoe spun around to catch a glimpse of the shooter, a man dressed in all black except two slits for the eyes.

Her memory flashed back to her childhood. Twelve years old and she had a gun in her face. She glared up at him with no fear in her eyes.

Zoe leapt into action, she opened her mini first aid kit around her waist and pulled out a cloth and pressed it against the wound. 

"Spencer. Spence, come here. Press this against the wound, firmly. I'll be right back."

She bolted to the door with the bullet hole in it and raced after the man, knowing full well who he was, ignoring the screams after her.

She put up quite the chase, moving with aggression and strength like a bear but also grace and speed like a wolf.

"Stop! You son of a bitch!" She shouted as she cornered him and he turned the gun on the for once in her life unarmed young woman but she showed no fear, just as she had before.

"I see you haven't changed, Hermosa."

This simple Spanish nickname sent chills down her spine and made her freeze up in fear as echoes of various Spanish nicknames of endearment stirred in her head.

"Zoe!" Hotch's voice shouted and she turned to look at him for ten seconds before he entered, "Where'd the shooter go?"

She looked back but he was gone, "He-he was right here."

"Did you get a good look at him or the mask?"

"No." She lied. There wasn’t any point anyways. She ran past him and back to the room with the bleeding body. She was a medical doctor after all.

"Zoe, I know I have the title of doctor, but I am not a medical one." Spencer said, worryingly.

"Yeah, yeah. Move it. Alright, Keller, are you awake? Keller, I’m going to have to pack the wound but, I'm not sure if I can give you dilaudid so this is going to hurt. A lot. Spencer, apply pressure while I get the gauze.”

Spencer did so as she pulled her medical kit out and she pulled out some hemostatic gauze and pulled on some rubber gloves on her hands.

“Have you ever done this before?” Spencer asked.

“Uh, do those blood training dummies count? She asked, “I’ve shot a few people, does that count.”

“No!”

“Hush!” She turned back to Keller. “Ready, on three, one…” Then she plunged her middle and pointer finger into the wound with professional precision.

“AHHH! What happened to three!?” Keller shouted.

“Quiet! No serial killers talking allowed!” Zoe shouted back at him.

She felt from the source of the pulsating of the wound—the area where the wound was bleeding the most from and applied pressure to ease the bleeding as she took the gauze with her other hand and replaced the spot her fingers her at and she continued to feel the gauze into the wound as Keller screamed in pain, she fed it into all corners, switching fingers to act as a guide until it was full and she applied pressure on the excess of gauze against the wound until the ambulance arrived.

——————————————————————————————————

Zoe was sitting on the back of the ambulance as they put the shock blanket around her again, she raised her hands in question as Hotch and Alexander approached.

“Why have I got this blanket? They keep putting this blanket on me.” She asked.

“Yeah, it’s for shock.” Alexander responded.

“I know what it’s for, I’m a medical doctor. I saved that horrible man’s life.” Zoe said. “I’m not in shock.”

“Yeah, but the press wanna take photographs.” Hotch deadpanned and she huffed in annoyance.

"So, the shooter. No sign?"

"No. Must've cleared off before you could get anything to identify him with." Hotch said.

"Sorry." She said and changed the subject, "Are you going to yell at me for going rogue? The profile said he wouldn't talk to the police—he'd want to brag about it when he thought it was on his terms but only to someone he felt was as intelligent as he was and had better luck with their gifts than he did. And he called me and told me he would drive off and kill more people if I refused to go with him or tell anyone, besides when it comes to me, Dad's not exactly... subtle. Besides, unless I got his confession, there was only circumstantial evidence."

“That’s an understatement.” Hotch muttered and he sat next to her on the ambulance platform, "It was... quick-thinking. I'm aware of your impulsiveness."

"I would hope so. You've known me since I was ten and I'm ADHD and Cyclothymic. You'd be a pretty bad profiler." Zoe said.

"And I know especially with what happened four years ago..."

"Four years, two months, and twenty days." She said, her voice broke slightly.

"You were brave to do so. Not a lot of people who were kidnapped for eight months could've let him take you and with what happened a few months ago.”

Zoe huffed again and fidgeted uncomfortably at the mention.

"I'm not a victim. I mean, I am but I don't want to just be just a victim anymore. I want people to see me as what I am. A fighter. A survivor. My fear doesn't matter when others are on the line. Same reason, I'm going by only Valdez for now. I don't want to be seen as the daughter of two of the co-founders of the BAU, I want to be seen for me. I don't want people assuming I only got this part because of my parents. The only reason I'm so successful at nineteen is because of nepotism. I want to prove myself first and then I'll tell Spencer, Garcia, JJ, and Morgan. I promise."

"You grew up a strong woman, Zoe. I didn't know your mother but I think she'd be proud." Hotch said.

"No, I think she'd blame me for not finding Zarah." Zoe muttered.

"Hey, we'll find your sister. Contrary to what Strauss thinks, we never stopped looking. It's the least we could do since you made the BAU the way it is today."

"Thanks. So am I an official member of the team?"

"Considering Spencer won't shut up about how knowledgeable you are and bunch of other words I don’t really understand? I think he and your dad combined would annoy me to death if I didn't."

——————————————————————————————————

Zoe was talking to Spencer and Morgan when a deputy slipped her a folded piece of paper.

"What's this?"

"Some guy requested I give it to you." He said, shrugging.

Zoe unfolded the paper and read it. Her body language didn't give much away but it was clear she was unnerved by this.

"What is it?"

"Uh, nothing." She said, crumbling the note and pocketing it. "Just some stranger's number. Must've been someone with the press. I-I gotta speak with... Agent Noble." 

"Are you sure?" Spencer asked, stopping her as she tried to go to Alexander.

"Yeah."

"You seem... a little unnerved."

"That's just the shock. I'm in shock! Look, I've got a blanket!" Zoe said and brandished the sides of the blanket as if to prove her point and she walked over to Alexander.

"That is one strange little bird." Morgan said to Spencer.

"I like her." Spencer smiled.

Alexander turned to Zoe once he saw her approaching and noticed the somber look on her face, "What happened now?"

She nodded so he would walk with her, she was quiet for a few moments, "He's been watching me."

"Well, you're still in danger while you're in Boston." Alexander fretted. “You’ll always be in danger while you’re in Boston.”

"I’m always in danger period. But he won't hurt me." She sighed.

"How do you know?"

"Because I do." Zoe said, sternly.

"But..."

"Daddy, please. I suppressed those memories for a reason. And one day I will have to uncover them so we can catch him but now's not the time. I just know, okay." Zoe pleaded. "We're leaving tomorrow morning. As far as you're concerned, I'm just a bargaining chip for your cooperation."

"Zoe, angel..."

"Dad, I'm fine." She said but she was lying. She's not sure there was ever a time in her life where she's said that and truly meant it.

——————————————————————————————————

The next morning, as Zoe was packing up the room, she received a package from a delivery man who seemed rattled but left at once.

"Okay." She said, passing that off and she set the package on the bed and opened it and pulled back the paper wrapped around it and she flinched. 

The box had a bouquet of blood-splattered white lilies with a card with the same words as on the note: See you soon, mi belleza.

There was a knock at the door and Hotch's voice called, "Zoe, time to check out."

"Yeah! Yeah, I'm almost done. I'm almost done packing." She called as she wrapped the flowers back up and shoved them into her suitcase.

Translations (Via Google Translate)

"pequeño" — "Little One" — Spanish

"Hermosa" — "Beautiful" — Spanish

"Mi belleza" — "My beauty" — Spanish

Notes:

Inspired by Sherlock pilot episode: “A Study in Pink”

Richie Rousseau’s face claim is KJ Apa with his red hair for Archie Andrews from Riverdale

I hope the foreshadowing wasn’t too heavy in this.

Gif Sources:

Crowley: @wearecrowley

*Any suggestions for songs to attach to this story?*

[cctinsleybaxter]

Misc f4rgo thoughts, typed up a few days before the finale and then edited accordingly in italics

Dot going from a morally dubious protagonist* to a truly heroic one is such a great play; blair @/commiegoth had pointed out that the first episode plays as a gendered inversion of the original '96 movie, and taking the series as a whole it also plays as as gendered inversion of Lester's character arc in s1. Juno Temple deserves a billion awards for that performance

The hangup I have re: Dot's escape is that it's inherently tied to finding the 'right' husband, the 'right' family, the 'right' take on Christianity. I wasn't expecting anything radical from Hawley here (the way he both films and talks about abuse is, for the most part, really progressive by TV standards and it's not like we were going to get family abolition), but at least give her more to do than vague allusions to volunteering. she needs hobbies!

(I'd prefer a scenario where she married Wayne solely for social and financial stability and fell in love after the fact. tbh I'd probably still be irritated and calling it half-baked, but I like it better)

(Knowing about Jon Hamm's personal history of racism and abuse also made this kind of an insane watch. It's a good performance but like.)

Ole Munch villain of ALL TIME are you kidding me?? I love the way he talks I love the way he's filmed to look bigger than he already is I love the 'fits, I... have extremely mixed feelings about the way his story ends (why did it turn into the fanfic where they were doing land acknowledgements!!! and not even for area-specific tribes!) Whatever. '500 years ago' smashcut you will always be famous.

I actually really, really liked Joe Keery as Gator as well. Hate seeing him all over the tag, but amazing job at portraying someone who's both a violent menace and a pathetic little boy. Could very easily see Hawley going the route of 'school shooters are insecure babies and deserve our pity uwu' and that's explored but then pity denied- it rules NEVER FUCKING MIND LMAO

Lorraine!!!! Jennifer Jason Leigh's performance grew on me over the course of the season, like, everyone is being very grounded and she is being a 40s actress; she's on another plane of reality and it's so, so good. Her first conversation with Roy is easily my favorite scene in the show and her last conversation with Roy my least favorite; I want Noah Hawley dead for this I'm not kidding

Danish. was there (jk he was also a favorite; great job imbuing what could've been a nothing henchman character with protagonist-of-his-own-story energy, Hawley and the actors he picks out are quite good at that)

(Speaking of, Indira and Witt had much more story in them since they were functionally in roles that had gone to main characters in past seasons. idk how to feel about it, I kind of wanted more of them but was also glad to see the guys on the sidelines getting a chance to shine) Edit: 😒

Mixed feelings about the music- heavy percussion as Munch's theme but then reused for the siege? The pop music? 'Whipping Post' and the cover of 'Toxic' felt especially egregious, but I liked more needle drops than not, and the overall themes were gorgeous

Hated the constant references to Trump. Not because it's out of left field for the show to be doing that, I remember Reagan fondly, but because it's so clear that this entire season is a direct reaction to the Trump presidency. We don't need to see him- let him loom silently in the background

Minneapolis doesn't have a zoo btw. if you even care.

[violettelueur]

— JUJUTSU KAISEN EPISODE TWO || FOR MYSELF

↳ featuring : itadori yuji + fushiguro megumi + gojo satoru + ryomen sukuna from jujutsu kaisen

↳ warnings : mentions of violence and EXTREME grammar issues

↳ form : story

↳ published : 09 february

↳ pronouns : she/her

↳ word count : 3.0k

↳ synopsis : within the jujutsu world, there were three famous clans to be aware of, the Kamo clan, Zenin clan and the Gojo clan. However, unknown to many sorcerers there was one last family that was known to be apart of the three, only for them to disappear after the golden era leading some to speculate that they had died in battle after the sealing of ryomen sukuna, but....

↳ previous episode : ryomen sukuna

↳ next episode : girl of steel

↳ barista’s notes : since you loved the first one so much, i decided to do episode two for you guys ╲ʕ·ᴥ·　╲ʔ also i am now addicted to genshin impact and right now, i am on adventure rank 19 and already cleared the ‘stormterror lair’ thing ʕ ㅇ ᴥ ㅇʔ i hope you enjoy this cup of classic black coffee (jujutsu kaisen) and come again soon!

BEFORE READING, I NEED YOU TO BE AWARE OF THIS:

1. the whole story belongs to Gege Akutami and the credits go to them and them only

2. the spell curses used belong to Tite Kubo due to them being the ‘Kidos’ being used on the manga and anime ‘Bleach’

3. this whole thing might be confusing and please don’t expect a part three because i will do it when i am ready or feel like i can at the right time ʕ ᵒ ᴥ ᵒʔ

4. i don’t know, if i am going to add this onto my masterlist since this was just for fun to be honest!

“What’s the situation?” 

All of a sudden, a new voice came into the area leading you to turn your head to the side to find a rather tall male standing next to Fushiguro. From a quick glance, you could immediately inform yourself that had spiky white hair with a black blindfold covering his eyes, as he carried a paper bag on his arm while wearing a similar outfit to Fushiguro meaning he was another sorcerer.

“Gojo-sensei?! Why are you here?” Fushiguro asked in surprise, as he turned to look at what you assumed to be his teacher leading to the shadows around him to immediately disappear from sight.

“Gojo…” you muttered under your breath as you looked at the two male sorcerers right in front of you in horror as you came to the realisation of the situation you were facing.

‘Mother…..I’ve been found…..’

                                                   ꕥ

“Hey!’ the teacher cheerfully greeted while waving an arm to his student as a short greeting. “I wasn’t planning on coming, but man, you’re roughed up,” Gojo explained, before leaning forward as if he was taking a closer look at Fushiguro to which then caused lead to his hand to go into his pocket as he proceeded to pull out his mobile phone. “I should show the second years, face this way!” the sorcerer playfully stated as he began to take a multitude of photos of the ‘roughed up’ student, leading to the subject of his images to turn away while covering his face with his arm.

Looking at the scene with anxiety looming above you like a rainy cloud, you swiftly turned your head back to see if you could find a way out without both of them as well as Itadori noticing as they were distracted for the time being.

‘Shit, the only way I can escape is either jumping from this floor or going through the large gap behind me, but that’s gonna make them notice. What am I going to do?!’

“Ah! Miss, I know you are already there, so no need to escape!” Gojo suddenly stated, causing you to quickly turn back with widened eyes - surprised at the fact that he knew what was on your mind - to find the teacher waving at you with the same greeting he gave to Fushiguro as if he had known you for some time, like an old friend one would say.

‘Ah…..what a drag….’ you thought, as you then carefully picked up the katana that had landed in front of you when the curse was exorcised before slowly sliding it back into the casing that was behind your back.

“The higher-ups wouldn’t such up with a special-grade cursed object gone missing, so I stopped by while doing some sightseeing,” Gojo explained while looking down his phone like he was checking something when in your mind, you assumed that he was going through the photos that he took of Fushiguro due to his jolly smile that was displayed on his face.

‘Maybe, if you damn sorcerers got the cursed object sooner before the damn protective seal was ripped off, WE WOULDN’T BE IN THIS SITUATION!’ you argued in your head, as you slowly began to realise the reasonings why your mother never took a liking to the higher-ups, to begin with.

‘Those higher-ups are so useless, all they do is command other sorcerers to do their dirty work while acting if they are superior dear. If I could, I would kill all of them’

“So, did you find it?” the blindfolded teacher asked, as he looked up from his device only for your schoolmate to interrupt the sorcerer’s conversation as he raised up his hand in a guilty manner. “Um...Sorry, but I ate it,” Itadori confessed, as he then pointed to himself to emphasise the statement leading Fushiguro to look down to the floor in what seemed to be in shame while Gojo turned to look at Itadori with a shocked expression.

“For real?” Gojo asked, trying to make sure that it wasn’t some sort of joke.

“For real,” Itadori and Fushiguro answered simultaneously, confirming that it wasn’t a joke at all.

In a complete rage, you slowly made your way towards your schoolmate before grabbing his shoulders with as much might as you could as you then turned him around to face you. 

“I don’t know who broke that damn seal I placed on that stupid little hut, but maybe if you haven’t taken that finger, we wouldn’t be in this situation where these two dumbass sorcerers would be in our lives right now!!” you screamed in frustration leading to the two mentioned sorcerers to look at you with dumbfounded looks painted on their faces while Itadori just peered at you with an extremely surprised expression.

During the school hours, Itadori had seen you a few times around the hallways and in his class when you had to collect something for another teacher. From what he could read off, you were the calm and collective type, someone who was on top of their academics while being able to maintain close relationships with other students between the three-years that Sugisawa Municipal Highschool offered. Even though you came off a bit blunt from time to time when calling something or someone a ‘drag’, the students liked that from you since that meant you were being honest to them as well as to yourself, just like the time when you surprised everyone when you rejected being part of the school’s council's committee much to the President’s begging. 

“But...shouldn’t you like sorcerers since you seem like one?” Itadori questioned with a confused tone, leading you to look at him with a rather both understandable but irritated expression which caused him to be nervous somewhat due to you being out of character.

“Just because I am one, doesn’t mean I like any of them!” you counted back, as you pointed towards the direction of Fushiguro and Gojo before continuing with “it was such a drag when Fushiguro was here this afternoon and it’s more of one now that two of them are here!” as you then let go of his shoulders before turning away to lean against the crooked metal balcony to relax your vocal cords after screaming so much.

Taking the opportunity, Gojo leaned to the side as if he was inspecting Itadori like he was painting before coming closer to the teenage boy with his hand on his chin as if he was thinking what he could do now. “Hehe, damn, it really did combine with you. That’s hilarious,” Gojo amusingly stated, causing you to turn back to look at the scene with a dumbfounded expression on his face.

‘What is hilarious about the situation right now? This isn’t something to find assuming Gojo’

“Anything off with your body?” Gojo questioned, after straightening his back leading itadori to inspect his body for a quick few seconds.

“Not particularly,” Itadori answered.

“Can you swap out with Sukuna?” Gojo then asked, leading you to then fully turn back to look at the special-grade sorcerer with extreme confusion and astonishment as you begin to wonder what hit Gojo’s head before coming here to the school.

“Sukuna?” Itadori confusingly stated as he looked at Gojo with a perplexed expression.

“The curse you stupidly ate,” you quickly answered, as you gave Itadori a serious glance before letting out a sigh of frustration leading Fushguro to quickly tug your arm as you dropped down to his height before you snatched your arm back, worried about what the Zenin relative would do to you.

“Oh…Yeah, I think I can do that,” Itadori clarified, as he placed his hand on his hip before giving a nod to emphasise this statement.

Stepping back, Gojo suddenly began to stretch in a weird position, which suddenly reminded you of a certain baseball player, but you couldn’t recall who before stating with confidence, “then give us ten seconds, once ten seconds are up, come back to us.”

‘Great, I’m going to die young…” you jokingly thought, as you looked to the side with a grim look as if you were staring at the death ripper at this very moment in time.

“But..” Itadori wavered, as he started to be concerned about Gojo's request since he didn’t know what damage Sukuna could do or how the teacher was going to be at the end of it. “Don’t worry, I’m the strongest,” Gojo confidently stated, leading to another grim look to appear on your face, as you were getting annoyed at his constant confidence even though you knew he had the right to be.

“Megumi, hold on to this,” Gojo demanded before throwing the bag towards his student, leading to the catcher to catch it with his hands before looking down on the paper bag with curiosity.

“Megumi?” you quietly questioned as you suddenly discovered that the sorcerer next to you had a feminine name - since it was quite rare to hear a male have a name that was generally used for the female gender. 

“What is this?” Fushiguro asked before his teacher stretched his arms right in front of both of you before answering, “Kikufuku from Kikusuian! It’s Sendai’s speciality, and it’s super good! I recommend the zunda and cream flavour!”

‘So...this man bought mochi when people here were dying, ah...that was dumbass~’

“It’s not a souvenir, I’m going to eat it on the bullet train home,” Gojo stated as if he needed an explanation for his actions. However, what got your full attention was the black markings that were gradually coming onto Itadori’s skin before he suddenly jumped up into the air while Gojo was still explaining his reasoning for this purchase.

“Uh Oh~” you commented, as you stared at the sky with widened eyes before Fushiguro screamed for his teacher’s attention at the curse directing an attack from behind. However, it seemed like his teacher wasn’t fazed on second as he continued explaining the reason why he bought the mochi, “Kikufuku’s not like other souvenirs…”

‘I THOUGHT YOU SAID IT WASN’T A SOUVENIR!’ you screamed in your mind before ducking your head down as Itadori’s body finally crashed back to the ground, trying to make sure that the debris didn’t blind you at all. Quickly looking back up to check what was happening, you suddenly came into eye to eye contact with a bright shade of ruby mixed with a hint of malevolence. You came to the realisation that it was Sukuan who was now in front of you while Gojo was casually sitting on his hack like a horse.

“And the whipped cream inside is simply exquisite..” Gojo continued talking, causing you to give off a confused expression on what really was going on inside the special-grade sorcerer’s mind and what his main priority was right now. Suddenly, Sukuna made a 180 degree turn to aim for another attack, yet the second Gojo clasped his hands together, he once again missed and as well as the other attacks he tried to execute.

Unexpectedly, Gojo appeared behind Sukuna’s back before leaning back to say something within his ear, “my student and a little sorcerer’s watching, so I’m going to show off a little.” Instantaneously, Gojo disappeared once again before grabbing the curse vessel’s arm as he then processed to hit Sukuna’s face with his arm, leading to Itadori’s body to slightly fling itself up in the air.

‘What is he manipulating? Time? No, that’s not it….is it like a vacuum? But that means he would be controlling empty space with no particles…’

Suddenly, you slightly noticed the slight manipulated on the air as Gojo’s arm begins to swing leading you to come to the conclusion that Gojo’s cursed technique might be the control of space at an atomic level, leading to a massive pressure to hit the King of Curses as his body smashed into the only part of metal railing that wasn’t bent.

“For crying out loud, you jujutsu sorcerers are always trouble, no matter what era!” Sukuna declared as he, once again, jumped into the air while somehow carrying massive pieces of the broken wall along with him before slamming down at Gojo’s direction. “Though that doesn’t mean much to me,” Sukuna arrogantly stated, with a smirk on his face as some of the windows processed to smash. 

However, the second the thin debris started to clear up, Sukuna’s expression quickly twisted into shock as a brightly lit barrier enclosed his opponent, yet he wasn’t the one that had a surprised expression on his face. Turning back around, Gojo found you kneeling next to Fushguro with a flat palm on the ground as your curse energy flowed down to the ground as if the box just didn’t just end on the ground that they were standing on right now.

“This is such a drag,” you muttered before standing up straight as you observed the walls making sure that there wasn’t a single crack when the rocks could have hit. “Seven, eight, nine, ten,” you counted and right on time there was a sudden change in curse energy pressure around you leading you to come to the conclusion that Itadori was now switching back, surprising Sukuan once again at the circumstances that he was in.

“Oh, was everything okay?” Itadori innocently asked, one the marking disappearing leading you to undo your curse spell as the walls slowly started to fade away with little blue parts flying away like they were little fireflies. 

“I’m shocked, you really can control it!” Gojo cheered while Fushiguro looked onto the scene with such surprise and confusion on what was happening.

“He’s kind of annoying, though,” Itadori commented as he continuously smacked his head, “I can hear his voice.”

‘And is smacking your head gonna make it better, idiot?’

“It’s a miracle that’s all he’s doing,” Gojo stated, with a smirk on his face as he began to walk towards Itadori before suddenly placing his middle and index finger on the salmon-haired forehead, causing Itadori to freeze for a second before giving in to the suddenly unconscious feeling empowering his body to which lead to his falling within the teacher’s arms.

“What did you do?” Fushiguro asked with slight worry in his tone.

“Knocked him out,” Gojo then answered. “If he isn’t possessed by Sukuna when he wakes up, he might have potential as a vessel,” the white-haired sorcerer explained as he then turned to his student with a question in mind. 

“Now, I have a question for you, what should we do with him and the little miss, who is trying to run away?” 

Confused, Fushiguro turned around, only to find you with your back turned to both of them as your foot halted the second his teacher had mentioned you. Turning back around Fushiguro then looked at his teacher with a serious expression displayed on his face, “even if he is a vessel, jujutsu regulations demand Itadori be executed. However, I don’t want to let him die!”

“Your personal feelings?” Gojo playful asked his student with a smirk on his face before Fushguro quickly answered, “yes, please do something about this.”

“Hehe~ Now it’s a request from a previous student,” Gojo stated, as he proceeded to lift up the unconscious teenager onto this shoulder. “Leave it to me! But also, what do you want to do with Miss runaway?” Gojo commented, once again leading you to halt your movement as you surprisingly made some distance between you and the two sorcerers now staring at your back.

‘Ah…..caught again…..’

Turning around, you looked towards the two sorcerers with a nonchalant expression displayed before giving them the hand gesture of ‘shooing them away. “There’s nothing you got to do with me, take Itadori and make sure to do what you’re planning to do, don’t drag me into your mess,” you commented, as you turned around once again, only to find the infamous sorcerer to be standing right in front of you with a cheeky smile on his face.

“Come on~ Jujtutsu Tech is so much fun, you get to make a few friends and you get to bug Megumi!” Gojo cheerfully tried to persuade you, only for you to scoff in annoyance at this futile attempt to invite you to the school that your mother informed you all about.

“I rather not be near anyone belonging with the three clans,” you irritatedly declared as you placed your hand on your hip trying to keep a distance between you and the teacher. However, this statement of yours caused Gojo and Fushiguro to look at you with surprise painted on their faces. How much did you know about the Jujutsu world? How did you have the acknowledgement of the three great families? Who were you and how much you had the strength to stop Sukuna’s attack within a millisecond?

“L/N!” Fushiguro stated, leading you to turn to him with an angered expression on your face which caused Gojo to peer at you with seriousness clouding his entire body.

“L/N huh?” Gojo curiously questioned, “no wonder your curse technique is familiar to what those old documents have told.”

Taken back to his discovery, you turned back to look at Gojo will a deadpan expression leading him to then carefully suggest, “Since you are part of the lost L/N clan, I won’t tell the higher-ups about your existence but rather have you twist your name slightly when you enrol, how does that sound?”

Glancing at the teacher with suspicion, you tried to hide the gut-wrenching feeling that there was not a possible chance of you now escaping from this. You had been caught and found and there was no way to lie yourself out of this situation you were in, not when Gojo had discovered who you really were while Fushiguro seemed to look clueless on what was going on between his teacher and the female sorcerer in front of him.

Letting out a sigh of frustration once again, you looked up at the sky, letting the same moonlight bathe your face as it did for Sukuna a few minutes ago.

“What a drag”

© violettelueur 2021 : written and published by violettelueur - do not steal or repost

[xshinigamikittenx]

The Quiet Game

NSFW Katsuki Bakugou x Fem!Reader

MINORS DNI

You swear this class is going to kill you. With this much of a class load, there’s no time for friendships or romantic relationships, and that’s fine with you. They were just distractions anyway. It’s usually just the attendants and other students completing work studies at the library this late. This is usually perfect on most nights, but today is Friday, and you forgot he would be here...

Thank you SO MUCH to TrashyBee on Twitter for bringing Katsuki to life here. Good lawd 😩

A/N: Whew. Yet another one shot that ran away with me. lmaoooo. Couldn't really help it though, I mean...sheeeeesh. But child, anywaaays...this was fun. :) I'm also hoping you've been to a library and seen what the private study rooms look like, because it's kindof important here 😅 but if not here's an idea. Hope your future library thoughts are full of smut productivity!

9.5k words

CW/TW: semi-public sex, oral sex, clothed sex, vaginal sex, biting, swallowing, light degradation, gagging, fingering, hair pulling, deep thrusts, praise

You swear this class is going to kill you. Why the fuck did you choose to take on so many credits this year? Take more classes at once so you can finish early. The goal from the beginning was to get through university as quickly as possible so you could start making the money you knew would help keep you far away from home. Wealth is not something that runs in your family. Everything you get, you work for, and your degree will be no different. You keep your head down, focusing on one goal, to make enough money to support yourself and live the way you want. With this much of a class load, there’s no time for friendships or romantic relationships, and that’s fine with you. They were just distractions anyway.

Your roommates, however, don’t have that same logic. Some nights when you’re up studying, you can hear them, and whoever they brought back to the dorm moaning, the bed sometimes rhythmically bumping into the paper-thin walls. “Just like that...yes-yes-mmmmore. Ffuck! ” It’s...distracting, to say the least, and frustrating because your body’s reaction constantly betrays your mind's focus. Your thighs clenching together, your pulse quickening; no way in hell you can study in your room, especially not at night.

You shake the thoughts out of your head, looking up at the massive main library, your feet unconsciously moving forward. This is your sanctuary, the place you feel you can be most at peace, and finally give way to the maintained focus you knew you needed. The warm glow of the lights through the windows always makes you feel calm. The cold air whips into you as you push open the door and take in the endless rows and layers of books keeping you company. There’s hardly ever anyone here at this time, a discovery you made one night when you found yourself packing your books in frustration to escape the sounds coming from the next room in the middle of the night.

It’s usually just the attendants and other students completing work studies at the library this semester. This is usually perfect on most nights, but today is Friday, and you forgot he would be here. Your eyes land on his back, surveying him at a distance. The fact that he works here doesn’t quite compute with you. He’s built like he should be throwing a ball somewhere, all broad shoulders and toned arms. The sleeves of his olive green sweater are rolled up, emphasizing the lines and ridges of his toned muscles. It’s borderline irritating how good he looks, entirely focused on a mundane task. His blonde hair is somehow perfectly dishevelled, the lean form of his body bent over the desk, filling out some kind of paperwork while you walk in his direction. Usually, you would try to avoid him; talking to people, in general, is not a specialty of yours, let alone talking to someone who seems to have a short fuse.

You wait for a few seconds, thinking he’s got to know you’re there. He had to have heard the door open, right? But he hasn’t turned around yet, and thinking about actually opening your mouth to speak to him felt like the air was getting sucked out of the building. You were already introverted with high anxiety, and you did not need to feel uncomfortable right now, especially under the looming stress of this project which was due in two days. So you waited, hoping the subtle noises you were making, readjusting your bag, and taking a deep breath, would possibly get his attention. Fuck, this is taking too long; I’ve got to say something. “Um...hey.” Jesus Christ, really couldn’t think of anything better to say? You practically sneer at yourself at how lame you sound, but this certainly got his attention. He turned half of his body towards you, one of his scarlet eyes glaring at you over his shoulder. His face was rather expressionless, betraying the scorching feeling his eyes deliver, making you suddenly self-conscious of what you looked like standing in front of him. You didn’t think about what you were wearing when you left your dorm, throwing on a go-to pair of leggings and the first hoodie you saw before storming out of the overly cramped room, leaving the heavy breaths and moans of your neighbour behind you.

“Oi, you need something? Speak up.” Your face immediately flushed. The heat rising up your neck and blooming across your face, triggering your palms to start sweating. You didn’t think you were unnecessarily quiet; it’s a fucking library. You knew he was an asshole, but what the fuck did you do to him? Before you think about it anymore, you shift your thoughts towards how to respond to him, coming up blank. You grip your bag tighter, your mind racking itself, but the anxiety has already caught hold of you, and it’s as if you're stranded on an island with no help in sight. So you resort to your usual defensive mechanism; you bite back.

“So, what...? You want me to scream to get your attention?” He turns his body toward you, putting the full picture of himself on display. You’ve never been this close to him, actively avoiding him after hearing him ream other students out for being too loud or misplacing books. You didn’t realize how intimidating his stature was until now, being less than six feet away from him.

He wasn’t excessively tall, but his posture would convince you otherwise. Even as he leaned back against the length of the desk behind him, he was still probably a handful of inches taller than you. He lifts his glasses to rest on the top of his almost unruly blonde hair as he speaks, “Can’t say why I would find screaming necessary in a library, but if you need something, you should say it clearly so I can help you and not have to spend five minutes of my time explaining common courtesy to someone who knows better.”

Your annoyance is suddenly replaced with rage at his words. What the fuck? Is he trying to put this on me? Doesn’t he fucking work here? Isn’t it his job to pay attention if someone needs help? You’re even more pissed because you wouldn’t have to deal with this shit if you could study in your room. The constant reminder of your roommate getting railed while you were trying to work made that impossible, so here you are. It’s not like you wanted to ask him for help, but you need access to a private study room, and you have to request it from the attendant. Except for tonight, when you’re pent up and stressed, you have to deal with him. “I wouldn’t have to speak up if you were doing your job, asshole.” Fuck. He’s distracting me. I don’t have time for this. You watch his face as one of his eyebrows lift while he places his large hands on the ledge of the desk behind him, baring the outline of his toned chest stretching the fabric of his sweater. “Now, I know you’re not that much of a dumbass. What do you think I was doing before you walked in here and started wasting my time?” Your eyes widen, inadvertently travelling the length of his body, from the smug ass expression resting on his face to his rippling arms, tense as his hands grip the dark wooden desk. For some reason, this annoyed you even more; why did he have to be insulting and infuriatingly attractive?

His lips curl into a smirk, revelling in the glare you’re aiming at him. Dumbass? Is this asshole for real? At this point, he’s pissed you off past the point of giving a fuck. You would’ve walked away by now if you didn’t actually need his help. But if he wants to play this game, fine. A smug smile spreads across your face as you speak, “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I was speaking to someone who was unable to multitask. Your life must be so hard, huh?” He drops his head, laughing as he pushes himself off the desk, taking a step toward you. Your hands grip your bag tighter as he comes closer, lifting his head so his ruby-coloured eyes meet yours. “That’s pretty fucking hilarious coming from someone who’s at the library in the middle of the night on a fuckin’ Friday.” He straightens up, shoving his hands in his pockets as he continues, “Seems more like your life is hard, and you’re just pissed off about it.” His gaze is piercing, attempting to slice through your facade of confidence, but you’re currently too livid to give a shit. You’re done talking to him, you just need to get into the study room and away from this asshole.

“No,” you seethe, “I’m pissed off because I can’t work in my room, I have shit to do, and this conversation is a waste of time.” You lift your head higher, meeting his gaze as he smirks down at you. “Oh, seems like I’m not the only one who can’t multitask then, huh?” He chuckles, watching you as you fold your arms and turn your head, breaking eye contact with him. “I just need one of the study rooms opened.”

“Oh, so you do need something,” he says, his voice dropping as he leans forward, bringing his face into your line of sight, his sharp features coming into focus. “You said it yourself, you wasted my time, so I think you can ask a little nicer than that.” You don’t think you’ve ever wanted to punch someone more than how much you want to punch his perfectly fucking chiselled jaw in that moment. Regardless of how much his face appeals to your more violent tendencies, you realize you don’t have an option. All of this bullshit will have been for nothing if you’re unable to get into that fucking room. Your jaw clenches, your teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek as your eyes bore into him. You make a point not to break eye contact when you speak through the smile you’ve painted on, “Oh, where are my manners...would you...please...open a study room so that I can get away from you?” You smile wider, contrasting the cold glare you shoot at him as he grins, watching your edges fray. He slides one of his hands out of his pocket, assessing you while he tosses the keys up in his hand, the dull metallic sound of their impact in the palm of his hand, peaking your annoyance further. “Well hell,” he says, “it’s about damn time.”

You roll your eyes as he catches the keys a final time, smirking at you before he turns to exit the enclosed space of the front desk. You readjust your bag and look up to follow him, balking at seeing him walk in front of you. He takes a few steps ahead of you, his coffee colored pants clinging to the muscles of his legs as he heads towards the back of the library where the study rooms are located. Fuck, his ass looks good. You’re grateful when you take a glance around you, suddenly conscious of what your borderline heated exchange probably looked like to anyone who could’ve seen it. Not to mention the fact that it probably definitely looked like you were staring at his ass just now. You refocus, remembering that you’re supposed to be following him. You train your eyes on the back of his neck, trying to keep yourself from fixating on his perfectly sculpted form; when you see him turn his head, eyeing you. His gaze travels up and down, then up to meet your eyes before he speaks, “For someone who claims to dislike wasted time, you sure are slow.”

Fuck. Did he catch me looking at him? Your chest tightens at the thought. Just hurry the fuck up and get to the room so you can do what you came here for. You signal your legs to pick up the pace until you’re almost in stride with him and looking straight ahead. You know where the study rooms are; you just need him to open it for you, but why does it feel like it’s taking forever to get there? Your body grows warmer, anxiety still pumping through you from your previous conversation. Now being alone in this giant space in silence is adding emphasis to the fact that you’re practically alone. You try to distract yourself, feigning interest in the books that line the shelves as you walk past them. We’ve got to be close now; just focus on the room. You look ahead, expecting to see the study rooms’ glass windows but instead are met with more shelves of books. What the fuck? Did they move them? How long have we been walking? You glance over at him, accidentally making eye contact because he was already looking at you.

Without thinking, you look away, and then you hear him speak, “Ya know, no ones usually here at this time on a Friday. Don’t you have better shit to do?” Seriously? If he’s going to be a dick, why is he even wasting his breath talking to me?

“Yeah, well, maybe I don’t,” you bite back, too tangled up in your own thoughts to decipher anything less aggressive, “and I don’t want to be here just as much as you don’t want me to be here.”

He continues walking, and you push ahead of him, attempting to put some distance between you. You don’t need him to lead you to the room; the library is only so big. Getting there on your own and waiting for him to open it would be better than dealing with this bullshit. You see him looking over at you in your peripheral vision as you pass him, and he laughs. “You don’t wanna be here, but all of a sudden, you’re in a hurry. A little conflicting, don’t you think?”

You roll your eyes. Fuck off. Is what you would’ve said if you wanted to continue this conversation. He would definitely have something to say to that. “Are you forgetting that I’ve got what you want?” You stop dead in your tracks and spin on your heels to face him, “Excuse me?” He doesn’t even flinch at your raised tone, you could practically hear your own voice echoing around you as he walks up to you, stopping inches away. He’s so close you can smell him, a warm scent of amber and oak catching you off guard as you hold your ground. His lips lilt into a mocking half-smile as he moves his hand towards you to dangle the keys directly in front of your face. “What? You want to get into the room, don’t you?” Your focus shifts from the keys to his crimson eyes, blurring everything else around you as your body reacts to the heat radiating off of his skin. He feels...warm. I wonder - Your gaze drops to his lips, maddeningly curled into a taunting smirk. “Well, now I’m wondering what you thought I was talking about.”

He pulls the keys into the palm of his hand with a metallic snap, the sound almost making you jump as your eyes widen. You find yourself holding your breath as the tightening in your chest climbs up to your throat. Say something. Fucking anything. Your face must tell him everything he needs to know, because he doesn’t wait for a response. “How’s this, I’ll let you off the hook if you tell me why you’re here, dealing with my bullshit, when you could be studying in your dorm.”

This is none of his fucking business, but it’s easier to answer than the previous question, so fuck it. “I can’t focus there.” He raises an eyebrow at you, clearly not satisfied with your answer. You roll your eyes and sigh, “It’s just...noisy. I can’t think straight.”

He laughs at your response, “Yeah I can see that you're easily distracted.” You feel his eyes hovering over your body before meeting your gaze and shifting his weight to start walking again. You take a deep breath, silently relieved that whatever the fuck that was is over. “There’s this invention,” he says as he walks ahead of you “called headphones, ever thought of using those?” You shoot daggers into the back of his head as he turns the corner and you see the study rooms up ahead. Thank fucking god. He sifts through the keys as he walks, locating the one he needed to open the door. His hands move to slide the key into the lock, “Tch. Unless you’ve got roommates that are loud when they fuck. Headphones might not help much.” You know this is a joke but the heat spreading through your face, and the way your body tenses up catches his attention. “Did I strike a nerve,” he asks, smirking at you as his hand grips the door handle.

“Just open the door.” He raises an eyebrow and you release an exasperated sigh, “Please.”

He swings the door open, holding it open as he waits for you to walk through. Finally. I can get this asshole out of my face and work. You walk towards the door, and you notice he isn’t moving. I can hold the door on my own. Why is he still standing there? As you move you eye the entrance to the room, realizing you’re going to need to get insanely close to him to get through the doorway. Fuck it. Just slip by him and move on. “Listen, I don’t bite,” he says, noticing your moment of hesitation with a sly smile. You roll your eyes, making a point to look him in the eyes as you attempt to get by him. His piercing gaze slices through you, stoking the flames within your core you’ve been harnessing all night; fuck, maybe all semester. You fail to keep the flush from blooming across your face, turning your head away from him as you attempt to brush past him. You can feel him watching you, it feels like heat is emanating from his skin, pulling you closer as you hear a low voice directly in your ear, “Unless you want me to.”

What? It was a split second that you were close enough to hear him. Your breath catches as you finally make it past him, his words echoing in your head. Did he just-? You turn around to face him, “What did you just s-“ but he was already leaving, walking back towards the front of the library, probably to finish working on whatever the hell had him so focused when you arrived earlier.

You turn away, your back towards the floor to ceiling window of the small room as your mind reels from the last thing he said to you. I swear I heard him correctly. But why would he say that? Am I fucking crazy? You mindlessly unpack what you need out of your bag and sit at the desk, trying and failing miserably for almost an hour to focus on your work. You find yourself repeatedly scanning the same page because you can’t stop yourself from looking over your shoulder to see if he’s nearby. You nibble at the tip of your pen, looking at the book in front of you and unable to comprehend a single thing. Your oral fixation is running rampant and your thoughts are nowhere near where they should be when the image of his lips slip into your head. What do they taste like? Your body reacts to the thought, squeezing your thighs together as your core tightens imagining his hands gripping your skin, his teeth sinking into you. Fuck. Fuck!

You turn your head again, wondering if there was any way he would be looking in your direction; his thoughts riddled with the same infuriatingly erotic images on a loop in your head. Then, you see him. His back towards you as he holds a stack of books in one arm to place on the shelves. Your eyes travel down the length of his body, the lines of muscle subtly evident through his clothes. You watch him as he reaches up to a particularly high shelf, and his sweater lifts just enough to see the definition of his lower back. Heat is building inside you, the stirring in your core causing your walls to clench, thinking about raking your nails across his back. Ffuuck...NO. Get your fucking shit together. Why would he want to fuck someone who has nothing better to do than study on a Friday night? Fucking focus. You try to gather your thoughts, but must’ve mistakenly zoned out while you were looking at him, because as soon as your eyes refocus you see his head turned in your direction, one cinder red eye smoldering into you.

Fuck! Your body stiffens, unsure what else to do besides just go back to pretending you were working on this project. That’s basically what you’ve been doing since you sat down anyways. And for what? Just for you to embarrass and distract yourself just enough for this entire ordeal to be a colossal waste of time.You start to gather your things, applying more force than necessary to shove everything back into your bag. Fuck this. I haven’t gotten anything done and it’s been two fucking hours. I should’ve just stayed in my room, used my vibrator and moved on. At least I would’ve been able to think straight.

“You must do that often, huh?”

Your eyes widen and you immediately turn your body towards the source of the voice coming from the doorway. Your eyes land on his waist, then to the large hands in his pockets as he seems to take up all the remaining space in the room. You catch a glimpse of the student ID on the lanyard threaded through his belt loop. Katsuki Bakugo. You didn’t even bother to check the picture before you looked up, eyes connecting with the same asshole smirk you’ve been replaying in your head since you sat down. I didn’t say all of that shit out loud did I?

“What are you talking about,” you snap. You really don’t feel like playing this game with him. You already made up your mind that you were leaving, there was no way in hell you were going to stick around to get made fun of. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Ha. That’s a good question,” he takes a step, crossing the length of the room to lean against the desk inches away from you. “I have a better question though. How long have you been watching me instead of working?”

It feels like your brain short circuits. Did he catch me looking for him earlier? Fuck!

“I-” it suddenly dawns on you that the only way he would’ve seen that is if he was looking at you. You just didn’t see him.

You smile up at him, crossing your arms as you lean back in your chair. “The only way you could even think that, is if you were watching me. So you tell me, Katsuki, how long was it?”

He grins as he places his hands on the edge of the desk on either side of him and leans down towards you, his face inches away from yours. His eyes hold your gaze, his crimson eyes blazing like an unhinged wildfire as he speaks, “See, it’s my job to watch you. I work here, dumbass,” he says, his eyes dropping down to your chest as you cross your arms even tighter. God, I’m such an idiot. Of course he’s watching me because he has to. What the fuck was I thinking? Further embarrassment creeps across your face at the thought of even considering that he wanted you. Then, he leans in closer, the sound of his voice a warm whisper against your ear as he speaks, “What’s your excuse?”

You almost stop breathing. Your thoughts frantically trying to come up with something; anything that wasn’t the truth. You come up blank, your expression must’ve given him the answer he was looking for, because he laughs. He laughs in your face, and as much as you want to be completely pissed off, you’re distracted by the glint of the piercing poised in the center of his tongue. Fuck.

Subduing his laughter he sits up just enough to look down at you, raising an eyebrow as he smirks, “You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you? That I was watching you because I wanted to?” You glare at him, the all consuming mixture of rage and embarrassment spreading through you as your face flushes. Your nails are digging into your arms so hard that you can feel it through your sweatshirt. You can’t think of a single thing to say, but your mouth moves without thinking.

Your eyes connect, and you spit out exactly what your mind is silently screaming, “Fuck off.” You make sure you don’t look away, pointedly challenging him to say anything remotely clever in response. The grin spreading across his face is the first sign that you’ve lost that challenge.

“Pretty nasty mouth for someone who’s in the library more often than her own room.”

You flare up, everything you’ve been holding in boiling over as you bite back at him, “You don’t know shit about me,” your voice is tight, and growing louder as you let the words spill out of your mouth, “I’m here all the fucking time because I can’t deal with the fact that I have to watch everyone around me have a life while I bury myself in school. I don’t have friends or shit else to do because I don’t have fucking time. I just want to get through this hell so I can finally just do what I want! So could you, please, get the fuck out of my face so I can go.”

“The door’s right there, you could’ve left a long time ago, but here we are,” he says, his smirk dripping with sarcasm.

I’m so fucking done with this shit. You move to get up, grabbing your bag off of the desk as you turn towards the door. Your hand is reaching for the doorknob when you hear his voice again.

“Did you not hear me?”

“Loud and fucking clear. I’m leaving aren’t I?”

“For someone who’s so fucking smart you really are a dumbass,” he says, standing as he takes a step towards you.

Why haven’t you left yet? Why haven’t you opened the door and - It hits you. You replay his words in your mind, picking up on something you were too pissed off to realize until this moment.

You turn around to face him, and you’re eye level with his shoulders, inches away from you. The warm amber scent of him enveloping you as your gaze travels up his neck to the angle of his jaw, finally making eye contact as you speak, “How would you know I’m here more often than my own room?”

“Tch. Like I said before, I work here,” he says, before moving closer, the heat of his breath brushing against your face as he continues, “but I’ll admit getting to see you makes my job less shitty.”

Your chest tightens, the fluttering in your core enough to make your pulse quicken as your lips part slightly.

He’s watching your face, smirking as your body tenses up when he closes the space between you. “But if you really want to leave...” he whispers against your skin, careful not to touch you as you look up at him with pleading eyes. He brings his lips a breadth away from yours, dropping his gaze to your mouth. “I’m going to fuck you on the desk.” he says, his hands still in his pockets as his words melt into you, “If you don’t want me to, tell me right fucking now.”

He’s so close to you, all you had to do was tilt your head up just a little more and your lips would touch. The thought invaded your mind, your breath catching in your throat as your body reacted to his words, tightening your core to the point of aching. You lift your eyes to meet the heat of gaze as you speak, “Do it, then-“

“Fucking finally,” he growls, his voice raspy and low as he makes contact, his lips moving against yours as the palms of his hands travel up to your face. They slide into your hair at the nape of your neck, collecting it in his fist, while the other hand grips your hips. He pulls you into him, moving you against the wall adjacent to the door. Your back meets the wall, the impact strong enough to make sound and your mind is blank. The feeling of his hands, his lips, his body pressed against yours, overwhelming your senses as you grasp onto the fabric of his sweater. His kiss is hungry and breathless, low groans vibrating against your lips as his pierced tongue slips between them, tasting the heat of your wet mouth.

You whimper into him, your body on fire from the inside out as the thin thread of self control you have left is priming to snap. His lips curl up into a smirk at the sounds lilting out of you and a growl ripples through him as he bites your bottom lip hard enough for you to open your eyes. He releases you, his breaths heavy as he presses his forehead against yours. His scarlet irises bore into you as he speaks, “We’re going to have to do something about all that fucking noise you’re making,” he smirks, his eyes traveling from your swollen lips to your legs, taking note of how tightly you’re clenching your thighs together. “You’re a mess already aren’t you?” His breathy laugh brushes against your face as he pulls away hooking his index fingers into the waistband of your leggings and tugging just enough for them to snap back once he releases.

A soft gasp escapes your lips at the impact against your sensitive skin, the heat pooling between your thighs as your insides clench. Your body is screaming, begging for him to touch you and your mouth moves on its own. “Please,” you whisper up at him, your hands finding the hem of his sweater as you spread your fingers against his skin, feeling every ridge of hardened muscle beneath it.

He drops his gaze down to your hands as your fingertips explore the surface of his skin. A low rumble vibrates through his chest, as his eyes sear into you, “Don’t forget, you fucking asked for this.” His hands move, pulling your sweatshirt over your head and dropping it onto the floor before he leans into you, pushing his leg between your thighs while he holds both your wrists in one hand above your head against the wall. His other hand grips your hip, his fingertips digging into your skin as his lips meets your neck.

You start to move against him, trying to get a taste of the friction your body is aching for while he teases your neck with open mouth kisses. His breath is hot against your skin, teeth sinking into you, as low groans escape his lips. He feels so fucking good and you haven’t been fucked in so long you might cum before he even gets to feel how wet you are. His lips move up to your ear, his voice low as his breath caresses your skin, “You’re riding my thigh like it’s something else, baby girl.” The hand gripping your hip slides under your shirt as he speaks, palming your breast while he kisses the space behind your ear. His teeth graze against your skin as a rippling growl erupts from him, pulling a whimper from your lips while your pussy grinds against his thigh.

You can feel the length of his hardening cock against your leg as you press yourself against him. He pinches your nipple, igniting every nerve in your body as he grins against your skin, feeling your body bend for him. A gasping moan escapes your lips, the sound filling the space around you as your head drops back against the wall. He pulls his head back just enough to watch your reaction; your eyes squeezed shut as your whines spill from your open mouth. “I can feel your pussy clenching for me, y/n,” he says, his lips trailing down your exposed neck as his hand moves to your other hardened nipple. The pressure he applies is sharp and delicious causing every muscle in your body to tighten, your panting breaths mingling with his hums of satisfaction as he feels you on the edge of unraveling at his touch.

“Fuck...ha...hahh...Katsuki...” You’re on your tiptoes relishing in the feeling of his teasing fingers as your insides coil imagining the feeling of him stretching you out. He grinds against you, his arousal pressing against your leg as your nails dig into the palms of your hands. “Mmm, You’re so fucking sexy, so desperate for this fucking cock aren’t you?”

Your lips are moving before you think, your mind consumed with the heat swelling inside you, “Yes...yes...please.” You lean forward in an attempt to meet his lips but he pulls away, releasing your hands as he moves to grip your hips. You let out a small yelp when he picks you up under your ass, and turns to put you on top of the desk. His hands slide down to the crook of your legs as he stands between them, eyeing you beneath his lashes when he speaks, “Pull them down.” You lean back, searching his face as you try to collect your thoughts. You must’ve taken longer than he wanted because he leans in, placing his hand on the wall behind you as his crimson eyes burn into yours, “You’re taking your sweet fucking time, and you’re already soaked down here?”

His fingers move to your warm center, feeling your arousal soaking through your leggings as he presses circles against your aching clit. Your legs involuntarily squeeze around his hips as his hand drops from the wall to grip a fistful of your hair, pulling your head back to make you look at his face as his voice drops, “Spread...your fucking...legs.” Your pulse quickens, your blood heating up as he slows the pace of the pressure he’s circling around your clit and you whimper up at him, giving into the ripples of pleasure coursing through your body.

You want more, you lean back on your hands, hips moving to the rhythm his fingers play against your drenched core as your pleading eyes meet his gaze. You’re in a fucking library, in a room with a huge ass window. But the thought of someone seeing you makes your pulse speed up, sending a heightened thrum of pleasure streaming through you, “Hnnngh...ffuckk…” your hips move faster, cloying for more pressure, more friction, more feeling. Katsuki notices your body’s reaction, tightening his hold on your hair, causing your eyes to squeeze shut from the slight prickle of pain. “You wanna cum so fucking bad don’t you? That pussy of yours is begging for this fucking cock.” All you can do is pant in response, your eyes opening to see his face, smirking down at you as his fingers push harder, “Show me, show me how much you want it so I can see that dripping pussy.”

A breathy moan slips out of your throat as you sit up to push the fabric of your leggings down to your ankles. Katsuki releases his hold on your hair, watching your every movement as his gaze drops down to the essence glistening against your swollen lips. You hear his sharp intake of breath, the air hissing between his teeth as his eyes hungrily take you in before he meets your gaze again. His hooded eyes are a shadowed crimson, the heat rising up to your cheeks as you squirm beneath him.

One of his hands moves to grip the top of your thigh, the pads of his fingers digging into your skin as he slips two fingers from his other hand into his mouth. Your pussy tightens, watching him give his fingers a gentle suck as his gaze locks onto yours. The image is lethal, your breath catching at the sight of his wet fingers sliding past his lips and dropping to your aching pussy to tease your entrance. “Fuck, you’re so fucking wet baby,” he hisses between his teeth, as he pinches your clit, the pressure enough to pull a gasping moan from your throat.

Your eyes flutter closed as you stifle a moan and lean your head back against the wall. His fingers maddeningly toy with you as you hear him unbuckle his belt. Sheer curiosity makes your eyelids hover open as you look down, taking in the size of him, his hand wrapping around his thick shaft and gliding over the prominent veins to his cherried swollen tip, dripping pre. You want to taste him so badly, your mouth begins to water and all you can think about is feeling his throbbing cock inside you. You don’t give a fuck if it barely fits. Your pussy clenches at the thought, wordlessly begging to be stuffed to the brim.

A low growl ripples through his chest, “I don’t even have to look at your face to know your pussy’s begging for this cock.” He thumbs the throbbing head of his dick, swirling the pre around his tip while his eyes bore into you. You couldn’t look away from his gaze if you wanted to, even as his fingers leave your aching core to pull you down with a rough tug at the crook of your legs, forcing your ass to the edge of the desk. He leans over your body, bringing his face inches away from yours, sliding a pre soaked thumb into your awaiting mouth flattening your tongue against his calloused finger. You wrap your lips around it, gently sucking and swirling your tongue, tasting his arousal for the first time.

A low moan rises from your throat, vibrating around him as you watch his eyes darken. He presses down against your tongue, forcing your mouth open as he growls, “Mmm you’re a naughty little slut aren't you...” His words send your insides fluttering, your hands balling into fists as your muscles tighten, your walls clamping around nothing but air as you pout. You don’t give a fuck anymore. Someone could stand directly in front of that massive fucking window and record the whole fucking thing. It doesn’t matter. You want him, right fucking now. You roll your hips, grinding your wet pussy against his hard cock. His dick twitches in response grinding through your slit and hitting your clit sending a simpering moan spilling from your open mouth.

You feel him press harder against your tongue and his voice drops, “Such a fucking tease,” he slides his length through your swollen lips, his heat seeping into you as he whispers, “You want this fucking cock? Let’s see how quiet you can be and maybe, I’ll let you cum.” He releases your tongue, slipping his hand under your shirt to swirl his slick fingers around your nipple. You bite your lip, attempting to silence the whimpers rising from your throat as your back arches at his touch, your hands craving to touch him. You reach up, sliding your hands under the fabric of his sweater as you drag your nails down his back. A guttural growl emanates from his chest as he ruts against you, every ridge of his thick cock sliding into your clit.

You can feel yourself melting beneath his hands, his fingers tugging at your nipples as his body moves down leaving soft bites and licks in his wake. The heat of his breath and the cool kiss of the metal stud in his tongue meets your dripping center and it’s enough to send goosebumps flooding across your skin. In one swift motion he’s on his knees between your legs, the back of your thighs resting on his shoulders and his hands gripping you to pull your plush wet lips closer to his smirking mouth. Fuck, fuck, fuck, I’m not going to be able to- “Shhhh,” you watch his lips as he smiles, looking directly at you. You swallow the moan threatening to escape your lips but your shallow breaths are giving you away, he fucking knows I won’t be able to take this...

Then, he’s inhaling you, his tongue slipping into your clenching pussy, licking from your entrance to your clit while he looks directly into your eyes as he pulls away, “Fuck. You taste so fucking good.” His voice is heated and low, the evidence of your arousal glistening on his lips as he speaks. The image sends your insides fluttering, your muscles tensing down to your toes as your legs attempt to constrict around him. You’re squirming already but he’s got you pinned, wide open and spread out, at the mercy of his vicious fucking mouth.

He doesn’t give you a chance to catch your breath before he’s latching onto you, his hot wet tongue delving into your silky walls as his piercing vibrates against you with even the slightest groan. You gasp for air, eyes squeezed shut, fingers intertwined in his hair you grind into him, completely blissed out and swimming in the waves of pleasure ebbing through you with every flick and suck. You’re a fucking mess, trying to maintain some modicum of control as he mercilessly swirls his tongue around your pulsing clit. His teeth nestle around it, gently rolling your bundle of nerves between them as he flicks his piercing against you, pulling a low groan from the depths of your core.

He growls, licking your pussy from your clenching entrance to your base of your clit before he looks up at you, “How am I gonna fuck you if you can’t keep quiet with just my fucking tongue, hmm?” The loss of pressure makes you whine, you’re so fucking close. He smirks at you, one of his hands releases your thigh, dropping down to push two of his thick fingers into your warm weeping center. His eyes follow his movements, watching as you take him in, curling his fingers to brush against your most sensitive spot as he slides in and out of you. It’s too much, but you choke down the sobbing whimper cloying in your throat. Your legs shake, breasts heaving as your panting breaths quicken with every thrust of his fingers. You’re biting your lip so hard to keep quiet you might draw blood, but you lean back, putting your weight on your hands to lift your hips and roll into him, letting his long fingers push deeper inside you.

You clamp down around him, your body begging for more; more feeling, more friction, more pressure, you want every little piece of it. You’re at the edge of your control, your mouth falling open in a silent moan as your eyes flutter closed and your head falls back. You can feel him watching you, humming his approval as his other hand releases your leg, “Mmmm, such a good fucking girl with this greedy fucking pussy. You wanna cum for me don’t you...?”

“Yes-yess, pleeease...haah-fuck, FUCK.”

He breathes a soft laugh over your sopping pussy before he devours your soft lips hungrily, lapping up your slit as the rhythm of his fingers speed up.

“Hnnngh...hah-haah, please-fuck, fuck, fuck!”

He’s drowning you, your senses overflowing with the feeling of heat through your body, pushing you to the brink of release. Your pussy clenches around him, his tongue sending sparks through every nerve, punishing you with his thrumming piercing as he moves to sit up on his knees, pushing further into you. He knows you’re close; his hand slides up your body, his nails dragging across your skin until he reaches your lips, sliding two of his fingers into your panting mouth.

He moans into you, making his piercing vibrate faster. Your mouth waters as you wrap your tongue around his fingers, nibbling and sucking on them. You’re a mess, unable to conjure anything except slurred muffled groans around his thick fingers. His lips pull away just enough for you to feel him growl at you.

“Cum for me, right fucking now.”

Fuck...fuckfuckfuck! Your body reacts to his words, wrapping both hands around his arm, digging your nails into his skin as your climax crashes into you. You’re struggling for air but you don’t need it, the blinding light behind your eyelids rippling with the waves of pleasure imploding from your core. He doesn’t stop, his fingers milking your insides, extending your orgasm for everything you’ve got until he slips them out of you, only to delve into your tightening entrance with his tongue, lapping up every drop of your cum.

“So fucking sweet,” he breathes, slipping his fingers out of your mouth, using both of his hands to push the back of your thighs up, inhaling everything you have left as the last tremors spiral out of your body. Eyes closed, floating in the afterglow of your release, you feel him pull your legs back down as he stands in one swift motion. He grips the top of your thighs, roughly tugging you down until your throbbing core kisses the ridges of his dick. Your eyes snap open. Fuck, he’s fucking huge.

Your expression must’ve voiced your thoughts because he expels are a breathy laugh, “You feel that don’t you, how fucking hard I am from tasting your perfect fucking pussy.” His cock twitches against you and your hips roll into him as you moan, gripping the edge of the desk with both hands as you look up at him. Your legs wrap around his waist, tightening from the flush of heat emanating from your core. You want him inside you, to feel the mind numbing combination of pleasure and pain as he stretches you out.

Your voice is a whimper, “Katsuki….please.” You continue to grind against him, your arousal and his dripping pre making you slick and hot. A guttural growl rips through his chest as he leans over you, the palm of his hand slamming on the wall as he brings his lips to your ear. Your body stills, your breaths coming in shallow pants as his muscle toned body presses against you, “Please, what? Tell me what you want, y/n.”

His tongue flicks at your neck, making your words come out in gasps, “Fuck...fuck me...please, please…” Your hands glide beneath the fabric of his sweater, splaying out to pull him closer into you while your nails dig into him. Your back bows off the surface of the desk, tightening your legs around him trying to gain more friction to appease your swollen clit.

“Be a good girl,” he breathes into your ear, “ and control that pretty mouth of yours or I’ll have to do it for you.”

You bite your lip, your need for him coiling inside you as you feel him push himself up far enough for you to feel him hovering over you. Your eyes meet and his hand moves to position himself into you. The head of his cock presses against your soaking entrance, slowly slipping into you as you fight the low moan rising from your throat. He hisses between his teeth as he watches you, “Fuck, you’re so fucking tight.” Both of his hands press into the desk, his arms caging you in, as he looks between your bodies, watching himself ease into you inch by inch. He’s already stretching you out, your velvet walls clenching around him as his wet cock slides inside of your clenching pussy. The muscles in his arms tighten, his body tensing as he begins to move his hips, pushing further into you.

“You’re clamping down on me and I’m not even all the way in yet,” he smirks at you, watching your face flush as your pulse quickens. Fuck...he’s going to fucking break me. But you’re too far gone, you want him, and your body speaks for you, lifting your hips as your nails claw into his back. A growl rips through his chest as his head dips, bringing his forehead to yours, “You want it? Okay then…”

Before you’re able to take another breath, he snaps his hips, pulling a yelp from your mouth when he bottoms out inside you. “Fffuck, you feel so fucking good.” You’re whining, struggling to accommodate his size but relishing in the mind numbing feeling of fullness your pussy was already becoming addicted to. “Not so cocky once that pretty little cunt is fucking full, huh?”

The only response you can offer is a whimper as he starts to move. He rotates his hips, grinding deeper into you, the tip of his cock brushing against your cervix. You turn your head, your eyes squeezing shut as you try to stifle the sounds rising from your throat. Your open mouth meets his arm and your teeth sink into him as he pulls out just enough to slam back into you hitting your limit. It takes everything in you not to cry out, but the pain is dulled by the overwhelming feeling of pleasure each deep powerful thrust rains down on you.

“Haah-hah, fuck baby, you’re taking me so well.” His movements find a rhythm, rolling his hips again and again filling you to the brim with every snap. The curve of his cock pushes his tip against your most sensitive spot, stirring your insides, making your body temperature rise with every panting breath. The feeling is intoxicating, drunk on the way your bodies move together, every nerve firing, desperate to drink him in more. You roll your hips, taking the full impact of every merciless thrust, your breath hitching as you choke back a sob. Your nails drag across the span of his back as you hear him hiss through his teeth. His muscles tense, back arching as a growl vibrates through his body. “Ah- FUCK. Ooooh, you want it don’t you. Yeah? You want it?”

“Katsuki, please, I want- I want more.” You’re a sputtering mess, your walls fluttering around his hard cock as he pushes off the desk, gripping your thighs in both of his massive hands. He pulls you further down bringing your ass off the edge of the desk. Your body is completely at his mercy as he pushes deeper into you, his fingertips digging into your skin as his pace speeds up. You don’t have time to adjust to his movements, he drives into you, snapping his hips, impaling you over and over.

“Ahh-ah-fffucckk,” you moan, failing miserably at staying quiet, it’s fucking impossible. It feels too good, you’re too full, overflowing with the sensations pulsing through your body. You grab onto the edge of the desk, fingers gripping the wood as his heavy sack smacks against your ass. “Mmmm,” he growls, What? Can't fucking take it? Fuck- cant control that slutty fucking mouth can you? Pussy drooling all over my fucking cock.” He lifts your shirt with one hand pulling it up to your open mouth and you immediately bite down, the fabric doing everything it can to muffle your stuttering moans.

“That’s right. Such a good fucking girl,” his fingers trail down your body, groping your breasts, pinching your nipples as every ridge of his cock fills all the space you have inside you. “Fuck- your so fucking sexy baby- you wanna cum don’t you...keep biting down on that fucking shirt.” You’re so close, so fucking close, the coil in your core threatening to snap. He feels you clamp down on him, moving one hand to press down on your stomach and the other to your throbbing clit.

The pressure pushes your spot against his dick, his punishing thrusts slamming into it every time as he rubs maddening circles around your clit. “Hnnnnf-hnnnngh!” Your shirt muffles your sobs as you squeeze your eyes closed, the tears prickling at the corners as your back arches, your head thrown back as far as it can go. “Fuck yes- cum on this cock baby...cum for me.”

His words are your undoing, any ounce of control you have left exploding into the myriad of colors flashing behind your eyes. The thin thread at the base of your spine snaps, catapulting you into the stratosphere, overheating and gasping for air. The feeling saturates you, expelling any and every thought your mind could attempt to conjure. You squeeze your legs around him, every muscle in your body tightening as your pussy clamps down on his throbbing dick.

“Fuck- FUCK-mmmm, get ready to swallow every drop of this fucking cum baby.” His voice washes over you, the waves of your orgasm still rippling through your body as you feel him slide out of you. He hooks a finger in the neckline of your shirt, pulling you to sit up as he steps back between your legs. Your eyes land on his straining cock, slick from your arousal and the dripping pre his hand is fisting up and down his shaft. “Open...your fucking…mouth.”

You want to taste him, your mouth waters watching his cock twitch in his hands. Your body is so fucking spent, your legs would give out if you tried getting on your knees. You push your ass back, hinging at the hips and leaning forward, looking up at him through your lashes as you hold your tongue out of your open mouth for him. “Ughggh, fuck,” he groans, watching you as the heat from your breath caresses his dick.

His hand moves faster, his breath catching as his muscles tense. “Fuck-FUCK- you’re so fucking sexy baby, you’re gonna take all this fucking cum aren’t you...yeah? Show me...wrap those lips around my dick baby.” Your insides flutter as you swirl your tongue around the swollen pink head of his cock, tasting the mixture of his pre and your arousal. You inhale the intoxicating scent of him before hollowing your cheeks and taking in as much of him as you can. “Hah-haah, just like that baby-FUCK.” He moves his hand from the base of his dick to the back of your head, your eyes widening as he starts to thrust into your mouth.

His other hand rests under your throat, holding you still while he face fucks you. A low moan rises in your throat, vibrating around his cock as his uneven breaths melt into groans and hisses. “So fucking perfect,” he’s panting, his voice raspy and rumbling, “Taste your slutty fucking pussy on my cock baby?- haah-hah- all this cum I’m gonna shoot down your throat’s cus’ve you.” He’s thrusting harder, his pace speeding up as he stretches you out, hitting the back of your throat. You gag around him, your saliva dripping from the corners of your mouth as tears begin to fall, “Choke on that cock baby, that’s right- take - all of it- fuck, Fuck-FUCK!”

The hand on the back of your head fists your hair as he throws his head back, all of his muscles tensing up as he bucks into your mouth spraying hot thick ropes of cum down your throat. You swallow every drop of him, his chest heaving with his heavy breaths as he slides his dick out of your mouth and pulls your hair, making you sit up. His lips crash into yours, his tongue lapping into your mouth, tasting the remains of your combined arousal. He releases the grip on your hair, bringing his hand down to your cheek. His touch is surprisingly gentle as he pulls you in further, sighing into you before he pulls away.

You look up, your gaze meeting the smirk on his face before noticing the smug fucking look in his eyes. You roll your eyes, curling your lips into a grin, “What’s that look for?”

“You had a hard time staying quiet in public,” he says, smiling mischievously at you. “I’m wondering what you’d sound like if I fucked you somewhere else.”

Your eyes narrow. How is he still such a sexy fucking asshole. “I wouldn’t mind testing that theory,” you say, smirking as you lean in, looking up at him, legs dangling off the desk.

"Tch," Katsuki eyes you, his scarlet eyes scanning your body as he steps out from between your legs, pulling his pants up and buckling his belt. He looks over at you, "Then, I don’t know what you’re still sitting there for. I’ve gotta clean up the mess you made.”

You grin at him, the irony of him fucking you until your neighbors can hear you screaming almost makes you laugh, pushing the thought of your class project completely out of your mind.

Tags: @sweet-darling91 @aztecbrujeria @tarot-milktea I love you guys 💜 If anyone else wants to be tagged lmk :)

[batsandbugs]

Help (I Need Somebody) Help

AN: Hey everyone! So I’ve got a new fic, this is inspired from an ask from @glitchon​. They wanted a “Wrong Number Daminette AU”, they gave me a couple of things they wanted to see, and so I went to town. I hope y’all enjoy! Tag list is open, and as always the pictures for the moodboard aren’t mine. 

Chapter 1 

The patter of rain outside Marinette’s window wasn’t keeping her awake, no, the creeping numbness consuming every inch of her body – a craving for oblivion and stimulation all at once – did that on its own.

But the rain certainly wasn’t helping.

On nights like these, where everything was too little and too much, she would find herself escaping to her rooftop balcony and gaze at the stars. Tikki would lie beside her whispering tales of elegance and power; the stories of miraculous holders of long ago fighting against those who would cause the world harm. Her constant companion – a voice of reason when her own brain shouted too loud – was the only reason she was doing as well as she was.

And Marinette knew herself; she wasn’t doing well.

But when the skies covered with clouds, drenching the streets, and blocking the stars it forced her to remain indoors. The hum of electricity, faint but noticeable – a noise she had been unable to ignore ever since donning her miraculous - an irritating background hum. The powers she received when untransformed existed as a blessing and a curse. It without a doubt saved her from one too many klutzy moments, but there were days she missed the ignorance about the nuances of the world around her.

Another moment of strained silence passed before she had enough. She crawled out from under her warmed covers, the cold November night chilling her. Being careful not to disturb the sleeping Kwami, Marinette stuffed her feet into a pair of slippers and descended from her loft bed, and wandered over to her chaise. Crawling under a large knitted blanket – a project from a few years ago - she glanced out her window watching the illuminated rain run down the pane.

The change in location did nothing to help the static in her brain as it wrapped its meticulous tendrils around every train of thought that tried to usher her towards coherence.

She wanted to scream.

She wanted to smile.

She wanted to cry.

She wanted to care.

She wanted to feel something, anything, other than the gaping emptiness slowly consuming her.

And yet as the moments ticked by, and the rain continued to patter, nothing came.

Marinette was scared nothing ever would.

A small light flickered in the corner of her eye. She slipped off her chaise and walked over to her desk – her phone alight with a notification.

Well, at least there was the internet to help her escape from the directionless dread snapping at her heels.

Grabbing her phone, she retreated back under her knitted blanket, content to mindlessly scroll until the need for sleep won against her brain. It was a Friday night and with a weekend planned for ignoring online harassment from her classmates and completing piles of homework – and the potential ever-looming presence of an Akuma attack – Marinette felt secure in ignoring sleep.

She unlocked her phone.

And a slight shiver ran down her spine.

Well, it wasn’t exactly a normal shiver. Over the past four years, she had developed a particularly good sense at detecting between a normal physiological reaction, and a magic-induced one. This? This chill was magic.

Her fingers tapped on her messaging app with little input from her. Opening a new message, she typed in a number, seemingly random, but she knew by now each movement was laced with luck. Once finished the push driving her to such measures faded, leaving Marinette with a choice.

Tikki did her best to explain the phenomena several years ago when it first appeared. As Ladybug she tapped into the Strings of the universe, where her powers of creation and luck came from. When dealing with luck she subtly manipulated the flow of events around her. At first, only when transformed, and only able to rise to the surface when calling for her Lucky Charm. Eventually, the manipulation became unconscious but continuously present, unable to be directed, but still there, helping in subtle ways. And on occasion, when she wished hard enough – a little push there and a little shove there – and who knew how many blows it took to break a lamppost, and maybe she had hit it a little harder than normal?

But the older she grew, and the longer she wielded the Miraculous of Luck and Creation, the more powerful she grew outside of her transformations. And, on occasion, unconsciously tapped into the probabilities of the universe. The little nudges caused her to make and take decisions and actions she never would. But every time it did a minor problem would be solved, or an opportunity would arise, or a good thing happened that would make a normal person smile at the universe and comment on how luck favored them today.

Marinette knew better.

It was a side effect of her existence mingling with the powers of the universe. Tikki told her, within time, she would feel for the Strings herself and be able not only to manipulate her own but others’ too.

It was not the first time Marinette experienced a panic attack over her powers, and it certainly would not be the last.

Which brought her to her choice; and suddenly, sitting in her darkened room at two in the morning staring at her phone with a random number on the screen, resembled being perched on top of the Eiffel Tower, feet dangling over the edge, the l’appel du vide – the call of the void – twisted around her, caressing her like a friend and urging her to just… fall.

A random number, a string of electricity running into the darkness, unknown and unknowable. Like shouting into the wind at the beach, the water stretching far as the eye could see, the words would take to the sky and disappear.

Only, a text would go… somewhere.

To… someone.

And they might, just maybe, respond.

A shiver, this time her own, rolled through her.

Marinette glanced up at her loft bed, a small red glow, barely perceptible to the human eye, lingering in the air.

Tikki wouldn’t be pleased.

The tiny Kwami always urged Marinette to caution when it came to taking risks like these. Even the goddess herself had a tough time figuring out where actions prompted from the Strings would lead. And this… this had the potential to go very, very, wrong.

But…

Every time Marinette followed the urgings of the universe, she had never been disappointed. True, its effects could be small, barely noticeable at times, but not always. The effect could be much larger. Marinette was always pleased whatever the outcome.

Even if the responsibility of the rest of the power laid heavier on her shoulders with each passing day.

Everywhere Marinette turned she stood alone. Cut off from her parents by necessity; the overwhelming urge to keep them safe, to keep them out of danger forced her to remain silent and ready lie at the drop of a hat. Cut off from her friends and classmates by manipulation; Lila succeeded in twisting them to her whims – the girl had no mercy to stay her vicious tongue, no morals to limit the stories her mind twisted into being. Cut off from mentorship by a quirk of magic; Master Fu deserved to live the rest of his life without guilt, but for his guiding influence to be taken away meant floundering on what to do next. Cut off even from her own partner; Chat flipped between hot and cold, flirtatious and disinterested, reliable and fickle. The days where they could talk about everything and nothing during evening patrols had faded away into uncomfortable silences.

That left Luka… sweet, sweet Luka.

Marinette sighed.

Holding herself together on a good day was hard enough. What good would she be as a girlfriend? Flighty and closed off, unable to open up, constantly in fear of when Hawkmoth would strike next.

No. She had made the right choice, telling the budding musician they were better off as friends.

Glancing down at her phone, the screen locked once more – a group photo of her, Adrian, Kagami, and Luka lit up behind cracked glass – she smiled, tinged with bittersweetness though it was. At least Adrian, who stuck by her side through it all, found happiness. And Kagami had proven to be a stalwart friend. Marinette still wished now and again for different circumstances, but she would never begrudge two of her closest friends for finding comfort together.

And Tikki, while a constant presence, and a needed voice of reason was still a goddess, a creature unfathomably old. Still sweet, caring, and understanding, but detached from the constant stress and pressures of human existence. She was unable to truly be an outlet for Marinette to confide in.

With everything laid out before her culminating together in a bleak understanding of her isolation, it appeared obvious her actions, driven by the luck of the universe, seemed like sanctioned permission.

She unlocked her phone once more. 

Taking a quick breath, the wind whipping smugly beneath her dangling feet, she began to type.

[dovakhiindrabbles]

For the prompt 43 with Brynjolf please?

Of course! I’d be more than happy to write the prompt for you! I only hope you have an amazing day and enjoy! <3

43. “Come with me.” 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nocturnal was a god among mortals -- a daedric prince who oversaw the murky shadows and all who hid among them. Whispers heard throughout the world told of how she could even be found lingering in those shadows, an inky blackness clinging to her as if the very sun itself couldn’t reveal her. 

She was above the follies of mortals and yet couldn’t help herself from meddling. Especially those of her most loyal followers -- the Nightingales. 

She’d noticed from her times looming within the darkness how you and Brynjolf interacted. How hands briefly brushed and fingers just barely interlocked. How passing glances held just a second too long to be unimportant. How no matter where you went, you went together. 

Your feelings for one another were so painfully obvious an infant could see it -- so apparently the two of you had even less awareness. 

It was an opportunity Nocturnal couldn’t pass up.

Between the two of you, she first sought out Brynjolf. The man fancied himself as clever, often to such a degree that a snippy remark had slipped out in some of their conversations. 

It was during the night when she caught him, just outside the Blue Palace where he’d managed to escape from. Guards spilled out and yells could be heard from each and every corner -- even those caught in shadow. Brynjolf had slipped between two manors where the moonlight missed just so. An ornate, extravagant jewelry box clamped between his grip with more gemstones and gold decorating it than most would see in their entire life. 

From there, Nocturnal revealed herself in the darkest crevice space could offer. The darkness extended her outwards and still clung to her despite her physical form. She was a void, and the shape she created only split itself apart in the pure absence of light -- not even the brightest lantern would be able to paint her figure. 

“My Nightingale.”

Brynjolf nearly jumped into the open road in shock, smacking his back up against the wall in frustration upon realizing. “Fucking fuck are you-”

He looked up at Nocturnal’s imposing figure and thought better of himself. He spoke softly, his gaze alternating between her and the streets cluttering further and further of curious onlookers and furious guards. “My lady, what can I do for you?” 

She made a motion with her hand that brought strings of the void trailing after her fingertips. “On the contrary, I am here to offer you my assistance.” 

Brynjolf gave a cheeky grin. “Could you get me out of this mess?” 

“You are one of my most trusted followers with an agent of my own creation. There should be no situation beyond your skills.” 

“I know.” Brynjolf groaned. “Worth a shot. Meet me outside the gates, my lady?” 

She vanished without a word and Brynjolf proceeded to lift himself up onto the rim of one of the manor’s roof. He hoisted himself up and pressed his body close to the tiles, only lifting himself up to leap from home to home. In that time he truly was a shadow, beyond any light and any eyes that would make the foolish attempt to seek him out. 

Minutes later he was beyond Solitude’s walls and any outrage that still remained was drowned out by the falling and crashing of the waves below. Still hidden away safely in his coat was the jewelry box -- not so much as a scuff on it. Brynjolf impressed himself every time. 

As he began walking along the carved out path, Nocturnal reemerged. Her form freer beyond Solitude’s constant desire for warmth. She carried herself freely, and she took on a shape almost human, but not quite. There was always an unknowable aspect to Nocturnal that could never be described. Many daedra carried themselves in such a way, so that they could nearly blend in, but never be forgotten by anything lesser than a fool. 

“That was commendable.” Nocturnal hummed. Both a lightness and a deepness coexisted in her voice.

Brynjolf interlocked his fingers and stretched them out; a popping could be heard. He sighed dramatically. “All in a day’s work.” 

“I hope you are able to hide that treasure as well as you hide your feelings.” 

Brynjolf knew Daedric princes were meant to be incapable of understanding; downright incomprehensible sometimes. But this? It bewildered him. 

“I’m sorry?” 

“You and the other Nightingale?” 

Brynjolf cracked a grin. “Karliah?” He tested Nocturnal’s kindness.

“The other one.” She swatted a bit of darkness at him and like a tight band flung outward, it stung him. 

“Ah, that one.” Brynjolf rubbed at his little red mark where Nocturnal smacked him like a petulant child. “What of them?” 

Nocturnal stepped in front of him, a swirling blackness keeping her from ever truly touching the ground. “You both have feelings for one another?” 

Brynjolf did what he knew best, and dodged the question. “What like hate? Friendliness? Perhaps a bit of irritation?” 

“Do not attempt to evade me, Nightingale.” Nocturnal raised her voice and the night became that much more invasive. She settled herself quickly. “You are my servant, there is nothing I do not know. The darkest, most secretive parts of yourself are the ones I know best. Fortunately for you, I only wish to help.” 

Brynjolf wrinkled his nose and cracked beneath the pressure. It was a touchy subject, apparently. “Oh yeah? And how’s that?” 

“I need only open your eyes,” Nocturnal answered. “I think you’ll find it’s clear the feelings are mutual.” 

“I don’t want to be disrespectful my lady but-” 

Nocturnal cut him off. “Then don’t be.” 

Brynjolf scoffed. “But I don’t see how that’s possible.” 

She tipped her head to the side curiously. “How is that?” 

“Because there are a million other better people knocking on their door!” Brynjolf exclaimed it like it were obvious. “I mean why would someone like that choose someone like me?”

“Someone like you? Their equal?” 

Brynjolf scowled and huffed. “Like a thief could ever be on par with the Dragonborn.” 

Nocturnal simpered. “The Dragonborn themself also is a thief. Last I recall you two work closely together.” 

“Even still-” 

“The only one creating rifts in this relationship is you, my Nightingale. What are you afraid of?” 

He hesitated and in an instant Nocturnal knew. 

“Rejection.” 

Brynjolf’s hands tightened into tight, uneasy fists at the revelation. Nocturnal raised those hands and unfurled them, tracing lines of shadow along his palm. In the most peculiar way, it was soothing, and Brynjolf supposed it was her own... unique way of comforting him. 

“If I believed there was a chance the Dragonborn wouldn’t share those feelings I would not be here, speaking to you. I only want what is best for my followers.” 

“Besides,” Nocturnal mused. “if it goes poorly, you can simply submerge yourself within the shadows for eternity.” 

Brynjolf chuckled. “I might take you up on that offer.” 

“You won’t.” Nocturnal looked up at him with an emptiness one could consider her eyes. Her ‘windows to the soul’ only unveiled further darkness, but only in the way one shrouds themself beneath the shade of a blanket to escape what frightens them -- it was a relief, protection. “Because you won’t have to.” 

A moment later, Nocturnal disappeared within the void beneath her. She sank into the night that had soaked into the very deepest layers of the earth, leaving Brynjolf to himself and her words. 

By the time he’d made it to the Nightingale Hall, he’d made up his mind. 

You were sitting in the living quarters with Karliah, seated across one another and leaned both in the old, weary chairs. You’d been laughing, and Brynjolf could tell by the edges of your lips lifted up. The moment you saw him, you lit up. 

“Bryn! There you are! Karliah was starting to think you got lost along the way!” 

He snorted. “I could’ve. What a bitch of a walk.” 

Karliah furrowed her brow, amused. “You could’ve stolen a horse like a sane person.” 

“Maybe I like the quiet. You can hardly get any of it here.” 

She rolled her eyes at the very idea. “You wouldn’t know what to do without us.” 

Brynjolf laughed. “Absolutely lass.” 

He turned to you and his heart began to thump heavy and hard against his chest. Of all the things to bring him nerves in life, it was you bringing knots and tangles in his stomach. He took a deep breath and grasped your shoulder, gesturing. “Come with me.” 

Your eyes widened like saucers, but you stood up. To say the least, your curiosity was piqued. “Alright... what is it?” 

“I just wanted to talk to you, in private.” 

You ducked your head away to hide the red that burst onto your face. You folded your lips to hide a growing smile, but you were still clearly nervous, shuffling your feet and fidgeting with your hands. “Okay.” 

He led you outside where the evening had overtaken the sky overhead in a mix of blues, pinks, and the slightest tinge of purple. It was a beautiful sight, and one of the rare gifts that came with living in Skyrim. 

Brynjolf leaned against the stone cavern of the hall and ran his fingers through his hair. This felt so much easier in his head. “I ah -- I don’t know how to say this without sounding like an idiot.” 

“Bryn-” 

“No! I just -- I want to say this, but be patient with me, please. I’m not good with... emotions.” Brynjolf laughed. “You don’t get to be a man like me by being open.” 

You nodded and stayed, you were far too patient than he deserved. 

“I-” Brynjolf swallowed hard and took a few steps forward. A part of him wanted to reach for your hand but that’d be too much, too soon. If he -- if Nocturnal was wrong he didn’t want to dig his grave any further than necessary. 

“I love you.” 

There was a period of silence where Brynjolf considered Nocturnal’s offer to hide in the shadows forever. It was a horrible few seconds where Brynjolf’s vision was stagnant and the entire world was frozen in time. 

He only came back to reality when you took his hand. You enveloped it in your own and squeezed his palm fondly. You were warm, and your grip was steadfast. 

“I love you too.” 

Brynjolf rarely smiled from ear to ear, but he did then. He took you in his arms and spun you like one only saw in fairy tales. It was something he only just now realized he’d wanted to do for the longest time. There were so many things he wanted to do -- with you -- and now, he could. 

He would have to thank Nocturnal the next time they crossed paths. 

[trashogram]

Ryuk/Reader 3: Confident

A/N: I don’t know if I like this one. Reader is more evidently female as these progress. Should I post these on AO3? They’re not linear so I’m hesitant to do it.

He was lying on his side on the couch, head propped up by one hand. The furniture you could afford was small and if he stretched out to his full size, Ryuk would’ve hung off both ends by a generous amount. It was far better than constantly laying on the ground, and that stupid rug, though.

The god reached out with one lanky arm, poking at the coffee table in front until he got a good grasp of the remote and began channel-surfing. The door to your bedroom creaking open made his ears perk.  

“You’re gonna come out?” He twitched, but otherwise remained at rest. Your footfalls sounded against the dingy floor as you moved behind him.

“I would never keep a mirror in my bedroom.” You puffed away a few strands of errant hair as you marched over to the bathroom and turned on the light. You squinted, half to brace against the harsh light and half to keep from actually looking at your reflection.

“You think the first thing I wanna see in the morning is myself?” You asked incredulously.

It had the intended effect of making your shinigami laugh, and you took a second to smile at your accomplishment.

“Better’n seein’ me hangin’ over you, I’ll bet.” He called from the other side of the room.

You saw yourself in the mirror.

“I hate this. I hate clothes.” Not a fact at all. You’d garnered a renewed interest in fashion back in school. You’d also been thinking about clothing a lot more since your new companion had “appeared” and never left your side. His image was a constant in your mind, regardless of the rules of possession.

No one quite looked like Ryuk, nothing ordinary anyway. But then when you looked at horror-themed art and monsters from folklore, it stuck out to you that nothing dressed like him, either.

Which was a damn shame, to be honest. You’d have never expected the grim reaper to be dressed like a goth punk from the 1980s, with leather and chains and shiny jewelry. That didn’t mean it wasn’t a fascinating idea.

Fascinating enough to push you into spending the weekend looking for new things to wear, a particular theme in mind. It made you nervous, but it was easy to engage Ryuk when you reminded him that the mall had a Gamestop as well as boring clothes.

Now, you sighed. “This was such a waste of time. Why did I even do this?”

Lifting himself up by the back of the couch, Ryuk peered over the edge of the side. Nothing on TV, never was anything on TV.

Still, he was already regretting getting up from his previous position, as the light from your bathroom was too much in the otherwise dim apartment.

He opened his mouth, ready to tell you to quit whining, to put this off until tomorrow in broad daylight. But he stopped short.

You were in front of the mirror, leaning on the countertop and over the sink with a worried expression on your face. With your back turned to the shinigami, however, he was quick to divert his gaze from your face to your backside.

It wasn’t as if Ryuk had never seen you in a dress before, but nothing you ever wore was quite so… short. Not like this. The length of the skirt was just shy of your mid-thigh; if you were to lean over any further, he’d be able to see your panties no problem.

Regardless of your attempts at modesty - often changing behind your bedroom door or in the bathroom after demanding he wait outside - Ryuk had seen your undergarments. You could get careless; messy. Laundry was sometimes strewn on the floor, and when you got up in the morning, he almost always caught a glimpse of your underwear before you pulled on your pajama bottoms.

“The blankets are warm enough by themselves, don’t need pants.” You’d said once, so easily embarrassed.

This was different, though. You were too distracted to be on the defensive. Instead, you leaned forward even further, adjusting the front of your all-black outfit and revealing more of your soft skin. No trousers or leggings covered your legs, leaving you bare and showing how shapely you were.

There were white and green stripes briefly visible, hugging your bottom beneath the skirt before you straightened up.

You’d finally noticed him gawking, and your face went flush.

You turned around, still gripping the counter with one hand to keep steady. “It’s not the worst thing you’ve ever seen, is it?”

He’d had enough time to shift his pointed gaze from your rear up to your face. But the pout on your lips at his continued silence made Ryuk draw in a ragged breath. He rose from his seat and stretched a leg over the sofa like it was nothing, before looming over to get a closer look at you.

With your head craned back, looking up from your lashes at him expectantly and giving him a look at the extra little things you’d done. Your lips were glossy and your eyelids were the color of ash, and there was blood rising beneath your cheeks to emphasize it all. A little chain hung around your neck, basic and silver but complimenting how shiny you’d become.

He reached for you. His claws touched the hem of your dress, dipping beneath ever so slightly so that he could feel the warmth radiating from you. He hadn’t eaten for hours, but Ryuk swallowed back a mouthful of saliva as if he was holding back.

“Ngh.” Was his eloquent reply.

You blinked up at him, head cocking to the side in confusion. It looked so genuine, but it couldn’t possibly be. You were acting, joking - you had to be fucking with him.

His personal shyness wasn’t a secret by any means. By all the punishments known to his kind, he’d had such a hard time getting used to just being touched by you. Now you were here, looking sweet enough to eat.

The rumbling in Ryuk’s chest took time to build up into a laugh, like the starting of an engine or revving of a motor. It startled you into jumping back, away from his frame as it began to shake.

“You’re a real riot, kid.” His cackling was hollow.

But any falseness or dry sarcasm escaped you as you scoffed at him, fully offended. “Oh, I’m glad this is hilarious to you, too.”

Ryuk stopped eventually, and mimicked your prior head tilting. “Aww, come on. Don’t do that.”

The familiar grin on his face was stretched tight, but you barely noticed. 

“Do what?” You grumbled, looking away.  

As with his reaching for you from before, the spindly fingers that came to tip your face toward him again did not startle you so much as confuse you. You could feel his nails resting under your jaw carefully, even as you were focused on his eyes, far redder than you’d ever seen them before.

They were glowing as he stared at you.

“Don’t pretend to be shy, lookin’ like that.” Ryuk’s natural hunch seemed to accentuate, so close as he leaned down toward you that you could feel his words more than hear them.

He was so close, more to reiterate the irritation he felt at your attempts to remain like a deer in headlights. Ryuk couldn’t pinpoint his annoyance exactly - was it your joking that crossed the line or how pathetic you were, still pretending innocence. Or was it the frustration of seeing you now and knowing that you very well were so insecure that you couldn’t fathom being desired at all, by anyone? Or any thing, in his case.

Your lashes fluttered. “Ok… I’ll go change, then.”

You pulled away, awkwardly side-stepping the god of death. You headed back to your room, but not without noticing that Ryuk wasn’t following you.

He stood in the same spot, watching as you shut the door behind you.

[myrish-lace-love]

Fight/Flight/Freeze

Jonsa Halloween Day 3 - Tales or The Stranger

Summary:  Sansa Stark always looks forward to Halloween trips to the Wintertown pumpkin patch. This year, though, Joffrey Baratheon forces Sansa to go to the "Fright Fest" haunted house, a new addition to Wintertown's attractions. Sansa is stuck, until Jon Snow helps rescue her from danger. With Jon's help, Sansa remembers everything she loves about the Halloween season. For @jonsa-halloween

***

Sansa had grown up on Halloween tales of Samhain. The Gaelic holiday shared an evening with Halloween, and ushered in the darker half of the year. Her father had told them stories of how the barrier between the living and the dead thinned and shifted that night.

When Sansa’s mother passed away two years ago, Sansa’s father had tried to spin Samhain stories as a source of comfort, as a time when they all might feel closer to her. During the day, Sansa shared in the reminiscing about her mother, and could even bring herself to smile at some of her father’s stories.

Once night fell, that spell was broken, and a new spell descended. Sansa would keep the light on in her bedroom, startling each time the branches scraped against her window. When she closed her eyes, she'd seen her mother's ghost, red-eyed and terrible, shrieking for revenge. She'd woken up in tears each time.

She'd made the terrible mistake of calling Joffrey as she wept last Halloween. She'd imagined he'd be gallant, perhaps even come and rescue her.

Instead, Joffrey had been irritable, He’d hung up almost immediately. Sansa was mortified, but she's told herself at least it'd been quick - a phone call from a needy girlfriend that Joffrey would soon forget.

But the longer Sansa stayed with Joffrey, the more she understood that he coveted and collected moments of weakness. He derived a sick and twisted pleasure from exploiting those moments over and over.

Sansa had been raised to be a good and obedient girl, and for her that extended into being a good and obedient girlfriend, no matter the cost. Joffrey spent the rest of the year telling her grisly ghost stories and transforming movie night with his friends into horror fests.

Sansa had laughed, and tried to waive away her fears as part of just another game she and Joffrey played.

Joffrey's eyes would glint cruelly each time. He may not be able to tell when she was happy, or sad, or needed comforting, but he fed off her fear like a bloodsucking insect.

Sansa had tried to distract Joffrey this Halloween by offering up a trip to her favorite apple orchard, the Wintertown pumpkin patch. She'd expected to be turned down. She'd been excited, in fact, about taking Joffrey's inevitable cancellation and turning it into a trip with Margaery Tyrell. Margaery’s constant quest to get Sansa to break up with Joffrey would simply be a bonus.

Instead, to her surprise, he'd readily agreed.

Read more below or on AO3

Sansa had sighed, but taken it in stride. She'd been looking forward to the trip. The Wintertown pumpkin patch was full of her Halloween favorites - apple cider doughnuts, pumpkin picking, pony rides for the children who'd shout with joy.

Sansa had been one of those little girls once. Each year, until she was too old, she’d ridden a beautiful black pony she'd named Belle. She'd pretended she was an autumn queen and Belle was her loyal mare. Her father and her mother had smiled at her. The picture Robb had snapped of her patting Belle’s mane was tacked to her vanity mirror in her bedroom. Her mother and father had even indulged her in the gift shop, buying her a crown of fabric autumn leaves for her hair.

That was the Halloween Sansa loved - the changing of the seasons, the beauty of the leaves, the crisp fall air, the joy people took in being cozy and warm as the cold crept into town. Wintertown pumpkin patch meant all of those things to Sansa.

Wintertown pumpkin patch had changed with the times, however. The business needed to bring in more revenue, and now it was home to the "most terrifying" haunted house in the state, Fright Fest. Sansa had read the reviews of Fright Fest, hoping to see something like "it's got a few ghosts, but it's safe enough for the kids.”

Instead, patrons described it as "scarring" and "a bad idea for anyone under sixteen." More than one visitor gave the haunted house zero stars. Those reviews claimed that Fright Fest went too far, and "swept you up in the plot of a horror movie that you can't escape."

Joffrey, naturally, had been thrilled.

Now, as they pulled into the Wintertown parking lot, Joffrey was trying Sansa’s last nerve.

He argued with the parking attendant about being forced to park his Lexus in the mud. The apple orchard was in the middle of a field, and all of the spots were in the mud. Sansa fought to keep from rolling her eyes. She gazed up at the orchard’s trees and reveled in the movement of the leaves on the wind.

Joffrey grabbed her wrist, harder than he needed to. She stifled a whimper.

“Quit embarrassing me. Just....stop mooning over trees and let's get this over with.”

Get this over with . Sansa felt a flash of hope. She loved this apple orchard. She’d loved it since she was a child. If she could change Joffrey’s mind about what he wanted to do today...

"You're right about your father’s car, Joffrey," she said, giving him a bright smile. You shouldn’t have to endure getting mud all over the tires.”

She took a deep breath and pulled out another one of the strategies she used to appease him. “The staff here are rude, maybe they don’t deserve our business.” She winced inwardly as she said it. Her parents had brought her up to believe that everyone deserved to be approached with dignity and respect - especially people who weren’t in a position to object to bad treatment.

Joffrey's expression darkened, and Sansa knew she'd been too bold.

“This is my car, not my father's car.  He's practically given it to me, Joffrey snapped. “Besides we can't leave now, Sansa.” A sharp, predatory smile sprung to his lips, "We haven't been to the Fright Fest. And I know how much you've been looking forward to it.”

Sansa trembled. She hated haunted houses. She’d been frightened by them ever since she and her siblings had been children. Robb and Arya and Bran had tricked her into believing a ghost lived in the basement of the Winterfell mansion. They’d apologized, and Sansa had long since forgiven them, but the damage had been done.

Sansa did her best to calm the pounding of her heart as she and Joffrey paid their entry fee. Joffrey hustled her past the hayrides and pumpkin picking patch to the "main attraction" of the Fright Fest house. Sansa shrank back as the gloomy building loomed over her. The speakers blasted awful sounds - keening and wailing of lost souls. Worst of all, the speakers sometimes burst with a shrieking that stopped Sansa in her tracks.

That was it, the exact scream Sansa’s mother had made in Sansa's dream.

“Come on, stop stalling, let's go.” Joffrey practically shoved little kids out of the way to get to the entrance. The building was encrusted with gruesome rubber masks.  Snarling gargoyles covered the facade. Bloody handprints stained the ground, as if the victims had been crawling away after being slashed to pieces--

“Miss, are you all right?”

Sansa blinked, and slowly took in the young man staffing the door. She'd expected him to be dressed in full monster regalia.

Instead he wore farmer's overalls, and a worn blue shirt. He carried a plastic pumpkin full of candy, and his nametag read "Jon."

“Great, you got us stopped by the kiddie chaperone,” Joffrey snarled. He glared at Jon as he pushed Sansa towards the dark, cavernous entrance. “She's fine.”

Jon's eyes flashed. He put his hand on Joffrey's chest. Jon didn’t seem to push him, but Joffrey stopped dead in his tracks as if Jon's arm was made of granite.

“She's hyperventilating.” Jon was speaking to Joffrey, but Jon’s gaze was all for her.

Sansa flushed. “I'm - I'm fine, really l, he's right, I'm too scared for my own good, I'll, I won't cause trouble I promise--”

Jon was right, it was hard for her to breathe, and she trailed off.

Joffrey couldn't muscle his way past Jon. He stepped up the insults instead. “She's twenty two, not six.”

“We had someone faint in here earlier today,” Jon said firmly. “Big strong lad, built like a tank, passed out cold on the floor.”

Some of the cunning slipped back into Joffrey's voice. “Well too bad for that guy, sounds like a loser…”

Jon pulled the two of them aside, allowing other customers to enter. Sansa glanced over to her left and saw Jon's coworker, a slender man with the name Satin on his tag, taking tickets.

“Look mate, this place is designed to trigger the fight/flight/freeze reflex,” Jon said to Joffrey.

The gods had blessed Joffrey with an overabundance of wealth, but intelligence was another matter. "What?"

Jon sighed. “A ghost pops out, you punch someone, you run, or your feet get stuck to the floor.”

Joffrey grinned and tightened his grip on Sansa’s arm. “Oh she'll try to run, I'm sure, but I'll drag her through it. Doesn't she need to learn to face her fears?”

Joffrey might as well have said she's worthless, a child, she disgusts me, and I’ll scare her so badly she'll be ashamed to ever complain about this sort of thing again.

Jon looked Sansa up and down. Usually when guys gave her the once over her skin crawled, but the kindness in his eyes helped her relax.

Jon shook his head. "She doesn't need to face anything, not unless she wants to."

Sansa stood up straighter.

The corner of Jon's mouth quirked. “Besides, she's not going to run. She's a fighter."

“You've got to be kidding me,” Joffrey said.

Jon shrugged. “Had a martial arts instructor come through yesterday. Black belt. Teaches over at Citadel University. Helped me start out in judo."

Sansa gasped. "Brienne?" Brienne was an old friend of the family. Sansa’s father had invited Brienne over for dinner often. Sansa admired how steely Brienne’s demeanor could be, how well she carried herself. I’m nothing like her , Sansa thought.

Jon nodded. “That's her. Clocked Pyp right in the face. She came through during my break. Satin's new at this, he let her in. I never would have. Can’t have our staff getting hurt."

Joffrey scoffed. “You're telling me Sansa Stark, Ned Stark’s sweet eldest daughter, who cries when kittens get hurt on TV, is a fighter?"

“That's exactly what I'm telling you,” Jon said evenly.

He turned back to Sansa. “It's in the eyes,” he said softly. “That look. It's unmistakable.” Jon was speaking directly to her now. Everything else faded away as she got lost in his gaze.

“She's going to fight her way through this,” he murmured. Sansa wasn’t sure they were still talking about the haunted house. “She's going to break loose, the next time she's scared.”

Jon turned back to Joffrey.  “And if you're not careful, the person she punches could be you.” Sansa could have sworn Jon was growling.

When Joffrey spoke again he sounded shaken. "Whatever, just let us in.”

Jon stepped between Joffrey and Sansa. Sansa took a full, deep breath for the first time since she’d entered the park. "Go on, mate, feel free. But she isn't going with you."

“I'm going to find your manager and get you fired,” Joffrey sneered.

Jon smiled and pointed. “Go on ahead. He's over there, by the gift shop. Sandor Clegane. You might even know him.”

The color drained from Joffrey's face. Sandor Clegane had worked security for the  Baratheon family, until he stopped Joffrey from tormenting Tommen's cat. No one talked about it openly, but the small town had been buzzing with the news for weeks. Sandor stood by the door with his arms crossed. He wore a suit of armour that was far too well fitting to be a cheap costume.

“This is ridiculous,” Joffrey muttered. “I'm leaving.” He glared at Sansa. “Find your own way home with your new knight here.” He stormed off.

Sansa recovered shortly after. “I’m...not sure how to thank you,” she said softly to Jon unsteadily. “Thanks for fibbing for me, I really am too scared for my own good. I would have bolted or frozen or…."

The corner of Jon’s mouth twitched. “My gut tends to be right about these things. But now it’s up to you whether you go in or not.”

A portly man with glasses and the nametag "Sam" tapped Jon on the shoulder. "Shift's up Jon." Jon nodded absently at him.

With Joffrey gone, Sansa was at a loss. “Well, thank you again, for your help, I'll just…" She trailed off. She had enough money to get an Uber home - after a year of dating Joffrey she always brought enough money to get home on in case he caused a scene. Best to start calling for a car.

As she fumbled for her phone, her stomach growled.

Jon rubbed the back of his neck. “Hey, I don't mean to impose any more than I have already--”

“Oh no,” Sansa broke in. "You saved me there. I'm very grateful, Jon.” She smiled at him, and this time the smile came naturally.

Jon blushed. “Well, at any rate, would you like to get an apple cider doughnut? My parents used to bring me here as a kid--”

“So did mine.” Sansa could practically taste one now.

“And their doughnuts are the best,” Jon finished.

Jon walked her to the restaurant. They split three doughnuts between the two of them. Sansa licked the sugar off her fingers before she could remember to be ladylike. Jon laughed with her, not at her, and Wintertown pumpkin patch settled back in her mind as a place of comfort and refuge. Joffrey drifted further from her thoughts. Jon helped her pick out a pumpkin in the gift shop.

Jon walked her to her Uber. Before she could overthink things, she asked for his number. Jon flushed and mumbled through it.

**

Once Sansa arrived home, her Siberian husky Lady bounded up to her. Sansa laughed and showed her the brown paper sack with the pumpkin she and Jon had picked out.

After she’d lifted her small, round, perfectly orange pumpkin onto the kitchen table, she noticed another package at the bottom of the bag.

She pulled it out, turning it over in her hands. "Deluxe Pumpkin Carving Kit" was written in gaudy letters, and the plastic packaging was decorated with smiling cats and happy witches. An assortment of carving tools were inside. The kind that could slice through pumpkins, and leave children unscathed.

There was a handwritten note as well.

Dear Sansa,

For the next Halloween scuffle you're in. Or for carving pumpkins. I hope you feel comfortable coming back to Wintertown next season. I'll be manning the restaurant door in case you want to sample some more apple doughnuts. Thanks for making my day.

Have a great Halloween,

Jon

Sansa smiled. She got to work on her pumpkin, carving out a happy witch with a curly hat. She snapped a picture of her handiwork and texted it to Jon.

Jon texted back a pumpkin carved like a smiling cat. There's a big white Siberian husky in the photo with him, curled up on his couch.

Well now I have to send him a picture of Lady, she thought, if only to be polite.

***

Next year on Halloween, Jon made apple cider for the both of them. He didn’t use Wintertown pumpkin patch’s recipe, not exactly, since it was a secret. Sansa sighed in bliss when she took her first sip. She told Jon it was better than the cider at the pumpkin patch. When Jon ducked his head and tried to protest, Sansa kissed the corner of his mouth, and soon they forgot the cider entirely.

[kylorengarbagedump]

Little Bird: Chapter 31

Read on AO3. Part 30 here. Part 32 here.

Summary: The time has come to do what you promised for the Resistance. If only it hadn't taken you so long to get here.

Words: 3700

Warnings: feelings kinda

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: I know it's not Friday, but I've been so full of anxiety about this chapter that I just had to get it out!! I'm sorry. I can promise you that next week will absolutely be up on Friday, because I have a feeling it's going to take me all week and maybe more.

I want to say--I really loved the debates/discussion in the comments? I feel so fucking flattered and excited people are having differing opinions on the characters? I love that there's so much conflict evident from the responses? That makes me feel so happy!

I am so truly lucky to have folks like you in my life, I can't say enough how grateful I am how I don't ever take any of it for granted, even if I can't respond to every comment. I love y'all so much, and thank you, please stay safe and healthy. <3

Across the hall, the Knight Templar stood at attention, blank visor of his mask trained on you, as it had been for the past forty-seven and a half minutes. The wooden walls to the Council Chambers loomed to the sky, oak canopies split with skylights, the morning sun cutting stark prisms into the hardwood floors. The only break in the dust-mote silence was the rumble of privileged discussion vibrating through your back.

Given the presence of Kylo Ren, you’d somehow expected to avoid the sting of exclusion. But even the influence of the Lead Commander was not enough to justify the attendance of a woman--and especially a Handmaid--during a Council meeting. Yet, you supposed you were thankful. The near two-week’s worth of blizzard-conditions between you and your Commander had frozen any willingness to play advisor to an arctic relic. Part of you felt confident that if you’d refused, he would’ve let you off the hook, but another part wasn’t willing to see how far you could push your absence of legal rights.

Shuffling, muffled voices rising--and the doors to the Chambers opened, a menagerie of black suits filtering into the hall. You studied your shoes, the arrival of so many power-wielding men binding your ribcage, curling your toes. Even with the Templar on guard, in the swarm of Commanders, your safety dangled by unraveling thread; you could feel their eyes wandering over you like steer wandered the plains--lazy and lingering and gluttonous.

Reluctant relief trickled through you when you caught Kylo’s boots in your periphery, his footsteps scattering their stares, scaring their own feet into the halls. Another person crossed around him.

“It was a little tense in there, wouldn’t you say?”

You recognized this man’s voice--he was the silver-haired one from the party.

“I anticipated discomfort.”

The man laughed. “Oh, well, of course you did, Ren! You’ve always been very ahead of the game, that way.” He stepped closer, inviting confidence--now his voice was a murmur. “Now, I’m not saying this, as you know. But I’ve heard others… express their concerns.”

“Concerns.”

“That Gilead’s roles were created for a reason.”

Kylo spoke flatly--he didn’t care if you heard him. “Roles exist to serve specific purposes, Enric. Should a purpose arise, then it follows that a role is created to serve it.”

“The only problem is…” Enric’s voice was mollifying, as if he were telling Kylo something he didn’t already know. “We don’t create roles. God creates them. He decided your purpose just as He decided hers.” There was a pause. You saw your Commander’s foot shift. “Other Council members--not me, of course--aren’t taking as kindly to your philosophy as I am.”

“My philosophy.”

“What you’ve done with your Handmaid. And continue to do, too. Some of them are… not very happy. They consider it…” He cleared his throat, a patronizing acknowledgement of your presence. “Inappropriate.”

Your face burned. Perhaps two weeks ago, you might have agreed. But since you’d kicked Kylo out of your room, he hadn’t so much as laid a finger on you or shared a word greater than a single syllable. His presence was now accompanied by a heavy vow of paralyzing silence--a recognition that the other existed, but only as living memory. This should have brought relief, should have forced your attachment to him to wilt like an unwatered fern, decaying in the graveyard of one thousand other hopes you’d tied to the space he occupied in your mind.

Instead, it had festered, a viney weed, writhing through your veins, its roots puncturing your heart when it dared to beat in his shadow. It was only in his deliberate absence that you could feel the pain of your reality, like he’d been opium, numbing you to the knowledge of anything but him. You ached for him more now than you ever had--you’d tried to sleep, chest cracked open, a torrent of loneliness emptying into the night--and knew that it was for this very reason that you needed to deny him.

After all, when you returned home, you’d be meeting with Rey on your walk. And you’d be handing over the switchblade to the Resistance.

“The Eyes are welcome to an investigation,” Kylo replied. “There are no reading materials or writing implements available. Her suggestions will be provided during a once-weekly meeting which my Wife will attend.”

You swallowed. You hoped you’d be free before that happened.

Enric sighed. “But the dress. Dragging her along with your soldiers.” He paused, humming in thought. “To be honest, even I think she gets special attention.”

Kylo’s tone betrayed an inch of irritation. “And even a dog is provided with a reward for its obedience,” he said. “She is in uniform today and before the Council now to provide proof of my intention.”

“Well, I’m sure the Council will begin to understand. You know how difficult it is for these types to tolerate change. The Cambridge Press decided to capitalize a single letter in First John earlier this year and they lost it.” Enric stepped away, and then doubled back with a pause. “As long as you’re not forgetting her true purpose.”

“No,” Kylo replied. “A Ceremony is scheduled for two days from now.”

Your breath shorted. If the Resistance was wrong about the value of your knife, in two nights you’d lie in Johana’s lap, and Kylo Ren would fuck you as if you didn’t exist. The thought made you dizzy, made your stomach churn.

“There you go,” he said. “As long as you’re doing everything you’re supposed to, you’ll be fine. The Eyes might be snooping around your house, but all you need to do is be prudent.” A laugh. “That shouldn’t be a problem for you, though.”

“No.” Kylo couldn’t have sounded more unimpressed if he had tried.

An expectant silence fell between the two men, and Enric coughed to clear the awkwardness. “In a couple weeks, then.”

“Yes.”

With that, he walked off, footsteps echoing from the wooden halls as he left you, your Commander, and the Knight as the only souls outside of the Council Chambers. A soft exhale escaped Kylo’s nose, and he stepped forward--the weight of his gaze was on you, but you refused to meet it.

“Go,” he said. You assumed he was speaking to the Knight, who moved without another word--what was it like being a warrior turned glorified babysitter? “Come.”

You stood, keeping your eyes to the ground while you followed his lead through the vacant, sunlit corridors of City Hall. This end of the building was decidedly older than the front--it creaked with exhaustion as you navigated its floors, as if it, too, had grown tired of the constant political discourse within its walls. Kylo Ren turned into a staircase, descending with the same pace as his stride--you struggled to keep up with him at this rate, unable to stop yourself from admiring when he reached the bottom and turned the corner into the basement hall.

Since the night at the hotel, he’d abandoned his previous attire of suits, ties and white shirts--he now wore black almost entirely, from his dress shirt to his trousers, which more often than not ended up stuffed into knee-high leather boots. He’d also taken to wearing the coat you’d seen during the Salvaging, its tapered cut somehow making his frame even larger, more imposing than it had been before. The coat in particular was a strange choice during the summer--but you knew why he wore it, keeping others uncertain about what it might or might not conceal.

In the basement, the air grew thin and cold, the halls illuminated now only by dim fluorescent lamps. Kylo stopped at a large wooden door, fishing a key from his pocket and popping the lock. He pushed inside, holding it open for you as you followed him in--he released it, and with a pneumatic whine, it slammed behind you. You squeaked, leaping back, swallowed now in darkness.

You heard the click of the lock--then Kylo’s footsteps on concrete as he crossed the room. A ceiling lamp flickered on, revealing what you could only describe as a records room. Shelves lined the walls, floor to ceiling, manila folder files stuffed into them like recycled news. Your lungs stilled looking at them--there were hundreds, thousands of these folders, all labeled with four-digit numbers. Swallowing, you thought of the tattoo at your ankle--1104--and heat rushed your skin.

These were files on Handmaids.

Dread dug into you, head on a swivel as you soaked in the enormity of the identities contained within these piles of paper. Uncountable bodies of women reduced to nothing but a combination of integers in a locked room in the basement of City Hall. Your heart thumped against your sternum. This was not something you were supposed to see.

Kylo meandered along the shelves, searching the tabs, his brow furrowed in focus. You crossed your arms, ignoring the quickening leap of your pulse, thoughts racing. Why had he brought you here? He was supposed to be proving to the Council that your relationship wasn’t inappropriate--and here you were, alone with your Commander in a room almost certainly forbidden to the large majority of Gilead.

“Five-seven-two-four.”

His long fingers plucked the folder from where it was wedged at the bottom shelf and he rose to his full height--the sight still stole your air. Stone-faced, Kylo flopped open the file, cradling it in the crook of his elbow as he flipped to the first page.

“Five-seven-two-four.” He stepped toward you--an involuntary shiver raced up your spine--and tilted it into your line of sight. “Tera Jackson.”

You blinked, looking between him and the text, inching closer to read. It was the facesheet of a dossier on Tera Jackson: birthdate, hometown, education level, allergies, Biblical violation (affair with a married man). You skimmed the document, confused as to why he’d risked both of your skins just to show you a piece of paper. Then you spotted the bottom of the page, three spaces designated to list Commander assignments. The first and only name: Armitage Hux.

“Ofarmitage,” you breathed, and gaped at Kylo. “Her name was Tera Jackson.”

He said nothing, but pushed the front page from its packet, holding it out to you. Hesitating to grab it, you gazed into his eyes. They were tired and sincere.

This was his way of apologizing. Your heart stuttered, skipped, a suffocated warmth welling in your belly. That he’d thought to do it at all was enough to fracture your resistance, but the fact that he’d done something so forbidden to demonstrate concrete proof of her identity, that he wasn’t fabricating a document to placate you, that it was his own admission that she had been a person, and she had been real--you choked on it, cheeks smothered in flames.

“Commander…” The urge to say his name lingered on your tongue; you reached for the paper--and paused. You couldn’t continue to detour down a pointless road. It would only make the inevitable more painful. You dropped your hand. “I can’t have something like this.”

“Then I’ll keep it.”

“Well.” You bit your lip, averting your gaze. “I… I don’t want it.”

“You do.” His voice was soft. “Her file will be cycled through at the end of the month. Take it.”

Frowning, you glanced between him and the paper. To deny it out of pride would be to deny Tera the chance to be remembered in tangibility--something every Handmaid, every person deserved, regardless of what they’d done to survive. You admitted that part of it was proving to yourself that you deserved it, too.

But you couldn’t take the whole page. Jaw tight, you took it from his hand, creased a line around the section with her name and birthdate and tore it free. You stuffed it into your sleeve, avoiding his eyes as you returned the rest.

Silence hung, cave crystals dripping remnants of stifled need onto your skin, small glittering droplets of iridescent understanding that stained you with shimmering agony. You ached to thank him, to tumble, broken, into his arms, to gaze intohis eyes and see yourself there, found and whole. But under Gilead, you could never have him in the ways he’d had you. And you could never be grateful to the devil for his grace.

Kylo Ren returned the folder to its shelf and stood, snuffing a sigh. “Store it in your room before your walk.”

All you did was nod.

The walk to the building and drive home was spent without words. Only twice did you sneak a glance at Kylo during the ride--the first was when he rolled the edge of the wheel against his large palm, face drawn in focus as he downshifted into a tight turn. The second was when he pulled into the driveway, the muscle under his eye fluttering and brow falling for split seconds, an acknowledgement that here was where you parted ways.

You swallowed, peeking at his hand still rested on the gearshift, then stared at your own, imagining the strength of his grip enveloping you, grounding you to something other than misery. The gentle grumble of the cooling engine died in the air.

Would a true devil place his own power at risk for the benefit of another? Perhaps it just seemed unfair that the only man who had ever made you feel sacred was the same man who’d desecrated you, too.

“Thank you,” you mumbled, and before he could think to respond, you opened the door and escaped into the house.

As you returned to your room, your hands trembled with the impending reality of your decision. A few days after Tera’s death, you’d received a message in the market from Rey and arranged for this meeting. There’d been no earlier time available--which was fine, you imagined that as one of the main women in the movement, her undercover operations were in high demand--and now that the day had arrived, you were floundering with anxiety. Certainly, some of it was the fear that you’d be implicated, too, though the Resistance seemed confident they could protect you from that.

Most of it was that despite your resolution, guilt sat like mercury in your belly, heavy and viscous. Kylo Ren deserved this--he deserved retribution, deserved whatever condemnation his future might hold.

But still you craved, as you might forever, a reality where the only condemnation he would receive was to your bed, where the rays of his future would merge with yours, coalesce in a brilliant spectrum of light, ultraviolet and perpetual. In true reality, those rays crashed ephemeral for jagged, resplendent moments--only to streak alone through the sky, parallel for eternity.

In your room, you stowed the slip of paper with Tera’s name and birthdate between the tiny crevice in your dresser where wood joined wood. In that same drawer under your spare undergarments was the switchblade, in the space you’d placed it over three weeks ago. Kylo had never come for it or sought its return. You supposed he considered it yours. Swallowing the wad of betrayal in your throat, you grabbed the knife and stuffed it up your sleeve.

After adjusting your boots and wings, you skipped down the steps and headed toward the kitchen to grab your shopping bag. When you crossed the threshold, you were met with Johana, tending to the little garden she kept above the sink. She spun at the sound of your feet, her blue eyes glowing against the stark cobalt of her dress, and she regarded you in silence, as she had for the past two weeks. You knew she was no idiot--she must have known you and the Commander were no longer speaking, but it had done nothing to thaw the frost between you this time.

“Just coming to get my bag, ” you muttered, stepping past her and toward the pantry.

“Did you--” She paused, lips tight over her teeth. “There’s an addition. To what we need today.”

You cleared your throat, forcing a smile in an attempt to be congenial. “Oh. Um. Well… I sure hope it’s not butter.”

She raised a brow. “Butter?”

“Yeah...” Your cheeks blazed with embarrassment. Why had you expected her to remember that? “I just. Forgot it. One time…”

“Ah.” Johana scanned you, releasing a sigh through her nose. “I’m sure whatever I said at that time was only half-warranted.” Her cheeks went pink, and she glanced at the wall. “Not that it matters.”

Her awkwardness was making your heart race. “Um. Yeah.” You chewed your lip. “So… the addition…”

She blinked. “Oh. Right.” Shaking her head, she stood on the tips of her toes, opening the cabinet above the stove. “I noticed we’re out of vegetable oil. Emma forgot to dictate it. So. Vegetable oil.”

“Right.” You nodded. “I’ll get it.”

“Good.” Johana considered you again, gaze traveling from your feet to your eyes, then breaking away. “Anyway.” She shifted, returning to the sink. “I suppose I’ll see you for the Ceremony in a couple nights.”

Another wave of nausea washed over you. You hoped she wouldn’t. “Yep. I… I guess so.”

“I know you might not...” She paused, and shrugged a shoulder, pruning a leaf from one of her herbs. “It’s what God wants. It’s nothing personal.”

You swallowed. “I know, Ms. Johana.”

If you remained on this subject any longer, you absolutely would throw up. Johana glanced over her shoulder, meeting your eyes--almost pitying. You bowed your head, ears hot, striding toward the front door.

“Wait--”

Johana grabbed your arm--her eyes widened, and she froze, face screwed in confusion as she squeezed you. Terror crashed through your spine. You both stood there, paralyzed, each now keenly aware of her accidental discovery of the blade inside of your sleeve. Throat closing, you didn’t dare to breathe, instead forcing your gaze from where her hand clutched you to meet her eyes.

“What is that.” Her nails pinched your forearm as she jerked you forward, surprising strength in her little body. “What is that--”

You wrenched back as she tried to dig into your dress, flailing as you tossed her off. Exhaling, you stepped away, holding your hands up in submission as she gazed at you in horror.

“Hold on!” you said. “Hold on. I’ll…” You had no other option. “I’ll show you.”

With two fingers, you slipped into your sleeve and revealed the knife, rotating it like a showpiece in a museum. Her jaw tightened, brow drawn low.

“Why do you have a switchblade?”

Your chin trembled. “For protection.”

“Protection. Sure.” She snorted, holding out her palm. “You’re not killing anyone in this house. Hand it over.”

Shaking your head, you took a step back. “No.”

Her face scrunched in anger, and she swatted for it. “Give it--”

“No!” You shielded it with your palms, raising it above your head. “I--I can’t!”

She huffed in dismissal, raising an eyebrow. “What do you mean you can’t?”

Your fingers quaked, the weapon wobbling in your grip. “It’s…” You weren’t sure of what you were about to say. But you couldn’t think of a single lie that she would believe. “We staged the coup. The Commander and I. This is the one of the only things that… that proves it.”

Johana blinked, drew her hand back as she gazed at you, thoughts loud behind her eyes. Her lips parted in disbelief. “You’re working with the Resistance.”

“Yes.” You swallowed your fear. “I am.”

Breath rattled in her chest, and she stared. “You’re turning him in.”

“I am.”

Her face fell into a scowl. “Well. How--how could you?” She fumbled for the words, like they stung her tongue. “He’s… He isn’t... the most kind man, perhaps, or the most Godly--”

You rolled your eyes. “He’s not Godly at all.”

“But he still deserves respect.”

“Respect? For what?”

“For being your Commander.”

You threw your hands into the air, exasperated. “Why are you defending him?” you exclaimed, stepping closer. “You deserve more than this! More than how he treats you!” As you spoke, you weren’t sure who in the room those words were actually meant for. “Help me bring him down. Work with me. We don’t have to live like this.” A pause, voice falling to a murmur, and your hand fell to your side. “We can be free.”

Johana paused, as if she had never considered the possibility, and stepped back, gaze falling. For long, motionless moments, she stared at the blade gripped in your loose fist, the fire in her pupils guttering to cold, empty desperation. A slow breath escaped her nose, her throat knocking as she swallowed. Another breath, and tears glossed her eyes--she blinked them away, pinning her lips together.

“I…”

She shivered, looking at you. For a flicker, you saw her--the woman who existed, wholived before you, before Kylo Ren, before Gilead--treading deadly water, gasping for respite. Johana’s focus drifted over your dress, then wandered to hers. Like a match, fury flashed her face, and in a swift snake movement, she snatched the blade from your hand.

“--will never betray Gilead.”

You squealed, grabbing for it, but she darted underneath you, skittering toward the hall, popping the blade free and thrusting it toward you. Her face was tight with bitter rage.

“I don’t care what happened with him. You’ve only known him for a few months,” she hissed. “I’ve been married to him for three years.” Her hand was shaking, her voice cracking like plaster. “You have no idea what I’ve endured. And I’ll be damned if you screw it up for me.”

“Johana,” you pleaded, “wait--”

“Don’t force my hand,” she said, jabbing the air. “If you even breathe another word about some Resistance nonsense, I’ll have you taken by the Eyes. I don’t care what the Commander says.” She glanced over you one final time and pushed the blade back, shoving it in her pocket before turning to leave. “And remember the vegetable oil.”

You stood, empty-handed, listening to her footsteps disappear down the hall, mind a miasma. There’d be no escape from this, now, not from this house, not from that man, not from the hovering humiliation of the Ceremony in two nights. She’d taken your only lifeline to freedom. And you somehow doubted that another one might appear.

[carsontheleft]

Hot Mess

Summary: Hot Space is a hot mess and John does not want to not talk to Roger anymore. Things get more emotional than any of them bargained for.

Pairing: JohnxRoger (platonic), RogerxDominique (mentioned), JohnxVeronica (mentioned)

Comment: Hey, look, I’m still alive! I started this a while ago and then I spontaneously finished it yesterday and THEN I thought about posting it immediately and then I DIDN’T and now it’s John’s birthday it just fits quite nicely. Happy Birthday, John! Have fun with this, y’all.

John has to forcibly hold himself back from slamming the coffee pot back into its place. No coffee would only worsen the already disastrous day. Week. Month, almost. For the first time, Munich doesn’t seem to be their lucky place.

But maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s because John finally lets himself push for things he wants, that he likes and doesn’t let himself give in just because Brian is pushing for his way.

Brian. The mere thought of the guitarist turns John’s stomach into knots and pushes up his blood pressure. How can a single person be so fucking obnoxious, bull-headed, old-fashioned-

Okay, stop.

John takes a deep breath of stale basement air and decides he needs to breathe real, fresh, cold air without a huge grey, looming building pressing down on him.

Arriving on ground level, he takes one of the back doors leading to a narrow alleyway to escape. The air here smells a bit sweetly of the rotting food in trash cans, but it’s cold and sharp and already saturated with bluish smoke of cigarettes.

Roger is crouching beside John’s feet, leaning against the grey stone, with a pack of Marlboro Reds at his feet. It’s half empty and it’s not even noon.

“It’s not really the right weather for being outside without a jacket, is it?”

It isn’t. November in Munich doesn’t provide conditions to do anything outside. Where Montreux may have gotten the last golden sunrays of the year or the winter’s first snow, Munich is just grey, dreary and dark.

“I don’t see you wearing one”, Roger squints upwards at John having forgotten his sunglasses downstairs.

“Fair enough.”

Neither of them talks when John lights his cigarette.

Normally, that would be unusual. There has hardly ever been a time where John and Roger didn’t talk to each other, may it be because of an argument or because they didn’t have anything to talk about.

But not-talking is the safer choice of interaction nowadays. Not-talking doesn’t pose such a high risk for arguments.

But they’re friends and John wants to talk to Roger, he wants to explain his ideas and visions just like he’s always done it, but he’s not sure Roger would listen. And he just doesn’t understand why, doesn’t get why Roger and Brian are so afraid of some change, when that’s what’s Queen been about all along, a band not succumbing to trends and expectations, a band that always knew to surprise.

“John, I don’t wanna fight anymore.”

John nearly drops his cigarette when Roger’s voice rips him out of his thoughts.

He’s looking at him, and John is suddenly hit by how young Roger appears with his tousled blonde hair and wide blue eyes, that, admittedly, are blood-shot, but that doesn’t take the child-like innocence out of them.

Despite that, John scoffs.

“It’s hardly me who’s at fault here.”

Roger visibly flinches at that, recoils and turns his eyes back to the dirty pavement in front of him.

John’s worked hard to build up the defenses he’s calling his own now, so thick and impenetrable that not even Brian with his jabs and sniping remarks can get through them.

But now Roger’s ripped through them, just like that.

“Rog…”

“No, no, it’s fine, you’ve made your point”, his voice is a little husky, only barely betraying his hurt, “I’m going back inside, see you there.”

And it’s actually this eerie calm, which is so unlike Roger, that John wakes from the stupor he’s worked himself into and makes him realize they really should stop fighting and get to talking instead.

 Roger’s quiet for the remainder of day, too. And John’s not the only one who notices, Freddie asks if Rog is alright and earns himself a grumbled “Just want to get out of this shithole”; Brian only grants him an irritated look when Roger doesn’t jump to his defense. Mack, Crystal and the other roadies opt for not saying anything at all, they know better but to get into arguments that cannot be stopped anyway.

It’s when Roger practically flees from the studio after they collectively decide they won’t get much more done and doesn’t stay back to joke around with the others that John decides he has to do something immediately.

He gets some beer, the German stuff isn’t really his taste, but Roger seems to have taken a liking to it, grabs two pizzas from the Italian place Mack did recommend and walks over to Roger’s apartment.

It takes the drummer some time to answer his door, two rounds of insistent knocking and a raised hand to start a third one, only then there’s some shuffling, the clicking of locks and Roger opens the door a fraction.

“Why’re you here?”, his blond hair is sticking up in every direction and he’s wearing a dark fluffy bathrobe. There is a flush to Roger’s cheeks that tells John he either pulled his friend from a bath or was just lucky to catch him coming out of the shower.

“To talk. Not to fight”, John holds up the pizza boxes with the beer stacked on top, “Please, Rog.”

Roger stares at him for a moment and for once John absolutely can’t read the usually so emotional face. Then he heaves out a sigh and opens the door to let John in.

The place is cluttered in a typical Roger-fashion. An overflowing ashtray, papers with what could be lyrics or shopping lists, a part of a drumstick for some reason and a colorful array of take out packaging. John winces, maybe he should’ve brought stuff to cook a fresh meal instead of gifting Roger yet another pre-made supper.

“How’s Dom?”

“She’s good. Took Felix and went to visit her parents, escaping the rain and stuff. You know how she hates it”, he does his best to declutter the couch table, mindlessly stacking pieces of paper on top of each other without looking at them or at John, for that matter.

“How are Ronnie and the kids?”

“They’re good, Ron wants to come down next week, but we’ll have to see if it works with Robert and the school. I miss them.”

Now Roger looks at him, but it’s not the look of disdain and almost disgust he wore when John presented them the lyrics of ‘You’re My Best Friend’ and he threw a fit over ‘I’m happy at home’. This one is one of understanding and compassion.

“Yeah, me too. Let’s have a taste of that beer you brought, yeah?”

They mostly eat in silence, only interrupted by the quiet murmuring of the TV and one of them occasionally commenting on the food or the beer. When John’s done with his food Roger is intently watching the 10 pm news. He’s not sure the drummer understands much of it, but John is willing to indulge him a while longer. It’s not like he’s looking forward to this heart-to-heart, but he knows it’s necessary and they’ll feel better once they’re done. John only wishes he could fast forward everything in between now and then.

“We need to talk about this”, John starts eventually when the pretty blonde woman on the TV is done with telling them that the next days will be just as dreary as today.

“And what exactly does ‘this’ entail?”

Roger is already in full on confrontation mood, and John has to force himself to stay calm. It’s Roger, he tells himself, no matter that it was actually him who put up the white flag this morning, he still doesn’t like to be cornered.

“Us not working like we used to. The constant fighting and discussions and nothing coming out of it. You constantly siding with Brian without listening to a word I say!”

Oh shit, he really could’ve worded that better.

“Me not listening? I AM listening, other than Brian and you! I’m listening to both your opinions and then I decide!”

“And it’s always in favor of Brian!”

“Well, if we share an opinion, then yes!”

“But why? Why are you so intent on keeping everything as it is?”, they’ve gotten louder and John really, really doesn’t want this to evolve into another shouting match, but he might not be strong enough to reign himself in.

But, much to John’s surprise, Roger sighs and slumps back against the couch rubbing his eyes.

“Because it works! We’re doing this how long now? 10 years? People know us, they expect our product to meet a certain standard, an expectation.”

“Our- our product? A certain standard? Roger, what are you talking about? Isn’t our music about how we feel? What we think? It’s not supposed to be some commercial bullshit”, John is seriously flabbergasted. Not in a million years he would have thought Roger would start to view their work as a ‘job’ only consisting of deadlines and expectations and goal fulfilment.

He scoots over to the other end of the couch where Roger is sitting and bumps their knees together.

“What brought this on, Rog? What’s going on?”

“It’s just…”, the drummer shrugs, rubs his eyes again and then starts to knead the shoulder muscles that John knows are always a bit tense, always a bit sore.

“We’ve been doing this 10 years, John, ten years! How many bands have made it farther than that? Who says it won’t just all fall apart next month? We can’t just start making different music now!”

“We’ve been always aware of that possibility. There was always the chance we wouldn’t make it, but now we’ve got number one hits in America! We’re an established name!”

It feels a bit weird to take on the motivational part, the part of convincing the others that they have actually made it. Usually, it’s Roger who does that.

“Yeah, but…”, Roger blows out a breath, “Don’t you feel like- like you were 27 just yesterday, snorting all the coke in New Orleans without a care in the world and now, now there’s a child and- and a-“

“A woman you might as well just marry”, John tightly presses his lips together to not let the laughter escape. So, that’s what all this is about, Roger just realized he’s actually a grown-up now and he doesn’t feel too comfortable about it.

“It’s not that!”, Roger argues, “What difference does a bloody certificate make?! I have a family now; I have to provide!”

John sucks in his cheeks to keep himself from grinning. He gets it, he does, Roger’s worries are understandable, and he doesn’t want to ridicule his friend, but from John’s position his worries are a bit ridiculous, when they’re in far better position now than when John first became a father.

“Dom has a job, too, you know?”, John teases, fully intending to lighten up the mood. Unfortunately, it has the opposite effect.

“That’s- Stop making fun of me!”, Roger jumps up from the sofa and hovers over John, fists clenching at his side as if he has to keep them from either punching something or someone or from thrashing his apartment.

“You know, sometimes I feel like that’s the only thing I’m good for! The dumb blonde, that crazy drummer guy, let’s make fun of him, he deserves it! He’s no good for anything anyway, can’t manage to write a good song, and we don’t even need him for drumming anymore!”

Oh. Oh.

So that’s where all this moodiness is coming from.

Roger rarely shares his feeling so honestly, usually none of them does if there are not copious amounts of alcohol and or other substances involved, but Roger especially likes to keep everything bottled up, until it implodes. And that leaves either a destroyed room or drumkit, or Roger in front of a toilet puking his guts out and avoiding just about everyone for a few days after until he’s okay with himself again.

So, to say the least, this emotional outbreak with feelings actually being articulated is uncharted territory for John. And for Roger too, who’s staring at John like a deer caught in the headlights.

“Rog-“

“Forget it!”

He stalks away, fluffy bathrobe and naked feet, and slams his bedroom door shut.

John sighs and settles back into the sofa. He came to talk and he’ll get his talk, even if he has to stay the night. With Roger, that might just be the case.

Well. At least the apartment has a second bathroom.

 John wakes a couple of hours later, around 3 am. It’s a weird feeling, usually they’d still be out and drinking, but it’s probably not the worst thing to get a whole 8 hours of sleep at what is actually night.

A sharp gust of icy cold air wafts through the room and John finds that it was that what woke him in the first place with the flimsy throw he used as a blanket not providing adequate cover.

The apartment is mostly dark save for the lights of the city streaming in through the window and John can see through the door gap into the hall and that Roger’s bedroom door is open again.

He finds him in the kitchen, standing in front of the open window smoking.

“You’re still here”, he notes when John steps up beside him.

“I wanted a talk, an honest conversation. I won’t leave until I get one.”

“Took a note out of Freddie’s book then, huh?”

“Freddie?”, John scoffs, “Try your own.”

Roger turns to him, mouth open and already gesturing with the softly glowing cigarette. “I’m not-“

“Ridge Farm?”

That takes his drive. He turns back to the view, deeply inhaling the burning smoke. John takes one out of Roger’s packet. He doesn’t really like the brand, but it’s better than nothing.

“You taped my drums, John”, Roger eventually says.

“Are you still mad about this? I’m sorry and I promise not to touch the kit again without you knowing.”

“It’s not that- well, that too, but-“, Roger takes a deep breath, steeling himself, “You tape my drums and there’s nothing I can do that a drum machine isn’t able to. Hell, I’m not even the best drummer without them taped, my technique is weird, if you can even call it that, there are guys who are a lot better than me and understand this disco thing you’re prattling on about.”

“It’s not like Brian-“

“He’s trying, okay? He’s trying to get into that kind of music, he’s not sprinkling guitar solos all over the songs like you’d do it with coke on a hooker because he wants to annoy you! Well, not primarily anyway, but he’s trying to make his contribution to what you’re doing! He wants to have part in this and I, I just don’t see it, I’m sorry.”

Roger flips the butt of his smoke out of the window and rubs his eyes.

“But we can’t just stop! We can’t just stop at The Game and that’s it! We need something new, start fresh like we’ve done it with each album.”

John finishes his cigarette as well but makes a show of putting it out in the ashtray.

“I know that, Deaks, I do! I really don’t want to become the guy that needs to be dragged off stage because the people got tired of him playing the same things over and over and over again! But I just can’t do this disco thing.”

John understands this. You can’t force yourself to produce music you just don’t feel. This is like Fred and his love for opera and musical theater, something John will never get the hang of, no matter how often he’ll take Ronnie to the ballet. And while Roger does like a more electric style of music, he’s not really known for setting the dancefloor on fire. Maybe the women on it but not the dancefloor itself.

“I know you and Freddie don’t need me to realize your vision, this album but I- I can’t lose Queen, John, I can’t. It’s everything.”

Roger’s almost too quiet for John to understand resting against the kitchen counter in the dark, half of his face illuminated by Munich’s night life in a loose shirt and a pair of boxers.

And John thinks, this is it. This is what all this is about.

Because John started to play with those guys he now calls his brothers as a hobby, as a distraction and creative outlet opposite his studies. He had never envisioned to become a famous musician; this never had been a goal for him. So he had sat back and let Freddie, Brian and Roger work on the music, on the band, had let them work on their dream.

And then he had turned 30 and for the first time John had thought that this might be what he’d do the rest of his life. And he decided to give it his everything all, to make a monument for himself, to really give his very best.

And for Roger it had always been like that. There never had been a second option, a plan B, go big or go home. John’s pretty sure even if they hadn’t made it, Roger still would still be a musician. If not in Genesis then in some local band or a studio musician, but he never, ever would have gone to work in some lab or, even worse, in a dentist’s office.

“What are you talking about? You won’t lose Queen! Never! We’d lose all our female fans if we kicked you out!”

“Great to hear that that’d be the greatest loss”, Roger grumbles and turns away but John catches his wrist.

“You won’t lose us. We need you. Who’d be there to back up Fred when his voice is shot? Who’d argue with Brian just to draw him out of his funks? And heaven knows, not Brian nor me can keep up with Freddie.”

“Like I can these days.”

And there’s the other worry hanging in the air around them, Freddie leaving them behind more often than not, being more elusive than he’s ever been. But that’s a worry for another night, right now this is about the two of them, the Sonic fucking Volcano.

“Come on”, John tugs on Roger’s wrist, “Get over here.”

“Deaks, no, I don’t-“

John tugs a little harder and then Roger’s body is pressed flush against his.

“Like you ever say no to a good hug.”

“I hate you”, the drummer mumbles against John’s shoulder and heaves out a mighty sigh relaxing into the embrace.

“I’m sure you do.”

They rest like that for a few minutes, which is not really a thing they’d normally do, but they’re both tired and miss their partners. It’s okay.

“Y’know”, Roger says as he detangles himself, “I’m not sure Queen would lose all its lady fans if I left. Not with you looking like some kind of… Greek God.”

He wrinkles his nose and pokes John into his right pec.

“It’s called exercise, Rog, you could try it.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I don’t exercise daily on those bloody drums. Also, Dom likes it. She calls me soft and cuddly.”

He sticks out his chest.

“Wow, look at that, Roger Taylor is proud of being called soft, what a turn of events!”

“Well, at least I don’t look like handlebar with an exploded mop on top.”

“Handlebar? I seem to recall you calling me a Greek god not 30 seconds ago!”

“Yeah, and I regret it already. Just wait until I throw you out of the band!”