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wonjaekook · 3 years

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One Minus One Plus One

Pairing: college student!Mark x college student!reader

Description: In all of the years you’ve known Jungwoo, you should have figured out to not take his words at face value because, though you haven’t even met, Mark Lee seems to hate your guts.

Word Count: 9.9k

Genre: kind-of-enemies to lovers! fluff? angst? humor? I honestly don’t know how to categorize this

Warnings: vaguely suggestive ending, some minor swearing

A/N: This is my (late) holiday gift for a friend and to you all, I suppose. It’s an enemies-to-lovers but not really, as they’re not really enemies and it’s more passive-aggressive!Mark and very confused!Y/N. To the intended - I love and appreciate you so much; thank you for always supporting me and listening to me ramble about even the most ridiculous ideas <3 If you ever need anything, I hope you know that you can always shoot me a text or DM! Please enjoy c:

Mark Lee is always sweet. It’s the kind of sweetness that’s warm and fulfilling, leaving a pleasant feeling in the pit of the stomach, like a steaming up of hot chocolate rather than a strikingly sweet popsicle. His nature isn’t something he particularly prides himself on, as it’s partially unintentional, driven by awkwardness and politeness at times, or by the compulsion to simply make people happy. Jungwoo has told him that he’s allowed to be a little more selfish once in a while, he’s allowed to say no and take breaks sometimes. Except, he’s ever the people pleaser, ever the hard worker, ever the yes-man. Mark Lee is always sweet.

Except when he isn’t.

You’re fairly certain that Mark Lee has hated you since before you even met him. When you decide to transfer to the same university that your high school best friend Jungwoo attends, he talks your ear off about all of his great friends and all of the places he is going to take you and all of the fun you’ll have. He’s always been the descriptive type, telling you far too much about his good pals Mark, Donghyuck, Johnny, Taeil, Jaehyun, Kun, Lucas… and countless others, whose names you sometimes have a hard time keeping track of. Jungwoo has a lot of friends, something which has remained true since high school. Whenever you catch up with him, he speaks particularly fondly about Mark, who is one of his roommates and someone he considers to be one of his closest friends.

“You’ll love him,” he says, “but not too much, I hope. That would be super weird, you and Mark.” He wrinkles his nose at that and doesn’t make any more abnormal comments. You don’t think much of it.

In short, you let Jungwoo decide your opinion on Mark Lee before you ever met him. With everything else about moving to a completely different university occupying the majority of your thoughts, it’s easy enough to accept that Mark will be awkward and painfully sweet and that you will become fast friends. That’s your first mistake.

Before you even finish moving in, Jungwoo drags you over to his place to meet some of his friends, who he insists will become your own. It’s just past noon and he claims that everyone will be awake and ready to greet you once you get there. He’s half right, in the sense that only half of the apartment is awake. The early-risers, who Jungwoo didn’t even have to shake before he came over to get you, are at the table in their common area, sipping on various caffeinated beverages. These consist of Mark and Jaehyun. Donghyuck is presumably still curled up in his bed, asleep after a late night of playing games, and Johnny, who had stayed overnight and doesn’t actually live with them, is passed out on their couch, an arm slung over his face to block the light. Your friend has shown you enough pictures for you to recognize them.

Jungwoo practically deflates as soon as he walks in to see only two members of the current household conscious. “This is why we can’t have nice things,” he grumbles before striding over to Johnny and yanking off the blanket covering his long torso.

The elder groans, clearly having only been dozing and not deeply asleep, and moves his arm so he can glare at Jungwoo. “Your disrespect for my sleep schedule is why we can’t have nice things.”

“You don’t have a sleep schedule,” Jungwoo says back, glaring at his friend with the blanket in his hand. “Plus, Y/N’s here.”

Johnny lazily looks over and sees you in the entranceway, to which his response is to roll slightly so that he’s propped up against the back of the couch with one leg crossed over the other rather than just lying down. “Sup. Name’s Johnny.”

“Ew, don’t use your flirting voice!” Jungwoo whines at his friend, kicking him in the shin. In all honesty, you’re both amused and slightly flattered that Johnny is attempting to flirt with you when he’s just woken up. The messy hair is kind of a look. “Y/N’s a friend.”

“Yeah, we’ll be good friends, alright,” Johnny says, looking directly at you and wiggling his eyebrows in the most ridiculous way. That gets a giggle out of you while Jungwoo gawks, kicking Johnny again for good measure, slightly harder this time.

Jungwoo looks like he’s about to start arguing again when Jaehyun kindly interrupts, shifting the conversation. He gives you a small smile, perfectly polite and handsome, his hair straight and soft over his forehead. “It’s nice to meet you, Y/N. I’m Jaehyun.”

You lower your head to acknowledge him. “It’s nice to meet you, too.” You look towards the other boy at the table, who you now realize hasn’t glanced up at you once. Jaehyun had been at least half watching the mock fight between Jungwoo and Johnny, but Mark had just been staring at his cup from behind circular glasses, not even drinking it. His own hair is slightly damp, curling at the ends, making him appear somewhat young. “You’re Mark, right?”

Finally, he looks at you, but looks away quickly. “Yeah.”

That’s… that’s not right.

You try again, smiling as brightly as you can, even though he won’t glance in your direction again. His side profile is full of both soft shapes and hard angles, afternoon sunlight coming in through the window falls as highlights on his cheeks and nose and chin. He appears exactly as your friend had described him to you, but his attitude proves him to be a walking contradiction. You shift on your feet, grasping for the right words to say. “Jungwoo has told me a lot about you.”

“Uh… yeah. He’s told me about you, too.”

You almost outright frown at that. Isn’t he supposed to be super nice and friendly? Instead, it sounds like Jungwoo has been spreading all sorts of nasty stories about you. Hypothetical stories that, apparently, only Mark has been listening to. Neither Jaehyun nor Johnny are acting strangely towards you at all.

All three of the other boys do seem to notice the change in behavior for Mark, though. There are a few moments of tense silence before Johnny elbows Jungwoo. The latter speaks up. “Hey, Mark, can you go resurrect Donghyuck? I think he might be dead.”

The switch is instant and very startling to you. His face loses all of its tension as he looks at Jungwoo, nodding. “Yeah, sure. If I don’t come back in ten minutes, I’m the one who’s dead.” He pushes himself up out of his chair and exits the common area.

After he’s gone, you look at Jungwoo. He stares back. You make a motion with your head towards the front door, where you retreat to and he follows. You stand somewhat stiffly, hands linked behind your back. “Did you say something to him? About me?”

Jungwoo puts his hands up defensively. “Nothing bad, I swear!” He looks back towards the common area. “He must just be having a bad day or something…”

That doesn’t explain the sudden warmth when someone else spoke to him, though. You frown. “Okay… I guess I’ll just have to try harder to get him to like me.”

Your friend seems to perk up at that. “That’s the spirit!” He proceeds to grab you by the shoulders and steer you back to the common area.

You have an amiable enough time chatting with the boys who had remained there. Eventually, Donghyuck emerges from his room, looking even more ruffled than Johnny had, and Mark shuffles out with him. Once again, he doesn’t even spare you a glance. Every so often, as you’re talking to the others or just listening to their strange, all-over-the-place conversations, your eyes flicker over to him. He contributes to the chatter, but it’s like he’s purposefully avoiding you, even though you’re literally in the room with him. It kind of hurts.

Still, you try not to let it bother you too much. An hour passes, which you realize with a start, and you remember that you’re not even nearly done unpacking. As you’re rising from your seat on the edge of the couch, Jungwoo throws a comment out to you. “You’re welcome to bust in here any time!”

He’s met with a chorus of agreement from the others, except one.

The next day, Jungwoo makes a point to introduce you to the rest of his circle. Not long after, you’re added to a group chat with a whole phonebook of unfamiliar numbers. Most of them, minus several who your friend had told you in the past do a poor job of checking their messages, send their names pretty quickly. Jungwoo tells you who the others are. With a pang of disappointment, you realize one of the missing numbers was Mark.

On your first day of classes, you’re pleasantly surprised to find that you share an economics lecture with Donghyuck, who acts both very tired and also full of energy, chatting your ear off before and after class, but looking as if he’s about to pass out when the professor gives her introduction and starts to go over course material. That day, you also learn that you have an ethics class with Jungwoo’s friend Doyoung, stoic and serious and exactly the opposite of Donghyuck, but still smiling at your lame jokes and carefully making sure you get the homework down.

The second day starts out much more slowly. You settle down for your third class, a curriculum development course, and it takes you about a solid minute to realize that Mark Lee is sitting in the room with you. He had come in while you were busily typing out a text to a friend from your previous university. The classroom is not particularly large and you had taken a seat near the middle, so there aren’t many places for him to hide. When he walks in, he takes a seat by the wall closest to the windows. You consider greeting him, walking to his desk to try and talk to see if he had a change of attitude from the last time you saw him, but then your professor enters the scene. As he passes by the far side of the room, Mark looks up from his own phone and smiles, mouth instantly opening to greet him. You stay in your seat and try to look busy as you listen to them chat amiably. Mark laughs in disbelief at something your professor says about his vacation.

At the end of the lecture, you pack up your things quickly and make the effort to take a few small, light steps to catch up to Mark, who’s already leaving. “Hi, Mark! I didn’t realize we had a class together.”

He gives you a sort of half-shrug, keeping his head pointed straight ahead. Almost imperceptibly, his pace increases. “I guess we do.”

He opens a door to a stairwell, not making any particular effort to hold the door for you. Reflexively, you grab the door and slip through after him. You try again as the two of you head down. “Are you going to be home tonight? Jungwoo invited me to have dinner with you guys.”

“No,” he says, voice edged with irritation. He reaches into his pocket, fishing out his phone and a pair of earbuds. “I’ll be out.”

“Oh.” You slow down slightly. “Well, we should hang out sometime. My next class is this way, so… see you.” By the time you’re done talking, he’s slipped both earbuds into his ears and is pushing the doors at the bottom of the stairs open. You hold back a heavy sigh and shrug your backpack higher onto your shoulders.

As he told you, he’s not in his apartment that evening. Though Jungwoo had invited you to help cook dinner, he shirks his responsibilities, slipping away to play games with Donghyuck and leaving you and Jaehyun to cook, with relatively unhelpful commentary from Johnny, who was once again on the couch when you arrived. At some point, their friend Yuta slips in, steals some noodles, and leaves.

After the cooking is done, you and Jaehyun celebrate with a firm high-five, and Jungwoo and Donghyuck un-disappear, coming out of the younger boy’s dark bedroom. The lot of you are halfway through eating when Donghyuck perks up. “Wait, where’s Mark? He said he would do calc homework with me.”

You bite the inside of your cheek and hold back from saying that he told you he wouldn’t be home.

Thankfully, most of Jungwoo’s friends are nice to you and it’s easy enough for you to make friends of your own. You ease yourself into a routine of classes, homework, and hanging out with your new social circles. Mark doesn’t hide that he tries to avoid you about half of the time. At the same time, you try to split yourself between friend groups, as to not force him either to be around you or to not hang out with his own friends. There are the occasional large scale events that both of you are invited to, but there are enough people that you usually aren’t forced to interact. After a month of classes, you stop trying to start conversations, but you still greet him. He greets you back with the indifference of an overworked, tired stranger. During your class, he firmly ignores you. He does more than ignore you - he speaks to virtually every other person in your class except you. All of your friends carefully avoid the topic of his blatant dislike for you, though you know they all think it’s odd.

Finally, one of those large events comes to pass via the boy known as Zhong Chenle. He doesn’t go to your school, but is still somehow acquainted with all of Jungwoo’s friends, so he became acquainted with you as well. He’s eccentric and sarcastic and sometimes you see him playing basketball with Mark and Jaehyun in the school recreation center. So, when he rents out the local ice skating rink and invites you, you’re excited to go. It’s not often that you get onto the ice - it’s always a thrill after you re-learn how to skate, and you enjoy the feeling of the smooth gliding and wide, curving turns on the blades. You imagine that you’re painting with your feet.

Things go down smoothly, like you envisioned. After just twenty minutes, you’ve confidently found your ice legs and you’re racing around the rink with Donghyuck, playfully tipping each other off-balance with carefully or sometimes not-so-carefully timed pushes. A few minutes later, a new player enters the arena. Maybe if this new person weren’t Mark Lee, you wouldn’t have noticed their entrance, but your eyes are instinctively drawn to him.

The boy in question is clinging to one Lee Jeno, another friend of Jungwoo and Donghyuck and all the rest of them, as they both try to find their balance. Jeno seems to be having somewhat of an easier time with the skates on his feet, making slow pushes so that he glides short distances with Mark holding onto him. Mark is adorably flushed, in a way you haven’t seen before, his cheeks aflame with cold and embarrassment. His body is swallowed by an overly large hoodie, completing the cozy and cute look.

Your racing buddy has also slowed down to watch with you, staring at the scene. He suddenly nudges you with an elbow. “You should help him.”

“Jeno? I think he’s gotten the hang of it. Plus, I don’t know him that well.” It’s now a game of who can dodge implications rather than who can dodge physical pushes.

Donghyuck rolls his eyes, skating lazily alongside you. “You know I’m talking about Mark. This would be a great opportunity to get on his good side.”

“Why don’t you help him? He’s your boyfriend, after all.” If you weren’t focusing on turning your skates and keeping your balance because you’ve reached the short end of the rink, you would cross your arms and huff at him more dramatically.

He clicks his tongue sharply, something you know by now that he does when he’s irritated. “Mark isn’t my boyfriend. Doyoung and Taeyong are boyfriends. Mark and I are soulmates. And he’s still painfully single.”

“So are you!” As you protest, you realize that Mark and Jeno are getting closer. Donghyuck fires something back indignantly, but you’re just thinking about what he said before. The offer to help lies in front of you as a real possibility, but how would you feel if someone you hated came up and asked if you wanted help skating? If you really hated them that much, you would just think they were being condescending. The last thing you want to do is give Mark a reason to think you’re acting that way towards him. So, as you skate closer, you pick up your pace and speed on by, not even glancing at the two boys with their arms interlinked. Luckily for you, Jungwoo is just ahead, so you hook arms with him and jerk him forward with your momentum, making him yell out in surprise.

As you’re gliding along, laughing at your friend’s reaction and attempts to push you, Mark stares at you from behind with a small frown on his face.

“Mark?” Jeno’s voice snaps him out of it and he looks towards the younger boy. “Do you need me to slow down?”

“No,” he says rather grimly, “let’s go faster.”

You don’t speak to each other at all for the entire night.

The next month and a half passes unremarkably. Then, suddenly, midterms are rolling up and you find yourself swamped with work, especially in the class you share with Mark and your new friend Yuqi. At the current moment, you’re at your place with your head buried in your arms, groaning dramatically. “I can’t do this.”

Yuqi nods, looking somewhat dead inside. “Professor Lim hates us.”

“I don’t know what chapters we even covered half of the material in. Did he just make it up?” You lift your hand to paw through the textbook in front of you lazily, so much of it seeming foreign. “It doesn’t help that the Instructional Systems Design Model is such a big part of the project.”

“Maybe that’s in Chapter 1?”

You flip through her suggestion before slamming your book shut. “Nope.”

“I know!” You perk up at your friend’s revelation, looking at her from across the table. “We can just ask Mark! He’s good at this class, he probably knows.”

You stiffen at her suggestion. There was only one time you dared to ask him for help, in which he just brushed you off and said he was busy. Since then, you’ve resigned yourself to only asking Yuqi for help, no matter how clueless she is in this class sometimes. A brief moment of panic sends your heart racing as she whips out her cellphone. “Don’t mention me.”

She turns to look at you, finger poised to press call over her phone. “What?”

You put your head back down, muffling your words. “Don’t say my name when you talk to him.” She gives you a weird look, but shrugs, pressing the call button. “Wait! And put it on speaker so I can hear the answer. Please.”

Wordlessly, she rolls her eyes, but pulls the phone away from her face, setting it on the table in front of her. The call connects after two rings and you hear Mark’s voice with the staticky phone call filter over it. “Hello?”

“Hey, Mark! It’s Yuqi.”

“Oh, hi, what’s up?” He seems to brighten up, showing a pleasantness that you rarely hear from him these days.

“I just had a question about our curriculum development class. Do you know what chapter goes over the Instructional Systems Design Model? I can’t find it.”

“Oh, sure. Hold on, let me grab my notes.” From the other end, you can hear the distorted shuffling of clothes and paper for a moment. “It’s Chapter 4, I think. We didn’t really go over that chapter in class, but Prof. Lim told me when I went to his office hours.”

“Oh my god, thank you so much, Mark! You’re a literal life saver,” Yuqi gushes, about to practically kiss the phone in joy.

You press your hands together in front of you in a silent thank you. Mark laughs lightly into the phone. “No problem! If you ever need anything, let me know. I’m always happy to help.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you! Bye, Mark!” After receiving a goodbye from him, Yuqi presses the hang up button. She claps her hands twice in excitement. “That makes things so much easier!”

You’re stuck thinking about what Mark said before hanging up. It’s exactly in line with how Jungwoo used to talk about him - polite, helpful, friendly. An ugly part of you has to wonder what you did wrong once again. What part of you is undeserving of his kindness? An even uglier part feels the green flash of envy. “How do you have Mark’s number?”

“We had a class together like a year ago and he’s a pretty cool guy. Also useful to have around.” The image of them studying together, chatting like close friends, heads bent closely over shared notes, makes the parasite of jealousy dig deeper in your belly. The logical side of your brain knows you shouldn’t be feeling like this, but the two sides of Mark Lee make you want to throw an uncharacteristic fit. She tosses her phone to the side before flipping open her textbook to Chapter 4. “Why?”

“Were you guys ever… like…” You bite the inside of your cheek, not wanting to say it out loud.

“Me? Mark? No, we just worked on a project together. I have no idea what gave you that idea.” She wrinkles her nose at you.

“You just talk to each other so casually,” you huff, trying to expel the negativity from your system, “I don’t know.”

“He’s like that with everyone,” she says easily, leaning back in her chair. “Except you, I guess.”

“Except me. I guess.” You parrot, not feeling any better about the situation. When you proceed to ask her if you did anything weird on your first day of class that would have put him off, she denies it, telling you that you were completely normal. Resigned to forget the mystery for the night, you open up your textbook.

Midterms pass with relative success. At least, with more success than you had at your old university. You’re excited for a break, a reprieve from the pain of studying. Johnny arranges a potluck and movie night at his place, assigning everyone a dish and putting you on dessert.

In your class with Doyoung, who is often assigned as the chef of the group, you pressure him for everyone’s favorites. “Something fruity? Chocolatey?”

“We’re split there. There’s not much you can do that would appease everyone, honestly. Some of them are the pickiest guys I’ve ever met.” He continues to scribble notes as you grill him for info, not even looking up.

“What if I did something different? Like matcha cookies?” You tap your chin in thought and Doyoung lifts a hand to point at you after the suggestion leaves your mouth.

“Yes, do that one. Basically everyone likes green tea.”

“Basically everyone?”

“Not Mark.” Doyoung shakes his head disapprovingly. “He’s not arriving until after we eat, though, so I’m sure it’s fine.”

You’re not sure what to say to that. That night, you work hard making your matcha cookies, setting aside a bit of time for a side project. When you arrive at Johnny’s apartment with two dishes, one quite a bit smaller than the others and labeled with Mark’s name, safely hidden in the pantry until everyone has stepped out of the kitchen area and you can put it somewhere you hope he’ll see it. You can only hope that he at least appreciates your effort. When he arrives a bit later into the night, non-gifting you his usual non-existent glance, you can’t help but impatiently squirm a bit. Before you leave, you make a pass by the kitchen and, disappointingly, but not surprisingly, the container is in the same place as you left it, your note still affixed to the top.

The mystery continues, however, when you approach Johnny a few days later to ask about retrieving your containers.

“There was more than one? I only have that big rectangular one that you brought the matcha cookies in. They were really good, by the way - I can only wish the cookies I make turned out like that…” He scratches his head and you feel like the gesture perfectly represents how you’re feeling as well. If he doesn't have the box… who does?

A small part of you holds onto the hope that the intended person retrieved them after you weren’t looking.

The class you share with Mark is not nearly the most interesting one you have, nor is it one that is particularly memorable most of the time. There’s something so terribly tedious about it that makes you suffer a disproportionate amount whenever you do a chapter of the reading, though you think that you’re usually quite good about your work. Still, though you’re not exactly the most studious of your classmates, you can’t stand resounding silences in the classroom. So, when your professor asks a question and no one volunteers, you try to at least say something somewhat intelligent. Today is one of those days. Except, as you speak, you realize with dawning dread that your words aren’t making any sense of all, are barely related to the question, and are progressively spiraling into completely different subject matter. Still, you find it hard to stop, eventually coming to a stuttering stop with your answer. Even Professor Lim can’t hold back something of a put-off expression. You sink lower into your seat and, as your professor says something along the lines of your comments being “not quite relevant,” your cheeks burn.

You spare a glance to the side, looking for some sort of pity or reassurance from Yuqi, but you end up looking past her at Mark. You half expect him to smirking at your failure, like a villain in a high school drama, but, instead, his eyes meet yours. He offers you the barest twitch of an encouraging smile before looking away, his face neutral again. You’re almost unsure about how to interpret the look - it’s the closest thing to a positive emotion he’s ever shown you. Confused, you fix your eyes on your open notebook and keep them there, scratching random notes and doodles into the margins for the remainder of the lecture.

When you think about Mark Lee, you feel like you’re going insane. It would honestly be pretty easy for you to make one of those crazy conspiracy theorist maps with the red strings and thumbtacks attempting to connect a bunch of pictures with all the strange, fragmented experiences you’ve had with the boy. At one position, you could put all the information you supposedly knew about him before even meeting him, all of the things Jungwoo told you, all the smiling pictures from before you arrived. Somewhere else, you could put all of the times Mark has brushed you off or outright refused to acknowledge your existence. In a third location, you could put all the things you’ve actively seen or heard him do that align with the person you thought he was. Finally, you could put the most recent developments of him subtly starting to not ignore you together. The whole diagram would be circled with giant question marks all over it and one question written in capital letters: WHY?

You’re trying to do your damn curriculum development homework and all you can think about is Mark Lee and the first smile he ever gave you. And, from the way your heart is beating, pushing heat into your face and ears, making you wistful and longing to see his smile again, you think you know the direction your feelings have headed.

The next few times you head over to Jungwoo’s place, it’s hit or miss as to whether Mark appears to be actively avoiding you. Finally, one day, you’re pressed shoulder to shoulder with Jungwoo, your eyes fixed on the small screen of your phone as you show him a funny video you found. You don’t notice Mark until he opens his bedroom door loudly enough that you look up and you meet his cold gaze. He’s in casual clothes, a hoodie and jeans, with earbuds hanging from his ears, his hair slightly tousled from the wind outside. The eye contact lasts for only a moment before his door acts as a barrier to your vision. You blink hard.

“Just when I thought we were getting somewhere…” You sulk, speaking lowly as to not be overheard by him.

“You and Mark?” Jungwoo asks, not even looking up. The video ends and your friend puts down your phone, folds his hands in front of him, and turns to look at you. “Did you ever figure it out?”

“Did I? How could I figure it out when he won’t even talk to me? Did you?” You lean away from him, crossing your arms. “Should we even be having this conversation over here? He’s just in his room.”

Jungwoo shrugs. “He has his headphones in, he can’t hear anything. To answer your question,” he pauses, leaning in closer to whisper like he’s telling you a secret, “I have no idea.”

“You must have some ideas at least?”

“I have many ideas, many theories, and quite a few formulas. Most of which don’t particularly apply to this situation.” You grumble something under your breath about engineering majors as he continues. “For Mark? He might be letting all the negativity he’s ever felt out on you, honestly. Maybe because you’re the same major?”

You sit up slightly straighter. “We’re the same major?”

“Yeah?” Jungwoo replies, giving you a look. “He’s trying to be music education instead of history education, though.”

“I never knew the specifics,” you mumble, letting your posture fall back into a slouch. In reality, it’s more than just not knowing the specifics - there’s very little you’ve managed to learn about Mark that you haven’t actively had to pry out of your shared friends. You know about some of the foods he likes, some of his hobbies, and a bit of general information. It’s awfully hard to get to know someone when they refuse to acknowledge you.

That notion makes your developing crush feel even stupider.

You attempt to turn the subject back to where it began. “Why me, though? Why not literally anyone else?”

“You’re a pretty cool person and you’re good at a lot of things. Mark’s developing an inferiority complex?” Jungwoo taps his chin as though he’s pretending to be some great thinker.

“I’m not going to lower myself to help some man’s ego,” you huff, your nails digging into your palms as you make tight fists. “Plus, there’s nothing I’m particularly good at that he’s not also good at, if not better.”

“It’s not really about ego, I think…” Jungwoo says, trailing off. “I dunno. He’s not like that with anyone but you.”

“No one but me, huh.” Honestly, you’re kind of getting sick of that expression. This isn’t the kind of exceptional you want to be to him. Not at all. You’re honestly not sure when it stopped being a simple need to be on pleasant terms with Jungwoo’s friends and started to get romantic. Your lips press into a thin line for a moment before you exhale sharply from your nose. “Everything is a big ‘I don’t know’ and I hate it. If it’s not an ‘I don’t know,’ it’s still stuck in the ‘why?’ stage.” You lay your head down and you have to resist the urge to scream into your arms. “I’m going to lose my mind.”

“You really make no sense at all.”

“It really makes no sense that I-” You bite your tongue to stop yourself to stop yourself from admitting out loud to the feelings you’ve just recently realized. Jungwoo just gives you a sly, knowing smile that you don’t like the look of one bit.

Before you know it, finals are around the corner and, with it, one of the last organized events you’ll have with your friends until testing is over. This time, it’s a group dinner where people can come and go as they please, and a few of you have taken it upon yourselves to do all the cooking. Namely, you, Doyoung, Jaehyun, Kun, and, surprisingly, Donghyuck. Suffice to say, the kitchen is not enough space for all of you. Still, you manage to pull it off, completing a hearty Korean-style dinner that slowly disappears from their dishes as all of the others eat. By the end, you’re worn out from the sweltering heat of the stove, the occasional bickering with the other chefs (‘Donghyuck, stop eating all the radish!’), and chatting with nearly every single one of your friends. Names and faces scroll through your head and you’re honestly not sure who you’ve seen and not seen by the end of it. Except for one person.

Mark Lee is, once again, nowhere to be found.

You make sure to smack away hands going for seconds in order to wrap up a moderately sized portion of food for him anyways. When all of the food, save for what you’ve set aside for Mark, is gone, Taeyong offers himself and some of the others up to clean, which you and the rest of the cooking boys eagerly accept. Most of them have headed out by now, but the few remaining begrudgingly agree to the job at Taeyong’s call.

You lean against the wall idly, watching the work being done and listening to the rhythmic sound of the water running and the sponge scraping against metal. Finally, Jungwoo happens upon the wrapped plate you had prepared for your missing guest.

“Who’s this for?” He asks to the room, almost salivating at the sight of the food. Damn, that boy can eat.

“It’s for Mark. You can give it to him when he gets back.” Your words are half informative, half threatening. Jungwoo takes the hint and carefully replaces the foil covering the food.

It takes another minute for him to look back over at you, seeing you looking bleary-eyed, close to swaying onto the floor from fatigue. He steps over, patting you on the head. “Y/N, you can go rest on the couch if you want. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I might just do that,” you respond, not clarifying which part of his sentence you’re talking about. At his behest, you shuffle over to the couch. It only takes a moment for your eyes to flutter closed. The music of washing dishes lulls you quickly to sleep.

You’re not sure how long has passed by the time you stir to the sound of the front door closing. You recognize that water is no longer running and that there are only two voices left in the kitchen area. Lying there for a moment, unsure of if you should make your presence known yet, you determine that the voices belong to Jungwoo and Mark.

“Oh, Y/N made sure to grab this for you,” you hear Jungwoo say, followed by the faint crinkling of the foil covering the plate.

“She did?” Mark’s voice is surprisingly soft, warm, everything you’re not used to from him.

The voices drift closer towards you, accompanying the slip of socks against the wood floor. “Don’t act surprised. Also, she’s on the couch sleeping right now. I’ll probably wake her up in a minute so she can go home.”

“Oh.” You’re listening as hard as you can, trying to determine whatever Mark is feeling just by his tone. “Is she okay?”

Your heart beats faster and you want to squirm, ask questions, anything. You remain still.

“Just tired.” A beat of silence. “Why are you looking at her like that?”

“Dude, I just…” Mark has some sort of lightness to his voice that you’ve never heard. “Nothing.”

“Do you think I can’t tell? Come on, I’ve known you long enough.” Jungwoo would normally be teasing saying something like that, but right now you just hear a kind of weariness that you’re entirely familiar with.

“Not as long you’ve known her.” The sentence comes out bitter, the first negativity you’ve heard from Mark all night, and Jungwoo sighs in response.

“Do what you need to do and then I’ll wake her up.”

They walk farther away. The telltale sound of the microwave opening and shutting after the foil crinkles again, followed by the beeping of the buttons and the hum of the machine, tells you that someone is heating up the food. Under the microwave ambiance, you hear what you think is plastic against plastic. The machine is stopped before it can beep shrilly. The smell of warm, reheated food fills the air briefly. There’s shuffling as Mark presumably walks.

“Night.” Jungwoo echoes Mark’s sentiment and you hear more shuffling towards you. A touch on your shoulder. You keep your eyes closed, trying to control your breathing for a moment longer. Your friend shakes you slightly. “Y/N, wake up.”

You try your best to play up your awakening act, like you hadn’t been listening to the entirety of the last conversation. Rubbing your eyes and blinking, you look up at Jungwoo. “What time is it?”

“Almost midnight. Everyone went home to sleep and study.” You get up slowly, rolling your shoulders once you’ve sat up. “I can walk you back, if you want.”

“That’s okay, it’s not a long walk.” You get to your feet, padding to the kitchen area. There, on the table, is the plastic container you’d brought Mark’s cookies in weeks ago. “Oh, that’s my container. Did Johnny find it?”

Jungwoo reaches up to ruffle his hair, looking between you and the container. “Mark did, actually.” “Huh.” Shrugging, you pick it up and make your way to the door. “Tell him thanks for me.”

“You could tell him yourself?” Jungwoo offers, looking vaguely hopeful.

You smile, but cringe at the same time. “Yeah… you know.”

He shakes his head, seeming disappointed once more. “Fine. Text me when you get back?”

“Will do.”

As you walk home, your container clutched in your arms, you think about how more pieces are being unveiled, but nothing is really making that much more sense at all.

Finals pass as they always do. You study with Yuqi for your curriculum development class. The situation from midterms repeats itself almost exactly at one point, with her calling Mark for help and you staying quiet as he talks, and the test is no harder than any of the others you had previously in the semester. You force yourself to keep your eyes on your exam and to not glance over at Mark except when you’re walking out of the classroom at the end. All you can see of him is the back of his head, his hair slightly disheveled. Idly, you wonder if you’ll get over your baseless crush if you aren’t able to look at him and mull over the problem during class anymore. You think that’s the last you’ll see of him before you run into him at an event next semester.

On the last day of finals, your group chat receives two messages from Jungwoo.

JW: END OF THE SEMESTER PARTY TOMORROW NIGHT TO CELEBRATE FINALS BEING DONE BEFORE EVERYONE LEAVES. ATTENDANCE IS MANDATORY.

JW: I don’t care if you planned a “date” with your “girlfriend,” I expect to see all of you there :))

A minute later, your phone buzzes again with an individual message from the same boy.

JW: Y/N, my lovely best friend, you’re part of the planning committee and you’re going to help me set up. Be there an hour early xoxo

You know there’s no use fighting it so, the next day, you show up to his place as expected. Jungwoo, Lucas, Yuta, and Johnny are all milling about, trying to seem busy but, honestly, there doesn’t look like there’s much to do. Some of the furniture has been moved to the side, there’s a giant mysterious tub that is partly filled with a reddish liquid that Lucas and Yuta are leaning over, and Johnny is affixing colorful lights to a wall. As soon as your shoes are off, Jungwoo is steering you to the common area.

“Y/N, you’re late!”

“I’m like ten minutes early-” You start.

“No, no, no excuses. I have an important job for you!” It takes you a moment to realize that he’s not leading you to the kitchen, but towards someone’s bedroom. “You like crafts, right?”

“I mean, I guess? I-”

“Great!” He pushes open the bedroom door, Mark’s bedroom door, and pushes you not-so-gently inside. Mark is sitting at his desk, bent over something with a look of surprise on his face. He looks cozy, dressed in a simple red t-shirt and gray sweats with circle glasses perched on his nose. “I want to hang about one hundred paper cranes around the apartment to add a little flare to the party. You can’t leave until you’re done, Mark has the paper, bye!”

He shuts the door behind him.

You and Mark stare at each other in bewilderment as you process whatever just happened. You’re in Mark’s bedroom for the first time. You’re also being actively forced to interact with him one on one for the first time. None of your friends had ever forced you to try and work out your issues until now and you’re certain that Jungwoo’s implication was that you’re not allowed to leave until you’ve talked it through. Some part of you knew he would eventually snap and force you to interact, but you always ignored that possibility. Until now.

“Um,” you start, twisting your fingers together in front of you, “he said you have the paper?”

“Yeah…” he looks back at his desk, grabbing some of the myriad of square sheets and holding them out to you. “Here.”

“Thanks.” You carefully make sure to prevent your fingers from brushing against his as you take them from him. Stepping back, you settle cross-legged on an empty spot on his floor. After you sit, you take a moment to look around. His walls have the occasional band poster plastered on them, there’s a hoodie on the floor across the room, and some of his drawers are partly open, illustrating a pretty typical college boy’s room. A couple of books are pushed to the side on his desk as he works on folding the cranes. Remembering that’s what you’re supposed to be doing, you get to work, making careful creases. Your first crane comes to life on yellow paper slightly lopsided. Good enough, you figure.

You’re in the middle of your second crane when Mark’s chair screeches quietly against the floor and he stands up, gathering his paper. To your great surprise, he sits down a few away from you and mirrors your pose. When you meet eyes with him briefly, you look away as fast as you can, returning to your crane before you can even try and read what he’s feeling. The next three cranes pass quickly with your eyes locked firmly on your work. When you dare to look up again, you find that Mark is intently watching your hands. He startles when you see him. Realizing he’s been caught, he speaks of softly. “Do you… know how to do it?”

Even when he’s the one talking quietly, looking embarrassed, you feel so small. You look down at his own paper pile, which has a few crumpled sheets surrounding it. “I can show you.” He nods and you cautiously scoot closer so that you’re side by side. As gently as you can, you explain each fold and he copies your movements. Soon, you have a relatively even green crane and he has a somewhat lopsided pink crane, very similar to your first.

“Thanks,” he says, staring at his creation, “all of the tutorials I googled weren’t making any sense, but I think I got it now.”

“No problem.” You nod, moving back to your spot across from him. Not wanting the experience to end quite yet, you think about what Jungwoo said last weekend. “Thanks for returning my container.”

He instantly knows what you’re talking about. “Thanks for-”

Before he can say any more, he stops and his expression hardens. He proceeds to look back down at his hands, making slow, purposeful folds in the paper in front of him. You frown, but do the same. A few cranes later, you can’t stop it anymore. After months, months, of him treating you like this, you can’t go one more crane without finding the truth. You throw a half-completed crane to the floor and, though the noise isn’t loud, he looks up. “Mark, what did I do?”

He seems entirely too surprised by the question, which sparks a kind of anger that you didn’t even realize you were holding in. “What?”

“What did I do! What made you act like this to me? Did I do something? Do you just hate my face? What did I do wrong?” You squeeze your knees brutally, trying to resist doing something like tearing up the few pieces of origami you had completed.

“Nothing.” His simple, one word answer only serves to make you more upset. Though he appears initially dismissive, he sees that you’re about to start shouting and quickly continues. “You really didn’t do anything!”

“Then, why? Mark, you’re making me lose my mind!” Now, you feel like you’re on the verge of crying out of frustration. So far, you’ve managed to not cry at all about this stupid boy who has largely chosen to ignore your existence, but you can feel the telltale warming of your cheeks and the pout in your lips.

“It’s not something you did! Not really.” He takes a shaky breath, appearing almost as upset as you, though there are no tears in his eyes. “It’s about Jungwoo. Please, don’t cry.”

The initial confusion helps you swallow your building tears. “If you’re upset at him, why do you have to take it out on me? I really wanted to be friends with you, Mark. I really did.”

“I wanted to be different.” Now, he’s quiet, refusing to look at you for the months of shame he’s feeling rise to the surface.

“From Jungwoo?” You’re not quite following still. You just know that, even though he’s subtly broken your heart and led you in circles over and over for the past few months, you want to know why he’s hurting and you want to stop it. Even if he hasn’t been full of kindness to you, he has been to everyone else. And you know almost for a fact that this isn’t something he’s told anyone else.

“From you.”

Pushing aside papers, crumpled partial cranes, complete cranes, you move closer to him. You’re not sure if you’re overstepping your boundaries and you still kind of feel like one wrong move will make you cry, but the yelling has left your system and your instincts say proximity will help you understand. “Will you explain it to me?”

“There was a you-shaped hole in Jungwoo’s heart ever since he had to go to college and stop spending so much time with you.” Mark’s resignation is quiet, soft-spoken, like the boy you’d heard so much about but only now had gotten to truly meet. “Whenever he came back from breaks, he would talk about you so much and about how similar you and I are and it just made me feel… it made me feel… like… I don’t know. Like I’m just replacing you while you’re not here.”

“Mark…” You’re not sure quite what to say that he hasn’t logically figured out for himself already. Maybe it would help to say the obvious anyways? “You’re not a replacement. You’re you and I’m me and he has different places for both of us.”

He lets out a puff of air. “I know that. It’s just the type of feeling that you can’t really get to go away, even when you try really hard to believe the opposite.”

“I get the feeling.” And you do. It’s like the nagging feeling that you’ve had that you did something unforgivable to upset Mark even though you were almost certain you didn’t.

“I was mean to you because at least that would make me different enough to not be replaced, I guess. It worked because you never stooped to my level to be mean back.” Though he hasn’t quite apologized, he sounds genuinely sorry.

“It worked because you couldn’t have been replaced in the first place,” you say back. You look over and he has a small smile on his face.

“That too. Also-” He stops himself, seeming conflicted. “No, it’s a bad time. A really bad time.”

That piques your curiosity. “Huh?” He’s not smiling anymore, instead looking awkwardly to his side, away from you, and drumming his fingers on the bed. “Mark, you might as well say it. Whatever it is.”

“Okay, after a few months, I realized that you weren’t going to replace me and things were fine. But, you know that thing that kids do?” You’re confused and he’s growing red, practically steaming at the ears in embarrassment, which you can see even in the dim light of the room. “So, I kept being mean because then you kept looking at me even though whenever I thought about what I said to you later, I always felt really bad-” “Mark, you’re rambling. What are you talking about?” You ungracefully interrupt him, touching his arm to get his full attention. He seems to grow even redder at your touch and suddenly exclaims his next words.

“You’re really cute!”

Slowly, his words make more sense. You try to piece them together out loud to make sure you’re understanding him correctly. “So… the thing kids do… where they’re mean to the person they like?”

He moves his head up and down in a tiny nod. Now, your face is heating up, too. Even more than it was when you were on the verge of crying. After a moment, he groans and presses his face into his hands. “Damn, I’m such an idiot. I know this is, like, what middle schoolers do, but since the beginning of the semester I’ve just been so confused, except you’ve probably been way, way more confused than me, and I didn’t even think about it, but all of our friends are probably confused, too, and-” As he jabbers, when your thoughts and feelings had been processing slowly previously, you now feel like your whole reality is crumbling. You spent the last while beating down your feelings when he’s become a pile of mush in front of you about the same problem? At this rate, he’s never going to stop rambling either. Not that you particularly want him to. It’s the most he’s directly said to you ever. And it’s adorable. What else would be adorable? You wonder, teasing him a bit before you tell him the truth. For how long he kept you hanging, you deserve to create at least some tension of your own, you figure. Just for a moment.

“- you’re probably thinking about how dumb this is and I don’t know how you’ll ever forgive me-”

You sit up straight and cross your arms over your chest. “Mark.”

He stops talking and looks at you, more panic seeming to rise in his face at the serious expression you wear. “Oh shit, I never let you talk. Y/N-”

“Mark.” He finally stops, staring at you. “I don’t forgive you.” The panic turns into sheer terror. He clearly hadn’t expected you to put it so forwardly. However, before he can say anything truly depressing, you continue. “I don’t forgive you because you haven’t actually apologized yet.”

His eyes are like tiny suns, round and bright and holding all the feeling in the universe. “I- I thought…” He looks to the side, thinking about everything he had said, and realizes that you’re right. “You’re right. Y/N…” He presses his hands together in front of him. “I’m so sorry.”

It’s probably the most succinct and straightforward he’s ever been with you, but you don’t have much time to think about that before he’s leaning forward in a full bow, pressing his forehead to the ground.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m-”

“Mark, stop!” As soon as you realize what he’s doing, you shuffle forward, putting both hands on his shoulders so you can attempt to yank him back upright. “I was joking, please stop!” He remains upraised, once again looking confused. Slowly, you move backwards about two feet to put some breathing room between you. “You don’t need to do that. I like you, too.”

One slow heartbeat passes. Then a second. You’re not sure how long the thick silence hangs between you, but the tension is so heavy that you don’t even hear any outside noise from the other boys who are supposedly getting ready for a party.

“You… what… wait, no, really?” Mark’s baffled face as he stutters back to you paired with the anxiety of the entire situation makes a laugh bubble out of your chest. He seems to be entirely at a loss. He continues to just stare at you wide-eyed, like he’s witnessing some incredible event instead of just ogling you in the dim light of his bedroom.

“Don’t look at me like that…” You can’t help but reflect some of his flustered behavior, eye contact becoming almost painful. He’s never met your eyes with such enormous positivity and cuteness before and it makes you want to run laps around the building or something. “Mark, I’m serious!”

“How could you like me back? When I was so mean to you? For months?” He begins to twist in place, trying to lean over and look at your head from multiple directions. “Did you fall down the stairs on the way over here and hit your head or something?”

“Mark!” You uncross your legs and shuffle closer on your knees, reaching out to still his movement by grasping his shoulders once again. “Please stop.” When you touch him, he freezes, still moon-eyed. After he stops moving, your hands slide down so that you can hold his. His hands are warm and stiff, just like the rest of his body.

He finally breaks eye contact, looking at where your hands are connected. “I just really don’t get it. There’s no way you like me.”

“You almost sound like you’re upset about it.” You tilt your head, smiling at him softly.

“I am!” He’s insistant, his hands holding onto yours firmly now. Though his grip is tighter, he visibly deflates, his shoulders sinking. “It’s so unfair to you. I was such an ass.”

“But you’re not. One ass-like behavior does not an ass make.” You almost confuse yourself saying it, but you continue. “It’s not about the times you were weird to me. It’s about the times you were nice to everyone else. Like when you helped Yuqi with our class. Or when you helped Donghyuck with his calc even though you aren’t even taking it with him. It sounds kind of dumb, but because of that, I knew you weren’t a bad person. Even if you were trying to be one to me sometimes.” Your thumbs run over his idly, making soothing strokes over his skin as you speak. “Still, you weren’t really all that mean to me, per se. More cold, if anything. Then, when you stopped doing so much of that, it got really confusing. I do have a question, though.”

“I’ll try to answer it, I guess.”

“Did Jungwoo really say we were that similar?”

He blinks. “Maybe once or twice? It just really stuck out to me, for some reason.”

“You’re cute.” He blushes furiously at that. Carefully, you untangle one of your hands from his and bring it up to his cheek, cupping his blazing face. “Do you want to try this? The being together thing?”

“I want to, but-” He presses his lips together, making his cheeks puff out slightly as he thinks. “I don’t know. I feel like I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve a chance with you.”

Silence sits between you for a moment. Your hand moves back down so you’re holding both of his again. “I know what you can do to make it up to me.”

His eager eyes on your face prompts you to continue. Slowly, a grin threatens to split your face in half.

“I guess you’ll have to kiss me at least once for every time you were mean to me. Maybe more than once.” Your brilliant smile changes form in the air between you and reappears as the stars in his eyes.

“Practice round? Just to make sure I get it right.” The subtle flirtatiousness of the idea that leaves his mouth absolutely appeals to you and you agree. You move as close as you possibly can, your knees pressed together, your breath on his lips and his on yours, his soft bangs grazing your forehead. The touch of his lips against yours is awkward at first, but transforms into something sweeter with a little time. Once you both pull away, it seems you have the same idea when you both go back in for a few quick pecks afterwards. Finally, when you’re content for the moment, he leans forward quickly to press a kiss to your cheek.

You figure that a return to the work of folding cranes will help calm down your rapid heart rate, but every time you steal a glance at Mark, the butterflies return. You know for a fact that he keeps looking at you, too. By the time the noise level outside of the room increases and music is being blasted through the apartment, you’re nowhere near being done with all one hundred cranes, but both of you are sure your mutual friend doesn’t actually care about that. Together, you emerge from his room. You don’t answer any prodding questions from your friends for most of the time you’re mingling, though you’re pretty sure that a good number of them see him sneaking kisses at least once or twice.

Some of them definitely see when you sneak off to his room again before the clock has even turned to midnight. At the same time, you could be damned if you really care.

#neowritingsnet #nct fluff #nct angst #mark lee fluff #mark lee angst #nct 127 fluff #nct 127 angst #nct scenarios #nct imagines #nct 127 scenarios #nct 127 imagines #nct fanfic #nct scenario #wonjaekook #i tried a slightly new sizing for the header :) hopefully it looks better now #there are definitely things I could have done better so let me know what you think!#<<<333

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boldlyvoid · 3 years

Text

Hypothetically | Chapter 16-20

summary: Reader and Spencer were friends in kindergarten, she watched him grow up and explore the world while she was still trying to catch up to him. now that they work together, they fall in love incredibly fast.

friends to lovers, case of the week style story

A/N: Set between seasons 4 and 6, not following canon. all original crimes based on real-life stories.

Warnings 18+: Murderers, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Blood, Guns, mentions of autopsy, Fluff, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, bed-sharing, Riding, Unprotected Sex, Virgin Reader, Case of the Week, original crimes, Food mention, Smut, Oral Sex, Light BDSM, Pregnancy, Pregnancy Talk, obgyn appointments and info, Home Invasion, Past Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Emotional Manipulation, Grooming, Pedophilia mention, non-con oral (male receiving), Pregnant Sex, Daddy Kink, Breeding Kink, Homophobia, conversion therapy

Word Count: 10k

chapter 16

It was 7 am when they got the call. Y/N had barely gotten any sleep that night, Spencer was adamant that laying on the left side helps maximize blood flow. Meaning she faced the wall all night with him happily cuddled into her back. She hated it.

Between peeing 100 times a day and the constant heartburn, she couldn’t really pick the worst part about creating a human.

It fuckin’ sucked and no one thought to warn her.

She dragged herself out of bed, trying her best to do her morning routine with only one eye open. Spencer, on the other hand, seemed to bounce out of bed like he slept 12 hours. Dancing around the kitchen as he poured his coffee and took a smoothie out of the fridge for Y/N.

He fed the cat, changed the litter and even took out the garbage by the time she pulled herself from the bathroom and to her closet.

Her jeans didn’t fit, she let herself take a minute to cry out of frustration in the closet before she looked for anything presentable. The only pants she could get into were a pair of leggings, and at that point, she didn’t care anymore. She was probably going to stay back with Penelope anyway.

She threw on an FBI sweater to hide her bump from the rest of her co-workers, grabbed the rest of her shit and followed Spencer to the car. Getting in the passenger seat and immediately closing her eyes again.

“Wake me up when we’re at Quantico,” she told him. Leaning against the window, ignoring the world.

Maternity parking was the only bonus, she only had to walk 4 feet from her car to the elevator. She felt lazy, but she was allowed to.

“Hopefully,” Spencer finally spoke to her as they entered the elevator. “At the end of this week, your energy should return as your placenta is done developing. You’re the most tired right now because your organs are working 3 times harder than they’re used to.”

“I’m tired because I had nothing to cuddle with all night, but thanks for the insight,” she tried her best to be cheery.

The door dinged, opening to the rest of the team standing in the entryway. “What’s up?” Y/N asked them.

“Hotch got a call, we’ve got a weird one coming in, he’s in his office talking to someone right now,” Morgan said. He looked just as tired as Y/N.

“Are we going in?” She asked, walking past them and towards the bullpen.

She rushed through the room and waddled up the stairs, searching for a chair before she actually passed out. Everyone followed her soon after, patting her back as they walked around the table to their seats.

“Over the past few months 6 feet have washed up on different beaches along the coast of Maine,” Penelope started explaining the case while Hotch was still on the phone in his office.

“6 feet belonging to 6 different people, all incredibly hard to identify. Interpol, Europol, the RCMP and the FBI have all been in communication with each other as no one knows where the feet washed in from. International Water laws prohibit just one of us from taking jurisdiction until we identify the nationality of the victims.”

“How are we going to Identify the feet?” Prentiss asked.

“We’re currently running the DNA against missing persons along the east coast as well as anyone who recently travelled to North America by boat, so far we don’t have any matches. We do know all 6 feet are white so hopefully, hopefully,” Garcia repeated for extra magic help, “this isn’t a refugee transport gone wrong.”

“We’ve been seeing an increase of boating accidents from Syrian refugees recently,” Spencer added. “The wars in the middle east are continuing to push people from their homes in mass numbers, meaning a lot of the boats are overpacked and capsize mid extraction.”

“So we’re probably looking at someone from North America who is using their own boat to sail out and release victims,” Y/N added. “Do we have the ME reports on the 6 feet?”

“Oh, yeah,” Garcia said, flipping through papers and handing them to her.

She read it over carefully, trying to see through her new blurred vision. Another wonderful pregnancy symptom. “Normally when feet wash up on shore, they’re in shoes. If a body is lost in a boating accident or drowning, the rubber soles will always want to float to the surface. When a body is decaying in water long enough the bones will separate, and when the ankle bone goes, the feet float to the surface,” Y/N explained.

“How do you just know that?” Rossi asked.

“In Nevada, we had a lot of drownings in a man-made lake, people would get stuck at the bottom on tree roots. And every year a few feet would wash up,” she added. “I only explained that because it says in the ME report that the feet were cut with a sharp blade, all clean cuts with no shoes or socks. So someone is cutting these bodies up and bringing them out to sea, probably to use as bait for a big catch.”

“It’s weird to me that the feet are the only parts washing up?” JJ’s face was absolutely puzzled as she flipped through the files.

“Not really,” Y/N argued, “I’m more concerned with why he’d even cut the feet, to begin with. With most shark attacks they go for full limbs, if I was the unsub and I was cutting the body up for bait, I wouldn’t make the pieces so small. There isn’t enough blood or flesh on feet to entice a large fish or shark to take it.”

Rossi was tapping his fingers against the table, “Do you think he wants us to find the feet?”

“I’m not sure, but it doesn’t look good.”

Then, Hotch finally walked in. “Which 3 of you want to travel to Maine to take a look at all the findings?” Prentiss, Morgan and Rossi raised their hands, “alright, meet me on the runway in 20. The rest of you, find a way to identify the feet.”

—

She sat at her desk most of the morning, munching on a bag of animal crackers to keep her nausea at bay. JJ brought her a cold ginger ale around 11, rubbing her back for a bit while she flipped through files.

She had a doctor’s appointment during lunch that day, so she headed downtown to give blood in the hour she was permitted. Knowing that she could be late and no one would really care.

She waited in Dr. Korrapati’s room patiently, looking at her arm as she rested it on the table. Her veins were more prominent now than they had ever been in her life. JJ insured her that they would go back down but it did make her a little self-conscious.

“Hey mama,” Dr. Korrapati cheered as she walked into the room. “How are we feeling?”

“Good, tired but good.”

“Work kicking your butt?” She asked as she prepped her arm for the blood draw. “Or just the baby?”

“Having a hard time finding a comfortable sleeping position, I’m probably going to get one of those long pillow things to help,” she rambled to take her mind off what was going on with her arm.

For someone who looked at dead bodies as her job, seeing her own blood freaked her out. Dr. Korrapati noticed she was a little stressed, “how about when I’m done here we take a look at your little person?”

That piqued her interest, she sat completely still and looked away as the nicest doctor she could’ve asked for, got the test over and done with, in record-breaking time.

“Do you have any other symptoms that are bothering you?” She asked as she wrote the exact tests down in her paperwork.

“Yeah,” she struggled with the sleeve of her shirt as she tucked her arm back in. “The nausea is driving me nuts, I’m living on animal crackers and ginger ale.”

“If you eat small meals every few hours it should settle it out,” she explained. “But if it is really bothering you we can give you some anti-nausea medication.”

“I tried that, everyone keeps bringing me snacks and trying to take care of me but I don’t want anything because I’m so tired,” she ranted as she climbed onto the exam table.

“Have you tried sleeping on the other side of the bed?” She asked.

“no, why?”

Dr. Korrapati laughed, “you sleep on the left side of the bed right?”

“Yeah?” She questioned, wondering how an OB could profile so well.

“So I'm assuming your smart and overprotective boyfriend has advised you to lay on your left side like he told JJ?” She smiled. “And because you sleep on the left side of the bed already, that means you’re not cuddled into him. He’s the big spoon now and you hate it.”

It was like a lightbulb went off in her head, “oh my god?”

They laughed at the fact it was so obvious and she never clued in. “It happens all the time, you’re so in a routine that you don’t realize you can just switch sides and it’ll work.”

“You’re so smart!”

“Ready to hear and see this baby of yours?” She asked, waiting for Y/N to raise her shirt and lower her leggings to expose her lower stomach.

“Can we?”

“Yep,” she nodded, “you’re in week 9, so you’re exiting the embryo stage and moving towards the fetal stage. We’ll be able to see the fetus and hear the heartbeat.”

“Can I record it for Spencer?” She asked, not wanting him to miss it.

“I’ll do you one better and put it on a disk for you.”

Just like that, she was smothering her stomach in warm jelly. Spreading it around with the ultrasound wand before she began to search for them. Pressing in slightly on her right side, she heard her own heartbeat whooshing. The closer she got to the centre, the more they heard the second.

Her baby’s heartbeat was strong. She saw them on the monitor, they had changed from being a jellybean to actually looking like a person. 4 strong limbs were stretching and moving, growing faster than she thought possible.

“That’s insane?” She was in such awe of it, “when will I feel the kicking and stuff?”

“In a few more months, they’re only the size of a green olive. You’ll probably feel it around Christmas?” She guessed. “You’ll be 16 weeks around then.”

“Wow okay,” she was just astounded by the magic of growing a child, she felt like absolute shit but it all made sense at that moment. In just a week, muscles and limbs formed and her baby grew the ability to self-soothe in the womb. Growing 10 fingers and toes that they already knew how to put in their mouth.

She cleaned the gel off Y/N’s stomach and began exporting the files for her. “So, I will call you when the results are in, and I can just email you guys a copy and go over it with you on the phone when you’re free? I know your job is unpredictable?”

“That would be perfect, thank you. We’re working on an international case right now so for all I know I’ll be in Ireland next week,” She laughed.

“Of course, take care of yourself make sure you’re taking all the vitamins and having 8 cups of clear fluids a day, you have to stay hydrated.” Dr. Korrapati handed her the disk in a sleeve as well as her contact card.

“Yes ma’am, I can’t wait to hear from you,” she smiled before leaving the office.

—

Y/N walked back into the BAU around 1:15, wandering down the hall to Penelope’s office to get a rundown of what she missed.

Spencer and JJ had the same idea, all turning towards the door as Y/N walked in, “hey.”

“How was it?” Spencer asked softly, beckoning her to his lap.

She sat down on him softly, “I got a DVD copy of the ultrasound.” She waved the disk around. “But, we can’t watch it until I get a rundown on what we know so far.”

“I hate how professional you are sometimes,” Penelope huffed. “Luckily, it is very important.”

“We matched a tattoo on one of the feet to a missing person’s case in Nova Scotia. So we focused our efforts on missing person’s cases who fit the same features and backgrounds as her,” JJ explained.

“Okay cool, who was she?”

“Andrea Carlton, 18. She was hitchhiking, apparently wanting to run away to meet her boyfriend in Newfoundland. I traced her transactions before she disappeared and it looks like she bought a ferry ticket, however, there are no reports of her ever getting on it,” Penelope added. “So I’ve looked into other people from Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island, New Brunswick and Newfoundland, who went missing hitchhiking or after booking a ferry ticket.”

“Smart, how many matches did we get?”

“5,” She laughed.

“You’re kidding?”

They all shook their heads, “nope. And we were able to match all the feet to them.”

Y/N handed the ultrasound video over to Penelope. “Your reward.”

She snatched it from her hands so fast, taking it out of the packaging and shoving it in her CD port. Loading the file within seconds.

She watched Spencer’s face the whole time. Already having seen the footage herself, knowing the real show would be his reaction.

He was so mesmerized, his eyes blown up in awe as tears welled. His grip on her leg was more intense, he was squeezing along to the beat of the baby’s heart, absentmindedly. He shook his head in disbelief, that was his baby in there.

The phone rang before they could really talk about it, Hotch requesting the team hop on a plane and meet them in Nova Scotia. The RCMP and the FBI have taken sole jurisdiction over the case.

Y/N was able to convince him that it would be best if they get some sleep before they go. He agreed, telling them he expected to see them in Canada at 10 am sharp.

“Before we go home tonight can you cross-reference freelance charter boats or fishermen in the area the day each victim missed a ferry? Someone desperate to get a ride might be willing to hop in a boat with anyone going where they are,” Y/N suggested to Garcia.

“I’ll run it in the background, you two go home and get some rest so my god-baby can get big and strong!” She hugged her lightly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Y/N and Spencer didn’t need to be told twice, practically running to their car. She let out the deepest sigh ever once she had her seatbelt on, so excited to go home.

Spencer drove them home, getting used to it as she got more pregnant. Soon she’d be too big to drive at all let alone stay awake the whole time.

“How are you feeling?” Spencer asked as they cleared the security check.

“Good, Dr. Korrapati is going to email us the results when they’re in and go over them with us on the phone. I told her we’d probably end up going out of the country soon,” Y/N recalled the day.

“The ultrasound was so cool,” he gushed.

“Yeah,” She smiled. Reaching to hold his hand on the centre console. “She also suggested we switch sides of the bed so that we can still cuddle while I’m on my left side.”

“She’s a genius.”

“that’s what I said!” She laughed, “literally how dumb are we?”

“187 till I become a dad and then I’m an idiot,” he smiled back at her quickly. “I’m glad you had a good day. Now we can go eat and get a full night’s rest.”

She let out another deep breath, “I can’t wait to cuddle.”

—

Garcia was waiting for them at the elevator the next morning. “Patrick Timmins.”

“Who?” Y/N asked, fully awake and ready to go, just confused by the ambush.

“I ran the perimeters that you asked for and I found a freelance fisherman slash charter service run by a guy named Patrick Timmins,” Garcia explained. “The townspeople call him Patty Tims, they think he’s fine and lovely according to his Yelp page but his criminal record tells a different story.”

“Really? I thought that was such a long shot!” Y/N was cheery from the extra sleep she got with Dr. Korrapati’s advice.

“The plane is ready when you guys are, I have all the updated info in this as well as some snacks for the plane,” she handed Spencer a cloth bag.

“What would I do without you? My pretty penny,” she kissed her friend on the cheek.

“If it means I get some sugar from you, I’ll do anything,” Garcia flirted with her in the absence of Morgan. “Go get on your plane, I will see you when you return my loves.”

They landed in Nova Scotia around 10 am like Hotch had requested. Bypassing customs and driving directly to the RCMP headquarters. They needed to come up with a plan, they had no idea how to find a man who travels by boat and lives at sea.

“We could always send undercover’s out in the areas he’s picked up before, have them dress as hitchhikers, miss the ferries and wait and see who tries to pick you up. Everyone will have a team watching and police boats on standby?” Morgan was theorizing as Spencer, Y/N and JJ walked in.

“We have report’s that he’s in the bay, if we’re going to do this we need to do it now,” An RCMP officer she hadn’t met yet announced to the room. “Who here is comfortable posing as a vic?”

JJ raised her hand, “get me some dirty clothes and I can be ready in 5.”

They raided the lost and found, they filled a backpack with random things and tried their best to dirty her fingernails and hair. She looked like she had been travelling without a proper place to stay for a while.

They managed to hide a wire on her, prepping what she was going to say if she was in danger and they needed to move in. Hiding a gun and a knife in her socks in case she needed them later.

They drove her down to the bay dropping her off 1 kilometre away, letting her walk into town while they parked closer to watch with binoculars. They planned it for her to arrive as the ferry pulled out of the bay.

She ran down the dock, trying to catch the ferry. Putting on the best performance of: “fuck, I missed the boat!” That they had ever seen.

“She’s going to win an Oscar,” Morgan whispered in the back of the surveillance van, trying to make Y/N laugh.

“Excuse me, ma’am?” They heard over the wire, trying to identify the source of the voice. The man was standing on his boat, hanging over the edge to get JJ’s attention.

“I missed the ferry, do you know when it’ll be back?” She played dumb. “I promised my mom I’d be back tonight and now I won’t be.”

“I can give you a ride, for a price,” the man suggested. “Names, Patty Tims.”

Hotch turned around from the front seat and motioned for Y/N and Morgan to head out quietly without making a scene. Listening in their headsets as JJ replied. “How much?”

They hid around the corner of the ticket booth, watching as the undercover officers walked around the civilians.

“Just a simple photo, I like to put a face to the stories I run across. Come on up,” he motioned for her to get on the boat.

She walked closer to him, “I don’t know sir, I should probably wait for the ferry.” She smiled.

“No,” he ground his teeth together and clenched his jaw, reaching for her.

She grabbed his arm and flipped him, getting into the boat and pushing him to the ground. She cuffed him by the time Morgan and Y/N could board. “What the fuck is this?” He struggled in her grasp.

“You’re under arrest for the murder of 6 people,” JJ replied, about to tell him his rights.

“Only 6?” He laughed.

JJ shoved him into the floor harder, reading him his rights before lifting him to his feet and shoving him off the boat and into RCMP custody.

Y/N lifted her hand up to high five JJ, pulling her into a half hug as they walked back to the surveillance van.

She never had a sister before, JJ was probably the only woman in her life that she felt this close to. It was mostly to do with the fact she’s always been so wonderful to Spencer. She helped him feel loved before Y/N, and that was important to her.

“Can we search the boat? Or are we still waiting on the warrant?” Y/N just wanted to check with Hotch before she barged onto the boat. Not wanting to jeopardize what they’re allowed to enter into evidence.

“We got it, you can start looking,” Hotch said, handing her a pair of gloves and a handful of evidence bags.

JJ went with her. They walked in together, noticing that he wasn’t lying about wanting a photo to go with the story. Below the deck, the entire wall was filled with Polaroids of terrified people moments before their deaths.

They bagged them all into evidence, dreading having to put them all into the system and match them to missing person’s reports. Delivering the news that someone’s loved one was gone for good was never fun.

Telling 58 families that their loved one was dead was a nightmare.

chapter 17

She’s a little confused when she wakes up to the sound of geese honking. Rolling away from Spencer’s embrace and immediately being blinded by the sunlight in the room. She sat up in a small panic.

She had forgotten that they stayed the night at the new house.

The large windows in the bedroom faced the water. She could see the sun’s reflection on the lake as it stretched over the house from the east. It was absolutely stunning. She could get used to waking up early with a screaming baby if this was the view.

Then she remembered it was the day they got their test results, she bounced a little as she reached for her phone to check her messages.

“Morning bunny,” Spencer’s groggy morning voice startled her a little.

“Bunny?” She questioned, never hearing him call her any form of nickname before.

He reached out of her, wrapping his arms around her growing belly, resting his head in her lap. “Have you ever noticed you hop a little bit when you get excited?”

“Yeah, it’s called Asperger’s,” she smiled as she ran her fingers through his hair. “It’s honestly better than bugs bunny though, just don’t throw carrots at me okay?” She laughed to herself as she recalled the childhood trauma.

It was a little funny, looking back now.

“Never, you’re my bunny. I love my bunny.”

He was so soft in the mornings. Snuggling in against her skin as he slowly woke up. He stretched and yawned a bit, making the cutest little sounds as he did so.

She kept her fingers in his hair, twirling the ends every once and a while. Mostly running her nails along his scalp, soothing that big beautiful brain of his that she loved so much.

“We find out what the sex is today,” she reminded him.

He lifted up her shirt to expose her belly. Kissing the skin as she laid back against the pillows.

“What’s going on in there today?” She asked softly.

“They’re the size of a prune,” he mused. “speaking of, as you enter the fetus stage this week you’re going to get constipated.”

She couldn’t help but laugh, “thanks that’s exactly what I wanted to know!”

“Right now the fetal development is focusing primarily on the bones, tummy and teeth,” he explained with the largest smile on his face.

“There we go.”

He hovered over her, brushing the hair from her face so he could look at her, “You look so beautiful right now.”

He said that as if he wasn’t blocking the sun from her view, perfectly casting a halo glow around him. She placed her hand on his cheek, “I love you.”

He leaned in and kissed her, pressing his body softly against her’s. “I love you,” he whispered between kisses. Covering her face and neck with small pecks, making her laugh as he covered her body in kisses.

The phone rang on Spencer’s night table causing him to press his forehead against her hip, letting out a deep sigh. Y/N reached over and picked it up. “Doctor Spencer Reid’s phone,” she answered. “He can't come to the phone right now, can I take a message?”

“Funny,” Penelope replied.

“We have a case,” Morgan added.

“What time do we need to be on the plane by?” She asked.

“Uh, it’s 7:46 now, so you’ve got an hour, tops?” Penelope guessed, “why?”

“I said he was busy. I’ll see you later.” She hung up.

“You did not just do that?” He looked absolutely horrified, his whole face turning pink.

“They could either think you got some, or you could actually get some?” She teased. “We have an hour.”

—

“All 3 Vic’s had been strangled and raped before they were wrapped in plastic and released into the river,” Garcia explained to the team over the laptop as they travelled through the sky. “Washing away all of the unsub’s DNA, however, they did find carpet fragments under the victim’s finger-“

“Like the ’84 Oklahoma Child Murders,” Y/N cut her off.

“What?” Garcia asked.

“Oklahoma 1981 to 1984. Local black children between the age of approximately 6 and 17 were being abducted, raped and murdered. Their bodies were mostly discovered in wooded areas and along the edges of the river, never submerged. The BAU worked the case, only ever being able to solve the last 2 murders before the Oklahoma governor, I think, kicked you off the case, right? They cared more about the money going towards the investigation than the black children going missing,” She explained.

“Gideon and I tried,” Rossi said. Still very bothered by the ending. “We wanted to catch the guy, the last 2 murders were so different from the others and yet the local cops considered it the same guy. Much like this new unsub, he raped young men before strangling them and dropping them in the river. All the way down to the carpet fibres.”

“It ended up being a local man named Oscar Pope, they caught him dumping an older male victim at a police checkpoint. They matched carpet fibres at his house to the 2 rivers Vic’s, but none of the children,” Prentiss cut in. “This has to be a copycat right?”

“We don’t know that,” Y/N added. “The BAU was working the angle that a local boy who knew the majority of the victims was in on it. Um, Daryl Livingston, he was in foster care at the time. He was the 7th boy to go missing and then every one of his friends was found dead after that. However, his body was never found. They suspected that he formed a bond with his captor and offered to bring him, other boys, if he let him live.”

“Any chance that this unsub could be the same kid, using Pope’s tactic to get our attention back on him?” Morgan asked.

“I was about to say that too,” JJ cut in. “they might’ve even been a team back then as well. That would explain why the murders stopped when Pope was caught but they still never found that boy.”

“That’s possible. They concluded that the last victim Pope dropped into the river was a long-time, secret boyfriend of his who found out what he was doing to the children. His MO changed when he didn’t want people to tie the murders together,” Spencer provided the extra information. “Only backfiring when local cops patrolling the river heard a splash.”

“Garcia, can you see if any of the Vic’s have any relation, contact or even geographical coincidences with the original murders?” Rossi asked. “If this is a victim continuing Pope’s work we need to find out who knew him.”

“Sir, Oscar Pope is still alive in a local correctional facility,” Garcia added. “I’m going to run background checks on all contact he’s had in his entirety at the prison, it might take a while but I’ll get it.”

“Garcia, I can go to the facility and just read everything they have there. It might not be all digital yet,” Reid offered.

“Good idea, take Y/N with you. You two bounce ideas off each other better than the rest of us,” Hotch agreed. “Morgan and Rossi join the search teams at the rivers. JJ and Prentiss, we’ll set up communication with the locals and go through old case files.”

“Reid’s good at bouncing somethin’ off her, alright,” Morgan teased him. “You were on speaker this morning.”

Spencer turned bright red once again, burying his face into the table as everyone laughed, reaching across the aisle to give Y/N high fives.

—

Being in a prison was always weird for her.

Having to hand in her gun just to read papers in a dusty office made her uncomfortable. She understood the protocol and she knew the guards would keep them safe, but knowing she was near men she helped put away, that scared her slightly.

“I’m not finding anything,” Spencer sighed. “There was a flood 2 years ago that destroyed most of the files near the ground. Including the Pope documents.”

“We can always just go ask him?” Y/N suggested, “he’s in D cell, he’s behind bars. We can just talk to him from the hallway unofficially. Pretend we’re here for someone else. I’ll say I never thought he really did those murders and gain his trust, see what happens.”

“I don’t like it but, I think we have to,” he agreed. Opening the office door for her to lead the way, “after you.”

Spencer felt very protective, she could tell. He was never pushy or controlling with her, but for some reason, he was now manhandling her. Making sure she walked on the inside of the hallways, closer to the brick walls so that no one could get her through the bars.

“So Doctor Reid,” she picked up the conversation as they hit the D block. “I was reading the book you lent me about engineering.”

“Oh,” he tried to play along. “How did you like it?”

“It was good,” she replied while trying to look at each inmate she passed. “I loved page 187— oh my gosh?” She stopped at Pope’s cell.

“You’re Oscar Pope?” She pointed at him.

“and you’re?” The old man questioned her. “A fed?”

“We’re here for something political, nothing to concern yourself with,” she lied, getting closer to the bars, whispering. “I just want you to know I never thought you did all 16 of the child murders back in the day.”

“Thank you,” he was suddenly enthusiastic. “Now why can’t all the fed’s be as smart as you?”

She laughed, tapping his arm through the bars. “How are you doing? Is there anything I can get you while I’m here?”

“Phone privileges!” He answered quickly, “the mail’s taking forever and I’ve got people to talk to before I croak in here.”

“I’m sure you do sir,” she smiled at him. “I’ll pull some strings, you have a good day!”

“You too, beautiful!”

Spencer placed his hand on her hip and led her away from the bars, she waved as they walked away.

“Agent Y/L/N,” a voice stopped her at the end of the hall.

She turned to see a man sitting cross-legged on the cell floor. His orange jumpsuit gathered around his waist as he sat in an undershirt. She glanced over his body, stopping at his face. She’d know those eyes anywhere.

“Didn’t I say only good boys get to talk to me, Bitch?” She snapped at him.

“Congratulations on the little one.” He replied. Laughing as Spencer placed his hand over her small stomach and led her out of the room, through the big metal doors.

“Keep walking with me,” Spencer insisted. “Or I will turn around and I will kill him.”

She huffed and continued down a narrow hallway with him. “We need to call Hotch.”

“Yeah,” he flipped his phone open and hit the speed dial.

“Reid?” She heard Hotch answer.

“We couldn’t get any of his information from forms, they all had water damage so Y/N and I walked past Pope’s cell and struck up a conversation,” He explained.

“And?”

“She got on his good side, pretending that she could get him a favour while she’s here for political reasons. He said he’s desperate to make a phone call today.”

“I’m on my way, get Garcia to prep paperwork to allow us a meeting with him now,” Hotch instructed, hanging up.

Y/N dialled Garcia on her phone. “How’s it going love birds?”

“Not good,” she replied. “We need you to get the paperwork going to allow us to sit down with Oscar Pope today. And we’re going to need to tear through his cell.”

“Oh, damn okay,” She replied. “Ask him about Cody Kollins.”

“Who?” Spencer asked as his phone rang again. He flipped it open, “we’ve got Garcia here too.” Putting it on speaker.

“Morgan and Rossi just intercepted a man dropping a body in the river,” Hotch confirmed. “I need you to rush that paperwork.”

“Sir, what was the man’s name?” Garcia asked.

“Cody Kollins.”

They sighed at each other, “let’s do this.”

—

Y/N watched him through the mirror. She could see him fidgeting. He was frustrated. He was exhibiting the exact same behaviour as he was when he was caught the first time.

“Every time we one-up him, he breaks down,” she whispered to Spencer. “Even in his interrogation tapes, he was like this. When they found the single patch of carpet left in his closet and were able to match the fibres, he lost it. He likes to play it cool and under control, he wrote the story and he wants us to stick to it.”

“How upset do you think he’d be if we went in there and told him we actually caught the original killer and he’s going to be released pending DNA testing?” Spencer suggested.

She tilted her head, biting her lip as she thought. “I think he’d be violent.”

“Sit here,” he said as he walked into the interview room.

She hated having to just watch. It helped that Pope was cuffed to the table, and the table was drilled into the concrete floor, Spencer wouldn’t get hurt. The guards are right behind the door. It’s fine.

“Sorry for the abrupt interrogation, I promise this isn’t what you think,” Spencer smiled softly. “We have reason to believe that the original killer has returned, the state is running the DNA now.”

Y/N watched as Pope’s right eye started to twitch, his finger on his leg was tapping at an odd rhythm as Spencer talked.

“The second we can prove you had no hand in any of the killing’s we’ll issue a pardon and your discharge papers will be filled out,” Spencer finished his sentence and moved to open the door once more.

“You’re a fuckin’ idiot,” he hissed. His voice was completely different than it was when they were speaking in D block.

“Why?” Spencer asked, easily playing the innocent and stupid role.

“You think some crazy-obsessed, fuck toy of mine whose doing half-assed attempts at my signature, is the real killer!!!” Pope spat his confession out. Literally covering the table in spit as he became more feral. Shaking violently.

Spencer walked right out of the room. Y/N watched as Pope smacked the table, tugging violently at the cuffs, scratching himself all up. The guards had to run in and hold him down, shooting a sedative into his neck.

“Jesus,” she whispered. Taking her phone out of her pocket to call Garcia, when she noticed the voicemail notification in the bottom corner. She ignored it, calling her friend instead.

“Hey,” Penelope answered quickly. “So turns out we were right, who would have thought, Cody Kollins is actually Daryl Livingston.”

“We just got a confession from Pope,” Y/N shared her news. “They had to sedate him so we’re going to come back to the station. Wait until tomorrow to interview him again.”

“Yeah, sounds good, Hotch and Morgan are in with Livingston right now,” she updated them. “Make sure to eat something when you get there.”

“Yes mom,” she teased, hanging up and smiling.

Spencer put his hand out in an invitation to hold it. She interlocked their fingers and followed him back to the filing room, gathering their things before exiting the prison.

She sat on the passenger side of the SUV, she and Spencer just sat there and took a few deep breaths. Processing everything the exact same way, quietly and on their own.

She cut the awkward silencer by taking out her phone and playing the voicemail. Putting it on speaker.

“Hi Y/N, this is Doctor Korrapati calling. I’ve emailed you your results. The gender is at the bottom, under the little read more button, in case you wanted it to be a surprise. Call the office and let us know when you’re free to go over the results and we’ll book you in, as far as I can tell everything looks good, so don’t feel the need to rush. Take care!”

Spencer looked over at her with a soft smile on his face, reaching out for her hand once more. Holding her hand with both of his now, “do you want to do this?”

“I’m ready if you are?”

He nodded, watching her contently as she opened her email up, finding the right one and scrolling to the bottom. Her heart fluttered a little as she looked at the read more option.

She took a deep breath and clicked on it.

Chromosomal sex: XY

“Well?” Spencer asked softly.

“I’d really love to tell you,” she bit her lip trying not to laugh, “but I don’t remember what this means?”

He laughed, shaking his head as he looked at the screen. He blinked with glossy eyes as he read it, a light chuckle escaping his lips as he cried softly.

It had to be a girl, she knew he wanted one. She convinced herself in that millisecond that it was a girl.

He reached over and placed his hand flat against her belly. “Hi Matthew,” he said softly.

“You’re kidding?” She couldn’t stop herself from crying.

Spencer wrapped her up in a hug, the two of them happily crying into each other. She wasn’t sure if she was giggling or sobbing, she just knew she was shaking in Spencer’s arms with happiness that this was her little family.

He kissed all over her one cheek as he held her close. “I love you so much,” he reminded her.

She pulled back, wiping her tears off on her shirt sleeve, laughing at the serendipity of it all. “I love you too, dad.”

“I have to drive, don’t make me cry again,” he laughed, wiping his own tears before tucking his ever-growing hair behind his ears.

“Let’s go.”

—

Y/N sat beside JJ in the break room of the police station, salad bowl in her lap, shovelling the dressing-covered leaves in her mouth.

They weren’t tasked with anything until Hotch and Morgan attempted to get some info out of the unsub. “Were you crying earlier?” She asked.

“A little,” Y/N smiled at her. “We’re having a boy,” she whispered.

“Oh my god!” JJ whispered back at her, reaching out for her arm and shaking her a little. “I have a feeling your little guy will be bigger than Henry was so he’ll fit into all Henry’s summer stuff when he’s born!”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah!” She confirmed. “By the time he grows out of everything I might have a second boy and we can rotate it around again,” she laughed. “This is going to be so fun.”

“Matthew and Henry are going to be best friends,” Y/N smiled.

“Matthew,” she repeated. “That’s a nice name, I like it.”

“My brother’s name is Levi, I thought it was a nice way to keep a family name in my baby’s life, and his middle name is going to be Gideon,” she spoiled it for Spencer.

JJ looked a little emotional, “sorry it’s just so surreal thinking about me and Spencer having kids who are friends.”

Y/N moved her dinner out of the way and hugged her then, holding her tightly. “You better not be pregnant too,” she whispered in her ear. Not wanting to give it away if she was.

JJ just laughed, rocking Y/N back and forth in her embrace, not answering. “Right?” Y/N asked again.

“We’re trying, so who knows,” JJ replied.

“Shut up?” Y/N pulled back and stared into her eyes to see if she was telling the truth or not. “Holy shit? Since when?”

“Honestly, I think the night we celebrated Canadian thanksgiving,” she laughed. “You and Spencer got us talking about babies, and you got Henry to sleep through the night, so this is technically your fault.”

“JJ,” Y/N started to cry, “I’m so happy for you.”

“They’ll only be a few months apart, so they’ll be best friends too,” JJ smiled. “This is going to be really fun.”

chapter 18

For Christmas this year, Y/N just wanted to be fully moved into their new home before they had to leave for Vegas. Spencer followed through with the present. Inviting the entire team over for drinks if they promised to stop by Y/N’s apartment and bring a few boxes to the new house. It was basically just free labour.

She spent the night nesting while her friends drank in her kitchen. They understood why she was nervous, she was going to tell her parents about the baby and the engagement, and the house, in 3 days.

It was all going to be a lot.

She was 16 weeks along as of Christmas Eve. Waking up the morning of their flight to a weird twitching sensation in her gut, like butterflies or a muscle twitch but right where the baby would be.

“Spence,” she shook him awake. “Spencer.”

“What’s wrong?” He sat right up, squinting at her as he tried to figure out what was going on.

“It’s like, I don’t know how to explain it?” She worried.

Spencer placed his hand on her belly feeling the slight flitter. “He’s kicking.”

Spencer’s early morning smile was the best, he tackled her back against the pillow and dug his face into the crook of her neck. “That’s my baby in there.”

“I wouldn’t have known,” she laughed, wrapping her arms and legs around him. “We have to go to the airport soon.”

“I know,” he mumbled into her neck.

“If you get up now, we can go get breakfast before we have to board?” She enticed him, “we can get sprinkle donuts for the flight.”

“Okay,” he said as she freed him from her grip. “Are you nervous?”

“I know they’ll be happy, just not ready for them to ask why I didn’t say anything sooner,” She explained. “I’ve been really distant since I got the job, I’m really excited to spend time with them this weekend.”

“Same,” Spencer smiled. “Come on you two.”

They took a 9 am flight one-way to Las Vegas. Y/N slept most of the ride, spending the last 45 minutes just snuggled into Spencer’s shoulder as he watched a documentary on some form of science or math. She couldn’t hear what it was about, all she saw was a man writing out numbers on a chalkboard.

She ran her hand over her belly lightly. There was no way she could walk into her mother’s house in a few minutes and just pretend it wasn’t there. It was there. So were the 5 pounds of baby weight on her hips and the swelling in her face and knuckles.

She was pretty quiet during landing and baggage claim. Thinking in her head what she was going to say to everyone, how she would explain it. She sat in a cab beside Spencer, absentmindedly following him through the airport they’ve both been through at least 20 times.

It was a short trip to her parent’s house. Spencer traced little shapes into her leg with his finger to distract her. A flower, a 4D cube, the words I love you. It was sweet, non verbal comfort was very important to her.

When they arrived, she stayed in the cab to pay while Spencer got their bags out. Taking as long as possible so she could avoid it a little longer.

Biting the bullet, she took a deep breath and walked out into her parent’s front yard. Taking the handle of her suitcase and dragging it up the walkway.

She walked right into her house, her parents and brothers all standing up from the living room and rushing into the entryway. She was wrapped up in 7 hugs within a matter of seconds.

“You look so different,” her mom said as she pulled back from her hug. Holding her arms as she examined her, “what did you do?”

“I got pregnant,” she replied, scrunching her face as she waited for their response.

She could’ve sworn she went deaf at that moment, reaching down to cover her bump as everyone cheered and jumped around her. She was pulled into a group hug before she could process anything. Laughing awkwardly at the whole experience.

“Be quiet, he can hear this week!” She laughed.

“He?” Her father inquired.

She looked back at Spencer, smiling at him. “It’s a boy,” Spencer confirmed.

“Holy shit!” Her brothers cheered, high-fiving each other. “When are you due?” Harrison asked.

“June,” she smiled. “3 days after mom’s birthday, see I do remember it.”

“Come sit,” her mom insisted, pushing everyone out of the way and dragging her to the couch. “Put your feet up, how are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” Y/N insisted. “You’re almost worse than my co-workers.”

“Are they taking good care of you?” Her father asked.

She waited for Spencer to join her on the couch, they had all been so excited about her they forgot he was there. “Yeah. Um, we have a lot to tell you,” She explained, holding Spencer’s hand for comfort.

“I asked Y/N to marry me,” Spencer announced. “I am so in love with her, this baby is a dream come true and I’m very excited to become a part of your family.”

Her mom cried, tossing her hand over her eyes as she sobbed. “Mom,” she was so overwhelmed with everything she started to cry too.

“You’re a wonderful man Spencer,” her father interjected. “It’s an honour to have you.”

Spencer smiled and nodded towards him, silently thanking him for the approval.

“So, it’s kind of insane how it all happened. It wasn’t intended, but we love him so much already,” Y/N glowed as she spoke. “Are we going to tell people the name yet?”

Spencer nodded, “we can.” He smiled down at her with such wonderment, the moment she had been scared of for 16 weeks turning out to be the best time she’s had with her whole family in one room.

“His name is Matthew Gideon Reid,” Y/N smiled. “After my favourite brother, no offence Harry, and Spencer’s mentor.”

Levi was her more emotional brother. He was her best friend growing up. The 5 year age difference gave them the time to grow up separately but still find common interests to bring them together. They were the closest in the family before she moved to Virginia full time it became hard to keep up with him as much.

Now they were both parents, their kids only having a 3 year age difference. Meaning next year there would be 2 little ones at Christmas.

“That’s a lovely name,” Levi smiled. “Thank you.”

“It’s whatever, don’t expect our kids to have your name either,” Harrison replied as he held his wife close, pretending he was a little offended.

“We also got a house,” she added to change the topic, “Jason Gideon, he kinda gave us his place in Virginia.”

“You’re kidding me?” Debbie gasped. “For free?”

She laughed, “it’s complicated.”

“I grew up without a father, and Gideon neglected his son for his work at the BAU,” Spencer chimed in. “We bonded, and he wanted his house to be used for good. He specifically asked for us to fill it with love and laughter. We’ve just finished moving into it. You can visit any time!” He panicked and rambled by the end.

“I don’t know if you know this,” her mom tried to joke with them. “But there’s this thing called a phone, where you can call your mother and tell her these things.”

“I wanted to!” she hurried the words out. “But I’m still working in the field, I was weary with who really knew besides the team. It’s my only weakness on the job.”

“I get it,” Debbie smiled. “Honestly, I’m so happy for you both.”

“Thanks, mom,” Y/N choked back tears. “Sorry,” she laughed. “Pregnant things, y’know.”

—

Visiting hours at the nursing home changed during the holidays. Spencer and Y/N were permitted to enter anytime between 8 am and 10 pm, giving them lots of time to spend the afternoon with Y/N’s parents before visiting her.

They borrowed her dad’s truck, driving to the nursing home with a special gift for Diana. Spencer had spent the last 2 weeks making a scrapbook page about Matthew for her, he knew how much her book meant to her and he wanted to add to it.

Her mom’s co-workers all stared at them as they walked in hand in hand. Her bump on show under the T-Shirt she chose to wear.

Diana was in her room, then walked down the long hallway to her suite. Knocking lightly on the door, waiting for her to greet them.

The door swung open, “Spencer!” She cheered. Hugging him tight in her arms.

“Hi mom,” he held her just as tight. Knowing he was a mama’s boy always made Y/N’s heart flutter.

She pulled back and looked at Y/N, “you look so nice!”

“Thank you,” she smiled. Stepping in close to give her a hug as well.

Diana welcomed them into her room, closing the door behind them. Y/N took a seat on the couch while Spencer looked around at the new things she had on display.

“I made you something,” he said softly, taking off his bag and pulling the pressed cardboard out of the protective sleeve. “here.”

She held it in her hands, looking at the ultrasound photo they got a few weeks ago at the anatomy scan. “What is this Spencer?”

“You’re going to be a grandmother,” he explained. Watching her run her fingers over the words on the paper. She was in shock, she had nothing to say. She just looked at the photo.

She quietly walked over to Y/N and sat beside her, “may I?” She asked, holding her hand up.

Y/N leaned back a little, “absolutely.”

Diana placed her hand on the bump lightly. “I was so worried I wouldn’t get to really experience this one day,” she whispered. Trying her best not to cry. “Thank you.”

Y/N cried, not realizing how special this must be for them. She was so focused on her family that she forgot that this was going to change Diana’s whole world. She now had 2 boys to love unconditionally.

“His name is Matthew?” Diana asked, running her hand over the bump softly.

“Yeah,” Y/N smiled. “He’s due in June. If you can, you can fly out and stay with us for a little?”

“I’d love to,” Diana replied. “I have enough points for a trip, and I’ve been feeling really good on my medication.”

“If your doctors clear it all, Debbie and you can fly in together,” Spencer confirmed.

“Wow,” Diana smiled like Spencer. Wide thin lips, straight white teeth, big rosy cheeks and glistening eyes. She hoped Matthew inherited it too. “This is my best Christmas yet.”

—

Y/N woke up Christmas morning with Spencer cuddled into her side in her childhood bedroom. She slipped out of his grasp and sat in her windowsill instead.

She pulled her knees to her chest as best as she could now that she was pregnant, looking at the lone swing across the street that swayed in the December morning breeze.

It should be 8 am back at Quantico, her parents must have let them sleep in while they opened presents. She could see Chloe in the front yard trying out her new car. Levi smiled as he pushed her down the road, Lizzie filming the whole thing on her phone.

Her whole life was so different from the last time she really sat on the windowsill in her bedroom. Back then she was about to move to Virginia, graduating college in Nevada and getting into the training program at the academy. Harrison was already there at Fort Meade, she was about to move into his house with his wife for the first semester before settling into DC. Levi and Lizzie had just started dating, Chloe wasn’t even conceived yet. And she had no idea when she’d run into Spencer.

She rubbed her hand over her belly as a tear rolled down her cheek. She couldn’t wait for the day that she was pushing her own child on that swing across the street. The day she and Spencer tell him about the love story that bubbled between two kids with books who looked at each other for years before they fell in love.

“What are you doing?” Spencer asked, removing her from the moment she allowed herself to have.

She wiped the tear from her cheek, “they’re happy tears. Go back to sleep.”

“Come cuddle?” He pouted, his big puppy dog eyes drawing her back to the bed.

She snuggled into him, running her fingers against his bare chest as she watched him breathe. “Can I tell you something?”

“Always,” he kissed the top of her head.

“When I was 17, I had my appendix out.” She rolled over and laid back, showing him the 3-inch scar on the right side of her stomach. “It was pretty bad, they said I would have died if my mom waited 15 more minutes to get me to the hospital. They had to fix parts of my stomach and intestines that were eaten by the ruptured appendix bile.”

“I had no idea,” he whispered, running his finger along the scar. “I always thought that was just a scratch.”

She shook her head lightly. “It was December 5th, ’98. They uh,” she took a deep breath before resuming. “They put me on a drug called Dilaudid, they told my mom it was a non-addictive version of morphine and that I’d be fine but, I kinda got addicted to the pill version when they let me out,” she scrunched her face as she told him. Not wanting his opinion of her to change.

“You’re kidding?” He asked, a chuckle fell past his lips as he sat up. “In my second year at the BAU I was kidnapped by a man with dissociative identity disorder and he drugged me.”

“Dilaudid?” She asked, sitting up too and shaking her head in disbelief.

He laughed at how absurd it was, “yeah.”

“I moved to Benadryl for the sleepy and calm effect after I couldn’t get any more refills and didn’t want to admit I had a problem, and weed in college” she added. “but I haven’t even taken a Tylenol in the last 5 years now.”

“I had a small problem with it after everything, but I’m also clean now,” Spencer smiled at her. “Why did you want me to know?”

“Because I don’t want to take any drugs when I deliver the baby, even if I beg for them I don’t want them to give in. I talked to Dr. Korrapati about it but I wanted you to know too,” she explained. “Being in here all night got me thinking about a lot.”

He wrapped his arms around her and tackled her back against the pillows. “I love you,” was all he said.

“I love you too?”

“Seriously,” his voice was so soft and low. “I’ll never stop.”

chapter 19

She woke up to the feeling of hair tickling her face. She swatted at her face to try and get it to stop before opening her eyes. She blinked into the early morning sunlight, only to Spencer looking down at her, his hair long enough to tickle her skin.

“You were snoring,” he whispers down to her. “Also, Happy Birthday.”

She smiled, pulling him down and into a hug. “Thank you.”

Every morning with Spencer for the last 10 months had been special. Something about the warmth of his body against hers, and the sunlight bouncing around their new bedroom made this morning her favourite.

It was so calm on the water. She could see the snow settling on the ice as the sun made it glisten like diamonds. The birds had all but disappeared for the winter, the stillness in the world was lovely. It was like time stopped with Spencer laying in her arms.

“What do you think Penelope has planned at work today?” She asked him softly, playing with his incredibly long hair. It was almost longer than hers now.

“She told me to bring you in after 8.”

“So does that mean you have to distract me for a little while, Doctor Reid?” She teased him.

He pushed himself up, leaning on his arm as he hovered over her. “Any requests?”

She spread her arms and legs out like a starfish. “Have at ‘er,” she couldn’t stop herself from laughing as Spencer just shook his head.

He dipped down to her belly, blowing a raspberry onto her protruding bump. “Good morning to you too little dude,” he whispered against her skin. “Go back to sleep.”

She shoved him lightly, not able to stop herself from smiling, “he is asleep, leave him alone.”

It was the best morning ever.

Every time she thinks that she’s reached peak happiness she discovers another level. It felt like every time he touched her, she wanted to describe it as the best she’s ever felt.

When they finally got dressed and made their way downstairs for the morning, she found it incredibly odd that he wasn’t asking her what she wanted for breakfast, like he did every morning. Very concerned that she had all her meals and then some.

She fed the cat, picking him up and giving him a little snuggle after he finished his breakfast. “You are getting so big and chunky buddy, I might have to change your food timer.”

He meowed at her, sounding really pissed, making her laugh. “Fine but when you can't climb all the stairs in this house it’s your fault.” She placed him back on the ground and watched him wander into the sunlight. Plopping onto the hardwood and stretching out. Just living the life.

“Ready to go?” Spencer asked.

“Yeah, are we stopping for breakfast?” She asked, the second trimester making her hungrier than ever before.

“Penelope has it covered,” He said, placing his hand on her back as he leads her to the foyer.

“Oh this’ll be good,” she smiled, putting her shoes on before arming the alarm and heading outside.

Spencer locked their beautiful green front door, it was colder out than they had expected. He held her hand as she shivered slightly, they walked down the 3 steps together, Spencer not wanting her to fall if it happened to be icy.

Seat heaters were a blessing from god. The car was freezing when they first got in, the heater barely kicked in by the time they reached Quantico. Living 10 minutes away now was really nice.

Up the elevator they went, she was basically bouncing with excitement. “See?” Spencer nudged her with his shoulder. “Bunny.”

“Shut up,” she smiled as the door dinged before opening.

They walked into the bullpen to find it empty. She took off her coat and placed her bag on her desk before slowly walking up the small set of stairs and heading towards the briefing room.

All her co-workers were sitting around the table waiting for her and the boy wonder to arrive. Strawberry cheesecake danishes sat on a tray on the table, a strawberry milkshake in front of Y/N‘s regular spot.

“Happy Birthday!” They cheered as she walked in.

“You guys!?” She was so flattered. Never in her life has she been thrown a party by someone who wasn’t her mother. “Thank you.”

“Sit, sit,” Penelope insisted. Placing a danish on a napkin and putting it on her spot on the table. “I know you can’t have ice coffee right now, I thought a milkshake was the next best thing.”

“I seriously love you, come here,” she pulled Penelope into a hug, kissing her right on the mouth as everyone cheered.

“See that?” Penelope blushed. “Kisses are how I should be thanked around here.”

“HR already hates us,” Hotch made everyone laugh, “don’t push it.”

They all ate breakfast together, sharing stories from their weekend. They decided to spend New Years’ apart, everyone taking time to themselves for the first time ever.

“Where did you go, Prentiss?” Morgan inquired.

“Sin to Win weekend in Atlantic City,” she sighed and leaned back in her chair.

“Oh my god?” Y/N looked at her with absolute astonishment.

“What’s that?” Morgan and Spencer asked at the same time.

“Nothing.” Emily and Y/N replied in unison. Making a look at each other that screamed: ‘tell anyone and I’ll hurt you.’

Like a saviour, the fax machine in the briefing room turned on, spitting out 15 sheets of paper in a few minutes. Penelope cleaned off the table while Hotch ran everything over.

“Last night a family in Boston had their home burned down with them inside it,” Hotch explained.

“How is that something for us to look into?” Rossi asked.

“Because the unsub broke in and turned the water off and tampered with the gas system, causing CO2 to render them unconscious. He stabbed the father to death in the bed before laying gasoline all over the floors and lighting the house on fire.”

“Damn,” Y/N whispered under her breath. “That is personal.”

“I’d say,” Hotch agreed.

“Who was the family?” JJ asked.

Garcia looked through the sheets of paper spewed across the table. “Thomas Greenway, 61. His wife Alison 43. And 2 children aged 8 and 12.”

“We need to head to Boston,” Hotch announced. “I’ll call about prepping the plane. Y/N you can stay here with Garcia if you’d like, your insight will aid her search greatly.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t mind,” she smiled at Garcia. “Good luck out there.”

“Wheels up in 30.”

Everyone sighed before standing up. Spencer leaned in and kissed Y/N softly before standing up. “I’ll see you later.”

“Come home to me safely Doctor Reid.”

He smiled down at her, fixing his shirt before he left with Morgan.

“I hate to see him go, but I love watching him leave,” She said softly towards Penelope, making her laugh in the process.

“Come on mama, let’s go to my office,” Garcia said, putting her arm out for Y/N, the two of them skipping down the hallway with their arms linked as the team filled the elevator.

Y/N sat in Garcia’s office and immediately put her feet up, still drinking her milkshake as she flipped through the case files. “Can I suggest possibly the dumbest thing ever?”

She laughed, “shoot.”

“So, homeboy here breaks in and knocks out a family with co2 poisoning, just to stab the father to death and light the house on fire.” She ran it down once more, “What if we just search mothers stabbed before dying in a fire and just see if this is some traumatized kid, at this point that’s what they all end up being.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Garcia said, typing away as she added the parameters. “It’s like you can see the fucking future?”

Y/N threw her head back in a laugh, “did you get something? Seriously?”

“Adele Hollis was found dead in a burning apartment building in Boston in 1978. ME reports say she was already dead from co2 poisoning before she was stabbed 6 times in the chest. The whole apartment complex went up in flames after the unsub doused the bed in gasoline and lit her up.”

“Well fuck,” Y/N replied. “Does she have children?”

“Yes, her son Cameron was at school when it happened. He was 8, he moved in with his step-dad shortly after, they ruled him out and never found the guy,” Garcia added.

Y/N leaned across the desk and dialled Hotch, the plane hadn’t even left yet. “I think I found the unsub?”

“How?” Hotch asked.

“I jokingly asked Garcia to search and see if there are any men whose mothers died in a fire after being stabbed cause we deal with sooo many traumatized kids, and we found one,” she laughed at just how insane it sounded.

“Video in and give us a rundown.” Hotch hung up. Ever the conversationalist.

Garcia and Y/N squeezed into the same frame seeing everyone gathered in the little plane seats. She gave them the basic rundown of her findings, watching them all shake their heads at the fact she solved the case already.

“Have the local PD issue a warrant and bring him in. Can you check and see if he knows the victims?” Hotch asked.

“On it sir,” she smiled, clicking away.

“How did you do that so fast?” Morgan has to ask, “it’s not human.”

She laughed again, “If I’ve learned anything in the last 10 months it’s that traumatized little boys can fuck up a lot of people’s lives.”

“Preach,” Rossi added.

“Um, guys,” Garcia’s tone changed. “Cameron Hollis’s birth father is the father who was stabbed in this case.”

“You’re shitting me?” Y/N couldn’t believe it. “Do they have any kind of relationship?”

“His father is on the birth certificate but it looks like Adele left him when Cameron was 3, after some domestic disputes that had the cops at their door. She was remarried when he was 6, it doesn’t look like they ever really talked,” Garcia explained while continuing to dig.

Y/N watched through the monitor as the team gripped their seats, the plane was taking off now. They would be in Boston with this guy in just a few hours.

“Thanks, Lady Wonder,” Morgan winked at the camera for Y/N before leaning in and turning the monitor off.

She sat back and put her feet up once more. “Best birthday ever.”

—

They had Cameron Hollis in custody with a full confession before 5 pm that day. Everyone was beyond thankful that they would be back home with their families shortly.

Y/N had said goodbye to Penelope shortly after, driving home to have some alone time. Rossi would drive Spencer home, they lived close enough now that they could all carpool if they wanted.

She had never been in their new house all alone before. She took the time to just walk around and admire everything, being thankful that her life ended up like this. Not taking a second of it for granted.

She sat down on her bed finally, taking her phone out and calling JJ.

“Hello bestie,” she answered.

Y/N smiled, “Hey, do you think Will could find a babysitter tonight?”

“Probably, why?”

“Tell him to drop Henry off and head to my place. I’m going to have pizza delivered and you can come here with Spencer when you land,” Y/N offered. “Have a date night with us.”

“That would be amazing, I’ll call Will right now. See you later,” JJ sounded happy. It made her smile.

“See you.” She hung up, laying back against her bed softly.

She changed quickly before heading downstairs, wearing a pair of leggings and an academy t-shirt. She was getting too big for almost everything she owned now.

She placed an order for a few pizzas to arrive at 8:30. Next, making sure she had more beer in the fridge, for the nights when Will wandered over with JJ. They had visited almost every weekend since she and Spencer moved in.

That’s when she saw him.

chapter 20

Previously...

The dream was always the same:

A man would get into their home, he knew their schedule, he knew when she’d be alone.

He’d get in without any trouble and he never made a sound. She wouldn’t even know he was in the room until she felt the cold metal gun press against her face, as shaking hands instructed her to tie her own behind her back.

He’d always use her supplies. Duck tape, shoelaces, scarves. Anything at his disposal that he didn’t have to bring with him. Almost as if he didn’t fully choose her to be his victim until the very last minute.

He assaulted her all for what felt like hours, stopping occasionally to cry in the bathroom or eat a snack in their kitchen. And he always showered at the end. Sometimes, he’d wrap her up in a housecoat, put her sheets in the wash and sincerely advised her to invest in a better lock for the sliding door.

Then he was gone.

Slipping into the night, on his way to become someone else’s nightmare...

There was a man in her yard, he was dressed in all black, with a backpack wrapped around his shoulders and a ski mask on his face.

He couldn’t see her from where she was in the kitchen, but she could see him. She ducked to the floor and crawled towards the stairs, booking it up the steps and grabbing her gun. She made sure it was loaded, grabbing a second clip from her nightstand and tucking it into her pocket. Then she detonated the alarm system from the remote on Spencer’s bedside table.

She crawled into her closet, making herself look like a pile of clothes.

And she waited.

She felt a little insane, she tried to convince herself that it could be anyone from a neighbour to a lost person from the trail. For all she knew, it was someone from the academy lost in the woods.

She tried to calm her breathing, calling Will with her cell phone. “Hey, JJ just filled me in-“

“There is someone in my backyard in all black with a backpack, how fast can you get here?” She panicked in a whisper.

“Fuck, okay, I just dropped Henry off at the sitter. I’ll be right over, stay put and I will call you when I’m there,” his southern accent came out more when he was stressed.

“Okay, thank you,” she hung up and took a deep breath.

She closed her eyes, listening to the sounds in her house.

She remembered what the house sounded like that morning. The stillness, the quiet peacefulness of her and Spencer in the bed only 12 feet away from where she was now hiding.

She remembered the way the floors creaked as it popped and settled with the heat, how the tree outside would sometimes tap the window, the sound of snow tumbling off their roof. Passing cars on the main road kicking up gravel, the odd bird singing in the cold breeze, her own heartbeat in her ears.

Then she heard the alarm turn off with its overly happy welcome home chime. Only knowing one man would be able to disarm her alarm system without a code, and he was in the air right now.

“Open,” she heard the alarm’s voice as the door opened.

Footsteps travelled along the hardwood floor in wet shoes. She listened to the sound of the wet rubber on hardwood explore the first floor.

There were 2 people in her house, splitting up as one went to the kitchen and one went up the stairs.

She aimed her gun at the doorway, aiming to shoot anyone who walked through the door in the leg. Not wanting to kill anyone who she knew that might’ve gotten in for a different reason, unannounced.

In the rare happenstance that this wasn’t her worst nightmare coming true.

Her hands were shaking as she kept the gun pointed for what felt like hours, just waiting for him to find her. The door handle started to turn slowly, she heard the sound of the old metal grinding ever so slowly.

The first thing she saw were his eyes, yet again. The same eyes that haunted her dreams, the eyes every woman she spoke to for 2 years remembered from behind the ski mask.

Fuck Wichita, he was her own personal nightmare. He had been for a while. Those eyes, big and black all the way around, not a single glimpse of colour or life or hope. Every single dream came flooding back as she saw him in her doorway, the same aura of death, destruction, loneliness and despair from all those months ago was now filling the most special place in her home.

He still hadn’t seen her in the closet, looking around the room carefully as she watched him. Waiting for him to get closer, and closer to where she was. Finally peeling back the wooden closet door.

“Surprise, bitch,” She said before aiming higher and shooting him between the eyes, knocking him down.

She stood and stepped out of the closet, “Travis fucking Johnson,” she shook her head as she looked at the man bleeding on her bedroom floor. Taking his pulse to ensure that he was dead.

She couldn’t hear anything for a second, trying her best to zone in on the sound of someone tiptoeing in her kitchen, “WHO ELSE IS IN MY HOUSE?” She screamed.

Suddenly she could hear the sound of a car on the gravel and then a door slamming. She stepped into the hallway, gun pointed, looking over the railing towards the front door.

“Y/N?!” Will yelled. Gun pointed as he entered her house.

“I’ve got one down, I think there’s another in the kitchen,” she replied.

“On it.”

Y/N looked down the hall, none of the upstairs rooms were open, every door exactly how it looked when she ran up the stairs. She headed down the steps when 2 shots were fired.

She quickly ran to the kitchen to see another man on her floor behind the counter, his feet the only thing she could see as he laid there, dead. Will was standing over him, taking his pulse.

“He’s gone,” Will confirmed.

Y/N finally let herself panic, shaking as she tried to catch her breath, pulling out a chair from the counter and sitting down. Her adrenalin was running wild in her bloodstream, she didn’t even know how to speak let alone think about what had just happened.

“Y/N,” Will’s soft voice brought her back to reality. He was right beside her, wrapping his big strong arms around her to try and calm her down. “Shh, it’s okay.”

“Who was it?” Is all she asks him.

“I have no idea, who was upstairs?” Will asked.

“Travis Johnson, from my first case with the BAU,” she calmed down a bit, breaking away from the hug to get off the chair.

She walked around the counter island, looking down to find another man she knew, bleeding on her brand new hardwood floors. “Oh my god,” she felt sick at the sight.

He smelled the same, stale and rotten. The same look on his face even as he slipped into eternal damnation. Empty as when he was alive, pure evil down to his core. Dead to match how he felt inside as he did those awful things to undeserving mothers.

The second worst man she’s ever come in contact with.

The Winnemucca Womb Raider.

She backed up into Will, he held her close so she didn’t drop to the floor, helping her back into the chair. “Do you know him?”

“Yeah,” she felt herself starting to cry. “How? They were both in prison?”

“We need to call the police,” Will said softly before taking his phone out.

“911 what’s your emergency?” She could hear the muffled woman’s voice as he pressed his phone to his ear.

“This is Detective William LaMontagne Jr. Two men just broke into my friend’s home and tried to kill her,” he explained the situation, making her shutter.

She watched as he talked to the woman, suddenly not able to hear anything as her body slipped into shock. She was completely numb. In the last 10 months she hadn’t fired a single shot on the job, and yet on her birthday, the one time she's alone, she has to kill someone in her own home.

The place where she was supposed to feel safe and happy. Where her new life with Spencer and Matthew was supposed to start. They promised Gideon love and laughter, having that dream stripped from them when Pure Evil stepped over the threshold.

It was just like the dream, the last one she had before Spencer wrapped himself around her, calming her down.

This time he wasn’t here, he didn’t even know that this had happened, he wasn’t always going to be there to save her. She pulled herself back into the moment, calming herself like she had all those years before him.

She wasn’t a damsel in distress, he knew that.

A man walked into her home, the one time he knew she’d be alone and vulnerable.

That was the only part of the dream that matched.

Unlike her dream, she wasn’t a victim. Not in this house. Not in her space. Not ever.

The sound of the sirens echoed in her ears finally, she turned to the commotion of officers running into her new house. Will walked them through it all, telling them who Y/N was and that this was her home. How she saw a man in her yard and hid before killing him upstairs.

“Ma’am?” A stranger in a uniform tried to get her attention. “Ma’am, can you come with me?”

She nodded, standing up and finding support in the man’s arms. He wrapped her up in a silver blanket before he led her outside and into an ambulance. She had her vitals taken and an oxygen mask placed on her to help her calm down.

“Is the baby okay?” She asked the EMT, pulling the mask off her face so he’d hear her.

“Yes,” he smiled. “Strong heartbeat, no signs of distress but you need to relax so we can keep it that way.”

Will climbed into the ambulance then, taking her hand in his, “hey doll, are you okay?”

She nodded, “just a little shook up.”

“I called Spencer,” he said softly. “They’re 30 minutes from landing, then him and the team are on their way. No one told the team about the prison break in Oklahoma, they didn’t even think to connect them back to you.”

She sighed, “two cases in 2 different states, where the offenders ended up going to a 3rd state to meet and do time together and bond over the women who put them away. Makes sense.”

“You put them both away?” He asked.

She nodded again. “I basically made it my life goal to get Travis Johnson, he’s the reason I have this job, he’s the reason I’m pregnant right now,” her words trailed off into whispers. “I saw him in November, he congratulated me when he saw the bump.”

“Who was the other guy?”

“The Winnemucca womb raider, he would kill pregnant women by strangling them before removing their wombs,” she looked at him, horrified. “They wanted to kill us...”

She wrapped her arms around her own stomach, she had almost forgotten to worry about him. To even think that she was more than just one person at the moment.

They weren’t after her, they were after the most important thing to her. Her son, her baby boy. Like all the mothers before her, like their own. They wanted her to suffer, for her son to be spared a future worse than death in their opinion.

All the images from the cases came flying back as she blinked faster and faster. Strangled women, removed wombs, thanking God for a second that Spencer was the one to see the recovered organs in his trailer. A sick feeling bubbled in her body, a chill ran deep in her bones.

Then everything went black.

—

The first thing she remembers when she gained consciousness again was that Spencer was furious. She could see him and Hotch in a heated conversation from inside the ambulance, she tried her best to wake up and zone in on what was going on.

It was too dark for her to read their lips, but he was angry.

JJ was sitting beside her now, holding her hand. “Hey, bestie.”

“Did the cat get out?” She doesn’t know why that’s the first thing she asks, “the door was left open, did he get out?” Still in shock, still trying to understand everything.

JJ shushed her, petting her hair as she leaned in close, hugging her softly. “He was in the laundry room, Will said he made sure to find him when you were getting checked out.”

“Good,” she nodded along as she listened. “I’m so overwhelmed.”

JJ let out an awkward laugh, “I can imagine.”

“I’m also starting to fall in love with your husband,” she found her sense of humour then. “He has perfect timing.”

JJ laughed a little harder, causing Spencer’s focus to shift to the ambulance. Y/N watched him run towards it and jump in.

“Y/N, oh my god,” Spencer wrapped his arms around her. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she replied. “I’m safe, the baby’s healthy,” she assured him.

He kissed her all over her face, making her giggle when he wouldn’t stop, repeating kisses all over her face, her ears and her neck. She could hear JJ also laughing as she watched with Hotch just outside.

He finally stopped to catch his breath, hugging her again with his face in her neck. “I love you,” she reminded him.

“You love me?” He pulled back, “I love you so fucking much, I am never leaving you alone again.”

“Spencer,” she laughed, “I think I handled it pretty well.”

He huffed and shook his head, “you shouldn’t have had to handle this in the first fucking place! It’s not that fucking hard for someone to call the god damn FBI and say hey two psychopaths that your genius new girl put behind bars, fucking escaped!”

She finally knew what Hotch meant when he said Spencer’s anger scared him. She looked at him like he was a whole different person, “Spence, baby, I know. It’s okay, I’m fine see?”

She placed her hands on his cheeks as she looked into his beautiful hazel eyes, watching his pupils change size as he focused on her. Love and life behind them, true happiness clouded by horror at the thought of losing the love of his life.

He was what a true man was supposed to be, a real genuine person with love and kindness, and empathy. Her soulmate, her Spencer.

“We can’t control everything, that’s what you told me. We handle what’s in front of us, and we do it well,” she smiled as she reminded him.

Spencer started to cry, pulling her in close. “I can’t lose you.”

She cried at the sound of his voice, his heart shattering as he cried in her arms, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. Terrified on a level she’s never seen in him before.

She rubbed his back as she held him, rocking him lightly as she shushed him absentmindedly. Soothing him as if her life depended on it, it broke her heart to see him this broken about the idea of losing her. She loved him so much it made her heart physically ache in her chest as she held him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she promised, whispering against his hair. “I’ll kill a million men if it means coming home to you.”

He laughed in the middle of his cries, she could feel him smile softly as he sniffled against her shirt. “Promise?” He asked as he pulled back to look at her.

She wiped the tears from his cheeks, his beautiful eyelashes clumped together in the wetness. He was so sweet, she couldn’t help kissing him quickly, “promise.”

—

Hotch insisted they head to the BAU with the rest of the team while he handled the crime scene and the forensic clean-up, knowing on a personal level what it was like to clean Evil’s blood out of your bedroom carpet.

Y/N was sitting in the car waiting to leave when she saw Will coming out of her house with 3 pizzas. “I forgot I ordered those,” she gasped at the sight.

“You should’ve seen the look on the delivery guy’s face,” JJ laughed.

It was really bizarre having a pizza party in Rossi’s office after shooting someone in her home. Everyone was trying to be as chipper as possible to try and take the tension off the situation, but Y/N was pretty quiet.

Morgan got everyone to settle down before closing the office door, sitting close to her and Spencer. “Everyone in this room has either been shot, in danger, held hostage or worse,” he offered her some support.

“If you want to share anything, express any feeling or just tell us to fuck off, you can,” his words were soft, she watched him with soft eyes as he spoke.

“The only thing I can think of is that fate is fucked up,” she replied, the honesty slipping off her tongue like it was made of butter.

“You have the floor,” he insisted that she continue.

“I moved into a tiny apartment, farther away from my job, because I needed somewhere to live, and I found Spencer in the hallway. Spencer led me to you, and you guys helped me find Travis Johnson, my personal nightmare case of 2 years,” she explained like they never knew that. “But it’s so much more than that now.”

“We ran into Travis at the prison in Oklahoma a few months ago,” Spencer added. “He noticed that she was pregnant and congratulated her.”

“But the thing that’s fucking me up the most is that, and sorry TMI,” she warned them before continuing. “but we conceived the baby in Kansas when we caught the VICAP counsellor, only a few towns over from where we arrested Travis. Then we ran into him on a different case in Oklahoma, and he happened to be in the same prison as a man from New Mexico I put away for killing pregnant women. Something about this all lines up so perfectly... I hate that I find it so interesting.”

“That is kind of insane,” Morgan agreed. “I think it just means you and Spencer are being pulled together by something with bigger plans than you realize. And you’re a good shot, so thankfully you have nothing to worry about now.”

“Thanks,” she smiled.

She held Spencer’s hand, looking down at the ring on her finger that meant she was his forever. As much as she hated the idea of a man owning a woman, she loved the idea that Spencer was her person forever.

They were tied together in a way no one would understand, she loved him deeper than she ever thought possible.

Everything happened for a reason. Her reason just so happened to be Fate wanting her to spend the rest of her life, Happily with Doctor Spencer Reid.

—

She woke up around noon the next day, Spencer was sitting up beside her reading a book when she finally clued into where she was. They had spent the night at Rossi’s house while the forensic cleanup team handled her kitchen and bedroom.

“Good morning,” she smiled up at him, stretching against the sheets as she fully woke up.

He put his book down and joined her, wrapping her up in his arms and kissing her neck softly.

“Good morning,” he replied finally. She loved his voice when he hadn’t spoken yet. His vocal cords yearning to be used.

She smiled against his skin, holding him against her chest as she breathed him in. Her safety, her cosmic soulmate.

Everything just felt better in the world when they were pressed this close to each other. This was how they were meant to be.

“How are you feeling?” He asked after a few minutes of silence.

She rolled him onto his back, snuggling into his chest and lifting a leg over him so the baby wasn’t squished. “Good, I’m excited to go back home later.”

“You’re not scared,” his fingers ran through her hair as she felt his breath on her face.

“No,” she shook her head against him. “Yesterday could’ve been a lot worse, but I’m trained to think on my feet and the danger is gone now. I’m never going to let myself be a victim in my own home.”

“I love you,” he reminded her. “And after yesterday-“

“I want to get married soon too,” she cut him off, getting up and sitting on his hips. She ran her hands over his chest as she looked down at his beautiful, still puffy, morning face.

He beamed up at her, “I feel it too, I want to make it official. I want to shout it from the rooftops that the love of my life chose me too.”

She nodded softly, “and we agreed that in April this year we’d go to Vegas, and we’d do it. I think we still should, I just want to plan it a little.”

“Of course,” he agreed, squeezing her thighs in his excitement. “Come here.”

She held his face in her hands as she leaned down, rubbing her thumb over his bottom lip as she looked at him ever so softly. “I love you,” she said before kissing him.

His hands wandered over her back, holding her into the kiss. Breathing in deep through his nose, kissing her as if they hadn’t seen each other in months.

Spencer was desperate to love her, and she was desperate to be loved by him.

She broke the kiss to just look at him, moving his hair back and pressing her forehead against his. “The park across the street from my parents house,” she whispered.

“Mhmm.”

“I want to get married there, I want to start the rest of my life in the spot where I first really fell in love with you,” she explained, her lips close enough to him that the words could have stuck to his skin.

“I think I can pull some strings and get us a permit by April,” He smiled against her lips, “what day are we thinking?”

“The 23rd, 1 year exactly,” she said before Spencer pulled her back into another kiss, this time it’s soft and delicate. “Until forever,” she whispered against his lips.

“You need to promise me one thing,” he added. Feeling her nod as she kissed down his neck. “I know you said you’re fine, but the second you’re not I need you to tell me.”

“Okay,” she agreed, sitting back up as she straddled his hips. “You have to do the same, I can’t handle you crying in my arms like that again, it really broke my heart.”

He held his pinky out to her, she smiled as she wrapped her own around his. Both leaning in to kiss the other's knuckle, a small tradition Y/N adored.

—

They were back at their house by 5 pm. Hotch had ensured that everything was completely cleaned and there was 0 evidence that a crime had even taken place on the property. Penelope on the other hand had taken it upon herself to break into their alarm system and reset it for them shortly after everyone left.

They changed the code, closed the door and sighed at the beautiful home that felt a little different now. “I think I want to paint,” she announced.

“Yeah?” Spencer laughed at the suddenness.

“It’s too blah, y’know? I see what they were doing with the whites and beige for all the light. But, I’m thinking green in here to flow with the cabinets in the kitchen,” she walked through the foyer as she imagined the colours that would look good. “Like an olive or forest, maybe even jade. It’ll look nice with the dark wood.”

“That would be nice,” Spencer agreed. “Make it feel more like the old apartment.”

“Exactly,” she smiled. “I miss the clutter and the intimacy of the last place, and I know you miss the look of books everywhere.”

“I’m still alphabetizing them in my office,” he added. “I’d like to paint in there as well, I’ve been looking at antique chairs and couches for my reading.”

“Hotch is going to make us take 2 weeks off again,” Y/N looked at him with excitement. “We can put all our energy into this place now.”

“Let’s make it ours,” He agreed.

“Wanna go to the hardware store and look at paint samples?” She hopped with excitement, grabbing his arm and tugging on him.

He laughed, pulling her into his chest. “Sure, bunny,” he pressed his cheek to the top of her head as he held her. “What about Matthew’s room?”

“Oh, me and Penelope have it all planned, all the stuff is being delivered next month. She kinda went a little nuts,” Y/N laughed.

“He’s going to be one loved little boy,” Spencer chuckled. “Come on, let’s go.”

#hypothetically #spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x reader

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pyroclaststan · 3 years

Text

CW: This is the softest shit I’ve ever written

You’d asked Kingsley to come over and do your hair as a joke [mostly]. You knew they were hesitant to be in your space on the best of days, and almost always avoidant of any kind of touch or personal interactions on any given day. It was made very clear very early on in your friendship how high Chrysanta’s walls are but it’s always made you try harder, tease more, push often—never too much.

Not out of disrespect for their boundaries, but because it was also made very clear early on in your friendship that they had no friends, and if there was one thing you could say Kingsley needed in this world it’s friends. Maybe also someone to pry the stick up their ass loose, too, but even your hero self can’t work miracles.

And here they are: ringing your doorbell, hood up over that ratty cap you’re dying to throw away, feet shuffling, and a bag over their shoulder. Maybe the look on your face as you opened the door shouldn’t have been such a cross between excited and shocked, because they flinch immediately upon seeing you stand in the doorway, arms held wide.

“Do you want me to w-wait until you get dressed to come back?” they ask, looking pointedly away towards the bottom of the stairs for someone tailing them.

A mental note to figure out what’s up with the ‘who’ of that situation one day, but for now you take a look down at yourself. Gym shorts and a tank top: who knew they were such a prude? You that’s who, but only when they are outside of their uniform and around you it seems. That’s why you chose to ditch the sweatshirt you’d had on before answering the door… and it’s also the height of summer in this godforsaken city.

“What do you mean?” you cross your arms and tilt your head, playing innocent, making sure your braid falls over your shoulder. “I’m in my own home, firstly, and secondly: I am clothed. Not all of us need to be covered head-to-toe with eighty layers in this heat.”

They shuffle again, and you know the hand that isn’t holding the strap of their duffle bag is in their jacket’s pocket doing their tell: the clenching and unclenching of long, strong hands; vascular and calloused, often bloodied or bruised at the knuckles but still beautiful in their rough way. You squeeze your eyes to cut that random thought right there, disguising it as a reaction to the intense orange-toned daylight bleeding into your cool apartment.

“Chrysantamum, get the hell inside: looking at you is making me overheat,” you chide playfully, pulling them in by the strap of their bag and catching them off-guard, so much so they half-stumble through your front door, ducking lower than even they need to.

Jodidamente gigante…

Pink cheeks are quickly hidden as they reach up to pull their hat down lower, head bent in attempted irritation. Closing the door and setting the lock as they walk past, you watch as their back hunches so much that it makes you worry about their spinal health, and not for the first time.

“Jules, you can, uh, you can just say ‘come in’ like a normal person,” they huff, removing their bag from their shoulder but keeping it in hand.

“I could, but when have you ever accepted an invitation of mine?” The gaze you direct at them is cutting: visual representation of all the times you’ve extended your courtesy and company only for them to shut you down, cold and completely.

And speaking of cold, is that a bead of sweat on King’s face? You figured they were immune to the heat: they’ve never been about anything but dark colours and multiple layers.

Maldito lagarto gigante. You know, you didn’t curse nearly as much before you two became friends. Not as creatively either.

“That’s… fair,” their shoulders sag, defeated by their own admission and unaware of their agreement to your internal insult. You win two in one. “I should’ve expected you to get h-handsy anyway. You’re tactile.”

“I’m tactile? How many times are you gonna squeeze that hand of yours?”

They freeze at your smug face, hand immediately retreating from their pocket and down to their side like they’ve been caught red-handed. Anathema used to keep a tally of how often they did that but the whiteboard turned black.

A small sigh escapes your lips as you step past them to head towards the couch: neutral territory that keeps you from crowding King until they relax. You know the drill by now. “Oh! And you know the rules: no hats on indoors.”

“W-what?” it’s almost a whine. “I always wear a hat when I’m with you guys.”

“That’s at HQ—this is a home, Sidestep, it’s basic etiquette. Were you raised in a barn?”

“On a farm,” they murmur, giving in to your request. They’re a little bit of a shit from time to time, but they’ve always been respectful of basic manners in private—raised right by someone at some point, you suppose. You’ve always noticed how well they set a table, pull out a chair, take a coat. Classic manners instilled young, that much you can tell.

There’s a coat hook that you put up on the wall recently—for them—and after setting their bag by their feet, their top two jackets adorn it. A bomber and an all-weather? They had to be boiling walking out there. That ratty cap is pulled off and placed over them, too, so you watch as they take down their thick curly-coily hair, swiftly collecting strays back into the bun to no avail. Fidgeting begins once they’re done and realise there’s nothing to thread their hair through, unused to being uncovered.

“How do you not melt out there?” you ask in disbelief, fanning yourself dramatically. “Can you seriously not just put on a single t-shirt, like a regular person?”

“I like the weight.” It’s a short tone that tells you that string of questioning is closed, and instead their focus goes to taking off their shoes and setting them down neatly below their jackets, heels against the wall as a sign they’re staying.

Deliberate motions, unsure emotions.

“Sure, okay.” Leaning far to your left you pat the seat of the couch three times, signalling them to sit their ass down which they do slowly, taking their bag back into their hands.

It settles into their lap as you sit back and watch them: eyes running all over—casing for exits—and hands fidgeting nervously. Inviting them over always feels like entering a kennel pen with the way you have to sit back and wait for them to settle into your space with you, but you’re used to it. It’s kind of endearing, really… in some kind of vigilant way you can’t quite explain. Or at least, it’s become endearing. Traitorous eyes once again find themselves settled on Kingsley’s hands.

“What do you want?”

You startle, face flushing at the thought that they caught you staring and got annoyed, but when you look up they’re still staring straight ahead. This is an opportunity to take in their profile, always having been drawn to their sharp jaw and the pronounced line of their cheekbone since they’ve been unmasked—tracking the cloud of freckles on their skin and some faint scars here and there. Counting the numerous ball hoop earrings that cover the entire edge of their ear, you’re reminded of your old therapy tricks, the calm helping as you quickly gather your composure. Keeps you cool and sane while they become a ball of unrest.

Five things you can see, four you can touch, three you can hear, two you can smell, one you can taste—or whatever combination works best for your surroundings. It’s been a long time since you’ve needed that trick.

Realisation hits that they’re still expecting a response.

“What are my options?” you tease in a soft flirty tone you can’t fight; teasing them is just so second nature nowadays.

King sits a little straighter as they pick up your double meaning, then cover their face by leaning forward into their propped-up palm as if bored—fooling no one in the room. You know they’re anything but bored by how their fingers tap, and soon the leg starts bouncing just as you knew it would.

“That’s up to you th-this time. Just don’t pick anything that’ll have your PR team suing me or breathing down my neck. Remember when, uh, when you dyed it blue?”

“It was temporary!”

“And they still freaked.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” you concede with a pout. Not as much freedom as you’d like has came of your stint in the Rangers so far. Sure, you can walk, you can fight, you can muck around to your heart’s content, but you’re still on a leash. One that you’ll be expected to pay off. “I don’t know—I didn’t really plan on you actually showing up.”

A quick frown in your direction. “Gracias por el voto de confianza, polla.”

Okay, geez, so you both rubbed off on each other.

“No offence!” you put your hands up as a gesture of peace. “You just don’t like coming around.”

“I’m not used to coming around,” Kingsley corrects, looking at you, “I like coming around...”

As they trail off your heart leaps at that; your stomach flips, you’re about to respond when—

“…you’ve got A/C” they finish, turning their head, smiling that dammed crooked smile at their own joke.

There’s a quiet huff from you that mimics theirs as your ego deflates a little. That was a jab in true Sidestep fashion, sure, but you can’t help but feel a little… disappointed.

Sidestep—Kingsley, King, Chrysantamum—is looking at you expectantly now. “Well?”

“Dealer’s choice,” you get up, looking anywhere else as you pace. Can’t stand sitting this still this long much less with their gaze on you.

The sound of them lifting off the couch quickly stops you in your tracks.

“What? Y-you’re just gonna let someone do whatever they want to your hair?”

“Not ‘someone,’ you—I’m letting you do whatever you want to it. It’s just hair.”

“It’s not just hair!” they exclaim walking fiercely up the edge of your personal space, surprising both of you. They take a long step back, a pause of quiet as they collect themself and stand straight, making them taller. “Hair is… it’s personal. It’s…” a look of discomfort as they trial off, “intimate.”

You didn’t expect this: for them to get some up-in-arms about hair of all things. Looking at theirs, for the first time you start to think about all the work that goes into those long curls. The care, the maintenance, the time. Cultural and personal significance as well, you assume.

You smile with a softness that melts through you, “That’s why I asked you to do it.”

The look that passes over their face is the closest thing to affection you’ve ever seen. There is sorrow in their brow, but the tiny smile on their lips and the way they hold eye contact with you says… everything. Then it’s gone as quick as it came, eyes averted, hands pulling at the sleeves of their hoodie, their feet shuffling. Those tiny little things that they consist of, live by, exist with. It is always about the little things with them: it occurs to you that this may be a big thing. Maybe they need more time to—

“Alright,” a cracking voice cuts you off before you can ask the question that was still building, “grab a dining room chair, a tall one, and meet me in the kitchen.”

Kingsley’s already moving, mechanically yet fluid in the way they walk over, picking their bag, and navigate around and past you as you’re walking in their path. Nervous muscle and hyper focus—so like them it makes you smile. You diverge by the dining room, heading over to pick up a chair as directed, confused as to why you’re taking it to the kitchen.

“Shouldn’t we be in the living room or bathroom?”

“Living room has nothing we need, bathroom’s too small—I uh, take up most of the space as is.”

You avoid imagining the two of you crammed into that private space.

Looking at them again as you approach, you watch the way they deftly unpack: eyes locked on the contents, right hand grabbing items and tossing them to the left without a single shift in their line of sight. Thinking. These little pieces of themself that Kingsley leaves around your apartment always make it hard to resist inviting them.

It’s too much, too fast for them, sure. But there is something about Chrysanta’s presence in your home compared to anywhere else. It is quiet—it always is despite their size—but it is rooted, in a way they never are to any thing or place or moment. Their steps are slower, their movements more eased, the calm they feel reflected in how little they stutter or panic because they can’t feel you in their confusing telepathic way.

“Where should I set the chair?” you ask softly.

“At the sink.” Not bothering to look at you to respond.

As soon as you set it down, facing the sink, Kingsley’s hand reaches out and turns it around.

“One more, please,” absently said as they set up all of whatever it is they’ve brought, set to boiling water, and wash their hands at the sink.

You muse on how they’ve always reminded you of a surgeon, the way they wash up or are exacting in their ministrations. Absentmindedly, you ponder if they’d have made a good med student, leading you to wonder if they’d ever had plans of what they wanted to grow up to be when they were young—outside of a vigilante. You nearly bump into them with the chair during your daydream before their hand quickly snakes out to catch you by the shoulder.

“This one is for me later, we can leave it over here.”

As swift as they stopped you, the chair is out of your hands, and you realise you’ve never seen Kingsley so… in charge. The way they move through this small space like it’s their own world in yours.

In charge of Charge, you chuckle to yourself at such a dumb joke. Sounds like a tag line to one of those adult movies they make about the two of you. They spare a glance your way.

“Alright, I’m just gonna g-grab some towels. Go ahead and sit.”

“Yes, sir, Marshal, sir,” you call out cheekily as they walk out, following orders with a small laugh.

There is a small well of feelings that has been bubbling in your stomach and you’re not quite sure what to call them. ‘Sir’ sent a small ping of questioning to the back of your mind. The two of you never quite discussed what kind of words Kingsley likes being directed at them. Masculine or feminine, in the way words are gendered. They’ve told you they’re not a woman, but they’ve also expressed that they’re not a man either, or maybe they’re both—it’s new to you, in the sense that you’re not sure where you stand without pre-conceived societal notions as a guideline between the two of you.

Would they like to be called handsome? Or beautiful? Is there something else that fits? Would attractive be a safe word to use? Does anyone compliment them? Should you do it more?

You shake your head, focusing on undoing your braid instead, settling your face back to a small smile as soon as they walk back in. They move the saucepan of hot water off the burner, setting a jar of oil in the centre, then busy themself with a small box they pulled from their bag.

“Shall we?” they ask, looking at you as they put on a pair of tight black nitrile gloves.

“Is this an examination?” you joke nervously, pointing at their hands.

There’s a cringe when you think of your last mod check-up, invasive and impersonal. Your brain can’t help but carry on, thinking of hospitals and your various stays in them. You don’t like them as is, but Kingsley’s proximity to you has made you even more wary of them; the panic they show when you bring up medical attention sometimes is sobering.

“No? I mean… uh, I’m not calling you dirty, but I don’t know how clean your hair is, and you d-don’t know how clean my hands are.”

The look on your face must have been either offence or murder because they take a step back, hands up.

“It’s a health precaution! I’m just being careful,” they croak.

“I wash my hair!” Your tone is indignant.

“I know! I’m just being safe!”

“I feel like I’m going in for a pap sm—“

“Alright alright!” they yell to cut you off, face red up to the ears at your unfinished sentence. “I’ll take them off as soon as I’m done washing your hair.”

“Thank you,” you give their hands one last nervous glance, only eased by the thought of how attractive the gloves makes them look. You sincerely hope the sudden mortification at that is not showing on your face, but they’re already turning their back to you.

“Wait, Kings,” you interrupt, “take off your hoodie.”

“W-what?” You do not miss the look of absolute panic on their face.

“It’s gonna get soaked handling all my hair,” you clarify.

“And my sh-shirt is gonna get wet if it isn’t on.”

“But your shirt will dry faster.”

“You have a dryer—my sweater can be dried.”

“Well… about that...” your exasperated laugh and a wiggle of fingers from your raised hand tells them all they need to know.

“Julia. How the hell did you break your dryer again? I just fixed it!”

“It wasn’t on purpose this time—there was a static build up!” Your hands slap you in the mouth as soon as the sentence finishes. Your eyes widen as Kingsley’s narrow.

“This time?” their voice is low, their eyes sharp.

“I uh, may have broken it to get you over here for dinner that time…” The half-hearted chuckle you let out is fake even to you.

“Julia.” A stern glare.

“…Kingsley?” Utter avoidance of eye-contact.

“That’s incredibly dangerous, first off. And I’m not a maintenance worker. You don’t pay me for that.”

“I can absorb any electricity that comes my way and I pay you in food,” a quick retort, regaining composure. “And I got you to stop avoiding the simple notion of a meal together as if I were threatening you with a gun.”

There is a specific face they make at that, and for the umpteenth time in your life you wish you knew what it was they were thinking.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever—just sit down and shut up.”

From anyone else that would sound rude, but that’s simply Sidestep’s tone. The impact is also lessened by the movement of them removing their hoodie, leaving behind a loose long-sleeve that briefly reveals a long-sleeved compression shirt tucked in beneath. The upper layer had lifted while they were pulling the hoodie over their leaving the outline of Kingsley’s back muscles and bra lines on show before they fixed it.

Just a friendly look at your friend’s back. Friendly-ly.

Mouth not at all dry.

“So what’s on the menu? What are we doing?” you cough as they position themself in front of you, looming even more than usual now that you’re sitting.

They reach behind your head and your heart skips; they gather all of your hair carefully and lift it with the gentlest touch, moving a hand to guide you to sit all the back by the shoulder.

“Luckily your sink is low enough that I can lean you back for this to work,” they hum, setting your hair into the sink and tilting your head back, “I’m uh, only used to doing my hair texture… I’ve never done someone else’s hair.” They swallow hard, suddenly nervous. “First: shampoo, maybe a deep cleanse. An oil or deep treatment mask, heat treatment to that for thirty minutes. Rinse it out, then moisturise, comb, and braid.”

“You’re gonna give me braids?” you smile up at them, the orange light of outside slipping through your blinds against their skin and yours. They look bronzed in the lighting. “Like yours?”

“Not quite,” they laugh. “Something more l-like French braids or not-quite-cornrows. I don’t think your hair could support the protective styles I do. I don’t… think so at least? My curls are much tighter than yours.”

“You don’t know?” Teasing.

“I’m not a, not a fucking aesthetician or cosmetologist or beautician, Ghoulia. I’m a vigilante—I don’t get paid the big bucks to make people pretty, I’m usually the one fucking ‘em up. For free!” They sigh heavily, pulling at their gloves to make a loud slap noise as they let go to shut you up.

You giggle quietly, only for it to grow louder and your shoulders to start to shake as Kingsley pulls you forward to set a towel around your shoulders, then let’s you fall back into place before they lean over to turn on the water and pull out the sink hose, adjusting your hair once more.

“What are you laughing about?” they ask, looking down at you, smiling softly and holding you by the back of the head with one hand.

“Did you just… did you just call me fucking Ghoulia?” you burst out laughing uncontrollably.

“You literally call me Chrysantamum—that’s not a worse pun?” they ask, spraying the top of your head with water playfully before setting to work rinsing the rest thoroughly.

“I mean… yeah! That’s so much worse!”

The laughter carries on for two more minutes, much to Kingsley’s displeasure—and your abs’.

“Sidestep Spa… you could make good money with this.”

“No,” they cut you off. “Hair is… like I said, I’ve never done someone else’s. Hair is personal. It’s trust.”

You stare silently at them, considering their words. Is this you showing trust? Or them? For you, this had been a joke but… not anymore. You understand now, as their fingers carefully and dextrously work through your hair: you feel the mutual connection, respect and trust. It feels like a ritual; some kind of magic never really touched on by most.

A thoughtful look at Kingsley. You think of the things they share with you, and that seem to mean something to them. Food, space, and hair. Those must be their love languages: how swiftly they make sure you’ve eaten and how careful they are right now. How often they sit with you on rooftops for a sunset and a beer. The light pulls and parts; the way their fingers massaging into your scalp threatens to make you melt into your chair, and the rinsing calms you.

You think, suddenly, to your mother. The days of your youth spent sitting between her knees as she pulled your curls and waves into a neat braid before you ran off to cause a ruckus. Of her styling your hair the ways her mother styled hers. Hair that connected to your culture, your roots, your family. It dawns on you that this is what that must be for King, too—especially having grown up viewed as a woman.

Time flies by while you’re lost to the memories and motions.

Even now, as you sit in the chair with a warm towel wrapped around your head and with the hot oil they prepared working it’s magic, they don’t sit still. Instead their hands are busy with small bowls, a brush, and a fork, mixing things together into a larger bowl.

“Making your hair mask,” they comment absently, feeling your gaze on them. “Fresh ingredients are better. It’ll help repair what your stylist’s constant flat-ironing damaged.”

Pelo malo, you remember unkind neighbours saying to you. You remember your mother yelling at them in turn, before pulling you close on your walk home, petting your hair.

You think of your mother’s hands as they mix with a fork. It takes you back to a different kitchen, to the sounds and smells of pancakes sizzling on the cast iron griddle. The ingredients they mix reminding you more of a meal than a hair product: honey, avocado, yogurt, brown sugar, banana, apple cider vinegar. You don’t even bother to ask how they came across some of those ingredients here in the west, you know they have more tricks than they let on.

Chrysanta’s movement back into place directly in front of you drags you back into the present fully, tracing details of their face in the rarest moment of absolute openness. No shields, no walls, no topics. Just their hands as they carefully unwrap the towel, taking great care not to pull your hair or have anything drip onto you instead of the towel.

As they rinse your hair, once again focused on threading fingers gracefully and massaging your scalp and hair, your eyes close.

You wonder what Kingsley’s life is like, outside of you and the Rangers. What their childhood was like. What their youth was like. What their teen years were like. You’re not even sure how old they are now. You wonder about questions you know you can’t have answers to, because you know they won’t tell you. Questions you think might hurt them if you asked.

More so, you wonder what their family was like. Your eyes open and you wonder if Chrysantamum ever sat in a chair like this, with their mother lovingly washing her daughter’s hair at the kitchen sink like a right of passage. If kind hands cared enough to catch every curl, with kind eyes at her child like they were the sun—the light of her life. If she’d smooth down King’s baby hairs with the same long, swift fingers and small smiles, or brush them down just-so. You think she would have been beautiful: both young Kingsley and her mother. You look at them again, while they’re focused, and wonder if their grandmother is in their features like your’s is in yours.

You think about how Kingsley can’t cook: was she not there to teach them? Was their mother not there either? With their hunger now, you bet they needed to eat so much as a child, and it hurts to ponder if they ever went hungry from the way you see them ration their leftovers.

You close your eyes as they part sections of your hair, cool bare skin on your scalp now, and the occasional rat tail of a comb catching stray hairs. Part, a dab of oil, a clip to hold the section: you can practically hear the steps light up in their head. As careful and precise with hair as they are with machines.

You think maybe they like machines because they don’t muddy the waters with feelings. Feelings—accepting or giving—do not come easy to them. And you have learned by now that what they feel is best determined by their actions, not the words they use as sword and shield against others. You wonder how they feel. Looking up at them does not make it any clearer, but…

They rub the mask between their palms to warm it, and you know somewhere in you this is love. This is as close to love as they know, and that is enough for you.

There may be lingering confusion in your feelings: you have always been attracted to men, and they are not a man—but they are also not a woman. There may be some hesitation to take a step from friendship with someone who means so much to you. But whatever you both have to give, when you’re both ready, will be enough for you.

You can imagine that little girl: too tall and lanky and active for their own good. Bruised knees and scratched arms and torn dresses every time they came back into the house in the evening, like you when you were young. Maybe the two of you would have been good friends back then, too. Maybe the world wouldn’t have gotten to Kingsley so much if you’d been there with them. It’s nothing you can change now: you know better than anyone that the past stays behind where it can only hurt you if you try to go back to it.

They look down at you now, the mask application finished, and survey the soft look in your eyes, the light smile on your face with a mirrored one of their own. You too, see the small traces of confusion flash by, but it melts away. The eye contact held as their bare hand comes up, brushing against your forehead softly as if to move stray strands away you know they’ve collected, then down the side of your cheek as if to catch some oil left behind they never dropped. Excuses for intimacy that does not come naturally to them. And right now that is enough.

“Do you think I should cut my hair?” you ask softly, hoping they see in your eyes how much their opinion truly matters to you. More than anyone’s ever has.

The question brings a sharpness to their brow, eyes still soft and searching.

“Do you want to? If you want to, do it—I’ll help. However I can.” Their face hardens. “Don’t ever let those stylists tell you what you can and can’t do for yourself. Don’t ever let them make you their doll.”

The last sentence is spat like venom; there’s a deep bitterness in those words, in that choice of words, but you know that’s a question you cannot ask.

You reach up and gently pull a curl that freed itself from Kingsley’s bun. You watch it stretch, far longer than it looks, and let it rest again, pushing it from their brow. You wonder what Kingsley looked liked with hair as long as yours, or what they’d look like with it even shorter. You wonder what colour they’ll braid in next, what length of braids, and if anyone ever gets to help them.

Their soft gaze breaks, reaching for the hose one last time to rinse the mask from your head. There is a new kind of quiet blossoming between the two of you as they rinse: a maybe, an almost, a sort of. An electricity even your mods can’t match, a feeling in the pit of your stomach even hunger couldn’t touch.

And when they begin to carefully dry your hair you ponder what it will mean in the future—what it means now. There is a soft tap on your forehead, twice, and you know that means to lift the mask but you’re not the one who wears it, so you turn your gaze upwards instead. Chrysantamum is leaned down, far enough to be close to your face, and their face is soft and their ears are red. That bright green gaze looks to your lips and back to your eyes, the tilt of the head a question, one you know well: may I kiss you? Your question. Just as you know the answer as you smile softly like they do, and lean in for them to catch your lips, always soft and questioning—never wanting to lock you in, never asking for more than you’re willing to give, never staying long. You part slowly, smiling softer than you have all night.

They suddenly knock the towel off your head and flee to the living room cackling, knowing you’ll give chase. Always one step ahead. You don’t disappoint, throwing the towel after them and bolting over to catch them in a kiss as they turn around. Charging in. For just a few minutes more you stay entangled, hands at the back of each other’s necks—another small intimacy with grand connotations.

When the two of you settle back into the living room— King on the couch and you between their knees—you wonder if this will one day become a memory you can fondly look back on. If you will remember the sepia tone streaming in through the window, the feeling of their fingers as they separate your hair—moisturising and combing, and of the soft pulls as they carefully weave braids along your scalp.

“Think PR would be pissed if I p-put a teal ribbon in your braid?” they ask with a surprising cheekiness.

“I’m a hero, not a cheerleader,” you complain with no actual objections. “Put a piece of jewellery or something instead.”

You hear their hands ruffling in their pocket, so you turn to look, curiosity piqued. They remove a few small charms, the kind you’ve seen in their own braids, twists, and locs. Pumping their brows at you cheesily, they put the hair tie in their hand between their teeth, moving to get a better grip on the braid they’re working on.

A few pulls you don’t quite feel later and you hear a little “Ta-da!” as your braid falls over your shoulder. You lift it up to get a better look and you see a charm woven in seamlessly: a small piece of turquoise more teal than blue.

You lean forward a little, drawing your knees to your chin with an arm around them, fiddling with it as the two of you fall into silence. The sensations of their hands on you, and the comfort of your home around them.

Right now, this is more than enough for you.

#I owed y’all something Sweet #the mischief scribbles #Fallen Hero: Rebirth #Pre-Rebirth #MC: Kingsley Chrysanta #Julia Ortega #Chargestep

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twlirwin · 4 years

Text

We’re Not Done Yet

Hey! This is my first time posting any of my writing on here so hopefully you guys don’t think it’s awful dfhkds

This is a Michael smut where he embarrasses the shit out of you by making you wear his headset with all of his friends being able to hear you as he eats you out and fingers you

Warnings: little bit of degradation, swearing, SMUT, tiny bit of edging

Word Count: 1559

Enjoy!

The door creaked slightly as I opened it, before peering into Michael’s office. Which he uses more for gaming than working.

I get a view of his side profile as his focus is all on the screen in front of him. I don’t even think he knows I’m in here.

He looks adorable. With his bottom lip tucked between his teeth and his eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

Despite him being cute as fuck and me wanting nothing but to tell him how much I love him, I’m still upset. For the past week, he’s been paying more attention to this new game he bought than he has me.

Suddenly I get an idea, a cruel one.

A smirk grows on my face prior to me making my way over to him and slinging my right leg over him so I am resting in his lap.

His arms lift up and wrap around me while keeping the controller in his hands.

I stay that that for a few minutes, allowing him to return to thinking about what’s going to happen next on the computer rather than what’s going to happen next with me.

I lift my face from resting on his shoulder to hovering over his neck. I soon begin to leave wet kisses on his neck, alternating from side to side.

A muffled groan can barely be heard from him, but it’s something that doesn’t go unnoticed by me.

My arm slinks down between us to palm him through his grey sweats as I continue giving him hickeys and love bites.

The controller audibly is set down on the desk behind me, before I feel his hands grip my waist. “Y/N, oh my god,”

I peer up at him, seeing on half of his headphones moved so he can hear me. “What?” I ask innocently, pressing down harder.

“You need to stop, I’m gonna get killed-”

“Your dick says otherwise.”

My hand has now reached into the waistband of his pants, feeling the pre-cum at the tip as I start stroking him. His breathing is more labored, and I can hear light whimpers escaping his lips.

“Fuck it.”

He grabs my arm, yanking my hand away before he lifts me off his lap and sets me on the chair he was once on. His eyes are dark as they look down at me. I can feel my arousal building up by the second.

I feel small compared to him, my confident aura being overrun by his dominance.

His headset is in his hands, according to the screen behind him, his microphone is muted.

“Put them on.” the headphones are displayed in front of me as he holds them out.

“What?” my eyes are wide.

“Wear them. Let everyone know what a little slut you are while I make you cum over, and over, and over again.”

“Michael I-” I’m interrupted when he puts them on for me, adjusting the size so they fit me right. I can still hear him clearly since they’re only covering one ear, the other earpiece moved back a little.

He turns around briefly to unmute them before he returns his lust-filled eyes back to me.

“Take your shorts off.”

Now I’m the one having trouble breathing.

My pajama shorts are easy to slide off, landing on the floor below.

Michael gets down on his knees and spreads my legs with his hands.

“Am I the one who made you this wet?” His eyes are directed back at me. All this eye contact is going to be the death of me.

I look away to the side, “Yes.” A sudden wave of redness rises on my cheeks.

His friends were all talking before but now they’ve gone quiet since they heard me.

A low chuckle is emitted from his throat before he begins kissing my inner thighs, coming so close to the place I want him most. I feel the urge to say something, ask him to do something. I just can’t bring myself to, I’m not too suspicious yet but if I say anything more I’m sure it would blow my cover.

“I hope you know I’m not going to do anything until you beg me, darling.” His hands are gliding up and down my thighs, keeping them spread.

“Hey Michael, you there man?” I can tell that’s Luke. For fucks sake. I’m going to be seeing him and the rest of the boys tomorrow.

I cut off the next person to say something, “Please, touch me.” I speak, almost mumbling. There’s practically no use since the mic is right by my mouth. They could hear my breathing for all I know.

“Touch you? How should I touch you?”

I shake my head, letting out a sigh. I can feel his nails digging into my skin as his grip tightens, awaiting my response.

“With your tongue, and fingers.” Everyone he was talking to has gone silent, listening. To me.

A smirk is prominent on his face, “Whatever you say,”

His head ducks down and I can feel him lick a stripe up my slit, my body jerks when he reaches my clit, making his left hand reach up and rest on my lower stomach below the tank top I’m wearing. My breaths are loud and heavy. I try to hold them in the best I can but he’s not making this easy for me.

His index and middle finger abruptly thrust into me while he continues his assault on my nub with his tongue. I let out a low moan, silencing myself by putting my hand over my mouth.

He stops what he’s doing. “Keep your hands at your sides or I will stop right now and won’t let you cum.”

My arms drop, gripping onto the arms of the chair tightly as he quickly goes back to pleasuring me.

“Michael- fuck,” I whisper, “Faster,”

It doesn’t take long for him to thrust his fingers into me at a quicker pace, hitting my g-spot perfectly.

“Are you gonna cum for me?” He looks up briefly, then goes back down.

“Mhmm, don’t stop,” I whine, feeling that familiar pit building in my stomach.

“I’m gonna-” I’m interrupted as his hands and mouth leave me. My arousal glistens on his face and hands as he sits back on his ankles, eyeing me. I’m left gasping, “What the fuck?”

I almost forget there are people listening when I ask that, letting my frustration get the best of me.

“Oops,”

“Y/N?” I hear Calum ask from the left earpiece of the headphones. Fucking hell.

I choose to ignore him, not wanting to admit to what’s happening.

“What?” Michael’s fingers have returned to sliding in and out of me at a slow pace, the sounds of how wet I am being heard.

I shake my head, not wanting to make any more noise.

“They already heard you, you’re better off giving them your all instead of refraining yourself.”

His thumb has started to rub my clit, at a faster pace than before. I can feel my orgasm arriving quickly due to how sensitive I already am. “Michael, please.”

A sigh leaves my lips before I start letting myself go. He’s right.

My moaning becomes louder and more frequent as he keeps fucking me with his hands. My head is thrown back over the back of the chair and I can feel my climax approaching.

“Fuck.” He groans, “Look at me,”

I turn to look down at him, our eyes meeting. “Don’t cum until I say you can,”

His tone is demanding, making it even harder for me to contain myself.

Everyone knows what is happening at this point, my breathing and moans being the only thing to fill up the noise.

“Michael I can’t wait,”

“Yes you can, and you will.”

I didn’t think it could, but his speed only increases, edging me closer to my orgasm.

“Cum.”

My eyes squeeze shut as I see stars. My legs are tightening around him and shaking uncontrollably. Choked moans are heard from the microphone before I finally calm down and am trying to catch my breath.

His fingers fill me up again, thrusting at the pace he was just at. I can’t stop myself from making noise because of how overstimulated I’m feeling. “Holy shit,” I whine, digging my ankles into his back when his head dips down to eat me out aggressively.

At this point, there are probably permanent nail marks on the armrests due to how tight I’ve been gripping them.

I moan is heard through the headset. Jesus.

It doesn’t take long for me to feel that sensation bubbling back up inside, “Cum whenever, princess” His hands don’t stop moving for a second, making me reach my second orgasm at my own volition.

When he doesn’t stop, my body starts jolting and his hands have to pin me down as his tongue enters.

“Mike- fuck” I can’t keep quiet, high-pitched whimpers being the only sound to come from me when he has me reach the third orgasm of the night.

I feel relieved when he stops and lets me come down from my high. I am fucking exhausted.

He reaches up and puts the headphones on for a moment, “You guys better have enjoyed that because it won’t be happening again.”

Michael ends the game and picks me up before tossing me on the bed.

“We’re not done yet.”

#michael clifford smut #5 seconds of summer smut #5sos smut #michael clifford #5sos #smut #mgc smut

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idkthisisjustforfanfic · 4 years

Photo

U N P L A N N E D, part seventeen

You weren’t sure how to feel. You were confused and upset and angry. And at the end of the day, Harry storming out of the house only felt like it confirmed your fears: he would leave.

He did, right?

He left, even if he came back and shut himself in his office. He left, even if he popped out only when Jane cried, before you could wave him off and say you could handle whatever it was and didn’t need his help.

But the bottom line was that your emotions came out and that scared him away. You tried to hold it back and you tried to avoid the conversation because no matter how hard you tried, you didn’t see a world where the ending of that scene would look any different.

A few days later and things had settled down, he cooled off and you gave each other enough space when you passed in the hallway or sat on the couch at night and watched the news. Things felt tense inside the house and outside, too.

Which is why, four days later, you were sat uncomfortably in a chair next to Glenne in some restaurant in Hollywood.

“This is the most uncomfortable thing I’ve ever done.”

“Oh stop,” she waved you off, a full 180 from the Glenne you once knew.

She didn’t seem to completely understand what you were saying. Your eyes trailed down the table, Lexi was busy chatting with a girl you’d met a few times. The band was there, Jeff, other faces and names that offered hugs and hellos as if you’d been around the whole time.

But that wasn’t what made you uncomfortable.

“Oh,” Glenne’s mouth set in a firm line when she saw what you saw. She leaned in and let her voice drop lower. “She worked on the album, I think, helped write a song or two.”

“I don’t care,” you lied, picked up the drink in front of you and took a sip through the black straw. Another gulp, maybe you could ease the knots in your stomach with more alcohol.

He’d been nice leading up to this, said he liked your dress when you sat awkwardly in the car on the drive here. He got Jane bathed and dressed when you got ready, passed her off to your mom for the night after she made the drive down from Santa Paula.

But his arm was slung around the back of her chair now, he nodded and smiled when she said something funny, leaned in to hear her over the noise of the restaurant as if they were old friends.

Glenne sipped her own drink, kept her eyes focused on the two of them, just like you. “She’s nice, she’s not someone you need to worry about.”

“It’s fine,” you shrugged, hopefully more convincing this time. “We’re not together--he can do what he wants.”

She turned to look at you, her eyebrows arched when she held her straw between her fingers and took a pull. “Right,” she laughed.

“I mean it, Glenne.”

“What do you mean?” Jeff materialized behind you both, pulled out his chair on the other side of his girlfriend and rejoined the table.

“Y/N’s just going on about how her and Harry aren’t together,” Glenne looked up at Jeff, offered him a sweet smile when he bent down to kiss her on the head.

Jeff laughed at this, smiled over at you and placed his napkin on his lap. “But like, you’re not not together, right?”

“We’re just not together. One ‘not.’ It’s not a thing.”

They both looked at you, straight-faced and expectant, like suddenly you’d let out a laugh and admit this was all a silly joke. “What?” You asked.

“Nothing,” Jeff shrugged. “Just, I thought things were going well.”

“Oh my god,” you rolled your eyes at his words, thankful to feel more comfortable having an honest conversation with both of them. “Things can be going well and that still doesn’t mean we’re together.”

“Yeah, but, things were, like, all sweet and cute after she was born and--”

You cut Jeff off, held up a hand to avoid having the same conversation with Glenne from the other night. “Our focus is Jane.”

He nodded, shrugged as if to imply that yes, of course it was.

Somehow, miraculously, Lexi decided it was time to hop into the conversation, too. She turned around beside you, smiled when she saw that you’d all been congregating right beside her. With a grin on her face; “hi, what’s up?”

“Y/N and Harry are being weird again,” Jeff laughed a little before you offered him a narrowed glare.

“What? Why?” Lexi pulled her head back as if this was the craziest thing she’d ever heard.

“Since when do all of you like to team up against me? Didn’t all of you used to think that this was a bad idea?”

“Not me,” Lexi held her hands up to show innocence.

“Okay, fine,” you corrected. “You two did, though.”

Jeff and Glenne looked at each other and smiled a bit. Maybe the alcohol had gotten to them. Maybe everyone was just relaxed and enjoying the birthday celebrations.

“Opinions change,” was all Jeff offered.

You rolled your eyes. “Okay, well, mine hasn’t. It’s not happening.”

“Because you’re afraid?” Lexi’s words caught you off guard. You turned to eye her, gave some sort of we’re not doing this here look.

“Stop,” was all you said.

“What?” She laughed. “You know I’m right.”

“Let’s just not.”

“Oh come on, Y/N. I love you, but you’re getting in your own way.”

You picked up your drink and took a sip, hoping that it’d be enough of an excuse to relieve you of having to answer.

Jeff offered a hesitant smile, like it pained him to admit it: “she’s right.”

“This is not a good place for us to have this conversation,” you said, their suddenly strong opinions crashed over you like a tidal wave. What happened to not letting things get messy? What happened to following the rules like they’d wanted and staying out of trouble?

Lexi mowed over your statement. “You’re afraid, which is fine, but don’t make us pretend that we don’t see through it.”

“Alright, I’m not doing this.” You pushed your seat back from the table to leave.

“Doing what?” Lexi asked, more frustrated with you.

“Lexi,” Glenne reached out a hand to settle her. “Let it go.”

“Oh so I’m the only one who can be honest with her?”

“Being honest isn’t license to be a dick,” you said.

She rolled her eyes at that and let her hands drop to her lap. “Fine, whatever.”

You reached for your purse and offered Glenne and Jeff a smile. “I’ll see you guys later.”

They didn’t chase after you, they let you slip out to the parking lot, call an uber, and stand there by yourself atop the asphalt and hurt feelings.

As if Lexi hadn’t been enough, Harry stepped out to the hidden back alley after a few minutes.

“Hi,” he said, looking you up and down. “Y’heading out?”

“Yeah,” you offered a smile. “I’m just tired, but, I’m fine.”

Quiet for a second when he hesitated, unsure if he should let you go and unsure if he had the right to stop you. “I saw your mom’s text.”

“Yeah, she’s been asleep for a while, no issues.”

“S’good.”

“Yeah.”

A pause in the night air, he shifted his weight on his feet and for a second, you thought he’d ask you to stay.

“You don’t have to wait here with me,” you told him, clicked your phone to life to see the driver’s ETA. “I called an uber, should be here in three minutes.”

He nodded, shoved his hands in his pockets. “Okay, yeah, I’ll see you in the morning?”

“Yep,” you nodded, smiled when he turned on his heel and let the door to the swanky restaurant close behind him. He was already gone, but you whispered it anyway. “Happy birthday.”

He said he loved the goofy apron you bought him, simple and blue, the word DAD was etched on the front. You signed the card from both of you, left it on the counter that night when you got home. He found it sometime when he keyed in late and brought it up the next day.

But it wasn’t as awkward as walking into the tiny room somewhere in Burbank a almost two weeks later. Jane was in the carseat on the floor and a woman with short brown hair smiled after you handed her back the paperwork you signed.

“So--you said on the phone that you’ve been struggling with anxiety?”

You gave her an unsure nod, shouldn’t she be telling you whether or not that was the case?

“And who’s this?”

“Jane--she should sleep the whole time, I think.”

She smiled. Cassie, a therapist who’s profile came up when Glenne lovingly sent you the link to a website search for therapists. She was young enough, smiled down at Jane and sat back in her chair once she set the clipboard on her desk behind her.

“How old is she?”

“Six weeks.”

She held a hand to her heart and smiled. “How’s that been going?”

You told her about the start of it all, that night at Harry’s and the anxiety that settled in your bones in the Facebook bathroom when you saw the first tiny plus sign. She managed to keep a straight face when you name dropped Jane’s father, a good sign. Or maybe she thought you were crazy and making it up. Either way, you spent the first session just catching her up on the last nine months.

Before that, your life had been quiet. Sure, maybe some unresolved feelings around your parents or tough times in high school like the rest of the world. But whatever lurked beneath the surface had never been shaken up so much until now, like a snowglobe knocked from its shelf, typically settled pieces now swirling in the air around you with no hope of slowing down.

The second session the next week was similar, but that’s when she pushed a little harder.

“But things are totally fine with Harry?”

You nodded. “Yeah--I mean, like I told you last week things were kind of messy for a bit, but they’re fine now.”

“You mentioned that you fought with him recently?”

This time Jane wasn’t there to be a distraction. You lied this morning and told Harry you were meeting Lexi for a coffee, but the truth was that you hadn’t spoken to her since his birthday. He promised he’d take her for a walk and put on a new onesie if she threw up on herself. Leaving her was easier now, he seemed more confident in his ability to handle the things that might go wrong.

But now you wished she was buckled in beside you, an excuse to change the topic or leave the room to change her diaper.

“I guess we fought--he was upset, I was upset.”

“What did you fight about?

“He uh--I guess he thinks we could be good together.”

“And you don’t?”

You shrugged, took a breath and looked around the room. How were you supposed to explain your thoughts to a woman you’d met twice? “I don’t know.”

She eyed you for a minute, the small smile on her face let you know she wanted more.

“I do have feelings for him, I guess.”

“You do?”

Another hesitant nod. “I think just cause of Jane, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, at first I swore it was just the hormones and you know--feeling like we had some weird bond.”

She smiled a little, understanding and encouraging. “You do have a bond.”

“I know, but--I just mean at first it felt like there was something there.”

“But it doesn’t now?”

You dropped her gaze at that. No--it wasn’t not there. “I guess my thought process is that it’s just too risky now.”

“What is?”

“Being with him, like, as a couple.”

“How so?”

You sighed--the questions were fair but you already felt exhausted.

“None of this was planned--for a while it felt like he was only being nice to me cause he got me knocked up. He kind of had to be nice to me.”

“Do you really think that’s true? Do you think he would do that?”

“He’s a nice person,” you shrugged.

“But do you think he would ask you to move in and spend so much time with you and your family if he didn’t actually want to do those things?”

“I mean--no, I guess I only thought that for the first few weeks.”

She nodded thoughtfully, waited to see if you’d add any more. When you didn’t, she parted her lips to speak. “When did you realize he wasn’t just being nice to be nice?”

You thought back on the months you’d spent with him. The time you went to the beach and had a picnic, the nights at his house when he’d make dinner and when the panic that lurked in your tummy about the future felt like it had vanished.

“I guess when we started spending more time together and I actually got to know him.”

Another nod. “So you were nervous at first, which makes sense to me. Do you still fear that that’s true?”

You already had the answer, it sat on your tongue and felt like it’d spill out any second. You glanced around the room, out the window to the sunny streets and wondered what would change if you admitted it.

“I know he won’t leave. I know he won’t just up and never speak to me--to us--again.”

She waited for you to say more.

“But why would he want to be with me? Why--out of all the people he could be with--would he pick the girl who got pregnant with his kid?”

She challenged this, a slight smirk on her face. “He might actually have feelings for you, you know.”

You made a face, shifted in your seat as if to send the message that it was impossible.

“Why is that so hard to believe?” Her words were quiet, a sudden shift in the air in the room as if in any second, rain would pour from the ceiling or a wind would sweep her papers off the desk in the corner. Like everything in the world was hinging on the secret about to fall from your lips.

“People don’t stay in my life.”

She frowned at that, aware that she’d actually gotten something out of you now.

“Like who?”

“My last boyfriend, my dad--” the tears that welled in your eyes cut you off, you swallowed the emotion and wiped quickly, embarrassed to be crying in front of someone you’d only met twice.

“You said your parents got divorced when you were little?”

You nodded. “I don’t want Jane to grow up like I did.”

“Who says she will?”

“I don’t know,” you shrugged. “But if him and I are together--if I let that happen--then he can leave, but he can’t leave me and hurt me or us if we’re not together.”

She tilted her head to the side. “Yes he can.”

“What?”

“Whether you’re actually in a relationship with him or not won’t change the emotions you have for him. It’ll still hurt if he leaves or backs out, even if you’re not romantically involved.”

You stared at her for a second, confused by her bluntness. Weren’t therapists supposed to make you feel better?

“I guess.”

She could read the look on your face and offered a small smile. “I’m not trying to freak you out--it just seems like you already love him, so it sounds like it would hurt either way.”

You didn’t reply. You took in a shaky breath of air when you tried to wipe at your cheeks and gain composure.

“It makes a lot of sense that you don’t want the same thing to happen to Jane, but you’ve been telling yourself that it will when you don’t know that. Sometimes when we try to avoid the past really hard we just recreate it.”

You took a few days to let it all sink in. You folded laundry and changed diapers and you took Jane on a walk near the beach with sunglasses and a hat. You never imagined that you’d need a disguise, too.

You’d settled back into a routine of climbing the stairs separately, his footsteps down the hall felt more weighted now with the insight you’d discovered in Cassie’s office.

You tried to take space, not get too overwhelmed by the growing knowledge that you loved him, hopelessly and helplessly. You tried to tuck it away in a drawer beneath your sweaters, like somehow if you kept it out of sight it wasn’t true.

But the world didn’t want to make it so easy.

Your mom called and reminded that your upcoming birthday was the perfect excuse to have another party--one that more of your family could come to, a bigger and more public event than the quiet shower you’d kept under wraps.

They were dying to meet Jane and she was dying to show off her granddaughter to the rest of the family and her friends back home. When you floated the idea to Harry of bringing Jane home with you for a long weekend, his brows furrowed.

“Without me?”

Jane was strapped to his chest at the kitchen counter, he was obsessed with the new wrap you’d gotten online and now he barely took it off. She kicked her legs against his abdomen.

“I mean--I figured we’d just get out of your hair for a while, some space--” you trailed off.

He let out a huff of air and dropped your gaze. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know, I just--”

“But you’re doing it anyway?”

“Do you really not want me to go see my own family for my birthday?”

“Why can’t I come?”

“I didn’t know you’d want to,” you eyed him skeptically, smiled at Jane when she made eye contact with you and then started to whine.

“I mean, yeah,” he said it quietly. “I’d like to.”

He offered to drive and a week later you were leaning into the backseat to adjust the toy rattle that hung from Jane’s car seat when he changed lanes on the 101. You’d already briefed him on the players: Aunt Lisa and uncle Melvin. Aunt Melissa and Uncle Mike. Your cousins Cassie, Eric and his boyfriend Tim, Shayna. Cousin Ryan and his wife Sam, their daughter Paige. Your mom’s best friend Tammy and her husband Bill. Their son, Luke.

“I’ll never remember all these people.”

“I don’t expect you to,” you laughed a little. “All you need to know is that Ryan and Sam are super sweet, everyone else is fine. Uncle Mel is a little too Republican for my taste, but, that’s just me. Oh, and Luke was my high school boyfriend. So some people might make comments about that, but it’s fine.”

He looked over to you from behind his sunglasses. “What do you mean?”

You shrugged. “We dated--we were like, sixteen.”

“How long did you date for?”

“I don’t know, like almost three years?”

“Almost three years?!”

“It was forever ago,” you tried to downplay it. You didn’t expect the reaction he gave.

“Well, yeah, but--did you--”

“Yes,” you cut him off, waved a hand in his direction to get out in front of it. “I lost my virginity to him.”

He lifted his eyebrows at that, shifted in the driver’s seat and kept his eyes on the road.

“Why does that matter?”

“It doesn’t,” he said, a shrug of his shoulders and a quick glance in the rearview mirror to see Jane. “Was just curious.”

You stared at the white lines on the road, watched as they blurred together when he accelerated on the gas. It was only an hour drive, you were there before noon and right in time for Jane to have another bottle.

He was happy to greet everyone who was already there--just a few aunts and cousins who decided they’d help set up platters of food and bowls of juice before the rest of the crew arrived. They fussed over Jane, passed her around and tickled her cheeks, but Harry kept a close eye on whoever had her.

When more people showed up you were whisked away again, hugging cousins you hadn’t seen in ages and trying desperately to not sound like a fool for getting knocked up by a celebrity. Your cousin Carrie didn’t seem to think it was all that bad.

“Not the worst thing in the world, though, right?”

You gave her a knowing look, fought the smile on your face when she elbowed you in the ribs. Carrie was closest to your age, only a year older and always so much cooler than you were growing up.

“Come on, Y/N, he looks pretty good with a baby on his chest.”

“He’s been great with her so far,” you admitted. “I’m just trying to stay sane and deal with turning twenty-six.”

“Must be so hard,” your aunt Lisa pulled you in for a hug when she appeared behind you. “Dealing with a handsome man and a beautiful baby.”

You rolled your eyes at her teasing, hugged your uncle and let out a sigh. “I’m managing, but, you know, it’s been a wild year.”

“And you’ve handled it beautifully,” your mom chimed in, dropping off a cake on the table in the backyard. She kissed you on the cheek, “help me inside for a minute!”

You followed behind her, promised to come tell Carrie more of the_ dirty details_, as she put it. But the kitchen inside was quiet, your mom pulled out more serving dishes from the fridge and handed them to you when she spoke.

“Have you talked to him at all?”

You’d been watching him out the window, he tugged at Jane’s toes while she sat, happily, in your uncle Melvin’s arms. When you pulled your eyes over to hers, she eyed you suspiciously.

“No.”

“Are you going to?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, honey,” she rolled her eyes and let out a short laugh, shutting the fridge and taking inventory of the dishes she’d made. “I know you’re not sleeping all that much, but, I’m not that stupid.”

You sighed, held the bowl of pasta salad in your arms. “Not yet. Not now.”

“Sweetie,” she placed a hand on your shoulder and offered a look of sympathy. “You know what they say. He who hesitates is lost.”

“What?”

“Don’t waste your time,” she shrugged, her gaze immediately going back to food she still wanted to bring outside. Her attention was pulled away by commotion outside, another arrival of family who’d yet to meet your daughter.

And maybe she had a point, but you weren’t wasting time. Your time was spent standing over his shoulder as he learned how to change diapers. Sitting on the edge of the bed in the middle of the night when she wouldn’t stop crying. Thumbing through pages of parenting books or calling your mom instead of ripping out your hair.

Pediatrician appointments and dodging the cameras that seemed to point your way when you stepped out of the fortress on the hill.

And most importantly, protecting your daughter from the same heartbreak you felt your whole life: the one that comes along with a father who’s nowhere to be found.

You hadn’t expected the party to last so long, but the sun started to set and people still loitered around the backyard.

Things quieted down though after dinner, your mom opened another bottle of wine with her sisters and Harry sat at the table with a beer in his hand as he listened to Eric and Tim recount their amazing vacation in Aruba. Jane was on his lap, getting fussier by the second after her evening feed.

You’d avoided it so far, a quick hello and minimal interaction, if only to save yourself an awkward conversation later that night. But when Luke sat down at the empty seat beside you--and directly across from Harry--you knew the night was about to get more interesting.

“So Luke, Y/N told me you two have known each other for a long time,” Harry shifted his attention over to you, a small smile on his face when you locked eyes.

Luke nodded, sipped at his own beer. “Yeah, God, we met when we were in seventh grade?”

“Yep,” you confirmed, a quick nod. “Do you want me to take Jane inside?”

“No,” Harry shook his head. She looked up at him with big blue eyes and then over at you when he smiled down at her. “She’s fine. And you two dated, right?”

“Yeah,” Luke laughed, smiling in your direction. “We spent a lot of time together in high school.”

“I heard,” Harry offered a quick chuckle, you tried to send a message with the narrowing of your eyes.

“What a throwback,” you said sarcastically.

“What is?” your mom was suddenly interested from the other end of the table, a tipsy smile on her face as she pushed up the sleeves of her sweatshirt she’d tossed on at the end of the night.

You and Luke spoke at the same time, but your mumbled nothing didn’t sound as convincing as his answer: me and Y/N dating in high school.

Your mom smiled and held a hand to her chest, which made Tammy suddenly tune into the conversation from a few feet away as she chatted with Carrie.

This made Harry more annoyed, but he hid it well. No one else could tell, probably, but you knew the way his lip twitched and he itched his neck when he didn’t like the way things were going.

“I’m gonna take Jane inside,” you stood from the table and walked over to him with extended arms. Harry stood and set his beer on the table, I’ll come with you.

Once you were alone inside, he started explaining before you could even give him a hard time.

“I’m not trying to be a dick--just getting to know everyone.”

“By interrogating my high school boyfriend about our teenage relationship?”

He shut the door to the guest room and picked up Jane’s diaper bag from the floor. “What else am I supposed to talk to him about?”

“I don’t know--sports, music, anything.”

He rolled his eyes and took out the portable diaper mat. You undid her onesie after you tugged her shorts down.

You held your hand out for a wipe. “You’re a jealous person, aren’t you?”

His brow furrowed, but he handed one over. “Never been told that before,” he tried to keep a straight face, but a giggle escaped his lips.

“There’s nothing between me and Luke,” you promised, tossing the dirty wipe and diaper aside for him to dispose.

He handed you a clean one, picked up the travel-sized baby powder. “Yeah--I mean, you can do what you want, but--”

“I don’t want anything with Luke.”

You fastened the diaper around her hips despite the way she squirmed. He handed you the set of pjs you brought for her, found the swaddle in the bag and then sat on the edge of the bed.

“But you don’t want anything with me, either.”

You let a breath escape your lungs, long and deflated. You’d had enough anxiety about bringing Harry here. But now there was a lurking feeling of nervousness in you about whether or not you’d ruin Jane’s sleep habits by interrupting her routine.

You wrapped Jane in her swaddle and picked her up, thankful for the heaviness of her eyelids when you started to rock her back and forth. “I don’t know what I want.”

You almost told him, laid it all out down the hall from your childhood room. But instead, he nodded, stood from the bed and opened his arms, a look of disappointment in his eyes. “I’ll take her,” he whispered. “Go spend time with your family.”

table of contents | talk to me + join the tag list | the playlist

author’s note: woooooowwwwww we are close to the end, pals! the next chapter will be the last one!!!!!

tag list: @stepping-into-the-light @thurhomish @afterstylesmadeit @iconicharry @harryspirate @mellamolayla @harryinsweatersandbandanas @stylesfantasy @clorenafila @mell-love @anssu-amry @yelllowgrass @littlesoldierelleora @styles217 @rachkon @c-h-e-r-r-y-y @myhat @rosegoldbel @passionate-dreamerr @grammyforstyles @haute-romance-quotidienne @dontgiveupthedayjob @ursamajor603 @craic-head-horan @heavenspidey @talk-british-2-me-britbritharry @blackxxmagicc @winter-soldier-007 @ssllbb @wanderlustiing @jdcharliewhiskey @caritocp @kaybee87 @wildbeee @hsunflowervol @harrys-medicines @tobe-sogolden @theresnooneheretosave @1d-tommo5 @soullikestyles @mrsfstyles @you-youneverdo @fstopsteph @cock-a-doodely-doo @s-u-t @mleestiles @rubytersteege @heartsandwheels @rainbowparadiseharry @ainatirb-j @sing-me-a-song-harry @g0bl1nqueen @mmithharold @harrymfingstyless @yourpolaroid07 @zarrysfineline @pinkpolaroidgirl @staceystoleyourheart @kind-heart @galsingold @adams-tammy72 @ednaofearth @neverland-city @zna0000 @mythoughtsvsreality @damnigotadime @stylesfics-xx @goldenncherrybombb @splendidsunsetsx @guccicreature @niallsfoolsgold @sunnflowerchild @lanallaa @harrys-stan @kialawley7274 @odetostep @wastedsweetcreature @rainbowbutterflyboy @live-at-the-forum @ajayque @goldenngracee @youredeadrong @indaydreamswithme @amaridon @icedsoylattes @cronias13 @sltwins @rbforsmileycal @tobesosunflower @noxiousacilegna @svnflowrv6 @flagitiume @splamilton @sloanferg @szaghata @girlgotattitude448 @ji5hine @strawberrrypie @stay-lovely @pwettyyharry @hufflepuff-always-and-forever @swooningoverstyles @golden-asoab @svnflowervol-6 @twinswallows @kammy67 @bookwormandteasstuff @peter-prkr @harrys-suits @kiwicherryharry @harriedstylus @harbear77 @tpwkxxkiwis @theresalotof0spaceoutthere @allthenicekids @harrys-watermelons @laura-q @sweeeetcreeaturee@britnicole11 @crowdedimagines @winesex @abundanceofsoph @spideys-wife @cherryyharryy @goldencherrymooon @begluketostay @jcgarciaa12 @thesarcasticshrink @magiclolipopqueen

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iicytodoroki · 4 years

Text

Childhood Friends to Lovers - Kageyama Tobio x Fem! Reader NSFW

Warnings: explicit language, fluff to smut (explicit), drinking (legal ages), unprotected (pls use it though!) please don’t read if you’re uncomfortable or too young, this stuff is dirty

WC: 3.1k

A/N: ah ha haa, what if i make a cute fluffy and domestic pt 2, a full 180 from this unholy piece

7 years ago

Dear Diary,

I met this funny boy in my class, he was really quiet and always looked angry. Since we were sitting next to each other in the back corner of class, we were assigned as partners for the rest of the year. During our first lunch meeting for our project, I caught him trying to shake the vending machine screaming, “Argh! Stupid machine ate my money and won’t,” *kicks machine* “give me my damn milk.” Luckily, I knew where the other vending machine was, which was kind of hidden behind the gym of our junior high. So when we met up at the benches facing the empty tennis courts, I was able to see such a cute blush on his face when I gave him strawberry milk. Turns out his name is Kageyama Tobio and he loves volleyball.

5 years ago

Dear Diary,

I was so sad today. I found out Tobio and I aren’t going to Shiratorizawa together. We met up at the park that meets halfway of our houses and read our letters. I was able to get in with my grades, but regardless of Tobio’s abilities, his grades were just not enough. I knew he was the most frustrated, but I ended up crying so much. He kept hugging me saying that “It’s okay, we can still see each other, we know where we live.” But I kept saying it’ll be hard for me to make friends since Tobio was the only one I really connected with. I couldn’t see his face, but he just kept hugging me harder. He just said that I’m smarter and stronger than him because I’m brave enough to cry for both of us and get into Shiratorizawa; “Go there for both of us and I’ll meet your school’s team on the court and show them what they’ve missed out.” Tobio always had an odd smile back then, but the gloss on his blueberry eyes told me he meant it. So I smiled too and we just stayed there enveloping each other’s warmth.

2 years ago

Dear Diary,

It was the week of our graduations. Shiratorizawa’s graduation happened before Karasuno’s. But Bateyama (exhausted Kageyama) had to oversleep. Luckily, the previous third years from my first year came over to congratulate me since I was their manager. Tobio forcing me to learn volleyball seemed to come in handy, plus I was able to see them in their matches. Anyways, my closest friend Wakatoshi came. He brought me my favorite flowers and gave those rare smiles for me for graduating as Top 3 in my class! Ah, to make Waka proud and smile. It’s so rare just like Tobios, they’re both volleyball idiots but they're my volleyball idiots.

After about an hour the third years had to leave for their trains and Tobio was then running towards me! I was so ready to yell at him for almost breaking his promise, but I kinda choked when I saw he was red-faced in a cuffed white button up and tie, black slacks, and a belt that definitely accentuated his upper build. He kept on apologizing for sleeping in, but he said he’d make it up by taking us to our usual restaurant.

Boy, did he feed me well. I really wanted to confess to him when we were walking home. His side profile looked so handsome with the orange and gold glow behind him. But then he told me he was going to the city, either Chiba or Tokyo to train for the volleyball team. So I stopped myself, I mean he’s going to be so busy and I’d just hold him back, right? What kind of friend would I be to stop him from his dreams after working so hard for it since second grade?

So we agreed to keep texting each other of course, and have the occasional meet up since I’ll be going to Keio University near Tokyo.

Today

Dear Diary,

I’m finally on break!!! And I got plans to meet up with Waka for dinner! Geez, I haven’t seen him in ages. He’s been constantly keeping me up to date with his matches and training and always checking in if I have food. He’s still the same back in high school, always looking out for me like a reliable captain. He also told me Tobio got in the Schweiden Alders! So maybe I get to finally see my blueberry boy. To be honest, I am kinda nervous though, we rarely text and haven’t seen each other in over a year.

Checking the time, it read 3:20pm. You had to get ready and leave by 4pm, so hopefully you can make it to the gym by 4:30pm when Waka finishes up practice. Now that you knew you’re likely to run into Tobio, you thought maybe you should dress up a little. So putting on a long straight skirt that flattered your ass in the best ways and a short sleeve blouse that matched your natural makeup, you checked yourself out in your mirror. You for sure grew into a beautiful young woman, each feature on your face was no longer the “sweet, lovely YN”. You could take on any person you’d want. One you’re hoping to make an impression on after you meet him today.

Awkwardly standing at the entrance of the gym, you can see a crowd of really tall and muscular guys patting down with towels and drinking water. Finally your eyes met with the stoic face of the olive-tone man. Waka started walking towards you, still clad in his sweaty uniform but you didn’t care. You went up to him and hugged as much as you could of his sports model torso.

Waka gave you a small chuckle at your attempts and returned your hug. As you two were recapping your plans after he cleans up, you see at the corner of his bicep tufts of the same black hair you wanted to run your hands through. The blueberry boy was busy patting the sweat off his face with a towel.

“Tobio? Tobio!” Hearing his name, Tobio looked in your direction as you jogged up to him. He looked to be in a state of shock that you were actually here. He staggered a bit when you hugged him, but after a moment he wrapped his arms around you.

Wow, he sure trained hard.

Pulling you out from deeper--inappropriate--thoughts, Tobio pushed your shoulders at arms length giving you his dopey smile. The dopey smile just for you.

“What are you doing here, YN?”

“Oh, I’m here to meet up with Waka. I’m finally on break and he’s off this weekend, so we wanted to get dinner together.”

Looking behind you, Tobio sees the walking Super Ace coming towards you guys.

“Ah! You should join us Tobio! Right Waka?” you smiled looking up at Wakatoshi.

“Mm. If he’d like,” he stoically said.

“Sure, let me just get in the shower and I’ll meet you at the foyer.”

Happy at the answer you wait for the two giants. While walking to the restaurant with a Koshitsu (private room/booth) you were in between the two, making you feel much smaller than you are. You kept talking since both of them were mostly listeners. Waka gave the hum for acknowledgement, but Tobio would keep his eyes on you. More specifically your hands. He could just easily grab them, but you guys weren’t like that.

Dinner ended right when the skies were turning into a rich dark, blue. Almost like his eyes.

You thanked the heavens you didn’t pay because those two literally ate for a whole family. Each of them. Nonetheless, it was fun catching up with the volleyball fanatics.

“Would you like for me to walk you home Yn,” Waka asked.

“Um,” you hesitated since you wanted Tobio to ask you first. But then, “Ushijima-san, I understand your sleep schedule is at 8:30pm, it’s 8:00pm now. It’ll ruin your biological clock, so I can walk YN home. Also, she and I live in the same direction.”

Waka looked at you for approval and you gave a reassuring nod, “I’d appreciate that Tobio and don’t worry Waka, Tobio and I have been close friends since middle school!”

At that, Wakatoshi bid both of you a good night and safe walk back home.

Reaching the doorstep to your flat, you turned around to face Tobio. You and him both awkwardly looked down at your feet until you broke the silence.

“Would, would you like to come inside for drinks? You know since it’s my break and your weekend off?”

Snapping his head up, Tobio meekly nodded his head. Now you both were drinking at your kitchen counter laughing at the old memories before graduation. The giggles finally quieted down until there was a pregnant pause.

“You know, I’ve always liked you since that day you bought me that milk,” he said softly.

Now alert and cleared of your foggy thoughts, you stared at Tobio.

Tobio continued, “I didn’t realize how much I loved you until I saw how close you were to Ushijima…”

“Wait, do you mean it?”

Tobio quietly nodded his head and looked right into your eyes. Searching for an answer.

Instead, you lunged at him holding his face in your hands as you kissed him. Tobio titled his head and rested his hands on your hips. After a few chaste kisses, he wrapped his arms around the small of your back and deepened the kiss.

Tobio prodded at your lips for entrance which you gladly gave into. His wet muscle forced yours down quickly and focused on exploring your mouth. Muffled moans from his tongue touching the roof of your wet cavern and suckling of your own wet muscle. Your knees literally became weak and were about to give out. Sensing this, Tobio’s firm, vein-decorated hands grasped your ass to hold you up against him. Gasping at his rough kneading you moaned, “T-tobio…”

Hearing his name falls from your lips was like flipping a switch in him. Next thing you know, he lifted you so you were now sitting on the edge of the counter. He became more aggressive and desperate to have his lips meet the rest of your skin. He started to trail down your neck, leaving deep red marks at the junction of your shoulders.

“Nghh--more Tobio…”

At this, he lifted and threw your blouse somewhere over his shoulder and started leaving new marks until Tobio’s lips grazed the edge of your bra.

“Off,” he huffed, “Now.”

Seeing the dark, lust in his eyes caused your lower abdomen to tighten. So complying to his demands, you unclasp your bra revealing your supple chest to him. Then you suddenly feel the calloused fingers tweaking at one nipple while massaging and the lapping of his tongue on the other. Tobio growled at the newfound source while you curled your fingers at the base of his hair behind his head. After whimpers and moans from him interchanging between each nipple, you feel his hard-on grinding into your inner thigh.

“A-ah, T-tobio…” his teeth tugged, “pl….mm, please!” you shouted

Releasing his mouth with a wholly pop, he huffed and looked at you with his overcasted bangs,

“Do you really want to?”

Even after all that he still had that crease of a frown and genuine concern in his eyes.

Smiling at his question, you looked at him through your lashes before meeting your foreheads saying, “Of course I want you Tobio, I want you so bad…”

Hearing the air choke up inside his throat, you decided it’s your turn to play with him now.

Nearing his ear, you whispered, “I want to feel every,” you hands trail down his stomach, “ridge of you,” now at the edge of his track pants, “inside me,” he feels your fingertips shadowing over his, “as your cock bruises my cervix for a week,” as you grab his dick.

“Hgnh, YN…” you heard him moan into your ear. The temperature rising after hearing his voice become an octave deeper saying your name, “Where’s--,” you knew what he meant.

“The l-last door,” he kept grinding into you as he worked on your boobs again, “d-down...Mmm...the hall..ah!” At that moment, Tobio reached under your skirt and rubbed through your underwear.

Finally knowing his destination, he lifted you with your legs wrapping around him as he kicked your slightly opened door to your room. At the soft bounce of your bed, you can see the moonlight illuminate on Tobio as he hurriedly took off his clothes. The shadows intensifying the curves of his abs and pecs. The moonlight highlighting the buff muscle on his arms and...his thighs.

Practically salivating at his sculpted body, you hear him chuckle a little before saying, “You like what you see?”

Confidence and heat now pumping through your veins, you got on your knees before slowly wiggling out of your skirt, giving him a show of your wet, laced underwear.

“Do you like what you see,” you questioned as you propped your hands on his shoulders.

“Yes, very much,” he smugly said.

Tobio and you were now heavily locking lips. All the while, two of his cold rough fingers slipped through your underwear, being slicked up by your wet arousal.

“Ahh...Tobio, please….I need you….inside,” your breathily moaned.

Grunting at your plea, he quickly ripped off your underwear so that you both can clearly see the pool of your arousal staining it in the center.

Shoulders pushed down on the comforter, you gazed up at the lusted blue eyes. You both were panting and gleams of sweat could be seen glistening from the moon’s light.

“Do you still want to,” Tobio asked again, with more seriousness than ever.

“Yes, I want you Tobio,” as you pushed back his bangs that were dangling above you.

Smiling at your response, he locked lips with you again. This time with so much love and passion knowing that you guys can finally be together after so many agonizing years.

Distracted with his lips, Tobio used his hand to guide himself at your entrance. Feeling the tip, you both looked at each other one last time for approval before you gave him a nod. In your quiet room, you can hear the sound of your arousal gliding his cock inside you while Tobio huffed into the crook of your neck. Grabbing his shoulders and shutting your eyes, you can feel the girth of him widen you more and more, “T-tobio you’re,” your moan was caught in your throat, “so--” that’s when you felt the tip poking at your cervix, “...b-big”

Hearing your confession, you can feel the smirk grow on his face. But then you hear him let out a strangled grunt, “And you’re,” he grunts again, “shit...too t-tight…”

As you adjusted, Tobio used everything in him to stay still at your fluttering walls. You signaled him by nodding your head that you’re ready.

Tobio started at a slow pace, which slightly burned, that is until pain turned into heated neediness. Whimpering for Tobio to “go faster” the room was filled with your hitched wining and his hot panting on your collarbone. Your walls constricted around him, making you feel every vein and curve of his. The soft patting of the bed and wall only increased with Tobio’s need to hear more of your voice.

So he took one of your breasts into his mouth and started flicking his tongue on it. The other hand which was gripping your hip was traveling down south. Through your folds, his thumb met with your sensitive nub. He began to make figure eights resulting in a rush of pleasure go through you. Shivering at it, Tobio’s tongue stopped for a second. He felt you tightening around him, making him release a deep throaty moan, “Anghh, Y-YN…”

Hearing his panting and increased pounding against your tightening muscles, you gripped his shoulders and arched your back when Tobio gave an extra hard thrust making you feel it all over the inside of your pelvis.

“Nghh, I’m gonna---” you moaned until you hitched your breath because Tobio began pressing harder figure eights against your nub and he started to suck to bruise the junction of your shoulder again.

“I-I know, baby, just,” he let out a hot release of breath when you thrusted up to meet your needs.

“Tobio, I-ahh…!,” you couldn’t finish your sentence because Tobio used both his hands to lift your waist against him. Unfazed by his own need to have you released first, his dick was able to reach inside you in new depths you never thought were there.

“I need you to cum first, princess,” he grunted as he brought you to him in a new angle.

With his bruising grip at your sides, your hands clawed and clenched at your sheets. You needed something to ground you as Tobio kept railing into you. The sound of skin slapping against each other and the feeling of your breast moving in rhythm of his thrusts pushed you at the edge.

“I can feel you almost s-snapping YN,” Tobio looked down at you, sweat shining on his forehead. With his shit-eating grin he continued, “Princess, I need you--ngh-- to cum now…”

At this, everything just broke inside you. Your body released everything that was pent up resulting in a shake go up your spine. On Tobio’s end, you had a death-grip on him, your walls were so tight and were milking him of his impending orgasim. Your walls pulsing in waves. No longer able to hold it, Tobio released a guttural moan while leaning forward, as his warm cum splattered your walls white. Still riding out both your highs, you guys caught your breaths.

Sitting back up on his heels, Tobio slowly pulled out from you. You wincing and clenching at the emptiness, and him hissing at the loss of warmth. Looking down at your womanhood, Tobio smirks in pride of seeing both your cum leaking out. Proudly, he used two fingers to slide the liquid up from the bottom of your fold, back into your abused hole.

“Angh! Tobio!” You shouted at him from oversensitivity. He only chuckled at your reaction and leaned forward. He plopped right next to you and brought you up against his broad bare chest.

He kissed the crown of your head. After a few moments of basking in silence you asked,

“So does this mean we’re dating?” cheekily tilting your head up to him.

He scoffed at your question before he looked away with a tint of a blush, “G-go to sleep already.”

You giggle at his reaction knowing well enough what he meant. “I love you too, Tobio,” you said before shutting your eyes.

Before you fell into a deep sleep you remember his dark-blue eyes gazing at you.

He quietly said, “I love you too, dummy,” as he stroked the hair of your now sleeping form.

tag: @sugawalmartwobble @gulfwanq

#this is utter filth #and my first smut so excuse the lack of quality #kageyama tobio x reader #ushijima wakatoshi #kageyama x reader #haikyuu #smut #haikyuu smut

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icanshouyoutheworld · 3 years

Text

Bakugou x fem!reader // ch.1

This is a style of fanfic I'm experimenting with - please let me know if you want more! Also, my inbox is open for haikyuu and bhna requests!

It’s been years since you’ve seen either Bakugou or Midoriya. You can’t help but think of them now, as you pedal down the street towards U.A. It’s your first day of school, having gotten in through recommendation, and a roiling mix of excitement and nerves rolls through your stomach.

You bet Bakugou will be there. At U.A, you mean. Back when you were all kids it’s all he went on about, wanting to be a hero, wanting to be the next All Might. Which, really, would have been all well and good if he wasn’t such a bastard to everyone he met. To Midoriya, in particular. You can clearly remember, even now, the way he’d kept himself on a pedestal above Midoriya at all times. Never taking an offered hand, never stopping to consider the weight of his actions and the damage they left behind.

You’d lost contact with the both of them during middle school after having moved away. It was only to the next city over, but it was far enough that you’d had to go to a different middle school. At first you’d kept contact with the both of them, willingly with Midoriya and grudgingly with Bakugou. You’d tried to put the two of them in a group chat with you but Bakugou wouldn’t have it and left immediately. Not long after that, you completely lost contact with him.

You always wondered how he was doing, but you weren’t sure if it was out of nostalgia for times-gone-by or genuine concern. Either way, Midoriya hadn’t ever really said more than the standard kacchan is doing just fine!! and not long after that you lost contact with him, too. You later heard from a friend who knew people at their middle school that Bakugou had broken Midoriya’s phone and, though you didn’t believe that the boy who kept a note of everything hadn’t thought to take a note of your phone number, you didn’t push it and eventually let it go.

That’s just how life goes really, people come and go.

Until now anyways.

You’re almost certain that Bakugou is somewhere beyond the giant, gleaming doors to the entrance of U.A.

You release a slow breath; nervous but unable to fight the wide smile.

You’re finally here, afterall. After dreaming about U.A for so many years, dreaming of entering the hero course, you were finally about to live the reality.

By the time you’ve made it to the sliding door of 1-A your heart is thudding in your chest. From the stairs or from the apprehension? You don’t really know. You’re not sure you care, either. The elation of actually being here trumps everything else.

“I can do this,” you murmur under your breath. You place a hand over your chest, above your heart, feeling it pound and channelling that fear into excitement. I’ve got this, you think. I can do this.

You curl your fingers into the handle and slide the door open.

Bakugou is there. You were right.

But thinking he was going to be there is one thing, actually seeing him is something else entirely.

He looks exactly how you remember him. Older, sure, but he’s exactly the same.

Your stomach bottoms out, your throat goes dry. You don’t know what to think, what to feel. You know you should be pissed off. Pissed off for how he treated Midoriya over the years, pissed off for how he refused to keep in contact with you.

But you aren’t. If anything, you’re a little taken off-guard by how good-looking he is.

As soon as the thought registers in your mind, Bakugou’s eyes meet yours.

They’re a burning red, and the intensity of his stare startles you for a second. A tall boy with glasses is lecturing him, clearly unperturbed by the fact that Bakugou is no longer paying him any attention and continuing to rant about Bakugou’s obviously-unchanged bad attitude.

Bakugo is sitting leaned back in his seat, his right leg thrown haphazardly up onto his desk, his hands stuffed low in his trouser pockets. He isn’t wearing a tie, his shirt is untucked and unbuttoned at the top, looking the absolute picture of disobedience.

Though, you can’t help the way that your eyes are drawn to the rounded points of his collarbones that are framed in the V of his open collar.

Bakugou still hasn’t spoken, neither have you. The students in the room continue talking, the world continues spinning, but you and Bakugou are frozen.

He slowly lowers his leg off the table, leans forwards and opens his mouth as though to say something but is immediately cut off.

“y/n?” A voice says behind you. You jolt in surprise, not having expected anyone to come up behind you, and the voice immediately registers. It’s deeper than you remember, but there’s no mistaking it.

“Midoriya?” You say, with all the incredulity you were trying desperately not to show. You definitely hadn’t expected Midoriya to be here. He didn’t even have a quirk! Unless… unless, he’d lied to you? But… No. Midoriya wouldn’t lie to you like that, would he?

“Deku?” Clearly you weren’t the only one in shock. “How the fuck did you get in?” Katsuki yells, his voice as gruff as it is in your memories of him.

“I-” Midoriya starts. Bakugou’s desk squeals across the floor as he stomps to his feet and shoves it away in a burst of power. Whatever haze of surprise had come over his face when he saw you was long-gone now, replaced by blazing fury and gritted teeth. The skin between his eyebrows pinches as he furrows them in anger. Midoriya squeaks as Bakugou grabs him by the front of his shirt.

“You don’t even have a fucking quirk, stupid Deku!” Bakugou growls.

“Y-yes, I do!” Midoriya shouts back, standing his ground despite the tremor in his hands and unsteadiness of his voice. “You saw it!”

“You-”

“I earned this!” Midoriya continues, cutting Bakugou off. “I can become a hero!”

Bakugou sucks in a sharp breath, up close you don’t miss the flash of hurt across his face. He feels betrayed, you realise. The same as you do. You don’t hate Midoriya for it, you don’t even know what his quirk is. Maybe it just materialised late? But you can’t shake the uneasiness lodged in your gut.

“I see you haven’t changed one bit?” You snap at Bakugou, sucking your teeth with a sharp tut and yanking Bakugou’s arm from Midoriya’s uniform.

“What’s it to you, y/n?” Bakugou says sharply, shoving Midoriya away with a deft movement just to show he can. Midoriya stumbles back into the corridor for a moment, before righting himself and sheepishly fixing his clothing.

“Ah, right. So you do remember me, then? I was beginning to think you’d forgotten.” You cross your arms over your chest and glare at Bakugou. Though, on the other side of the corridor sunlight is catching the swirling motes of dust, making them glitter the sort of gold that seems to set them on fire. Bakugou’s hair is caught in the light, in the gold, fly-away strands of his already unruly spikes glowing with it. It’s distracting, for a second you half-forget you’re meant to be angry.

“Ah! You got in! I knew you would!” A girl has come up behind them, her bag bouncing against her back as she jumps up and down, cheering for Midoriya. As frustrated as you are with him, you’re glad at least Midoriya seems to have made a decent friend.

With a loud huff, Bakugou turns away. He shoulder barges you, very obviously on purpose as he returns back to his seat but you don’t give him the satisfaction of stumbling to the side. He’ll need to try harder than that if he wants to get you off-balance. You’re nothing like the girl he treated like an underling when you were kids. Given the right opportunity, you were more than confident that you could kick his ass, knock him down a peg. God knows he needs it.

“This isn’t a place for socialising,” another voice drones from behind you and, really, you need to stop letting people creep up on you like this. First Midoriya, then his friend, and now… Ah. The teacher. Well. You can’t really fight with that.

Although, teacher may be a stretch. You recognise Aizawa immediately, even through the mess of black hair covering his face in mussed clumps from where he lays on his side in a bright yellow sleeping bag. He looks like some sort of overgrown larvae.

“This is the hero course,” he says flatly, pointedly sucking a pouch of juice empty for emphasis. “It’s taken you far too long to quiet down.” He slowly peels himself out of the sleeping bag and gets to his feet. “Time’s precious, you lot are wasting it.”

Aizawa pins you with a dry look and you hurry to take a seat. Which unfortunately turns out to be the one right behind Bakugou. All of the other’s are taken, though. Midoriya and his friend had rushed for a seat at the same time, and managed, somehow, to seat themselves before you.

Bakugou’s eyes follow you as you walk around him to your desk. His lips are pursed in a scowl, his nostrils flaring slightly as though he’s restraining himself from something. His shoulders bunch tensely as I sit behind him.

“I’m your homeroom teacher,” Aizawa continues. “It’s nice to meet you. Now, put your gym clothes on and head to the grounds.”

Bakugou’s back jolts with a scoff you don’t hear.

Then, he turns his head. His profile catches in the light, catches the red of his eyes, giving them a rich, liquid quality. A shadow accentuates his sharp jawline as he speaks.

“You’re going fucking down,” he threatens, not once breaking eye-contact.

You stand from your seat and, before you can even question where the confidence has come from, you slap his shoulder as you walk past him.

“You can try.” You wink.

#bakugou x you #bakugou x y/n #bakugou x fem!reader #bnha #mha #bnha fanfic #bakugou fanfiction #bakugou katsuki #mha fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #bnha imagines #mha imagines #bakugou imagine

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sargeantwoof · 3 years

Text

this is love, this is love

love between them is purple, like a fading bruise- purple, like the color of royalty. it is heady and weighty and thick, seeping into their pores and lingering in the insteps of each footprint they leave in the dirt.

it is light, too, though, the scent of smoke in their hair, the tiny tremors when they link their pinkies together, the way that they tap each other gently on the hip as they pass the other one in the hallways.

it feels real in a way nothing else has ever felt.

+++

jj wakes up one morning and takes in a breathe of wet air, her window had been open all night and a storm had blown in, and she knows that she is - she is - she is in love.

irrevocably.

she is in love.

+++

emily wakes up one morning, a morning only two away from jjs sudden awareness, and she realizes that she has been in love from the first moment she had spotted jjs eyes across the crowded BAU offices.

+++

spencer side-eyes them when they come into the office, on the day that emily has realized, his keen gaze just as revealing as their feelings. he says nothing, but he knows and is all the more terrifying for it.

penelope somehow knows as well, yet her awareness flickers like fire light across their skin. she pats emily on the hand as she passes by, sweeps jj up into one of her back breaking hugs, and meanders from the room, pausing once in the doorway to look back at the two of them.

'she's good at keeping secrets?' jj offers, her hands on her hips in a way emily of the future will associate with lies and surprises, two fists planted into the stronghold that is jj.

'no she's not,' emily says, her eyes on penelope's back as she trots down the hallway to her office. her voice is fond and her face is calm and jj relaxes, the last of her tension sliding from her shoulders as if it had never been there.

'no, she not.' jj agrees. her hair almost shimmers in the lights as she tilts her head down to glance at a folder on emily's desk and emily loves her so fiercely in the moment that she cannot breathe, the emotion catching in her chest and rising in her throat. jj says nothing when she catches emily's gaze, twining their pinkies together for a beat before she heads to her desk.

emily watches for a moment before she spins back to her desk, almost flinching at spencer whose perched across from her.

he points at her, his voice pitched low. 'i'm happy for you,' he says simply. she blinks at him but he rises, contentment clear in the lines of his body. 'some of us chase your ideal for decades,' he says abruptly before turning back to his desk and resuming work.

she blinks after him again but does nothing, following his example and returning to her work.

+++

it takes derek three months and twenty seven days to figure out that jj and emily are sleeping together and an additional twelve days to figure out they're serious.

when he finds out penelope knew the entire time, he scrunches up his face so strangely and goes off on the most ridiculous tangent in the middle of asking penelope for information about a case, that emily laughs herself sick and spends the rest of the day hiccupping.

+++

aaron finds out the day emily makes jj her emergency contact, which she quietly does the tuesday after they move in together.

jj had done it two months before and emily had assumed that aaron had made the connection but, well, he had not.

she is fumbling her way through an explanation, which is going unbelievably poorly because she loses her head when jj is involved- even - especially - in thoughts, when she decides to fuck it.

'i'm asking her to marry me,' emily says, very quickly and quietly, snapping out the words like they would've hurt her had they stayed contained any longer.

aaron pauses in where he's rifling through papers, lifting his face up to meet emily's. she freezes, wincing once before smoothing out her face. she stares at him, her gaze unreadable, her nerves hidden completely behind her façade. he nods once, slowly, setting the papers he had separated out back on top of the stack and reaching down into his second drawer.

emily has to stop herself from craning her neck to see what he's grabbing, forcing herself to stay completely still, nonchalance oozing out from every pore. he blinks at her, setting a folder down in front of her. 'i had hoped it was serious,' aaron says, his eyes the kindest she's ever seen. 'i'm happy for you.'

+++

dave greets her with a kiss on the cheek and a bottle of expensive whiskey and she figures they're fine.

he was never one to force himself into personal things.

when she leaves and gives him a hug, he doesn't mention the tear tracks on her cheeks when she pulls away and she doesn’t mention the way he had clung as tight as he could to her.

+++

jj has felt people die before, she has been in car chases, in shootouts, in knife fights, and hostage situations.

she had never been in love until she suddenly was and it was everything. it is everything.

she orbits emily and emily orbits her, the two of them in their own unique solar system, keeping each other steady, reliable to a fault, their gravity, their selves, anchored to the other, spinning slowly onwards for eternity, each rotation a tug closer until they were almost merged-

+++

jj smiled at emily, the first monday of the third month they had worked together and realized, with a sinking heart, that she knew the tension in her stomach, that she knew the smile unfurled on her face, that she knew, she knew, she- it- more, more was happening.

she left the room, headed to her office, and quietly had a panicked moment before penelope arrived, her familiar gait a balm on jj's wrecked emotions.

'oh,' penelope said, her face open and kind, carrying jj's favorite cup of coffee in her right hand and a case file in her left. 'are you okay?'

jj shook her head, her face suddenly wet in the kindness of penelope. 'i- i- i don't know,' she finished weakly, nodding at penelope when she goes to shut the door. 'i just realized something, and it was startling.'

penelope clucked her tongue, her tone sympathetic. 'is it that you are falling for emily?' she asked bluntly, grinning slightly at the shocked face and punched out noise jj made. penelope nodded sagely, sighing. 'i fucking knew it.' jj frowned and penelope rushed to reassure her. 'i only figured out because i have nothing better to do than watch you people track down unsubs,' she said, holding up her hands.

jj sighed, 'this is crazy right? emily- she- she doesn't even like me like that.'

penelope shrugged. 'i can't tell you anything concrete but-' she glanced around, lowering her voice. 'when you aren't looking, she's looking back.'

+++

aaron narrows his eyes at her, their piercing weight heavy on her face. she shifts in her chair, aware of the secrets she gives away to a profile and doing it anyways. she trusts aaron and she knows that she's not doing anything wrong - it's unusual yes - but not illegal.

'and you want emily, emily prentiss, to be your emergency contact?' he says slowly, waiting for her to dip her head. jj nods, her gaze equally as serious. aaron sighs once, a furrow between his brows. 'fine,' he says, handing her a folder with the papers she needs in it. 'fill these out and give them to me tomorrow,' he says.

jj nods again, her face flushing slightly but rises. she refuses to break their strange ebb and flow by speaking, instead leaving the room in silence to slap the folder down on her desk and raise her eyebrows at emily, a grin making its way across her face at the sight of the other woman already on her way over to her.

+++

jj thinks, sometimes, that out of everyone on the team, of course, it had to be spencer who walked in on them kissing in the archives instead of getting their shit and leaving.

emily had backed her up against the racks, slotted herself between jj's legs, like she belonged there and jj like it, liked it more than she had liked anything anyone else had done, had been awash in the sensations of being so utterly into someone, had been awash in emily, that she had forgotten she was at work.

she had forgotten that she was at work, had forgotten that even though it was 1 am, that others were in the office, and so, when the door had creaked open, she had barely reacted until spencer had cleared his throat and gone, 'oh, i didn't realize this room was occupied by - jj?'

jj had pulled back and peeked over emily's shoulder, locking eyes with spencer who was staring at her.

'i'm gonna go,' emily said softly, pressing an absentminded kiss to jj's shoulder before she turned, sliding past spencer who kept his gaze firmly on jj's, even as the door shut behind emily.

jj held up her hands. 'spence,' she said. 'i don't know what to say.'

spencer blinked at her, hurt swirling in his eyes. 'did you think you wouldn't be able to tell me?' he asked. 'do i give off weird homophobic vibes?'

'what?' jj said, every thought in her head coming to a hard stop. 'no!'

'then why didn't you tell me?' spencer asked, before frowning harder. 'wait, no, this is about you.' he blinked once at her, softening his countenance before her eyes. 'are you happy?' he asked quietly, his face serious.

jj nodded, smiling softly at him. he breathed in once, the air catching in his throat before he nodded. 'i'm happy for you,' he said simply and opened his arms, welcoming her into his familiar circle of warmth. she grinned at him before surging forward burrowing herself into him. he sighed in return, clutching her tightly to himself.

'i'm happy,' jj confessed, her voice low and quiet. 'so happy.' spencer hummed in response, the sound warm and soothing and jj relaxed, the tension she had been carrying relaxing in his easy acceptance.

+++

jj watches emily. emily watches jj.

they revolve around each other, anchored in the other's skin, threaded through their hair, loved deep in the marrow of their bones.

it was never a question, just an expectation of when the dam would burst, when it would rise to the surface until it was all the other could see, echoing in every little thing, i love you, i love you, i love you, i love you.

#Criminal Minds #JJ #emily prentiss #jemily #spencer reid #penelope garcia #david rossi #aaron hotchner #derek morgan #fanfic #sargeantwoof #falling in love #found family #friendship #spencer reid & jj #jennifer jj jareau #ao3fic

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maria-scribbles · 4 years

Text

glitter + crimson (let’s start a riot)//part two

summary: the pogues get up to a few shenanigans, burn the shit out of some marshmallows, and have a group hug of epic proportions. the dynamic duo of kiara and sailor brings out girl power in full force before getting real about a certain golden group rule.

word count: 4.2k+

ship: jj maybank x oc (sailor flynn)

warnings: mentions of abuse/neglect/parental abandonment/anxiety, underage drinking, weed usage, more fluff, flirting, reference to absolute legend kobe bryant

a/n: hello again! thank you all for the great response to part one, i’m seriously blown away and so grateful for your support! <3 i’m happy y’all enjoyed reading about sailor’s adventures with the pogues! here’s part two, which had previously been combined with part one but i decided to split it because it was getting wayyyy too long (over 8k words, oops). also i’ve never even seen weed with my own two eyes before so my bad if that part’s not realistic, i did my best lol. unbetaed, so i apologize for any mistakes. enjoy!

gif credit goes to @toesure

~Masterlist~

part one | part three | part four | playlist

part two: treading water

The pogues spend the next few hours among the waves, surfing their hearts out until they’re waterlogged, exhausted, and hungry. As the sun starts to sink over the island they pile into John B’s beat up Volkswagen, all their boards tied together on the roof, and head to The Wreck, where Kiara’s dad begrudgingly feeds his daughter and her ‘delinquent’ friends.

That word seems pretty harsh at first but as the evening goes on and the group gets a little louder, it’s kind of well-deserved. Pope can’t seem to stop dropping his fork, sending the rest of them into hysterical laughter each time, and everyone knows when Taylor Swift comes on the radio, Sailor has an obligation to get up and dance. The fact that she knocks a chair over in her haste to show off her moves only makes them laugh harder. When they finally leave and head back to the Chateau for the night, she makes sure to put forty bucks on their table for the food and the twelve pack of beer Kiara swipes from behind the bar when Mr. Carrera isn’t looking.

While it may not look like much, John B’s house if home for more than just him. It’s a safe port for all the pogues when they get lost in the storm, a place where they can all be themselves, be real, without judgement, and it’s Sailor’s second favorite place on the island. She’s lost count of how many nights she’s spent here, sleeping in the spare room, on the pull-out couch, and the hammock in the yard (sleepovers have become even more common in the eight months since Big John’s disappearance at sea, no one willing to leave his son all alone in an empty house.).

The hammock is where she finds herself now on this warm June night, sitting beside JJ with his arm around her shoulders, clad in his sweatshirt that she unashamedly stole last year, passing a joint back and forth while the others lounge around the small bonfire, roasting the old marshmallows John B found in the very back of one of his kitchen’s cupboards and drinking beer. One of her long legs dangles over the edge, toes pushing against the cool grass as they lazily swing back and forth, watching Kiara burn her third marshmallow in a row.

“Kie, what did those poor things ever do to you?” Sailor asks, exhaling smoke through her nose before passing the joint to JJ, and the brush of his fingers against hers sends warmth through her whole body. Kiara just shoots her the bird in response as she stabs her fourth marshmallow and holds it over the fire. The redhead laughs and rests her head against JJ’s shoulder, her limbs light as air. In the distance, lightning arcs between the clouds and creates a dazzling show over the water as thunder rumbles but none of them care enough to notice.

Although she never outright asks to smoke, she also never refuses the chance to get high with her best friend and let their problems drift away with every hit, if only for a little while. Lines get a little blurry between them, too, as both become oh so affectionate with each other when their inhibitions disappear like the sun over the horizon. She sighs contentedly at the blissful feeling of his fingers running through her hair and burrows further into his side, turning so she can throw an arm over his waist and curl her own fingers into the soft material of his shirt.

“Damn it!” John B yells as his marshmallow, in the span of a few seconds, catches fire and unceremoniously falls into the flames with a hiss.

“Ha, I’m not the only one on the struggle bus!” Kiara laughs gleefully, delicately turning her fourth attempt to keep it from burning like the other three. “We can’t all be Pope, I guess.”

The other boy looks up at the mention of his name and grins, holding out a perfectly toasted marshmallow on the end of the stick in his hand. “It takes talent, Kie.” He jokes, chuckling as she sticks her tongue out at him.

Sailor can’t help laughing, too when the two of them dive headfirst into a heated discussion about the finer points of roasting things over a campfire, their voices becoming louder and louder as they try to talk over one another while John B, unfazed from his spot between them, just holds another marshmallow over the fire and ignores them completely as he takes a sip of his beer.

“Aaaand JB’s totally checked out of that particular conversation,” She says to JJ under her breath and she feels more than hears him laugh in response.

“Poor bastard,” He whispers back before taking one last hit of the joint, now burnt down to a nub in his hand, and flicking it into the fire with a shout of “Kobe!”

“Nice one, hotshot.” She shifts her head up on his shoulder as her eyes unabashedly trace his profile in the warm orange glow of the fire, from the golden hair falling haphazardly onto his forehead and down the straight slope of his nose to the curve of his lips before she’s caught -not that she was being subtle in any possible way-, his ocean blue gaze holding hers with an electrified energy that would’ve normally set her whole face aflame. She’s not Normal Sailor now though, she’s High Sailor and High Sailor has positively zero shame so she just looks up at him with a saccharine smile on her face and blesses the fact that weed makes her bold as hell.

The flickering flames throw JJ’s features into sharp relief and highlight the dimples that she loves as he returns her smile, the hand in her hair now twirling a single curl around his finger. His free hand settles on the strip of bare skin at her waist where her sweatshirt has ridden up and her heart beats a little faster when he starts drawing agonizingly slow circles with his thumb. Her hand releases its grip on his shirt and before she even realizes it, she’s reaching up and brushing a finger along her jaw, just like he’d done to her that afternoon on the beach, and she feels the fingers at her waist press against her skin.

It’s moments like these that make her wish she could freeze time and live in them forever. Just the two of them, looking at each other like they’re more than just friends, touching each other like they’re falling into something beautiful and all they need to do is stick the landing. The possibility of taking that final leap teases her. He’s so close, it wouldn’t take much to just reach up and make that minuscule distance between them disappear and from the way his eyes flick down to her mouth and back, she’s sure he’s thinking the same. They won’t though and for now that’s okay, but deep down she wonders just how long they can balance on the cliff’s edge before they both fall.

As much as she’d like to stare at his stupidly handsome face all night, the weather has other plans as lightning flashes white across the sky, immediately followed by a big crack of thunder that makes Sailor jump and accidentally headbutt JJ right in the forehead. The stick in Pope’s hand goes flying somewhere into the bushes when he startles, too, and there’s a pause as everyone looks at each other before bursting into wild laughter.

“Jesus, Sail,” JJ says, reaching up to rub at the spot she hit, “you have a hard head.”

Her reply of “speak for yourself!” is drowned out by another clap of thunder and seconds later it starts pouring rain, sending the group scrambling to head back inside the Chateau before they get too drenched. The duo, in their haste, get tangled together in the hammock and nearly fall to the ground in a heap but manage to hold each other up with their hands clasped tight, both laughing so hard she’s sure the water on their faces is more than just rain.

“The beer! Don’t forget the beer!” Someone yells and John B, halfway to the porch in front of them, does a smooth 180 on the wet grass and runs back for the booze sitting beside the dying fire, sending them a lazy salute when he passes by.

“We honor your sacrifice, Captain!” JJ calls over his shoulder before they clamber onto the porch alongside a giggling Kiara.

“Oh my God, you two almost bit it so hard.” She says while wringing out her shirt, adding to the steadily growing puddle of water at their feet.

“But we didn’t, all thanks to me and my impeccable balance.” He says proudly, grinning down at the girl still snug against his side before she lets go of his hand to slug him in the shoulder.

“Ow, what was that for?”

“Oh please, J, I was the one who kept you from falling on your face. Now, hold still.” Sailor orders and places her hand on his arm, using him for balance as she brushes the grass from her feet.

“Yes, ma’am.” His reply is low in her ear, his hand settles even lower on her back, and she pretends the shiver her body makes is just from the cool rain.

“You like being bossed around, Maybank?”

Her hand grips his strong shoulder a little bit tighter, and she feels his fingers tighten on her sweatshirt as he replies, “Depends on who’s doing the bossing, Flynn.”

Kiara coughs pointedly, staring at them with her eyebrows raised and Sailor feels her face begin to flush bright red because, to be honest, she’d kind of forgotten she was even there as they both let go of each other. The other girl snickers and drawls, “If you two are quite done-”

Thankfully, a thoroughly soaked John B joins them and interrupts whatever Kiara was going to say, his hair plastered to his face and dripping onto the soggy carton of beer protectively cradled in his arms.

“Mission accomplished.” He says with a satisfied smile, setting the drinks down on a chair before shaking his head like a dog and splattering rainwater on everyone, including Pope as he emerges from the house carrying a pile of towels. A few drops land on his cheek and he wrinkles his nose in disgust, wiping them away with his own towel hanging around his neck.

“I was just kidding about the beer.” He says, throwing one and smacking John B right in the face, then kindly passing out the rest. Sailor barely grabs the last one before Pope’s suddenly put in a headlock by the brunet boy, yelling something about mutiny and a captain “not standing for this” as they start to grapple back and forth. JJ pauses in the middle of drying his hair and instantly jumps into the fray after tossing his towel to the floor, the scuffle quickly turning into a three way wrestling match.

She and Kiara both glance at each other and roll their eyes before scooting by the melee and heading into the house, leaving the boys to do their thing. They quickly dry off and change into pajamas, hang their wet clothes up to dry in the bathroom, and then tiredly flop onto the bed in the spare room together.

“How long do you think it’ll take until Wrestlemania out there’s done?” Sailor asks, rolling onto her stomach and reaching to pull her phone and glasses out of her bag on the floor; under her newly acquired hat, the lightning whelk peeks through its towel and the sight of it makes her smile softly. Kiara snorts and sits up, crossing her legs and running her fingers through her damp hair. “Knowing those fools, too long.”

The redhead laughs and mirrors the other girl’s position before slipping her glasses on and glancing down at her phone in trepidation, where no new texts block the lock screen picture of her and the rest of the pogues, and she does her best to ignore the hurt coiling in her chest, the smile fading from her face. She places the phone screen down on the bedside table and when she raises her head, she’s not surprised to find Kiara, ever so perceptive, staring at her with sympathy in her soft brown eyes.

“You okay?” She asks and Sailor takes off her glasses, then pulls her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around them.

“Could be better.”

Lightning illuminates the room, followed by an impressive crack of thunder a few seconds later as rain continues to pound against the window and down the hall, they hear the door slam closed as the boys finally storm inside after their scuffle, still yelling like banshees. The other girl reaches over and quickly squeezes her wrist before shooting her a bright smile.

“If you ever need to vent, I’m all ears.”

She knows she means it. Aside from JJ, Kiara’s her closest friend and from the moment they met, the two had quickly bonded over being the only girls in the group and their love of the environment: she’s lost count of how many times they’ve volunteered, both themselves and the rest of the pogues, to help raise money for animals. Despite Kiara’s kook year, Sailor considers her a sister and knows that Kie feels the same about her. Having each other’s backs no matter what is just what they do.

The redhead looks away from watching the storm outside and matches Kiara’s smile, then scoots closer to wrap her arms around her in a grateful hug.

“Thanks, Kie.”

The dark haired girl eagerly returns the embrace. “Any-”

“Comin’ through, gotta get me some of this group hug action!” JJ yells, storming into the room like a hurricane and throwing his arms around them, all but tackling them onto the bed before they even realize what’s happening.

“No, no, you’re still wet!” Sailor cries as his head rests against the back of her neck, his damp hair slowly beginning to soak into her shirt while Kiara growls, “Oh my God, get off!”

“And miss out on this? No way.” He says cheekily and pulls them both closer, ignoring the dark haired girl’s venomous glare and attempts to pry his hand away from her arm. Sailor, resigned to her fate, just laughs and calls over his arm to John B and Pope as they curiously poke their heads in from the hall, “Get your asses in here!”

She doesn’t have to tell them twice. They throw themselves into the hug faster than she can blink and with such contagious enthusiasm that Kiara can’t fight the affectionate grin making its way onto her face, even as she threatens, “I’m gonna kill all of you.”

Sailor rests her cheek on JJ’s outstretched arm and smiles to herself. This, right here and now, is where she belongs, surrounded by the best friends she could ask for, living each moment to its fullest. No matter what comes their way, she knows this is true: as long as they all stand together, the pogues will be just fine.

Some time later, the hug comes to an end as JJ jokingly complains about Sailor’s big head making his arm numb, which earns him a swift elbow to the stomach from the redhead.

“Weak.” She replies, smirking at the little oof he makes before grabbing his arm and pulling them both up from the bed. “Now get out.”

“Please.” Kiara agrees and pushes John B out the door, followed by Pope. “This room is girls only.”

“Since when?” The latter asks, sidestepping to avoid JJ as he’s playfully shoved into the hall by Sailor, who replies, “Right now.”

“Why?”

“’Cause we said so!” Both girls say in unison before they slam the door shut and then lean their backs against it, giggling. On the other side, they hear Pope ask in a very amused voice, “I thought this was your house?”

John B sighs the deepest sigh they’ve ever heard before replying, “Yeah, I did, too.”

“Ten bucks they’re gonna talk shit about us.” JJ says and there’s a not so subtle bump against the door that gives away the fact that he’s got his ear pressed to it, trying to listen in on them; a fact that gets proven when Sailor smacks her hand on it and makes him stumble back with a yelp of surprise.

“Dream on!”

“You wish!”

She and Kiara call at the same time, then glance at each other and burst into another fit of giggles.

“Tough break, dude. You’ll feel better in the morning.” That was John B’s tactless way of saying he’s tired without actually saying it and seconds later they hear his footsteps disappear down the hall to his room as he makes his escape, followed faintly by the sound of his door swinging shut.

“You don’t talk about us at all, Sail? Seriously?” JJ asks and Sailor can almost feel the sheer force of Pope’s inevitable eye roll when he mumbles under his breath, “Oh my God.”

Kiara’s on the same wavelength as him because she rolls her eyes, too and all but yells, “If we say yes will you fucking leave?”

There’s a pause and then: a slightly miffed “...yes.” along with Pope trying and failing to disguise his laugh as a cough.

“Then yes, we do talk about you. Now go.”

“Okay, okay! Jeez.”

“Goodnight, boys!” Sailor calls in a singsong voice before hearing them retreat to the living room, arguing about who gets the sleeper sofa and who gets stuck with the regular couch. When she’s sure they’re gone she shakes her head fondly (she doesn’t see why they can’t just get over themselves and share the damn thing) and turns back to Kiara, who’s already in the middle of pulling the damp comforter from the bed, her face the picture of disgust.

“Ugh,” She shudders, tossing it to the floor and then wiping her hands on a discarded towel from earlier. “Don’t touch that.”

“No shit.”

The dark haired girl jokingly flips Sailor the bird and then joins her in lounging on the bed, watching the fan spin in circles above their heads while the storm outside continues to rage on. The silence is comforting, soothing, and goes on for so long that the redhead’s nearly sent off to dreamland by the sound of the rain before Kiara finally speaks, “Hey, Sail?”

She hums in response, slowly turning her head to face her and blinking the sleep out of her eyes.

“Can I ask you something?”

“You just did.” She replies with an impish grin, but it slips from her face when the other girl shoots her a flat, unamused glance.

“Ha ha. I’m being serious, okay?”

Well that wasn’t worrying at all. “Is something wrong?” Sailor asks, rolling onto her side to face her friend completely and propping her head on her arm, all traces of lethargy thrown out the window. Kiara does the same with an unreadable look in her eyes as she answers, “No, I’m just a little...okay, a lot curious about something, and I want you to be honest with me.”

“I mean, I kind of have to. You know I suck at lying.”

She frowns when Kiara doesn’t even react to her comment and instead starts to worry her bottom lip between her teeth. “It’s kind of a personal question, though.”

Oh, Jesus. She’s gonna ask about her dad, Sailor knows it, and that’s something she’s just not ready to talk about -she hasn’t even told JJ the whole story yet and she tells him (almost) everything- but before she can think of a semi-decent excuse, or run to the bathroom, or pretend to just pass the fuck out, Kiara blurts, “What’s the deal between you and JJ?”

Okay, that’s decidedly not what she expected to hear and it completely throws her for a loop, her brain blowing a fuse in epic fashion. A long stream of gibberish comes from her mouth as she tries and fails to articulate a response because holy hell she’s so not prepared for this; she’s a listener, not a talker! She’s the confidante not the confider, the asker not the answerer, and she can feel herself getting a little sweaty at just the thought of talking about her feelings, even with someone as close to her as Kiara. She almost wishes the other girl had asked about her dad.

To be honest she should’ve seen this coming, considering the looks Kiara’s been sending her recently and especially today, the ones that clearly meant that the dark haired girl’s seen what’s been happening and wants. that. tea. What Sailor doesn’t get though, is why she’s being so serious about it: she expects at least an overexaggerated wink or a teasing comment or two from her friend but she’s just waiting patiently, the slightest hint of mirth in her eyes.

Finally, the redhead manages to collect her panicked thoughts enough to squeak oh so eloquently, “Me-him-nothing!”

Kiara arches one eyebrow. “Sail, you really do suck at lying.”

Sailor flops back onto the bed and slides her hands down her furiously blushing face with a groan. “I’m not lying.” She mutters insistently but even she can admit it sounds weak as hell.

“It’s obvious there’s something-”

Something in her snaps and before she can stop them, words just start coming out with the force of a wave crashing against the shore, rough and callous. “It’s obvious there’s nothing going on, okay? Nothing. And even if there was -not that I’m saying there is- it can’t happen. That’s the golden rule, Kie.”

Kiara looks momentarily taken aback at the redhead’s outburst and then rolls onto her back, staring at the ceiling for a moment before she whispers quietly, like a secret she’s reluctant to share, “Maybe I think that rule is stupid.”

“Stupid?” Sailor glances over incredulously, the brief flash of anger aimed at her friend slowly morphing into confusion. “You’re the one who came up with it in the first place!”

“I know...” The dark haired girl sighs, tiredly running her hands through her hair, “I wanted to keep things from getting weird! It’s worked pretty well so far but I’m kind of, sort of, maybe starting to think it might not have been the best idea.”

“Why?” She asks, brow furrowing.

Kiara appears deep in thought as she keeps staring at the ceiling, working her jaw until she seems to come to a decision and turns her head to look Sailor in the eye. “Because I don’t think something as simple as a rule should be able to dictate who you can or can’t...love.”

Oh, God. Anxiety starts to take hold in her chest and she tries to keep her brain from going into five-alarm fire mode, her fingers tapping nervously against her leg. Why oh why did she have to say the L-word? Who said anything about that? Hell, it’s been a few months and she’s still getting used to her world-changing, panic-inducing, everything-clicking-into-place epiphany that made her realize that she does, in fact, like JJ as more than a friend (how and when her feelings changed, she hasn’t quite figured that out yet.). She’s not even close to thinking about love. Noticing her friend’s distress, Kiara reaches over to place her darker hand on the paler girl’s and gives it a reassuring squeeze.

“I’m not saying you love him, okay? But there’s obviously something good going on between you guys and I’m not cool with some dumb rule we made when we were twelve getting in the way of your happiness,” Her mouth curls into a lighthearted smirk, “even if it happens to be with someone as, uh, distinct as JJ.”

Despite herself, Sailor snorts a laugh and the tight feeling in her chest slowly starts to become a little more bearable as its replaced by a swell of gratitude that she has a person as wonderful as Kiara for a friend. She really did luck out in that department, she thinks, and the corner of her mouth lifts in a small smile.

“Distinct?”

“Hey, I was gonna say idiotic but I’m trying to be nice here.” The dark haired girl says, laughing as Sailor affectionately rolls her eyes before continuing, “But you do know that if he messes this up I’ll kick his ass, right?”

“Trust me, I do.”

“Good.” She punctuates that with a massive yawn, then rolls away from her and pulls the sheets higher over her chest, mumbling, “Now I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for bed. All this deep talk made me tired.”

“Big mood,” Sailor replies, reaching over and flicking off the bedside lamp, the only light now coming from the occasional flash of lightning through the windows as she rolls comfortably onto her side, tucking her arm under the pillow. Silence settles over them, dark and calm and stretching for who knows how long before she says quietly, “Thanks, Kie.”

There’s no answer. Realizing she must’ve already nodded off, the redhead’s just about to crash herself when her friend’s reply softly cuts through the silence like a knife.

“You’re not the only one I did it for.”

Kiara doesn’t say anything after that and Sailor falls asleep wondering what, or rather who, exactly the other girl meant.

let me know what you think!

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virtueangel · 4 years

Text

limitless.

chapter seven.

wc: 2,313. original publish date: october 12, 2020.

Four-thirty-five looks like every other freeway exit in all of America. JFK pushes firmly down on the brake as the car rolls up to the white line of the intersection. There is a green sign next to the road, and oddly enough, Marshtown is marked in metallic white lettering at the bottom. Printed next to the town name is a right-turn arrow, and even smaller next to that is the number five.

"Five miles," John F. Kennedy says, grinning.

Vincent can't help smiling either. He can still feel JFK's arms wrapped around his torso and the way his chin rested on the taller boy's shoulder. "We're getting close."

"Think it'll be worth it?" John asks, glancing at his passenger.

Van Gogh shrugs. "I sure hope so."

"We've spent all this time romanticising it..." Kennedy starts.

Both boys turn to each other, giddy smiles still plastered across their faces. "Wanna do it some more?" They say in unison, breaking out into boyish giggles afterward.

"God..." Vincent mutters.

"Hm?" John hums as the light turns green. He accelerates.

"I feel like we're little kids again," he says in a sad voice, but the smile is still taught across his lips and Kennedy doesn't know which look to meet his gaze with.

"We were pretty fucking awesome as kids," he tries.

This earns him a grin from Van Gogh. Score. "Yeah. I was cool back then."

John knocks his best friend's arm playfully. "You're still cool, Minivan."

Van Gogh covers his eyes with his hand, mock repulsion surfing the waves of his voice. "God, don't remind me of that nickname!"

"Hey! I might've meant to antagonise you back then, but I promise you: I've changed."

Vincent shakes his head, but he can't help smiling. His cheeks are starting to ache, but his happiness is genuine. "Oh, I know you have. That little five-year-old didn't know how to -- how do you put it? -- 'bang the sweeties'."

Kennedy laughs. "Oh, believe me -- he did."

The car goes silent as the sky fills with fog. It's thick and grey and the windows of the shiny red convertible are already starting to precipitate. Vincent zips his letterman jacket all the way up and tucks his chin into the collar, the cold already starting to set in. Even John has to admit that his knuckles clamp up and go a little white against the steering wheel.

"We must be getting close," Vincent says. The sky hadn't been blue for the earlier part of their drive by any means, but even the clouds that hung in the sky let the faintest bit of sunlight filter through. Now there is a dense blanket of moisture blocking the rays from view.

John goes quiet, suddenly wishing they'd planned the trip. He worries that he'll get in another fight with Van Gogh over where to sleep or how they'll keep themselves entertained in this town that they know next to nothing about. They aren't even sure if it has a marsh or not. But most of all, he fears that Vincent will get cold in the fog or the air will be too wet for him to draw. Part of the reason Kennedy had even vouched for this trip was so that the boy would have a lot of inspiration to paint or sketch or read or write, because above all, John loves his best friend's poetry. But he doesn't know how to tell the boy any of that.

Van Gogh looks across the car as Kennedy starts to drive more defensively, and his brow furrows; not in disgust, but in worry. He notices the boy's white knuckles and the way he grips the steering wheel like he's trying to strangle it. He reaches out and places a hand on his best friend's forearm, rubbing him through the sleeve of his jacket slowly and comfortingly.

"Hey, hey, what's wrong?"

John swallows. "Sorry. Nothing, sorry. Don't worry. I'm okay."

Van Gogh's worried gaze lingers. "Are you sure?"

Kennedy gives his best friend a smile and a nod, but the motion is only half convincing. Vincent sighs and turns away anyway, not sure if he's allowed to push.

A couple seconds of silence pass before Kennedy requests timidly, "Can you, uh, keep doing that? With your hand, on my arm? It feels kinda nice." He laughs at himself sheepishly.

Van Gogh smiles to himself and obliges, happy to keep touching the boy. Er, uh, that came out wrong! He thinks. I'm just doing a good thing for him. Just trying to calm him down. He banishes the first thought, convincing himself that this is an uncomplicated act of kindness that he's doing for his best friend. He'd do anything for Kennedy, right?

Vincent stops rubbing the boy's arm and squeezes instead. With a gasp, he points out the windshield. "John, look!"

In front of them is the Marshtown sign, a yellowish-beige rectangle with dark green trim and text. It's an ugly sign, Van Gogh has to admit; especially from an artist's perspective. It's dilapidated and sinking into the ground, parts of some of the letters missing and splintering. The population number has been knocked off but the word "population" itself is still intact. There is no "welcome" or cheesy slogan. The boys can barely see the road beyond the sign, because the fog seems to have thickened since entering the town.

"Vincent, it's-"

Both boys stare into the fog, jaws dropped and pupils dilated. They are at a loss for words and almost a loss for breath. The road turns into a bridge, and on either side is a marsh, wet and gooey with coarse grass shooting out of it in various locations. The cement is covered in puddles and John slows down the car to ten miles per hour, squinting to see through the fog.

Beyond the marsh is a town. Not much of one, but it's there nonetheless. Every building and house is falling apart -- some are burned down to the foundation, others are missing doors and windows and from what Van Gogh can see, some of them are without floors as well. There is a dense ring of pine trees around the houses and they seem to stretch forever, but then again, John and Vincent have limited vision due to the intrusive fog. Each house looks different, and not just the way they're destroyed; the floor plans are unique, with different finishes and dimensions.

To their left is a general store. It's more intact than most of the houses, but its door is hanging off the hinges and there's a gaping hole in the middle of the wooden stoop. There's a sign on the door, flipped to the "open" side. Van Gogh wonders if some teenager had come by to flip it in their day of mischief or if there's someone in this ghost town to manage the shop.

With all of its lichened and weathered wood, Marshtown looks like a summer camp location. Neither John nor Vincent had spent their summers shipped off into the arms of overenthusiastic counsellors to go swimming and hiking, but they've seen enough cliché coming-of-age movies to know what a good old fashioned American summer camp experience should look like.

"I love it," Van Gogh blurts, eyes fixed out the window.

Kennedy grins. "It's incredible."

Vincent turns away from the limited outside view to look at his best friend's side profile. "I want to live here."

John's smile widens. "Okay."

"No, I mean it."

"I know you do," he meets Vincent's glare. "I do too."

Both boys seem to realise at the same time that Van Gogh is still gripping the taller boy's arm, and he lowers his hand sheepishly without a word.

"Do you think anyone still lives here?"

JFK squints at the houses, looking for cars or intact doors. "No," he concludes.

Van Gogh smiles to himself. "So we've got the whole place to ourselves, huh?"

Kennedy's stomach somersaults and his breath catches in his throat, his jaw suddenly going slack. "It would appear so," he swallows.

Vincent doesn't seem to register the boy's off-kilter tone. "Ooh, you know what?"

"Hm?"

"We should locate the creepiest house and stay in it."

Kennedy chuckles. "Vincent, some of the houses don't even have roofs."

"Perfect for stargazing."

JFK laughs even harder. "We can barely see six feet ahead of us!"

"So we'll pretend. Make up our own constellations."

Kennedy and Van Gogh make eye contact, and the shorter boy's deep brown gaze burrows itself into JFK's soul. He feels it snaking around his heart and making its home in his stomach. His cheeks seem to smile themselves.

"Okay. I'll play along."

Van Gogh leans back in his seat, satisfied. His hands shake, and he can't tell if it's due to nervousness or excitement. They are, after all, the same emotion -- the only difference is how they're interpreted by the subconscious.

"Try that one," he says after a couple minutes, pointing to a two-story Spanish style house finished in yellow stucco. It stands out from all the other developments, and not just because of the material it's made out of. It's almost perfectly intact, complete with a bay window and a second-floor balcony. It has a few imperfections, probably due to lack of maintenance. There are deep cracks carved into the outer walls and the paint on the door is chipping. Some of the upstairs windows have shatters blossoming in them, fanning out across the glass like spiderwebs. Van Gogh knows this is the right place to stay.

Kennedy redirects the car off the road and into the driveway of the house. The lawn is splotchy and has more mud and puddles than grass. The plants that actually grow there are clearly invasive: coarse wheat-like sprouts and greying succulents. The succulents are definitely artificial -- Van Gogh knows nothing of the sort could prosper on marshland.

"Why this one?" Kennedy asks, just for the sake of conversation. He parks the car in the driveway and slides the keys out of the ignition. He unbuckles his seatbelt, but makes no move to exit the car. He sits back in his seat, moving his feet away from the pedals and turning his knees toward Van Gogh. The shorter boy unbuckles his seatbelt and turns his own knees toward the driver, his letterman jacket still zipped snugly up to his neck.

"Because it looks special."

"You can do better than that."

Vincent sighs and looks away from Kennedy, thinking about his answer and choosing words from his lexicon wisely. "It looks like a home and not just a house."

"But you don't know anything about it," JFK challenges, and he wonders if he's crossed the line into the asshole realm.

Van Gogh smiles, thankfully amused by the comment instead of annoyed. "Let me tell you something, John: when you're an artist, you start to look at everything like a piece of art. It kind of sucks sometimes. I can't read books without thinking about the edits I'd give to the author. It ruins the fun a little bit."

JFK reaches out, not quite sure what he's intending to do with his outstretched arm. He lays a palm on Vincent's shoulder awkwardly, guessing he's in too deep to retreat his arm without any contact at all. "But I like the way your artist brain works," he says, and it feels like an admission instead of a conversation volley.

Vincent smiles down at his lap, flattered. When he looks back up at Kennedy, he can see that his best friend's cheeks are pink. "I want to know this house's story," he adds.

Kennedy smiles affectionately, staring down at the boy with soft eyes. "So what are you waiting for?"

Vincent opens his car door, and immediately the thick fog wets his tongue. He opens his mouth, half expecting a snowflake to dance down from the sky and land in his mouth. But while it's dark and gloomy here in Marshtown, it isn't April winter like it is in Exclamation!. For a fraction of a second, he misses the city's name on his mind. He shoves the thought away, hoping it will dissolve on its own.

JFK and Van Gogh walk up the driveway to the house side by side. They climb the three brick steps to the porch in unison, John slowing down for Vincent the way he always does. He sneaks a glance at his best friend, still staring at him with the same cloudy eyes.

"Oh, shit, moment of truth," Van Gogh says, taking the door handle in his hand. He looks back at his best friend, who is standing with his hands shoved into the pockets of his khakis.

"What do we do if it's locked?" Kennedy asks, which he knows is a stupid question.

Vincent shrugs, but there's no disappointment or angst frozen behind his features. "We'll find out." He squeezes down on the handle and the mechanism clicks. He slowly pushes the door open, suddenly worried there will be someone inside.

The first room in the house is the kitchen, a beige tiled floor meeting his shoes as Vincent steps inside. To his pleasant surprise, there's no grime crusted into the tiling, no spider nests burrowed into the corners of the room. Grey, foggy light spills in from the bay window, washing the room a drowsy white. Everything seems to shine, even in the permanent dreariness of Marshtown.

"You were right, Vincent," Kennedy says, and he doesn't need to see the rest of the house to know it's true.

Vincent turns around to face the boy, a genuine smile sitting lazily across his lips. "Haven't you learned not to doubt me?"

John steps forward and wraps his best friend in a hug, resting his chin on Vincent's head without a second thought. "I'm still learning, Minivan."

Into his chest, Van Gogh mumbles, "I hate it when you call me that."

#clone high #clone high jfk #clone high van gogh #clone high reboot

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writingforbreath · 3 years

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Imagine this: I, or you, or we, awake in a soft, off-white space. Awake is an odd word – it’s not really an awakening as it is… a gradual building of awareness. I come to know I’m here. And the space I’m in, it’s all around me. There’s a consistent slight glow in the distance: like a pale white twilight. This space… it isn’t a room, not exactly, but it’s not an open space either. There is a feeling of being enclosed, even though there are no visible walls.

I start to walk because there’s not really any other option. I feel as though I’m moving, though there aren’t any signs beyond the motion of my own two feet. I walk for what could be an endless amount of time, or perhaps no time at all. Where am I, anyway?

I notice someone sitting in front of me. He’s sitting on the ground, his back propped up by… a wall? A colorless stone? I’m not sure, honestly, it’s like when I go to look at it, it shifts and disappears. But the being in front of me, he doesn’t disappear. He’s solid. He’s wrapped in a dusty smock that is cinched by an old belt. The clothes are obviously aged, but there is a since of solidness about them. They’re antiques, but not falling apart (as they should be?). He’s staring up and forward, legs splayed out before him. His lips are moving.

I walk closer. I’m drawn to him – or maybe I’m simply following the only path available? It feels as though there are safeguards to keep me from walking off on my own, but when I look around I see the same softness. Maybe I can learn something from this person, the only other living thing around.

Suddenly, I’m next to him. His knees have been drawn up, his head resting between them and his arms wrapped around himself – for all his age, he feels like a child. I’m crouched next to him, my hand on his back, and I hear him whispering as if conversing with someone. Was he talking to me? Were we having a conversation? I lean in to listen.

“No…” he said. I see a tears in his eyes and a smile on his face as he looks to the ground. His feet are covered with strapped sandals. “We gods are no greater than the humans who worship us. Honestly, in many ways, we’re less than humans. You… all of you are creators. Every. Single. One of you. You all have the power to create a new god, even if they are only a personal god – and that’s to say nothing of the demons you all carry around. We gods though… only some of us can create, but even then, our powers are limited. We can only create what you believe we can – you see, we are limited by your belief, the same thing that brought us to life.”

He closed his eyes and shook his head, his dry, scraggly hair rustling has he moved. “And our lives… well, you define them.” He furrowed his brows over his closed eyes. “No, you determine them. Many of you believe gods are immortal, but our ‘immortality’ is the same as that of an idea: we exist and we do not, and our wavering existence is completely dependent on you… our humans.” He breathed in and out, heavily. The tears on his lids wavered, not falling but moving, somehow.

His head fell lower, his chin resting against his chest. “It is harder on some of us than others. Many of the oldest gods forget who they are, or what they do, or what they’re supposed to do. Sometimes they even forget how to behave. The older we are, the more likely it is that more people believe in us… and the more who believe, the harder it is to remember who we were when we started.” He paused, drawing his knees in closer. “You must see – you have to understand…” His breathing was irregular now, as if he was on the verge of panicking. He looked up, and smokey gray irises pierced my own eyes. There was a faint glow behind them. “the move humans there are who believe in us, the more likely it is that those humans are tearing us apart.” He seemed to come closer, or maybe I leaned in – which was it? “Each one of the humans believes in us, but each one of them creates their own version. We are all of them, and we are none of them, and all of it happens inside of us.” Suddenly we were standing. He was again staring off in the distance, but this time his hands were closed into fists. He was squeezing as if holding onto something. “We are pushed and pulled. Sometimes, if we’re lucky, it is over decades or centuries – the shift is gradual, almost imperceptible. But many of us aren’t so lucky…. we change every day, every hour, every minute….” His head lowered. “We are bombarded by who we were, who we are, who we’re meant to be, even who we will be in times yet to come. It is insanity, and yet… it is sanity, because it is all we know. It is all we can rely on.”

He fell silent, his head bowed, fists closed. I took this opportunity to study his profile; it wasn’t that I wasn’t interested in what he was saying – I was terribly interested, a cold interest that gripped me and compelled me to stay – and yet a the same time, I needed to capture him just as he was. How he was at this moment.

Small pieces of that same dried hair fell over his slightly wrinkled forehead – not old, but not young, but his hair bespoke of great age. His gray hair led my eyes down to his own gray eyes, still seeming to glow softly from behind, and down his strong nose. My gaze fell over the bump there, tumbling down to his full lips that were still slightly open. He seemed ready to continue, it seemed like he wanted to, but he had to pull the thoughts together piece by piece. His lips quivered as he thought, imperceptibly mouthing his next words – or his previous? How could I know?

Suddenly were face to face. “In some regards, it is an interesting academic study, you know.” All of his previous emotions were gone. There were not tears, no furrowed brows. His voice, his gaze, his body – they were nonchalant. Dispassionate. Detached. “Some of the oldest among us, those of them that are still around, have stabilized. It is as if their personalities have… solidified, or perhaps codified. Interestingly, they can both remember their most tumultuous years and not recall them at all. It’s as if they happened to someone else and they heard about it once, ages ago – a tale from a friend of a friend, perhaps, or a distant relative. They wave off too many direct advances to recount them, or they flat out ignore too many deep probes. It is both as if it happened and didn’t happen… Schrodinger’s Cat, I suppose. Both there and not there, as long as you don’t look too closely. An interesting study indeed…” He looked down now, a notebook in one hand and a quill in the other. He started reading, hovering over the other page of the quill as if he was about to write, yet never touching the next page with the ink. He sat like that for a while, for once with still lips but now with a pen wavering, wavering, wavering, and… waiting? For what?

I cleared my throat, feeling forgotten. By whom I couldn’t say – it almost felt as if I had suddenly remembered my own existence. “If I may ask,” I said, licking my lips and swallowing, almost unsure of what my next words would be, “who are you? Or, ah, maybe I should ask… what are you the god of?” I blinked and took a deep breath. It was as if I was breathing for the first time. Why was that so hard?

He also blinked. He looked up from his notebook, met my eyes with the soft glow of his, and smiled. It was a big smile, full of strong white teeth. “Isn’t it obvious? Or maybe I should ask, don’t you already know?” He asked, his smile growing. There was a brighter shine to his eyes than before. “I’m me. I’m the keeper of the books. I’m the narrator.” He held up the notebook, which now held more text than before. When did he write it in? “I’m the surveyor, the god studier. He stood, tipping his hands. I reached out to catch the notebook, but… it was gone. His focus was somewhere in the distance once again, and his wiped his smock absent-mindedly, like an old habit he just couldn’t shake off. Then he looked back to me and smiled again.

And together, you and I are going to study some gods, codify them, and perhaps, if we're lucky, come to understand what makes a human so different from a god.

#spilled ink #prose #text post #rambling writing #tbh not completely happy with the ending #but i had this idea and needed to get it out #something about human belief making and change gods is so interesting #anyways thanks for reading

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stillness-in-green · 4 years

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Spinaraki Week, Day 1: Fantasy

I didn’t intend for this to get so D&D so fast, but then Mr. Compress started talking about different types of summoning spells and there was no going back.

League of Villains, D&D-style! Featuring a few other familiar faces as well.

———– ———– ———– ———–

It’s been a dozen hallways and more individual rooms of creeping around, checking their guesswork map, resting and recharging where they can. Between Toga’s shapeshifting, Sako’s near-endless bag of tricks, and Dabi’s ability to roast small fry to death before they can even scream a warning, they managed to sneak past almost all of the temple guardians—and then they hit the atrium.

Sunlight bathes the room, streaming in through a huge circular skylight in the roof. There might have been glass in it once, to keep out the elements, but if so, it’s long gone now, and nature’s well on its way to taking back the space. Vines spill across the floor and climb up every wall, dotted with bursts of flowers, their petals a vivid but not entirely natural shade of midnight blue. Little copses of fuller growth dot the room here and there, scrubby cypress trees and coastal pines spreading over islands of grass. Tumbled chunks of masonry dot the floor, gradually being overtaken by the expanding green. There’s a grandeur to it, though probably, Spinner thinks, slanting a glance over at Shigaraki, the original owner would disagree.

The League enters the room in a cautious, well-practiced formation. Toga takes point, clever eyes cataloging potential dangers ahead even as she turns in place, clearly admiring the view. Shigaraki’s right behind, stepping over the vines, an out of place black-clad figure amidst all the green. His head, still covered by his raised hood, turns this way and that, taking in the surroundings. Dabi and Sako keep close to each other in the middle, the former eyeing the plant life with his usual derision, the latter tipping back his hat to examine the skylight as he lets out a low whistle. Spinner keeps watch at the back, his sword out and ready.

“Sako, Toga—thoughts?” Shigaraki asks, voice pitched low.

“Vines could make spotting traps harder,” Toga opines, “but they could be choking some mechanisms, too. I don’t know; this feels like a fight-a-big-monster space to me, but I don’t see anything.”

“It’s likely intended as a place to address one’s followers,” Sako chips in. “I should think if it were going to be turned into an impromptu arena, the ‘big monsters’ would be summoned in from extra-planar regions. Though I suppose if All for One made a habit of mauling guests, we mustn’t rule out holding chambers attached to the room.”

“Harder to see those through the vines, too.”

“Would anything like that even be alive still?” Spinner ventures, eyes tracking along the long curve of the wall.

“If they were natural beasts, almost certainly not,” Sako answers. “But that’s a rather large ‘if’ to be betting on, given the circumstances, wouldn’t you say?”

“Summoned things,” Shigaraki says before Spinner can respond. He peels his hood back, revealing a pinched, narrow-eyed expression. “What good would those do with no one to give ‘em directions? Would they even fight us?”

“It would be fairly simple to imbue such prepared spells with basic directives like, ‘Defend the chamber’ or ‘Attack anyone who doesn’t meet such-and-such criteria,’ so likely so.” Sako rolls his focus stone from one nimble hand to the other, back and forth, the movement of clear blue glass near-silent on the rich—if somewhat faded and damp-stained—silk of his sleeves. “And definitely so when we consider the possibility of, oh, the sorts of binding spells that extract favors from higher agents that needn’t be immediately discharged.”

“Those don’t last forever,” Shigaraki says dismissively. He pauses, considers, then retracts with, “At least, not if they were cast before. But the guardians could be using their own, these days. They could just recast when they need to.”

“A somewhat resource-consuming process, but possible,” Sako allows.

“So what’s the verdict, Boss?” Dabi twirls a lick of his signature azure flame around his fingers. “Around the edges or straight through?”

Shigaraki considers it for another few seconds, glancing around the room and up to the ceiling again.

“We’ll skirt around the skylight, just in case,” he says finally, “but otherwise, straight through. If something’s gonna jump us in here, I wanna see it coming.”

“Still traumatized by that time with the living wall, Tomura?” Toga teases, ignoring the scowls she gets from Dabi and Spinner. Shigaraki just gives her an unimpressed look, at which she titters and sets out in front of the group, hopping lightly over the sprawls of roots and uneven stonework. The group falls in behind her.

Spinner brings up the rear, clenching and unclenching his grip around the hilts of his swords. They’ve been at this for hours now, and the casters are starting to run low—they’re got their standbys and a few more pull-out-all-the-stops type spells before they’re spent. With Magne and Jin both back at camp, he’s the closest thing to muscle this group’s got, and while it’s definitely a stealthier affair all around without Jin’s cross-grained rambling and Magne’s… Well, between the chainmail shirt, the shawm, and the lively banter, there’s a lot to miss about Magne, but right now, stepping away from the reassuring solidity of the wall and out into the open air, what Spinner definitely misses most is her strong arm. The back rank feels empty without her, and it’s got him nervy.

They progress across the room, gusts of a warm breeze soughing in from the skylight. Spinner—who spent most of his youth clambering around the woods—focuses on keeping an eye out, with the others distracted by keeping their footing. He doesn’t fully trust the flowers. Wild magic can have really weird effects on local plant life—you find that out quick enough, being in a party with Dabi—and by all accounts, the magic at the heart of this place is something else. Still, a room full to bursting with fragrant climbing not-quite-lilies in a color that would have a weaver’s guild breaking down the front doors is… It just wouldn’t have been his first guess for “expected outcome of long-term coexistence with a demonic arcane relic.”

Or whatever it is they’re here to secure. That’s what Spinner got out of Shigaraki’s explanation, and that much only after Sako helped their leader translate his latest dark-omens-and-portents dream courtesy of his “patron.” He’s pretty confident about it, anyway, and Shigaraki’s confidence is—well, infectious, if worth second-guessing him on from time to time.

The second-guessing is what he’s thinking about when the vines burst out of the ground at the head of the group.

Shigaraki and Toga jerk sideways with a grunt and a muffled shriek, wooden branches wrapping around their limbs, thickening with supernatural speed; between them, something like one of the cypress trees blooms out of the ground, a riot of prehensile limbs growing off of a central mass, dotted with those damn flowers. A helm-shaped head lifts out of the wood and twists around to face them, a yellow glow emanating from within hollowed out spaces where a normal creature would have eyes.

“It’s some sort of elemental!” Sako calls as Spinner bolts forward, to which Toga groans in frustration, “Ugh, I hate elementals!”

“Wait—a wood elemental? You’re kidding, right?” Dabi laughs around a leer and steps forward, fire blazing up in a leaping, living spiral from his hands. The tree thing’s gaze flashes over to him and it falls back in a hurry, dragging Toga and Shigaraki along with it. Its head cranes up towards the distant ceiling and it shouts something in Primordial.

Spinner’s heart sinks at what’s clearly a rally for backup, then drops even lower when a shadow falls over the room. A sound like the thrum of dragon’s wingbeat reverberates through the air from above as something huge eclipses across the skylight.

“It was a really nice day out,” a woman’s voice booms in complaint. “Why can’t we ever get tomb raiders on rainy days?”

“Scatter!” Shigaraki barks out just as the giantess drops through the skylight.

She cracks the floor when she lands, the weight of her rocking the whole room, even the echoes painfully loud. Sako sways wildly but keeps his feet, but Dabi goes over, flames guttering. Spinner throws himself into a sideways roll, jarring his shoulder but coming up back up clear of her reach. The wood elemental hasn’t noticed yet, but Toga catches his eyes and widely, exaggeratedly mouths, Door, at him before tossing her head towards the far wall.

Spinner follows her glance and sees it—there’s no visible sign of doors, but there, on the wall directly across from the entrance, vines have grown around something, a space of ordered, even lines amidst the natural misrule of the rest of the growth. He can guess at her train of thought: get the door open, regroup, fall back—the outline suggests the entrance is big, but not stone giant big, and the wood elemental won’t stand a chance once Dabi gets his act together. The big patches of grass everywhere offer pretty decent camouflage, if Spinner keeps his profile low—it wouldn’t be hard to slip over there while the flashier members of the group run distraction.

And then he looks back at Shigaraki, pitching and struggling in the wood elemental’s other arm, his writhing fingers unable to find purchase on the lacquered prison, and Spinner’s halfway to closing the distance before he even consciously makes the decision.

Toga makes a sound like a discontented puma, half-annoyed yowl and half-heavy sigh, wheezing from the grip of the snare. She twists like an eel, too fluid for something with the usual humanoid skeletal structure, and drops to the floor, free hand coming up fast with a vial of acid in her hands. The elemental makes another swipe at her, and, when she arches away from the rushing leaves, turns abruptly, glowing eyes landing on Spinner as he charges in.

Elementals don’t have the usual humanoid structure, either—because nothing in Spinner’s life can ever be easy—and that means pretty much any spot’s as good as the next with them. Still, something with a slashing edge seems a better bet than a sharp point, so Spinner sheathes his short sword in favor of tightening up a double-handed grip on his longsword. He brings it down with all the force he can muster on the wooden bough stretching out of the thing’s main mass and entangling Shigaraki. The sound of breaking glass heralds Toga striking true on the thing’s other side, and the elemental groans and creaks.

A whiff of smoke finds Spinner’s nose a split-second before the familiar thunderclap sound of flame blossoming into existence in previously empty air finds his ears. The whole battlefield changes hues as a column of fire erupts in the center of the room, so tall it clears the skylight. The giantess screams, in rage as much as pain, and for just a second, the wood elemental looks away, head angling backwards in concern.

Shigaraki finally gets an arm free and twists his fingers around a spell gesture. He spits out a snake-nest of a sentence, all tight cadence and sibilants, and on the last word, reaches back in to lock his hand around a branch holding him. The elemental cries out, louder this time, and shudders from trunk to tip; twigs snap loose, leaves brown and twist and fall in a sudden autumnal rain. In the gouge opened up by Spinner’s blade, wooden flesh dries from bright new green to splintering, sawdust yellow.

Been doing this long enough to know an opening when I see one, Spinner thinks, yanks his sword free, and drives it in again with an angry grunt. The branches spasm and Shigaraki squirms free at last, dropping into a crouch and scrambling backward.

“Get to the door,” he growls, and when Spinner starts to protest, overrides him with, “That giant’s making enough racket to wake the dead. We can handle these two—we can’t handle the whole damn temple’s-worth of backup. We need to get it open and get the hell out of here.”

“Loud and clear!” Toga chirps and taps one foot on the floor in a quick 2-1-1 pattern before sprinting away.

Spinner nods and falls back before the elemental can gather itself up for another one of those grapples—he doesn’t have Toga’s dexterity, or even Shigaraki’s. But the elemental draws back as well, casting its gaze across the three of them in quick succession before in folds in on itself and vanishes into the foliage littered across the floor.

“What’s it—”

“We’ll know when it does it. Door.”

“Right.” Spinner’s glances over to where Toga’s already nearly to the far wall, unhindered by the overgrowth. Navigating the plant life, that’s a simple enough thing for him, too, but Shigaraki…

“It’ll be faster this way,” he says aloud and, before Shigaraki can protest, scoops him up around the waist and clear off his feet.

Shigaraki snorts but doesn’t fight him, instead taking the opportunity to prop himself over Spinner’s shoulder and fire off a sizzling purple energy blast. There’s an indignant shriek from the giantess and Spinner redoubles his speed. Giants have a mean arm when provoked, and he’s got no interest in getting turned into a smear of plant food courtesy of a hurled chunk of masonry—and looking back on it, all the loose boulders around should probably have been a clue.

“Dabi, Sako—fall in!” Shigaraki yells at the kind of volume he hardly ever uses.

Seconds later, up ahead of them, Dabi and Sako blink into existence by the doors just as they shudder their way open, trailing vines like streamers, filling the hall with the scrape of stone on stone.

“Just charge through,” Shigaraki mutters to him, throwing off another round of attacks.

“I don’t think so!” the giantess thunders, and a boulder goes sailing past over Spinner’s head. He sees the trajectory of it—giants have a mean and accurate arm when provoked—and hisses in dismay.

“Hold on!” He tightens his grip on Shigaraki and hunkers down in his next two steps, propelling himself into a leap just as the boulder crashes into the wall above the doors.

The next few seconds are a blur of noise and billowing dust and Shigaraki’s face pressed against the side of Spinner’s neck, body tripwire-taut in his arms, and then pain dashed like sea spray across the back of his head, and he barely registers botching the landing as he tumbles into unconsciousness.

———–

He comes to in darkness so total he almost doesn’t expect his hand to move when he goes to pat at his eyes, anticipating bindings, a blindfold, anything but what actually happens, which is whacking himself in the face with a completely unrestrained hand.

“Good, you’re up,” comes Shigaraki’s voice. “Come on; we need to keep moving before that giant decides to start excavating.” His hands wrap unerringly around Spinner’s and tug; obediently, Spinner gets his feet under him and helps Shigaraki help him up.

Why the hell doesn’t someone have a torch lit yet? is his first thought, as he gingerly reaches up to prod at the lump behind one ear.

“Wait, wait; I can’t see an inch in front of my face,” he complains as Shigaraki tries to get them walking, stopping in place.

“Yeah. Magic darkness spells do that,” Shigaraki responds tartly.

“What, are we out of dispels already?” Spinner turns his head, and it finally penetrates, how quiet it is. No other voices but his own and Shigaraki’s—no Dabi with a cantrip and a sarcastic remark, no nattering from Toga or Sako. “Oh, hell, did we get split up?”

“Yeah. And before you ask, there’s wards up, so no one’s teleporting in here after us. We couldn’t even get a Sending through.”

“So we’re just—going on without them?” His voice sounds suddenly small in the dark; Shigaraki’s hands bob once around his.

“No choice,” he answers. “Situation’s the same as it was before—if they can’t come through with magic, they can’t wait around out there for the rest of the guard to show up. We’ll meet ‘em back at camp after I get what I’m after.”

“So we’re just—walking down this hallway in the dark.” Did you learn how to find traps when I wasn’t paying attention? Spinner can’t bring himself to say the last part out loud.

“You’re walking down this hallway in the dark. I can see just fine.” Shigaraki gives him another sharp jerk and this time, reluctantly, Spinner allows himself to be pulled along.

“Aren’t you worried about traps?” he manages. He pats at his waist, finding first his short sword, then his longsword, which Shigaraki must have resheathed while he was out. He draws it for the small comfort it affords him to have a weapon ready to hand.

A thoughtful silence follows the question. Shigaraki’s footsteps are even and measured; the floor underfoot, despite Spinner’s hindbrain screaming about deadfalls, remains solid and level.

“…Shigaraki?” he finally prompts. Of all the times for Shigaraki to get into one of his remote moods.

“No.” Shigaraki’s voice floats back at last. “This is a strong darkness. And the path branches a lot. I think it’s a test, not a trap, and I’ve been dreaming about the answers for months. We’ll get what we’re after or we won’t, but either way, we’re almost there.”

So they press on.

The farther along they get, the more Spinner’s skin crawls at the feel of the air—colder sometimes, then warmer, air currents that smell rank with rot caressing over his face and leaving him shuddering. Shigaraki pauses, now and again, to steer them around hazards he doesn’t explain. Once, Spinner steps on something that pops under his feet—for a second, his blood runs frigid and he nearly panics, waiting for a dart or a drop or something, and then his ear catches up with his brain and tells him, Just a bone, that’s all. As if that’s more reassuring.

Shigaraki hums under his breath, distracted, and tugs them onwards.

It’s not like it’s the first time Spinner’s had to deal with magical darkness. It’s not the first temple he’s gone through. Not the first time he had to follow someone on faith, either, though more often that’s been Toga, chipperly going on about pressure plates and sliding stones and false floors. But before, it’s only lasted for a few seconds. As long as it takes for Sako to dispel it, for Dabi to light up something stronger, for Shigaraki—who sees in the dark like he was born in it, and whose eyes glow brilliant red in even natural darkness—to pinpoint the caster and reel off one of his eldritch blasts that can knock the wind out of pretty much anyone.

It hasn’t been like this. Seconds stretching into minutes in sable air so thick it crawls against his scales, muffling the sound of their footsteps and all but swallowing the periodic mumble from Shigaraki, whose voice is so low Spinner can’t even tell if he’s speaking Common or that witchtongue he casts in.

It’s like being buried, he thinks, and has to swallow back bile, squeezing Shigaraki’s hand tighter. But the image doesn’t leave him as the air presses in: each breath another spadeful of dirt strewn over a grave. Each step another stone piled on a cairn.

“That’s starting to hurt, Spinner.” The voice crashes over him in a cold wave and he gasps at the shock of it despite himself. “You never said you were afraid of the dark.”

“Don’t be an asshole,” Spinner chokes out, voice hoarse. “This isn’t regular dark and you know it.”

Does he, though? The thought arrives in his head like a stranger. Does he even know the difference between real dark and this?

With only Shigaraki’s hand to tether him to reality, Spinner almost can’t identify the thought as his own, wonders for a second if it might not be, but if there’s something in here with them projecting thoughts into his head, they’re in even more trouble than he guessed.

Shigaraki hums in an unconvinced—and really unhelpful—sort of way, and suddenly stops.

“Ah.”

Spinner gargles a questioning noise and Shigaraki’s voice returns, flat and affectless.

“Found it. Up ahead.” He walks forward purposefully and Spinner follows, teeth gritted, focusing on believing, really believing, in the existence of a level and unobstructed floor.

They walk for longer than Spinner would think it necessary for something in range of Shigaraki’s darkvision. He can see farther in the dark than he can in the light, Toga told him once, laughing, and seeing as Shigaraki was just a regular human and not some kind of nocturnal or subterranean creature, Spinner had written it off. Now the words come back with a mocking edge.

Finally, Shigaraki lifts their hands, bringing them to a stop. A pause, then his fingers rap across Spinner’s knuckles. “Need this back now.”

Spinner does not whine a protest—his throat’s way too locked up for that. Still, it takes a minute of internal browbeating to force himself to unclench his claws. They’re standing in front of something now; he can feel the nearness of it, maybe from how Shigaraki’s voice sounded bouncing off of it. A big new barrier that they have to figure out, and there’s no reason for them to split up now. No reason for Shigaraki to just disappear on him.

Shigaraki extricates his hand as soon as Spinner’s pried his fingers loose enough, and Spinner swallows, easing in closer and concentrating on the sound of Shigaraki’s clothes rustling, of his questing hands thumping lightly against stone and sliding stutter-rough over the surface.

After a minute of prodding, he falls still. Spinner waits for something to happen, but there’s just more silence, and then Shigaraki’s voice, just a thin whisper.

“Spinner.”

“Mm?”

“Whatever we find in here…”

“I’m not backing out on you,” Spinner says, as if that’s even an option right now, anyway.

“It’s not that.” A beat. “Thank you. For that. But what I meant was—whatever’s in here has been serving a devil for a long time. So don’t volunteer information you don’t have to.”

Something rocks back, a counterweight falling or a tumbler settling back in a casing, and a mumbled, “Oh,” is all Spinner can manage before the barrier cracks open.

After a longer time in total darkness than he ever wants to repeat, or preferably even think about again after today, the light dazzles his eyes, bright enough that Spinner winces back, bringing up his arm and trying to squint out from under it. Shigaraki huffs in annoyance but stalks forward anyway, leaving Spinner to stumble after him lest the door close between them.

Shigaraki stops once they’re over the threshold, giving Spinner time to blink rapidly until his eyes adjust. It doesn’t take long—as bright as it seemed at first, inside the room, the light is pale, watery green, an ambient marsh fire flickering that permeates thinly across yet another empty hall. This one’s much smaller than the atrium, a double line of pillars lining a path up to a raised dais set in a stone alcove. There’s—a throne up there, because of course there’s a throne up there, its surface glimmering a wet black. Writing marks the wall behind it, two curving arcs of even, scored-in letters. He doesn’t recognize the words, but the alphabet looks the same as the pair of runes carved into the insides of Shigaraki’s wrists, and it gives him the creeps there, too.

“So what now?”

He pulls his eyes away to shoot a glance at Shigaraki but even as he registers Shigaraki scratching at his wrist, his skin chalk-white, some instinct crawls up Spinner’s spine and keeps him turning. His eyes land on the temple guardian knight from the second layer, standing—impossibly—barely twenty feet away from them, just inside the door.

Spinner’s mouth opens on a sharp inhale and the guardian vanishes.

Short-range, Spinner’s brain gibbers. Line of sight. Four directions. One down because it’s the one the guardian approached from. One down because it’d put him right in Shigaraki’s path. So one of the sides, then, and Spinner draws his other sword, sweeping his arm out and stepping wide behind Shigaraki’s back, pushing him into a staggering step sideways just as the guardian reappears to Spinner’s right, taking one easy step in, right into range for both of them.

The man’s hands move in a blur of arcane gestures and gleaming steel; the frisson of magical energy accompanies the fleet sting of the guardian’s blade slicing a furrow down Spinner’s arm. Behind him, Shigaraki hisses in surprise and pain. Off-balance, Spinner all but trips into the Web spell as it lashes itself into existence around them, clinging fiercely to the walls, the pillars, and to Spinner and Shigaraki both.

“Again?!” Shigaraki rasps, indignant. “Spinner, tell me you dodged this bullshit child’s play spell!”

“He did something with his dagger!” Spinner snaps back, pulling for all he’s worth at the web—it is a pitifully low-level spell, but apparently that doesn’t matter when it’s being cast by goddamn temple guardians like the one easing back into position in front of Spinner.

He still hasn’t fully recovered from the number Dabi and Toga did on him before. His blue and red finery hangs charred and tattered, and a discolored stain marks the spot where Toga put a dagger between his ribs before he even saw her coming. He’s not much more than on his feet, but that’s bad enough, considering Spinner was pretty sure up to about fifteen seconds ago that he was dead.

“Good instincts,” the man tells him, voice soft. “But not quick enough, villain. We guardians have been trying to get into this chamber to purify it for years now, with no success. Thank you for opening it for us.”

Shigaraki goes still behind him, a dangerous stillness that would be more heartening if the eldritch knight hadn’t already locked down his movements and gotten out of Shigaraki’s line of sight.

“We don’t know what the demon king promised you, Shigaraki Tomura, but be assured that it was a lie. And Iguchi Shuuichi, please cease struggling.” The man reaches a hand down into a pouch at his belt. “A warlock’s promises are no more to be trusted than that of his master’s. You’re not the one who’s been dabbling in forbidden magic, so don’t make this worse for yourself and you might still walk away with a fairly light sentence.”

Rage bubbles up in Spinner’s throat, a taste of bile with a familiar acidic bite, boiling up the back of his throat for release. He should swallow it back like always, but—

Four years, and I never told them, he thinks, glaring at the guardian. I didn’t want to have to tell them like this, but—not here. Not when we’re this close!

He opens his jaw and breathes out all his fury and frustration in one long, hateful burst of poison gas.

It takes the guardian full in the face. The man reels backward, breath rattling in his lungs, arm raising to his suddenly streaming eyes. The web doesn’t dissipate on the spot—there’s not quite enough punch in Spinner’s ancestral breath weapon for that—but it sags away from the near wall and Spinner shrugs himself out of it with the ease of stripping off a shirt.

Blades still in hand, he’s going in for the follow-through, the guardian already recovering, when the light in the room—pulses. A heartbeat flicker dims and brightens the illumination, and suddenly there’s movement in the shadows between the pillars, the sea glass light thrown back in the same liquid gleam as the throne.

«How—unsightly. A champion of good, in this place?» A burbling laugh follows. «I’ll have you leave now, hero. The successor and I have work to do.»

The knight tries to leap past Spinner, eyes on the still-restrained Shigaraki. Spinner hisses defiance and lashes out, curving his short sword into the man’s path. The blow catches under the guardian’s arm and Spinner throws his weight into shoving him back, halting the advance.

And then the shadows are on them.

Gargoyles? Spinner thinks, but they’re way too big for that; he’s fought shorter ogres. And these things definitely aren’t ogres; their skin looks jet-hard, and though a few of them have the steel-bellied paunch for the thicker sort of giant-kin, the others are all sharp-hewn musculature. They all have the same eyes, though, fixed stares as unblinking as serpents’. Spinner falls back as close to Shigaraki as he can without chancing the web again, and two of the beasts circle around him in a way that he would peg as a hunting prowl if their gazes weren’t turned towards the guardian.

For his part, the hero takes one look around at the new developments and raises his free hand to cast—Expeditious Retreat; Spinner’s seen that one from Sako often enough, and then the man’s gone, bolting through the exit and into the darkness beyond.

The voices chuckles again, a reverberation in it that, given the mireland phosphorescence, tells Spinner with an unavoidable mortal dread, Undead.

«After him, my darlings. And one of you close the door after you.»

There’s a blackwater surge and the creatures streak out in an eerily silent rush. As requested, the one at the rear of the pack—one of the ones that had been circling Spinner—stops long enough to pull the door closed behind it, yellow eyes holding Spinner’s gaze until the slab cuts it out of sight.

He doesn’t exhale in relief just yet, but turns to Shigaraki, who’s regained his footing, brushing off fraying remnants of spiderweb in annoyance. Spinner steps up beside him, weapons lowered but still out.

Shigaraki glares around the room. “Well?”

The light flickers again and starts to coalesce, leeching out of the rest of the room as it draws inward toward the throne. A shape begins to form—not in the throne, but standing at its right hand—a short, round man with blank white eyes and a thick mustache, his skin glowing the same sickly shade the light had. The same runes Shigaraki bears on his wrists are carved right into his forehead, where they burn with a weird black light that gives Spinner the horrible feeling his brain’s trying to rebel against his eyeballs. The spirit’s dressed in tatters of white, a stark contrast to Shigaraki’s close-cut black.

«You’re an imperious one.» He laughs again, the pitch high and mad. «As it should be! Ahh, let me look at you.»

He blinks in out of existence, plunging the chamber into a locked-vault darkness that nearly has Spinner grabbing for Shigaraki’s hand again, but reappears just a few seconds later, right in front of them. From there, he circles around them, milky gaze combing up and down Shigaraki, his mouth moving weirdly out of sync with the torrent of words he lets loose.

«Red eyes, I see, and hair all gone white; I don’t suppose you were born that way. Those scars and abrasions—did you fight against it for so long? You’re a bit scrawny, but I suppose it can’t easy, getting this far. And ahh, you have the Tome! Marvelous, marvelous! I trust you have the ritual inscribed there? Your cicatrices, where are they?»

Shigaraki flicks up one wrist and doesn’t even flinch when the spirit wraps glowing fingers around it, leaning in close and peering at his scar, nodding rapidly. The touch leaves a livid mark, raised on his skin like a scald-wound.

“So you’re the guardian,” Shigaraki says when the ghost finally pulls away. “You’re supposed to help me take the next step.”

«Yes! I am called Garaki Kyudai, Rector of the Great Vault and Pedagogue of the Way.»

Garaki? Spinner mouths the name, not a whisper of voice in it, but still the spirit wheels on him, the gaze knotting Spinner’s stomach with the same revulsion the rotting air out in the hallway had.

«Garaki! A namesake of the great demon king, much as his successor bears, I’m sure.» Garaki circles Spinner now, regarding him as closely as he had Shigaraki moments before. «And you, dragon-kin?»

“Dragon-kin?” Spinner winces at the bite in Shigaraki’s tone. He’s the smartest person in their party, even smarter than their actual wizard. Of course he noticed something when Spinner breathed poison gas all over an enemy five feet behind his back. “Is that what that was before?”

«A perfectly-timed dose of noxious effluvium,» Garaki says approvingly. «He’s a rather fine specimen, successor.»

Shigaraki side-eyes Spinner, stare lingering on his mouth and his claws before finally moving up to meet his gaze. “He always told us he was a lizardman,” he says, the words accusing.

Garaki laughs, an explosion of incredulous delight. «A lizardman! He must be quite the convincing speaker. No, he’s an emerald-blooded cur if ever I’ve seen one. But I suppose if any wyrm-born were going to pass for the lizardfolk, it would be a green. They don’t have the horns the other breeds do, you know. In fact—»

“There was a crusade against dragonborn twenty years ago,” Spinner bites out at last, tired of being talked over and irked at the snort Shigaraki had made at the convincing speaker bit. “I don’t make a habit of telling people.”

Shigaraki’s eyebrows go up as the ghost tuts. After a second, his eyes narrow, a familiar measuring expression overtaking his face.

“…You’ve been with us this long and you never used a breath weapon?”

Spinner shifts in place. There’ve been a few times over their journeys when he’s been pushed to it. In Mydsos, when the air was full of so much stinking miasma anyway that he didn’t think anyone would notice. When everyone had gotten separated in the Cato labyrinths. When it was just him and Jin that time against that sahuagin chief, and Jin was such a shitty swimmer that he could barely keep facing in the same direction moment to moment. But this—it felt different.

But we were so close. I couldn’t let—

He coughs and forces himself to say, “Only as a last resort.”

Shigaraki looks—impressed. It’s not an expression Spinner’s seen on his face much, and recognizing it now sends a touch of warmth through him, despite the ghost’s chill presence. It lasts just a moment, then Shigaraki turns back to the rector.

“Are we done with the inspection now?” he demands. “I’ve got things to get back to.”

«Oh, “things.” I see, I see.» The spirit’s voice drops into a canny tone. «Well, you may wish to tell “things” that you’ll be here for a while yet. Taking the power of the demon king isn’t so simple as just planting yourself in his throne.»

“Then I need to get a message out. We can make one of your weird pets do it when they get back.”

«Weird pets! They’re wonderful creations, I’ll have you know. Loyal beyond death—you might have a need for such loyalty yourself one day.»

Shigaraki steps between Spinner and Garaki even as the ghost’s attention turns. “Don’t look at my dragonborn,” he says, a piercing command. “Look at me.”

Garaki and Spinner both do, Garaki chuckling, Spinner’s heartbeat a stuttered pulse in his throat. And as Shigaraki starts to lay out a plan, they both listen.

———– ———– ———– ———–

Shigaraki: Warlock with a Fiend patron (AFO) Spinner: Ranger, Hunter archetype (sorry about your class sucking so hard in 5E, Spin) Toga: Rogue, Assassin archetype Dabi: Sorcerer, Wild Magic origin (frequently at odds with Tomura over efficient use of one’s spell slots) Mr. Compress: Wizard, Conjuration school Magne: Fighter/Bard, Champion archetype and College of Valor, respectively Twice: Cleric, Life domain (also two levels of Paladin, shhhh; he never broke any oaths if he never advanced far enough to make any)

#spinarakiweek2020 #shigaraki tomura #iguchi shuuichi #spinner bnha #ujiko daruma #boku no hero academia #bnha #my writing #ficcing #my hero academia #gaming

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