#grimace federation

[beatsforbrothels]

Grimace Federation - Be Kind To Animals

[basketonthedoorstepofthefbi]

Wingwoman (Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader

Summary: You take your good friend/coworker, Spencer, out to the bar to find him a girl to hook up with. Things do not go as planned.

Word Count: 5107

Warnings: Romantic/sexual tension! Mentions of drinking / sex

A/N: Hi! I haven't written posted fanfic in like, 8 years, please be nice xD I would love to know your thoughts - if you have any requests or anything, I'm happy to oblige. ALSO -- I have only seen up to Season 7 of Criminal Minds because I'm a fckn loser. Anywayyyyy enjoy! Not my gif btw, all credit to the owner :)

———————————

It was kind of your fault, now that you were thinking back on it. 

Actually, it was definitely your fault, now that you were thinking back on it. 

It had been your suggestion to go out. It had been your idea to act as Spencer’s wingwoman, some last-ditch effort to try to get him out of your mind. He was your coworker, for Christ’s sake. And your best friend. And you’d thought about him desperately for eight of the nine months that you’d known him. 

Emily, Derek, and Penelope had all agreed to tag along, but as the work day went on, each of your coworkers had found some kind of excuse to opt-out. Derek’s niece wanted to Facetime. Penelope forgot Kevin’s birthday was next week and needed to go shopping for a present. Emily had a headache. 

Finding Spencer a romantic prospect on your own was certainly not the plan, but, stupidly, thoughtlessly, you’d decided to go along with it. You could do this. Just one night in a bar, chatting up women for the man you’d slowly been falling for the past eight months. As good of an idea as any, right? 

You and Spencer took an Uber to the bar the group frequented. Ski-ball and pool in one corner, a vintage jukebox and small space set aside as a makeshift dance floor in the other. But the best part - half-off drinks for federal agents. You’d never been one to abuse the badge before, but… 

Three Jack-and-Diet-Cokes later, your moral code had a bit of a crack in it. 

Spencer stood next to you - towered over you, actually, because that man was a fucking beanpole - and you felt his eyes on you as you scanned the crowd. “What about her?” you suggested, jerking your chin to the woman at a high-top table against the wall. She had her nose stuck in her phone and an untouched martini on the table in front of her. 

“She’s clearly waiting for someone,” Spencer pointed out, and you realized he was right just as the woman looked up from her phone and towards the door for the third time in the past minute. “I also don’t understand why you’re so dead set on finding someone to hog me up with.” 

You snorted into your drink. “Hog you up with?” you repeated, turning in your barstool so you faced him. Your knees brushed his thighs. 

“Yeah, is that not…” realization dawned on Spencer and he grimaced. “That’s not the phrase, is it?” 

“Hook,” you corrected, but not impatiently. You made a little hook with your index finger, like a pirate. A little giggle escaped you. “And I’m not dead set on it,” you argued. “I just didn’t want to be the only one leaving the bar with someone.” 

Your eyes flickered up to Spencer’s to gauge his reaction. He seemed surprised by this implication that you planned to leave with someone - someone who was not him. 

“Yeah? Who are you leaving with, matey?” Spencer countered, arching a brow and pointedly looking at your index finger, still in its hooked position. You dropped your hand. 

“It doesn’t matter right now,” you blushed furiously, desperately trying to drive the conversation back to his romantic conquests. Your thought process was that if you actually saw Spencer with someone else in any sort of romantic capacity - dancing, flirting, kissing - you’d finally hurt yourself enough with the sight for those stupid feelings for him to dissipate. “We’re looking for you.” 

Spencer merely hmm-ed in response, an indecisive non-answer, and you noticed he shook his head. Like he was annoyed, but trying not to show it. You swallowed the lump in your throat and polished off your drink before returning to examining the patrons in the bar. You nudged Spencer’s elbow with your own and your gaze landed on the group of three women giggling around one of the tables. “Any of them? The blonde is cute,” you pointed out. 

“Not really into blondes,” Spencer muttered, and you glanced back at him. You could have sworn his eyes were locked on your brunette hair. You opened your mouth to say something, but Spencer cut you off. “But, sure, if watching me strike out will amuse you, Y/N.” Before you could protest, Spencer set his glass down on the bar and started towards the trio of women at the table. 

You leaned down to sniff his glass, curious as to what he’d been drinking. Clear liquid. No smell. Was he… totally sober? 

You watched with narrowed, studious eyes as Spencer approached the women. You could only see the back of his head, but the three women’s faces were perfectly visible. They smiled, friendly, unassuming, and then something came out of Spencer’s mouth that changed their expressions. The blonde in the middle furrowed her brows, and the two women on either side cocked their heads slightly. Spencer’s hand tapped the table and he earned awkward smiles as a goodbye was bid, and when he turned around to head back towards the bar, he just shrugged his shoulders and shook his head, like what are you gonna do? 

“What happened?” you asked as he returned to you. 

“I blew it,” Spencer said matter-of-factly. Too accepting of his defeat. Further supporting your theory that he’d gone over there and purposefully botched it. 

“Right,” you flagged down the bartender to order another drink. 

“You’re getting another one?” Spencer asked. 

You whirled your face to meet his and didn’t see judgment, but rather, concern. “Why does it matter?” you asked, no, dared. 

Spencer shook his head, defeatedly. “It doesn’t,” he grumbled. 

“What about that girl you were talking to earlier by the jukebox?” you asked, nudging his shin with your foot. “The grabby one. She seemed really into you.” 

Spencer visibly gritted his teeth. “I’m not interested.” 

“Are you interested in anyone in this bar tonight?” You asked. The words came too quickly for you to stop them. They were too real. Especially as Spencer’s frown hardened just slightly and you watched him look away from you. 

You took in a sharp inhale, the realization hitting you, the possibility that Spencer might actually feel the same way about you. And that you’d dragged him out here tonight to try and set him up with someone else. You were selfish and thoughtless and stupid. 

You hopped off the barstool, your feet wavering beneath you. “I’d better go home,” you said suddenly, grabbing your bag. You had to leave. You had to go home before you said something stupid, something irreversible. 

You stalked out of the bar and onto the brisk, late-autumn sidewalk. You’d forgotten your coat at the office and insisted you’d be fine. The chill smacked you in the face and you tucked your bag beneath your shoulder so you could cross your arms over your chest and hug yourself for any semblance of warmth. 

Thirty seconds hadn’t even passed before the door creaked and Spencer appeared at your side, throwing his coat wordlessly over your shoulders. “What did I do?” he asked. You looked up at him and saw his eyes - hurt, frustrated, confused. 

Your lips parted and there was a small shake of your head. “No,” you breathed. He furrowed his brows and you explained further. “You didn’t do anything.” 

“Then why the hell have you been so weird around me lately?” Spencer asked, scuffing his shoe against the sidewalk. Like a temperamental first-grader. 

“Weird how?” You asked, trying to pretend like you had no idea what he was talking about. Like your stomach didn’t flip every morning when you saw him. 

“Like you’re… like you’re mad at me. Like you don’t want to be around me,” Spencer looked at the street ahead of the both of you rather than at you. “You always find an excuse to leave the room when it’s just the two of us. You pull Derek or Emily or Penelope into the conversation so you don’t have to interact with just me. You’re out here trying to find me someone to hook up with?” he phrased the last sentence as a question, shaking his head. Your heart lurched. He let out an incredulous laugh. “It’s either you’re trying to shrug me off as a friend entirely, or -” 

He stopped himself. His eyes were fixed on the streetlamp a few feet in front of you. They widened and you felt your heart pound as he slowly met your gaze. The realization hit him, the second half of his sentence lingering, heavy and palpable between the two of you. 

“Or,” you repeated, not phrasing it as a question. Your voice was soft as you said it, your tone anything but a question. 

“Or?” Spencer asked, and you could see his chest start to rise and fall more slowly. 

“Or,” you confirmed, taking in a sharp breath. 

Spencer’s throat bobbed as he looked at you, his gaze piercing and soft, studious and lazy, hungry and satiated all at once. “Oh.” 

Oh. 

“How long?” he asked, turning his feet towards you. 

Your face went red and you lifted your chin, refusing to make yourself feel ashamed of it anymore. There wasn’t any point, not when he knew now. “Since March,” you admitted. Your voice was squeaky. 

“March?” Spencer repeated, incredulous. It was early October now. 

“Yeah,” you exhaled, shrugging his jacket off your shoulders and bunching it up by the middle. You handed it to him. “You don’t have to say anything,” you said. Your body felt like it was on fire. “You don’t have to-”

“I’ve had feelings for you since the day we met.” 

You thought maybe you were hallucinating for a second. Your mouth fell open and despite your three drinks, you remembered clearly that Spencer had been drinking water. This was not some drunken confession, not for either of you, because the second he’d asked you why you had been so weird lately, you had instantly sobered up. “Oh,” was all you managed to choke out.

Oh. 

“Yeah, oh,” Spencer’s mouth twitched up into a smile. That playful, friendly, teasing little smile you’d learned to love on him. He stepped towards you. 

You let out this little half-garbled laugh. Spencer reached for your hand, and you let him. Your fingers spread, allowing his in the spaces between. You looked up at Spencer and little fires shot up your hand. How could merely holding hands feel so monumental? 

“What do we… what do we do now?” You asked, your mind in a haze, like a computer awaiting command. 

Spencer let his jacket fall to the concrete and used his other hand to slowly, almost hesitantly, cup your cheek. He looked down at you and your entire face reddened. “Well,” his voice was soft, crackling, like a fireplace, and he met your gaze with searching eyes. “I’d like to kiss you now, if that would be okay,” he said finally. Your lips turned up into an idiotic smile. 

“I think that would be okay,” you whispered. 

His hands were so soft, you realized. His grip on your hand loosened and he was now cupping your face on both sides. And every nerve in your cheeks was firing off signals - Spencer is touching my face, Spencer is touching my face. Like it was some forbidden thing. But then, as if in slow motion, he ducked his head down and his lips touched yours. Gently, at first, tentative and wobbly like a foal taking its first steps. Your hands rested on his torso - taut beneath that stupid little sweater vest. 

He pulled back after just a moment. It was really only five or six seconds at the most, but you were red-faced and breathless by the time your eyes fluttered open, into his. Spencer’s smile was now a full-blown grin, and your expression mirrored his. “Yeah?” He asked, the word carrying more meaning. You’re into this, right? 

“Yeah,” you exhaled as Spencer dropped his hands from your face, but your hands remained on his torso, not wanting to step away just yet. The syllable meant more coming from you, too. I’m really, very much, super into this. Please, for the love of god, kiss me again. 

Spencer arched a brow ever so slightly, and you nodded your head. 

Just like a dance, Spencer’s hands moved to your waist, and at the same time, you slid yours around his neck. He backed you up, completely disregarding his jacket on the sidewalk, until you were flush against the brick wall belonging to the bar. The brisk October breeze ruffled through his hair and yours, yet, suddenly, neither of you were terribly concerned about the weather. 

He kissed you again, and this time it wasn’t as timid. Slowly, at first, his lips pressed against yours, and then his tongue darted out. It teased your lips in silent invitation, and you opened them to grant him access. His hands were everywhere, your hips, your hair, your face. You had moved your own down to his torso again. He coaxed the tiniest little mewl out of your throat, a completely uncontrollable and inevitable noise. 

Spencer’s low, gravelly groan reverberated through your mouth. Your hands gripped the bottom half of his shirt, balling it up in tight, white-knuckled fists. An unmistakable hardness brushed against your thigh. You were perfectly content to stay right there, pinned against the exterior wall of a D.C. bar, but the sound of a car honking its horn peeled Spencer off of you. 

His face was flushed and you released his shirt from your grasp. He let out a small grunt, stepping away from you to grab his jacket off the ground, wrinkling it haphazardly in his hand, holding it strategically over his middle. 

Oh, he liked you a lot. 

“You okay, Spence?” You asked all-knowingly, cocking your head to the side, leaning against the wall, lifting a foot to plant against it. 

Spencer shot a set of narrowed eyes at you, as if noting your smirk and storing it for later. “Yeah, I’m great,” he said, obviously struggling a little bit. His eyes quickly left yours and looked everywhere but at you. 

You didn’t want to embarrass him too much. So you just crossed your arms over your chest and looked at the sidewalk. But the smirk on your face wasn’t going away quite so easily. You considered briefly trying to talk to him about baseball or something to try and help him out, but you decided pointing it out would just humiliate him. Plus, it was a nice little ego boost, knowing you could get him like that with just a simple touch. 

He took a second, but he finally cleared his throat and met your gaze. You sucked your front teeth with your tongue and then bit your lip. “Want me to call an Uber?” You asked. 

Spencer just nodded, and you pushed yourself off the wall, stepping over to join him, digging your phone out of your pocket to order the car. “You okay?” You asked him again after submitting the request on your phone. Spencer’s face was still flushed, but he just nodded and reached for your hand. “Careful,” you warned, unable to resist the opportunity to tease him. “Don’t want you having an-“

“Shut up,” Spencer cut you off, and you snickered. 

——————————————————

You had never been in Spencer’s apartment before. It was unmistakably his, with stacks upon stacks of books in lieu of furniture. 

There was a sofa in his living room, along with a coffee table, a couple of lamps, and a television on a stand. The remaining space, besides a few spots here and there and a clear path with which to maneuver the room, was filled with books. 

You had never seen so many books in someone’s possession before. And sure, you were an avid reader yourself. But nothing like this. Your heart fluttered at the sight, not only because books simply just made you happy, but because it was an incredibly endearing detail about Spencer. Your Spencer. 

He shut and locked the door after you stepped inside, looking around with a childlike, awestruck grin. The TV had a thin layer of dust over the screen - he clearly didn’t use it often. And as you trailed a finger along the top of the nearest stack of books, you felt a pair of eyes watching your every move. 

You and Spencer had both been quiet in the Uber ride here. He had simply held your hand, swiping his thumb across the back of your palm every few seconds. You would occasionally meet his gaze, but then quickly, bashfully, look away, like the two of you were teenagers. 

It was so strange to think of what he had said to you - I’ve had feelings for you since the day we met. How had you not figured it out before now? 

You supposed you had been hiding your true feelings as well, so he was allowed to, too. 

There wasn’t any point in wishing to change the past, you reminded yourself. All you should be focusing on is right now. 

And right now, the street lamps peeked in through Spencer’s living room window, glinting off of his endless brown eyes and making them look like he had the moon in his irises. 

“So,” you said softly, not nearly as wicked as you had been when you were teasing him on the street by the bar. “This is where you live.” 

“Uh-huh,” Spencer bobbed his head, that awkward, straight-line smile crossing his face.

“Lot of books,” you pointed out. 

“Yep.” 

You arched a brow, a teasing smile crossing your face once again. “What’s with the monosyllabic conversation?” 

Spencer clenched and unclenched his fists at his side. “It’s just… really difficult to just stand here and not touch you,” he admitted, a sheepish smile crossing his face. 

You grinned. “You can touch me,” your voice dropped an octave, without you even really thinking about it. 

Spencer licked a canine with the tip of his tongue. God, that tongue. You remembered how he’d teased you less than an hour ago outside of the bar. “Maybe I will,” he shrugged, and you rolled your eyes. 

“You can’t really play it cool, right now, Spencer. Not when I just gave you a-“

“Please stop talking,” Spencer laughed, crossing the room and cupping your cheeks in his hands all in the same movement. You snickered and he kissed you and anything you might have been wanting to make fun of him for was forgotten about. 

You pressed your hands against his chest - holy pectorals, Batman - and craned your neck up so you could reach him. Spencer slid his own hands down your arms and to your hips, and you looped your arms around his neck. One palm flattened against the back of his head, holding him in place, fingers curling around pieces of his soft hair. 

Your heart was hammering away, and there was this aching, hot feeling that was pooling in your core and you all of a sudden felt hungry. Starving for Spencer, for every piece of him, for fully and finally crossing that line from friend to lover. An insatiable hunger for nearly every moment since you’d known him.

Finally you broke away from him, simply because oxygen was a necessity, and he rested his forehead against yours. Your eyes were still closed and your fingers ground into his scalp. “Look at me,” he requested, his voice low. 

Your eyes opened obediently and one of Spencer Reid’s hands curled under your chin. His face moved away from yours but his gaze was locked on yours, a pinpoint, a Northern Star. 

And when Spencer spoke again, your knees buckled. 

“I want you.”

Your mouth fell open, ever so slightly, and you nodded. “I want you, too,” you whispered. 

“Are you still…?” He asked, his eyes searching yours. You’d had three drinks earlier that evening, after all, but you’d polished the last one off nearly an hour ago. Maybe not fully sober, but sober enough to know what you wanted. 

“I’m fine,” you assured him. 

Spencer inclined his head to the side. “You’re sure? Can you pass a sobriety test?” 

You narrowed your eyes at him before you realized he was being sarcastic. You stepped back from him, shrugging off his hands, and extended your arms, touching your nose with your left hand, then your right. Spencer just laughed, and reached out for you, tugging you back to him. “Okay,” he chuckled, planting a kiss on your neck. You let him. “You’re fine, then?”

“I’m fine,” you agreed, shrugging him out of his sweater vest, and then reaching for the buttons on his shirt underneath. 

Spencer kissed your neck as you fumbled with the buttons - how were buttons suddenly impossible to undo? Your head craned back just slightly on instinct, wanting - needing - to allow Spencer more access. Your dexterity had become abysmal at this point, and Spencer’s lips were kissing your neck, down your throat, teasing at your collarbone. “Spencer,” you managed to groan out, a wave of annoyance present in your tone. 

“What?” he asked, pulling back, concern filling his face. 

You realized you had actually worried him. “Oh, no, no,” you waved it away, and he visibly relaxed. “I’m just really frustrated, because… because your shirt,” you stammered, and Spencer’s mouth twitched up into a smirk. 

“My shirt,” he stated. 

“That one, right here,” You laughed softly, curling your fingers around the buttons. You managed to wiggle one free, then another. Spencer leaned forward to continue kissing your neck, but you held a hand up to stop him. “Hang on,” you murmured, working through another button, and one more. “I’m concentrating.” 

“You’re sticking your tongue out,” Spencer snickered. Your eyes met his and your cheeks flushed.

“I’m concentrating!” Your voice rose slightly in self-defense. Spencer’s hands went to your hips. 

“It’s adorable,” he told you. “You make the same face at work. When you’re in the middle of filling out a form or trying to open a new bottle of coffee creamer without spilling it,” Spencer rubbed circles in your hips and your fingers stopped working again. 

“You noticed that kind of stuff?” You asked softly, looking up at him with doe eyes.

Spencer just nodded. “All the time.” 

I’ve had feelings for you since the day we met.

You inhaled sharply, finally undoing the last button.The skin beneath the shirt was pale, smooth, and perfect. And when he slid his arms through the sleeves and the shirt fell to the ground, you bit your lip, unable to help it. 

“Y/N?” 

You met Spencer’s gaze and let out this awkward little laugh. Embarrassing, really, if you hadn’t been in the company of your best friend. “You okay?” he asked, and you felt a little giddy as you nodded, moving your hands to his neck and standing on your toes to kiss him again. 

You didn’t know which direction the bedroom was in, so you just took a guess, pushing him back towards one of the doors. He kept his hands on your hips and his lips pressed against yours as he guided you, walking backwards, to the right door. You entered the bedroom and could not possibly be bothered to look around right now, not when Spencer was guiding you in a circle by merely touching your hips, not when the back of your knees hit what was unmistakably a mattress, not when you fell back against it. 

Your eyes were shut, unwilling to take in your surroundings as Spencer guided you onto your back. You toed off your shoes before lifting your legs, and Spencer hovered over you. Your lips were locked with his the entire time. And when you finally opened your eyes and you saw only Spencer, you grinned like a fool. 

Spencer’s fingers were like taking a shower. They were all over you - your hips, first, then your stomach, and you had to resist the urge to giggle because they tickled as he teased the bottom hem of your shirt up. You sat up slightly to get the blouse over your head and you watched him discard it onto the floor. And then his hands were over your chest, thumbs teasing under the wire of your bra, outlining the shapes of your breasts. 

Your breathing had gone heavy and staccato by this point, your body sinking into the mattress, shipwrecked as Spencer touched you. His eyes wandered over your and that little smile on his face was enough for you to know that he was immensely enjoying himself. 

“Can I…?” Spencer’s hands wandered down and gripped your pants as he looked into your eyes, a brow arched. 

You swallowed a lump in your throat and your blush appeared over your cheeks at the same time as his. “Yeah,” you whispered, and Spencer helped you wiggle out of your pants - black slacks, since you had gone straight from work to the bar. They were soon tossed to the floor, and you were only in your underwear and your bra. And Spencer’s brown eyes did not make you feel objectified or embarrassed, but safe. 

“You’re so beautiful, Y/N,” he told you, seriously, and your breath hitched in your throat. 

“You-”

“I’m not done,” Spencer cut you off, lifting a hand to run his thumb down your chin. “You’re so beautiful. And you’re so kind, and smart, and funny. And I’d really like to show you how much I care about you,” he looked into your eyes as a sort of request. 

“I’m not on birth control,” You breathed out in response, feeling your cheeks redden for even bringing it up. Way to damper the mood. Still, you wanted to be responsible. “Do you have a c-”

Spencer’s soft smile turned into a wicked grin and he shook his head. “We’re not going to need one,” he promised, and after looking into his eyes for a moment, you understood. 

________________________________________

Spencer had thoroughly worshiped you, until you quaked and cried out with absolutely no thought to how thin his apartment walls might be. Usually, you didn’t allow yourself to be the center of attention for too long, but Spencer had insisted, and, well, you couldn’t very well deny him what he wanted, right? 

Covered in a thin sheen of sweat, your hair matted to the back of your neck, Spencer finally lay down beside you. Your breathing was just starting to come back to you as you turned on your side to face him. Spencer’s body mirrored yours, the tips of his fingers - those fingers - trailing up the side of your arm. “That was…” his voice was soft, gravelly, and he looked at you like you had anything to do with it. It was literally all him. “Incredible.” 

“Yeah,” you managed to breathe out, unable to really focus on anything besides the curve of Spencer’s lips, the way the apples of his cheeks appeared when he smiled like this. Spencer kissed your lips, unlike any way he had before. All the other kisses tonight had been hungry and excited, exploratory and new. This one was lazy and slow and you let his tongue dance across yours, and when he finally pulled away, your nose scrunched up in delight. 

Your eyes traveled from his lips, down his neck, his collarbone, then back up, taking him in. The glow of his skin, the tired yet exhilarated look in his eyes. So different now than at the beginning of the night, when he’d looked at you with that slightly annoyed expression as you had tried to set him up with other women. You recalled how he had gone off to that group of three women right before you’d abandoned the bar, how he had struck out on purpose just to satiate your nagging. “What’d you say to those women tonight?” You asked him curiously, furrowing your brows at him. 

Spencer, in turn, arched his brows at you. “Why?” 

“Because I’m curious,” you said as his fingers continued to trail, feather-light, up and down your arm. You traced your thumb along his jawline, stopping at his chin. “You were obviously blowing it on purpose.” 

Spencer rolled his eyes. “I actually do have some game, despite what Morgan might say,” he said, his tone defensive. 

You snickered. “Sure you do, Spence. Took you, what, eight months, to get me in your bed?” 

Spencer shot a playful glare at you and pinched the skin on your arm. You squeaked in response and he just laughed. “I just asked them how they were doing tonight,” he said finally, and you knew just from the look on his face that he was lying. 

“You did not,” you pushed back. “Come on, Reid, spill it.” 

“Ok, fine,” Spencer heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes, sitting up in the bed, his back against the headboard. You sat up, too, looking at him with concern. Why was he so embarrassed? “I told them… Jesus.” Spencer rubbed the space between his brows with his thumb and his forefinger. “I told them I was here with a coworker that I had a massive crush on, and that you were trying to set me up with someone else,” he began. 

You started to smile. 

Spencer continued. “I told them that I had absolutely no interest in going home with anyone tonight, and that I had been purposefully striking out all night long because I couldn’t stand the thought of even trying to look at someone the way I look at you.” 

Your smile grew and you moved to sit on your knees, inching closer to Spencer and throwing one leg over him, effectively straddling him against the mattress. “So I asked them,” Spencer continued, his lips turning slowly from an exasperated frown to a small smile. “I asked them if they could just look at me like I had said something stupid, and then I would leave them alone.” 

“Did they say anything to that?” You asked as Spencer’s hands found your hips, contouring to match the curves into the small of your back. 

Spencer’s voice got slightly lower, more serious, when he said, “The girl in the middle did. She said ‘that girl definitely has feelings for you, too’. And then they did what I asked, and I walked back over to you.” 

“She did not say that,” you rolled your eyes, just as Spencer kissed your lips. 

“I have an eidetic memory, Y/N,” he reminded you in a low whisper, as his lips lingered against yours. “Would I lie to you about that?” 

[icarryitin]

Help Me?

spencer reid/gn!reader

i love being in this guy’s brain there is just something so Character about him🧡 and happy birthday to you anon!!🥳

series masterlist

word count: 4.5k // warnings: injury description (dislocated shoulder), mentions of injections and pills for pain relief, poor and inaccurate medical knowledge, non-sexual undressing, would you believe me if i told you the sexual tension in the second half of this was accidental? for those reasons this is 18+

summary: You get injured on a case, and Spencer gets to play nurse. It’s a special kind of torture for both of you.

“Try it, see what happens.”

You appear out of the shadows ahead of them, the gun in your hands aimed carefully at the Unsub’s back, like a goddamn guardian angel.

The guy isn’t going to give up without a fight, even with three federal agents to contend with, that much is obvious. His grip on his weapon is far shakier than any of yours, fingers twitching ever closer to the trigger. You’ve made the split second decision to launch yourself at him before he has the chance to fire off a shot.

Which means Spencer has a front row seat to the sickening thud of your side against the ground when you tackle the Unsub. He’s grateful that he and Hotch aren’t staring down the barrel of a gun anymore, but less grateful that it’s come at the price of the grimace clear on your face. You’ll be bruised for sure, going down as hard as you do.

“Are you okay?” Hotch asks you as he hauls the Unsub up by his cuffed wrists. You take a moment to check yourself over, mentally inventory every joint and nerve, before you nod. Spencer holds a hand out towards you, which is taken without hesitation and you start pulling yourself up off the ground.

The crack of your shoulder as it pops out of the socket is so loud that the vibration of it tingles through your interlaced fingers and all the way up to his own.

A sharp yelp, followed by a weak whimper that makes his stomach flip, and he drops your hand like it’s scalding hot. You pull it into your chest with your good arm, palm cradling your elbow to give yourself a little support. Maybe you’d hit the ground a little harder than you meant to. It’s definitely dislocated. He can’t help but feel like it’s his fault.

Maybe that’s why he’s manoeuvring around you, where you sit pouting in a dusty heap. It’s what he tells himself anyway, as he slips large hands underneath your FBI vest – fingers pressed snugly against your ribs, separated by only a thin shirt, and he carefully helps you to your feet. The action has his face dangerously close to yours, so close that he’s terrified you’ll be able to hear how shallow his breaths are. But you seem to be far too focused on your own breathing to really register his proximity. Hotch is ahead already, Unsub in tow, but you’re the only thing Spencer is worried about right now. Someone else can collect the abandoned firearm from the ground, he has more important things to do. Like getting you into the care of a professional instead of his clumsy hands.

“Can you walk?”

A rhetorical question if he’s ever asked one. It’s your arm he’s pulled out of the socket, not a leg. You nod anyway, gently, but you don’t pull away from him. Instead your voice is soft, unsure.

“Help me?”

Of course he does, as if he’d be able to do anything else.

Does he really need to keep a hold on you, help you across the warehouse floor and out to an ambulance? Probably not. Does he do it anyway? Absolutely. You don’t seem to mind the closeness, judging by the way you lean into the solidity of him as the two of you shuffle towards the open door. He relishes in it, just a little. Because for all the camaraderie and familiarity that has built your friendship over the past few years, touches like this are so rare. Rare and usually instigated by you, when a case has hit him a little too close to home. It’s precious. To have you in his arms the way he’s wanted, wished for, literally dreamed about. There’s an irony in his earlier misplaced attempt to help you up, somewhere. Why can he only have you this close when one of you is hurting?

Raised eyebrows from the rest of the team be damned, he’ll carry you to the ambulance if he has to. He doesn’t but he’d try if you asked.

Spencer has seen all manner of terrible things. He’s seen them happen to strangers, friends, he’s been the one under the spotlight more than once. But he finds himself wholly unprepared to watch you wince as you hop up onto the back of the ambulance, legs dangling over the edge, arm still cradled protectively close to your chest. You flinch almost violently when the paramedic approaches you with outstretched hands which, in turn, only makes you hiss in pain. Your apology is small, quiet, sheepish. Everything he knows you not to be, which only makes him feel that much worse about being the reason you’re in this position in the first place. He’s not, the little logical voice in his brain tells him it was the fall you took, but he’s the one who offered to help you up. Can’t take that back.

“Do you have to?” You’re arguing with the paramedic when his brain checks back in to the conversation.

A sling has been placed by the open medical bag beside you, but it’s the object next to it that has your eyes wider than dinner plates. A needle, carefully sealed in its little package, ready and waiting to give you the pain relief that all three of you know you’re in desperate need of. There’s no way your shoulder can be reset here without it.

“You look at dead bodies all day, and you’re telling me you’re afraid of this?” The paramedic means well, he knows she does, but the grating sound of the sterile packaging being ripped open only serves to shrink you away from it even further.

“Phobias are rarely rational. In fact, the dictionary definition refers to one as being an extreme or irrational fear of, or aversion to, something. Phobias relating to medical procedures are pretty common actually.”

The barely hidden eye roll he gets from the paramedic would suggest he’s not helping the situation, but it’s the look that you give him. The one he gets across coroner slabs and conference tables and crime scenes, that tells him he is.

“I wouldn’t be offended if you didn’t want to, considering this is kind of my fault,” Spencer holds his hand up between you, wiggling his fingers in front of a sad little smile, “But squeeze away.”

“I don’t know, I might break it.” You’re going for a light-hearted joke, but your gritted teeth pay you no favours.

“Then we’ll call it even.”

You take his hand, and he wonders if he’ll need to ask the paramedic to break out the defibrillator next – judging by the way his heart stutters in his chest.

And, to your credit, you only almost break it. The first squeeze is tight, muscles in your forearm trembling as the needle plunges deep into your shoulder. It won’t be enough to completely numb you, the paramedic confirms, but it’ll go a fair way towards dulling the pain. You should really go to a hospital, a bodge job in the back of an ambulance isn’t exactly Bureau protocol, but he knows that isn’t happening. God forbid you ever get shot, he’s sure that getting you treated properly for something like that would be more traumatic for you than any injury.

The second squeeze isn’t something he’s prepared for. You hang onto his hand as though your life depends on it once the paramedic has decided the painkillers have kicked in enough, though her fingers on your shoulder still have you tensing. She tells you to relax, uselessly. Instead, you turn your head away, bury it into Spencer’s shoulder, and dig your nails into the back of his hand. His knuckles crack under the pressure, synchronised popping absolutely miniscule compared to the thunderous pop your shoulder gives when the paramedic manipulates it back into place. Tears seep through his shirt as they dampen his shoulder, the tension in your jaw gives away the sob you’re biting back. You swallow it before you pull your face from the security of his warmth – brave face, as always – and dutifully allow the paramedic to tug the Kevlar vest over your head to make way for the sling she’s prepared.

You’re too on edge to really pay attention to the instructions she’s giving you, too preoccupied on slowing your heart rate to hear about the over the counter pain meds you should take, how long you need to keep the sling on. So, Spencer listens. He remembers, as he always does. He nods and tells her he’ll make sure you do everything by the book, because he knows you won’t be on your way to the doctor’s office in a hurry if your recovery doesn’t go to plan.

JJ popping up in your field of vision seems to lighten your mood, the stiffness falls away and you choke out a laugh alongside a sarcastic comment about heroics being above your paygrade. It’s fake, the laughter. Your spine is still rigid, smile a little too tight to be true. But nobody else seems to notice. They’re just glad you’re alright. Something about your rapid mood change scratches an itch in his brain, the smallest part of it that’s just a little smug. Because you don’t let on about your fear to the others. Just him.

Spencer piles into the back of the second SUV after you, behind Rossi and Emily, and takes it upon himself to make sure you’re strapped in. Admittedly, you could manage it yourself, but he doesn’t want you to. There are eyes on the back of his head when he leans over to carefully pull the seatbelt across you, when he makes sure to steer clear of your sling, but they’re easy to ignore when you’re watching him the way you are. Your quiet affirming hum follows the click of the seat belt plug when you meet his questioning gaze, calming the pounding in his chest and he doesn’t pull back right away. Involuntarily, his eyes drop to your lips for the barest of moments.

He could kiss you.

Right here, right now. In the back of the SUV, with your arm in a sling, and your colleagues watching on. He could do it. But he doesn’t.

He knows what he wants your first kiss to be like – a little pocket of his brain is dedicated to it, plays scenario after scenario in the moments before he settles down to sleep every night. Silly little bedtime stories.

Except they’re not silly, because somewhere along the way he stumbled out of his harmless little crush and into something much more serious. He knows what it is, he won’t put a name to it. Instead, he daydreams. It’s not always the same, the location varies - sometimes you’re at work, in the bullpen or the conference room, or obscured from the rest of the team by the metallic bulk of an SUV. Sometimes you’re in his apartment, in the kitchen, by the window in the living room, in the doorway of his bedroom. Sometimes it’s just a street corner, at night, at midday, dawn, dusk. But you, you’re always the same. You always look at him with a smile that could light the entire city, and he just tells you.

Spills his guts out all over the floor, every part of him left raw and vulnerable, as he tells you he loves you - has always loved you. Maybe even before he met you. He tells you how his heart stopped in his chest that first morning you walked into the BAU office, how he nearly spilled his coffee down his shirt, how his glasses steamed up with the heat from his cheeks. How Derek, JJ, Garcia, the entire team has been teasing him for literal years. How sometimes he thinks he catches you looking at him, but that’d be just too good to be true wouldn’t it?

And then your smile grows, and you take a step further into his space until there’s scarcely any room between you. That’s when you tell him you do look at him, you look at him all the time. Because you love him, just as hopelessly and desperately and effortlessly as he loves you. That’s when he kisses you. When he grasps your face in his hands and takes a deep breath of you before crashing into you with a bruising force. You take it, of course you do, just as eagerly as he pours himself into it. The kiss of a lifetime. That’s how he’d do it.

But he can’t do any of that, not now.

So, he pulls back, plugs his own seatbelt in, and lets himself wallow in the post-case stillness that settles in the car. Punctuated by Penelope’s voice through the speaker on your phone though it may be. She’s relieved, a little mad that you’d put yourself in harm’s way, but ultimately glad you’re safe. He smiles to himself at that, he can’t help but agree.

Quantico’s parking garage is dark this time of night, of course it would be, but the chill of the concrete seeps into his bones. You shiver beside him as he helps you slide out of the SUV. Goodbyes are short, sweet, exhausted. Each member of the team wandering towards their own vehicles, leaving you and Spencer standing alone under the fluorescent lights.

“Let’s get you home, superhero.” He grins at you as his hand settles gently on the small of your back, guiding you towards the street exit.

It’s not far to the train station, the streets are still busy even at this time of night. Tourists and businessmen and politicians all alike. But you don’t get jostled in the slightest, he makes sure of it - carefully weaving through the throngs to get you safely to your platform. It’s only as he steps onto the train with you that you realise his own home is in the complete opposite direction. It’s borderline unfair how fuzzy he feels at your concern for his own journey.

“I said I was getting you home, not getting you to the station.” He can’t help the fond smile that settles on his features as you look up at him from your seat. He’s chosen to stand, partially in front of you, as a sort of makeshift barrier between your injured arm and any potential commuters who might stumble into you. He holds his hand out to you expectantly and it takes you another moment to fish your keys out of your bag. They’re placed softly in his palm, your fingers barely brushing his. The touch is so gentle compared to the way you almost squeezed that same hand to death only a couple of hours earlier. He just about manages to suppress the shudder that threatens to buckle his knees, and he counts his lucky stars that your building is only a block away from the train’s destination.

The thought only occurs to Spencer when he’s halfway over the threshold of your apartment, too preoccupied with getting you back safely to realise he’s actually never been in your home before. Organised chaos is the term he’d use. The open plan kitchen and living area is tidy but cluttered, books of every genre piled on shelves with no real strategy, a haphazard stack of second hand vinyls that are mostly Tom Waits sit atop an old record player, a small collection of cacti in mismatched terracotta pots are lined up on your little kitchen windowsill. The cupboards are a deep green, which should really be at odds with the peach tinged wash on the walls, but the combination is just soft enough to work. It’s very you.

“I can take care of myself, you don’t have to stay.”

Your name leaves his lips in the same tone it usually does before he can stop it, the same heavy sigh that wraps around the letters more often than not. God, you know exactly how to push his buttons, even when you don’t mean to. You’re missing the point entirely – he wants to take care of you. It’s so rare that you let him.

“Nice try,” He says as he sets your work bag down on one of the chairs at the round kitchen table, “Get changed, I’ll fix up some dinner.”

“You will?” The teasing grin on your face is either because you don’t think he can cook, or because you can’t. He’s leaning towards the former.

“Hey, I’m a man of many talents.”

You stand there for another long few seconds, just watching him. It’s not dissimilar to the look you gave him at the ambulance, in the SUV, on the train home. Like there’s something you’re desperate to say to him; only, you’re not sure how to say it. So you turn on your heel and close the bedroom door behind you.

Spencer physically has to shake off the weight of your gaze before he can move again, even after you’re gone. His own bag finds its place beside yours, jacket folded and draped neatly over the back of the metal chair. It’s the kind of dining set he’d expect to see outside a Parisian cafe, as opposed to being tucked in the corner of a DC apartment. Chipped white metalwork and all, probably originally a garden set, but it fits the eclectic thrift store vibe you’ve curated throughout the space. He finds himself drifting towards your overstuffed bookshelf, to the beat up record player and the pile of albums - the protective sleeve of each one shabbier than the last. He’d been right at first glance, the collection is mostly second-hand Tom Waits albums - with a little Queen, The Magnetic Fields, and Fleetwood Mac in the mix. The album on top is the most dog-eared, and he doesn’t have to employ a single one of his profiling skills to know this one is the most loved, most played, and he’s sure you’ll appreciate the comfort of some background noise. So he’s concentrating on sliding the record out of the sleeve, carefully placing it onto the turntable, and setting the needle down.

The bluesy first bars of Tom Waits’ Heartattack and Vine fill the room at the same time you open the bedroom door, looking more than a little sorry for yourself. And, to his credit, Spencer does a pretty good job of not laughing at the picture of you in the open doorway.

You’ve got yourself tangled up, all wrinkled shirtsleeves and oozing embarrassment - one sleeve dangles empty by your side where the other is still firmly encased by the sling, your sole free arm pokes out of the bottom of your sweater. Your eyebrows are drawn as you look everywhere but at him.

“Can you…?” You trail off. A breath pushes its way out of your lungs, half-sigh and half-helpless laugh.

“Come on.” He erases the distance between you in two strides, hands turning you at the waist before he can even really think about what he’s doing. You shuffle into the room ahead of him, soft rug shielding your socked feet from the cold of the wooden floor. He’s pleased to find the same decorative tastes extend through to your bedroom.

Another bookshelf, also stuffed to the brim with enough material to start your own bookstore. A little wooden desk by the window paired with a chair that doesn’t match, the wall to the right of it is plastered in multicoloured post it notes - a few of them catch his eye, reminders and ideas and shopping lists. Your bedspread is the same dark green as your kitchen cabinets, although it’s mostly obscured by a mess of patchwork blankets and jewel toned decorative pillows. Your sunshine plush has pride of place balanced against the left-hand bedpost on top of the headboard. Even without an eidetic memory, he’d remember the look on your face when he won it for you. Undercover at a travelling carnival in Oregon, the job at hand was to lure out an Unsub whose tastes fit you to a T, but he’d been uncharacteristically powerless to resist at least trying to get something for you. Your cover was a couple, anyway. He’d only been in character. Not only do you still have it, but it has pride of place, and something about it has his pride rearing its head.

You’re fussing with your pyjamas, a threadbare hoodie and garishly patterned sweatpants, when he turns his attention back to you. The reality of the situation seems to hit you both in the same moment.

Spencer is going to have to undress you.

It’s not how he imagined it would be - and that is definitely not something he needs to think about right now. He could keep his eyes closed? Although not being able to see where he should put his hands is arguably more dangerous than it would be to pay attention. He has to clear his throat before he can find his voice.

“I’m going to have to take this off,” He gestures to the sling, hoping he sounds less noticeably wrecked to you than he does to himself, “But we’ll go slow, okay?”

It’s cruel, is what it is, to watch you nod your agreement, to witness your unshakeable trust that he won’t hurt you so closely. Ultimately, it’s not overly different to the way he checks over your protective vest. There’s a strategy, a system to it just the same as the task that lies ahead, and he’ll follow it step by scientific step.

The sling is first, straps carefully undone and the support sliding off your arm - you both support it, your elbow in his palm where yours settles under your wrist. The one free hand you have between you, Spencer’s, works your shirt up over your uninjured shoulder and tugs it over your head. His eyes never drift beyond what you’ve asked of him, though it isn’t for lack of temptation. He slides the remaining sleeve off of your injured arm with a touch so light that neither of you wouldn’t know it was there if not for the skim of his fingers over your bare skin. Your hoodie replaces your work shirt just as carefully, in reverse. Injured arm first, head, uninjured arm. His tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth absentmindedly as he concentrates on looping the sling over the thick cotton, securing your arm tight to your chest again. Job done, and without too much embarrassment. He’d call that a success.

“Would you mind-” You struggle for a moment, “The clasp is fiddly.”

Spencer doesn’t know what you mean at first, and then it clicks - and it’s like all the air has been sucked out of the room. You need him to undo your trousers. He can do that, he can do it. He might feel like he’s about to spontaneously combust over the request, but he can do it.

There’s not a whole lot he wouldn’t do for you, to tell the truth.

It takes him longer than it should to slip the hook out of its clasp, usually nimble fingers fumbling under the weight of both of your gazes. But he doesn’t stop there. Because his usually brilliant mind is buzzing with static and his hands are moving of their own accord and the teeth of the zip on your trousers as he pulls it down is loud.

Spencer pulls back like he’s been shocked, while your eyes remain firmly glued to his hands. Hands that now wring themselves with anxiety as he quietly asks if you can manage the rest. You don’t respond verbally - it takes another long second, but you start shimmying the trousers off of your hips with your free hand. The slightest glimpse of bare thigh has him spinning on his heel and marching towards the kitchen in search of food.

He’s not thinking about the soft material of your sweatpants being pulled carefully over your legs in the other room, as he roots around in your kitchen cupboards. He’s not. A can of chopped tomatoes, a handful of half-empty spice jars, just about enough dry spaghetti for two. It’ll do. A pot of water is set on the stove to boil, the noise is enough of a distraction when the bedroom door opens again behind him. You shuffle about for a few minutes, digging around your shelves and Tom Waits’ gravelly tone cuts off abruptly to be replaced by the softer voice of Stevie Nicks instead. The volume ticks down a couple of notches before you join Spencer in the kitchen as he warms the tomatoes and spices alongside the boiling noodles, moving around him with the same ease you do in the office. You pull out two bowls that don’t match - one is shallower and wider and glazed a sunshine yellow, there’s a chip in the lip of it. The other one is smaller, deeper, glazed navy blue instead and with a cheeky face etched into the pottery. Its nose protrudes slightly, rounded out on one side. He can’t help his smile when he dishes out two equal portions and the red sauce drips down onto the bowl’s nose. He swipes at the mess with his thumb before handing you the bowl.

“Thank you.” You search out his gaze this time, urging him to look you in the eye. For cooking, or what he’s sure is your favourite bowl, or staying. He’s not sure. He wants to tell you that you don’t have to thank him, he’d drop anything and everything at any moment if you needed him to. But something in your eyes has stolen his voice, a flicker of something he’s far too terrified to acknowledge. So he only smiles, takes the yellow dish in his hands, and follows you to the comfort of your vintage floral couch.

It’s not a table dinner kind of evening, you seem to have decided. Although the precarious balance of the bowl on your knees suggests otherwise, as you try to eat one handed. Spencer leans forward to pull the cushion from behind his back, his own dinner temporarily abandoned on the floor in front of him, and he picks up your bowl to slide the cushion across your lap in lieu of a tray. Your laugh is quiet, you don’t look at him, but whatever tension had built in the bedroom dissipates with the sound.

Even so, he shoots off a text to Penelope while you’re preoccupied with your spaghetti, asks if she can lend you a helping hand for the next few days if you need one. You shouldn’t need the sling for more than a week anyway. She responds with a smiley face and a kiss almost immediately. It’s not the first time in his life he’s thanked whatever mystical force is responsible for Penelope Garcia.

Spencer will corral you to the doctor’s office for a checkup in a few days, he’ll make sure you do your stretches, he’ll set alarms for your painkillers. And, ultimately, he’ll come back if you ask him to. He’ll help you in and out of your pyjamas if that’s what you want, of course he will.

Regardless of the way it sets his insides aflame. He’ll do it for you.

yes i know reader inserts are blank slates yes this apartment is basically just my own flat no i don’t care thank u🧡🧡

[mj0702]

The other Bronze – Pt. 16 🔞

This Chapter contains some adult content

Por mi vida... Te amo a la luna y de vuelta mi hermosa....♥️

“You can keep dreaming because that won't happen” the dark haired woman laughed

“Worth a try” you smirked as you pulled Jennis jersey over your head

“Dear jesus Christ” you gagged lightly after you sniffed the fabric “Sure you only wore that for that game??”

“Actually no... that's the same one we wore at the Euro final” the spaniard deadpanned “We're broke you know... we have to re-use jerseys”

“Seriously??” you asked outraged your eyes wide with shock while Lucy started to snicker behind you

“Of course not... but you and your stupid tactic had me run a lot – sorry that my jersey doesn’t smell like detergent” Jenni rolled her eyes

“I think it was a good tactic” you defended yourself pouting “Lucy you tell her”

“You put me in goal!!!” your sister exclaimed

“Yeah... that was funny.. the way you panicky screamed at Mills to keep “that bloody ball far FAR away” from you....” you chuckled as your sister hit your shoulder

“Y/N... you still have something to do” now Sarina interrupted and you know you still need to come up with an apology to Rubiales

“How believable would it be if I suddenly have a stroke?” you asked the dutch innocently and all players around you snorted

“Not very believable... come on... the sooner you get it over with the sooner I can reward you for your actions” the blonde coach winked

“Hermoso” you looked at Jenni “... it was a pleasure as always... I have to go and fake apologize to your... whatever he is”

“Oh Corazon... I didn't even show you pleasure but okay...” the dark haired winked “and he's the federation president”

“He's a fucking cunt that's what he is” you grumbled not even catching up on Jennis comment

“And THAT'S exactly what we don't say in our apology” Sarina said chuckling

“Do I really have to come up with an apology on the spot without swear words?” you asked in disbelieve

“Yes Bitsy...” Keira rolled her eyes “... and I know you can – you always pull your head out of the sling somehow”

“Okay okay... give me a minute okay” you huffed starting to think of what to say “... Hermoso could you stop drooling over me abs? I know they're fantastic – me girlfriend tells me every time we...”

“STOP talking!” Lucy exclaimed shuddering at the thought of you and Georgia doing anything else than holding hands while Jenni, Keira and Sarina bursted out laughing

“It's distracting!!!” you huffed

“I am distracting you?” Jenni smirked enjoying the little banter which distracted HER from the previous incident

“Not you... you eyes” you grumbled “I need to think quick here”

“Come on Liefje” Sarina suddenly pulled you away “We won't get anywhere if you butterfly with Hermoso all the time”

“I'm NOT butterflying” you huffed annoyed

“Yes you are... now... this is going to happen now... you are going to apologize officially right in front of the crowd and later again at the post-match press” the dutch said and you grimaced

“Really? In front of the crowd?” you whined

“Yes... this is damage control and when everyone sees how “sorry” you are we have a good chance that FIFA won't interfere” Sarina said seriously and you huffed

“But I don't wanna” you whined again but one look from the dutch shut you right off

“You'll do fine Bitsy okay... you're good at that” Keira squeezed your shoulder supporting

“Ugh.... fine” you huffed annoyed as someone handed you a microphone connected to the stadium speakers

You started to walk out of the tunnel and you knew the second the camera caught you and your picture appeared on the big screens since suddenly there was loud cheering and it made you smirk. You walked all the way to the kick off point standing there for a second taking a deep breath before turning around facing the spanish bench where Vida and Rubiales were still standing. You saw how the medics just packed their stuff together and how Rubiales had two tissues hanging out of his nose. You really needed to bite your tongue so you wouldn't start laughing – you were “sorry” after all. At least that's what Sarina told you you were. You saw how all the players – Lionesses and Spanish – were lingering in the tunnel entrance waiting for your speech

“Hi” you started awkwardly looking into the stands after the crowd calmed a little bit which caused a new round of cheering and whistleing. Vida and Rubiales looked at you expectantly and when they saw you wore Jennis Jersey you saw how Rubiales jaw set challenging.

“Okay guys... I'm here to apologize for me actions towards Mr. Rubiales a few minutes ago” you said using your “I'm so so SO sorry”-voice “... I honestly don't know what caused me to act the way I did... I'm in the wrong here because violence is never the answer no matter how disgus... no wait... I'm not allowed to say that... violence is never the answer! Let stop there... I never meant to assault you Mr. Rubiales...” you looked at Rubiales himself trying to sell your apology so hard by talking directly to him “... I never meant to hurt you and I don't have an explanation for what happened. Please believe me when I say I'm sorry from the bottom of my heart”

Even you know you went a little over but you really REALLY tried not to verbally assault him right now

“You did nothing but being polite to me and what happens in your federation is not my business” you said and some people would swear they heard a threatening undertone “I hope you accept me apology and we can forget this... incident”

You walked back towards the tunnel before making a turn towards Rubiales himself offering you your hand to shake it. He grabbed your hand hard his jaw still set when you pulled him a little forward

“If you ever pull off something like that again you fucking cunt I personally will cut off your balls and feed them to you through your asshole and then I make sure that there's no inch of DNA left of your existence...” you growled into his ear covering it up with clapping on his shoulder like both of you made up “... most of them players I consider my friends – family even... I don't take it lightly if they get put in an uncomfortable situation and I always will have their back”

You let go of him smiling sweetly before turning around walking back into the tunnel where everyone stared of it with disbelieving looks. You smirked feeling great pride and satisfaction with yourself.

“I am REALLY proud of you Liefje” Sarina beamed as you reached her letting her pull you into a hug

“I can't believe it... you actually delivered a grown up apology” Leah said her face showed pure shock

“Yeah well...” you shrugged your shoulders

“I can't believe you apologized” Mapí looked at you a little disappointed

“Had to... they made me” you pointed at Sarina, Keira and Lucy

“I'm proud you didn't punch him again – I was worried there for a second when you made a beeline for him” Lucy threw her arm over your shoulder standing next to you proudly “And you didn't threaten him”

“I definitely didn't” you quickly said and your voice was a little high-pitched

“Bitsy” Keira warned you

“Hm?” you looked at her innocently

“Please don't tell me you did...” the blonde looked at you expectantly

“So... my reward” you turned towards Sarina

“Bitsy!” Keira exclaimed

“What? You said to not tell you... so I don't” you defended yourself

“What did you say... I knew that handshake was a cover up... I KNEW IT” Keira said annoyed

“Look... I just let him know how... I consider most of the spanish team me family... and that I'll always will have their back” you said honestly “andhowIwillfeedhimhisballsandthattherewon'tbeanyDNAleftifhepullssomeshitlikethisagain” you mumbled before quickly sprinting behind Alexia and Jenni ducking for cover

“Come again???” Keira looked at you shocked while the spanish players looked at you confused since you spoke to fast for them to understand

“Could you repeat that for the not english speakers please Cariño?” Alexia said confused

“I rather not” you mumble “Keira will have me head”

Luis Rubiales chose that exact moment to walk into the tunnel and you immediately stood up taller again moving in front of Jenni in a protective manner – which looked kind of ridiculous since Jenni was over a head bigger than you. He threw a death glare at you but continued walking as the crowd of english and spanish players parted like the sea for Moses.

“It's kind of cute how you try to protect me little one” Jenni chuckled from behind you

“He's a... Mapí... worst spanish curse word you know” you spat looking at Mapí

“Cojones or Cono” Mapí easily provided earning herself a really hard slap to the head from Irene and a death glare from Alexia

“That... he's both of that...” you growled looking after Rubiales

“Don't teach her that” Irene told Mapí off harshly

“She asked” the blonde tattooed woman defended herself

“And you CHOSE to answer” the Vice-Capitan answered

“I just wanted to helpful...” Mapí mumbled pouting

“Don't push it María León and just keep your mouth shut” Irene grumbled

“Bitsy... come here sweetie” Keira cooed sweetly

“Oh no... not gonna fall for that... it's like the time you told me you wouldn't get angry if I tell you what I did and after I told you you made me do push ups in the pouring rain” you shook your head looking at her scared shuffling backwards

“I promise...” the blonde tried again smiling sweetly but you saw right through it

“No no... I think I'm gonna stay with Ona” you said and the people who knew you could hear the slight fear in your voice

“You still have a pre-match conference to attend” Sarina reminded you smirking

“Aaaawww maaaaan” you whined “I did what you told me to do – why do I have to sit through that as well?”

“Because it was your game today and not mine” the dutch said “So YOU are going to answer all the questions... in a nice civilized manner”

“Ugh” you huffed and turned to walk towards the media room “But I'm not sitting next to that sorry excuse of a human being”

“Good evening Ladies and Gentleman – this is the post-match conference and we have 60 Minutes. We do it the usual way and go 30 minutes each. All question have to remind professional and under no circumstances will private questions answered. You all have one question if you want a follow up you have to talk to the person if they're willing to do one. We start with questions for the representatives of the english Lionesses Head Coach Sarina Wiegman and Y/N Bronze before going to the spanish representatives Jorge Vilda and Luis Rubiales” the coordinator said and you knew the cameras where already on so you pushed the urge down to roll your eyes your face staying stoic “We're starting with Alex Scott”

You exhaled deeply knowing Alex wouldn't ask anything regarding the Rubiales-event and probably would ask something frivolous.

“Alex Scott for BBC Sports” Alex started smiling at you “A question for Y/N Bronze”

“I know your name and where you work... I've known you for years now” you interrupted her confused which lifted the mood in the room since all of the reporters started chuckling

“That's how it goes y/n... we reporters have to introduce ourselves before asking the question” Alex smiled at you

“Oh okay...” you said quickly “... sorry for interrupting”

“No problem... but my question to you... we were all informed beforehand through different social media channels that you joined the Lionesses as a side line analyst – how comes that you basically dictated the game today?”

“I was given the chance by Sarina... Mrs. Wiegman... Coach? What do I call you?” you started then looked at Sarina unsure which caused another round of light laughter

“Sarina is fine...” the dutch smiled encouraging squeezing your knee under the table in a calming manner

“Sarina gave me the chance to work on a tactic for this game – Spain is a hard opponent to play. I got to Camp with Lucy... Bronze... Lucy Bronze my sister” you started but then got all nervous again since you actually never had to do any press stuff before.

Again Sarina jumped in by stroking over your knee calming

“... but you all know that...” you chuckled at your idiocy “... so when we arrived at Camp Sarina pulled me aside telling me she wanted me to watch some of the spanish games and to come up with a play where we at least can annoy them a little bit. I'm pretty sure she just did that to keep me occupied so I wouldn't do some stupid shit...” you said but quickly slapped your hand over your mouth “... I mean so I don't do... stuff... but yeah... after I sat down with her showing her some plays she told me to put a starting XI together.. at this point I still thought it was all like... hypothetical.. so I did... after that she said that she liked what I came up with and that she trusts me and that I'll have the lead on the game...”

“Would you be interested in answering a follow up?” Alex asked quickly knowing that she only had a short time frame before the next reporter would be called up

“For you always... I mean... you did change me diapers – I think it's just fair” you grinned

“And you were so squirmy about it... but my follow up... what made you come up with putting Lucy in Goal?” the short woman asked smiling

“Knew you would pick up on that” you laughed feeling slightly more relaxed “... that was a last second decision – I had four subs planned... two at half time, two around 70th minute... I left one slot for a possible injury sub – I played some players who just came back from an injury and I didn't want to overwork them. That's why I subbed Meado off 73rd minute in... she played outstanding and I didn't want to risk setting her back in her recovery... I quickly talked to her after she came off and she said she felt good but also appreciated getting off. So after I didn't need the left over slot and Lucy was mean to me earlier – and Keira said she would pay to see Lucy in Goal – I thought... why not... and come on... it was funny seeing her panicky waving her arms around like a monkey absolutely losing her plot screaming at Mills to keep the ball far FAR away” you laughed which caused the room to interrupt in laughter

“Okay next question please...” the coordinator said also laughing and called up a reporter you didn't knew who had a question for Sarina so you turned out and started to look around the room with a bored face which ended in a edit about how you and Lucy are so much alike in conferences

“Question for Y/N Bronze...” a young lad said and after you didn't react in the slightest being busy counting the sponsor labels on the wall behind you Sarina flicked your ear

“Huh??” you looked at you confused

“There's a question for you” the dutch gestured towards the room “Attention on the room”

“Sorry...” you said embarrassed

“You got a yellow card... how did that happened?” the young reporter asked

“First of all... that wasn't MY yellow card... THAT was Onas yellow card” you started serious but your lip tugged upwards and everyone noticed that you were joking “... she committed the foul... I just... asked the Ref if she doesn't see the need to card it”

You heard Sarina clear her throat next to you and you looked at her innocently

“What? I did” you defended yourself

“You took my glasses and ask the Ref if she needs them to and I quote “see a foul when it's happening”...” the dutch looked at you unimpressed

“Not my fault she's a blind moron – that WAS a yellow card” you exclaimed before remembering where you are and – again – slapping your hand over your mouth

Sarina exhaled deeply and started to pinch the bridge of her nose shaking her head slightly as the room erupted in laughter again

“Okay next question... Barry... your turn” the coordinator said and you tensed immediately.

Barry O'Connor was a legend under the reporters – he was one of the ones who could make you or break you. He never held back with the uncomfortable questions and he immediately knew when you lie and THAT he would use to break you.

“Thank you Tom... Barry O'Connor for The Guardian...” the older gruff man said and looked straight at you and you just KNEW what was coming “... question for Bronze... there was a slight – let's call it ruffle after the game... any comment on that?”

“Good evening Mr. O'Connor” you said politely “... I'm afraid you have to be more specific – there was a lot going on after the game”

“You punched the president of the spanish federation – the proof is sitting right there” the reporter said pointing at Rubiales

“Yeah... not my best moment is it... I want to apologize again and honestly I can't tell you what happened... I saw how he moved towards Jenni Hermoso and the next thing I know is Sarina yelling at me in the locker room...” you said and everyone in the room knew you told the truth “... I got the great honour to meet most of these players beforehand when I was visiting my sister in Barcelona and they welcomed me with open arms and helped me when I needed help – looked after me when I needed guidance... so I consider them as family... I don't take it likely if someone makes my family uncomfortable – which everyone who knows me can confirm... so I just – acted to protect my family”

“You said you needed help in Barcelona... what happened?” the older man asked

“Barry you had your question and we said from the start...” the coordinator interrupted but then got interrupted by you

“No it's okay... I'm honoured to be interesting enough to get a follow up by a reporter legend” you said and Sarina heard that you were about to get serious “It's not really a secret that I don't play because I suffered quiet early in my career from three ACL's... so even if I wanted to play I simply can't... in Barcelona a... incident happened that left me with a PTSD episode... all of them helped me afterwards – Mapí León right up top.. she went all the way to the airport to get me english chocolate... I got in the honour to get to know a few teams through Lucys career... if it was City, Lyon or now Barcelona... all of the teams have a special place in my heart but Barca now – they are something else... Alexia Putellas is an amazing leader – on and off the pitch... under her lead this team stepped up coming together as a family – no matter which nationality or background...”

You looked back at the reporter who smiled appreciative nodding slightly

“So yes... they helped me a great deal... even when I got overdosed on pain meds and didn't know what I was doing and gave them nicknames and was high as a kite” you winked

“Okay last question for the english side before we're moving on the spanish representatives” the coordinator said and pointed at a young blonde woman

“Thank you... Sarah Mulligan for ITV” the young woman said “Question for both Sarina and y/n... Sarina what made you involve y/n as much and y/n how did feel or managed with the pressure?”

“You first?” you looked at Sarina a little lost which caused the dutch to chuckle

“Thank you for your question” Sarina started and you interrupted her

“We have to thank for questions...” you exclaimed shocked before looked into the room “Thank you?”

This made everyone laugh again before Sarina continued

“It's polite Liefje” the dutch said lovingly “... but back to the question... I got to know y/n when she was recovering from her third surgery. I just took over from Phil Neville trying to get a read on the Team having called up a few young players but also some experienced ones – like Lucy Bronze. Lucy called me two days before Camp would start asking if she could bring her little sister who just got out of hospital. I agreed knowing from former games and also from stories how much Lucy cared for her sister. The moment I saw her for the very first time I knew she was someone special. She was still wearing a leg splint and was still on crutches but that didn't stop her from refusing help even going so far to hit Lucy away with her crutch...” the dutch remembering your first appearance smiling slightly “.... she was so grumpy and angry – a deep anger and I must admit I was unsure for a moment if it was a good idea to have her with the team. I feared she would bring the team spirit down – but I was wrong. So very wrong. The moment she stepped into the Hotel lobby and I saw how many players were happy to see her I knew it was the right decision. At the first training session she sat in the stands just staring down on the pitch – I must admit I kept an eye on her because Lucy asked me too... y/n never moved one muscle just stared down on the session. So I thought I let one of the assistants take over and went up to sit next to her. I sat down and asked how she was doing. Her answer was that I should rethink this formation because it's putting to much pressure on the midfield. Then she just stood up and left. I looked down on the pitch and saw Keira and Jordan Nobbs were struggling to keep up with the pace I tried to put up with the play. That was the moment I decided to get her involved more – one because she has an eye for things no one ever sees and two she needed a task. She needed something to take her mind off her injury and what it meant – what she lost. I got her involved a little bit more every camp and this time she finally accepted my offer to employ her full time which I know is a big step for her. But a big step in the right direction. A big step towards healing” the blonde said lovingly and squeezed your hand

“That got deep Mama Rina” you mumbled getting a little emotional before looking at the young reporter woman “Thank you for your question”

The room chuckled again enjoying your young easy and light way you were handling the situation of getting thrown into a press conference for the first time

“I'm sorry I can't provide such a deep meaningful answer but... I didn't feel any pressure to be honest. As I said before until the very last moment – the moment that Sarina made me explain my tactics to the team to be exact – it was all hypothetical for me. And after that I didn't really have time to feel pressured – I tell ya this team is a handful. Just yesterday Niamh called out Code Red – which means no one is allowed to leave – because she couldn't find her lucky socks... turns out the washed them in the sink and hung them on the balcony and they just fell off onto the balcony of Lottes... that's the shit you guys normally don't get to see” you said shaking your head when you remembered how ridiculously headless Niamh tore her room apart because of a pair of socks.

After the room quiet down from their round of laughter again the whole questioning shifted towards the spanish men and you started to spin with your chair until Sarina stopped you gently putting her hand on your arm to calm you down. You huffed but stayed still trying to listen to the answers of the Vilda and Rubiales but it was no use.

You heard your name a couple of times but since you didn't have any context you chose to ignore it – that was until a fuming Mapí León with an equally fuming Leila Ouahabi hot on her heels came blazing into the room both of them throwing some words at Vilda and Mapí even went so far to crawl onto the table separating the trainers from the reporters. Seconds later an angry looking Alexia entered the room just in time to grab Mapís ankle and pulling her back and away from the spanish national team coach. She tried to get her players under control by pulling both of them back by the hem of their jerseys. Mapí was kicking and screaming like a five year old – of course in spanish so you didn't understand a word – the only thing you understood was when Mapí yelled “mi Nena” - but when you looked at Vildas face it told you everything that you needed to know. You looked flabbergasted to Sarina who looked just as shocked and shrugged her shoulders before you turn towards the reporters where some just shook their head in disbelieve.

The post-match conference was ended pretty quickly after that and you basically jumped over the table sprinting out of the room past Keira and Lucy – who were waiting for you outside the room – towards the spanish locker room. This time you weren't as friendly as before and bolted through the door without knocking even tho you could hear Alexias angry voice half way down the corridor. The second you threw the door open the whole team looked at you and everyone fell silent – even Alexia.

“What the fuck just happened?” you looked at Alexia lost

“Cariño I love you I do... but this is something we have to talk about internally” Alexia said softly

“Mapí was about to strangle that mop in front of thousands and you say this is an internal thing?” you raised an eyebrow

“He called her a “lost little child who wears shoes that are to big for her and she's useless”... mi Nena knows EXACTLY what she's doing... mierda we lost FIVE zero...” Mapí started to rage again and you became big eyes

“Mapí ENOUGH” Alexia scolded her “Everyone SAW what she did and her head coach isn't a useless... culo like ours... there's no need for you to defend her... she has Lucy for that”

“But Lucy didn't do anything...” Mapí said outraged

“Because her spanish is shit and she probably didn't understand” you shrugged accepting the water bottle Ona held out for you “And the way you hesitated at the word “culo” means it's bad and I'll definitely save that down in me brain”

“No you won't Bebita” Ona smiled sweetly but you know just like with Keira it was a warning “Bad word”

“Then Alexia has to do push-ups... that the bad word rule!” you exclaimed and Alexia looked at you unimpressed

“I'm an adult... I can say whatever I want” the blonde spaniard said flatly

“Rule applies for everyone Capi” Jenni now grinned “Down on your hands and knees you go”

“What does culo mean?” you leaned over so you could whisper in Mapís ear

“Asshole” Mapí whispered back

“That'll make 15” you looked at Alexia “That word is an A-grade swear word.. A-grade swear words make 15 push ups...”

“I most definitely won't do any push-ups...” Alexia rolled her eyes

“But I always have to do them” you whined

“And look how much more your arms and shoulders are defined since I last saw you” the spanish capitan smiled and pinched your cheek

“You suck” you grumbled pushing yourself behind Ona to seek cover from her prying hands

“No little one... that's me... she's more the...” Jenni smirked but before she could end the sentence she got punched very hard in the shoulder by Alexia

“Come on Bebita... let's get you back to the Lionesses...” Ona said lovingly already pushing you forward slightly “Say bye-bye”

“Ass-dios” you waved which caused the younger players to explode in laughter – including Jenni – while Alexia threw you a death glare as Ona quickly pushed you out the door

“Keira...” Ona yelled seeing Keira down the corridor

“There you are!!! We where searching the whole place for you!!” Keira exclaimed the second she laid eyes on you “Don't you ever do that again!!!”

“I was just at the spaniards and pretty spaniard taught me a new word” you smiled at the blonde proudly

“Don't even” Ona warned you

“What happened?” Keira turned towards the blonde spaniard

“She suddenly kicked in our locker room door... and didn't except “it's an internally affair” from Alexia” your sisters girlfriend shrugged her shoulders

“Uh Kei...” you pulled on her jacket a little bit “Alexia said an A-grade swear word... and she refused to do push-ups”

“Really now... we can't have that now can we?” Keira mused sensing that you started to get tired and pulled you into her side winking at Ona before turning around slowly leading you back towards the Lioness locker room pulling out her phone to text Lucy and Leah that she “found” you

“You little shite...” Lucy started immediately but got cut off by Keira

“Leave her be... she's dead on her feet” the blond said firmly basically carrying all your weight your head on her shoulder

“Come here Bubs” Lucy exhaled deeply hoisting you away from Kei into her own arms cradling you like you were a three year old again while Keira got all your bags

“How bad is it outside?” your sister asked Leah who sneaked a look outside looking at the crowd waiting for the players to emerge from the stadium walking to the bus

“Nothing we're not used too...” the blonde capitan shrugged

“I'm asking because of her” Lucy nodded towards your sleeping form in her arms slightly drooling on your sisters jacket “If she gets startled half the team won't get an inch of sleep tonight – you remember the drama after the France game?”

“Wait... I get the noise cancelling headphones” Mary said thinking quickly pulling already on Rachels headphones getting them off her and carefully sliding them on your head.

You quickly got startled by the sudden loss of hearing but Lucy had you under control quickly by manoeuvring your head into her neck. The moment you smelled the familiar scent of your sister skin you relaxed again becoming boneless in her arms.

“She's so out” Keira chuckled

“You surprised?” Lucy answered hoisting you up a little more “Fuck me... this was easier when she was 3”

“No shit Sherlock” Millie deadpanned “Gimme... I'll carry her”

“Naah – we're good” your sister said but smiled at her teammate thankfully “I'll just bring her into the bus and then come out to sign some stuff...”

“You don't have to – you're not obligated to do so and you know it” Leah said seriously

“I know... but they waited long enough now and she'll be good once she's inside the bus” your sister answered “Let's get this show on the road”

As soon as the doors opened the fans went wild – as usual and Lucy was so SO thankful for Marys quick thinking of putting the noise cancelling headphones over your ears. Your sister walked quickly with you in her arms towards the bus disappearing inside it. She disposed you into her own seat asking the bus driver if he could have half an eye on you. Of course he agreed quickly being a fan of you himself with all the shenanigans you came up with all the time.

Your eyes fluttered open slowly and you were met with – darkness. Darkness and softness. You bolted upright searching for your phone in the dark. Getting more arrogated which each passing second you knocked over a bottle of water which caused a light to get switched on and you were met with the sleepy looking form of your girlfriend.

“What you doing baby?” Georgia asked her voice raspy

“What are you doing in my room?” you asked confused “Why am I in my room??”

“Firstly... that's my room... secondly... you were out like a light once Keira found you and then YOU wouldn't let go of me shirt and Keira got Lucy to agree to let us room for tonight under the promise that I won't touch you in any “not biblical” form” your girlfriend informed you

“Wait... what day is it???” you looked at her confused

“What?” Georgia asked equally confused

“Day baby... what DAY is it?” you looked at her like you're going to have a mental breakdown any second

“Still Wednesday... game day.. 23:48... why” G answered keeping her voice even to not set you off further

“Oh thank fuck” you sighed “Get ready... come on... take your phone”

You ushered your girlfriend out of her bed – not without ogling her body for a second longer that would go through as “biblical” - and then out of the room up a floor hiding behind a corner taking out our phone.

“23:52... perfect” you grinned

“What have you planned??” your girlfriend whispered in your ear from behind/above you which cause a shiver to run down your spine

“Welcoming Sarinas new year of age” you swallowed hard trying not to think what you could do now with your girlfriend instead of hiding waiting for the pipers to come down the corridor.

“Oh god... WHAT did you do??” G whisper yelled “If I get in trouble for it...”

“Please... as if I let you get in trouble” you snorted spotting the first piper stepping out of the elevator

“Oh god... oh god no... no no no no no” your girlfriend mumbled with wide eyes having spotted the piper as well “You didn't”

“Oh I so did... mi Vida” you grinned evilly

“Me what?” Georgia asked confused

“No idea... Lucy always calls Ona that – probably something dirty turn ons in spanish” you shrugged your shoulder “Where the fuck are Toons and Less?? And Jill... where is Jill?”

The moment you said it you saw your two best friends sprinting down the corridor, little party hats askew on their heads another set in their hands. Less was carrying some glitter bombs and confetti canons.

“We're not late” Toons panted coming to a halt in front of you “What she doing here?”

“I'm her girlfriend??” Georgia said confused

“Still doesn't answer me question... you don't get to bake in our fame” Ella said annoyed holding out a party hat for you which you immediately placed on your head

“Fame? You really think that going down well for you?” your girlfriend snorted nodding towards the piper who just set up their bagpipes.

“Of course... that a birthday she'll never forget” Lessi answered grinning widely “Can we start?”

“No.. we still missing Jill” you pressed taking Georgias phone to look at the clock “23:59... come on Jill”

You heard the “ding” of the elevator and surely enough there came a big three story birthday cake wheeling out with a widely grinning Jill Scott pushing it down the corridor towards you.

“Where were you?” you came out of your hiding – which was useless anyway since Toons and Less stood right in front of you – speed walking towards Jill smashing a party hat on her head.

“Had to think about something to get the room card” your Godaunt and most trusted adult friend – after Keira – said pulling out the little plastic card from her back pocket

“What did you say?” you snorted Jill could come up with the best backstories

“Want to surprise my wife for her birthday” the older woman smirked back “easy in the nights since there are only teenage boys covering Front Desk”

“We'll leave quickly after we delivered our present so you two have some alone time” you smirked

“Thank you Cookie – we very much appreciate it” the dirty blonde laughed “You guys ready?”

All of you nodded and Jill very VERY carefully pushed the card into the electronic lock waiting for the signature “click” before pushing open the door. You had Georgias phone ready and when Jill gave you a thumbs up you started recording. The pipers shuffled into the small hotel room and on a small cough from you they started piping “Auld Lang Syne” and not even five seconds in the light next to the bed got smashed on and a completely demolished Sarina Wiegman sat in her bed, blanket pulled up to her chest, glasses askew from being placed quickly on her nose, hair standing in every direction like she just got electrocuted her eyes wide in shock. The pipers went seamlessly over to “When the Saint go marching in” before finishing with “Scotland the Brave”. The second the little private concert was over Toons and Less let the Glitter bombs and Confetti canons explode right over Sarina – and her bed – all of you yelling “Happy Birthday”.

Your plan was nearly perfect. Get glitter and confetti all over Sarina before bolting. What you DIDN'T think off – pipers where loud. Very loud. Waking up most of the squad in process. Like Leah. And Lucy. And – most dangerously – Keira. So the moment you wanted to bolt you were met with a LOT of Lionesses. Angry looking Lionesses. Angry looking Keira. You locked eyes with her and after a second ducked behind Toons before sinking down on the ground trying to army rob out of the room hoping everyone was too distracted by everything that's going on. Oh boy where you wrong – of COURSE Keira saw you the second you tried to rob out of the room placing herself right in your way. You looked up when you hit her legs with your head which you kept down so it wouldn't been to obvious who was pressed in that room – which was overflowing with players now. Niamh and Toons already got cake in their hands (plates were overrated at this point) as Leah tried to control the chaos. You bumped into Keiras legs and looked up scared to be met with two angry glaring eyes. You tried to quickly rob backwards just to get stuck in Millies legs.

“I don't think so, y/n Bronze” Keira seethed pulling you up by your ear “Are you actually mad? Did you finally lose your plot? Why in gods name...”

“Hey Kei... you want cake... it's chocolate” your sister interrupted Keiras rant holding a hand full of cake right under the blondes nose

Keira just looked at Lucy then to you and back to Lucy who smiled like a happy kid with her handful of cake.

“I don't know if I should yell at both of you or just give up...” the blonde shook her head

“Keep calm and eat cake” Lucy smiled pushing her hand closer to Keiras face who automatically moved her head out of the way

“No thank you... it's in the middle of the night” the blonde said a little disgusted

“And?? You think we ever get away with eating cake in the middle of the night ever again??? Embrace the moment Kei... USE the moment” your sister said before she pushed the handful of cake into her mouth and you listened to what your sister said and used the moment to carefully sneaked away from Keira.

You tugged on Georgias shirt at your swift exit and she followed you just as quickly

“You know you're in big shit tomor... today... today morning... later... in the morning” your girlfriend rambled

“I know... but so worth it” you smiled and the second you two were through the door to the stairs case you pulled her back on her shirt kissing her deeply

“Not that I'm complaining...” Georgia started once you parted again “... but what brought that on?”

“You still had a little frosting..” you smirked pointing at your own lip “... I think I better check for more frosting once we're back in our room... you are a messy eater after all”

“I.. I think I dropped some of the cake...” your girlfriend stuttered a little bit and you could see her eyes darkening

“Yeah... thought so...” you smirked starting to walk up the stairs towards Georgias room when you suddenly feel your feet leave the ground and your girlfriend hoisted you over her shoulder

“What are you doing??” you laughed loudly as Georgia sprinted up the stairs

“You're a slowpoke sometimes” your girlfriend said exiting the staircase sprinting down the corridor on your floor before fumbling with the key card to open the door

“Open you stupid door” your girlfriend grumbled you still hanging over your shoulder snickering

“Let me down... makes it easier” you laughed slightly

“I nearly got it... wait a second” Georgia mumbled but a second later you heard her kicking the door

“Baby come on.... let me down” you laughed louder lightly poking her rips

“But don't run away” your girlfriend said her voice a little whine

“As if” you snorted and felt her scrunch down to put you on the ground before she came up again and you were face to face with each other

Your eyes quickly flickered down to her lips before looking at her eyes again. Before you could make up your mind you felt Georgias lips on yours kissing you deeply and you couldn't suppress a moan which your girlfriend used to slip her tongue into your mouth. She pinned you against the door her hands against your hip she used her whole body to keep you were you currently were. You on the other hand fished the little plastic card out of her hand where it poked into your skin and opened the door behind your back without even looking. The door opened with a small “beep” and you smirked against your girlfriends lips.

“Show off” Georgia mumbled against your lips and pushed you backwards into the hotel room already pulling your shirt over your head

“Fuck” you panted as your back hit the mattress next to your girlfriend a light sheet of sweat covering your body “THAT...”

“Better than the last time?” Georgia smirked smugly her breathing coming out laboured

“Nothing can top last time Babe... but you tried” you chuckled turning your body so you were pressed into the blondes side tucking your head into her neck feeling how her arm sneaked around your back pulling you closer

“I mean... I can try again” you heard the smirk feeling how her hand started to wander again “and again... and again... and again”

“No... please don't... you tried enough for tonight” you chuckled as Georgia stroked lightly over your ribs tickling you slightly before pushing her hand away positioning it on your hip

Georgia showed mercy just rubbing her thumb soothingly over your hipbone pressing a soft kiss to your hair

“You only getter better with training...” your girlfriend smirked then yelped as you poked her side

“You telling me I'm bad at what I'm doing?” you pushed yourself up onto your elbow looking down at her raising your eyebrow

“No no no no...” Georgia quickly said pulling you back down this time on top of her holding you tightly to her chest

“Mhm... that's what I thought” you mumbled closing your eyes relaxing against the blondes chest just enjoying the time you have with your girlfriend without needing to worry about your sister interrupting

You felt Georgia wriggling around under you which caused you to lift your head – again.

“Really? You still want to... again?” you look at your girlfriend expectantly

“No... I actually just tried to get the blanket” Georgia laughed as she finally got the hem of the blanket and pulled it over the two of you “... wouldn't want to deliver you back to your pit bull-like sister with a cold”

“DON'T mention my sister right now... that doesn't.. no.. just no” you grunted

“Sorry...” your girlfriend chuckled

“You're disturbing my post-orgasmic-bliss” you complained whining

“Sorry... I can... I don't know... make you forget that I just said that?” Georgia smiled her hand starting to wander towards your ass again while the other grabbed your breast teasingly

“Gosh... you really are impossible” you rolled your eyes prying her hand off your breast

“I mean... did you see my girlfriend? I can't help meself” the blonde grinned pulling you a little upwards to press a kiss to your lips

“Mhm... I did see her... still don't know how you scored her?” you teased smirking

“I didn't... she's stubborn... but I'm glad she threatened to break me legs if I don't pull my finger out of me ass...” Georgia murmured kissing you softly and smiled

“Did she now? I should talk to her... apparently she knows how to keep you in check – you can be quiet... defying” you grinned letting her kiss you over and over again

“Excuse me?” your girlfriend exclaimed acting upset

“Mhm... didn't my sister told you – multiple times I might add – to keep your hands away from me?” you grinned kissing her this time

“I CAN keep me hands to meself” Georgia smirked “Question is.. would you want that?”

“Such a rebel aren't you...” you smirked kissing along your girlfriends jaw down her to her neck

“Have me moments” Georgias voice betrayed her as she clearly getting turned on again

“Mhm.... Keira told me” you smirked against her neck before biting down slightly

“Keira??” this time it was G who got sober immediately

“It's a turn off isn't it... hearing about them” you grinned sitting up now straddling her waist

“Yes” your girlfriend grumbled “What did that wanna be ginger told you?”

“That you got your first tattoo the day after you turned 18” you smirked the blanket loosely draped around your hip

“SHE roped me into it!” Georgia exclaimed sitting up as well

“Oh really?” you smirked down on her taking her face in your hands kissing her softly “Do tell”

“She just got a new one and because she knew Mama Walsh will have her ass she convinced me to get one too... then after the next england game she hugged her mum and of COURSE Mama Walsh immediately saw it” your girlfriend told you rolling her eyes “And the next thing I know is she pulled me over by me sleeve “Georgia has one too – and she's basically a baby”... then Mama Walsh had me ass too”

“She played you...” you laughed loudly “.... she played you so hard”

“Yeah... I had to stand there for 12 Minutes getting lectured by Mama Walsh about the risks of tattoos...” your girlfriend grumbled

“To be fair... when Mama Walsh has it out for your ass you better find someone who you can distract her with” you shrugged still grinning

“Yeah... she can be scary... but I'm still sure she loves me more than Keira” Georgia grinned straining her neck a little so she could steal a kiss again

“Bet she loves ME more than all of you” you smirked pressing a wet kiss to her lips

“Yeah yeah... you're everyones favourite” your girlfriend rolled her eyes again but the slight smile never leaving her lips

“G... I... have a question” you hesitated a little bit

“What you need, baby?” Georgia asked softly but seriously

“I want a tattoo... I want you to do it” you blurted out

“What?” your girlfriend looked at you dumb folded

“I want you to tattoo me.... I know what I want and where I want it...” you said seriously

“Baby.... I can't do that” Georgia looked up at you as you stare down at her with a little betrayal in your eyes “... first.. I never inked someone and secondly... Lucy and Keira would definitely kill me... and third.. you're 16...”

“Then I'm gonna be your first like you were mine...” you grinned and with each passing second it got wider “... Lucy and Keira never need to know... and my Birthday is in two weeks”

“Which still makes you underage” your girlfriend pointed out and you heard that you slowly wearing her down

“I can get you Lucys signing if you want... like... setting up a document that she's not allowed to kill you” you smiled widely

“I tell you what... If you get that done I'll seriously think about it” Georgia said and you leaned down kissing her softly “... but I'm not doing anything big”

“Don't worry... nothing big...” you promised scratching your girlfriends neck lightly

“And where?” Georgia kissed your neck softly

“Right...” you took her hand laying it on your left side guiding it up to the point where your bra would sit “... here”

“A rib tattoo? Baby... that's a bad idea... that will hurt like a bitch” your girlfriend murmured against your neck kissing her way down to your collarbone

“I can take it... I really want it” you said breathlessly

“Maybe somewhere else?” Georgia mumbled kissing her way further down her destination clear

“That's the only place Luce won't see it immediately” you now outright moaned “Fuck”

“Mhm” your girlfriend hummed sucking your hard nipple into her mouth

“You just can't... fuck...” you started to complain but your voice betrayed you once again and your hip rocked forward on its own accord

“You want something baby??” Georgia asked after she let go of your nipple with a wet pop

“More... please” your head fell onto Gs shoulder your hips still rocking in her lap

“More?” your girlfriend smirked starting to knead your other breast

“Please” you whined

“Fingers or mouth baby?” Georgia basically growled against your skin getting slightly possessive

“Fingers” you whined lifting your hips a bit and Georgia got the hint letting her hand slip in between your legs

“You're gonna be good for me?” your girlfriend growled starting to mark your skin with small bites not enough to leave a constant mark like she'd like to

“Yes... but please” you begged and whined trying to get her fingers inside you but her hand laid still between your legs

“You won't come without permission will you baby? You'll wait until I tell you that you can come, right?” Georgia playfully bit your nipple

“I won't... I promise” you moaned rocking your hips down trying to find some pressure relieve

“Good... and you won't becauseeee...” your girlfriend teased your entrance with one finger

“Yours” you whined desperately

“Mine what?” Georgia nudged the underside of your jaw with her nose

“All yours...” you nearly broke “... G please”

“Ssshh baby... I've got you” your girlfriend soothed you slipping her finger into you

“Fuck” you whimpered feeling Georgias digit enter your heat

“Mhm... so wet... so hot... so desperate” Georgia mumbled against your jaw kissing her way to the point just under your ear “All for me or is there someone else?”

“No one else” you panted against her shoulder

“Are you sure baby? No one...” your girlfriend bit down lightly “... someone spanish maybe... Jenni Hermoso maybe?”

Your hips rocked down hard on her finger your rhythmic movement faltering for a second before it picked up again

“Hmmm...” Georgia hummed pleased “... maybe that could be arranged one day”

“Fuck...” you whimpered

“Bubs??” you heard suddenly through the door loud banging followed

“Fuck” you looked at Georgia shocked her face just as frightened

“BUBS?” Lucy said a little louder

“What??” you yelled back your hand covering your girlfriends mouth

“You okay? You were gone suddenly” your sister spoke loudly

“Yeah... just... didn't wanna wait till Keira recovered from her confusement” you tried

“Can you maybe open the door?? I'm standing here like an idiot” Lucy sneered

“It's... not the best time Luce...” you whined “I'm... about to go shower”

“Well... then let me in and shower then” your sister wasn't giving up and you knew it

“You can also go back to your own room” you said helplessly

“Can't... Less has the key card and I don't know where Less is” Lucy groaned

“Lucy please... just... go somewhere else” you whined back even knowing all mood was gone

“You are my sister... why would I go somewhere... wait a second... where is Georgia?? Is Stanway with you???” your sister exclaimed

“No for god sakes Lucy... I just want to shower in peace... fuck off now” you yelled through the room and suddenly it was quiet

“Fuck me... she really knows how to ruin the mood” you grumbled lifting yourself off your girlfriends lap who was still rooted in her place “Unbelievable”

“That was close” Georgia stammed still a little scared

“Yeah well.. I was too...” you continue to grumble mostly to yourself until... you heard the signature “beep” of the door – your head shot up first to the door then to your girlfriend who spotted the same frightened look as you

You quickly threw on a shirt and gestured to Georgia to hide – which was ridiculous since it was firstly her room and secondly there wasn't really anywhere for her to hide

“Hide” you whisper yelled panicked while you threw a shoe at the door trying to block it

“Where??” Georgia whisper yelled back looking around just as panicked

“I don't know” you pulled on some shorts quickly

“Bubs... you blocking the door?” you heard Lucys voice and already saw the crown of her head trying to make its way inside the room

“Why would I??” you answered and tried to sound annoyed watching your girlfriend ripping open the door of the closet “Really?? You wanna hide in the wardrobe??”

“You have a better idea?” your girlfriend hissed back

“Bath or Balcony?” you looked at her confused

“Bubs... the door is stuck” your sister complained again

“You are stuck you muppet” you shot back pushing your girlfriend outside on the balcony

“Yeah well maybe you open the door then” Lucy said annoyed

You quickly went over ripping the door open looking at her expectantly

“What you want and where did you get that key?” you grunted at her

“Wanted to make sure you okay – you're on Sarinas list now... and key... Leah – as the capitan she has a universal key” your sister shrugged her shoulders “Jesus Christ Bubs... open the windows would you... it seriously stinks in here”

“I will... I just didn't want to come back from me shower into a cold room” you lied weakly “you saw that I'm alright now... so... good night”

“Yeah since I don't know where Less is... can I crash at yours?” Lucy rubbed the back of her neck embarrassed

“No” you exclaimed before clearing your throat “I mean... that's a little inconvenient Luce...”

“I'm your sister” Lucy exclaimed rolling her eyes

“I know and I love you... seriously... but I just want to shower and go to bed.. I...” you said trying to come up with an excuse “... I... have this... woman problem you know....”

“Your period?” your sister asked confused

“Yes...” you nodded slowly

“And? Gosh Bubs you really scared me there for a second... you need anything?” Lucy said lovingly

“Just... peace and quiet... please” you basically begged her at this point

“Geez okay... I'm already leaving...” your sister said and you noticed she got all defensive

“Luce” you whined

“No it's okay... you're a grown up now... you don't need me anymore” Lucy said already half way through the door

“That's not true.... Lucy come on...” you said again trying to calm your sister down

“Keira said I need to let you spread your wings... WINGS Bubs... not your legs okay” your sister said and pointed at you threating

“Okay Ew... that's disgusting” you pulled a face disgusted

“Exactly... sex is disgusting... never take part in it” Lucy said happy with herself

“Yeah...” you said embarrassed “... you're too later for that I'm afraid”

“Good... now go shower and then to bed... Sarina will blast through your door in... four hours” your sister smiled quickly checking her watch

“What does Sarina want?” you ask confused

“You're on her list... you gonna run” Lucy smiled before disappearing into the corridor again

“Fuck me” you exclaimed whining closing the door making your way to the bathroom

You just stepped under the shower when you remembered something important

“FUCK” you quickly jumped out of the shower wrapping yourself in a big fluffy towel before speed walking through the room opening the balcony door again pushing your head outside looking at your girlfriend who was just covered by a thin blanket standing pressed into the corner of the outside space

“Lucys gone” you smiled innocently ushering Georgia inside

“Do you know how cold it is in England this time of the year??” your girlfriend said her teeth chattering slightly

“Yeah I know... I'm sorry... but come on... I already turned on the shower for you” you smiled

“Gosh I love you” Georgia said pressing a kiss to your forehead heading towards the bathroom

“Oh and babe... Sarina will kick our door down in about four hours...” you nonchalantly called after her and you heard a crashing sound

“WHAT??”

[anonymous-dentist]

Or: Prince Roier Hires a Faerie to Help With His Divorce (he hasn't gotten married yet)

For day two of @smallchaoscryptid's Spiderbit Week - Fae/Kiss

-

Once upon a time...

Roier picks his way through the foliage with a grimace. His feet hurt, twigs keep smacking into his face, bugs keep flying into his mouth. This sucks, but it'll all be worth it.

Thunder rolls above, and rain starts pouring down without a second's warning.

...It'll all be worth it.

He's due back at the castle by morning, but, honestly, he'd kinda rather die than go back. If the wolves eat him, so be it!

Grumbling, he pulls his hood up over his head, and he continues onward. If he freezes to death out here, so be it!

He's not planning on going back to the castle alive, anyway.

Legend has it that, deep in the haunted forest surrounding the Kingdom of Quesadilla, there lives a man-eating witch capable of tearing a man's soul from his body before he can so much as breathe in her general direction. Nobody knows this witch's name, but everybody knows that she's totally fucked up: if she isn't eating people, she's eating bears, and her magic is said to be as destructive as the eruption that created the universe.

Roier needs to meet her now.

So he continues trudging through the woods. The lantern in his hand is fighting to stay lit, and his boots are filled with enough water to drown a rat with, but he's fine. He's going to die miserable, but he's fine.

There's a flash of lightning bright enough to blind him, and then there's a crash of thunder loud enough to make him jump and nearly drop his lantern. When his vision returns, the tree in front of him is toppled to the side, leaving only a charred and smoking stump behind.

And then there's the cat.

Roier, frankly, stares. Because... what?

It's a cute cat, at least: brown with black stripes almost like a tiger's and blue eyes so bright that they almost seem to glow in the night. It sits on the stump with its tail curled around its paws, very polite, 10/10 cat.

Hesitantly, Roier approaches. He holds the lantern up to the cat, tilts his head, smiles.

"You're so cute," he coos, bending down to pet the cat between its little ears. "What are you doing out here, eh?"

The cat yawns, and then it huffs, "I could ask you the same question."

Roier screams and recoils and drops his lantern. It goes out, but the forest doesn't grow any dimmer because the cat is fucking glowing now, okay. Okay!

The cat rolls its eyes, tail twitching. "Okay, ouch. I'm not that scary."

"You're a talking cat," Roier breathes. "What the fuck?"

"What, you were expecting the witch?"

A pause.

Then:

"Oh, come on!"

Roier finally collects himself, brushing the water off of his cloak and adjusting his hood and picking up his lantern.

The cat stands and starts pacing the stump in a small, annoyed circle.

"The witch isn't even real," it complains. "She never was! Witches aren't real!"

Roier frowns. "Fuck you, man, my best friend is a witch."

"They aren't. Witches aren't real. Magicians are real, but witches-"

"You are literally a talking cat."

"I am a faerie," the cat corrects, sounding almost pained as it does so. "Faeries are real. Witches are fake. It's all anti-faerie propaganda created by the Federation-"

"By the what?"

The cat flicks his tail at Roier; Roier's mouth shuts, and, to his alarm, he finds that he can't open it again no matter how hard he tries.

The cat angrily swipes a leaf off of the stump. Unfortunately, it is really cute as it does so.

But then it starts complaining again, and Roier decides that this annoying fucking faerie cat isn't that cute after all.

"I haven't eaten anybody in centuries!" the cat shouts. "Fucking Cucurucho..."

Roier's eyes widen.

He waves at the cat until the cat does its magic thing again and allows him to talk.

First, Roier sucks in a deep breath through his mouth. That was uncomfortable.

Then, he says, "I know Cucurucho. I'm supposed to marry him in three days."

The cat's eyes narrow. Its shadow beneath it seems to grow; it tinges itself red like a pool of water with blood in it, wow. That's almost cool.

"That's why I'm here," Roier explains. "I need the witch to kill me so I don't have to marry him."

The cat sits.

"I see," it says. "Unfortunately, the witch isn't real."

"Suuuure, but you are." Roier sneaks closer. "Can't you just-" He opens his hands and wiggles his fingers. "-magic me dead?"

The cat stares at Roier's fingers. "Um. No. Faeries can't kill."

Roier deflates. "Ugh."

With a frustrated groan, he sits on the stump next to the cat. The cat grumbles, but it doesn't, like, magic him onto the ground, so that's kinda nice of it.

"But," the cat says, slowly as if questioning itself as it speaks, "I can get you to kill for me."

Oh. Now there's a thought. But...

Roier looks to the side at the cat. "I've tried. I'm pretty sure he's immortal, man."

"You haven't tried killing him with faerie magic. Now, come here."

The cat hops off of the stump and pads into the forest. After a moment, Roier follows.

They walk until they reach a hollowed-out tree. Then, the cat hops into the tree and mutters to itself as it looks for something.

Eventually, the cat pokes its head out of the tree with an opaque brown bottle held in its mouth.

Roier takes the bottle and turns it over in his hands.

"This," the cat says, "is extract of unicorn. Mix this in with Cucurucho's food, and he'll be dead by the end of the night."

Roier's mouth twitches. It'll happen, just like that? Just like that? Decades of oppression over just. Like. That?

"Okaaayyy," Roier drawls. He looks back up at the cat with a small smile. "Thank you."

The cat responds by clambering out of the tree and lounging on a branch hanging by Roier's face.

"No, thank you," the cat insists. "You'll be doing us both a favor if you manage to kill that asshole."

"If this kills him, you'll be a hero."

"Oh, I'm no hero. I'm just..." (The cat grins with far too many teeth in its mouth.) "...an invested party."

Well, the cat is probably evil. But that's fine. So is Cucurucho, and two wrongs make a right, right?

-

Well, wrong! Because Cucurucho isn't fucking dead.

Roier stomps back to the tree stump with the faerie's empty unicorn piss whatever bottle in hand. He doesn't have a lantern this time because, frankly, he really isn't intent on returning to the castle this time. If he trips over a root and dies, so be it!

The cat is nowhere to be seen. Of course, the bastard.

"Gatinho!" Roier calls. He cups both hands around his mouth and spins in a circle and continues shouting, "Gatinho! Where the fuck are you! Come here!"

No response.

Frustrated, Roier chucks the bottle to the ground and plops onto the stump. He puts his head in his hands and groans.

"I am going to fucking die," he moans. "I can't go home, I need to die, what the fuck."

A twig snaps. A presence ghosts over his shoulder, what feels like fingers grazing his tunic. But, when he snaps his head up and turns around, all he sees is the cat sitting behind him.

Roier's eyes narrow. "You."

"Me," the cat agrees. "Did it work? Is he dead? Please tell me he's dead. He's dead, right?"

"No! He isn't! He thought that unicorn shit was edible glitter! Now he wants it at the wedding!"

The cat blinks. "Huh."

"Yeah, 'huh'." Roier huffs and turns back around and hides his face again. "Fuck you, man. You said it would kill him."

"It should've. He's a demon, right?"

"How should I know? He's a fucking bear wizard thing."

"Okay, again, wizards aren't real, magicians are. But you're marrying him, right? How do you not know what species he is?"

"It's not like I'm getting a choice in the matter," Roier spits. He glares into the palms of his hands, shoulders shaking with barely-concealed rage. "Either I marry him or he destroys the kingdom."

There's a pregnant pause as the cat takes this information in. Fair, honestly. Roier hadn't exactly told him that he's a prince. Wasn't important, still isn't important. Doesn't matter if he's a prince if he's being sold off to marry a goddamn bear like he's a common animal.

It's for the good of the kingdom, Foolish had said. He and Vegetta have always liked Cucurucho despite Cucurucho being a legendary fucking creep. It's either you or Leo.

And Roier isn't the one that's meant to take the throne after his parents die.

"Can't you just kill me?" Roier asks. He waves a hand in a random direction. "Just make a tree fall on me or something. It'll be an accident, it's fine, your faerie cops won't know."

"Um, no," the cat says. "That's fucked up."

"Don't you eat people? How the fuck do you eat people without killing them?"

"Who says I killed them before eating them?"

Ah. Sounds about right.

...Kinda cool, to be honest. Imagining a tiny little kitty cat rip a grown dude apart like he's a slice of bread. Almost funny in a way.

Roier jumps as something brushes the hair out of his face.

He jerks his head upright and glares down at the cat, now sitting delicately in front of him.

"I have an idea," the cat tells him. "Follow me."

As they walk back to the hollow tree, the cat asks, "Does Cucurucho still have that freaky mechanical sword?"

Roier thinks. "Maybe? I don't know, he kinda just sits and stares at people. Sometimes he chases the servants around with a sword? Dunno if it's mechanical, though..."

"Well, any sword will work. Hold on."

The cat leaps into the tree and comes out with a new bottle, this one clear.

Roier takes the bottle and swishes it around. The liquid inside looks like oil, okay...

"This is dragon's blood," the cat explains. "It's corrosive to the touch, so be careful. Tell him that it's a special polish for his sword. It should eat his skin to the bone and kill him dead."

"Huh," Roier says, suddenly much more careful with the bottle. He gently slides it into his pocket, makes sure it's secure between a bag of coins and his headband. "Okay. Cool."

"This should work," the cat says. "But I'll try and think of something else for if it doesn't."

"Yeah, well, it'd better work," Roier huffs. "I'm getting married in two days. Then the gods only know what he's gonna do with me."

"Trust me, we'll figure it out."

"Trust you? Aren't you some kind of evil faerie cat?"

The cat looks offended. "Excuse you, I'm barely evil anymore. All I do is read these days. Do you know how many books I have at my house? More than Cucurucho, that's for sure."

"You have a house?"

The cat visibly bristles. "Of course I have a house. What, do you think I'm homeless?"

"You are a cat."

"Not all the time!"

Oh, that's interesting. Roier can almost imagine what the cat looks like in a human form, but the idea escapes him at the last second.

"Whatever," Roier sighs. "Just kill me tomorrow if this doesn't work."

-

Roier doesn't even bother shouting as he storms up to the stump.

He sits, pulls his cloak off, tosses it to his feet, kicks it away. What the fuck!!

He doesn't so much as blink as the cat appears by his side.

"It didn't work?" the cat cries. "Really? That should've worked!"

"Yeah, well, it didn't," Roier huffs. "He wore gloves today. And Cucurucho figured out that I've been sneaking out to see someone at night, so he told my parents that we're going to move to a different castle out in the middle of nowhere. I bet he's going to lock me up, the piece of shit."

The cat's ears lay back on its head. Its eyes narrow, and its lip curls back in a clear snarl.

"I know," Roier agrees. "Fuck this guy for real."

"Fuck him."

"Fuck him!"

Roier smiles just for a second, and he even manages a brief laugh before remembering, right. He's fucking doomed. Right.

Sighing, he slumps to the side until he's tumbling off of the stump and splayed across the ground. He buries his face in the grass and screams.

To his credit, he hardly jumps as a hand firmly settles on his back and rubs it. Small circles, firm hand, big hand, it feels like, wow.

Something- a knee?- presses against Roier's arm firmly. It's grounding in a way. Almost.

"I'm getting married tomorrow," Roier whines. "Just kill me, gatinho. I promise I won't tell anyone."

"I'm not going to kill you, guapito," the cat says. (Roier blushes. Guapito...) Its voice sounds deeper, almost. Louder. More clear. "I can't."

"Then what am I supposed to do? Marry Cucurucho?"

"I won't let that happen."

"Why? Because you want to kill him? Because that hasn't exactly been working so far."

"Because it's super fucked up that he's forcing you to marry him. I don't give a shit about the kingdom, I don't live there. I want him dead, but I'm starting to think that he's unkillable."

The hand moves from Roier's back up to his head. Fingers sift through his hair. Woooow, that feels good. When's the last time Roier got touched this softly? Before Cucurucho arrived?

"I've been thinking," the cat continues. "I've been keeping an eye on Cucurucho for centuries, but he's never tried destroying the kingdom before now. Before you. I think that, if you're gone, then he might leave, too."

Roier cracks an eye open. He doesn't shift his head at all, so he can only just barely make out a hint of cloth. So the cat has clothes when he's a human, that's cool, Roier guesses. Makes him wonder where they came from.

"So... kill me," Roier tells him. "If it'll get him to leave the kingdom alone, kill me."

"I can't do that."

"I'm not next in line for the throne! It's fine! Just push me into the river, I can't swim."

"You can't swim? Really?"

"Well, I can, but I can pretend that I can't!"

"You are so... selfless," the cat says, sounding completely exasperated. "And stupid. No, come with me. I know how we can solve this without killing you."

The hand leaves Roier's head, and then a cold nose is poking at his cheek until he's sitting up and looking the cat right in its little kitty eyes.

"Do you still have cat eyes when you're in another form?" Roier can't help but ask. "That would be really cool."

The cat chuckles. "Maybe. Come on. I have one last thing we can try."

They go to the hollow tree, and Roier waits as the cat scrambles into the tree and surfaces with a necklace clutched in its teeth.

Roier takes the necklace and inspects it. It's a solid gold chain with a little charm that looks like a cat's head. Cute.

"What, is this evil faerie gold that will melt Cucurucho's skin off?" Roier asks.

"No, it's for you," the cat replies. "Wear it tomorrow. When the wedding reaches the climax, take the necklace off and break it."

Roier points at the cat accusingly. "You are going to kill me!"

The cat rolls its eyes. "I'm not. Just... trust me."

Trust the man-eating faerie cat, sure. Right.

Roier sighs, but he puts the necklace on, anyway. It's surprisingly warm around his neck.

The cat almost seems to smile. "You look lovely."

"This thing is going to explode and blow my head off."

"No, you'll see."

And, well. What choice does Roier have but to wait and see?

-

The final wedding preparations go by in an uncomfortable blur.

Leo comes in to hug Roier goodbye. She then punches Roier in the stomach and tells him to write to her once he's at his new house.

Jaiden comes in to help Roier finish getting ready. She's happy about the marriage because she really thinks that Cucurucho is a good person, and Roier can't help but be happy that she's happy.

Foolish comes in to walk Roierto the church. He and Vegetta each take one of Roier's arms, and they walk.

And then Cucurucho is waiting at the church in front of the altar in an all-white suit. His fur is meticulously brushed, his claws are polished, his smile is painted on, he's absolutely grotesque.

Roier hates him.

"Good morning," Cucurucho says as Roier settles in front of the altar.

"It's sunset, you fucking idiot," Roier snaps. He can say what he wants now, right? He's going to die, anyway. The cat is going to kill him.

Cucurucho laughs, and then the ceremony starts.

Roier tunes out most of the goings-on if only to keep himself from breaking down and breaking the necklace before it's time. The cat said to wait until the climax, so Roier's going to wait for the goddamn climax.

He comes back to himself as the cleric asks if anybody in the audience has any objections to the marriage.

This sounds like a fucking climax if Roier's ever heard one.

"Yes," he says. "I object!"

He tears the necklace from around his neck and throws it to the floor. Before anybody can stop him, he slams his heel into the charm.

The entire church erupts into screams as a blinding white light fills it. Magic tears at Roier's skin, biting and pulling. He squeezes his eyes shut, anticipating the end of it all.

But:

"I also object," the cat says.

Two large hands settle on Roier's upper arms, and he's pulled back and against a firm chest.

Roier tilts his head back- not too far, because the cat's human form is shorter than he is, funnily enough- and his eyes widen as he takes in the most beautiful man in the world. Long hair the same color as the cat's coat, scarred face, feathery earrings, cat eyes.

"No," Curucucho snaps. "No!"

"Yes!" the cat- well, not the cat, Roier supposes- shouts. "The prince is mine! He swore himself to me the moment he accepted that necklace, and so he will go back with me to the Faewild and become my husband. You know the rules, bear."

Leo, in the audience, cheers. So does Foolish, who always appreciates a good show.

"Gatinho," Roier hisses.

The faerie shrugs his concerns off. Roier is annoyed about this for exactly three seconds before he gets caught up in the faerie's eyes.

Could be a worse arranged marriage, that's for sure...

A long moment passes, but Cucurucho eventually says a begrudging, "Yes."

"So," the faerie continues, "you will not destroy the kingdom for this. If the prince has already been promised to somebody else, then he never rejected you."

"Yes," Cucurucho sighs.

"You're hot when you're arguing," Roier whispers.

The faerie's cheeks redden, as do the tips of his pointed ears. Cute!

Yeah, no, this arranged marriage will be way better than the last one.

"So!" The faerie turns Roier around so that they're looking at each other properly for the first time eye-to-eye. "You will be coming with me."

"Yeah, okay," Roier agrees. Hell yeah. "Take me, gatinho."

"'Take me'?" Foolish gasps. "Ooooo, this is getting spicy!"

"All you need to do is say my name," the faerie says.

He leans in close and whispers right into Roier's ear, and Roier returns the favor... with a couple of flirtatious remarks thrown in for good measure. Sue him, he's about to get married to a sexy faerie. He's going to make the most of the situation.

"Cellbit," Roier murmurs, and something tickles at his skin. Something... purple. It feels purple. Soft and purple.

"Roier," the faerie replies. He looks positively flustered, aww. He's going to be so fun to tease once they're out of the church.

As the Faewild's magic starts to pick up, Roier can't help but give the faerie a grateful kiss.

The faerie blinks away from the kiss after a moment of some very eager lip-chasing. His face is completely red, and his eyes are wide and unblinking even as the magic around them whips like the wind.

"There's more where that comes from," Roier teases. He puts his arms around the faerie and smiles. "You're marrying me, get used to it. That's just part of the deal."

Because faeries are all about deals, right? Well, Roier's the best deal this guys is ever gonna get.

The faerie swallows, an eager grin teasing at his face.

"Yeah," he breathes. "Alright."

He pulls Roier's head down for another kiss just as the Faewild swallows them whole.

-

(Legends say that there are monsters living in the haunted forest surrounding the Kingdom of Quesadilla. Once monster is a man-spider with glowing red eyes and fangs the length of one's sword. The other is a furry snarling beast of a thing with magic worthy of the most powerful of witches.

Ah, but don't worry, my child, for these monsters don't hunt humans.

No, they hunt bears, and isn't that a good thing for us?)

[ddejavvu]

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE can we get reader being harassed by some guy in an alleyway and hotch is walking by with the team (perhaps going to get drinks after wrapping up a case) AND HE LIKE STEPS IN AND THREATENS THE GUY?? MAYBE EVEN FLASHES HIS BADGE OR SM. Basically I'm thirsty for some protective!hotch <3

You're reminded of how unpredictable life can be when you're yanked backwards unexpectedly, tugged into the darkness of a shadowed alley between two buildings. Five seconds before you'd been thinking about dinner, and now you're not sure you'll live to see another meal.

"Cash," The man grunts, his mouth pressed to your ear as his arm cuts tight around your neck, "I need cash."

"My- my bag," You whimper, frozen stiff in fear and rendered useless, "I- I don't have much, but you- you can take it."

He throws you forwards, ripping your bag off of your shoulder in one fluid motion. He rifles through it while you relearn the art of breathing, but before he can pull your measly collection of bills from the inside pocket of your wallet, there's a gun over your shoulder pointed at his head.

For a moment, you're so dazed that you honestly think you might be holding it. But you don't have a gun, and your wrist doesn't have the dark, wiry hair on it that you see beneath a grey sleeve of whoever's got the weapon.

"Drop the purse, and the knife." A voice booms through the alleyway, deep and firm. If it was directed at you, you'd spook like a horse, and your assailant looks properly terrified.

"It's just a little cash, man," Your attacker tries, "I- I know her! She's my girlfriend."

Your savior knows he's lying before you shake your head vigorously, but you do it anyways, because sitting there and doing nothing feels wrong.

"You've already assaulted someone in front of a federal agent, don't make it worse for yourself by lying about it, too. You're lucky I don't have my cuffs with me or I'd haul you into the back of my SUV and take you down to the station right now. Instead, you're going to drop the purse, and the weapon, and run as fast as you can, because the more time you sit there and let me look at you, the better my chances are of describing you to a sketch artist and placing a warrant out for your arrest."

By the middle of the man's speech, your attacker is trembling just as much as you are. He drops your bag and his knife on command, barely avoiding tripping over the edge of the gutter drain as he flees the scene.

As soon as the gun isn't necessary anymore, the man behind you stashes it in a holster, but you can't see, your back feels permanently adhered to the wall you'd backed up against.

"You're okay," The man assures you, and his voice is much more soothing at a softer tone. He bends to gather your purse, tucking a tube of chapstick back into its confines before holding it out as a peace offering to you.

"He's gone," He promises, ducking down where your eyes are stuck to peer worriedly at you. He has a handsome face, but it's pinched in concern, big brown eyes dripping with care, "And I will put that warrant out for his arrest. Are you alright? Did he hurt you?"

"No," You breathe, still pressed to the wall even as you shake your head, "No, he- Thank you, I- I don't know what I would have done without you."

"I usually show up to these things a little late," He grimaces, dropping your purse back down to his side and holding out an empty hand instead, "Can I help you get where you were going?"

"Home." You mutter, "I was- I was going home. After work."

"I can drive you there, if you'd like." He offers, pleased when you reach out with a shaky hand to take his own, "Or we can walk, whichever you prefer. I just want to make sure nothing else happens."

"Um, I- I can pay for a ride. Here," You take your purse back, tugging a bill out that you're lucky to still possess, "If- it's just down the street, if you really don't mind."

"Keep it," He pushes your hand back towards your purse, "I just stopped a guy from taking your money, I'm not gonna do the same. My car's right outside, okay? Let me help you there. And- uh," He rifles through his jacket, "I wasn't lying about being an agent." He showcases a black-covered badge, Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner written in bold lettering beneath his name, "You'll be safe with me."

"Okay," You nod, accepting the hand that he holds your arm with to ease you off of the wall and onto your shaky legs, "Uh, thank you, Agent- Hotchner."

"No need." He murmurs, eyes scanning the crowd to make sure there's no sign of your assailant, "Let's just get you home safe, honey."

[hotchsreader]

You’re my Last Call

Word Count: 3.7k

Summary: You and Hotch had broken up over a month ago. Once he broke up with you, he disappeared, absolutely no contact with you anymore. You didn’t know why, there were no signs he was unhappy until he just broke off everything. Up until a freak accident happens, you thought you had lost the love of your life. What if that was never the case, and he just thought you’d be better off without his sadness?

trigger warning: car accident

read on ao3 here

Now there's blood on the windshield

And there's credit cards on the floor

And I'm crawling out the window of my passenger side door

Your picture's on the dashboard and that's the only thing I saw

You were always first to catch me when I fall

Yeah, I'm sorry you were my last call

- Lyrics from the song 3/13 by Wyatt Flores

Hotch was trying to remind himself of the good days when things felt less heavy and he could have a clear head. These days? Everything felt so heavy that he didn’t know if it was possible not to be stressed out. He had broken up with you weeks ago. Maybe it has been a month already, he was unsure at this point. He knew that his presence was a downer to everyone around him, and you had been too much of a light in the world to let him dull you. He loved you so much, but he knew that letting you go would be the best option for you to succeed.

Everything felt like it was going so slowly. He had left the office about an hour ago and was headed toward the victim's house to do one last walk-through to see if there was anything that the local police had missed. He knew exactly where he was going as he and the team had been there before, so he did not even tell anyone he was going there or put the location in his GPS. He had been paying attention, he wasn't too tired, he had slept pretty well the night before, and nothing but you were on his mind. He looked down at his dashboard, to see the photo of you he kept there. Even though he left, he kept you with him. He always wanted to keep you with him, other than Jack, you were his biggest source of happiness. He had looked down for a split second, but apparently, that was enough time for a far to cross into Hotch’s lane and slammed him into the wall lining the highway.

-

After the car crashed, Hotch couldn’t remember anything until he felt himself on the concrete ground and saw random faces flashing back and forth over the top of him.

“Sir. Is there anyone we can call for you?” They asked hoping to get an answer from the man lying in front of them. They knew there was a strong chance there was a concussion.

Hotch could hardly muster up many words, all he said was your name. Your name and said check the phone.

-

You were at work. Everyone else had started going home, and the law office was closed for the day. There wasn’t any noise as you sat typing your last report on your laptop, it seemed peaceful almost. That was until, your phone started ringing incredibly loud, piercing through the silence.

“Maam. This is Officer Finch. I have a man here by the name of Aaron Hotchner, he was in a car accident. He gave us you to call.”

“Where is he? He is a Federal Agent.”

Before the officer even finished giving you the details of where Aaron was, you had already grabbed all of your things and ran out of the office. By the time you hung up with him, you were only ten minutes away.

Nothing would stop you from getting to him. Nothing that happened between the two of you would make you not rush to his side. He was, and would always be, your person.

When you got there, the first thing you noticed were the lights and the sirens. It brought back so many memories from when Hotch was hurt by Foyet. your heart was pounding in your chest and you just needed to find him to see that he was okay. an officer waved you over, and you saw him lying on the ground. There was a cut across his forehead, and his eyes were grimacing like he was in pain. It was killing you, even though you hadn’t even fully gotten up to him to see him in that kind of condition. He looked almost pitiful. you weren’t sure if you wanted to talk to him because of how badly he had hurt you so you stood and talked to the paramedics who said that it was most likely that he had a concussion, but that he was going to be fine he was very lucky. The person had crossed his lane of traffic and when they did, it caused his car to swerve headfirst into the highway wall.

You heard a soft voice call your name. It was very quiet, almost like it was reserved. They didn’t want to be calling your name. They didn’t want you to know that they needed you at this moment. you didn’t know what to do because doing this was wrong to be an emergency contact on a person who had tried so hard to remove you from their life. One day everything was okay, holding hands laughing together, knowing each other’s favorite orders at the coffee shop, to not even a phone call explaining why everything ended with a snap of a finger.

“Yeah, Aaron I’m here,” you said softly in his ear, as you finally walked over to him, kneeling next to him and running your hands through his hair. That was always a small comfort for him when he really needed somebody he loved you running your fingers through his hair.

“ I am so sorry but you were the only person I wanted to be here, I know I am probably the last person you want to hear from right now.” His voice was still very soft, almost like it hurt to speak and he wanted to tell him to stop talking to focus on getting to the hospital, but you also wanted to hear what he had to say. Selfish as it was, you wanted to know why. Why did he end everything? Why did he act like he didn’t exist after two years of a beautiful relationship, why did he call you now he had his whole team that would break down walls to get to him if they knew something was wrong? Why did he call you a person who genuinely couldn’t do anything but be there for him?

“We will talk when you’re able to form a coherent sentence, Aaron, I'm here now and I’m definitely not leaving until I know you’re okay.” You rubbed his face with your hand, and he pressed his face into your palm.

you sat there as they loaded him into the ambulance and asked if you were allowed to ride along. They said yes, considering it was not life-threatening. You could drop your car at a gas station and they would come by and pick you up to take you with him. you did not want to be where you couldn’t see him, but you trusted the paramedics to take care of him for the five minutes he would be out of your line of sight. once you got into your car, you texted the team. You still had all of their phone numbers in case of emergency to let them know what was going on and your phone started ringing off the hook.

“What is going on?” JJ was on the other side of the phone. her voice made you calm down a little bit. The two of you had become very close friends during your relationship with Aaron and even after he had broken up with you JJ always kept in contact.

“They said that a car came into his lane and knocked him into the highway wall. He was conscious and able to talk, and I went with him to the hospital. I have to drop my car off at a gas station so it wouldn’t be stuck on the side of the highway.” You responded, your voice becoming wobbly during your explanation.

She gulped pretty heavily, you knew this was hard for her to hear. as well. “Do you want me to come up? I’m more than willing to come and just be a helping hand for you. I could be the communication between the team to let them know how he’s doing so you don’t have to constantly be on your phone and keep everyone updated. I can do it for you.” She knew how hard this was for you, and that small gesture would be such a relief, and would take so much off your plate that you didn’t even know how to deal with it.

“JJ you mean the world to me. Could you also contact Jessica and let her know what’s going on? I really don’t wanna have to call her even though I love her. This is just so much and I need to check on him and be with him.”

“Absolutely. I’ll see you soon. I love you.” She said you could feel how genuine she was in the last few words. Meeting Aaron was one of the best things that ever happened to you, but meeting her was a close second. You reciprocated and hung up the phone, got to the gas station, got into the ambulance, and off to the hospital you went. You held on to Hotch’s hand the entire time.

-

The next three hours consisted of people running in and out of the hospital room, checking on Hotch, readjusting him, checking his vitals, and it felt like almost complete chaos. The minute JJ got there you could almost cry out of relief. You needed someone else there, to make this seem like less of a fever-induced dream. To bring you back to reality, almost like a shared experience instead of being alone in a hospital room with the love of your life being poked and prodded by hospital staff.

“Hi sweetie,” JJ says as she walks into the room, tears in her eyes as she looks over at Hotch. You know the two of them are close, he always has talked highly of her.

“Hi.” This was the first time you have heard your own voice in hours and it sounded almost foreign to you. It sounded defeated and hurt.

“Why are you here JJ?” This caused you to jump. Hotch had not spoken the entire three hours until JJ walked into the room. Did he just not want to speak to you? If this was the case, why did he ask everyone to call you? You turned your head over to him, a look of hurt running over your face. He noticed immediately and turned his head away from you to look at JJ.

“You know what, I’m going to go call the team, I’ll be back in a minute. You better prepare yourself for Garcia to run in here with balloons in snacks in a few hours Hotch.” She tried to make the atmosphere less tense before she left, but the hurt and anger in you could physically feel it.

You stood up, walked over to Hotch, and put your hand under his chin, and made him look at you. He stared at you for a minute, tears gathering in his eyes as he did and he tried to open his mouth to speak but you didn’t let him get that far.

“Absolutely not, you do not get to speak right now Aaron Hotchner. You do not get to be the first one to speak after what you have put me through in the last few hours. I get to speak first.”

He nodded at you, tears slipping from his eyes.

“You LEFT me with no explanation. You are the love of my life. I would lay down everything I am and will be to make sure you and Jack are safe and happy. I did nothing wrong to deserve to be deserted. I did nothing, Aaron. I love you so much, I will love you until the day I die. Why would you have them call me? Why would you do what you did?” At this point, you were sobbing, and the last few words that came out of your mouth were gargled.

Hotch raised his hand and wiped the tears from your cheek, you wanted to turn away but your brain and arm betrayed you and you raised your hand up to hold his while it was on your face.

“Honey, it had nothing to do with you. You are the most beautiful, loving, caring person in this world.”

“But then why? What was wrong? What happened to us?”

“It was me. I was bringing you down. I was making everything worse. I didn't want to ruin your life with my hurt.” The last few words were barely a whisper.

You looked up, for the first time since this conversation started, and looked at the man in front of you. He was crying, tears falling down the side of his face onto the pillow. He was gripping your hard really hard, the ring on your fingers digging into your skin. He looked pitiful. He was heartbroken, not just because of what currently happened but because of everything going on in his head. You had wished he would’ve told you this a lot sooner. So much hurt could have been prevented if he had just been honest with you. But you knew this man, you knew he would hide things so deeply inside himself if it meant no one else had to get hurt. You knew he would hide things if it meant you would be protected from the harsh realities.

“Aaron. You are and will always be my world. If something is bothering you, I would like to talk about it. I would like to be able to be there for you if you would let me be. Please, just talk to me. Let me be there for you.” You put your hand on his cheek and he leaned into your palm. His face was flush from the accident and from the tears. He felt, defeated.

“I don’t want anyone to have to deal with me. Especially not someone who has so much to offer this world. I am just a mess of a man. You were the last person I wanted to call because I do not want you to have to clean up after me.”

“If loving you means I have to be there for everything, every sad day, every hard day, every difficult day, I will be.” You said, running your hands through his hair, his favorite.

“I don’t want you to have to do that.”

“Too late, I am already too committed.”

“You know, I was looking at my photo of you on my dashboard before it happened.” He turned his head closer to you.

“You have a photo of me in your work car?” You truly didn’t know this.

“Have the moment we started dating. It's a photo of you smiling at work when I came to visit for the first time. You were so excited to show me around to everyone. Your boyfriend is a Unit Chief in the FBI. You were so smiley the entire time, I wanted to remember that happiness on hard days. So in my work car, it sits, it's comforting.”

“Well, we can take more photos.” You sat on the edge of the bed, he sat up and you leaned into him. You were not going anywhere.

“I love you, you know that. I’m sorry for leaving, I just thought I was hurting you more than I was helping. I thought if you knew how bad I was feeling you would feel responsible or that I would hurt you.”

“I love you more than you know.”

-

After the talk, and JJ called the team to let them know the extent of everything going on, you decided to walk with her to get some coffee. Penelope had shown up five minutes after JJ ended the call with tons of goodies for Hotch, and you let her and Derek sit in there with him while you took a break. Hopefully, he would be okay, Derek could handle Penelope and Hotch needed a friend.

The two of you walked along side each other in silence until you got to the elevator. Once you got to the elevator JJ finally spoke up.

“Want to tell me what happened?” She looked at you sideways as she finished the question.

“Actually, yeah. What he said made me a bit worried and I need some more insight into what’s been going on.”

“I’m all ears.”

“He broke up with me because he’s having a hard time mentally. Has he been weird or more restricted at work at all?” You asked the question as you got into the elevator.

“A bit. I thought maybe it was due to the breakup but honestly it’s been going on a few months. I try not to pry because while he is my boss and my friend, i don’t want him to think i don’t trust him.”

“I understand that completely. I knew something was up, but I didn’t think he’d leave me just because he didn’t want to talk about it. I think we’re on the same page now, but i’m not letting this go. I love him too much.”

“He loves you too, trust me. Your photo is in his car, on his phone, in his office. You and Jack are his world. I honestly think he’s just scared.” As you got out of the elevator together she turned and hugged you. knowing you haven’t had one since this all happened. You loved your best friend, and she always knew what you needed.

-

Hotch was in the hospital for a day. They wanted to keep him overnight just for observation, but it turned out everything was okay. He had a concussion and a few cuts on his head but he was going to be fine. you were by his bedside the entire time you slept there you only left to go to the bathroom or if somebody else came and made you go get a cup of coffee. Usually it was JJ or Derek that convinced you to get up, despite Hotch telling you countless times it was okay to go home. You truly just were so happy to have him back you didn’t want to leave him again.

You both had walked to your car so you could drive him home. Jessica was keeping Jack for one more night that way Hotch could settle down at home and make sure that he was okay and you were going to stay with him tonight, because there was no way you were going to let him be alone.

“You know we have to talk about everything, right?” you said the minute you both got into the car.

“Yeah honey, I know.” He reached over and grabbed your hand and squeezed it hard.

“Why did you do this? I know you’re hurting. I would do anything to make you happy and feel loved and appreciated, that’s my goal when i’m with you. I’d do anything for you.”

“That’s the point, I just don’t want you to have to take care of me. I want to be there for you.” He started looking out of the window, like that was going to make his hurt get up and fly away.

“ Now you know a relationship is 50/50, and sometimes on bad days it’s 20/80. We give what we can, my love, and if you’re having a bad day I am more than willing to pick up the slack.” It was your turn to squeeze his hand, to bring him back to reality and remember that you were here, and that you were not going anywhere.

“I am embarrassed.” You looked over at him to see him, start to cry, genuine tears falling from his eyes, the look of defeat and hurt and embarrassment falling over his face. it was the saddest you had ever seen someone look and it absolutely shattered your heart to see him like that.

“Absolutely not,” You pulled over and stopped the car, “you have NO reason to be embarrassed about having a hard time Aaron Hotchner. You have been through more in the past few years than I could ever imagine. I don’t think I would be up walking around if I had gone through what you had been through. I would not be as good of a man as good of a dad as good of a person if I had been through what you had to go through. you give it your all every single day, whether it be as a father or as the leader of a team that saves peoples lives and every single day. you deserve somebody that not only wants to be with you at your best but somebody that will be there for you at your worst and I will be there for you. Always.” You took his face in your hands and turned him to look at you. He was still crying so you wiped his tears with your thumbs, and looked him in the eyes. You leaned in and gave him a big kiss. A kiss to cement everything you just said. So he knew, you were completely serious.

“Okay. I am sorry for what I've done, but for you, I am willing to try. I am willing to accept my downfalls, and lean on you when I need you. And you will never be my last call again, you will always be my first.”

“I better be.”

That got a smile out of him, and a small chuckle. You kissed him again and started the car back up, put it in drive, and took you both home.

[railingsofsorrow]

(not so) stupid things

[spencer reid x reader]

A/N: hi! this is my entry for the CM meet cute challenge created by the amazing @imagining-in-the-margins

summary: the one where reader is a detective responsible for a case the FBI is called to work on and as they try to make a good first impression, it slips their mind that one of them does not shake hands.

or... based on the eighteenth episode of criminal minds' S8.

pairing: s.reid x gn!reader

w.c: 1.7K

warnings/content: anxiety (implied); case related violence; mentions of injuries and blood; mentions of needles; two awkward people (try) flirting; fluff; language.

navi

masterpost

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“The number of pathogens passed during a handshake is staggering. It's actually safer to kiss.”

“O-oh,” you stutter out, blinking in surprise and immediately drawing your hand back. How could you have forgotten this?

Your boss had told you some important information about the team you were going to work with: the Behavior Analysis Unit. It completely slipped your mind who the “Doctor who doesn't shake hands” was. You just vaguely knew Aaron Hotchner and David Rossi, but the rest was a bunch of strangers you hadn't connected the name to the face yet. That included the Doctor who was giving you a tight-lipped smile and had sputtered out the most quick statistics data you had ever heard.

Did he just said kissing is safer than shaking hands?

The blonde sighed, her glare towards Dr. Reid softening when she turns to you. She offers her hand and you take it with a light chuckle.

“That's just Spencer's way of saying he doesn't shake hands.” She clarifies. “I'm Jennifer Jareau, but you can call me JJ.” She introduced herself and then proceeds to do the same with the rest of the team. You finally connect the name to the face and you feel more at ease.

“Nice to meet you all,” you say. “I've prepared a room for you to set in during the investigation.” You lead them to the bigger roundtable room you had in the station and wait for them to scatter around to start listing the findings of the case you had until now.

They had a quick way of thinking – it was the first thought that went through your mind as you observed each Agent throw a possibility on why the crimes were happening and the reasoning for the M.O as well. It kind of amazed you how connected they seemed to be to have reached that adjustment within themselves.

The first lead took you to a museum. Your main goal there was to find anything on the suspect you've been following. That required you to speak to one of the museum tour guides who apparently had contact with them as you saw in one of the security cameras.

“How long have you been doing this?”

You immediately grimace at the invasive and completely inappropriate question that leaves your mouth. You couldn't help saying stupid shit when you were nervous. The FBI made you nervous. You had been chasing the suspect for more than three months and only now you were able to find a pattern in their behavior. Obviously, you weren't working alone, but you still feel dumb for not having noticed what is clearly obvious in federal agents’ eyes.

“Doing what?”

Your attention snaps back from the crowd of people to him, whose head was slightly tilted in confusion. The question you made escaping your mind for a second. “Oh. I— Actually. You don't have to answer that, I'm sorry.” Cheeks burning and hands sweating weren't a great combo right now. Your witness still hadn't stepped away from the group of children so you had to wait.

“It's okay.” He shrugs, burying his hands on his pockets. His eyes fall into your fidgety hands and he's familiarized with the feeling of being uncomfortable in big crowds. The museum was full, which was unusual according to you. “Mhm, did you mean how long have I been in the FBI?”

You hum quietly, arms folding across your chest.

“Seven years, five months and twenty-one days.” Your lips part in astonishment.

“Seven years?” You ask, dumbfounded. Spencer nods in affirmation. “You look like a college student—” you quickly cover your mouth with a hand, your cursing being muffled by it. “Sorry, I'm sorry. That came out wrong, I just meant that you look young and—”

“No, no, it's okay.” Spencer chuckled, amused by the whole thing. “I do get that a lot. Technically, I am a college student. I'm on my third PhD.”

Have you just met the next Einstein?

“How do you do it?” You say in wonder. “I mean, I went through college one time and I couldn't wait to get far from it as I possibly could and—” you were interrupted by the sound of his laugh, his eyes crinkling at the sides caused you to smile a little. You realize your shoulders were less tense and you could actually feel your feet again.

Spencer clears his throat before responding, his face carries a soft flush and you find it endearing. “I like studying.” Before you can ask him to elaborate, your eyes narrow at the tour guide, who you were supposed to talk to, stealthily disappearing into a hallway. This is how you end up running around a museum chasing someone that had just moved up to be the primer suspect in an ongoing investigation.

“You okay there?” Agent Morgan's voice pulled your gaze away from the medic stitching up your wrist.

Luckily, you and Doctor Reid succeeded in catching the museum tour guide, leading you to find out that the murders in the city were actually premeditated by two people, not just one. But that didn't go smoothly, the unsub — a curious name the BAU used, you've never heard it before — had a knife in their possession. Just as you were about to snatch it away from their reach while Spencer talked him down, your skin earned a slice right on your wrist because you were bold enough to tackle them to the floor.

Not a nice feeling, but you faced similar situations before, so that wasn't out of the ordinary. That didn't mean you enjoyed the feeling of being poked around.

“I'm fine,” you give him a grateful nod. “Just a scratch.” The image of the BAU's genius flash through your brain. “Huh, is Doctor Reid okay? I'm pretty sure he almost got one of these in his face.” You refer to your cut that was currently being dealt with.

Something that you can't recognize twinkle in the Agent's eyes. Amusement? Smugness? “Oh, Reid's alright. He's actually been asking non-stop about y—”

“Morgan.”

You see his smirk increase when Spencer strides over to where you are. The two share a look that you can't translate due to the tickling of the needle in your sensitive skin.

He's sitting beside you in no time and you're about to say that he doesn't have to bother, but he beats you to it.

“Up to 1 in 10 adults struggle with needles. 16% of them actually avoid getting vaccines because of their trypanophobia.” You look at Spencer as he inhales to keep rambling. “Studies show that many people grow out of that fear, but some remain with it.”

“Clearly,” you mumble, embarrassement causing your neck and cheeks to become red.

His eyes widen and he quickly raises his hands, “Oh, no! That's not what I— I didn't mean to—” he sighs as your lips try to hold back a smile. “I tend to say stupid things when I'm nervous.”

The medic says you're good to go and that's your cue to let out the breath you've been holding in instant relief as you can not longer see the needle. You thank them and step out of the ambulance.

“Like claiming that kissing someone is safer than shaking their hand?”

He stumbles upon an answer which takes you to a laughing fit that attracts some attention. You ignore the ugly looks in order to focus on a warm touch on your shoulder, stopping you from bumping into a police officer.

“Sorry, I was messing with you,” you say slightly breathless, your shoulder tingling where his hand lay. “I say stupid things when I'm nervous, too. I guess we have that in common.” Spencer is grinning when he pulls his hand back. You wonder what his thinking as his eyes travel across your features.

Maybe he's finally concluded that I'm a fool.

“Why would you be nervous?” You look away at a passerby to avoid his stare.

“Nothing, I—” he swallows, folding his arms and unfolding them right after. You don't need to be a profiler to realize he's nervous.

Your slow pace halts when he stops following you. You wait for him to sputter out random statistics or literally anything except for what he says next.

“Can I have your number?” He croaks out. “I thought that it wouldn't be unprofessional after the case was over because technically we aren't working anymore and— you know what? Never mind, forget I said—”

“Doctor Reid,” you say carefully. He clips his mouth shut. “Yes, you can have my number.” He lets out a soft oh and you smile. You ruffle through your pockets to find a pen and when you do find, you silently ask for his hand and he raises it towards you, confusion drawing his brows together.

He feels a tickling sensation as you write your number down on his open palm.

“There.” You offer him a smile to which he replies with one of his own as his eyes scan your scribbling on his hand. A vibration in your blazer forces a heavy sigh to leave your lips. You apologize as you grab your phone. “Ah, yes. I'm— I'll be there.” You turn to Spencer with a disappointed look after the call ends. “Sorry, I have a lot of reports to finish and they need me in the station.”

“It's okay.” He nods. “I understand.”

You don't leave right away though, hesitating in your step. He just as awkwardly stands there. Are you back in high school or something? When have you ever been that shy?

“So, I'll see you around?” You ask.

He outstretches a hand to your surprise, “Yes.” When you accept it, your fingers tingle at his soft skin. Both of you draw yourselves back at the same time. “Bye, Detective.”

You wave at him, already retracting to leave to avoid further embarrassment. “Bye, Doctor.”

You can't help the giddy feeling in your chest as you walk back to your car. A few hours later, your phone screen flashes with an unknown number.

[magics-neptunes-things]

Sneaky Cheeky

Hi guys :)

Another Luna fic, I hope you will like it :) It's from requests here and here. For this story, let say England qualified for the Olympics instead of the Netherlands, sorry Viv I love you.

Enjoy ♥

TW : Suggestive but not explicit content

______________________________________________________________

"Lucy is moodyyyyy, she miss her Oh-niiii" Ella Toone sings, catching Lucy’s glare.

"Fuck of Tooney" Lucy mumble, arms crossed on her chest. "At least say her name correctly for fuck's sake"

Sitting in one of the beanbags provided in the TV room, her leg is crossed on the other and her foot shakes nervously. Next to Ella, Alessia puts a hand on her best friend’s arm to prevent her from adding a layer. Lucy seems to be on edge and the blonde thinks wisely that it’s useless to add fuel in the fire.

"What’s the matter, mate?" inquired Leah once Ella decided to go after Mary. "This is not the first time you have been separated because of national camps"

"You’ll make fun of me" Lucy replies, taking a quick look at Leah.

"Of course not duh"

Lucy looks carefully at Leah for a few seconds, judging her captain’s sincerity before giving her an answer.

"Come on. I miss my girlfriend too, I can understand"

"I’m still worried about her with this damn federation. Rubiales and Vilda are gone, but it’s still a basket of rotten crabs. I already know a lot and I’m sure she didn’t tell me everything so I wouldn’t worry too much for her."

Leah reluctantly nodded, the difficulties faced by the Spanish national team broke out after the World Cup final. She learned it at the same time as the rest of the world and it was a real general shock.

"I can understand. But they’re together and that’s a good thing, right? They know they are supported now, I don’t think they can make things worse now that everyone knows"

Lucy answers only with an unconvinced grunt.

"Putellas and the others are there to watch over the younger ones, including Ona" Leah gently recalls.

Lucy sighs softly and lets herself go against the back of her seat this time, relaxing a little. Leah is right, she knows full well that Alexia or even Irene and Jenni wouldn't let anyone harm one of the other players. But they can’t be everywhere every time either. Lucy asked Ona to stay as close as Alexia as she can.

"I know that… but it’s my job to look after her" mumbles Lucy.

Glancing at the blonde, Lucy realizes she is smiling. But it's not a mocking smile, rather a kind of soft smile.

"What?" made Lucy, a little defensive

"Nothing. It’s sweet to see how much you care about her"

Lucy prefers to roll her eyes and take her phone out of her pocket, although a smile comes to soften her face. Yeah, of course she cares about her girlfriend. Leah is a close friend of Keira’s, but seems to have accepted their breakup without taking sides with either of them. It makes sense that she exchanges more with Keira since they are best friends, but that never prevented her from having a good relationship with Lucy.

The smile of the English girl however quickly fades noticing that if she has several notifications, none of them bear the name of her girlfriend.

Lucy ❤️‍🔥 Ona, I swear, if I don’t hear from you in ten minutes, I’ll show up at your hotel, I don’t care.

She isn't joking. To pass the time, Lucy excuses herself to Leah to go get something to drink. Their diet being monitored given the circumstances, Lucy opts for a banana-kiwi smoothie. However, they have nothing of the taste of those that Ona makes her every morning at home in Barcelona. And, when it's only two minutes left, Lucy finally feels her phone vibrate in her pocket.

Hoping that it's indeed Ona and not her mother, Lucy takes a quick glance on the screen, sighing of relief when seeing the name of her girlfriend appear. Without any hesitation, Lucy picks up and relaxes a little while seeing Ona’s face appear on the screen of her phone.

"Where the hell were you?"

It was harsher than she wanted, and Ona makes a slight grimace when hearing Lucy’s tone but decides not to hold it against her, knowing that there is only worry behind this reaction.

"We had a meeting that went on forever, I'm sorry"

Lucy sniff and Ona smile softly, lying on the bed of her hotel room.

"I’m so sorry. I went to my room as fast as I could, the others are still downstairs. But everything is fine" assures Ona, that Lucy listens only with one ear, distracted by the long hair and the brunette that scatters around her head. "Where are you?"

"In the cafeteria. The others are in the TV room but Ella was starting to get on my nerves" confesses the English, making Ona smile.

The brunette knows Ella well, and Alessia too, since they all played for Manchester United before Ona went to Barcelona and Alessia to Arsenal. She is therefore perfectly aware of Ella’s behavior and character, even if it never bothered her personally.

"What was she doing?"

"Nothing" Lucy replies, rolling her eyes.

Noticing that her girlfriend’s bad mood persists, Ona rolls on her stomach and looks more closely at Lucy through the screen. It’s been three weeks since they saw each other, even if their hotels are not even one kilometer from each other. Nothing more frustrating in the eyes of the two young women.

"Qué pasa mi Vida?" asks Ona affectionately.

"I miss you" Lucy says in a low voice. "I can't sleep when you’re not with me"

"I miss you too. I can’t wait to be on holiday and having you only for me"

"I’ll be so glued to you that you’d be sick of me" Lucy smirks

"There’s no way I can ever get sick of you. I miss you too much. You will be the one asking for air"

"I wouldn’t bet on that if I were you. You’ll be lucky if you can take two steps without my hands on you."

"Cant' wait for it"

Lucy hum for any answer, without leaving Ona’s face with her eyes. The two young women planned a two-week trip to Fiji after the Olympics Games, wishing to be able to meet and relax before returning home to Barcelona.

"You look tired too" Lucy notes after a few seconds.

"Being away from me changes you, usually you tell me how beautiful I am" Ona tease her.

Lucy laughs softly while shaking her head and Ona can only smile when hearing the young woman relax a little.

"I said you looked tired, not ugly" Lucy objects.

"Yeah. I liked it better when you threatened to come to my hotel to see me"

"Don’t tempt me" sighs Lucy.

Ona just sent her a sad smile, leaning her chin on her hand.

"Don’t look at me like that" whispers Lucy.

"Like what?"

"You know very well what I mean"

Ona gently shrugs her shoulders, biting her lower lip. She always try to make good figure while talking to her, but learning that Lucy miss her too didn't help.

"I sleep badly without you, too" ended up confessing Ona. "Your sweater almost doesn’t smell like you anymore"

"Okay, that’s enough" Lucy abruptly said as she jump from the stool she was on.

"What are you doing?" asks Ona, surprised by Lucy’s behavior.

But the Spaniard receives no response, finding herself suddenly in the belly pocket of Lucy’s sweatshirt. Various noises giving her no explanation or even the slightest clue about what is happening are heard, before the communication is cut off.

Ona 🧡 Lucy what the hell are you doing?

But Ona doesn't get the slightest answer and it's suddenly her turn to be worried and nervous by not getting news of her girlfriend. She asks herself if she should call one of her english friend but she decided to give Lucy some minutes.

Deciding to go to the bathroom to change her mind, Ona puts on a t-shirt that she borrowed from Lucy (without really asking to be fair) and undertakes to brush her hair, then her teeth. She didn't plan to leave her room anyway and Aitana with whom she shares her room saw her less dressed than that more than once.

However, the Catalan girl’s eyebrows frown a little when she hears knocks at the door. Ona takes the time to finish tying her hair in a bun for the night before going to answer. This doesn't seem to suit the person behind the door since new knocks are being made, stronger and more pressing this time.

"Llego" Ona says in Spanish, feeling a strange sensation in her stomach.

She still remembers Vilda’s unexpected visits a few months ago but she tries to reason in the short seconds before she opens the door to her room. But Vilda is no longer there, so there is no risk that this will happen, right?

Her face is however slightly anxious when she opens the door, quickly relaxing when she sees Lucy’s face. Before she realized Lucy had no reason to be here. But she doesn’t have time to ask her a single question before Lucy sneaks inside, fearing to be surprised by someone else.

Relieved to finally be safe, the Englishwoman turns to Ona who has meanwhile closed the door of her bedroom before hugging her. The Catalan responds quickly to herembrace, passing her arms around Lucy. Her face in the hollow of her neck allows Lucy to find the perfume and smell of Ona she loves.

"Lucia if they catch you…" ended up whispering Ona, without breaking away from her girlfriend.

"I don’t care. You're worth it"

Lucy’s voice is masked by Ona’s hair, which makes her smile.

"I missed you so much" sighs Lucy, slowly detaching herself from Ona.

But the youngest doesn't seem to hear it from this ear since she tightens her arms around Lucy, the latter still so surprised to remember the strength of her girlfriend, despite their difference of size of a few centimeters.

"Ona" laughs softly Lucy

But Ona shakes her head negatively, continuing to refuse to release her girlfriend and puts her head in the hollow of her neck.

"Let me at least look at you" the Englishwoman asked, which Ona finally accepted not without pouting.

Ona supports Lucy’s gaze when she gently takes her face in her hands, observing her attentively for a few seconds.

"That’s what I thought. Tired, but still beautiful"

Ona laughs softly as she hears her, her giggles causing as every time strange tickles in the pit of Lucy’s stomach. Using their position, Lucy delicately draws Ona’s face against hers to unfold a kiss on her lips.

Without losing a second, Ona puts her arms around her neck and it takes them only a fraction of a second to get lost both in their embrace. Forgetting that they are not in the security of their apartment, their many kisses eventually lead them to Ona's bed who doesn't hesitate to rid Lucy of her sweatshirt before starting to kiss her again.

It's only when the door of the room reopens that the two young women regain consciousness of things. But it’s obviously already too late. Luckily, both are still dressed.

"Ona?!"

Needless to say, Aitana didn't expect to find her roommate in an intense makout session. Especially since she's supposed to be in a relationship and that her partner is in another hotel. But Ona barely has time to hear the amazement in Aitana’s voice and to see the surprised look of Alexia behind her, before Lucy gets up a little under her, revealing her identity to the other two young women.

"Madre mía what's happening here?" asks Alexia

"You both are so in trouble" smirks Aitana.

"Shhh" makes Ona while leaning forward, to be sure that the door of the room is properly closed.

********

It took long minutes of discussion for Lucy and Ona to find themselves alone in the room, Aitana going to sleep with Alexia for the night. Even if the Catalan knows perfectly well that she will have the right to be teased until the end of the Games, she doesn't care if it allows her to spend a night in her girlfriend's arms.

"Ona?" gently makes Lucy

It takes a few seconds for the Spanish to react, her mind a little shut between the recovery after their intense and long reunion and the caresses that Lucy makes with her fingertips along her spine column. Not to mention the regular heartbeat of Lucy right under her ear that lulls her.

"Mh?" ended up answering Ona in a bewitched voice, without opening her eyes.

"Why did you seem worried earlier?"

"You know how Aitana can be when she’s surprised. I already saw Jenni coming and if she knows, everyone will know" says Ona mumbling, burying her face in her girlfriend’s belly. "They will tease me for all the rest of the stay tho"

"Yeah, I know" laughs Lucy gently before talking again. "But that’s not what I was thinking about."

Lucy feels Ona’s eyebrows frown against her skin before the fullback turns her face so she can look at her.

"I don’t understand then" Ona said, looking closely at Lucy’s face.

"When you came to open the door earlier, you seemed worried"

"Oh"

In a few seconds Ona’s mind goes back to what she thought at that moment, the constant discomfort and worry that inhabited the Spanish players. The surprise visits in the rooms, supposedly to check that their environment was healthy, diets without any senses, comments displaced and degrading in front of others… If the players came together - at least most of them - it was a lot of fun for the high-ranking players and their little friends.

Ona and Lucy had been dating for a few months when Ona went to training camps with the national team and then during the World Cup. If Ona had already told her parents and her brother about the situation, Lucy knew nothing about it until the Spanish woman told her about it one evening on the phone, after a particularly hard day morally.

Lucy’s reaction was as strong as her surprise and it actually happened to Ona not to tell her everything so as not to push her concern too much, wishing that her girlfriend could focus as much as possible on her own career.

But Ona’s silence is far from reassuring Lucy, who stands up on her elbows in bed, forcing Ona to also sit on her legs.

"Did something happen again?"

"No" assures Ona, shaking her head. "Promised"

Tenderly smiling, Ona gently caress her girlfriend’s cheeks with her fingertips. The green eyes of the English look at her carefully, seeking to detect the slightest sign that could tell her the opposite of what Ona claims. Understanding that it will take more for Lucy to be reassured, Ona sits on her legs before resuming the speech.

"It’s not as bad as before. I just wondered who it could be and it reminded me of what we were going through before this summer."

Lucy’s frowning doesn't seem to relax but the other brunette has a little trouble understanding why. Ona doesn’t need to open her mouth though, as Lucy ends up answering her questions with a small sigh.

"I know how you think and I know you probably didn’t tell me everything so I wouldn’t worry anymore" said Lucy, Ona blushing at it. "But I think it worries me even more. I need to know, Ona."

It’s hard for Ona to deny Lucy anything in general, but when she looks at her that way, it’s almost impossible. It's Ona’s turn to sigh softly, watching her girlfriend attentively. The latter rises to sit in turn, a hand in the back of Ona to prevent her falling because of her movement.

"I know that you want to do well and that you seek to protect me, but I too need to protect you"

"Okay" sighs softly Ona after a few extra seconds of hesitation.

After a smile, Lucy tenderly puts her lips on those of Ona, sealing the promise made.

"I don’t know how I’m going to let you go tomorrow morning" said Ona, after Lucy lay down again, taking her against her. "Maybe I’ll lock you up here until the Games are over."

Lucy laughs softly, trying to ignore the breath of Ona who tickles her neck when she speaks.

"Why don’t you start by getting rid of your apartment in Barcelona instead? It’s useless except to store furniture. Coco must have slept there four times since you got her"

Ona smiles softly at the evocation of her dog, guarded by her favorite cousins. Her parents had made the trip to Paris to see her play, it would not have made sense for them to keep her.

"Maybe yes" thoughtfully say Ona by mechanically sliding her finger on Lucy's arm.

"If you don't want to..."

"No! I want it. I'm just wondering how I can put all my stuff in your apartment. Maybe I "

"Well... Maybe we can look for a bigger one?" ask Lucy before adding when she feels Ona freeze before looking at her. "Like our apartment or maybe house so when can have a garden for the dogs"

"I'd love that" Ona smiles despite her eyes fogged with tears.

Lucy smiles and kiss her sweetly. Ona doesn’t know yet that Lucy has already unconsciously looked at apartments and houses in the neighborhood in which they already live, but it is a secret that she will tell her when they are both on vacation in Fiji.

The most urgent thing is to get Lucy out of the hotel before everyone gets up the next morning. They will have only slept a few hours, but it is well worth it in the opinion of the two young women. Their separation is only brief now, but that won’t stop them from spending long minutes saying goodbye, just like the day Lucy flew to the training camp with the England team.

"See you soon Superstar" Lucy whispers against Ona’s lips, smiling and feeling her smile against her lips.

"Shut up" smiled Ona before putting a new kiss against her lips.

Managed to leave the Spanish hotel without being spotted, it's facing Mary and Alessia walking for their morning walk that Lucy finds herself arriving in the English hotel. Long story short, it's not only Ona who will be teased until the end of the Games.

[sailor-aviator]

Road to Perdition: Chapter Two

Road to Perdition: Chapter Two

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader

Summary: The Great Depression wasn't called a depression for nothing. Jobs were scarce, and the price of food and other necessities were rising higher and higher with each passing day. What little money you were able to make went straight to the bank and out of reach from your booze-swilling lech of a brother. It's on one such run that you come face to face with members of the infamous Dagger Gang; a group of, admittedly handsome, men who steal from the banks to hand it back out to the poor. You want nothing to do with them, but that blond-headed devil might just have something to say to the contrary. (1930s!Mobster!AU)

Content Warning: Police, FBI, Self Deprecation, Jake being a scoundrel, Suggestive Comments, Cursing, Attempted SA, Derogatory Names being thrown at reader, Guns, Descriptions of Blood. I think that's it, but please let me know if I missed something!

Word Count: 4.3k

Series Masterlist

The ache to your temple had dulled, but still throbbed enough to be noticeable even after two days. You had woken in the alley, head aching from where Hangman had struck you as the police officer gripped your shoulder to steady you.

“Are you alright, miss?” The officer had asked, concern shining in his brown eyes as he looked you over. You had been dazed and disoriented, looking around to try and piece together what had happened. You glanced around and saw the bank manager already on his feet speaking with another officer. A particularly hard throb had you wincing and grabbing at your temple, and the officer before you offered you a sympathetic smile and a hand to help you up.

“It looks like they got you pretty good,” he muttered, eyeing the growing bruise on the side of your head. You grimaced at him, eyes wandering again and landing on a tall man pushing his way through the throng of police. He was older, his dark hair graying at the temples and making him look even sterner than his hard expression already made him look. His blue eyes scanned the area, and you wondered when the last time he got any sleep was, the dark circles under his eyes indicating that it had been quite a while. A shadow of stubble outlined his hard-set jaw, emphasizing the look of irritation that covered his handsome features. His eyes met yours, brow arching at you as you met his gaze.

“Do you remember anything, miss?” The officer next to you asked gently, and you turned to look at him. You opened your mouth to reply, but stopped as a figure walked up into your peripheral.

“I’ve got it, son,” the man dismissed gruffly, sparing the young officer a look before fixing his attention back on you. The officer seemed put out by the dismissal, but he nodded at you, tipping his cap with a final “miss” before walking off to join his fellow law enforcement. You watched him go for a moment, feeling the newcomer’s gaze on you as you pointedly refused to meet his gaze. The man cleared his throat, and that’s when you looked back over at him, keeping your face neutral as you met his gaze once more.

“The name’s Agent Beau Simpson,” he started, eyes roving over you as his lips twisted into a frown. “What’s yours?”

You gave him your name, sizing him up as you did so, a habit you supposed you picked up from the days when your father would take you out on some of his runs during prohibition. You needed to know the measure of people just in case.

“I work for the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” he continued, sliding his hands into his pockets as he allowed his eyes to wander across the alley. You let out a snort that drew his attention back to where you stood.

“What’s the FBI doing in a shithole like this?” You questioned. Agent Simpson raised a brow at your coarse language, earning an eyebrow raise of your own in challenge.

“The Bureau has tasked me and my partner,” he pauses to gesture over at an older looking man who’s stopped to talk with the bank manager, an easy smile on his wrinkled face as he listens to the other man attentively, “Agent Kazansky, with investigating the activities of the Dagger Gang.”

Your eyes widened in surprise. Now it made sense. You had heard some of the nicknames whispered around town as Everyone had heard about the notorious gang of criminals roaming the rural areas of this and the neighboring states. The group was heralded as a godsend, robbing the crooked banks and giving the money back to the working poor. You weren’t sure what to think of them to be completely honest. It seemed to you to be too good to be true, and the bruise at your temple throbbed in agreement.

“The Dagger Gang, huh?” You muttered, bringing your fingertips to press gently against the pained skin. You winced at the contact, and Agent Simpson watched you with an unreadable expression.

“Looks like they left you with a parting gift,” he commented. You shot him a look before letting your hand drop.

“Did you need something, or am I free to go?” You huffed, crossing your arms. Agent Simpson said nothing for a moment, but you thought you caught a glint of amusement in his eyes before he took out a small notepad and pen from his jacket pocket. How he was able to wear that many layers in this heat was beyond you.

“You mind telling me what happened?” He asked, and you let out a sigh, recounting your tale to him as he wrote down every detail.

“And that’s all I remember,” you finished, picking at the seam of your skirt as you watched Agent Kazansky finish up with the bank manager. The police were starting to clear out the area as well, having finished bagging as much evidence as they could find.

“You’re sure?” Agent Simpson prompted, brow raised as he finished a note. “Nothing else happened?”

The flash of jade green eyes and soft lips on yours had heat crawling up your neck and to your cheeks. You took a sharp breath, steeling yourself and willing the memory out of your head as you offered him a nod.

“Positive,” you muttered, looking away. Agent Simpson stared at you for a moment before nodding.

“Alright then,” he sighed, putting the notepad and pen back into his jacket and pulling a small, white card out. “If you think of anything, give this number a call. The people at the Bureau will be sure to get the information to me.”

You took the card with a small frown, placing it into your bag with a nod.

“Will do,” you agreed, fingers resting on your camera as a thought struck you.

“Say,” you chirped, catching Agent Simpson’s attention as he was walking away. He turned back to give you a curious look. You held up your camera, waving it for added effect. “You mind if I take some pictures for the paper?”

Now you sat in the parlor of your oldest friend, Alice, in the home she shared with her husband of two years, Frank. It was a lovely home, much nicer than your own at least. Everything was kept in pristine condition, not a speck of dirt or mess in sight. You took a tentative sip from your teacup, a family heirloom of Alice’s, as she prattled on about the luncheon with the ladies from her parish.

You loved Alice dearly, having known her as long as you could remember, but since she got married, it seemed the two of you had been drifting further and further apart. You supposed part of that was your own fault, recounting the number of times Alice had invited you out to spend time with her and Frank. It seemed like they were always a package deal, and while you were fond of him, you couldn’t help but feel that you had been replaced as Alice’s partner in crime. The two of you used to do everything together, but since she had gotten married and settled into her fairytale life, you found yourself more often than not serving as the proverbial third wheel on their excursions.

“So what do you say, Moonie?” Alice chirped, eyes wide with excitement as she leaned forward to rest her palm on your knee. You stiffened for a second before relaxing, racking your brain for hints as to what she was asking you as you sipped your tea. It seemed that your time spend in self-imposed exile had made it hard for you to keep track of conversations.

“You have no idea what I just said, do you?” She sighed, leaning back with a swish of her long, blonde curls. You refused to meet her gaze as she let out another sigh, leaning forward once more to touch the bruise to your temple gingerly. You winced at the contact, setting your cup down on the table in front of you as you turned to look at her.

“I suppose it’s not your fault,” she mused, dropping her hand to take hold of yours. “It must have been so scary what you went through. And the nerve of those brutes to leave such a mess of your pretty face.”

“Alice,” you sighed, giving her a look that begged her to drop the line of conversation. She gave you a wry smile in return.

“Well, anyway,” she continued, mercifully dropping the subject as she let your hand go to place her own cup on the table beside yours. “I was asking if you wanted to come dancing with Frank and I tonight.”

“Alice, I don’t-” You began, but she waved your dismissal off with a brush of her hand.

“It won’t just be the three of us,” she said. “Frank’s friend from Wichita Falls is in town for some business, and I thought it might be fun to do a double date.”

You didn’t respond, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you studied her. You knew she only wanted you to be happy, to have the same kind of life that she lived now, but there was a part of you deep down that knew it would always be just outside your grasp. Still, the idea of getting to spend more time with Alice was appealing, and with Frank’s friend in town, you might actually get to spend some actual one-on-one time with her.

“What did you have in mind?” You relented, earning an excited grin.

Hours later, you were stepping foot into one of the hottest clubs in the Dallas area. You fought the urge to scratch at your face, not used to the makeup that Alice had dolled you up with. Rouge tinted your cheeks and a deep red painted your lips for the first time in years, and you could hardly believe your eyes when she had shown you in the mirror of her vanity earlier that evening.

“You look gorgeous, Moonie,” she had chirped, squeezing your shoulders as she dipped her head down to look at you. “Charlie is gonna be blown away!”

She had practically shoved a bright, red number into your hands as she pushed you towards the restroom to change. Your fingers brushed over the silky fabric in question, letting out a nervous breath as your small group entered the club. She had been right. Frank’s friend, Charlie, had looked gobsmacked when the two of you made your way to the foyer where the two men were waiting, and you let yourself bask in the warm feeling of being noticed by a handsome man.

Charlie’s hand rested on your waist as he guided you further into the room while trailing Alice and Frank. The club was in full swing, several people already on the dancefloor as the band played a jazz number that had you almost giddy. Alice and Frank stopped at a table close to the dancefloor, Charlie pulling out a seat for you as you gave him a grateful smile.

“Don’t get too comfortable!” Alice hollered over the noise, a delighted grin spread across her face as her eyes darted between you and your date. “After the first drink, we’re all headed to the dancefloor!”

“Oh, Alice, you know I don’t-” You began, brow furrowing in uncertainty, but she fixed you with a look that cut you off mid-sentence.

“No,” she stated firmly, arching a brow. “You do. You just haven’t. Come on, Moonie, let loose and live a little! There are no worries tonight!”

You sighed in defeat, casting an awkward smile to Charlie as he let his fingers brush over your shoulders. Alice gave you a knowing look before turning to say something to Frank, and you jumped as Charlie leaned into you.

“You look real pretty tonight, sweets,” he murmured, breath fanning over your cheeks, the smell of cigarettes and alcohol nearly making you gag.

“Thank you,” you managed, allowing your eyes to wander around the room. It was a beautiful place, it’s reputation doing little to prepare you for the majesty of the interior. Deep reds accented with golds lined the walls, artificial shadows cast across the room to offer the illusion of privacy in the crowded space. You wondered who or what lurked in them.

A waiter came around to take your orders, and while everyone around you ordered a cocktail, you stuck with plain water.

“No spirits for you, sweets?” Charlie asked with a lift of his brow. You gave a wry smile, mind flashing briefly to your older brother.

“I’m not one for alcohol,” you supplied, picking at the cloth of the napkin that sat in front of you.

“Shame,” he muttered, giving a smile to the waiter as he came back with everyone’s drinks.

You all chatted amongst yourselves as you sipped at your water, feeling yourself grow more and more stifled by Charlie’s presence as he crowded around you. The feeling of eyes on you tickled at the back of your neck, but you brushed it off as jitters about being out and about for the first time in who knows how long. Before long, Alice was on her feet and tugging Frank towards the dancefloor with her signature grin and bat of her eyelashes. Frank followed her eagerly, the two of them falling into an easy foxtrot.

“We should join’em!” Charlie called over the music, not waiting for protest as he took your hand and dragged you towards the dancefloor. You bit back your sigh, falling into step with the music, allowing yourself to get lost in the tempo as your feet moved. The feeling of eyes on you grew, and you allowed yourself to scan the room for the source of the uneasy feeling. You were pulled back, however, as Charlie stepped on your toes, causing you to wince with a hiss as he flushed a deep red.

“I’m so sorry, sweets,” he grumbled, attempting to guide you along the floor once more. “I’m not much of a dancer.”

“It’s alright,” you assured him, moving your feet once more as the music continued. The air between the two of you was silent and awkward as you continued, and you started to wonder how you were going to make it through the rest of the night. Perhaps you could feign illness…

“Frank told me you had a bit of a run-in earlier this week,” Charlie said, eyes glancing at your temple where, despite Alice’s best efforts, the bruise was still slightly visible beneath the layer of powder covering your face.

“Yes,” you sighed. “I suppose I did.”

“You must have been frightened, sweets,” he pressed, hand stroking along your waist as you gritted your teeth.

“It wasn’t that big a deal,” you muttered as the song came to an end. You pulled away, forcing a smile on your face as Charlie allowed you to withdraw. A slower number came on, and the two of you stared at each other for a moment before he cleared his throat, shifting on his feet.

“I’ll, uh,” he swallowed, “I’ll go get us another round of drinks.”

You nodded but didn’t respond as he spun on his heel and retreated. You let out another sigh, starting to make your way back to the table when a hand grasped your wrist.

“Where’re you going, dollface?”

You whirled around at the familiar voice, eyes meeting jade green that sparkled with mirth. You stood frozen for a second as the blond’s face split with a cocky grin.

“Let go of me,” you hissed, attempting to pull your wrist free, but his grip remained gentle but firm.

“Come on,” he drawled, pulling you closer, the smell of tobacco and mint making your stomach flutter. “Just one dance.”

He left you no room to argue as he snaked an arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him with a devilish grin and taking one of your hands in his. He began to sway along to the music, and you begrudgingly followed.

“See? Isn’t this nice?” He crooned, looking down at you with hooded eyes. You glared back up at him, pressing your lips into a thin line as he whisked you around the dancefloor.

“I think you’re already having a better time with me than you were lover boy over there,” he grinned, nodding over to where you were sure Charlie was. His hand on your waist began to venture lower, and you reached behind you to drag it back into place. You cast the man in front of you another glare, but he remained unperturbed, leaning forward so that his lips brushed against the shell of your ear.

“Been thinking ‘bout you,” he murmured, sending a shiver up your spine, one that didn’t go unnoticed judging by the smirk that graced his lips. “Been thinking about those pretty lips on mine.”

Your breath hitched in your throat, your face warming at his words. How could this man stir such conflicting emotions in you?

“Been imagining how soft you’d feel against me,” he continued with a hum, lips trailing down towards your cheek, sending chills across your skin that had your insides twisting. “Been thinking about the pretty noises you’d make when I-”

“Don’t be crass,” you snapped, pushing against his chest. You only put about an inch or so of space between the two of you, your glare only a fraction of how fierce it was at the beginning of the dance. He chuckled, pulling you close again as he continued the dance.

“Sorry, sugar,” he smirked. “You’ve just been driving me crazy these past couple of days.”

“You don’t even know me,” you muttered, looking down at the floor. Hangman dips his head to look at you once more.

“No,” he acquiesced, “but I want to.”

You looked back at him at that, shock coloring your face.

“Why?” You asked, brow furrowing, waiting for the punchline. It didn’t make sense. You weren’t like the free spirited girls who flitted around town. You didn’t own nice clothes or worry about the latest trends. This man was beautiful, he could have anyone he wanted. So, why you?

“What do you mean ‘why?’” He laughed, stopping when he saw the serious look on your face. He offered a shrug. “I dunno. There’s just something about you, doll. Something that once I saw you, I knew you were something I’d never want to let go. Been thinking about it nonstop since the other day, and now here you are looking like an angel down from heaven itself right in front of me.”

“That’s ridiculous,” you groused, earning another chuckle. You gulped as you felt his hand begin to wander south once more, heart beating wildly in your chest.

“Maybe,” he hummed, leaning into you so that his lips ghosted over yours. Your gaze flitted down, remembering the softness of his lips on yours, cursing how much you wanted to feel them again. “But you say you want nothing to do with me, that you don’t feel what I feel? I’ll be out of your life for good, dollface.”

Your eyes flickered back up to his, studying them for any signs of deception, but there was none to be had. Your mind whirled with the possibilities. It wasn’t smart to get mixed up with someone like him, especially when you weren’t planning on sticking around. You let out a shaky breath and Hangman cooed at you, stroking your cheek in a brazen show of intimacy.

“Use your words, honey,” he murmured, and you let out a quiet whine, cheeks heating at the pathetic sound.

“I-” You started, stopping as you heard your name. You whipped your head around to see Alice pushing through the crowd towards you. You pulled away from Hangman, refusing to meet his heated gaze as your best friend stopped in front of you, her husband right behind her.

“Moonie, honey,” she smiled, eyes glancing at the man beside you curiously. “Where’s Charlie?”

“He, um,” you stuttered, eyes looking around wildly for your date.

“Hi,” Hangman greeted, offering his hand for Alice to shake. “My name is Jake. Jake Seresin.”

“Oh, hi!” Alice greeted, taking his hand in a polite shake. “I’m Alice, and this is my husband, Frank.”

“Sorry about stealing your friend away,” he drawled, his hand coming to rest on the small of your back. “I saw her from across the room and just knew I had to have at least one dance with her.”

You couldn’t see, but you were sure he was flashing her a mega-watt smile with the way she looked so flustered. You took a deep breath, anxiety licking up your spine as the room suddenly felt too loud and too crowded.

“I need some air,” you blurted out, already turning towards an exit, not bothering to wait for a reply. You pushed through the throngs of people, earning several dirty looks, but you couldn’t be bothered as you pushed your way through a door and into the cool, night air of an alley. The quiet enveloped you as you sucked in huge lungfuls of air, the sweat on your skin feeling like ice in the cool breeze.

What was going on with you? You had never been so affected by anyone in your life, and this man, this stranger, waltzes into your life and suddenly you’re making a fool of yourself. He must have hit you harder than you thought, that was the only logical explanation.

You were so busy in your spiral that you didn’t notice the door open as someone stepped out with you. You jumped as a hand clutched your shoulder, spinning to see Charlie looking at you with an unreadable expression.

“Oh, Charlie!” You exclaimed, placing a hand over your chest to try and calm your racing heart. “I didn’t-”

“You know,” he interrupted you, a look of disdain flooding his features, “had I known you were so easy, I wouldn’t have bothered taking you out on a date.”

“What?” You asked, brow furrowing in confusion. He let out a bark of a laugh, taking a step towards you, and you took one back.

“A dame like you? I should have known,” he sneered, backing you up towards the wall of the alley. You grunted as your back met the brick wall, heart beating erratically for a different reason now. “Girls like you are too easy, the way you were putty in that guy’s hands just from a single dance. So, come on, sweets. Open those legs for me like the good slut I know you are.”

The slap echoed in the empty alley, your hand stinging from where it had connected with Charlie’s cheek. You were frozen in shock, which was all the time it took for him to recover, your head bouncing off the brick as he gripped your hair and slammed you back.

“Bitch,” he snarled, other hand reaching up to grip your dress. He pulled, and a tearing sound met your ears as you tried to wriggle out of his grasp.

“I was going to be nice,” he hissed, his horrible breath washing over you as you continued to struggle, “but now I’m going to make sure it hurts.”

His hand came up to wrap around your neck, and you let out a cry as he squeezed. You pressed your eyes closed, waiting for his next move when a click sounded over his shoulder.

“Let her go,” came the deep timbre, and you opened your eyes to see Jake standing behind Charlie, a gun in his hand which he pointed at Charlie’s head. Charlie let out a low growl, but obeyed the command, his hands falling away from you. You nearly crumpled to the ground, but caught yourself as Jake held his hand out to you, not taking his eyes off of the other man. Hesitantly, you moved passed Charlie, taking Jake’s hand and allowing him to push you behind him. Once you were safe behind him, Jake reared the hand holding his gun back, bringing it forward sharply with a sickening crack. You gasped as Charlie groaned, clutching at his nose which was now leaking blood through the cracks of his fingers.

“You sorry piece of shit,” Jake growled, the sound of the door opening behind you catching your attention. You watched as Alice and Frank made their way into the alley, eyes wide with shock as Jake stood over Charlie.

“I catch you even looking in her direction again, and you’ll leave with more than a broken nose,” he spat, dragging Charlie up by his collar and practically throwing him down towards the mouth of the alley. “Get the hell out of here.”

“Moonie, oh my word,” Alice started, rushing towards you as Charlie scampered off. “What happened?”

“I…he…” You tried to talk, but the words just wouldn’t come out. Your head hurt, and you were feeling dizzy. Your fingers played with the skirt of your dress as you tried to formulate a sentence. You were vaguely aware of Jake and Frank speaking in the background, but you were too distracted by the hole you came across. “Your dress…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Alice hushed, pulling you close and leading you down towards the street. “Let’s just get you out of here, honey.”

Once again, you allowed yourself to be guided, the decision being made for you. You paused at the mouth of the alley, looking back to see jade green already looking at you.

A/N: It's been a while since I updated last, but here it is!! I'm still so excited to continue this story, and this Jake is quickly becoming a favorite of mine, I can't lie. I'm hoping to have the other three updates out this week, but more likely than not, it might just be one or two, so let me know what you want to see next!

If you would like to receive notifications on when I post, please follow my sideblog ( @sailoraviator-library ) and turn on post notifications! As always, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated. You can find all of my works on AO3 under the username sailor_aviator. Until next time!

[darkworkcourier]

You’re doing Ghost!! Can I request an exercise in sharing body heat in cold conditions that turns into *other* forms of exercise? Preferably a non-military female reader if that tickles your fancy. So excited to see you back on tumblr, I loved your RDR2 and FC5 work back in the day 💕💕💕

Hi yes I’d like to apologize that this tiny prompt turned into EIGHT THOUSAND WORDS OF PORN OH GOD

(Also, try and find all the Far Cry 5 references. :3c As a thank you for hanging out with me all this time!)

Reader works for the National Park Service and gets pulled into a mission involving guiding Ghost to go after a (wink) paramilitary organization in (WINK WINK) Montana. Things go awry.

---

“Piss poor excuse for a shortcut, Ranger,” Ghost says to your back.

Your mid-back, actually, since you’re about two feet above him on the hillside which is way steeper than you remember. You could have sworn there was a trail cut through here, or maybe that was a half mile down the ridge, or maybe— Maybe it’s good to not second guess it when you think Ghost’s about a full thirty seconds from ditching you and going off on his own.

“You wanna get shot at?” you ask over your shoulder, voice slightly muffled in your scarf. “Because if you took the main road, that’s what you’d get.”

“I would do just fine,” he replies dryly.

Right, he’s got a tactical vest on. You have a down jacket that would just make for a really interesting display of flying feathers if you got shot. The best defense you have is the handgun he gave you for protection, and a Park Service badge that would elevate the threat of killing a federal employee. Not that Ghost’s targets would care, but it makes you feel better.

The two of you trudge through waist-deep snow, thick even on the incline. You’re practiced enough with winter weather hiking to approach it fairly spryly, but you’re also not lugging an incredible about of gear like he is.

“It’s not that far, anyway,” you tell him, just to make conversation. “It’s this ridge, then the Beaver Dam River, and then the lookout tower.”

“Real walk in the park,” he replies.

“Literally,” you say brightly.

His grunt isn’t very amused.

The biggest problem is the cold. It’s northern Montana in the depths of winter, and every shrieking sickle of wind that cuts through the mountains physically hurts. You’re prepared enough for the temperature drop, but you worry more about what happens after dark, when it goes from tolerable to goddamn polar. If it wasn’t vital for you to be out here, you would have stayed in.

For lack of anything better to do as you finish ascending the ridge, you think on the whole situation. A paramilitary extremist group hiding out in the mountains, some multinational task force you’d never heard of swooping into the park, and you getting swept up into it all and taken on as a guide. It sounds like something straight out of an action movie, but here you are and there Ghost is.

Hell, even his name and whole look makes the reality of all this seem that much out of pocket. He’s dressed in winter tactical gear, white and gray mottled camo, hood pulled down low over the skull-plated balaclava that you’re fairly sure he never takes off. He blends in with his surroundings, but at the same time, he really sticks out.

You get to the top of the ridge, pausing for a moment to take in your surroundings. Sure enough, by your reckoning, you’re about a quarter mile off from the actual trail. It’s easy to remedy, leading Ghost down the relatively level ridge to where the trail appears as a shallow divot in the snow.

Of course, he points it out.

“Got lost, did we?”

You roll your eyes. “Not lost,” you correct. “Just slightly askew on the directions. Everything looks the same in the snow.”

“Thought you knew this place like the back of your hand.”

“I do,” you say, stepping down onto the trail and grimacing when the snow goes up to your hips. Ghost is so damn huge that it probably barely goes over his knees, but you don’t turn around to look. “And I wasn’t too far off!”

“Slightly off is still off,” he retorts.

You really wish they would have sent the nice, happy Scottish guy with you instead.

Once you clear the ridge’s treeline, you see the lookout tower poking above the trees straight ahead of you. Grinning, you point it out to Ghost.

“Affirmative, Ranger. I see it.”

“You can just say ‘yes’.”

You can hear him sigh, and then, “Yes,” said like he’s punching the word out of the air.

The trail crosses over the river, cutting through at its shallowest section for this part of the park. The only problem is that the Beaver Dam River doesn’t freeze, so there’s a very real risk of soaking through your boots and defeating the purpose of having moisture-wicking socks. With any luck, you’ll have some downed trees or rocks to cross over, and the river won’t be too high.

That’s with any luck; the opposite being the luck you currently have, as the river’s clearer than you’ve ever seen it once you reach it. You hiss out a curse under your breath, glancing up and down the banks to see if there’s any easier way to cross.

Nada.

“Shit,” you mutter.

“What’s shit?”

“River’s clear, but it’s... well, it’s fuckin’ cold is what it is,” you say, watching the glacially-fed water happily rush by you.

He shrugs. “Looks shallow enough.”

“It is, except—” You look down at your boots, cringing at the thought of all the fun ways water can get in them.

Beside you, Ghost looks down at them as well. “They’re not waterproof?”

“They are, but probably not for walking through a river.”

“Jesus,” he murmurs, then steps right into the water. You see it course around his ankles, protected by his thick boots that probably cost more than a month of rent back home. Once he’s on the other side, he turns back to you, dark eyes peering out through his mask, making him look like a bizarre death motif hanging out on the banks of a very chilly River Styx.

“Damn it,” you hiss. You’ll have to be quick, not settling long enough for the water to leach into your boots and socks.

It’s probably comical to Ghost to watch you hopping across the river, up until your boot hits something—loose gravel, a slimy rock, or just a pocket of underwater bad luck. Whatever it is, it sends you right on your ass and into the water. The only good thing is that it’s not deep, but that does shit to negate the cold shock that knocks the wind right out of you. Cold pierces right through your clothes, hitting your skin like dozens of tiny knives. You gasp first, then yelp, and finally scramble out of the water and right into Ghost’s arms.

To be fair, in the shock, you didn’t see his sudden movement toward you, so you yelp again—right into his ear—when he scoops you up. His head jerks back, but he holds you steady regardless.

“Jesus fuck!” you gasp, already shivering hard. Parts of you are too numb to register on your brain’s running docket of limbs and appendages, but others hurt like shit.

“You okay?” Ghost asks, sounding a little breathless. His hands are on your shoulders, holding you in place.

Great question; you don’t have a good answer. You nod, but you’re pretty sure the uncontrollable shivering is telling another story.

“Let’s get you to that tower,” he says. His voice takes on the command form you only heard back when you sat in on the task force’s meeting. It’s solid, and strangely comforting to hear him take charge. “Sooner we’re inside, the better.”

“C-couldn’t agree m-m-more,” you manage, crossing your arms and digging your hands into your armpits.

Ghost takes the lead up the trail, which is good because your legs feel pretty damn numb. You don’t think it’s frostbite yet, but you know that’s a very real risk, especially as the clouds overhead start to darken with the oncoming evening. Because of the tower’s high perch, the trail snakes back and forth up the hill—a half hour’s walk in good weather and a steady pace, but longer in your state.

Ghost’s surprisingly patient, purposefully slowing his pace so you can keep up. He looks over his shoulder again and again, like he’s making sure you’re still there and not face-down in a snowbank. On your end, you keep your eyes fixed on his backpack, determined to keep it in your sight.

Halfway up the hill, Ghost decides to change tactics. He stops, shouldering off his backpack, then handing it to you. “Put it on,” he says. “Then get on my back.”

“What?”

“Just do as I say,” he says, brooking no argument in his tone. “It’ll be faster.”

You put on the backpack, not surprised that it weighs a metric ton. At the same time, your vision swims a little, dark shapes appearing in your vision before fizzling out like little firecrackers.

Oh, we’re in trouble, you think.

Ghost makes sure the backpack’s secure before turning around and going down on a knee to give you space to climb up. Non-hypothermic you would find this a great opportunity to make a down-on-one-knee joke, but you’re way too fucking cold to do much more than shiver and hang on to him for dear life. His hands go to the back of your thighs, supporting you while you cling to his neck, pressing your face into the back of his coat.

“You good?”

You nod.

“Need a verbal confirmation, Ranger,” he says, not without a hint of humor.

You manage a stifled, shuddering laugh and say, “Yep.”

“Good enough.”

He carries you up the hill, the incline steep enough to make the backpack feel heavier somehow. You don’t know how he’s managing it as well as he is, except for whatever freakish training they probably do in England. In your swimming, dizzy mind, you imagine Ghost hoisting crates of tea over his head, and that sends you into a giggling fit.

“What’s so funny back there?” he asks. However, you can’t miss the sliver of concern in his voice.

“H-how d’you train in Eng-g-gland?” you ask, the middle syllable briefly caught in the back of your throat.

“How do I what?”

“B-back where-e-ever you come f-from-m-m,” you say, shivering harder even though you can feel his body heat close to your core. “W-what do th-they make you d-d-do?”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and all you hear are his boots crunching in the snow and the wind snapping through the trees around you.

“Vigorous biscuit lifts,” he says.

You snort against his coat, and then cling tighter, feeling your limbs prickle in the cold.

You’re silent the rest of the way up the hill, shivering and sniffling as Ghost carries you. Finally, you reach the top, and you glance up to see the lookout tower’s staircase which until now has never looked so fucking tall.

“Sh-shit,” you say.

“Just hang on,” Ghost says. “You’ll be fine.”

“N-n-no, I th-thought I’d l-l-let go,” you joke, but your arms do feel like they’re going to fall off, and you’re starting to lose feeling in your fingertips.

He grunts and adjusts his hold on your thighs, then starts the ascent up the stairs. You really do have to wonder about his physical training regimen, because you’re pretty sure you’d be dead before you reached the top in your state. He’s only panting, breaths coming out in thin clouds in front of his balaclava.

“S’it locked?” he asks.

“No.”

“Good,” he says, letting you down onto your numb feet so he can open the door. He goes in first, hand close to his thigh holster, quickly scoping the single room before letting you in. "Clear.”

Your steps waver a little as you walk in, then quickly fall onto the bed without much ceremony. You’re a shivering mess, every part of you that you can still feel trembling with the cold. It’s not much warmer in the tower, but at least the wind’s blocked out. Ghost walks over and helps you shoulder off the pack, then leaves your line of site, his presence indicated by heavy footsteps, the sound of the backpack’s zipper being opened, and then soft clanking and thumping.

Your consciousness wavers on a very dangerous precipice, and you know you really need to get out of your wet clothes. You’re not at the paradoxical undressing stage of hypothermia, which is a good sign. But that also means you have no strong desire to strip, either.

Somewhere in your half-doze, you hear Ghost working on the potbelly stove, opening it on its whiny hinges, loading its gullet with wood left over from the last restock, then striking a match. It doesn’t take long to hear the throaty crackle of burning wood, and that’s a comfort in of itself.

Ghost is back at your side, gently shaking your shoulder. “Hey, Ranger,” he says. “Let’s get you out of those clothes.”

“Mmn,” is your best response, and not a particularly eloquent one.

“C’mon,” he presses, then manhandles you up into a sitting position. Your muscles give a pretty passionate protest, and you blink wearily up at him as he helps you take off your gloves, then unzips your jacket. His eyes flicker up to yours, assessing you. “You still with me?”

You nod, lifting your stiff arms for him to help you out of your sleeves.

“You know the signs of hypothermia, right?”

“Y-yeah,” you say, squeezing your eyes shut as a fresh rush of pins and needles goes down your right arm.

“Alright, let me know if any of ‘em get worse.” He drops your coat in front of the stove, then gestures to your half-soaked sweater. “Can you get that off by yourself?”

You nod again, then start the suddenly grueling work of getting out of it. It’s heavy wool, designed specifically to be as thick and warm as possible. That also means that it’s a bitch to get out of when your arms feel like cooked pasta. Still, Ghost’s already doing a lot for you, so the least you can do is prove that you’re better at a toddler than taking your clothes off.

Oh. Yeah, there’s that. You’re taking your clothes off in front of Ghost. That’s a whole thing to parse through.

But you manage to get out of the sweater, and that’s a victory. You drop it next to the bed, then start undoing the laces on your boots, fingers fumbling the whole time.

“Need help?” Ghost asks.

You look up at him, and then feel a very welcome heat rush to your face.

He’s ditched his coat on a chair next to the stove, tactical vest laid aside on the lookout’s desk. He’s down to a skin-tight black long-sleeved shirt that does wonders in showing off his musculature, and his hand are— Holy shit, he’s undoing his belt.

“W-what are you d-doing?” you ask. Bonus points for you that you’re not shivering as hard. Lack of bonus points that you’re openly ogling the lieutenant like he’s a prime beef steak (and he is).

He gestures back to you, one boot off, the other half-undone. “Getting undressed,” he says very plainly. “Fastest way to warm you up. You know that.”

You do, is the problem. It’s in every survival manual you’ve read and every class you’ve taken for your job. At the same time, it’s in at least four romance novels you’ve perused. And you’ve spent nearly four full months without coming into contact with any human being for more than an hour at a time; getting naked with a gigantic, musclebound man nearly sends your addled brain into a tailspin.

You quickly undo the other boot, trying to will your hands to stop shaking.

This isn’t the time to get shy, especially as your limbs ache in new and profound ways and you feel like you’re never going to be warm again.

The boot comes off, then you peel your wet socks off and drop them on the floor with a very telling plap sound. Your feet prickle and ache as the chilled air hits them and your shivering renews in spades. The faster you get undressed and under any kind of cover, the better it is for both of you.

Snow pants go next, then your work pants, until you’re down to a t-shirt and long underwear.

And Ghost is—

Fuck.

If there was any blood left in your suffering arms and legs, it must redirect right up to your face, making your head swim in a whole new body of water. Ghost’s stripped down to his boxers and (of course) his balaclava. His back’s to you, but that means it’s on full display as he puts all of his clothing in a semi-neat pile. When he turns back to you, you see his eyes widen a little as he lifts his brows.

“Still wearing too much, Ranger,” he states.

You know that, but there’s a pretty firm disconnect somewhere in your synapses, body firmly resisting any higher command to do literally anything useful.

He seems to register that issue, because he’s at your side in an instant, tugging on the hem of your t-shirt to help you out of it. You squawk in surprise, almost falling back onto the bed. 

If you could read masked expressions a bit better, you might think he’s amused.

“I— I can d-do it m-m-myself,” you stutter out. Fighting down any urge to be bashful in a survival situation, you get out of your t-shirt, then maneuver yourself enough to take off your long johns. At the end, you’re down to just a sports bra and panties. Pointedly, you don’t look up to see Ghost’s reaction.

“Take this side of the bed,” he says, gesturing to the edge you’re sitting on. “It’s closer to the stove.”

You do so, feeling him get on the bed and go over to the far side closest to the window. He pulls up the blanket and quilt, then slips underneath them before holding them up for you.

With your back to him, you lay on your side and shimmy under the cold blankets. Behind you, Ghost grunts in what sounds like irritation.

“Turn around,” he says. 

You swallow hard, worrying that he’d say that. Reluctantly, you roll over to face him. Or, rather, face his chest, which is alarmingly close. And it’s a good chest, all muscle-y and firm, with a fine dusting of light blond hairs on his pectorals. When you look up, he’s still wearing that balaclava. You squint at him.

“H-how come y-y-you’re still wearing th-that?”

“Doesn’t come off, Ranger,” he states, although the corners of his eyes crinkle like he’s smiling.

“Ever?”

“Affirmative.”

You groan and lean your head forward until it touches one of his collarbones. “Just s-say yes-s,” you complain.

He actually laughs this time, a low, rumbling sound deep in his chest, before you feel his arm wrap around you, pulling him close to him. It’s startling, and damn embarrassing, but you definitely can’t argue with the results. Almost immediately, his body heat seeps into your skin, first warming your hands pressed in between your chests. One of his feet brushes over one of yours, causing you to jump, and then settle with your eyes squeezed shut in mortification.

But that mortification gives way to blissful comfort as everything warms up. The stove radiates heat as the wood crackles and shifts, and Ghost is a stove in himself. The little space beneath the blankets is a pocket of glorious heat, and you start to feel the ache in your limbs recede and your head clear of its chilly fog.

You don’t know how long it is before he speaks again, but his voice comes in close to your ear. “You doing alright, Ranger?”

You’re relaxed enough that you nod and smile with your eyes closed. “Yeah,” you say.

“You ever do this in survival training?”

You scrunch up your nose a little. “I read about it. We never actually practiced stripping down and cuddling.”

He snorts. “It’s not cuddling.”

You crack open an eye, looking up into his greasepaint-ringed gaze. Feeling emboldened by the fact you can feel your arms and legs and nothing hurts, you gently shove his chest. “What do you call this, lieutenant?”

“Hypothermia prevention.”

You roll your eyes. “Just say it’s cuddling. It’s easier. Less syllables.”

He doesn’t say a word.

Before long, the crackling of the fire and Ghost’s steady breathing lull you into a doze. You go in and out of sleep, deeper and deeper as the sky darkens outside and causes the fire to make strange shadows around the room. You wake once to find your arm around Ghost’s waist, your chest pressed against his, the crown of your head under his chin. You’re sleepy enough that this doesn’t strike you as odd or something you should remedy. It’s way too easy to fall asleep after that.

You wake again to Ghost moving against you, getting out from under the blankets and crawling across the bed until he steps down on the floor. You groan and roll over to watch him as he crouches in front of the stove, opening the door to add more wood to the fire.

He stands back up and looks down at you, shadows making his face look like an eyeless skull. You admire his body cast in the warm light, more than happy to openly stare at him when he walks back to the bed.

“You feelin’ alright, Ranger?” he asks.

“Mm. I’d be better if you got back in bed,” you say, heart outrunning your mind by leagues.

He lets out a soft laugh and shakes his head. “Things that sound better outside of a survival situation,” he says.

As he crawls over you and back under the covers, you do manage to parse that sentence out through the thick haze of sleep. You turn back to face him, looking up into the dark sockets of his mask.

“What does?” you ask.

“Hm?”

“What sounds better?”

He’s silent for a thoughtful moment before he breathes out through his nose. “Nothin’. Forget it.”

Nope. You’re not forgetting it, especially as you wake up a little more and take in the sight of him laying next to you.

Briefly, you think back to the meeting back at the ranger station, when Captain Price outlined the mission to gather intel on the extremist group. You stood across the table from Ghost, watching him as he stared down at the topography map, then at the dossier in front of him. But then he looked up at you, eyes striking in his mask. After that, you felt his eyes on you all afternoon, and again in the morning when you set to head out.

At the time, you thought he was just observant. He needed to know he could trust you to lead him through the wilderness, assessing you in depth and measuring you up against the other rangers at the station.

But now? Well, now you’re not so sure. You could test it, though. Now that you have all your faculties pretty well in check, you’re tempted to see how he would react to you.

Besides, it’s dark and the two of you are isolated in the Montana wilderness. The only bad thing that could come of this is a very awkward morning.

So, in line with Ghost’s whole vibe—go big or go home.

You pull yourself into a sitting position, tucking your fingers up and under the elastic hem of your sports bra. The second you pull your bra up, you hear Ghost’s breath hitch. He doesn’t make a sound as you take your bra off, sighing in relief and dropping it off the side of the bed.

Behind you, Ghost’s voice is a dry, hot rasp. “Feel better?”

Nervousness flutters around in your chest as you shimmy back under the covers, bare chest now just a suggestion in the fabric. You force a smile. “I hate wearing a bra to bed, and you’re not wearing anything.”

“Thought you’d be warmed up enough by now.”

Taking in a breath to steady your nerves, you don’t answer but raise one of your hands to brush over his chest. He doesn’t move back, or seize your wrist. Instead, he holds still, letting your fingers explore the textures of his skin—scarring and all. One particularly rough scar catches your attention, and you run your fingers around its circumference.

“What’s this one?”

You don’t look up, but you feel Ghost’s eyes burning on you. “Bullet wound from an insurgent. 2017. Laid up in hospital for three weeks.”

Your hand goes lower, finding a raised scar as long as a pencil above his navel. “And this one?”

His breathing is steady, but you’re more aware of it now, of the rise and fall of his chest, your shadow cast across his skin. “Hunting knife to the gut from a drug trafficker in London.”

“When?”

“2012.”

“How long were you in the hospital?”

“Two and a half weeks. Most of it was from surgery.”

You nod, getting bold enough to scoot closer until your breasts press against his chest. His breath hitches, which feels like some kind of success. Something you should report back to Captain Price.

Then, one of his hands brushes over your side, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, down to your hip. Goosebumps rise on your arms and a shiver runs up your spine, thrilling you. His hand goes back up, then follows a line downward over your stomach to a set of small scars on your right side.

“Appendectomy?” he guesses.

You smile. “2019,” you respond. “In the hospital for two whole days.”

“How did you ever survive?”

“Ibuprofen and HBO,” you reply.

You see his mask move with a smile, and then his hand goes up to your chest, following the divot of your sternum. Below his hand, your heart beats deceptively quick, threatening to upend your calmness. Ghost notices, of course, moving his hand to rest over your left breast, your heart threatening to break right out of there like an escaped prisoner.

His voice is like liquid heat in your ears when he says, “Do you want this?”

You could ask him to clarify—play dumb, like you have no idea what you’re insinuating. But the darkness is so all-encompassing, so protective. The world outside doesn’t know about the world in this room, in this bed. You feel safe here, and there’s an opportunity literally laying in front of you.

You smile, and say, “Affirmative.”

He doesn’t jump into action. Instead, his left hand moves down, massive palm covering your breast, pressing gently as he leans his head down close to yours, hard shell of his mask pressing against your forehead.

You look up at him, reaching to tug at the bottom of his balaclava. “Can you take this off?” you ask. “Or at least pull it up over your mouth?”

Another thoughtful silence, and then he does something a little more unexpected. He pulls you close to him, chest to chest, and bodily rolls you over until you’re on the far side of the bed and his back’s to the stove. This way, you can’t see his face, his mask disappearing in his silhouette. You see him reach up and pull the balaclava off, some of his short hair clinging to the fabric before falling away. He sets it down behind him, probably within arm’s reach.

“That better?” he asks, his voice clearer now, hotter, like he’s removed a physical and emotional barrier.

You grin. “Is there anything stronger than ‘affirmative’?” you ask.

“Hard copy,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

“Well, then, hard copy, sir.”

And you lean in, pressing your lips to his. In the dark, you miss a little, kissing somewhere closer to his chin; Ghost corrects the approach and kisses you in full. His kiss is like him—strong, solid, an undercurrent of ferocity as he catches your bottom lip with his teeth. Your left hand goes to the side of his face, reeling yourself into him and deepening the kiss. In a word, it’s exhilarating. Maybe it’s in part because of what you’ve gone through today, but you go at him like you crave him, and he returns the favor.

His right hand cups the back of your neck, a gentle but firm pressure. His other hand moves down to your chest, thumb brushing over right nipple, drawing a gasp out of you against his lips. You feel him smile against you, then tweak the nipple again. A small, hot shock of pleasure follows a current down your spine, relaying right into your core and sparking a small fire.

If that’s how he’s going to do it, you’ll do the same.

Pressing your hand to his chest, you bring up one of your knees in between his legs, pressing gently against his crotch and making him bite back a curse. You’re quick to kiss him harder, shutting him up before he can say anything about it. In retaliation, he drops the hand on your neck to palm your other breast, massaging both simultaneously as you moan into his mouth.

Where you were freezing before, it now feels like the room can’t get any hotter. That spark lit by Ghost’s first few touches fans into a fully-fledged flame, threatening to burn right through you. You begin rocking your knee in between his legs—alternating pressure, then no pressure—until his hips begin to move against you, his cock growing hard against your thigh.

You tilt your head back and grin. “Well, isn’t someone an eager beaver?” you tease.

He groans and presses his forehead against yours. “Your pillow talk needs work,” he replies.

Your response to his complaint is to reach down and stroke your fingers over his tented erection, earning a surprised grunt and a hissed, “Shit.”

“What’s shit?” you ask, echoing his words by the river.

His voice is all irritation and arousal in equal parts, “The fact we still have clothes on, that’s what’s shit.”

“Oh. Easy fix.”

Again bypassing ceremony, you curl in on yourself enough to pull your panties off, wiggling out of them before tossing them somewhere in the direction of the stove and hoping they don’t get burnt. Then you hook a leg over his still-clothed hip, grinding against his thigh.

“Jesus Christ,” he groans, reaching up to run his fingers through your hair, then forming a half-tight fist so you’re forced to look up at his silhouette. “Now who’s eager?”

“I think it’s a firm tie,” you say, feeling another thrill of victory as Ghost reaches down to shove your leg off and pull down his boxers. Once they’re gone, all the proverbial bets are off. Aside from the shadow he’s wearing like a second mask, he’s completely exposed to you, bare and vulnerable to every touch. It’s like a drug to you, intoxicating and really fucking addicting.

Apparently, Ghost thinks about the same of you. His hand is back on your hip, but trails down to your sex, palming your mons, fingers just brushing over your labia.

You feel him look at you. “Can I?”

No further question from you, especially when your arousal is threatening some serious whiteout conditions in your head. “Yeah. God, yeah.”

One large finger slides against your slit, and you hear yourself, the slick, wet sound audible above anything else in the room. Ghost curses again, drawing his finger back and forth, listening to that sound like he can’t get enough of it.

“Fuck, Ranger. You’re so fuckin’ wet.”

“You kinda have that effect,” you manage to say, before the pad of his finger brushes over your clit and draws out a moan that you bury in his chest.

But his other hand finds your shoulder, pushing you back, before he nudges up under your chin. “No. It’s just us two out here. I wanna hear you,” he says, his voice so hot, smoldering in your ears.

He rubs your clit again, and there’s nothing to hide behind, no muffler to conceal the gasp and moan that follow. Your pleasure is completely on display, and Ghost seems more than happy to draw it out further, admiring it from every angle. He draws circles around your clit, teasing you, adding more fuel to that particular fire—the irony of feeling this way in a tower meant to watch for fires isn’t lost on you.

His finger goes lower, trailing down to your opening, going back and forth several times. The friction is damn near unbearable, and it takes every iota of self control not to grind on his hand. But your hips roll outside your control, and he catches the movement with another low rumble of a laugh.

“There somethin’ you want?” he asks, index finger running a low, lazy circle around your entrance.

You nod, shuddering when he only just dips the tip of his finger in. “Ghost, please.”

“Please what?”

You hear yourself whine, a sound you never thought to hear coming out of your own damn mouth. This man makes you feel ridiculous. And he also probably gets off on hearing you say stuff like this. “Finger me,” you say, exasperated and aroused. “Please, for fuck’s sake.”

“That’s not very pretty,” he teases, and you’re very close to shoving him off the bed. But then he pushes his finger in, and any retort you were set to say or do dies immediately, consumed in the wildfire he’s ignited and fed. He presses his lips to your cheek as you moan, now very unapologetically rolling your hips against his hand as he fingers you, per request. You feel a second finger insinuating against you, and then hear Ghost whisper, “Okay?” against your ear.

“Yes. Oh my God, yes, please.”

“Much prettier,” he says, and the second finger joins the first.

The thought that he’s done this before only just brushes your thoughts as he hooks his fingers in a ‘come here’ gesture, sending hot sparks of pleasure running through your body, using your nervous system like an electrical conduit. You rock against his hand, moaning and gasping as Ghost kisses your neck, scraping his teeth over your tender skin.

“Good girl,” he says, breath hot over your shoulder, before he presses a kiss against your clavicle. How his kisses can feel so chaste while he relentlessly fingerfucks you is beyond your comprehension. The praise just makes it better, making that hot coil inside of you turn tighter, ready to be sprung on a hair trigger.

Ghost picks up on that, too. He suddenly doubles down on the effort, fingers thrusting into you at a much more rapid pace, the wet sound of his hand against your pussy practically deafening. Only his murmurs of praise against your ear register above that.

You’re reduced to a repetitive litany of ‘god’, ‘fuck, ‘please’, and Ghost’s name. All those months without seeing people and having only your hand to keep you company make this oncoming orgasm all the more vibrant and bright, a flare launched high into the air with a huge charge set to explode.

Your hips arch up, and Ghost hooks his fingers again, saying, “Come for me,” in a firm command tone.

And you are not one to ignore a command.

You come hard, crying out and arching off the bed, toes digging into the mattress, hands grasping for literally anything solid, including Ghost. He fucks you through it, coaxing your release out with the finesse of someone defusing an explosive. You come down in fits and starts, catching on little plateaus of pleasure along the way, moaning all the while. Finally, you go practically boneless on the bed, and only then does Ghost relent and pull his fingers away.

You hear him chuckle, a dry and throaty rasp of sound that makes you feel hot all over.

“What’s so funny?” you say, although your words are slurred as endorphins run relay races through your body.

He holds his hand up so that the firelight catches it, and you very plainly see how wet his whole hand is. To show it off, he presses his fingers together, then spreads them out, showing thin strings bridging between them.

“Oh, God,” you squeak, covering your face with your hands and fighting back a round of giggles. “I am so sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart,” he says, clearly pleased. He reaches somewhere behind him, presumably to wipe his hand off on the side of the bed.

And sweetheart. This man is going to kill you, and it has nothing to do with his occupation.

You tilt your head up to kiss him again, sighing against his lips and pressing yourself close. His right hand finds the side of your face, residual dampness from your orgasm still very present. Except he treats it like a trophy, dragging it down to your neck so you can feel it.

It’s also impossible to ignore his arousal prodding against your hip. Not that you intended to ignore it.

Before you can think and reason out an appropriate response, your primal brain takes hold. “Can I ride you?” you ask, and only after it’s said do you feel any kind of horror at outright asking. He purposefully arranged the two of you so you couldn’t see his face, like a Montana wilderness version of Eros and Psyche. Now you’re asking for him to lay on his back, exposed to you in every way.

He’s silent, and you’re about to apologize and suggest spooning or something when he says, “Sure.”

You blink, almost certain you misheard. “Say what?”

“You can, yeah.”

“What about the—”

It’s his turn to kiss you quiet, taking the opportunity to pull you close again and roll on his back. You meet the movement with your own, straddling his hips and feeling his erection press against your sex with insistence. You keep kissing Ghost with your eyes closed, finding his hand next to his head with your own and weaving your fingers together. His grip on your hand is firm—a solid, warm reassurance.

You turn your head, keeping your eyes closed. “I can keep my eyes shut if you want,” you tell him, only to feel his other hand come up and run over your back.

“You can look,” he says.

It feels like a point of no return now. Seeing his face, knowing that a person who this morning was still a stranger with a codename is now going to be very real—you’re almost breathless at the thought.

Slowly, you sit up while astride him, and open your eyes.

He’s— Well, handsome doesn’t seem like a well-rounded enough word. You were more on the mark with the Eros and Psyche metaphor. Firelight and shadow play across sharp features, making him look otherworldly. There’s still greasepaint around his eyes, which makes his gaze all the more intense. But the intensity is mitigated by a plush mouth, a distinctive nose, and a firm jaw. His light hair catches the warm ember-gold hue from the fire. All his features put together make for a face that you want burnt into your memory.

“Jesus, Ghost. You hide this on purpose?” you ask.

He smiles, and it’s only hearing him speak that connects the Ghost you know to the man underneath you. “Yes,” he says. “And it’s Simon.”

You must look owlish, eyes wide, blinking, damn sure you misheard again.

Ghost seems pleased by your reaction, reaching up with his free hand to brush hair out of your face. “That’s my name. My actual name.”

“Simon,” you repeat. A human name to a human face. There’s some poetry in there, but you’re too dazzled to work through it.

“Sounds good when you say it.”

You preen a little, then lean down and kiss him, savoring the sensation for everything it’s worth. And you know he read your name on the dossier, heard it from the other rangers—still, you whisper it into his ear like a secret, and he repeats it back to you in his low voice, accent curling around it perfectly.

Yeah, you’re absolutely going to ride this man until sunrise.

You reach down and take his cock into your hand, stroking it a few times and pressing your thumb up under the exposed head. Ghost—Simon moans and tilts his head back, watching you under half-lidded eyes. Carefully, you go up on your knees and align yourself with him, slowly lowering down and adjusting as needed. He’s big, which you expected from everything else about him. But it’s not a painful fit; if anything, it feels damn good.

“Fuck,” he breathes, hand stroking over your hip as he looks to where you’re joined. “You have no idea what you look like right now.”

“Neither do you,” you reply, very much enjoying the angle. He fills you up completely, the strain of him just a pleasurable ache. You moan at the sensation as you experimentally rock on top of him. “Ohhh, I am so glad you got me off first.”

“What can I say? I’m chivalrous,” he replies, although it sounds a little strained as you move your hips again.

“That’s what you call it?”

Another roll, and he looks like he’s seconds from thrusting up into you. But he’s being conscientious, letting you adjust and go at your own pace. His eyes flutter closed, and you almost want to ask him to keep them open so you can enjoy their expressiveness.

“Something, something about being a British gentleman,” he mutters, and you can’t help but laugh. Apparently, that sensation’s pretty good for him; he shudders beneath you and keeps his hand braced on your hip.

Without his mask, you want to put him through the paces of reaction, committing each expression to memory, cataloging them for future use. So you go up on your knees again and come off his cock, then bring yourself back down. You do it a few more times, watching Simon’s expression with enormous interest, the pleasure and arousal doing fabulous things to his face.

He moans your name, and you’re definitely going to use that as fantasy fodder in the future.

Your earlier orgasm gives you plenty of lubrication to work with, and so you start to fuck yourself on him in earnest. In return, you’re rewarded with a low moan and a quiet, “Fuuuuck.”

The friction feels way too goddamn good, setting up another explosive charge inside of you as Simon starts meeting the bounce of your hips with thrusts of his own. Two opposing forces working toward the same goal, and it feels incredible.

You start to rock back on his cock, using his upward thrust as momentum to hit you just right. It’s the perfect angle, apparently for both of you, as Simon’s now breathing heavily, sweat a fine sheen on his skin.

“Yes, Simon, fuck me,” you whisper, beyond turned on at the wet sound of him fucking into you. You can’t tell if it’s hearing his name like that, the command, or both that make him really lean into this, but he’s pushing up hard, groaning and pulling you down so you’re pressed to his chest.

You wonder how long it’s been for him, too—briefly thinking oh god what if he’s got someone back home and I’m a fucking homewrecker before one particular upward thrust makes you cry out, clenching down on him in a way that’s audibly very good for him. You turn your head enough to see your joined hands, and when you squeeze his hand, you don’t feel any rings on his fingers. He does squeeze back, though, and it just feels like another reassurance.

There’s no way to keep track of time, and you really wish this could go on forever. The heat generated between the two of you is scorching, all-encompassing, a forest fire caught on the cusp of the lookout tower and reported to no one but yourselves.

His pace stutters a moment, the first hint that he’s very close. He releases his grip on your hand to grab at your other hip, pushing you up and off of him before you resolutely sit down, taking his cock in full and drawing a sharp gasp out of both of you.

“No,” you pant. “No, I have an IUD. You can— Ah, fuck— You can come inside me, Simon.”

“Oh, bloody fucking Christ,” he breathes, eyes wide and beautiful. “You’re sure?”

In response, you rock back against him, squeezing hard around his cock. “Affirmative,” you say, then lean down and kiss him again. “Very hard copy.”

And that’s enough to tip him right off the edge. He thrusts once, twice, and then he moans against your mouth, one of his hands going up to card through your hair, pressing you so close to him that you can feel his heart beating against your chest. You feel him come inside you, a pulse of heat, a sense of fullness. The room seems to take on new, brighter colors, and when you look at Simon, he looks fucking euphoric. The firelight gives him a look that’s like a touch of divinity, a golden cast over his face and body.

You take your time getting off of him, enjoying the feeling of him inside you too much. That, and there’s no bathroom, no shower—the comedown also means that reality’s a little too close at hand.

Simon catches his breath, hand loosely stroking your hair, and he presses a kiss to your temple before letting his head fall back onto the pillow. “Holy fuck,” he says.

You grin and nod against his shoulder, then slowly pull yourself off his softening cock, causing both of you to groan, albeit far weaker than before. You collapse onto the narrow bed beside him, nuzzling up close to him, hand on his chest, as he pulls the blankets up over you and wraps an arm around your shoulder. Your foreheads touch, and you listen to his breaths even out, his heart rate firm and steady under your hand.

“Probably too late to ask if you have a partner, huh?” you say, smiling as you run your thumb over his skin.

“If it’s any consolation, I don’t, and I also feel stupid for not asking.”

You look up at him, the orange line of firelight tracing his features. “I don’t either. You’re good.”

He smiles, and you set that expression in your memory, drawing it in great detail. “My job kind of gets in the way.”

“Mine, too,” you reply, tracing spirals over his chest with your index finger. “It’s hard to get a date when you live out in the middle of nowhere.”

“Didn’t want to go check out the paramilitary extremists next door?”

You grimace and hide your face against his chest, shaking your head. “Gross. No.”

His chest shakes with laughter, and it’s wonderful.

---

Morning comes too quick, dawning cold and gray, reminding you that there’s a whole weird world outside the confines of the lookout tower. You and Simon get up, both aching very pleasantly, exchanging one too-brief kiss before his radio goes off.

“Ghost, how copy?” Price’s voice comes through in a crackle.

“Fuck,” Simon hisses, getting up and crossing the room to his radio. You at least can enjoy that he does so fully nude. He picks up the radio and keys it, scratching at his stubble as he responds, “At location 29-B and holding, Captain,” he says, his voice a dry scratch of sound. “The ranger had a medical issue.”

“Is she alright? Do you need a med evac?”

“Negative,” he replies. “We’re moving in about an hour.”

“Rog’. Keep me posted.”

“Will do, sir.”

An hour. You groan and fall back on the bed, staring up at the bare wood ceiling, decades worth of cobwebs in the corners. Simon falls back into bed beside you, cupping your face and drawing you into another firm kiss. Then, something dawns on you, and you lean back, looking over his handsome face in the morning light.

“When you say we’re moving in an hour, do you mean moving out, or just moving?”

His brows go up, slightly crooked smile on his face. “I think I didn’t specify, Ranger,” he says. “Do you have a preference?”

You laugh, leaning in close and pressing your forehead against his again. “Affirmative,” you say.

Simon laughs and shakes his head. “You could just say yes.”

[hottpinkpenguin]

Joel Miller X Fem!Reader - Last of Us - Part 2

A/N: read part 1 here!

Warnings: hints of sexual violence (no descriptions); dark themes; post-apocalyptic dystopia; death of reader's minor child; probably a lot of non-canon details since I've never played the game; not proofread; spoilers if you haven't seen the show/played the game Word Count: 2650 Abbreviations: QZ = quarantine zone; FDRA "Fedra" = Federal Disaster Response Agency

----

“You look like hell, Joel.”

“K.”

Tessa looked Joel up and down, making a point to grimace as she did. 

“What, am I too ugly to do business with or something?” Joel’s tone was biting, his patience running thin. The restlessness in his bones was gnawing something awful today.

“Where’d your pet go?”

Joel’s stare was flat, but Tessa knew him well enough to see the slight jump in his jaw muscle as he clenched his teeth momentarily.

“My pet?”

“Yeah, that sad sack with the dead kid.” 

Joel’s knuckles turned white on the back of the chair he was leaning on. 

“What are you talk-”

“Oh come on, Joel. Don’t act like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like every other stupid fuck around here.” Tessa gestured around the dimly lit basement where she’d met Joel for the swap. They were alone, but Joel knew who she was referring to. Her crew. Good at stealing, running, and turning profits, but not amusing to her the way he was. Joel didn’t react, he just kept staring at her.

“It’s my job to know what my guys are up to,” Tessa pointed out as if she were explaining something to a young child. 

“I’m not one of your guys,” Joel countered through gritted teeth. “The only thing we need to know about each other is what I have and what you’ll pay for it.” He looked pointedly at the half-smoked pack of cigarettes, sawed off shotgun, and car battery on the table between them. 

Tessa chewed on the inside of her lip as she looked up at him. The bare lightbulb overhead cast harsh shadows on her face. 

“That wasn’t always true, though.” Her voice was softer now, a hint of playfulness in her tone. An invitation. She smirked up at him coquettishly. Joel shook his head, trying to shake out the memories that expression brought to mind. 

“That was a mistake, Tessa.” 

“A good one, though. Sometimes good mistakes are worth making a few times.” 

Joel shook his head, exhaling softly. He should have known better. Never put your prick where you put your money. 

“No, Tessa.”

“Come on, Joel. Just for old time’s sake.”

“Not gonna happen.”

Tessa’s eyes turned from flirtatious to bitter as the smile melted from her lips. 

“So she was your pet.”

Joel felt himself tense up. This was a game that he really didn’t want to play. Tessa was a dangerous woman. He’d done well to stay on her good side for so many years, but this had been a serious miscalculation. He shouldn’t have plucked at her jealousy by bringing you into the mix. 

“She wasn’t anything,” he insisted. He kept his tone even, forced himself to hold Tessa’s accusing gaze. Tessa had a good bullshit meter, but she was blind when it came to Joel. He’d used that a few times before, but this was a moment when it really mattered. He couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t risk you. 

A heavy tension settled between them as Tessa took a drag of her cigarette. Joel swallowed down a surge of anger at the oblique threat to your safety. 

“Fine.” Tessa stood up quickly, tamping out the end of her cigarette on the table and surveying its contents. “I’ll give you eight for the lot.” 

Joel ran a hand through his graying hair in exasperation. 

“That’s less than half of what we agreed on.”

“Yeah, it is.” Tessa knocked on the metal door behind her. It swung open, two of her lackeys swooping in to scoop up the contraband that Joel had brought her. Tessa grabbed a duffel bag from one of them, unzipping a side pocket and rifling through a dirty, wrinkled stack of meal cards. She pulled out eight pink slips and thrust them towards Joel. He knew better than to argue, and took them begrudgingly. 

“You’re screwing me on this, Tessa.” 

“And you’re screwing her.” Tessa’s voice was low. Joel didn’t miss the pain in her words. “In your dreams or in reality. Either way, you’re screwing her.” 

Joel opened his mouth to argue, but no words came out. His mouth snapped close. Tessa nodded in confirmation. She zipped up the duffel bag and swung it over her shoulder as she turned to leave.

“So this is about me not picking you?” Joel couldn’t stop the question from slipping out. He could have kicked himself for the fucking stupidity. 

Tessa froze halfway up the first step of the stairwell behind the door. She half-turned back to him. On the other side of the doorframe, her entire face was cast in shadow. 

“Partially. But partially because I can’t trust you anymore.”

“How do you figure that?” Joel stuffed the eight cards into the back pocket of his jeans, sensing that their conversation was coming to an end. He didn’t want to linger any longer than he needed. 

“Because. You’re not a free agent anymore, Joel. You’ve got something to lose. Which means people can get to you. And if they can get to you, they can get to me.” 

Tessa didn’t wait for him to reply before she started up the stairs. The door behind her swung shut, leaving Joel alone with the bare lightbulb and a jolt of fear in his gut that confirmed one thing:

Tessa was right. 

*****

The frozen ground crunched under your knees as you knelt down in front of the lopsided piece of wood that marked Gabriel’s grave. He wasn’t buried there, of course; FDRA confiscated all the corpses. What they did with them from there, you couldn’t let yourself think about. But you’d buried his favorite pair of sneakers and the tattered Captain America comic book he loved so much in this spot. It had been weeks since you’d visited. 

“Hi, baby.” You patted the cold, hard soil in front of his grave marker with a trembling hand. The frigid January air had gnawed your fingertips numb.

“I’m sorry it’s been so long.” 

In the distance, a raven cawed. 

“Things have been… well, they’ve been bad since you left.”

The abandoned lot you’d buried Gabriel in was overgrown with vines. It had been a playground once. A rusted swing set lay overturned on its side a few feet from where you knelt. Behind it, a monkey bar and slide combo emerged from the weeds. Gabriel used to like to play here when he was little. Eddie would take him on the rare days he had off. 

“I miss you.” You choked on the words, feeling your resolve beginning to fracture as tears burned the corners of your eyes. You swiped them away as your nose started to run. 

“I just wanted to tell you that I’m trying to do better. I’m trying, baby.” 

Next to the wooden stake with Gabriel’s name roughly carved into it, a second stake stuck out from the ground. It was more worn and weathered after years of sun and rain. Eddie’s name was barely visible anymore. Like Gabriel, Eddie also wasn’t buried here, but this was where you chose to remember him. 

“I love you both.” Two hands on the ground this time. One in front of each of your boys. A tear slid free from your cheek and slapped onto the frosted ground between your knees. 

“I’ll visit more, I promise.” You rose from your knees, tucking your frozen hands under your armpits with a shiver.

“What are you doing out here all by yourself?”

Your body went still, icy dread shooting through your veins. You knew that voice. 

“Just paying my respects, Dirk.” 

You turned to face Dirk Reynolds, keeping your face in a mask of calm. He was the last person you wanted to run into out here so far from the rest of the QZ. 

“Sorry to hear about your boy.” Dirk sounded anything but sorry. He was walking towards you slowly, eyeing you like prey. You fought the urge to run, but the sight of the FDRA-issued semi-automatic in his hands made you think twice. 

“Thank you, that means a lot.” Actually, it meant dog shit to you, but Dirk Reynolds wasn’t a man to play with. Even Eddie had been afraid of him, and Eddie was as fearless as they came. You swallowed, suddenly feeling very aware of how alone the two of you were.

“You’re all alone now, aren’t you?” You couldn’t help but take a half step back. He was still a good fifteen paces from you, but too close for comfort. His words set your teeth on edge. 

“I like to come out here by myself. Get some peace and quiet.” You knew that wasn’t the kind of alone Dirk was getting at, but you were desperate to change the subject. His brown, bloodshot eyes raked you up one side and down the other. Despite the layers of clothing you’d piled on to try and fight off the Boston winter, his gaze made you feel woefully underdressed. 

“That ain’t what I meant, y/n.” His voice dropped an octave, practically turning into a growl. He kept moving closer to you, taking his time, his eyes never leaving you.

“I’m getting by,” you stammered back. “Mrs. Hughes and her girls are good to me. They look out for me.” You wondered if Dirk would back down knowing that there were people who might miss you if you stayed out too long. Mrs. Hughes and her daughters were good to you, but you doubted that they’d notice your absence until well past curfew. God knows what shape Dirk would have you in by then. Your throat went dry and you felt your lip start to tremble.

“You look scared, y/n. I ain’t gonna hurt you.” He was close enough that you could hear the frost-stiff ground crunch under his feet.

“I- I know.” Your reply wasn’t convincing in the least. Because you knew one thing: Dirk Reynolds would hurt you. You’d heard plenty of stories from the other women who lived near you in the QZ. 

“I look out for my friends. And I’ve got plenty of friends around here. I could treat you real good. Keep you warm, comfortable. Keep you safe.” Dirk lingered on the last word, a thinly veiled threat. 

“I’m sure. And we all appreciate everything you do for us. Truly.” 

Dirk was FDRA, but he was also something of a self-styled neighborhood mafioso. He took bribes from all the drug dealers, smugglers, and pimps in the four block radius where you lived, and in exchange Dirk turned a blind eye to their goings and comings. You remembered him from when you’d first gotten to the QZ. He’d been a fat, boastful lecher back then. The twenty years since had seen him shed the beer gut and hone a real violent streak. He wasn’t the brightest man you’d met by half, but you couldn’t make the mistake of underestimating him. You hoped your appeal to his ego would work. 

“I wouldn’t mind if you showed me some of that appreciation.” 

You fell back another half step, your hands still raised in the air like it was a stick up. The fact that he hadn’t told you to put them down told you enough about his intentions. 

“What… Dirk, I- uh, I’m not ready… For all that. Still grie-grieving.” You could barely speak, the sheer panic ringing in your ears like bells. He was close enough to reach out and touch you now. You started calculating the chances of making it if you took off in a run. That gun he held in his hands gave you pause. You’d seen what Dirk did to some of the women who’d turned down his advances. And you’d known a few women - by face only - who’d mysteriously disappeared. There were rumors, of course, that Dirk had something to do with it; but up until now, you’d been able to wave those rumors off. You had other worries to pay attention to. But now, all you could think about was getting away. You didn’t think you’d make it very far before he shot you. And despite everything you’d lost, the terror pulsing in your blood told you that you weren’t ready to die. Not yet. 

“Y/N! There you are!” A vaguely familiar voice called out to you from over Dirk’s shoulder. You kept yourself completely still as Dirk’s face darkened in irritation, grunting angrily as he spun around to face the source of the sound. 

Joel Miller was striding across the frozen carpet of vines at the northeast corner of the empty playground, waving at you like you were an old friend. Your knees almost buckled in relief at the sight. 

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you! I wish you’d told me you’d come out here to see Gabriel.” Your heart twitched at the sound of your son’s name. An idle corner of your thoughts wondered how Joel knew that’s why you were here, but that was a question for later. With Dirk distracted, you made your move. You scurried around Dirk, careful not to get close enough to let him grab you, and made a beeline for Joel. You had to consciously fight the urge to run.

“Sir, I appreciate you looking after her.” Joel’s tone was sunny and friendly. A little too obsequious, you thought, but maybe that was because you knew Joel was putting on a show for Dirk’s benefit. 

You closed the distance between you and Joel quickly, the skin on your back prickling in a frenzy to get away from Dirk. 

“Get behind me,” Joel whispered to you through gritted teeth when you were in earshot. His voice was low and urgent, but the smile he wore for show never faltered.

“Yeah, sure, no problem.” Dirk’s reply was casual, but his tone was threatening and coarse. “Pretty little thing like that shouldn’t be alone in these parts. Can’t be too careful. All kinds of things slipping through the wall these days.” You knew Dirk was referring to the infected that occasionally broke into the QZ through the maze of dilapidated buildings, subway tunnels, and sewers. For your part, you’d have gladly traded the open city to get as far away from Dirk’s leering stare as possible. 

“That’s what I tell her, once a day if it’s twelve times. Isn’t it?” Joel turned to you, obscuring his face from Dirk’s view. There was a question in his eyes: did he hurt you. You shook your head quickly, letting your eyes fall to the ground. You sidled closer to Joel’s shoulder. He noted the movement and casually shifted his weight to step squarely between you and Dirk.

“We’ll go on and head back then. Don’t want to miss curfew. Thanks for your help, again. I won’t let her out of my sight, that’s a promise.” Joel turned away from Dirk, gesturing with his eyes for you to walk towards the boarded up building at the far end of the playground. He kept himself behind you, between you and Dirk. 

“Make sure you do that,” Dirk called out after the two of you. His voice was bitter and dark.

“Keep walking. Don’t look back,” Joel urged. He hovered a hand on your lower back, his touch so light you thought you imagined it. Despite the remnants of fear crackling in your nerves, his touch sent a gentle wave of warmth up your spine. You felt the terror subside slightly. 

You let Joel lead you silently back to his apartment. The two of you never shared a word, but there was a clear understanding that you wouldn’t be going home. It wasn’t until you stepped through the familiar doorway that you let out the faintest smile at the promise Joel had made: I won’t let her out of my sight. You knew the promise had been made under duress, but you sincerely hoped he was serious.

read part 3 here! **let me know if you want to be tagged in future chapters!

[fairytsuk1]

Hello I am in the delusional Bakugo is okay reality and was wondering if we can get a soft request where his girlfriend’s mom thanks Bakugo for continuing to take care of the reader (as if he needs to be asked) when he visits her bedside (despite his own injuries) after the fight with Shigaraki?

bakugou hadn't really realized his way of thinking may not be very healthy when everyone said he spoke more about you than his own horrific injuries. even then, it still doesn't click for him.

"where is she?"

"bakugou," a nurse begins slowly but quickly rushes as he begins to sit up, "please, wait! don't take any of those off!"

the blonde practically snarls at her, and winces before sighing, "did ya' hear me? or do I have to repeat myself?"

the nurse looks at him with an agape mouth before nodding, "she's in room 533. do you... would you like some regular clothing? we weren't expecting you to—"

"i'm fine! i'd like to get out of here as soon as possible," and he swigs some water as if to end the conversation.

eventually, she brings his clothing and he grimaces at the baggy, lack of structure within him. he even gives her an incredulous look, what kind of nurse brings the patient the wrong clothin'? he worries his lip as she describes how, due to the nature of his injuries, it was best not to wear form-fitting clothing.

he has a flashback to when his head whipped backwards and pain shot through his limbs, and he remembers seeing you suspended in air with rods shooting through your stomach.

bakugou is quick to rush out of the room after that, brushing past her and chugging his meds once given them. in his mind, there was only one thing to do which made this a pressing matter. the matter of making sure you were okay was more than pressing, you could call it his life's purpose.

...

you're breathing, and it helps bakugou breathe a little easier too. his apparent disappearance had quickly been reported on by his designated nurse, so he'd heard the story of how "we're doing everything we can" and "she's got a huge chance at recovery."

he hated that these things were becoming all about "chances" and "trying." was it that hard to say that, yes, she would be okay? he'd angrily spat this out of them as they tried to demand he leave the room.

your hand held in his said it all.

bakugou stayed with you all day and night if possible. sometimes he was torn away for physical therapy, regular therapy, federal investigations... the list goes on. you were comatose, with a loose range in movement.

you didn't have to deal with it all, but sometimes he wished you would just so he could hear your smart remarks or hilarious quips. you weren't dead, thank god, but you weren't alive either.

and then one day a lady walks in, put together and holding her purse in her hands tightly. clutched, and she even wears sunglasses. bakugou's never seen her before and yet he feels intimidated to take his hand away from yours and stand. even give her a really respectful bow, but who?...

"hello, honey," your mother chokes out as she's overwhelmed by emotion of your weak body recovering.

then she turns to bakugou, and his blood is rushing in his ears. maybe someone should call a nurse, he might faint right here.

"...and you must be bakugou?"

he nods, "...hello. i wasn't aware you were visiting, sorry for intrudin'."

your mother almost lets him slip away, clearly flustered to have met his girlfriend's mom in this non-traditional way.

"don't be. when i heard you were staying with her as often as possible..."

perhaps bakugou and your mother are more similar than they appear. they can't seem to find the words sometimes.

"thank you for taking care of my daughter,"

i approve.

if bakugou was surprised by the gratefulness, he does her one better.

"'ts what you do,"

for the people you love.

the unlikely pair bow at each-other, reddened cheeks and twitches of a smile.

and then your eyes flutter open.

[epochofbelief]

Strictly Confidential: Chapter Five

A Modern Feysand AU

She’s a law student turned confidential informant. He’s a federal prosecutor with one goal: bringing down her boyfriend for his white collar crimes. What could go wrong?

Author's Note: Sorry it took so long everyone. Life is... insane. But it's spring break, so I finally had the time and energy to devote to this. It's kind of long, so fair warning ;) Also, I did just spend four straight hours writing and editing this so if there are typos… there are typos💓

Strictly Confidential Masterlist

My Other (Completed) Feysand AU Fic: What to Expect When You're (Not) Expecting

Chapter Five:

A week after Feyre told Azriel she would turn informant against her partner, she still hadn't heard from the FBI.

And her week only grew worse with every passing day. Her professors had hit the mid-semester stride, assigning longer and longer readings. She continued to receive invitations to networking events and all manner of schmoozing and boozing opportunities from her future firm. Various midterm writing assignments were ramping up, and she had just finished a particularly brutal round of citation checks for the Law Review legal journal on which she was a staff editor.

Her only saving grace had been Tamlin’s obvious exhaustion. He left the apartment before Feyre woke up and returned long after she fell asleep.

If it had been any other way, Feyre wasn’t sure how she would have survived the week. The thought of Tamlin touching her sent shivers down her spine and images of what Rhys’s younger sister might look like spinning through her head. Did Tamlin know about what had been done to keep his secret? How involved was he in the more violent aspects of his criminal enterprise?

The questions were endless, and yet Feyre had no one to ask. She was supposed to be the one finding answers, anyway.

And while she desired to put a stop to Tamlin's crimes, she couldn't help but find it ironic that this was just one more thing that had come to rest on her shoulders.

And the FBI didn’t seem to be in any kind of hurry, Feyre thought irritably as she waved Tamlin out the door on Thursday night. He had come home early to pack a bag—once again leaving town for the weekend. On business.

Feyre let him press a kiss to his cheek, then shut the door on his back, doing her best not to slam it.

She turned and leaned against the wood, scrubbing her face with her hands. If the FBI didn’t tell her what to do soon, she would forget about the deal and break up with Tamlin. Move back in with her family. It would mean adding a job to her academic workload, but she didn’t think she would survive more than a few months in her family’s house. Nesta would freeze her out until she needed something. Elain's perpetually present boyfriend disliked Feyre for some reason. Her father wouldn’t know what to do with her.

Feyre sighed, then jumped as a knock on the door behind her head reverberated through her skull.

“Did you forget something?” She asked, flinging open the door, expecting to find a harried-looking Tamlin on the other side.

Instead, she came face-to-face with Rhysand, a stunning blonde woman next to him.

“Oh,” Feyre squeaked.

Rhysand grimaced at her, dressed once again in all-black suit, tailored perfectly to his muscular body. Though he looked more casual than Feyre had ever seen him—his usual black tie was missing, and the first few buttons of his shirt were undone. Feyre swallowed, averting her eyes from his tanned upper chest and violet eyes, instead surveying the blonde.

The woman was also clad in all-black, her blazer buttoned around a narrow waist, a short pencil skirt emphasizing long, tanned legs. Her blonde hair cascaded over both shoulders, and her lips, coated in a bright red lipstick, tugged into a smile.

Perhaps this was Rhys’s partner? Feyre’s eyes snapped back to Rhys’s at the thought, as if she would find the answer there.

“As much as I would love to stand here and watch you two stare at each other, the hall is a little exposed. May we come in, Feyre?” The blonde asked, brushing past Feyre without waiting for an answer, disappearing into the apartment behind her.

“You came,” Feyre breathed.

Rhys cocked an eyebrow. “Sorry it took so long.”

“Would you two get the hell in here?” The woman’s voice sounded from behind Feyre.

Rhys grimaced again, gesturing for Feyre to lead the way into the apartment. “Please excuse my cousin, Morrigan Underwood. She’s one of the best the FBI has to offer, but most days she’s just a pain in my…” Rhys trailed off, and Feyre couldn’t help but grin as Morrigan extended a manicured hand toward her.

“It’s nice to meet you, Feyre,” Morrigan said, smiling warmly down at her. Morrigan was tall, and the heels only added to her height. Next to the beautiful FBI agent, Feyre felt short and grubby in her socked feet next and oversized t-shirt. “Sorry to barge in on you. We got lucky tonight—video cameras are down. So we thought we would come to you.”

“Just luck?” Feyre asked, folding her arms and leaning against the kitchen island.

Morrigan and Rhys exchanged a glance. “Luck with a little help from Azriel,” Morrigan admitted, shrugging.

Gods, they really were the FBI, Feyre thought, walking around the kitchen island and opening the fridge. “Can I offer either of you—a water? Or something else?”

“We don’t want to trouble you,” Rhys said, at exactly the same moment Morrigan said, “Absolutely. Tamlin took forever to leave, and even though someone knew there would be a stake-out, he didn't think to stock refreshments in his car.” Her brown eyes cut to Rhys.

“Mor,” Rhys groaned.

Feyre smiled to herself as she retrieved three bottles of sparkling water from the fridge and returned to the living room, sitting in the armchair across from the couch where Rhys and Mor had seated themselves.

“Nice place,” Mor commented, her eyes scanning the room appreciatively. “Very . . . minimalist.”

Feyre shrugged. “It’s not exactly to my tastes, but thank you.”

Feyre ignored Mor’s cocked eyebrow and the crease that formed between Rhys’s eyebrows at her words. She cleared her throat. “So. Care to share why you’re here?”

Mor popped the top off her water and sank back into the plush white couch, lifting the drink toward Rhys. “You’re up, cousin.”

Rhys leaned forward on the couch, his own water forgotten on the sleek coffee table in front of him. Feyre couldn’t figure out where to look as she waited for him to speak. His large hands, clasped in front of him. The sliver of exposed skin just below his neck. Those violet eyes that seemed to pierce her very soul.

She settled for his forehead as Rhys began to speak. “You took a risk last week, going into Spring Solutions without backup. If something had happened to you in there, we would have had no way of knowing.”

Feyre folded her arms. “I thought you wanted me to gather information for you. How am I supposed to do that if I can’t go anywhere without an escort?”

“Backup doesn’t necessarily mean an escort.”

-----

Two hours later, Feyre’s mind was about to explode with all the information Rhys and Mor had drilled into her head. They had provided her with a wire, an earpiece that she could hear and speak to them through, an exhaustive explanation of how dangerous being an informant was, and a briefing on proper reporting and contacting methods she would have to engage in when reaching out to the FBI.

She drew the line at the bulletproof vest Mor retrieved from her bag.

“Where am I supposed to hide that?” Feyre demanded. “The tech is enough.”

Mor and Rhys exchanged a glance. “Feyre…” Rhys trailed off, his eyes searching her face.

“You make me take that and this whole thing is over before it began.”

Rhys held up his hands. “Alright. But if you dream up any more ridiculous plans to go into the heart of enemy territory, you contact us first. We’ll get it to you.”

Feyre rolled her eyes. She didn’t envision herself getting shot any time soon.

“Lastly,” Mor said. “Here’s the address of our future meeting place.” She handed Feyre a scrap of paper. “Memorize it and then destroy it. You can get there by train, so transport isn’t a problem. You’ll have to switch trains about halfway there, but that’s your opportunity to determine if you’re being followed. If you have any suspicion whatsoever that someone is on your tail, do not go to the safe house. Just board a train back in the direction of the city.”

Feyre looked down at the address. “How often will we be meeting?”

“Only as often as necessary. You let us know through that earpiece and we’ll arrange it. Best not to create any new strange habits that people might notice. Memorize.”

Feyre nodded, swallowing the sudden wave of anxiety cresting through her. She was truly doing this. Working for the FBI. Attempting to inifiltrate a strange and possibly deadly organization. Betraying her boyfriend—the man who had fed her and housed her for the better part of her law school experience.

Mor cleared her throat, glancing at her watch. “I’ve got a meeting. Finish up here, Rhys?”

Rhys nodded, clapping his cousin on the shoulder as she stood, extending her hand once more to Feyre. “Good luck, Feyre. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again very soon.” Feyre nodded, and Mor paused, her manicured hand squeezing Feyre’s. “Do try not to get caught.”

Then she was gone.

Leaving Feyre and Rhysand alone in the enormous, stark apartment.

“Is there much more?” Feyre asked, forcing herself to keep her arms at her sides rather than swinging them in the awkward silence.

“No, but—” Rhys halted midsentence as Feyre slumped into the enormous white armchair next to the window, relieved to hear those words coming from Rhys’s mouth. She honestly hadn’t been sure if she could take much more.

Her entire relationship was a lie—everything was a lie. She had trusted Tamlin with her safety. With her nights and days and most of the time in between. He had given her a place to stay after years spent under her family’s influence.

And yet.

“He’s been lying to me,” Feyre muttered, more to herself than Rhysand, who had leaned closer to her as her thoughts spiraled deeper and deeper. “This whole time.”

Her eyes drifted down from the ceiling, locking instead with Rhys’s blue eyes, drinking her in from his position on the couch.

“I never knew,” she said softly. “I never even suspected. You must think I’m some kind of idiot.”

A muscle fluttered in Rhys’s jaw, and he shook his head, one hand extending toward her as if to rest it on her knee. But he thought better of it, instead clasping his hands between his knees. “On the contrary. I’ve spent a year investigating Tamlin and he's slipped through my fingers every time. It’s no surprise you never knew."

Feyre bent over her knees, hands covering her face. “How long will it take?”

Rhys cleared his throat, thankfully understanding her meaning. “It depends. The more and better information we get, the easier it will be to charge him.”

When Feyre didn’t respond, Rhys continued.

“But if you want out, Feyre, say the word. We—I—would never dream of forcing you to stay in this relationship just for our purposes. There would be no hard feelings if you changed your mind.”

Feyre’s hands slid from her face, and she returned Rhys’s stare with one of her own. “No.”

“No?”

“I want to do this. I have to do this. If what you say is true, Tamlin is the reason your sister—and who knows how many others who knew too much—are gone. I can’t stand by and watch that happen. Can’t leave him knowing about the horrible things he is causing, or at least sanctioning.”

She could have sworn a glimmer of pride shone in Rhys’s eyes as he surveyed her. And despite everything, despite the loss of his sister and the investigation and the potential threat to Feyre’s life, he smiled.

“Then let’s bring that bastard down.”  

Feyre couldn’t resist the grin she shot back.

-----

A week later, some of that excitement had died down. Tamlin had been at work around the clock, busy with various “projects” as he described them to Feyre. However, he had revealed that his next out-of-town venture would take place in late October—just a few weeks away. And Feyre was determined to discover the destination. So in addition to her studies and checking in every so often with the FBI through her earpiece, she spent the wee hours of the morning combing through Tamlin's computer in secret, digging through his bags and looking through his phone for anything that might reveal his future plans.

She continued to come up empty-handed.

But she didn't intend to give up, even though her exhaustion grew worse with every passing day. Feyre resolved to take a break from her sleuthing that night as she walked to another networking event, this one just a few blocks from her apartment.

She arrived in her best black suit, pencil skirt just brushing the tops of her knees, black tights beneath warding off the crisp fall air. She had spent extra time on her hair that evening—adding a little extra dry shampoo, teasing the golden-brown strands into a gentle curl at the ends. She even went so far as to add an extra layer of mascara before she came to her senses.

There was only one reason Feyre was putting in this extra effort, despite the minuscule chance that the reason would even be present at the mixer.

United States Attorneys surely had better things to do than attend every attorney/law-student networking event in the city.

And besides. Feyre was still unavailable, even if Tamlin had barely laid a finger on her the past few weeks, as busy and stressed with work as they both had been. Even if in her mind, her relationship with Tamlin had long since come to a crashing halt.

So she had resisted the urge to dab on some blush before she rushed out the door, tying her black overcoat around her waist as she rode the elevator to the lobby. Just a half hour later, she found herself engaged in a spectacularly dull conversation with a pair of junior associates from one of the other firms in Prythian. Feyre had forgotten their names almost as soon as she had heard them, distracted as she was with thoughts of her mission for Rhys—with thoughts of whether Rhys might be present tonight.

“Do you have plans to pursue partnership?” One of the attorneys—a middle-aged woman with dark brown hair and brown eyes—inquired, taking another sip of her mixed drink. The woman was tipsy, but quite adept at hiding it. If Feyre hadn’t spent years observing her older sister Nesta’s drinking habits, she might not have noticed.

Unfortunately, the woman was staring at Feyre so intently that Feyre decided she would be forced to answer the question. Feyre’s mind raced, and she genuinely wondered whether saying, “I don’t know—nor do I much care at this point,” might be disadvantageous to her career. If it might get back to Hybern & Night.

But then she felt a hand at her elbow, a warm male body sidling up next to her, the scent of citrus and the sea washing over her in a wave.

“Feyre, darling. You’ve been avoiding me. My father insisted I meet his firm’s future associate.”

Feyre bit back her smile as she turned her attention from the attorneys in front of her to the man who had just stepped up to her elbow. Blue-black hair slightly tousled, as if he had just run his fingers through it. Violet eyes dancing with mirth. Black-on-black suit only emphasizing his imposing figure.

“I didn’t realize we were engaged in a game of hide-and-seek,” Feyre said. “Will you excuse me, ladies? It was wonderful to meet you both.”

And she allowed Rhys to whisk her away, through the crowded ballroom where the event was being held and up a set of stairs, where he pulled her out to a small balcony overlooking one of Prythian’s many parks to the rear of the building.

“That’s twice now,” Rhys noted, releasing Feyre’s elbow only when she leaned against the railing, her own elbows resting against the cool metal.

“Twice what?”

“That I’ve saved you from the vultures. However will you repay me?” Rhys asked, leaning onto the railing next to her.

“I’ll think of something,” Feyre said quietly, raising her eybrows.

“How are you holding up?” Rhys asked.

Feyre blinked. She had expected him to press her for details on Tamlin’s movements, or perhaps encourage her to try just a little harder to get him something, anything he could use to find justice for his little sister.

“I’m—fine,” she said haltingly. “Tamlin has another trip in two weeks, but you already know that. He’s…resistant to the idea of me hanging around Spring Solutions. Keeps insisting it’s going to interfere with my studies.”

Rhys sighed, shifting on his feet. Feyre tried to ignore how the motion brought his arm closer to hers, so close she could feel the heat of his body soaking into hers. “He may be an insufferable bastard, but the man is cautious.”

Feyre tried, unsuccessfully, to hide her wince at the words “insufferable bastard.”

“I’m sorry,” Rhys said, once again surprising Feyre at how adeptly he said the right thing, how flawlessly he interpreted her mannerisms and expressions. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

But Feyre shook her head. “You have every right, Rhysand. After what he did to your sister…”

Rhys let out a long sigh. Feyre echoed him a moment later.

"You called them vultures," Feyre said after several silent moments passed.

"And?"

"Why did you become an attorney if—if you find most of those people in there as abhorrent as I do?"

Rhys shrugged, the movement causing his shoulder to brush against Feyre's. "I come from a very long line of attorneys. In a way, it was the only future I ever really considered for myself. Even though I hated the way my father's work kept him so busy, how he constantly chose his billable hours over his family. I knew he never had any passion for the law he practiced. He merely craved the money, and the prestige, and the reputation."

Feyre turned to observe Rhys, studying the side of his face as he gazed out over the park.

"But I think watching all that made me want to be a different kind of attorney. Someone who cares about the people I'm representing, the cases I'm bringing. And a career as a prosecutor seemed like a good place to start—at least for now.” Rhys paused, as if weighing whether to say what he said next. “I'm not sure if it's made me any better than my father."

"For what it's worth, Rhys, I don't consider you a vulture."

Rhys met her eyes then, his face so open, so vulnerable, for one brief moment. "Likewise," he said quietly.

Feyre grimaced, choosing not to argue with him. Even though she was the one chasing the money that came with a big law job. Even though everything Rhys had said could very well describe her situation exactly.

“You want to get out of here?” Rhys said suddenly.

Feyre turned to look at him. “And do… what?”

“Take a walk. Grab a drink. Do anything other than talk to those insufferable sycophants prowling around that ballroom.”

Feyre swallowed, and before she could talk herself out of it, she heard herself saying, “Let’s go.”

An hour later, Feyre was two glasses of wine deep, laughing at something Rhys said to the strangers they had befriended at the bar a few blocks from the networking event. She hadn't had this much fun in—in a very long time. She couldn't remember the last time she went out with her friends on a whim, talking about everything and nothing, without discussing law school or work or anything serious.

But Rhys was fun. And Feyre was enjoying herself immensely. She even felt a little sad when Rhys paid the tab over her protests, insisting that he remembered all too well the weight of law school loans, before he ushered her out of the bar.

“I’ll walk you home,” he said as they emerged into the dark streets of Prythian.

“You don’t have to do that,” Feyre said.

“It’s dark and we’re downtown.”

Feyre bit her lip, but nodded in assent, turning right to lead Rhys in the direction of her apartment. They made it all of five steps before Rhys's phone rang.

"Sorry," he mouthed at Feyre, answering the call and guiding her over to the edge of the sidewalk.

"Night speaking," he said quietly, leaning against the wall.

Feyre leaned next to him, grateful for the buzz of the alcohol keeping her warm and relaxed as she waited. Grateful that it kept her from thinking too hard about the fact that she had just gone out with drinks. With Rhysand. Alone.

But the languid peace coursing through Feyre's veins evaporated when Rhys stiffened next to her.

"Who is this?" Rhys bit out.

Feyre shivered at the ice in his tone.

"Tell me who you are," Rhys growled, even as he seized Feyre's elbow and tugged her down an alley to their right, pushing her against the wall and crowding close, as if he could shield her very existence from the world around them.

"Who is this?" Rhys demanded once more.

Who the hell was on the other end of that phone call?

"Fuck!" Rhys exclaimed, the phone going dark in his hand as whoever he had been speaking to hung up.

"Who was it?" Feyre whispered.

"I don't know. They wouldn't tell me."

"What did they say?"

Feyre felt the blood drain from her face as Rhys explained.

"We have to go," Feyre said, hands coming up to push at Rhys's chest.

"No. I have to get you home. I'm calling Cassian. He'll handle it." Rhys unlocked his phone, fingers flying across the screen.

Feyre gritted her teeth. "We're two blocks away. I'll be fine. Let's just go."

And before Rhys could argue, she took off down the alleyway, jaw set.

They made it to the alley in less than five minutes, Feyre skidding to a halt at its mouth. Rhys had just hung up with Cassian, whom he had told to meet them there as quickly as possible. Feyre made to plunge into the dark alley, but Rhys grabbed her arm, shaking his head. "Stay behind me," he insisted, moving in front of and stalking slowly down the alley.

They were halfway through the space when Feyre caught sight of what looked like a pile of rags or fabric slumped against the alley wall about twenty feet in front of them.

Only, they weren’t rags, Feyre realized, watching the dark lump on the alley floor shift as Rhys approached.

It was a person—a man—laying on his side, head facing away from them, legs tangled together.

Azriel.

Feyre dropped to her knees next to the agent, the two glasses of wine she had drank earlier now threatening to come up when she beheld the state Azriel was in.

Two black eyes were already forming, his eyes so swollen they were mere slits in his red, black and blue face. Dried blood crusted the skin under his nose and continued all the way down his chin.

Feyre rested an arm on Azriel's shoulder, praying the agent wasn't bruised there as well.

“Azriel,” she breathed.

To her surprise, the agent chuckled. “Believe me, Feyre,” he grunted, his raspy voice echoing slightly in the alley around them. “I’ve had worse.”

Feyre bit her lip as Rhys brushed a hand lightly over her shoulder before joining her on the ground before Azriel.

"How long?" Rhys asked.

"Half hour," Azriel rasped, a series of hacking coughs interrupting him before he could continue. "Maybe longer."

Feyre saw the shadow of rage that passed across Rhys's face as he realized how long Azriel’s attackers had waited to call him. But he didn't verbalize it, instead murmuring, “Let’s get you up, friend." He gripped Azriel’s shoulders and pulling him into a seated position. A shaft of moonlight illuminated the agent, allowing Feyre to more fully appreciate just how battered his face was.

“Gods,” Feyre breathed, following Rhys’s lead and ducking under one of Azriel’s arms.

“It was Spring,” Azriel said quietly, once they had managed to drag him halfway down the alley.

Feyre sensed, rather than saw, Rhys stiffen at the words.

“How do you know?” Feyre asked quietly.

Azriel coughed, spitting a wad of blood onto the alley floor in front of them. “They jumped me,” he said. “Took my gun, then a few of them held me down so they could take turns hitting me. I couldn’t do anything but let them—let them—” He broke off. “Then they dumped me and said they would send someone to retrieve me. I didn't know if that meant someone to finish the job, or help. The only other thing they said, the whole time, was right before one of them stomped on my head: 'Stay the hell away from Spring Solutions. Or else.' I was out cold after that. I think."

A chill ran down Feyre’s spine.

What did or else mean?

None of them spoke another word as Rhys guided them to the mouth of the alley, where a black car awaited. Rhys ripped open the door, revealing a tense-looking Mor in the backseat. She beckoned, taking Azriel from Rhys and Feyre.

Rhys got into the front seat, and Feyre climbed into the back with Az and Mor.

"Gods above," Mor breathed, surveying the damage done to Azriel's face. "What happened?"

Rhys explained as Cassian drove them quickly away from the alley, winding through the dark streets of downtown Prythian.

"Do you think they know?" Mor asked. "About Feyre?"

Rhys shook his head. "No. It was just a coincidence that she was with me at the time."

"They're getting more confident," Cassian noted, pulling his car to a stop in a darkened side street.

It took Feyre a moment to recognize where they were.

"I'll walk you to the building," Rhys said, unbuckling his seat belt and getting out of the car.

“What?” Feyre demanded, mouth falling open as her eyes found Mor's. "I can't go up there knowing—knowing." She broke off, unable to finish her thought. How could she return to her apartment after people from Tamlin's company had just beat Azriel into a bloody pulp just to make a statement?

"Please, Feyre. We need to get Azriel medical care, and the longer you're with us, the greater the chance your cover is blown," Mor pleaded, one manicured hand brushing back Azriel's silky black hair.

"I want to help," Feyre said quietly as Rhys opened the car door next to her.

"You are helping. You already have helped," Rhys said, reaching inside the car to unbuckle Feyre's seat belt. "We need to keep you in a position where you can help."

Feyre swallowed, and let Rhys coax her from the car.

"I'll call you to let you know how he's doing," Mor offered as Rhys shut the door.

Rhys was quiet as he escorted Feyre to the side entrance of her building. "Use that earpiece as soon as you get upstairs. Let us know you go to your apartment safely. Okay?"

"And what if my cover is blown?" Feyre asked.

"If we don't hear from you in ten minutes, I'll come bursting into that apartment myself. They wouldn’t waste time on Azriel if they found out about you.”

Feyre repressed a shudder at the implication in those words: That if Tamlin’s people discovered her treachery, they would come straight for her rather than risk her retreating to the FBI before they could silence her.

Feyre gritted her teeth, lingering in the open doorway.

"Please, Feyre. We have to get Azriel help."

There were so many things Feyre wanted to say, things that the attack on Azriel now made impossible. Had it really been less than an hour since she and Rhys had sat in that bar, laughing and talking without a care in the world?

But Feyre said nothing, instead letting the glass door swing shut between her and Rhys. And since she knew Rhys wouldn't turn to leave until she did, Feyre trudged up the stairs, fighting the urge to turn back for a last glimpse of the attorney watching her.

Taglist: @rhysiedarling @shedoessoshedoes @popjunkie42 @adreamof-spring @that-little-red-head @witch-and-her-witcher @cinnamonmelody @azrielover @1islessthan3books @jenahid @toporecall @martzja @marinated-fish @riribbonss @tunaababee @muaddib-iswriting @queenofdivas

[solaneceae]

consume

a team bolas oneshot (read on ao3) tw: cannibalism, fuga impossivel references

“Hey, Slime. Can I eat your leg?”

The hybrid makes a huh of confusion, still adjusting his trusty gas mask over his face as he loots his own dead body, codified arm still glitching from fresh respawn. Cellbit can hear Jaiden and Étoiles conversing nearby, Bagi and Tina not too far from them, and the entire area reeks of blood and death.

Red Spawn had, strangely enough, become some kind of safe haven for now — people from all teams that were begging for a break, for a chat, for any modicum of normalcy had started to flock there as the end Day Four drew near: separated lovers falling into each other’s arms, Étoiles coaching everyone on PvP techniques regardless of affiliation (because the guy just thrived on being kind and helping people become the best version of themselves, it seemed. Cellbit appreciated that), his very presence a deterrent to anyone who would dare to come and break the temporary peace (BadBoyHalo).

And now that they didn’t have to look over their shoulder every second, the cat hybrid had started to think. A risky endeavour in a place such as Purgatory, but after exchanging a heated kiss with his husband and getting the sudden urge to bite his mouth off, he had started to wonder.

There were so many bodies around their spawn. He had seen many for the past few days, most of them belonging to his own team, but the urge to chow down on fresh meat had been nowhere as strong as right then with Roier, not even close. (First day had been the odd one out, as everyone in red team had lost their minds to the fog and joined in on that fucked up banquet.)

A hypothesis is blooming in his mind. He needs to test something. “Can I eat your leg?” he repeats to a befuddled Charlie, who looks at him, then at his body, then back at him. “I mean. Sure? Knock yourself out.”

Cellbit does — and it’s disappointing. It starts off nice, his heart hammering inside his ribcage as he severs muscle and bone and tendon to rip Slime’s leg off his still cooling body, saliva pooling in his mouth as his pupils dilate to eat up all the blue, and he can feel it, the thrill, the desire, the manic joy; but then he bites into it and the leg loses solidity, turning into green goop that tastes like grass and it’s so sour, like an unripe lemon. He spits it all out, grimacing — his palate and tongue almost feel burned. He forgot slimes were corrosive. “Tastes like shit,” he huffs, and Charlie lets out a disappointed aw.

Results: inconclusive. Cause: negative bias, because Charlie is a fucking slime and hence an outlier. 

He asks Jaiden next, and she shrugs and tells him to go for it. (Maybe they should be worried about how flippant they’ve all become about cannibalism, but that’s a problem for post-Purgatory them to deal with.) And this time, it’s good. Her flesh is tender and moist, just the right balance of muscle and fat, and he gets a sick sense of satisfaction as she watches him tear into her thigh with morbid fascination. “How do I taste like?” she asks him. He tells her ‘delicious’ between two mouthfuls of prime cut, and she smiles. “Nice! I’m glad.”

Contrary to what some might believe, he hadn't eaten anything off the Federation workers he had killed. Hadn't reached that point at the time. But now there he is, seeking an enemy body among the dozens of Jaidens lying around. When he finally does, he stares down at it for a long moment, and finds that he has no desire to sink his teeth into it at all. Mmh. He looks up to find Roier, still silent to mind his recovering lungs and plopping down signs that make Étoiles crack up, and he’s so funny and cute and strong and Cellbit wants to crawl into his chest cavity and— “Ah,” he realises, something old and crooked at the back of his mind finally clicking into place.

He thinks of Pac. He thinks of Alcatraz, of that desire that had torn its way into his brain as soon as he had seen that youthful, terrified face for the first time. He thinks of those nights tossing and turning, tongue flicking out in a nervous tick as he obsessively rotated the new guy into his mind from every angle, trying to imagine what his screams would be like, how his flesh would taste, how it would feel going down his throat. He thinks of the pure, unadulterated pleasure of finally making that fantasy a reality, details blurring into red-mist bliss and the song of Pac screaming and crying. He finds that if he had to do it all again, right now, he would, but not like this. This time, dream-Pac would offer himself willingly, repeating I trust you, I trust you as dream-Cellbit reverently slices through his flesh.

He thinks of that thing humans have, when they experience the urge to squish or bite when they see something cute. He thinks of the result of his observations, that he only enjoys eating people if he cares for them.

(Maybe he had loved Pac once, in a fucked up version of a crush distorted by his mania and lifetime worth of trauma. Maybe that was why he had done what he’d done. Now the engineer was more akin to a brother to him, close and important, but that obsessive attraction wasn’t there anymore.)

Maybe it’s just in his nature, to consume the very things he loves. “Something on your mind?” Jaiden asks him later, sleepily, her head resting against his side as the rest of the family dozes off within the Nest in a tangle of limbs and soft blankets. Cellbit shakes his head. “Just. Processing stuff.”

Jaiden hums, and Phil drapes one of his large black wings over them both. The conure chirps, flock, home, and the crow replies with a quiet yesyes.

[credince--writes]

Deep In Those Woods- Chapter 10

Keegan P. Russ x Fem!Reader

CW: Attempted SA

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6- Chapter 7- Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10

AO3

You find a strange man in the woods, no doubt running from the federation. He seems, well, in simple terms beat to shit. May your act of kindness not go unpunished.

Taglist:

@dindjarinsmeshla @tessxq @ladyvlolypop @tiny-kasper @biggiecheeselover @konigsleftkidney @mykneeshurt @katsufairies @noname0756 @brain-has-left @vinithechocolatevampire @hotthankss

The heavy and hard metal reinforced toe of the soldier's boot digging into the side of your skull, the force of the kick sending all thoughts of survival and running away like a football punted through a field goal. The bright light from the lit end of his gun blinds and blurs into large shapes, meshed silhouettes and a visceral throbbing.

The sticky, hot feeling of blood- bits of torn flesh from the intensity of the shotgun blast coat your skin in blotchy, steaming patches. 

You lift your arm in an attempt to block the blinding light as the man approaches again, but everything’s spinning, the motion of lifting your arm throws your entire body off balance. The adrenaline pumping in such a mass supply- the feral, animalistic hindbrain rearing up because it knows this is truly life or death. Your heart is pounding in hopes of delivering the chemical to live another day. Some kind of super-human response in the face of peril.

The confidence of your body fulfilling its duty, being able to protect yourself is shattered the moment the large hand wraps around your forearm and tugs you upward. Body lifting up the earth like a rag doll, then being forced face down into the grass.

Heh, a blade wedged up into your nose.

It tickles.

The twinge of pain, even in its dulled state as your arms are wedged so face backwards makes you grimace. The trees are pretty tonight, the moonlight- even in their blurry form cast tall, dark, blurry forms into the night sky. Maybe the best part about the dissolution of the modern world is the beauty of the night sky without the city’s lights.

It was blurry, even if your muscles felt light they had been hooked up to an electrical main. Tense and ready to pounce at any moment- the blade's edge you were dancing on. But you were aware- slightly. The disconnect ever present in your brain. The sound of a wounded animal as you are drug through the woods, the feeling of zip ties holding your wrists together. 

The feeling of the coagulation collecting dirt. The dust coating the blood on your body, the sticky and thick shell it started to mold onto your flesh. If they jostled you hard enough you could see bits and pieces flake off and onto the dirt below you. 

Sometimes out of spite you’d dig your toes into the earth, digging deep gouges into the moist wooded earth. 

The feeling of rope, your shoulders screaming. The cold of the nearly dried blood on your skin. 

The ache in your neck at the pain of draping forward, opening your eyes and seeing more than blurry shapes and figures. The smell of smoke and two men sitting next to a small fire, something similar to a chicken’s carcass being cooked over the bright coals. The ache in your shoulders, quickly moving to alleviate some of the weight on them by pushing up onto your tiptoes, only for your boots to slip on something and slide out from under you.

The sudden jolt and weight on your wrists and shoulders caused a sharp gasp to escape your lips. The sneer and chuckle of the two soldiers watching you struggle to maintain footing the entertainment of the night.

The smell of blood registering in your nose, the wet slip of something under your toes- looking down to see a pile of guts ripped from the carcass of the chicken discarded at your feet. Every attempt to stabilize yourself met with a wet squelch or the popping of cartilage and bone.

The gag is unstoppable, your body heaving forward with a jolt, further straining your muscles.

They only laugh harder.

The extent of the situation begins to dawn on you- that you wouldn’t be able to do anything against them even with your hands free. The nightmare you’d feared since the beginning had become true, and you were at the mercy of something worse than monsters. 

You were at the mercy of men. 

It’s that very fear, validated in the moment that one of the men rolls over to sleep for the night. The second left to stand guard for the night- waiting until the breaths of the first became even. 

He stands, eyes locked onto your body.

The bile rises in your throat.

You can smell his breath, cigarettes and rot. The wafting smell of charred meat from the chicken they’d eaten earlier. The smell of decay wafting from his mouth with heady breaths. He grips your chin between your forefinger and thumb, and you can see the glint of the dirt and filth coating his hands and under his nails. 

He sneers something to you that you can’t understand, a teasing and crude tone of mock worry. 

He leans in closer.

Without thinking you drive your forehead into his nose as hard as you can, lurching your body forward with as much momentum as you can gather from your struggling toes. 

He lets out a howl, and stumbles back. The first man immediately jolted up at the sound of his comrade’s injury. You hope the satisfaction of the harm inflicted would’ve compensated for the feeling of using your head as a weapon- but the dread washes away any potential smugness as the two men turn back to you, fists raised.

You didn’t even break his nose.

The first, an open handed slap across your cheek sends you reeling backwards, yanked to the side as you stumble as the other man grabs hold of the rope your hands are strung up by. The second lands in your midsection, by the third your knees give out and the only thing keeping your body upright is the rope your wrists are dangling from.

You didn’t even make blood leak from those stupid fucking nostrils.

They get bored rather quickly, four hits in and you're dangling like a piece of meat. Rather than the tears spilling down your cheeks, a whimper escapes your lips as the pain settles into your bones. A throbbing in your lip, and an ache in your middle. A pain blooming on your back. The ever present scream of your shoulders begging for relief. 

You’re going to die here.

The hand reaches under your chin and forces your face back up to look at him. Mumbling something you still can’t understand, free hand reaching up and grabbing hold of your belt.

The hot feeling of spit splattering against your cheek and nose makes the bile in your stomach rise back up into the back of your throat. His thumb coming up and rubbing circles of his spit onto the side of your face before giving it a smug pat. Once, twice for his own good luck. Hand sliding up from your belt and underneath your shirt- you can feel the dull scratch of his filthy nails against the blooming bruises on your abdomen. It makes your spine curl backwards at the feeling- the revolting smell of his breath.

The rustling of ferns, stomping feet against the fallen leaves and branches.

The sickening crack of teeth on bone. The blur of fur and flesh.

The scream of a man in agony.

Both of your heads snap to the side, a dog- no, a beast tearing flesh from the forearm of the man once sleeping. A man lurching from the darkness, blade in hand diving into the throat of the man as the dog tugs on the limp limb, snarling and huffing teeth bore to the taste of blood and pain.

The hand, resting over your rib cage feeling the desperate thudding of your heart yanked away as a blade is driven once, twice, three times-

Again, and again, and again-

The blood splatters against the trees surrounding you, a hot droplet is flicked from the blade and onto you. Adrenaline pumping in your ears all over again as the rope above you is sliced and a man is pulling you into him.

You fight- as much as you can with your wrists still bound. 

The arm wraps around your middle and pulls you back and away from the fire, back and deep into the darkness of the woods. Rather than smoke, guts, blood, coals- rot, all you can smell is blood and the cold forest air. 

Your legs flail, shoulders jolting side to side trying to get away- the dog has seated itself in front of you staring intently at your struggle. As if you’re to be it’s next meal- they’ll set you free to try and run away for their enjoyment of the hunt. The struggle you’ll never win-

Hands cup both sides of your face, steely blue eyes in the moonlight, your own heaving breaths. The arms behind you refuse to relent against your struggle, footsteps. Men.

Fear.

Your name, the timber and desperation of a voice.

Warm hands.

“Hey, hey come on and breathe. Take a deep breath for me sweetheart.” Keegan's voice, and the sound of your hyperventilating.

The brothers share a look.

Cold metal slips between your wrists, freeing the tension of the zip ties. Your hands reach up and meet his, trembling both with fear, adrenaline, and relief. You open your mouth to say something- anything.

All that releases are broken sobs, tears finally breaking the dam and flowing down your cheeks.

He smells like blood. 

He smells like death.

Just like you.