#i had the flu again last week so i turned to the familiar for comfort and it manifested in giving these guys a uniform and a situationship | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

froggibus · 1 year

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Resurrection - Wally West

Pairing: Wally West x gn! Reader, platonic! Dick Grayson x reader

Genre: angst, fluff, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 5.5k

Summary: it’s been almost a year since Wally died, and life has not been kind to you. it doesn’t help that when you get the flu and your fever spikes, you start seeing the speedster everywhere you turn

CW: loss of a loved one, grief, sickness, hallucinations, reader is worried they’re going crazy, overactive imagination, mentions of death, mentions of suicide, panic attacks, ghosts, reader was a part of Young Justice, mutual pining, friends to lovers, resurrection

This alludes heavily to the Young Justice tv show, especially Wally’s death. I apologize in advance because I have poor knowledge of the Flash Family and speedforce!!

day 1 of me pushing my Wally West agenda!! i absolutely adore Wally, and im so happy to be writing about him. this is literally the longest thing ive ever posted on this site but I got so into the story that I couldn’t stop. hopefully this makes sense and isn’t just a jumble of words 😭also i think from now on im gonna include wally in any of my dick/jason/tim hcs

also im very tempted to do a pt2/make a series of wally adapting to life afterwards

————

You groan in your bed, your fever spiking to an almost unbearable temperature. You spend a lot of time in bed nowadays—ever since your best friend died almost a year ago, you haven’t had the drive to do much. But being sick the past week has only confined you to your bed even more.

You roll over, hoping the other half of your pillow is somehow cooler than the side you’re on now. It’s not, and your body feels like it’s going to overheat. If it was possible to put less clothing on, you would, but the chances of your roommate coming in and seeing you naked are too high.

Speaking of your roommate, you know that when Dick comes home and sees how bad your temperature has gotten, he’ll rush you to the hospital. Paranoid, big brother Dick who insists he can’t lose another friend. Dick, who moved in with you a few months after Wally died because he was afraid you might hurt yourself. Dick, who forced you to put socks on and keep most of your clothes on because even though you feel hot, he knows you’re still vulnerable to the cold.

The socks scratch at your ankles now and you long to pull them off, lazily dragging your feet together. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to calm your burning nerve ends.

As much pain as you’re in, this is the most you’ve felt since Wally died. From the day you watched him get vaporised, everything around you has just gotten duller by the day. You can hardly stomach to put on your costume, let alone look at Barry or Bart. Even seeing The Flash on the news is enough to make you sick.

“Y/n,” a soft voice echoes from the bed next to you.

You force your eyes open, your dark room greeting you. “Hello?”

There’s no answer, and you’re able to close your eyes again. You relax into your bedsheets, kicking the blankets off of your legs in a desperate attempt to get some relief. Clearly your fever has spiked to the point where you’re losing it.

“Y/n!” The voice is stronger now, and it sounds more desperate than before. More than that—there’s something familiar to it.

You open your eyes again and gasp, all of the breath leaving your body. There, sitting on the bed next to you, is Wally. His green eyes are full of concern, his mouth pulled into a tight line.

“Oh god,” you whine, “I really am losing it.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, willing the hallucination of your dead best friend to go away. How could any god be so cruel to inflict this on you? Knowing how you felt about Wally—and what he’d said to you during your last moments together?

When you open your eyes again, he’s still sitting there. His unruly red hair is falling into his face and all you want is to reach out and brush it away.

“You’re not losing it,” he says.

“I’m so sick that I’m hallucinating my dead best friend. How is that not losing it?”

He shrugs. “I mean it does sound pretty crazy, but I’m here, aren’t I?”

“You’re dead,” you say simply, voice void of emotions. “You died and you left and you’re never coming back.”

“I got better.”

Everything about him screams Wally. His voice, his mannerisms, even the stupid jokes he makes. But you know it’s just your brain playing a stupid trick on you. Your braincells have overheated and you’re left staring at a ghost.

“No, you didn’t. And you never will, Wally. And I know that so I don’t get why my stupid brain can’t leave this alone.”

He lays down on his side next to you, looking up at you with those doe eyes. “There wasn’t a body, you know.”

His words make you angry, they make you choke on the lump in your throat. But he’s right. Something about his death always seemed wrong to you, and even after this long, you still can’t accept it. He’s saying all of the right things, and it almost makes you believe he’s really here.

“So say you are here…why now? Why here? Why am I the only one who’s seen you?”

He strokes his chin, pretending to be deep in thought. “I don’t really know, y/n. I’ve been here the whole time. I’ve watched everything. I know how hard things have been for you guys…”

You don’t say anything, just staring at him expectantly, forcing him to keep talking.

“I’m sorry you’re sick, but I’m glad Dick is taking care of you.”

“Answer the question, Wally. Why now?”

He sighs. “I think it’s because you’re sick. I think once your fever got past a certain point you were able to hear me, and once you could hear me, you could see me.”

“How would that even work?” You squint at him, “how did you even know I could hear you?”

“I didn’t it’s just—it’s a habit to talk to you, you know? But anyway, I think it has something to do with the speed force being attracted to the release of energy, and whenever you have a fever, you release massive amounts of it. But since yours is so high…” he gestures at himself for emphasis.

“So as long as I stay sick, I can see you?”

“I think so.”

“Then I never want to get better,” you murmur.

“Y/n,” he sighs, and the tone he uses makes you freeze. You’ve only ever heard him use it once before—with you on the day he died.

The thought brings a tear to your eye, his words echoing in your ears. I love you, y/n, I always have. I’ll be back for you, okay?

When Dick gets home from work, he’s surprised to hear you talking. His first instinct is that you’re feeling better and you’re arranging to go back to work, but as he gets closer to your bedroom door, he realizes it’s not the case.

He listens in for a bit, hearing a one sided conversation. As soon as he hears you say ‘Wally’, he’s barging through your door only to find you talking to the air.

“Dick!” You cry out, gesturing to the empty bed next to you, “look! He’s back, he’s here. Wally’s here!”

Dick’s heart aches for you. You’re clearly unwell and in your feverish state, your mind is playing tricks on you.

“Y/n,” Dick sighs, “I think it’s time we go to a doctor.”

He approaches your bedside slowly, trying not to startle or upset you. He knows you’re hallucinating, and he really doesn’t want to trigger anything worse to happen.

He kneels at your bedside, just behind Wally. “Come on, we need to get you to the hospital.”

“N-no! I can’t leave Wally!”

Wally’s face crinkles up the way it always has when he feels guilty. “Y/n, I think you should go with Rob.”

“No!” You cry out, “you can’t leave me again!”

Dick gives you no warning before he’s pulling you into his arms, your feverish skin scorching his. He holds you securely, even as you cry and beg him to take you back to Wally.

“Wally, please! Do something! Let him see you! Don’t—don’t leave me again!”

“Y/n,” Dick rubs your sweaty hair out of your face. “It’s gonna be okay. You’re really sick, and you’re hallucinating, but we’ll make you all better. I just need you to trust me.”

You take a deep breath, and then another, looking over Dick’s shoulder at the redhead sitting on your bed, giving you a sad look. He gives you a wave, “it’s okay, y/n. Everything will be okay.”

You just hope he’s right.

—

The hospital takes an eternity to admit you, leaving you lying on Dick’s lap in the waiting room. You keep your eyes closed, hoping that if you open them Wally will be there, but you know he won’t.

Dick strokes your hair, rubs your back, does anything he can to keep you comfortable. When a nurse finally calls your name, he helps you to your feet and half carries you down the hall.

They leave the two of you in a small, isolated room with a bed covered in scratchy sheets. Dick helps you climb up while the nurse insists a doctor will be by shortly.

Dick holds your hand the whole time, the skin on his palm turning sweaty from where your hand touches his. Your fever has only gone up since you left the house and you feel like you’re going to burn alive.

Finally, a doctor comes in and she starts to run all kinds of tests on you. After a while, they insert an IV into your arm and push fluids to keep you hydrated. They give you medicine to help you drift off to sleep, your eyes fluttering shut before you realize what’s happening.

You wake up a few hours later, Dick no longer asleep at your bedside. Your temperature has gone down, and while you still feel feverish, you’re coherent enough to know what’s going on around you.

“—hallucinating our best friend who died almost a year ago.” Dick tried to keep his voice down but you can hear it from the hallway.

“It’s common in extremely high fever’s to experience visual, auditory and sometimes even tactile hallucinations,” the doctor explains. “Y/n’s fever was beyond high enough to cause any number of these complications.”

Your shoulders slump. You knew deep down that Wally wasn’t really there, that he was a hallucination, but a part of you just hoped…

“But it’s going to be alright? There’s not any permanent side effects?”

The doctor sounds tired of Dick’s questions. “No, we’re keeping y/n overnight for observation but there shouldn’t be any long term side effects.”

Dick thanks the woman and slips back into your room, stopping in his tracks past the door when he realises you’re awake. “How are you feeling?” He whispers.

“Somewhat better,” you admit. “Not hallucinating anymore.”

He sits in the chair next to your bed and squeezes your hand. “That’s good to hear.”

“I-I’m sorry if I upset you earlier…talking about Wally and everything. I just—it seemed so real, you know? He was right there, Dick.”

“I know. You don’t need to apologize. Your mind was playing tricks on you, n/n. I know you didn’t mean any harm by it.”

You can’t help the tears that trickle down your cheeks. “I just—I miss him so much!”

“It’s okay,” Dick leans over your bed, pulling you tightly to his chest. “I miss him too. I miss him so, so much. And if there was any chance…you know I would take it too.”

“Did I ever tell you what he said to me that day? Just before he passed?”

Dick shakes his head.

“He said—,” your voice shakes so severely it’s hard to get the words out. “He said ‘I love you, y/n. I always have. I’ll be back for you, okay?’”

The gears in Dick’s brain click together, and suddenly everything makes sense. It was no secret that you and Wally had been pining after each other for years. Always cuddling and fighting and loving and hating each other. Dick was close to both of you, and he of all people knew how your feelings were bubbling over. He knew how badly you wanted to be with Wally—and how badly Wally wanted to be with you.

It’s a cruel joke, he thinks. That in one day you got everything you wanted, and an hour later had it ripped away. No wonder you’d been like a zombie this year.

“Y/n…” he squeezes your hand reassuringly.

You squeeze his hand back, and between the fever and the medicine and Dick’s skin on yours, everything in the world feels right for a minute.

—

It takes two weeks for you to fully recover from being sick. If it weren’t for your roommate being the ultra rich adoptive son of Bruce Wayne, you probably would have had to go back to work sooner. Dick insisted that you stay home until you were fully recovered, though, offering to cover your bills for the month.

It’s also been two weeks since you saw Wally. It’s been easy to brush it off as a fever dream, but something deep within you wants it to be something more than that. Still, you try to continue on with your day to day life, putting thoughts of the speedster as far away from you as possible.

You pull into the Bludhaven News parking lot with ten minutes to spare. You grab your bag from the passenger seat and clip your badge to your shirt before grabbing the coffee you’d stopped for on the way. You’re determined to make today a good day.

You settle in at your desk, smiling at the picture of you and the original Young Justice team was kids. It makes you happy, but in the most bittersweet meaning of the word. You run your fingers across the glass, stopping them at the lightning symbol on Wally’s chest.

You’re interrupted by your boss stopping at your desk.

“Hey, l/n, good to have you back,” she smiles, and you feel as though she really means it. “We’re having a meeting in five minutes.”

You nod, thanking her. She leaves you at your desk, letting you get organized before you have to meet them in the conference room.

You bring your laptop and coffee and settle in at the big round table in the spinning desk chair. Other journalists, reporters and higher ups slowly file into the room, filling it up until it’s so full it feels almost hard to breathe.

Your boss enters the room last, standing at the front in front of the tv. She welcomes you back before explaining what’s going on in current events, and what she expects everyone to report on.

You sip your coffee, zoning out for the majority of her presentation. Every once and a while, she clicks a remote and the screen changes to a new slide. You don’t pay much attention to the tv, only glancing at it every so often.

When the screen changes to three familiar figures, you freeze. It feels like someone dumped cold water on you, and you’re painfully aware of everything going on around you.

The screen shows Wally, Bart and Barry on the day he died. Wally has a big grin on his face, clad in his Kid Flash suit, giving a salute to a security camera. You’re not sure how they got this picture, but a part of you wishes they didn’t.

“—the one year anniversary since the Flash Family saved the world, and since Kid Flash bravely sacrificed himself to achieve this goal. We want to honour them for their ultimate sacrifice, and that’s why this month, we’ll be doing daily pieces on the great exploits of the family. Also—,”

Her words echo in your ears, everything feels far away from you. The only thing you can focus on is the way your heart is pounding and the way all the air is sucked out of your lungs. Wally’s face stares at you from the tv screen, and the walls close in.

You’re on your feet in an instant. “Pardon me,” you rasp out, before almost running out of the room.

You’re not sure where you’re going. Your head is spinning, your heart is racing, everything is fading away. You stumble your way into the bathroom, locking the door behind you before your knees buckle and you hit the floor.

You claw at your throat, desperate for air. You squeeze your eyes shut, clenching your fists, desperate for pressure. When you open your eyes, you swear Wally is there.

“You’re not here,” you gasp. “You’re not real.”

Wally’s green eyes are wide, staring at you with concern. “Y/n—,”

“You’re not real! You’re just some ghost—fucking haunting me for no reason at all!”

It breaks his heart to see you like this. So sad, so hurt, barely able to breathe.

“Stop,” you choke out, “stop haunting me! Stop, stop, stop it!”

Wally hasn’t seen you have a panic attack this bad since you were kids. Curled up in a ball, gasping for air and repeating the same word over and over again. He’s desperate to help you—help you like he did back then.

He doesn’t even register what he’s doing until he pulls you into his lap, arms tight around your waist. He keeps a hand over your heart, tracing circles over it.

“Y/n, y/n…” He murmurs softly, “y/n, listen to me. Deep breath in, okay? Follow my example, feel my heart beating.”

You’re not sure how you can feel his arms on you, feel his heart beating against your back. You’re half convinced you’ve already fainted, and you’re laying on the bathroom floor having another fever dream.

Still, you follow his example. You breathe in when you feel his chest rise, and breathe out when you feel his chest fall. You stay silent for a few minutes, leaning completely against Wally until you can breathe again.

Wally rubs your hair, his other hand tracing circles on your hip bone. “How are you feeling?” He asks.

“Better,” you admit.

It takes a few minutes longer for either of you to register that he’s touching you. His hands are on your body and you can feel them.

“Wally, you’re touching me.”

“I’m touching you?”

The shock is almost enough to send you back into a panic attack. Ghosts can’t touch people, neither can fever dreams. But somehow, someway, Wally West is holding you in his arms.

—

You leave the bathroom ten minutes later, after you and Wally went back and forth on if he was really there with you or not. You insist you’re losing it, but Wally insists he’s there, and somehow when you were sick, you connected to the speed force and now you can see him.

You head back to your desk with no intention of working, set on researching the speed force and if it’s possible to connect to it without being a speedster. Of course, Google doesn’t yield the results you hope, so you decide to go a different route.

You pull out your phone and text Dick.

You: do you think you could get me Barry’s number? need it for work

Robin 1.0: I think I can manage

You: you’re the best

Robin 1.0: don’t you know it

It only takes a few minutes before he texts you his contact for Barry Allen. You waste no time in opening the contact and sending him a quick text.

Of course, you don’t get to see what he responds because suddenly your boss is over your shoulder.

“Y/n, you know what our policy is on personal devices at work. There’s too much sensitive information here.”

“I know, I know. But if I play my cards right,” your ability to think on your feet coming in handy, “I could get us an exclusive interview with the Flash.”

She lights up at that. “Okay, but remember, no pictures or recordings.”

“Sure thing,” you nod and wait for her to leave before opening up your phone and seeing that you have a new text.

You: can I ask you a few questions on the speed force?

Barry Allen: sure thing

You: i know the speedforce is like it’s own separate thing that speedsters connect to, but is it possible for non speedsters to connect to it?

Barry Allen: only under extenuating circumstances. not every ordinary person can just connect to it, but if you’ve been in contact with the speedforce unwittingly or if a speedster has accidentally shared particles with you it’s possible. why?

You: just…a theory im working on for work. we’re doing a piece on Flash Family to honour you guys for saving the world and I wanted to look into it more

You: thank you

Barry Allen: do you think you’ve been in contact with a speedster recently?

You: i don’t know, if I’m being honest.

Barry Allen: okay…keep me updated, okay? if you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask

You: thanks

You frown, your conversation with Barry only making you feel more confused. How would you have had contact with a speedster or the speedforce? It’s been almost a year since you last touched Wally, and there’s no way the symptoms are only coming out now. And the speedforce—there’s no way for you to have connected with it either.

You look up from your phone only to see Wally sitting on your desk, looking at you with amusement. “Get what you wanted?”

“Why are you still here?”

“What?” He holds his hand over his chest, feigning hurt. “You don’t want me here?”

You go to speak but realize your coworkers are giving you strange looks. You quickly put your phone up to your ear, pretending to be on a phone call.

“Of course I want you here. I lo—miss you, okay? But it’s not possible. You shouldn’t be here.”

“But I am, y/n. And did Barry not just confirm that to you?”

You sigh. “I will admit, what Barry said does confirm my theory, and what you said while I was sick but…”

“But?”

“It shouldn’t be possible. You were vaporized, Wally. You’re dead. So even if you are here, you’re just a ghost.”

“Ghost, schmost,” he rolls his eyes, leaning in to flick your arm. “Does that not feel real to you?”

“I don’t know, okay? Just—I need time to think. About everything.”

You don’t say it, but it lingers in the air: I need time to think about you.

You put your phone down, indicating to the boy that you’re done talking, before returning to your job. The day goes by fast when you’re contemplating if you’re actually being haunted by the ghost of your best friend or not.

Before you know it, you’re heading home. When you get through the door of the apartment, Dick is nowhere to be found. He must still be at work, you think.

You kick off your shoes and set your bag on the counter before throwing yourself on your bed. You lay down for only a minute before a familiar cologne fills your scent. One you haven’t smelled in a long time.

You don’t need to open your eyes to know that Wally is back. “What are you doing here?”

“I was hoping I could catch you changing,” you can hear the grin in his voice.

You sit up, staring at him with wide eyes. “Wait—if you’ve been here this whole time then…?”

“Yeah,” he laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I didn’t! I mean, I thought about it but…it feels wrong.”

“More wrong than confessing your love to me and then dying?”

Both of you freeze after that, and your hand flies up to your mouth as if you can force the words back in there.

“I—y/n…you know that if I had a choice, I would have come back to you. Right?”

You nod, “I know. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” he places a hand over yours. “I wanted to come back to you. Even though you didn’t say it back, I just thought—”

“You didn’t give me a chance to say it back! You dumped all that on me and then you ran away and left, Wally! You didn’t give me the chance!”

Your outburst surprises both of you. Wally isn’t sure what to do—if he should apologize or be angry or both or neither. So he says nothing.

“I-I think you should go, Wally. You’re only doing harm by being here. You’re dead and I need to move on and I never will if you’re just here haunting me.”

You expect him to argue or to make a joke, but the boy doesn’t do any of that. He gives you a lazy, one handed salute, like the kind he would give before speeding away as kids.

And then he disappears.

You feel sad and angry all at the same time. You know it’s not fair to Wally to lash out at him like that, but how is it fair for him to open up old wounds? For him to haunt you?

When Dick gets home, he’s surprised to see you dressed in your old costume. It’s been so long since you put it on, you look almost strange to him.

“Uh, y/n?” He asks, “not that I’m against this but, what’s up with the costume?”

“I was thinking I could go out on patrol with you tonight,” you explain. “It’s been a while. I need to blow off steam.”

“Okay, let me get changed.”

That’s good enough for you, so you settle in at the counter and wait for Nightwing to suit up. He comes out a few minutes later, clad in the black and blue Nightwing suit.

He looks at you seriously through his domino mask. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“If I don’t get out, I’ll go stir crazy.”

“Okay, okay,” he raises his hands in surrender. “But don’t push yourself, okay? And I’ll be there the whole time.”

“Alright, dad,” you roll your eyes. “Let’s go.”

—

Patrol goes fine. It’s just the usual robberies and gang violence, nothing that you and Nightwing can’t handle. Of course, that’s until you hear there’s a bank robbery over the scanner.

The two of you are about to take off and head towards the bank when you hear the radio go off again. This time, it’s a jewellery store being robbed.

“Go!” You say to Nightwing, “you get the bank, I can handle the store.”

He seems content with that answer, grappling to the nearest rooftop and heading off towards the bank. You turn and head towards the jewellery store, hoping it’s enough to take your mind off of Wally.

You get to the store just in time to stop the robbers from shooting the owner. You knock the gun out of one of their hands, turning to fight the other one. There’s five total, maybe six, but your vision is tunnelling and all you can focus on is the adrenaline pumping through your veins and your need for a distraction.

You make your way through three of them, and just as you turn to fight the fourth, you hear someone yell from behind you.

“Y/n, look out!”

You knock out the fourth and turn around, just in time to see Wally West pass through you and punch the man in the face. He hits him hard enough to send him falling to the floor.

You stare at Wally in shock. “You—you hit him!”

“Are you okay?” He’s breathing hard, chest rising and falling rapidly.

“You saved me…” You mutter. “How did you do that?”

“I-I don’t know,” he admits, placing his hands on your shoulders. “I just didn’t want you to get hurt and then I passed through you and—”

“Dick!” You exclaim, realising you haven’t heard anything from him in a while, and that he still hasn’t returned to you. “Somethings wrong, Wal. We—I gotta go!”

Wally goes to protest, but you’re already running away. Not only are you running away, you’re running at the speed of light, yellow lightning crackling from your ankles. You don’t realize it, too focused on getting to Dick.

You arrive at the bank to see a bunch of lackeys passed out on the floor. Nightwing is leaning on a counter, holding his hands over a bullet hole in his side.

“Hey!” You cry out, skidding to a stop next to him. The bank smells gross, like gunpowder and..burning rubber? “Are you okay? Did you get them all?”

He clenched his jaw. “All but one. He headed North, there’s no way we’ll catch him. He’s probably out of town by now.”

“No, he’s not going to get away with this. We’re going to find him.”

And before Dick can ask, you’re tearing away from the bank, lightning in your wake. His jaw falls open at the sight. In the dark, with the speed you’re going and the lightning coming out, you almost look like Wally…

You run as fast as you can, keeping your eyes peeled for the man driving the truck of jewels. You catch up to him in no time, throwing your body weight against the truck fast enough to tip it over.

Your veins are electrified, pure lightning in your system, better than adrenaline ever could be. You rip the man out of the truck and toss him onto the street. It only takes one hit for you to knock him out, and only a few more seconds to tie him up.

It’s then that you realize what just happened, how fast you were going. You look down to see the soles of your shoes on fire, the thighs of your costume torn open from the fabric chafing so fast.

Something about the ruined shoes and the torn fabric makes you think of Wally, and the thought of the ghost in the bank saving your life only makes you want to run even more. Is this how he felt everytime he ran? It’s exhilarating, it only makes you want more.

You keep running, running straight up the side of a building before stopping in your tracks on the roof. How did this even happen? You look around, half expecting to see Wally there, but he’s not.

Your legs quiver, threatening to collapse beneath you. Your feet ache from all of the running and your shoes have practically disintegrated into nothing. You know you’re done for the night, your body at its absolute limit.

Your knees buckle, but before you can hit the ground, there’s a streak of yellow and suddenly Wally is holding you up against his chest.

“I—what’s going on?” You ask.

Wally holds you up with one arm, staring at his other hand. He shakes it, going fast enough to make it seem as though his hand is vibrating.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I—something’s changed. I can feel it.”

You hear the unmistakable sound of a grappling hook before Nightwing is landing on the roof. “Holy shit, y/n. How were you going so fast? For a second there, I thought it was—Wally?”

His face pales at the sight of the redhead, clad in his Kid Flash suit, holding you up against his body. There’s no way he’s here now, alive and well, right in front of his eyes.

“You…you can see him?”

Dick is running across the roof in an instant, feet pushing him closer to his best friend. He jumps on both of you, arms wrapping around you both. “Wally,” he sobs into his shoulder. “How—how are you here?”

There’s another flash of lightning—red lightning—and suddenly The Flash is standing next to you guys. “I can answer that.”

Wally grins insanely wide, making sure you’re steady against Dick before jumping to hug his former mentor.

“How did you know I was here?” He asks.

Barry smiles, “I could feel it. In the speedforce. There was a huge amount of energy released and then for the first time in a year, I could feel you.”

“But how did that happen?” Dick interjects, before adding, “not that we’re not happy to see you.”

Wally goes back to hugging you, wiping off the tears that have slipped from your eyes and kissing the top of your forehead. “I think y/n here somehow borrowed my speed and-and opened a portal into the speedforce.”

“I brought you back?” Your voice is so quiet it’s barely a whisper.

“You brought me back!” He’s beaming at you.

He wraps his arms around your waist, spinning you in a circle. He sets you down on the ground, only to tip your head back and plant a kiss to your lips. It’s intense, passionate, full of the longing he’s felt for you since you were kids.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, using him to keep yourself up. His body is so warm and hard under your touch, so familiar to you. You draw him closer, not even caring if Dick and Barry are standing there staring at you.

When he finally pulls away, he flashes you the biggest smile in the world. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for that.”

“So,” Dick awkwardly says, “why don’t we take this back to our place?”

Wally grabs your hand in his, squeezing it tightly. “I think that’s a really good idea.”

#wally west #wally west x reader #wally west x you #wally x reader #kid flash #kid flash x reader #kid flash x you #young justice #young Justice x reader #young Justice x you #the flash #dick grayson

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ssentimentals · 2 years

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hoshi + cuddling

'i feel fine, really! i'm not sic-' right at that soonyoung sneezes loudly, almost jumping out of the bed. he falls back on it with a loud groan, covering his face with a pillow.

'right, you're not sick at all,' you deadpan, rolling your eyes. you reach over for the salt and pepper, turning to look at him: 'bless you. you want me to add more black pepper or salt?'

'salt,' he replies, sneezing again. 'god, this is awful.'

you add the salt and then check the taste of the soup, nodding to yourself. 'soup is ready, come out.'

soonyoung says that he fell sick two days ago, but you suspect that in reality he felt off for an entire week, managing to somehow stove off the inevitable by being extra busy. you should have known, really, from the first bell when you two facetime'd each other and he had a runny nose. his stubbornness sometimes knows no limits and arguing with him about this leads to nothing, so you go along with his 'it's been only two days, i promise!' with a long sigh and a reluctant nod. carefully you place the bowl on the table, also putting the kettle on. 'tea with a lemon sounds good?' you ask loudly. you pause as no reply comes out within the next seconds. 'soonyoung?'

'come here please!' he calls.

you walk towards the bedroom and find your boyfriend wrapped in the blanket in a burrito way, only his head can be seen. his pout is more visible than anything else though - soonyoung hates being sick, hates feeling useless and especially hates when he can't spend time with you cause he doesn't want you to get sick as well. you shake your head fondly, stopping right at the door, leaning on it. taking care of soonyoung is not an easy task considering how he despises chicken soups and taking pills, but after battling one flu with him, you now consider yourself a professional at it. at the sight of you soonyoung lights up like a christmas tree and you can't be mad at him at all when he uses his famous eye smile. you don't move and seeing how you're not coming closer, soonyoung pouts even harder. 'why are you standing so far away?'

'soup is ready, you need to eat something,' you say instead of replying to his question.

'come cuddle me first.'

'you haven't eaten anything since you woke up,' you press, not moving. it is hard to do so, when he looks so cute all wrapped up like burrito, but someone has to be responsible. 'eat first, soonyoung.'

'cuddle me first.' he repeats, reminding you again who is the king of stubbornness here. in order to make his point even clearer, he opens up the blanket and moves to the left side of the bed, making space for you. 'right here.'

arguing with him is a losing game. you know it, you knew it from the start but you still are trying to be stern, not wanting to give in this time too. you frown, taking one step closer. 'but you really need to eat.'

soonyoung's expression softens and he smiles gently, tapping place next to him. 'i will eat after cuddles, i promise,' he assures you in a serious tone and then smiles, opening the blanket even more: 'now come here, please.'

admitting defeat, you shuffle towards him and smile, when he sighs in satisfaction as bed dips under your weight. you don't even have time to get comfortable before he wraps around you like an octopus, blocking you any route to escape. plastering his chest to your back, soonyoung giggles happily, tucking his face into your neck. his arms loop around your waist and he makes sure to intertwine your legs as well. it's not the most comfortable position for you at first, but you relax as he starts pressing small kisses on your neck, mumbling how good you smell.

'this is so nice,' he lets out, content. 'thank you.'

your hands rest on top of his and you smile secretly; soonyoung's warmth is something you also missed during last two days so being back in his arms feels like coming home. his breathing tickles a little but it feels so familiar that your eyes close on their own accord. 'do not let us fall asleep,' you mumble, pressing closer to him.

'no promises here,' he mouths into your neck, yawning. 'missed having you like this.' soonyoung hands get under your t-shirt and rest gently on your stomach, caressing it. 'let's just stay like that, please?'

there's so much longing in his voice that rejecting him feels like a crime; you nod and he kisses your neck once more before relaxing. laying in his arms like that you don't think about any of the errands that you are supposed to do, choosing to concentrate on him instead; how each part of your bodies seems to be connected, how warm it feels, how you instantly feel less anxious. you turn your head to the side and peck his nose, making him smile. 'love you,' you whisper before turning back.

'you're too cute,' he mumbles, tightening his hold. 'i love you too.'

a/n: don't come at me but i genuinely hate spooky season so nothing on halloween theme will be written, have a cute hoshi instead!!

here is the link to my other works and let me know if you liked this oneee <3 - nini

tag list: @pearlygraysky @woozionascooter @smalliechelle @jaetaimjadore @yeow6n (let me know if you want to be added!)

#hoshi seventeen #hoshi x reader #seventeen fluff #seventeen imagine #kwon soonyoung #seventeen soonyoung #soonyoung x reader #seventeen reaction #hoshi fluff #seventeen kwon soonyoung #svt x reader #svt fluff #hoshi is in top3 best cuddles in seventeen!!

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lots-of-pockets · 5 months

Text

Helping her out

Advent day 8: Reading together

Pairing: Wanda x Natasha

Notes: another collab with @goldenempyrean ❤️

Wanda green eyes glance away from her phone as her attention is called away at the sound of Natasha letting out a deep sigh. Curled beside her, the redhead was huddled beneath a layer blanket, her glasses perched on the bridge of her nose as she stared down at the book she held in a futile attempt to make sense of the words on the page.

Much to her dismay, she wasn't really having much luck and Natasha found herself sighing once again, closing her book in defeat before laying her head onto Wanda's chest with an annoyed sniffle.

"What's up sweet girl?" Wanda murmured, setting her phone aside before running her hand through her girlfriend's curls, "Not liking how your book is going?" She asked, as somewhat of a bookworm herself, she was all too familiar with knowing how an unexpected plot twists could ruin a good novel.

It was a late Saturday evening, and after a long week of missions, the pair were making the most of their time off before they were inevitably called back to work. It just so happened that their said time off wasn't really going to plan. You see, due to the cold climate of the latest mission Natasha had been on, she'd returned back home feeling a little under the weather.

Not the flu fortunately. Just the sniffles and a rather nasty cough that refuses to go away no matter how much cough medicine Wanda forced her to take. Either way, Wanda could see just how frustrated Natasha was getting with herself and wants so badly to offer a solution.

Natasha sniffled softly as she looks up at her girlfriend, using the tip of her finger to push her glasses up as her nose ran slightly. "I literally cannot see a thing." She huffed somewhat petulantly before letting out a heavy, congested cough into her blankets. Making Wanda add a mental note to wash them later.

"What do you mean you can't see?" The witch titled her head slightly, not quite understanding what she meant, "Are you dizzy again?"

"The words." The redhead sniffled, "The room's all spinny so it's making them look too fuzzy. I can't read them." The poor woman sounded so defeated as she let the book fall out of her hands and onto the bed.

Now she understood. Wanda returned Natasha's pout as she picked up the book to save her page before it was lost, "Oh, I'm sorry baby, that's really frustrating, huh?" She sympathised, letting her hand come to wrap around Nat's shoulders, hugging her warmly before glancing over at the clock on their bedside table. It wasn't too late yet, "Well, how about we try something new?"

Now it was Natasha's turn to look confused as she blinked up at her girlfriend.

"Here, you get comfy." Wanda instructed, moving to set a pillow behind Natasha's back for support and she waited as her girlfriend got herself comfortable, nuzzling into her side, "How about I read to you a little? That way you can still enjoy your book and you can fall asleep if you get sleepy enough, how does that sound darling?"

Natasha flushes slightly, but nods her head as she settles comfortably against the pillows. "That sounds perfect." She rasps out, reaching up to pull off her glasses and set them onto the nightstand. Wanda hums and places a gentle kiss to the red tip of Natasha's nose before opening the book to the page the red head had stopped on last.

"Ready darling?" She slides an arm beneath Natasha's shoulders and coaxes her back against her chest, a position Natasha easily welcomes as she nuzzles her nose against her girlfriends neck and lets out a soft sigh.

"Mhh." She nods as her eyes instinctively flutter shut, and Wanda couldn't help but smile in adoration as she slips a hand beneath Natasha's shirt and begins to trail gentle circles against the warm skin of her back.

"Okay..."

#sickfic #empyrean’s advent 2023 #natasha romanoff #marvel #Natasha Romanoff x wanda maximoff

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enbydemirainbowbigfoot · 2 years

Text

New Everything, Part 8&9

Fethry ends up talking Gladstone into giving Hugo a spare room in his mansion. “It’s only temporary, Gladdy,” he pleads, “and Hugo doesn’t have anywhere else to go! Please help him!”

Gladstone looks like he’s about to refuse, but then he looks down at Fethry once more and his face softens. “Well,” he says, “I do have a spare bed or three. The blankets aren’t much, just silk, but it’s a decent enough size.” He glances up at Hugo, then adds, “I’m only doing this for him, you know. He’s my favorite cousin.”

Hugo doesn’t answer, and so Fethry answers for him. “He’s very grateful, I promise! He’s just not great with people! Like me!”

Gladstone shrugs. “Not my business. Anyway, there’s this gala I’ve got to go to that I won tickets for- it’s some rich-people get-together again, but eh, that’s how you know the food’s gonna be good!” He winks at Fethry. “Your friend can stay for a while, but keep him low-profile, yeah?”

Fethry beams, and wraps Gladstone in a hug. “Thanks, Gladdy!” He turns to Hugo. “See? He’s a good person too!”

Hugo seems unsure, so Fethry sends a smile his way. “Trust me! These next few days are going to be fun!”

The days turn into weeks, which turn into three months. It’s June now, and Fethry finds himself looking forward to his visits with Hugo more and more. He’s been keeping busy, helping Huey clean out the shed and buy new furniture for the rooster. It’s harder than he thought, though, given his scruffy appearance and Huey’s lack of money, but eventually they collect a dresser, a bed and some bedsheets, a lamp, and a kitchen table. Getting it to the new apartment, though, which Gladstone luckily found for them, proves harder- until a familiar limo crashes into the fence.

“Oh hey, Launchpad!” Fethry waves, hurrying over. “Did Gladstone call you?”

“Nope,” Launchpad replies. “My brakes went out on the way to pick up Uncle McDee. Whatcha doing?”

“I’m helping Hugo move into this apartment,” Fethry explains, glancing over at a wary-looking Hugo. “Don’t worry, he wouldn’t hurt a flu! He’s just nervous around new people. Right Hugo?”

“Sure,” Hugo mutters absently. “Right.”

“But isn’t he a cosplayer or something?” Launchpad asks, scratching his head.

Fethry blinks. “A cosplayer?”

“Yeah, you know,” Launchpad answers, “for that video game Double-O Duck! He’s dressed up as the main villain!”

Fethry looks at Hugo, who nods furiously. “Yes. That. I’m dressing up.”

Fethry looks back at Launchpad. “Anyway, this furniture’s really heavy and we need your help moving it inside! Can you help us?”

“Sure thing,” the large duck says happily. “Where do you want it?”

That was the duck he’d fought against in the final battle with Clan McDuck!! How was he here?! Was he going to turn him in?!!

-No, actually, the duck had seemed to have no idea who he is. It had been a little confusing, but any way he can stay away from Scrooge McDuck is a good way.

Besides, he thinks to himself, this way I can spend more time with Fethry.

The thought brings a smile to his face. Things have changed. He’s been spending a lot of time with the skinny duck lately, and it’s not so surprising anymore that he enjoys it. He’s told Fethry just about everything- leaving out the parts about FOWL, of course. In turn, Fethry’s told him a lot about himself and his family, a lot of which is surprising.

Would it be so far-fetched to say that he- to say that he’s-

“You know what, Scruffy, yeah it is,” he declares to the rat. Scruffy squeaks, and Hugo sets him down on the counter. He gazes around the apartment- it’s small, but comfortable, and the pizza Fethry had ordered last night as a celebration meal had been delicious and very convenient- but it still seems too good to be true. “I was FOWL’s toughest enforcer! I was feared in prison, and in the ring! There’s no way I’m falling for-“

Ring, ring!

He answers the phone, careful not to rip the cord out of the wall.

“Hugo?!!”

“-Fethry,” he answers, feeling a smile push its way onto his face. “How are you-?”

“There’s no time!!” Fethry sounds urgent, and Hugo’s smile drops like a stone. “You need to get out immediately! There’s a mocssssssshhhhhhhhh need to get out!”

“There’s some static on the line,” Hugo says. “What-“

thump.

“There’s acssssssshhhhhhhhh coming your wcssssshhhho!! You need to run!”

“Run?” Hugo echoes. “Why would I-“

Thump.

He turns to the window, barely registering Scruffy clambering up his shirt to hide in the pocket. “Fethry?”

There’s no anwer, just a dial tone.

THUMP.

“Fethry? Are you okay?”

He opens the blinds. “What the f-?!”

THUMP!!

He yells and jerks backwards as a large, furry foot slams down just outside the glass. “Gah!!”

Earlier, at McDuck Manor:

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Sure I’m sure! Look, we get in, we get some treasure, we get out, Ma’s finally proud of us!”

Burger frowned. Usually xe was completely on-board with all of xyr brother’s plots, even if they went badly, but something told xem that today was a bit different.

Burger, Bouncer, and Big Time Beagle were near the top of the hil upon which McDuck Manor rested, staring up at the foreboding building. The plan seemed simple: sneak into the building, locate the treasure room, take it all, and return to Ma Beagle with high spirits. It seemed foolproof- but still, Burger was nervous.

“Okay,” xe said.

“Nobody’s home,” Bouncer rumbled, rejoining them.

“Alright! Let’s go then!!” Big Time cheered, and rand towards the manor.

The three entered a dim hallway through a large window that Bouncer helpfully smashed for them, and began searching.

Burger was the first to find anything, and quickly waved xyr brothers over. It was a dark room filled with several things, including a suit of armor, a headless statue, and a dusty wooden crate marked “DANGEROUS! DO NOT OPEN! WEBBY THIS MEANS YOU!”

“This has to have something great in it!” Big Time exclaimed. “C’mon, open it!!”

Bouncer obligingly reached out and ripped the lid off.

“Whoa,” the Beagles chorused.

It was filled with jewelry! Rings, bracelets, necklaces, brooches and more, made with gold and silver and all sorts of precious gems.

“Grab it all, you two,” Big Time yelled. “This’ll set Ma up for life!!”

The Beagles eagerly started shoveling jewelry into their pockets and hats, excited by ideas of the celebration they would have once they got back to the junkyard, but then-

“Excuse me, but I believe you are trespassing.”

Burger whirled around, coming face-to-face with a ghostly butler.

“Aw, it’s just a little ghost,” Big Time said from behind him. “It can’t do anything to us!”

The ghost raised an eyebrow. “That is where you are quite incorrect,” it replied icily. “I will ask you once more to return what you have stolen and leave the property immediately, or I shall have to use force.”

Big Time responded by laughing, and Bouncer and Burger joined in.

The ghost sighed. “They never choose the easy way,” it lamented, and in the next moment Burger was flying.

No, not flying- xe and xyr brothers had been tossed back out of the window they’d come in. They landed hard, rolling down the hill, and looked up just in time to see the large horned demon at the top turn back into the ghost.

“Let’s get out of here,” Big Time urged once they stopped rolling. The three got up and ran.

They finally paused behind the post office, and double-checked their pockets.

“It’s gone!” Bouncer exclaimed.

“What?!” Big Time hurriedly checked his own pockets. “Mine too!! They must have fallen out when that awful ghost threw us out!”

Burger checked xyr own pockets. Sure enough, they were empty- no, wait!

Xe slowly pulled out a single necklace and held it up. It was a golden amulet in the shape of a clawed paw, with a ruby set in the middle. On the back there was an inscription- mostly unreadable. “Whoever holds… Claw of… become… something, something, beyond.”

“Sounds valuable,” Big Time said. “Give it to me, I want to give it to Ma!”

“But I want to give it to Ma,” Bouncer put in.

Burger glanced down at the amulet, then up at xyr brothers. Then xe ran.

“Get back here, Burger,” Big Time howled.

Well, that wasn’t happening. It was Burger’s turn to give the stolen valuable thing to Ma. Xe was going to make her proud-

“-whooof!”

Except that xe tripped, and the necklace went flying, and in the scramble to retrieve it the chain somehow settled around Burger’s neck-

-and everything went black.

#new everything fic #hugofeths fic #fethsteel

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bokutosworld · 3 years

Text

sick day | tsukishima kei

pairing: tsukishima kei x gn!reader word count, genre: 1.7k words, college au, fluff, childhood friends to maybe lovers. warning: none! summary: you and tsukishima have been friends for as long as the both of you can remember. and when you’re down with the flu, he’s left with no choice but to take care of you.

“Can you drop by their home and give them this paper?”

Tsukishima stares blankly at the piece of paper and back at the girl who approached him. He hasn’t even gotten up from his chair when Yachi stopped him.

He already knows who she was referring to and was quick to turn her down. “Move. I’m packing my bag.”

The girl grumbles, moving out of the way but continues, “Come on! You know where they live.”

“Correction, you know it too.” Tsukishima retorts. He walks past her, striding with his long legs over to the door and exiting. But Yachi was hot on his trail. “Why don’t you do it yourself?”

Yachi groans, “I would but I’m too busy with the school paper right now. I have to head to the office to assist in lay-outing this month’s release.” She stops in her tracks, catching Tsukishima’s wrist and turning him around. “You live in the same neighborhood. Please, I promise I’ll repay you.”

She waves the paper in front of him, and eventually, he’s left with no choice but to do the task. He sighs before snatching the form and turning on his heel, “You owe me.”

—

As he walks the familiar route towards home, he wonders about the last time he saw you in campus. It had actually been three days since then. Worried, his mind runs about hundreds of possibilities about why you hadn’t showed up in classes.

The only possible thing that he could think of was that you were down with a flu. This predicament that he was in right now oddly reminds him of a time in middle school when you were absent for a week because of a severe cold. Growing up, he’s noticed that you were extremely prone to getting sick and Tsukishima always berates you for not taking care of yourself properly. Especially during flu season.

When he passes by a convenience store, he decides to buy some instant porridge, water, and medicine. He wonders if your family were at home but gets the answer that he was looking for when he’s arrived in front of your house with the lights off.

He eyes the building and notices the faint light coming from the side which he knows was your room.

Tsukishima enters the door, unlocking it with ease as he inputs the passcode he’s known since the both of you were kids. He feels for the switch on the wall and turns the lights open.

He makes his way to the kitchen and places everything on the counter. He’s in the process of boiling some water when he hears footsteps walking closer.

“Who’s there?” Your voice sounds weak and when Tsukishima turns, he sees you, cozily bundled in a hoodie and holding on to a blanket as you lean on the wall for support.

He’s quick on his feet to help and sit you down on a chair. “You shouldn’t have left your bed,” he mutters under his breath.

You recognize the voice, “Kei? What are you doing here?”

He was back on the counter, opening the pack of porridge and filling it with water to cook for five minutes. He hands you a glass of water and you down it. “Yachi told me to tell you about our final project in Literature.” He takes the paper from his bag and sticks it on the refrigerator with a magnet. “Here’s the reference. Don’t lose it.”

You manage to let out a small chuckle. “Look at you, being kind for once.”

“Shut up.” But his words say otherwise when the look in his eyes are soft, watching over you to make sure you didn’t fall from the chair. “Where’s everybody?”

You put your head on the table and groan. “They’re out to visit the grandparents in the countryside. Said I couldn’t make it because of school requirements but here I am.”

“You’ve been alone this whole time?”

“Yeah,” you say with a yawn.

He tuts at you to show his disapproval, “Why didn’t you tell anyone you were sick?”

“Eh, no one would have bothered anyway.”

He hands you the hot dish and you take it with a whispered thanks. You devour it in silence, relishing in the warmth that fills your body. Tsukishima hangs back, saying nothing and only observes as you eat what looks like the first decent meal you’ve had since you’ve been sick.

“I would.”

His sudden answer almost makes you sputter the food out from your mouth. You look at him, and though it was dark, you could make out his features and the way he was staring at you with such intensity.

“I mean, I’m here now, aren’t I?” He takes a seat beside you, taking the cup from your hands and feeding you the last few scoops. “My parents would have made me come here either way to check on you.”

You curse the way your heart flutters at his words. The heat on your cheeks not anymore caused by your fever but by Tsukishima who was sitting way too close for your comfort and helping you finish the porridge. After he gives you the medicine, he extends his arm out and you look at him in question.

“Come on, I’m bringing you back to your room.” When you don’t make a move, he pulls you up to your feet and hooks one arm around your waist to keep you steady by his side. The two of you begin the slow trek to your room.

He’s careful to lay you down on the mattress, cradling your head as he fluffs and positions the pillow under you. You seem to be already lost in your dreams when he pulls the blanket over your body, tucking you in and making sure you were warm. When he’s done, he kneels down by the side of your bed and gazes at you.

He’s transfixed on memorizing the outlines of your face—the one thing he’d never admit he always liked to do whenever he went to your house for sleepovers years ago. Absentmindedly, he traces your features, sighing as he wanted so badly to tell you off about not properly taking care of yourself.

“Kei.”

Surprised, he pulls back his hand, “What?” He knows you’d tease him to no end when you saw what he was doing.

“You should be like this all the time,” you say sleepily with a smile. “Who knew you had a sweet and caring side in you?”

He smirks, “Don’t push your luck.” He puts the back of his hand on your forehead to determine whether your fever has gone down. It was still hotter than normal and Tsukishima only sighs, “You should really learn to look after yourself.”

Burying yourself deeper in the blankets, you hum, “But I like having you take care of me.”

He’s surprised, mostly at the way your voice sounded so calm and soft when you said those words. Because he knows that on any other day, you’d have responded with a smart quip and maybe a punch to his arm. He’s aware it could be the flu talking, making you bare your true feelings similarly to how a drunk man would reveal their sober thoughts. But will you remember them when you wake up tomorrow?

He laughs quietly before leaning to press a kiss to your temple, “I don’t mind it too.”

But you were already fast asleep to have heard anything.

—

The following day, you woke up as if you never had intense fever the night before. The bad headache and chills that you felt was gone and you could move your body without feeling heavy. So not wanting to miss out more on lectures, you got ready and finally went back to school.

To say that Yachi was overjoyed to see you was an understatement. Your friend sighed of relief and ran to tackle you with a hug the second she saw you step foot on campus. She caught you up to speed about everything that has happened and the tasks that your professors on your shared classes has assigned.

The two of you were settling in your seats when she remembers, “By the way, did you receive the paper about our Literature project? I had Tsukishima bring it to you.”

“Really? I didn’t receive anything.”

And just as she was about to complain about Tsukishima, the door opens loudly and the said boy enters the room.

“Oh, Kei! Great timing, we were just talking about you,” you greeted as your childhood friend headed straight to your desks.

Meanwhile, Yachi complained, “Tsukishima, I told you to pass over the reference to them.”

The boy just walked past her, and stopped in front of you. He stuck out a pack of banana milk (your favorite drink) and some fruits, making you confused at the sudden gesture.

“What’s this?”

“You skip your breakfasts, right?” You were shocked that he knew about your unhealthy habit. “I don’t want you getting sick again so make sure you eat properly.”

Yachi’s jaw dropped at his nice attitude. You’re wary as you take drink and snacks from his hand, looking at him as if he grew another head on his body. “You’re being suspicious, Kei. What do you need?”

He takes the seat beside you, laughing when he turns towards you with a wicked smile that has your heart beating faster.

“I’m just doing what I need to do as your friend.” He resumes to fix his things on the table. “Besides, weren’t you the one who said you liked me taking care of you?”

You stutter, cheeks feeling hot as vague snippets from when Kei visited you and took care of you came flashing in your mind. Yachi was now giggling and congratulating you for finally confessing. As you watched the grin on his face, you wished for a hole to appear on the ground and swallow you whole.

Because your crush on your longtime childhood friend was something you never wanted him to know.

But that thought was quickly erased when Tsukishima leaned close and whispered,

“For what it’s worth, I like you too.”

And since then, Tsukishima started keeping you close and took care of you in the little ways he knows how just so you never have to experience a sick day again.

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu imagines #tsukishima x reader #tsukishima imagines #haikyuucreations #haikyuucafe #tsukishima fluff #haikyuu fluff #tsukishima x you #tsukishima x y/n #haikyuu fics #haikyuu x you #tsukishima kei x reader #hq tsukishima #haikyuu!!

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zuffer-weird-girl · 3 years

Text

A villain is always a villain.

LISTEN. THERE IS SO MANY TRIGGER ON THIS THERE IS NO HAPPY ENDING OR NO FLUFF I SWEAR IS PURE ROTTEN ANGST DONT READ IT.

"I'm sorry sir. But even with your quirk, your wife would suffer immense pain over the procedure and die on the bed.... and... my sincerity apologizes... but she's got only one week."

He couldn't exactly describe what he felt when those words from the doctor left his mouth and arrived to his ears. He didn't had even know when he had overhauled his gloves and the chair he was in making him fall on the ground and come back to his senses...

Everything... was falling apart. If he was only fast enough to get the symptoms appearing... he could have prevented, it would have caused you an huge amount of pain but at least you would've have survived.

Why hadn't he noticed it?

Because he was living his dream.

Because you two married. Had beautiful moments together... and just about one year and a half ago had a son. A health kid.

He was happy. He even talked about it with Pops, and the old man suggested for him to leave the Hassaikai for a while to raise his kid on a peaceful environment, but he refused. Knowing Pops hadn't had any contact with that good for nothing daughter of his neither the possible granddaughter he had. So he could give the man some of his immensely gratitude towards him.

But suddenly... everything was falling apart.

First it was the frequent coughing, even your baby was worried but soon you waved them off saying it was just a cold. Chisaki fooled himself on believing on that.

After all he was so happy.

Then, your voice started to change to a more forced and rough one. He started to worry but no, no... his perfect wife, such a angel, couldn't be on any danger... it was just a flu. He would take care of her.

Despite having germophobia, his love for you was just as strong. He wore masks and gloves, sure, but he still was willing to spend time on the same room and give you the comfort you needed.

Then it happened... one day on his office... he heard the coughing fit and suddenly a loud crying from hsi son made him storm out of his office to find you on the ground, a paper close to your hand covered in blood.

He never drove so fast on his life to the hospital.

And now... there he was, staring at the ground as he clinched on his wife's weak hand on the bed with the machines attached to her. His son, as innocent as ever was playing with his mother fingers.

The chemotherapy wasn't enough. The quirks from teh doctors couldn't help her, he couldn't help her...

The nurses came in and told that visit time was over... he had to drag his sobbing and crying two years old out of the room.

His tears were falling as well, but he had to be strong. He had to be the oen who had to be a pillar for his own child.

Pops had to be the oen explaining to Kan the situation and why his father seemed so sad and distant. The kid entered his office at night, sniffling and looking at his father's eyes with his (E/c).

Kan cried himself to sleep on his father chest, and Kai didn't mind it the snot or tears on his messed up black dress shirt. The documents on his desk were soaked with his own tears anyway.

"You're making a big deal about this." Your weak voice interrupted his memories and he scowled at your weak serene expression and smile.

"Dont. Not with this." He murmured as he watched his son give his painting to his mom... he wiped your tears away as you hugged your Kan, kissing his dark brow hair as the little boy murmured his love for you.

At the next day at the evening you let out your last breath and he cried and screamed on the bed until his voice was gone.

"You have to sleep boss." He heard Chrono as he blinked, the bags under his eyes were huge as he sighed.

"I can't. I need to go after those debtors of the drugs and then take care of Kan. He hadn't been eating very well since..." he couldn't help but almost choke up at remembering.

"... how about this? I go after them? Spend time with my favorite nephew."

"... you have some of my gratitude Chronostasis. Dont let the old man know about this, he would never stop talking about it. We need the money and the respect we need."

"Got it."

"And dont call my son your nephew. Is disgusting." He spoke while exiting the office as Kurono snorted.

"I am his godfather though."

He sighed as he hot upstairs and found Kan with equal sad and depressed eyes as his starting at a frame he held with his tiny fingers.

"Kan." The kid gasped and put the frame back and bowed to his father with a sniffle "... come on. I guess, both of us could use some rest."

Kan simply nodded and followed his father but was surprised to see Kai picked him up and brought him to sleep by his side.

He felt something stiring on his side and saw his son leaving the bed.

"Bathroom." Kan muttered as Kai nodded and got up only to stop at hearing "No da. I go, you sleep."

This kid reminded him so much of you with this goddamn kindness.

He waited a few minutes until he got up and followed the kid, enough to not make a appearance and give his son some confidence but he still had only two years.

... or maybe he just didn't felt like leaving his son alone.

But just as he entered the hall he felt something hitting the back of his head hard enough to make him fall face plant on the ground.

"Restrains his hands! His quirk can kill you with one finger of his on your skin!" He heard a voice and immeditaly recognize one of the debtors, and also someone caging his hands on a manner he couldn't even move them.

Must be some sort of dicease.

"Now, mister sucessor." A man with a missed tooth crouched down to his level and grabbed his hair to lift his head to his eye level "We could use some of negotiating eh?"

He only glared at the man before he muffled his scream of pain when the guy slammed his face on the floor hard enough to make a bruise.

"Cooperate with us and then we will get out of here. You give the drugs and leave us with our money with a bit of yours, and no one gets hurt."

"Go.. to hell-ARGH-!" Something pierced his abdomen hard enough to blood to spill and land on the floor.

This had to happened when Chrono had to get all the guards to collect cash and Pops on a damn convention, of course.

"Wrong answer yakuza. I'm gonna make it simple for ya, where is the money you all have?"

"If you think I will give you information..." he hissed at the knife piercing more "Then you must be just as dumb as your parents on the thought of making you, you sick bastard."

His head was slammed on the ground and it was enough to break his nose... just as the guy was about to slam it again a sound of a door creaking open made his eyes snap wide open and look at the figurine with equal wide eyes and clutching the door at seeing his father layed on the ground.

"K-K..Kan...." he eyed his son in fear as sweat and hives started to appear on his skin.

"Daddy?" Kan muttered in fear and the man was smilling widely at the sign.

"Oh? He is your daddy?" Kai started to throw his body around and tried to move but only could scream at his son to run but it was to late since the guy grabbed the boy by his nape. "My, those eyes you have.. are they from your mother?"

Kan trembled as Kai shouted profanities at the man as his helper held him down.

"..Hm. I heard that your wife died man.. rough. Being a single dad and the future owner of this big hellhole you got here." The man made two of his finger fuse and form into a sharp kinda like knife and cut the cheek of the boy, making the boy flinch and whimper.

"LEAVE MY SON OUT OF THIS. DONT TOUCH HIM WITH YOUR DIRTY AND INFECTED HANDS!"

"Then let's make a deal?" He holded the kid down and aproached the object to the boy's throat. "The life of the son of the woman you loved is more worth than some couple of cash eh?" He chuckled darkly.

He was about to agree until Chrono opened the door with the eight precepts and saw the scene.

"Fuck-"

"KAN GET DOWN!" Kai manage to shout at his son the house was filled with shooting and the eight precepts attacking the subbordinates of the debtor who had held his son captive.

Chrono shot the guy who was holding him down and he quickly activated his quirk to kill the man and get up only to his eyes to widen at seeing his son being dragged down by the debtor and some other muscular guy as the kid screamed for him and kicked his legs to try to get away.

He ran out and was about to slam his hand his hand on the ground without any gloves until he heard the shout to stop and his eyes widen at seeing the man holding a grenade up and his son caged on his arm.

"PAPA!"

"One more movement and your kid gets turned into pieces along with us OVERHAUL!"

He panted in desperation and raised his hand up.

"G... Give my son back." The man laughed as his sunglasses, in the middle of the night using sunglasses what a idiot, fell down.

"LOOK AT THE DESPERATION IN YOUR TONE OVERHAUL! IS PRICELESS!"

The sound of his laughter dissapeared when all four them heard sirens and sounds of heroes coming.

"Boss, I prefer to die than to go to jail." The muscular man mumbled as the debtor gave a little sick giggle before tilting his head at Chidaki, looking him dead in the eyes as he hugged Kan close to his chest and pulled the trigger of the grenade.

"See ya in hell, Overhaul."

"KAN-!" He shouted and ran but teh explosion made him his body slam back on the house, losing his conciousness and hearing only the buzz on his ears and the sound of.. Pops? Kurono? Calling his name as he blacked out.

He woke up with a groan and immeditaly put his hand on his face, feeling a nasty scar but then repairing it but soon widening his eyes.

"KAN!" He screamed and burst out of the room only to be found at the hospital he was starting to hyperventilate until he felt a old and familiar hand grab his shoulder.

"Kai you-"

"WHERE IS HE?!" He grabbed the man's shoulders as tears fell from hsi golden eyes "WHERE IS MY SON?!"

"Chisaki please-" the moment the elder went to speak Kai eyes dropped on a a gurney, small with a sick person dragging her to the morgue... with a tag wrapped around her wrist that looked like a child's... written his son's name on it.

"No... No. no no nO NO NO THAT IS MY SON YOU FUCKING IDIOT DONT!" he was about to kill the poor nurse until Pops grabbed onto him and made him calm down by force as the man howled like a terrible and horrendous beast.

"Kai... stop with this. We dont deal with drugs."

"Chisaki we have rules to follow. That's not how we work around here."

"Have you lost your humanity?"

... yes.

Yes he did lost it. The moment his wife and son were taken away from him...

He wasn't a human anymore.

He had one goal now, and he would make it real.

Even if it meant the yakusa, the heroes, Eri... everyone suffered just as much as he had.

#overhaul x reader #chisaki kai x reader #bnha villains #overhaul #chisaki kai #kai chisaki x reader #bnha villains x reader #zuffer writings

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katytheinspiredworkaholic · 3 years

Note

✏, hotchreid, first kiss 🥺

You don’t just get a blurb honey, you get the whole damn night. I’ll eventually start writing blurbs and not full-length oneshots for these asks, but Cee (my love my family my favorite always) is who got me back into CM in the first place so yours was always going to be the long, fleshed out version. I love you so my dear.

((P.S. Yes I’m still working on the 200follower asks xD I’m so sorry life got in the way and I discovered hcs but I’m being responsible and finishing all of these now I promise!!!))

Personal plot bunny: Hotch invites Reid over to help with a research paper/with Jack and Reid gets to see his boss all domestic and soft, and in turn Spencer just kind of fits in his home seamlessly and Hotch kisses him as he leaves.

Word Count: 3107

It’s a perfectly ordinary day in late November when Hotch opens his apartment door to Reid standing there in the clothes he’d worn to work earlier that day. Satchel over his shoulder, wrapped in jacket and scarf, and giving him a small quirk of a smile in greeting -- still very obviously thrown off kilter that Hotch had invited him over in the first place.

When Reid said he’d lend him a hand on his most recent research paper, the younger agent had probably expected them to do it at the office. Interviews and research were all a big part of having a Behavioral Science subunit at the FBI, and published papers were a requirement from all BAU members to aid in this endeavor. Every team had to keep a steady output of resources and research studies going just to keep funding for the department afloat. He may be Unit Chief, but Hotch was no exception to these requirements, even with as much work as he has to put in on the regular.

Usually, he can do his research and piece together papers in between his daily paperwork. But this week Jess is sick with a stomach flu, and Jack hadn’t gotten to spend time with Hotch in what feels like a month. So the easiest solution was obviously to invite Reid to have dinner with them at his home, entertain him while he read over the drafted paper and helped Hotch out.

Obviously.

The only reasonable option, really.

“Thanks for coming, Reid,” Hotch greets back with a softened expression as he looks him up and down. “Did you even go home first?” The very first thing Hotch always does is change out of his suit when he gets home, shedding that armour as best he can to switch mindsets between Agent Hotchner of the FBI, and Aaron Hotchner the ever-stressed-out single dad. That evening donning worn jeans and a heather grey Henley to better accommodate himself within the space.

“Oh -- no, I didn’t see much point,” Reid shrugs, then motioning to his satchel which is now filled with books that weren’t there when he’d left the bull pen a couple hours before. “I stopped by the law library in Georgetown and found a few more references, just in case you were using the Favero citations instead of Weston and I don’t have all of those read yet -- or I didn’t. I do now. But I still brought them--”

Hotch smiles, a real smile -- small as it is, but no less fond of Reid going out of his way to help him. But before he can thank him again Jack’s socked feet come thundering down the hall behind him.

“Dr. Spencer! Dr. Spencer! Dr. Spencer!” And he’s slipping past Hotch, smooth and fluid as water, attaching himself to Reid’s legs and waist in a hug with a big smile that looks so much like Aaron’s own. When he’d been younger, only about three or four years old, Jack had been deathly scared of Doctor’s visits. It had been Reid’s idea to have Jack start calling him ‘Dr. Spencer’ to help alleviate some of that fear, associating the moniker with his non-threatening and familiar face. Reid had been much younger then, too, and that had helped the tactic work like a charm. Haley had been over the moon when his reverse psychology worked out so well.

“Jack! Woah, you got taller!” Reid’s whole demeanor changes. A little more animated, more comfortable, even -- and Hotch could remember a time when Reid hadn’t even wanted to hold a child for fear of the interaction. Now, he was always the first to talk to one if JJ didn’t beat him to it. “How’ve you been?” “Good!” Jack says excitedly, barreling over the small talk in ways only children can. “Dad says you’re going to help him with his homework, can you help me with mine too?!”

Reid smiles even wider and chances a glance at Hotch that he feels in his chest. “You bet, I love helping with homework.”

Jack just scrunches his nose up at him. “Why?”

“Because it’s fun.”

“Homework isn’t fun.”

“Well, maybe you’ve been doing it wrong.”

“Let’s let Dr. Reid in from the hallway,” Hotch interrupts with a laugh, herding his son and the younger agent inside. “Jack, go get your homework and you can do it at the table,” Hotch says as he takes Reid’s coat and watches him kick off his shoes by the door. Mismatched socks prominent against the hardwood floors. Making himself at home, shedding some of the layers and getting comfortable in the space much like Aaron does every day after work. “Hope you like spaghetti. It won’t be as good as Rossi’s.”

“Who doesn’t love spaghetti,” Spencer grins with a soft laugh. “Rossi’s is almost too fancy for me, anyway.”

“A man of simple tastes,” Hotch teases him.

“I’m easily impressed.”

“Lucky me.”

It slips out, the low, comfortable banter, and Reid’s eyes are alight and Aaron feels himself smiling enough his dimples show, and he leads the way to the kitchen where dinner is already in the works on the stove. Filling the small condo with the smell of tomato sauce and garlic.

Jack and Reid set up at the kitchen bartop where they can watch Hotch finish cooking and stay within reach of conversation. It doesn’t take long for Hotch to finish making dinner, or for Jack to finish his homework spurred on by Reid’s strange enthusiasm for math problems. With how much time they spend talking about psychology and sociology (and sometimes even philosophy) Hotch always forgets one of Reid’s Ph.D.’s is in mathematics.

“Numbers just make sense,” he explains, when Hotch brings it up while drizzling olive oil on the drained pasta on the stove. “There’s always a right answer and the rest are wrong. It’s comforting, to an extent, but predictable -- that’s why I shifted focus from sciences to humanities. There’s no right or wrong answers in philosophy, it’s all argumentative. Always evolving. I prefer that, it’s no fun having all the answers.”

And coming from someone who does always have all the right answers, that must mean something profound to the younger man. One conversation outside the walls of the BAU and Hotch already feels like he understands Reid more than he has in a long time.

Dinner runs so smoothly it’s as if Reid is always there for it. Jack even finishes all of his food and helps with the dishes before Hotch has to ask him to. Making the two men exchange a glance and Hotch ask, “You charge by the hour?” and Reid laughs into his water glass in reply. They end up talking a bit about the paper Hotch has been working on, along with about a dozen other things Reid launches into in side tangents -- from the books he’d read during his brief visit to Georgetown that afternoon, to his most recent philosophical debate he had with his doctoral advisor about his thesis paper he’ll have to submit at the end of next month.

“Do you need time to piece it together? I didn’t know you were that close to your next Ph.D.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” Reid waves him off. “I just need a weekend where we are actually in town and not on a case, and I’ll get it finished.”

“I’ve been working on this paper for the past six months,” Hotch all but balks in disbelief. “How can you write a Ph.D. dissertation in a weekend?”

“Well, I’m not the Unit Chief or a single parent,” Reid points out with a gentle grin, and Hotch feels one pulling at his own lips as well. “But it’s mostly written anyway, just all up here.” He points to his head, and Hotch bets he could recite the paper verbatim with what he writes up when he has the time.

“You could always write it on the jet,” Hotch says.

“I do,” Reid smirks, and Hotch can’t help but roll his eyes. “In my head, someone is usually taking up the table with a headstart on paperwork.”

“I think they can be talked into relinquishing some table top space,” Hotch says, until Reid gives him a look. “Oh, you mean me?”

“You spread out everything to keep it organized in piles.”

“I’d share with you.”

“You told Rossi to use the couch last week when he wanted to answer emails,” Reid says with a barely contained laugh.

“Yeah, well, he’s not you,” Hotch admits before he can take it back, and Reid almost answers -- mouth open and everything -- when Jack comes back and is all but begging ‘Dr. Spencer’ to help him with his science fair project he hadn’t even decided on.

The rest of the evening ends up with the three holed up in Hotch’s office, Reid surrounded by Law books and reading material he hasn’t gotten to sift through before, Hotch with his drafted paper printed out for Reid’s ease of access, and Jack with his science textbook and a notebook already talking Reid’s ear off about a science project for the spring.

But once the time starts to tip into the later hours of the night, Hotch tells Jack to get ready for bed and say goodnight to Dr. Reid.

“Goodnight, Dr. Spencer. Thanks for your help,” Jack says politely, ingrained in him by his father and Reid smiles a little too bright and soft at the same time at how sweet it is he tries to be good for company.

“You know, Jack, you can just call me Spencer if you’d like,” he says, knowing that the older boy has already outgrown his fear of the doctor and the reverse psychology is no longer needed.

Jack looks a little confused for a moment. “Dad doesn’t.”

“Well, your dad can, too -- if he wants,” Reid says, looking to Hotch and they share a look he once again can feel in his chest. Watching the whole interaction with a carefully guarded expression, but it melts under Reid’s glance and he isn’t quite sure what is there anymore. But whatever it is, it makes Reid smile softly at him.

“Okay, goodnight Spencer,” Jack interrupts their moment, and hugs Reid around the neck from where he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor. It jostles the younger man, and Hotch smiles wide and ducks his head down to hide it. But Reid hugs Hotch’s son back, and tells him goodnight, as well. “You’ll come back, right?”

“Of course, I’d love to,” Reid tells him, and -- satisfied -- Jack goes off to brush his teeth, leaving the two in a lull of heavy silence. “Sorry, I think I just invited myself over, some time.”

“You’re welcome anytime.” And he means that, knows Reid knows that as he looks at him a little more soundly than before. “Not just for work.” If that needed to be said.

And if Reid’s face flushes a little darker in the low lighting, Hotch doesn’t mention. No matter how much he can’t seem to look away.

Reid looks over his entire paper while Hotch tucks Jack into bed, and is already making notes on it at his desk when the man returns. The next hour rolls into two, and Hotch drags another chair in from the kitchen so they can share his desk and work through bullet points on the paper but… it was pretty much done, from the start. Even Reid’s edits didn’t take them long. After a while they dissolve into just talking, discussions and anecdotes and sitting maybe a little too close and laughing so much and so loud sometimes they have to quiet themselves so they don’t wake Jack down the hall.

It’s almost 10:30 by the time they resurface from each other, before Hotch realizes Reid probably needs to go home because they both have to be at work bright and early. But this was… this was the best night he’s had in a long, long time, and he wants to do it again. Soon. More than soon. More than once. He thinks about all of this as he follows Reid to the front door and helps him gather the rest of his things.

“We should do this again, sometime,” Hotch mentions, hands in his pockets and trying to be more cool about this than he feels.

“I’d like that, I had a lot of fun tonight,” Reid answers, standing up from tying his shoes and giving him that bright, wide smile he doesn’t always feel comfortable enough to allow. It never fails to stall Hotch in his tracks, staring a little too long at his mouth than he should be.

“What if, next time, it’s just us? And no Jack?” he continues, elaboration just in case Reid doesn’t grasp what he’s asking. Reid is watching him with this look as if he’s unsure he heard correctly, and Hotch is nothing if not patient.

“I’d… I’d be okay with that,” Reid answers, slowly as he weighs some unseen options and gauges Hotch’s facial expressions to the most minute detail.

“Good. How about Saturday?”

He can see the moment it all clicks into place.

“...Are you asking me on a date?” Reid asks, a little winded.

“If that’s alright with you,” Hotch says with a half smile. Once again sounding more confident than he should in the face of how Reid’s eyes start to dart around and he licks his lips nervously.

“I don’t know how -- how good I am with dates.” There’s a story behind that, and Hotch wants to know it, but he does his best to press Reid gently. Because… he’s been holding off asking the younger man for a long time, now, but after tonight he gets the feeling that he might not have needed to be so hesitant, after all.

“Oh?”

“Just -- the ritual of it all always throws me off. Dressing up and going out, and making conversation over dinner while trying to eat and maintain the other’s attention, and then keeping it all going if you manage to do that I just don’t always do so well one-on-one and --”

“Reid.” He pauses, then -- “Spencer.” And that stalls his stream of thought to words, catching Spencer’s attention and snagging it in the best way. “...we just did all of that. And it was great.” Hotch knows his own expression has softened around the edges over the course of the night, smiles easier to hold, eyes more expressive, and Spencer takes in every change and nuance with a well-practice eye and is… very obviously stunned by what he finds. “So -- I’d like to do it again. Saturday?”

Shocked, eyes a little wide, breath lost to the wind, Spencer waits a beat too long to answer. Enough to make Hotch nervous, before he answers in a sound that could have been a whisper if it had been quieter. A slight crack to it that betrays his emotion.

“Okay.”

Hotch gets a turn to be stunned, because he thought this had been about to take a very different turn. “Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“--Okay.”

Intelligent men that they were, that was the extent of the conversation, and then Reid is smiling that bright, sunshine laced smile and Hotch is trying to contain his own and -- Reid still needs to go home. So, biting his lip, Reid turns as if to leave -- is just about out the door when he stops and turns back so quick he almost runs into Hotch on the threshold.

“So… technically, that means this was our first date, then. Right?” he looks so goddamn hopeful, and like he has something further to add, that Hotch smiles outright and this time doesn’t bother hiding it.

“Technically, yes.” He supposes it was. And it really had been… a great night. Not a bad first date, at all.

Reid takes far too long trying to string together words after that. Keeps looking to Hotch then away to gather his thoughts, then back again as if in search of something; and it’s after about the third time that Hotch realizes what he’s getting at. What he’s trying to find a way to ask.

It hits him so silent and hard it about knocks the wind out of him.

Oh.

He can do that.

Hotch steps closer, about the same time Spencer opens his mouth like he’s finally figured out the right combination of words within the range of the English language to form a coherent sentence, and they all die on his tongue the moment Hotch guides him back with a hand on his hip. He’s done it before, gentle leading when Reid strays the wrong way or needs to be shifted in a crowded room on cases, and this time is just as easy and no different.

Except this time, Hotch isn’t maneuvering them to get past him. This time, he presses Spencer’s spine to the doorframe and leans in to capture his lips with his own. Right there, in the open doorway.

Hotch kisses him, and it’s perfect.

The gentle slide of lips is over before either know it, lasts longer than his racing heart can measure, and before Hotch can decide his next move Spencer tilts in closer and kisses him back, slow and methodical and Hotch feels that. Feels it the way he’s felt every moment they had and shared the whole night. His free hand finds that sharp jaw framed in messy curls getting longer all over again, and Spencer doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands beyond grasp at Hotch’s shirt at his sides and then --

Then Hotch pulls back enough that he can nudge his nose against Spencer’s carefully, a punctuation that ends the kiss soft and apologetic. Silently says that’s all they can do tonight. That there’s more, awaiting them, but that…

That had been one hell of a good first kiss.

“See you in the morning, Spencer.”

For once, Dr. Spencer Reid is speechless in an entirely new way, and he merely nods with lips still parted and a little darker from the kiss. From kissing him, and Hotch knows he stares more than he should, but that’s been a frequent occurrence lately. It’s just getting harder and harder to turn away, watch Reid -- Spencer -- smile at him in that quiet way only ever directed at him, and then walk away. But he lets it happen, feels every step even as he shuts the door behind him.

Because Hotch will see Spencer tomorrow.

And, one day, maybe he won’t have to watch him walk away at all.

#I'm so tired I can't even tell if this is good or not because OF COURSE these dorks would flirt over a damn research paper #tell me I'm wrong #also I'm a sucker for domestic hotchreid we all know this #but I hope you like this my dear I know it's hella long it just got away from me #Cee my love my light ilysm #asks #HotchReid #Heid #katyswriting #200followerasks

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moon-light-jukebox · 3 years

Text

see? - [Reid x Reader] - Chapter 3

masterlist

previous chapter // series index // next chapter

Summary: Months after Reader left, Reid has tried to put his life back together. He’s never stopped trying to find Reader, but he may find her in the worst way possible.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 3.3k for Chapter 3

Content Warning: Normal Criminal Minds stuff. Mentions of drug addiction. This series has a villain, and he harms women. There is no s*xual assault, but there is brief talk of torture, and then the death of the victims. Spoiler: Our unsub targets pregnant women, one of the infants does not survive. Reader and her baby are fine. I don't go into detail, but if you need to skip this, I understand.

A/n: How can I ever thank you all enough for being so patient with me? That being said, this chapter does end on a cliffhanger that you probably saw coming if you read “River” by @yours-truly-r. She shared this plot with me, so this is my version. I’ll try my best not to make you wait too long for chapter 4. Chapter 3 & 4 are in Spencer’s point of view, but the remainder of the series will be in Reader’s POV.

-- Linear Progression --

(Spencer’s POV)

The night we came back from my first case with the BAU, Morgan declared that he was going to a bar near his apartment to "get lucky." When I pointed out the fact that it was almost 2 am, he had told me, "time is an illusion, Pretty Boy."

That was the first time he called me pretty boy, along with the first time I tried to explain a theoretical concept he had no interest in hearing.

He was right to a degree. The way we understand time is an illusion. Time doesn’t happen in the linear way that we as a society perceive it to. The physics of time are still widely debated, but the running hypothesis is that everything that has ever happened is still happening right now. Every single moment in time is happening all at once, and it always will be.

Morgan didn’t “get lucky” that night, but he did give me a ride back to my apartment. I think that was the beginning of our friendship; I had never been able to understand the social constructs of relationships and friendships, but I think he felt some sort of responsibility for the skinny kid with glasses who was babbling about the physics of time at 3 am.

My friendship with Derek Morgan was one of the most important of my life.

Which is why I wasn't going to murder him for banging on my door at 7 am.

“Open up, Pretty Boy!”

Grumbling, I got out of bed and padded down the hallway towards my living room where Morgan was pounding on the door so hard, I was concerned it was going to fly off its hinges.

“If you break my door, you’re gonna fix it,” I muttered out when I finally pulled the door open.

The man who was the closest thing to a brother I had just smiled at me. “I restore houses, kid. It’d be an improvement.”

Smirking, I waved him into my apartment. In the months since…Since February, Morgan had made it a habit of coming by several times a week whenever we were in town. I don’t know if the rest of the team knew he did it, I don’t know if they were as worried about me as he was, but it wouldn’t have surprised me.

“Coffee?” I asked, making my way into the kitchen.

"We'll grab some on the way," he said, flopping down on my couch. "We have a case; I told Hotch I'd swing by and get you. It's wheels up as soon as we get there and finish the briefing."

I frowned. “I didn’t get any message.”

“I know. I asked Garcia to let me wake you.” He turned his head around to look at me. “You haven’t been sleeping, kid.”

He wasn’t wrong. “It’s…I’m trying, Derek.”

I didn’t need to say it, because he knew it. Much like time, recovery isn’t a linear process. You start, you stumble, you go back, sometimes you go up then down. It’s an imperfect journey because there isn’t a finish line; addiction can’t be beaten, only beaten back.

Derek Morgan had been beside me through every step of my recovery.

Lumbering off the couch, he walked over to stand before me. “Reid, you’re doing the best you can. Everyone stumbles.”

I shook my head. “It’s different. I can…I can still see it. I can still see it all, Morgan.”

I could still see the look on Ben’s face when he found the vials of Dilaudid I had hidden all around my apartment. I could still remember the look on Hotch’s face when he told me she was gone. I could still see the anger on Garcia’s face when she refused to help me find her.

Most of all, I remember how y/n looked when I told her I would kill her, give up her precious life, for one more moment with Maeve. Every morning, right before I wake up, that memory flashes behind my eyes.

I’ve called in every favor I’m owed, reached out to every connection; no one could find her. She vanished.

I quickly realized the only way she could vanish like that is if she had help from inside the bureau, and if I had to guess, I’m sure I know who helped her. If she went to all these lengths, she didn’t want to be found, least of all by me.

"We'll find her, Spencer," Morgan said gently, pulling me from my thoughts.

He said the words to comfort me, but even he knew they weren’t true. No one would find y/n y/l/n until she wanted to be found.

Nodding my head, I made my way back towards my bedroom to get ready for the case.

Making amends is very big in the recovery process. I wanted to make amends to y/n, and while I wanted that to be in the traditional sense, I settled for a symbolic one.

I tried to make myself into the man she thought I was before that night. Every time I felt the itch crawl up my spine, I thought of her face. It didn't make the craving go away; it just made it easier to bear.

I didn’t deserve to have her back in my life, but I wanted to be someone who did.

After I had finished getting ready, I made my way over to my bedside table to pick up the coin I carried with me everywhere, running my fingers over the edges before placing it in my pocket.

Two hundred and forty-seven days sober, and each one of them was for her.

We never made it to the bullpen that morning. Hotch called and informed us that it was wheels up "immediately," and that we would debrief on the plane. Morgan and I were the last members of the team to arrive. He took a seat on the couch beside Callahan while I opted to sit at the table across from Hotch and JJ.

“Garcia is going to be out for the remainder of the week. She has the flu,” our unit chief informed us, his eyes fixed on the tablet in front of him.

Morgan toyed with his phone, no doubt trying to text his ‘baby girl’ before take-off. “Who is going to be running things from here since she’s out? Kevin?”

Hotch nodded, but I couldn’t help but notice he seemed distracted. “He’s the most familiar with Garcia’s systems.”

“Is that what they’re calling it these days,” Rossi muttered just a bit too loudly, earning a mock glare from Hotch, a confused look from Kate, an eye roll from Morgan and JJ, and a soft huff of laughter from me.

“Let’s get started,” Hotch ordered, drawing all of our focus back to the present. “The Oregon State Police have requested our help.”

I couldn’t help but wrinkle my nose at the tablet in front of me, further proof Garcia wasn’t on this case. Despite how mad she was at me over Y/n, she still always accommodated my wishes for paper files.

The state police?” Morgan asked. “Not the locals?”

"No," Hotch answered, right as I brought up an image on my screen. "He's not sticking to one county."

I heard a strangled gasp from JJ, but I didn't need to look up to know why. “How many?” I asked.

“When the original request was made two women had been abducted. Both of them were pregnant, days from giving birth, and both from the same town of Silverton, Oregon. The first victim was Iris Jenkins. She was a 31-year-old woman, and she was 40 weeks and 2 days gestation when she was taken by the unsub. The M.E. estimates he held her for less than 24 hours before she died.”

“The baby?” JJ asked, her voice thick with emotion.

“He was left outside of a local hospital in Silverton. He was completely unharmed. The next intended victim is Nancy Williamson. She was abducted outside her workplace. Also 40 weeks pregnant with a boy.”

“Could that be a coincidence?”

Hotch still didn’t look up from his tablet. “It could have been before the latest victim.”

“But Nicole Williamson escaped?” Morgan asked. “That’s lucky. Did she give a description of the guy?”

“No, she said he kept her blindfolded and bound to a chair.”

That caused me to pause. "That doesn't make sense. Why would the unsub blindfold them if he plans on killing them anyway?"

Rossi spoke for the first time. “Psychological torture? Sensory deprivation?”

I thought about that as I swiped through the crime scene photos; pausing when I saw a photograph of a letter on the screen. "He makes them write letters?”

“Just the first victim and the third. The one that got away was only held for 12 hours.”

I frowned. “Is this blood? Or just red ink?”

“The first is red ink, the second letter is still being processed.”

It was obvious based on the letter spacing and how many loops were in the letters that a woman wrote this letter. Based on the contents of the letter, I could also assume she was under duress.

Hotch spoke again, pulling my focus. “Morgan, I'd like for you and JJ to drive up to Silverton. Visit Miss Williamson and ask if she's up for a cognitive interview, then visit the M.E., ask him if he remembers anything about the first victim.”

“Where was the…” JJ’s question trailed off when he got to the same image Kate’s hand had been frozen over for the last 47 seconds, the same photo that was described in the incident report that Hotch had on his screen.

My unit chief, my friend, cleared his throat before he spoke. “Kayla Whitmore was found an hour ago in Eugene, Oregon. The autopsies are already underway, and the scene is being processed.”

“The cause of death seems pretty apparent,” Morgan said with a look of disgust on his face.

"The time between this most recent kill and the last abduction is much shorter. We need to move fast," Hotch said, his voice grave. "Kate, I'd like for you to come with me to the FBI satellite office in Bend, that's where we're landing. Kayla Whitmore's credit card was used to buy gas right outside the town limits. Rossi, I'd like for you and Reid to ride out to Eugene. It should be undisturbed."

"I already don't understand this guy," Rossi muttered. "The first baby survives, the third doesn't. The second victim is blindfolded, but it doesn't appear the others were. He makes them write their own letters. Then he uses the third victim's credit card. This behavior…it's erratic."

“Is the message on the wall the same in both crime scenes?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yes.”

The media hadn’t named our unsub yet, but I was sure it wouldn’t be long, especially once word of Kayla Whitmore reached the public. This type of violence always draws attention.

Rossi was moving around the room, silent, but his eyes moving rapidly over everything. “He’s a cocky son of a bitch, I’ll give him that.”

I nodded. “Do we have the original note?” One of the deputies brought over an evidence bag, inside of it was the wrinkled piece of paper. “Have we analyzed this yet?”

The man nodded. “It’s red ink, just like the last.”

"It makes sense; blood might start to coagulate and make it more difficult to work with. Rossi, come here." I called, offering him the note.

“Give justice to the weak and the fatherless; maintain the right of the afflicted and the destitute. Rescue the weak and the needy; deliver them from the hand of the wicked,” he read. “It sounds biblical.”

“It is. It’s Psalm 82, verses 3 through 4.”

“Was the first note biblical?”

“The first victim was made to write, ‘Take no part in the unfruitful works of darkness, but instead expose them.’ That’s from Ephesians. There are similar themes in both letters.”

“So, he’s perverting the bible to fit his own fucked up narrative? How original.” The older man handed the paper back to me. “We have to find out how he’s choosing them.”

My gaze moved over to the right wall of the room. "Did the unsub leave any prints when he wrote on the wall?"

It wasn't the first message I'd seen written in blood, but I don't think it's something you ever get used to. “’Do you see this, son of man?’ could be another biblical reference. It’s Ezekiel chapter 8, verse 17. “Do you see this, son of man? Yet you will see still greater abominations than these.’”

“So, are the children abominations? Or the mothers?” The deputy said quietly.

“The mothers,” I answered. “He doesn’t harm the children. I think it must go against his…moral code.”

The deputy scoffed behind me, and I was inclined to agree; the idea that someone could do something like this and have a moral code was almost impossible to imagine.

But devils hide in plain sight all the time.

“His rage is escalating,” I pointed out.

I heard the deputy ask Rossi what that meant.

“This guy is a bum,” the man who developed the art of profiling explained. "He can't get a girlfriend, and he has this idea in his mind that it’s the women’s fault. He thinks women owe him sex, love, whatever he wants.”

I walked away from the wall, turning to face the two men. “He thinks they’re dirty, unclean. It’s why he makes them write the note. By making them say they deserved what he did to them, he’s humiliating them even after death.”

The deputy’s face was pale as he survived the scene around him. “Why does he make them leave the messages in their own blood?”

“Only one message is from them,” I replied, gesturing to the evidence bag. “The message in the blood is from the unsub.”

Before we exited the room, I turned back to that message again, feeling the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

Both victims had been discovered in the exact same way. The women were naked, stabbed multiple times, but with no signs of sexual assault. They were positioned in the middle of the blood-soaked mattress, their arms spread wide.

He had left the same message on the walls of the room, written in the blood of the woman he killed.

“Do you see this, son of man? Do you see?”

“The media is calling him The Prophet.”

Rossi scoffed. “I bet it was that wet behind the ears deputy who leaked the note and told him the kid’s biblical theories.”

Rossi and I had arrived at the FBI office in Bend, Oregon about an hour ago. Kate and Hotch had already set up; JJ and Morgan were on their way back from Silverton now.

“So, what do we know about this jag-off?” Rossi questioned, staring at the evidence board.

Hotch came to stand at the head of the conference table, his eyes sharp, his voice clipped. "Reid, Dave, what did the M.E. say about the Eugene autopsies?”

"He said he suspected it was a botched c-section. Kayla was just over 40 weeks pregnant, but he said it's not uncommon for first-time mothers to go up to 42 weeks.”

“I know that’s right,” I heard JJ mutter from the speaker placed in the center of the table.

“Indicates a lack of medical knowledge,” Morgan offered. “Because we know this guy isn’t squeamish.”

I agreed with my friend but didn't comment on it; my mind already on another topic. "What's interesting is that Kayla had an anterior placenta, meaning it attached to the front of her uterus. Usually, the placenta attaches to the posterior wall, meaning it's more towards her back. Because of the unusual placement of the placenta, I think that the death of this fetus was accidental."

“It wasn’t a fetus, Reid,” Kate snapped. “It was a baby.”

I cleared my throat, meeting her angry gaze. I knew Callahan was the guardian of a young girl, and based on my years working with fellow agents who were also parents, I knew it was best not to argue about definitions and semantics. "I'm sorry, Kate," I murmured.

Her gaze softened. "It's fine. Sorry. This case is just…this is a lot." She looked down to swipe across her tablet screen. "This child was a boy too?"

I nodded. “All three of the victims were pregnant with boys.”

“So, he wants boys?”

Rossi turned to Kate. “He wants mothers of boys. Probably his way of killing his mother over and over again.”

“But how does he know the babies are boys?” JJ asked.

“So, what do they have in common?” Hotch asked. “Let’s add Nicole Williamson into the mix too, what do we have?”

“There were quotes from the bible in the two complete notes. Those specific verses are often referenced when they speak about protecting children,” I said, my eyes moving over the files. “The women were all in their 20’s. They were all at least 39 weeks pregnant, and...huh, there’s not a father named in any of the medical charts.”

“But how does he know that!” JJ huffed again in frustration.

“And are we sure this unsub is a guy?” Callahan questioned. “There was no sign of sexual assault.”

“If we follow statistics, women take babies, and men take children. With that in mind, it would be safe to assume this was a woman, but the amount of rage we’re seeing makes me think it’s a man.” I turned my back to the team, my eyes moving over the crime scene photos. "The letter was written under duress, but the language is very misogynic. Based on the information Kevin gathered about Kayla's online life, she had a normal amount of self-esteem. It's out of character that she'd talk about herself this way. By all accounts, she was excited for the baby. It's also incredibly difficult to stab someone 54 times. All the women would have fought him until the end. He'd have to be stronger to subdue her. It's a biological instinct, mothers' will stop at nothing to protect their children."

Hotch had pulled out his phone before I finished speaking, dialing Kevin Lynch to give him the criteria of the person we were searching for. "We need women in the Bend, Oregon area that are close to giving birth. There will not be fathers listed on the medical charts. She'll be at least 39 weeks into her pregnancy."

“Alright, so that would leave us with…” Kevin wasn’t able to finish his sentence before an alarm started blaring over the speaker, almost drowning out Kevin’s yelp of surprise.

“What is it?” Hotch asked. “Did something happen?”

"I…I don't know, sir," Kevin answered after he had finally gotten the alarm to quiet. "I was running the search, and…it triggered some sort of system-wide alarm. It completely locked me out of Penny’s system.”

Morgan clicked his tongue. “That doesn’t make any sense. Penelope wouldn’t set some alarm without a reason.”

“Wait. Kevin, was there any sort of message that came up when you triggered the alarm?” Hotch asked, his tone urgent.

There was a weird tension on Hotch’s face while he waited for Kevin to reply. “Yeah, uh, just a dialogue box that says ‘Nightingale.’”

��Nightingale?” Kate asked. “Isn’t that the…”

Hotch didn't reply; he hung up abruptly while Kevin was still speaking. I felt a chill run down my spine when I noticed his hands trembled slightly.

“What is it, Hotch?” Rossi asked urgently.

But he never got a chance to answer; a deputy stormed into the room. "We just got a report of an abandoned car outside of a grocery store about half a mile from here. It's registered to a young woman, and there was an empty infant car seat strapped in the back."

Hotch took the paper from him but didn't look at it. His eyes were screwed shut, and his shoulders were tense.

I heard when the voice spoke on the other end of the line. I heard the deep breath Hotch let out before he spoke.

“Penelope, I need to know where y/n is.”

----------

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occult-castiel · 3 years

Text

The Same Page

This is my @destielsecretsanta2020 gift for @eclypseaf!!! The request was open, but bonus points for Miracle being present. So I wrote some post empty rescue fic!

This one honestly gave me a really hard time and I have no idea why. I hope you like it and have has an awesome christmas!

[Ao3 Link]

The portal spits them out in the dungeon.

Dean stumbles out first, a half step ahead of Cas. Human, malleable, and very much alive with one of the little dude's arms draped over Dean's shoulder.

Cas stumbles forward. Dean shoots an arm out in front of him, places a hand firmly against his chest. He maneuvers his other arms under his trenchcoat, grips his side firm.

His skins almost cool to the touch — much too cold to be safe. Not for a human, especially a brand new one.

And what if he's sick? Or gets sick and can't get better? Without his grace, there's a whole new set of worries. A bad flu that gets worse until he's gone, a hunt going wrong, fucking cancer. Heart disease kills pretty much everyone, doesn't it?

He takes a deep breath and focuses on the gentle thud of Cas' heart against his palm.

The last eight months haven't been easy. Not between the alcohol Sam eventually cut him off from, and the hunts getting sparse, and Jack being terrifying and gone until he wasn't.

Cas lulls his head to the side. His inky heart sticks to his forehead, and his blueberry-sweet eyes are unfocused but still manage to catch Dean's.

It's achingly familiar, and he smiles easy. "Hey there, sunshine."

Cas pinches his brows together as his head swims to stay upright. He slurs through some half-baked, nonsense question about coral reef bleaching, and Dean's so relieved he laughs.

Cas smiles at the sound, dazed and feather-light, but the joy is unmistakable.

It's the best thing Dean's ever seen. Fuck, he missed him. Missed him so much he didn't know what to do with himself.

Cas winces — what little help he was giving Dean in holding him up falls. He makes up the difference quick. Weak fingers curl around Dean's wrist.

"Sorry —"

"S'okay. Gonna —" he swallows hard. Tries to shove away the distinct pin-prick in his tear ducts that always means he needs to man the hell up. "Gonna get you to a bed, okay?"

Cas grunts, a pitiful noise that's mostly air and entirely feeble. "Tired."

"Rest then. It ain't far. I gotcha, buddy."

When he nods, his hair brushes Dean's neck.

It's not well thought out. The lack of work and overload of carbs haven't done Dean's muscles any favors. His joints creak and protest every step, but his room isn't far, and he'd be damned before he let's Cas feel like he has to do anything alone this time.

Miracle hops off the bed the moment the door opens.

Dean lays Cas on top of the bunched up blanket. Once he's down, Dean slowly works the trencoast and suit jacket off, his hands careful as they trail across the thin cotton of his shirt.

Cas shivers, and Dean wrestles to tug the blanket out from under him, Miracle nuzzling the side of his leg the whole time.

She's probably hungry. Or just wants attention. He hasn't exactly been available the last couple weeks, too busy with his nose in piles of research. But it all payed off.

Cas grimaces in his sleep, and it twists the cords in Dean's chest. He reaches his hand out and ghosts his fingers across the sweat-stained hair stuck to his skin, gently pushing it to the side.

He'd said it once, not more than a month ago, in the darkness of his room, Miracle tucked as close as he could get her.

He said he loved me, and I — I didn't say it back. But I do. God I do.

Dean trails his hand from his forehead to the flushed pillow of his cheeks. The other knuckles roughly at his eyes and comes back wet.

He has no god damn idea what he wouldve done without Miracle to talk to. Cause he could never get it out to Sam. Not those last moments. Not what Cas really means to him. Always too close to an edge of something larger than any apocalypse they've ever dealt with.

He traces down low enough to brush across Cas' wrist, the pained look still on his face.

Dean swallows, his heart hammers hard in his throat. Timid even though the guy is unconscious, Dean grabs his hand.

His mind blanks. Turns to complete static — a jumble of half-formed thoughts about every reason he ever told himself not to.

He's an angel. The worlds ending. Always ending. He doesn't feel that way. Can't, the equipment for it's not there. It's why he leaves, isn't it? And what the fuck could ever hope to start when it's all always falling apart? When they could fall apart.

Everyone leaves.

A flash of cold prickles down his back, and he tries to takes a deep breath. It goes down ragged. There was something he read once, about picking out a sense.

Cas' breath, slow and steady. The clink of Mircale's claws on the floor. A muted buzz from the florescent lights in the hall.

He breaths again, a little easier. His fingers curls into Cas' palm, and his finger twitch against Dean in response. The dent in his brows relax, his jaw goes slack.

"S'okay Cas." He squeezes. "Just... be okay."

When his phone rings, dumped and forgotten on the other side of the room, he isn't quite sure how to let go. Like the ligaments in his hand have cemented in place, forgotten the muscle memory to make the movements happen.

When the second call comes through, Cas mumbles something. Dean's shoulder slack, and he pulls his hands back, clammy and with a slight tremor.

It's Sam. There's a small tug of guilt — he should've called him the moment he put Cas down. He knows he would've been worried sick if Sam was the one that had to go.

Sam's relieved too, promises to buy stuff for dinner on his way back from where Dean went in the Empty about fifty miles out. And he must hear something in his voice, because he stresses to go watch a movie or something and let Cas sleep it off.

Of course he's right. They knew Cas would be out cold. But leaving the room is still hard, and he lingers in the doorway until he gets a good look at Miracle's mess of tangled fur.

He hasn't brushed her hair, since that's practically what the fur is, in weeks.

"C'mon girl."

He grabs the brush from the bedside table, casts on last look at Cas, and takes Miracle to the TV room.

She hops on the couch next to him, tail thumping with excitement.

"You wanna get pretty to meet Cas later?"

She nuzzles his hand, sticks her nose against the brush, and a little bit of the stress from today lightens up.

He flips on some netflix show about baking food, and talks to Miracle as he starts in on her snout.

It's ritualistic to touch on whatevers going on with her, at this point.

As her fur smooths, he tells her about the Empty. Its piss-poor lighting, the mind boggling way directions work, how it has this awful burnt-licorice and gasoline stench clung to the nothingness of its everything.

It kinda makes his head hurt.

Almost two full episodes in, he has all her fur neat and tidy, and his little monologue has circled back to Cas. She'd know a lot about him if she could talk.

"It's hard to believe he's really back. And — and maybe it'll be good. We could, I dunno, get you a yard?" He nods, smiles. "Yeah, I bet your spoiled ass would like that. The bunker ain't a place for pets."

Miracle leaps from the couch, and someone clears their throat from the door.

Cas stands in the doorway, hunched in on himself. Dark strands of hair twist up in random directions, and the casual clothes Dean left him fit snugly.

He looks... comfortable. Like he slipped into humanity ages ago, not this afternoon.

"Cas."

He tilts his lips up, tight and sheepish. "I see you have a dog now."

"Yeah. Miracle. She uh — she helped me." He motions vaguely to his head. "Might not be batting a hundred up here if not for her."

Cas glances down at her, and the tense smile softens. "I'm very grateful then."

Almost reverent, he scratches the side of her ear.

Dean shakes his head. Blinks. Two things he never thought he'd see side by side mixed with the insanity of the day make none of this seem real.

Deep breath.

"She can — she can be there for you too," Dean says. "If you need it. Dogs are great listeners. Even the Madonna types like this one."

Cas gives a contemplative hum. "They are both blonde."

He puffs a breath of air. It's easy to forget Cas actually knows what he's talking about now, sometimes. Even if he does still miss the point by a mile.

"It was your turn."

Cas raises an eyebrow.

"To, uh, pick a movie." He motions to the seat next to him. "If you want."

Cas runs his bottom lip between his teeth and doesn't look at Dean. Doesn't say anything either. Just nods, walks over, and sinks into the couch.

It's a respectable distance. Close enough Dean would be able to sense him, far enough away they won't touch.

Miracle curls up on the other side of Cas, head flopped on his lap, right next to his balled up hands.

"Is it over?" His voice is small.

Dean doesn't have to ask. "Chuck isn't aproblem anymore." Cas sighs, slinks down bonelessly into the cushions. "We figured it out, took his powers. Jack's fixing up Heaven with it. Says he's gunna do that, find a way to put Amara back together, and then come home."

"Good. I don't think I'm up to fighting standards." He rolls his head to the side. They're close enough Dean can make out each muscle in his neck when he swallows. "You didn't have to save me, Dean. I'd — made peace with that fate."

It's bullshit. It's bullshit and Cas has to know it. He almost tells him a much, but if he can't have that talk now, then he never will.

He licks his lips. It doesn't help the dryness.

"Did you mean it?"

It's a dumb question, but one he needs answered.

Cas doesn't miss a beat. "That and more." The serenity in his words is endearing as it is cutting when he adds, "But we don't have to address it. I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

It's Dean's turn to melt with relief. "Good — that's good."

Cas winces. "I understand if you'd like some space —"

He starts to stand up, and panic seizes Dean's chest like a vice grip. He grabs his wrist and Cas freezes.

"No! God no. Cas, it — it wasn't supposed to happen like that."

He looks confused, before some amount of understanding smoothes out some of the worried lines in his face. His eyes flick down to Dean's mouth for an instant. "How was it supposed to happen, then?"

"I thought, maybe on a hunt? Or — I don't know. Just... " some place I could say it back.

Its not good enough, saying it without saying it. Cas gave a speech. He saved Dean's life, saved the god damn world. All without knowing.

He shakes his head. Starts again. He had enough practice between thoughts he couldn't shove away and late night pet-therapy. "I thought you knew. Hell, I've been scared everyone knows. And if they did, you did too, right?"

"Subtly isn't always my strongest suit."

He laughs, and it's almost on the wrong side of sane. "Don't I know it."

He can do direct.

Slow enough that Cas has time to pull back, he runs his hand up his arm, cradles it against the back of Cas' neck. He leans across the small distance and kisses him.

It's clumsy and unsure, and Cas places a skittish hand on Dean's side like he's not sure what he's allowed to have even now, but their lips mesh together in a way that feels better than anything he can remember.

When they part, he's not sure either one of them are breathing. And he can't look at Cas, not when he says it. Not yet. So he presses their foreheads together, keeps his eyes fully lidded.

"I don't know how you could think you aren't worth saving. You — you're it for me."

"Dean —"

He shakes his head, and the tips of their noses brush. "I love you more than I know what to do with. You know that right?"

Bewildered, Cas says, "I didn't."

"Yean, well. Now you do."

He scoots back in place, flushed firm against the cushion. Their hands tangle together, and their knees are touching, and it's too much and not enough. But mostly not enough. Dean dares a glance over. Cas is staring at their hands, a pleased smile on his face.

And they're on the same page.

"I think you said something about a yard when I walked in?"

Instead of answering he says, "We should retire. I'm too old for this shit."

"Entirely?"

Dean shrugs. "A hunt here and there wouldn't hurt I guess."

"We'll talk about it later." He reaches over him, grabs the remote. "I think you said it was my turn?"

Dean grins, full and toothy. "Yeah, just no more romcoms, dude. I can only take so many."

Cas nods, curt and serious. "Of course."

He does anyway, and it's the best shitty movie Dean's ever seen.

#destiel secret santa #sorry this is being posted so late in the day!!!#my internets broken at the moment so it was very difficult to get it up #and i also couldnt run it through any spelling/grammer checkers #hopefully theres nothing atrociously wrong with it #destiel #deancas #destiel fanfic

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taexual · 4 years

Text

SEVENTEEN (Vocal Unit) / They realize they are in love with you

WARNING: the softest fluff (also, these are long)

JEONGHAN

Jeonghan thought his flu had gotten so bad, he’d imagined the sound of the doorbell.

He’d just texted you – half an hour ago – telling you not to come over, no matter how sick he was, because it was pouring rain outside and he didn’t want you to get sick, too. And then he fell asleep, so now he wasn’t sure which sounds were real and which were—

There it was again. Someone was absolutely ringing the doorbell.

“Joshua!” he tried, bursting into a coughing fit as soon as the word left his lips. “Ah, crap—”

Sneezing immediately after he finished couhing, Jeonghan thought he could distinctly recall ordering the boys in the rooms nearby to evacuate as soon as he got a sore throat, afraid of infecting them, so that meant he was going to have to find a way to get to the door himself.

Halfway out of the door, sniffling and sturggling to properly open his eyes, Jeonghan heard a very familiar gasp. Blinking, he lifted his face to meet your surprised gaze.

“Why are you out of bed?” you demanded.

Too taken aback by your presence – perhaps he’d dreamed telling you not to come? – he stuttered, “the doorbell—”

“Seungcheol opened the door,” you explained, taking him by the arm and guiding him back to his room. “You’re not supposed to be walking.”

“Y-you’re not supposed to be here,” he retorted, shivering as soon as he felt your cold hand on his forehead when you checked for fever. You pulled your hand away after realizing that you were wet from the rain.

“You’re sick,” you countered as you helped him climb back into bed and passed him a tissue as soon as he sneezed again. “And Seungcheol told me you tried to kick everyone out of the house.”

“I just told them t-to—” he sneezed again, “to stay away from my room. I don’t want them to get sick. I don’t want you to get sick, either.”

“Well, I don’t want you to be alone when you’re not feeling well,” you replied, taking your coat and backpack off before sitting down on the edge of his bed and unpacking the provisions you’d brought. “I didn’t know how to make the kind of soup that you like but I hope that—”

“Thank you,” Jeonghan said. He watched the medicine, the themometers, the containers of food, and the nasal sprays that you’d brought, and felt something squeeze his chest – it wasn’t the flu. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, now lie down and—” you replied automatically and then froze, realizing that you’d never actually heard him say that to you before.

Somewhat bewildered, you turned to look at him but Jeonghan – still hovering between dream and reality and, therefore, not sure if he’d just confessed his love to you or if he just thought of doing it – was already lying in his pile of blankets and pillows, his eyes closed and lips parted, seemingly drifting off to sleep.

JOSHUA

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Joshua asked you as he tried to finish reading the last chapter of the book. The feeling of your warm gaze on him distracted him, and was more than enough to decorate his cheeks with the softest shade of pink.

Realizing that he’d caught you staring – but it wasn’t like you were trying very hard to be subtle – you chuckled and looked away. “Like what?”

“Like—I don’t know,” he laughed nervously, not quite sure why his heart had started to beat so quickly. “Like you’d never seen me before.”

You carried on what you were doing and looked back to your phone, explaining in a tone so simple, it seemed like your answer was obvious and it was ridiculous that he didn’t figure that out himself.

“Sometimes it feels like I haven’t,” you explained, “you looked so lost in the book, it felt like I was getting a glimpse into your mind by watching you read,” you paused to give him a look filled with sincerity, “sorry if that was—”

“No, um…” he stopped you, closing his book shut. He had exactly zero chances of getting back into the final chapter and actually understanding how the story resolved. “That’s okay. You just surprised me, I guess.”

“Why?” you asked, a hint of teasing in your voice now. “You’re nice to look at.”

Joshua felt himself inhale with a shudder so intense, he was worried you’d see him shaking from across the room. But, not meaning to make him even more uncomfortable, you’d looked away after you finished speaking, so he had nothing to be nervous about.

Except for the fact that he thought you were nice to look at, too. And the fact that he’d thought so for ages now, but you were friends and he wasn’t supposed to think that about a friend.

“Hey, um,” he started to say before he was aware of opening his mouth, “can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” you replied, too far from him to notice the wild terror in his eyes after he realized there was no going back from this.

“What—uh, h-how do you feel about going out to get food tonight?” he asked, caressing the spine of the book he was still holding in order to get some more courage to clarify the true purpose of his question.

“Okay, that sounds good,” you nodded. “Maybe we can try that all-you-can eat place that just opened a few blocks away?”

That wasn’t exactly the sort of candle-lit dinner he’d imagined, but, swallowing with great difficulty, Joshua nodded, “yeah. Okay. Anything you want.”

Baby steps, he decided. He’d have to figure out a way to make it clear that this was a date once you were already on it.

WOOZI

You had been too busy – too stressed – to see him – really, properly see him – for nearly a month now. All of your meetings consisted of a few minutes, meant to say hello and catch up, and then you were back to taking care of your own personal errands.

Before long, seeing you for two minutes a day didn’t seem enough for Jihoon anymore.

“I’m sorry,” you exhaled heavily, the fifth apology leaving your lips even though you and Jihoon had only been on the phone for about half a minute. “I should be done with this project in a few more weeks tops, and then this will all be over. Really, I am so—”

“No, don’t apologize,” Jihoon asked, feeling bad to be putting extra pressure on you with his insistent phone call. “I understand. I just… I don’t know, I haven’t seen you in so long.”

He wanted to say he missed you. He was going to say he missed you. But he stayed quiet, leaving the words hanging in the air awkwarly.

You bit your lip, not wanting to draw attention to the fact that you’d been hoping to relieve the frustration that’s been brought on by your heavy workload by doing something special for him. Something that he’d clearly not noticed.

“Have you, uh,” you started, having no other choice but to come clean, “checked your mailbox recently?”

“My inbox?” he repeated as his confused eyes darted to his computer where he’d always kept his email open.

“No, your mailbox,” you clarified and then explained, “your physical mailbox at your house.”

Jihoon looked almost alarmed. “No. I don’t think anyone checks that thing, we get our bills online and don’t care much for ads. S-should I, er—should I have checked it?”

“Yeah,” you said, nervous now. “Call me back after you do.”

He promised he would and leaped off his office chair. Nearly slipping on the wooden floors as he bolted through the door of his room and into the hallway outside of the apartment, Jihoon realized he’d left the key of the mailbox back inside.

Honestly, at that point, he was curious enough to physically pry the mailbox open but, groaning and huffing with irritation, he settled for the conventional way and returned inside to grab the key.

What he saw inside of the mailbox almost made him sit right down on the floor.

You’d mailed him a letter. Every single day. Actually, you didn’t mail it – the envelopes had no stamps on – you must have delivered the letters yourself, early in the morning before you had to go to work.

Jihoon wondered why you didn’t call him instead, but the answer was obvious: you knew how late he went to sleep the night before and you didn’t want to wake him.

Still not having caught his breath, Jihoon collected the envelopes and jogged back inside. He was going to call you first, then read them all; he wanted to do both at the same time but some things were more important than the others.

And the most important thing right now was him telling you how much he loved you.

Seokmin didn’t really understand what was happening at first. One moment, he was sleeping – snoring peacefully and possibly even smiling in the dream – and then the next, he was suddenly awake and semi-aware of his surroundings, even if his eyes still felt too heavy to open.

“Hmmm,” mumbling in disorientation, he tried to turn to his side but felt something change in the atmosphere as soon as he did.

The room went quiet.

And, finally, Seokmin realized what’s happened: he’d been sleeping next to you – almost on top of you, at this point – and you’d been humming. Actually humming a quiet cheerful tune under your breath and, despite the comfort it brought his tired mind, he’d never heard you humming before. And that’s why he woke up.

“Sorry,” you whispered, putting down the book that you’d been reading while he slept. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“No, please,” he spoke, his voice groggy and laced with sleep. Throwing his arm around your waist as he absentmindedly nuzzled his face into your neck, he asked, “sing for me.”

You would have laughed if you didn’t feel so overwhelmed with his body warmth. “You’re asking me to sing for you?”

“Yes,” he said and sighed in content when one of your hands dropped above his head, your nervous fingertips gently touching his hair.

Seokmin had never felt so safe – so at home – before and he realized with frightening clarity that he never wanted to leave. So, tightening his grip around you, he settled firmly on one thing and one thing only: he was going to stay here forever.

“Sing me to sleep,” he asked again, bringing a smile to your lips with his ambiguous request, “but let me stay awake so I can listen.”

SEUNGKWAN

More than half of the time that Seungkwan spent with you, he was laughing. It was either at the jokes that you’d made, or at your shared ability to abandon all sensibility and behave like reckless idiots just for the fun of it. If someone had seen the two of you then, they would have probably thought you were both high on every drug imaginable.

And Seungkwan cherished moments like that – he cherished the pain in his cheeks, the hollowness of his lungs when he thought he’s suffocate from laughing so much, and the bruises on his thighs from clapping against them so hard each time you said something funny.

“God, I’m really going to die like this,” he said to you one time, wiping a tear from his eye.

Seungkwan almost started to laugh again as soon as he saw that you’d transcended the laughter state and were now in the “silent tremors” state where your body was shaking from how funny this was, but you were physically incapable of producing any sort of sound anymore.

“Stop!” he demanded, bringing his hand over your knee because you were too far for him to touch in a more forceful way. “I can’t breathe anymore!”

But you didn’t stop – you couldn’t – and soon enough, you were both almost literally on the floor, still laughing, even though neither of you could remember what was it that started this anymore. You’d slow down every now and then, the laughter dissipating, but then a memory – or the sight of each other’s faces, still framed in joy – would start it all up again.

“I c-can’t feel my stomach,” you spoke as you leaned against the wall, trying to get yourself together, but still giggling uncontrollably. “This is like exercise.”

Seungkwan had almost stopped but now he was laughing again – and, naturally, you were, too – and he had to cover his face with his hands because, dear God, this was never going to end!

“Exercise,” he said in-between fits of laughter, “is nowhere near as fun as this. Ah, I’m not sure I can stand up.”

Still laughing weakly, you managed to get back on your feet and extended a hand for him. “I blame you, by the way. You started it.”

“Did I?” he wasn’t sure.

“Of course! You always make me laugh.”

“You always make me laugh!” he countered as if this was a very serious accusation and, within a moment, you were both giggling again. “God, my face hurts so much. I love it. I love you.”

Even though he was still laughing as he said it – and you were, too – you couldn’t miss the sincerity in his voice and the emotion behind his words because, jokes and laughter aside, it matched the emotions inside of your own chest.

So, you laughed harder – forcing him to push your hand away because now he was laughing, too – because this was your way of telling him that you loved him, too.

#seventeen #seventeen reactions #seventeen fluff #seventeen fanfiction #yoon jeonghan #seventeen x reader #seventeen imagines #jeonghan #fanfiction #joshua #hong jisoo #woozi #lee jihoon #lee seokmin #dokyeom #seungkwan #boo seungkwan #oooiiii back at it again with a completed request!

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gravelyhumerus · 3 years

Text

“just like a folk song (our love will be passed on)”

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Relationship: Jemily

Summary: Pregnant? Off a one-night hookup that convinced her that the relationship wouldn’t go anywhere? Impossible. Improbable. Unlikely.

Word count: 3,086

Read it on AO3

Chapter One, Chapter Two

Sunlight streamed into the warm bedroom as Jennifer Jareau awoke and blinked against the brightness. She yawned and stretched, her body wrapped in soft white sheets.

JJ rolled over, coming face to face with Emily Prentiss. She smiled at the sight of the woman still asleep, looking peaceful in her slumber. She gently pulled the blankets up and over her girlfriend's bare shoulder.

Checking her watch, she realized that she had woken up before her alarm, and could have slept another half an hour and still had enough time to make it to Quantico with coffee and doughnuts for the team.

Despite the picture perfect moment, JJ didn’t feel well. She did normally wake up before Emily, as she was much more of a morning person, but typically she basked in the half-asleep haze to watch Emily sleep, her eyes tracing every plane of her face. After years of sharing beds with Emily because of cases, JJ had heard more than one complaint about her own sleeping habits, whether it was her incessant kicking or how she would often wake up before dawn to run before they had to go to work.

Nausea and dizziness hit her like a brick, causing her to sit up in the bed and fight back the overpowering desire to gag. JJ tossed back the blankets, leaped out of bed and ran into Emily’s ensuite bathroom.

She barely made it to the toilet in time to throw up what was left of her dinner into the bowl.

She knelt in front of it, her bare knees feeling chilled against the grey tile floor. As she sat back, collapsing into the wall, the nausea abated slightly. She let her head fall back into the wall, her breaths coming in gasps as the world spun.

JJ frowned and racked her brain for what could possibly be wrong with her. She hadn’t drank anything the night before, as the last time she felt this bad had been after drinking an entire bottle of rosé at Penelope’s a few months back.

She flushed and stood up to brush her teeth, but her dizziness hadn’t gone away. JJ swayed when she stood, clutching tightly on the counter to steady herself. Her stomach protested, warning her not to move too quickly, else she would be back in front of the toilet bowl.

The media liaison then pulled her toothbrush out of her toiletries bag and carefully brushed her teeth, working on getting the sour taste out of her mouth. She wondered whether she had eaten something bad the day before. With all the takeout they ordered, no wonder her stomach was upset.

JJ walked back into Emily’s bedroom, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She still felt off kilter, but the nausea was subsiding.

Emily had sat up in the bed, and looked at her with concern.

“Are you ok, Jayje?” she asked, her eyes bleary but still full of concern. JJ had clearly just woken her up with her activity in the bathroom.

“My stomach’s upset,” JJ explained, rubbing it slightly, her voice coming out with more of a whine to it than she had expected.

Emily frowned, patting the bed and moving over so there was space for JJ to join her in bed. JJ sat down, allowing Emily to pull her in for a hug. She leaned into her girlfriend, basking in the warmth and comfort that a simple touch offered her.

“If you’re not feeling well, why don’t you stay here?” Emily said, “We can’t have you giving the whole team the flu.”

Emily reached up to touch JJ’s forehead with the palm of her hand, checking to see if the blonde had a fever.

“I’ll be fine,” JJ said, batting Emily’s hand away from her face. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“I will always worry about you, JJ.”

JJ relaxed into Emily’s embrace cuddling back up onto the bed, deciding to get whatever rest she could before her alarm. Emily’s strong arms wrapped around her, and JJ rested her head on Emily’s collarbones.

The older woman stroked JJ’s hair softly. She immediately felt better at the touch, able to focus on pushing away the nausea.

This was all still new. Them. Their relationship. Whatever JJ and Emily were. They had admitted their mutual feelings in a rush of emotion in a hotel room only a few weeks ago. Since, it has been a whirlwind of nights together, secret conversations and stolen glances across the bullpen. They were girlfriends. They had said that, so far. But, beyond that, the details of their relationship were still being established.

With a team of profilers, JJ could only guess that they had already been made, but they still weren’t making it public to the team, just yet. It was nice to have secrets, since they often knew more about JJ than she knew about herself.

Walking JJ from her comfortable, half-asleep state, Emily’s alarm blared out from the clock radio on her side of the bed, an annoying beep that came as a preset on the device.

“Time to get up.” Emily murmured into JJ’s hair, tickling her sides lightly, making JJ squeal and squirm.

“Stop!” JJ gasped, attempting to escape by wriggling around in Emily’s grasp.

She then leapt off the bed and grabbed Emily’s pillow for protection, wielding it like a weapon.

Emily followed suit, standing with a pillow in hand. The two agents were soon engaged in a pillow fight, jumping and running around the room using the soft pillows as weapons, smacking each other on the head before dancing away.

They fought back and forth across the room, each landing a few solid blows on the other, one notably hitting Emily right in the face, messing up her oh-so-perfect bangs.

JJ overcame with giggles as she leaped onto Emily, forcing her down onto the bed with her hands wrapped around the wrists of the taller girl.

They landed with an oof and JJ pinned her girlfriend by her arms, who looked up at her with a daring look in her eyes. JJ leaned down, closed the distance and kissed her gently.

Emily strained against JJ’s grip, lifting her head up to deepen the kiss. Their lips moved against each other in a comfortable and familiar motion. Emily’s tongue swept between JJ’s lips, and she opened her mouth sliding her tongue against Emily’s.

JJ let go of the other woman’s arms in favour of tangling her fingers through her dark hair, allowing Emily the freedom to hold onto JJ by the waist.

“If we didn’t have to get to work soon, I’d take you here—again—on this bed. Just like I did last night,” Emily whispered between kisses.

“ Please,” JJ gasped, desperate for Emily to keep touching her.

“JJ, it’s already seven,” Emily whined. “We have to go.”

“I’ll be quick,” she said. “I promise.”

“We’re never quick.”

JJ pulled back, sitting up on the bed, still straddling Emily. Smiling down at her, “Fine. You owe me one tonight,” JJ said.

“Deal.”

JJ stepped down onto the hardwood floor, her socked feet padding over to Emily’s closet. She chose a pair of black slacks and a beige sweater off the hook. She relaxed at the fact that between the cuddles and the pillow fight, her stomach had calmed down and her nausea was mostly abated. She could hear Emily stand up and walk up behind her.

“That’s my sweater,” Emily said.

JJ looked down at it inquisitively.

“No it isn’t,” she retorted, “I’ve had this forever. It was in my go bag and hung it up here last night.”

“I lost it forever ago.”

JJ found herself smiling at her own accidental theft. She must have had it for long enough that she thought she owned it in the first place.

“We can’t keep switching clothing,” Emily said, “We work with a bunch of highly trained profilers, they notice things like this for a living.”

“I can’t help it, I love wearing your clothes.”

Emily planted a kiss on her cheek, distracting her as she pulled her sweater out of JJ’s hands.

“Morgan noticed that I was wearing your blue shirt last week,” Emily said, “He’s close to putting the pieces together. I hate lying to him.”

“I know,” JJ sighed. “I guess I just like having something that’s just ours. For now at least.”

Emily nodded, then handed JJ another shirt— a white button-up that actually did originally belong to the blonde— to put on. JJ grinned at her, but decided she would steal Emily’s Yale sweater to sleep in that night as payback.

A few minutes later, they both left Emily’s apartment in separate cars, still attempting to maintain the façade of ‘just friends’ for the rest of the team. JJ ignored the lingering worries about her upset stomach, knowing that she’d gone to work feeling worse in the past. She once chased an unsub with a high fever and didn’t blink, she could handle an upset stomach. She had work to do.

———

After the sun set that day, the March rain had turned to snow. JJ watched it fall on the drive to the motel, swirling around her vision and covering the ground in a patchy blanket. They had flown to Maine that morning to investigate a string of murders of young men in the woods, and they were staying in a tiny motel off the highway.

JJ was fighting the urge to sleep in the passenger seat, as Emily drove along the dark twisty, hilly road. In the back, Spencer Reid was looking out the windows at the forest that surrounded them.

Her stomach was upset, again. A sloshing feeling that made her scrunch her nose up. The speed that the car was taking the turns quickly and the motion wasn’t helping her nausea.

She opened her eyes, almost certain she was about to vomit . She felt exhausted and worn out, despite having a relatively easy workday.

The media in the sleepy town of Ellsworth, Maine weren’t particularly demanding, as all JJ had to do was give a short statement to The Ellsworth American, which was the name of the local paper. The reporter was a relaxed guy, about thirty, with a scruffy beard and tired eyes. After a short phone call and a promise to reveal more information once the case was wrapped up, JJ was mostly done for the day.

Her normal activities of liaising with the local cops went smoothly and she ended up spending most of her time on paperwork and bouncing theories back and forth with Morgan and helping Reid with his geographical profile.

“Are you ok, JJ?” Emily asked, glancing over at her quickly before turning again to make sure that she was watching the road.

JJ placed a hand on her own forehead, trying to quell the motion sickness by the sheer willpower.

“I guess I’m still not feeling well,” JJ confessed with a groan.

“What are your symptoms?” Reid piped up from the back seat.

She wasn’t surprised that this piqued his interest. For a boy without a medical degree, he still lived up to the ‘doctor’ in front of his name.

“I threw up this morning,” JJ admitted. “It’s nothing.”

“And you’re experiencing motion sickness, now?” he asked.

“Yes, doctor,” JJ said sarcastically, still not opening her eyes.

“She doesn’t have a fever yet,” Emily offered, “She probably doesn’t have the flu.”

“And we all ate the same meals today,” Reid mused, “It’s likely not food poisoning.”

“Unless you went rogue and ate something out of the precinct’s vending machine,” Emily quipped, “Who knows how long those have been there.”

JJ shook her head, still not able to open her eyes against the sloshing of her stomach.

She had actually barely eaten anything that day, as the takeout they had ordered hadn’t sounded particularly appetising. She was just trying to make it back to the hotel without asking Emily to pull over.

“Well,” Reid continued, “You could be pregnant.”

JJ didn’t say anything as his words hit her like a brick.

“Early pregnancy symptoms include missed periods, as well as fatigue, smell sensitivity, morning sickness, food aversions, mood swings and… er- breast changes, frequent urination,” he continued. “Not to mention bloating and raised basal body temperature.”

JJ rolled her eyes in his direction, but not before an awkward silence engulfed them. Emily said nothing, waiting for JJ’s response to the suggestion.

She couldn’t be pregnant, she reasoned internally, she hadn’t had sex with a man in ages. Then, a memory flashed across her mind, reminding her that that wasn’t entirely true.

Just about a month ago, before she and Emily had gotten together, she had spent the night with William LaMontagne Jr., the New Orleans cop that she had met on a case months before.

It was February and Will had called her, asking if he could visit. JJ had said yes, because, at the time, she had all but given up on Emily. She had been certain that the profiler didn’t like her back.

She and Will had drunken, mediocre sex that evening after they left the bar. They had used a condom, obviously. There was no chance she was pregnant. Well, if she had said this out loud, she knew Reid would say there was a zero point three percent chance, or something like that.

Was her period late? She tried to do the mental math, but the mental math and her car sickness weren’t producing a satisfying answer.

JJ ran her hands through her hair nervously, laughing off Reid’s words despite her racing thoughts.

“Don’t worry,” JJ said with a laugh, “I think I would know if I were pregnant.”

Even as the words left her mouth, JJ knew she didn’t quite believe them. She did have morning sickness, fatigue and even what could be described as food aversion. She couldn’t tell if the emotions she had felt that day were the normal turmoil of working with serial murders or a symptom of something.

“Or you could be exhausted by working back to back cases and this is your body telling you to slow down,” Reid said, clearly back tracking.

“That’s probably it, Jayje,” Emily said, glancing nervously over at the blonde, who’s hand was rubbing her eyes against the glow of the street lights leading up to the motel.

“Yeah,” JJ said as they pulled into the driveway, sighing in relief as she stumbled out of the car, desperate for some solid ground to calm her stomach.

She wasn’t pregnant. She was just stressed and overworked. They had had a bulk of hard cases this winter and it was taking a toll. Nothing more.

———

The case progressed relatively normally. The team built the profile and was able to track down a few suspects off some suspicious elements from their internet presence.

They had narrowed it down to two men, who happened to live on opposite sides of the unsub’s comfort area. After a stake out, the team finally caught the unsub on his way to revisit the crime scene.

After a long interrogation, they had gotten a full confession.

Leaving the processing to the local brass, the team was on a flight out of Maine that night.

They were seated side by side on the jet, with the table in front of them and a fast-asleep Hotch opposite to them. His head was leaning off to the side, his arms crossed in front of his chest.

JJ curled up on her chair, her legs pulled up onto the seat, her usual blanket tossed over to Emily, as she was feeling uncomfortably hot despite the climate controlled private jet.

“What’s wrong?” Emily whispered, noticing the face JJ was making, “Still nauseous?”

“I’m just tired,” JJ said. “I think it’s hot in here.”

Emily tilted her head slightly, looking back to JJ quizzically.

“It’s not any hotter than normal, JJ,” she said. “You sure you're ok?”

“Maybe I am coming down with something,” JJ admitted. “It is the tail end of flu season.”

“Take the weekend off,” another voice joined their conversation. Hotch lifted his head up and was looking at her with concern. She guessed he wasn’t actually asleep after all, and was glad she and Emily hadn’t been whispering about other things.“We all need a break after these back-to-back cases.”

JJ nodded, knowing that she would still have her cell phone on, and that with her job, there was rarely any time off, but was happy to spend the weekend home instead of in a random hotel room.

The plane landed in Quantico late that night. It was a rainy evening, and they had to walk quickly across the tarmac under a spare umbrella that Emily had tucked away in the carry-on compartment.

Leaving the airport, once again in separate cars, JJ drove over to Emily’s, trying to clear her mind by listening to some music.

They had a system. An unspoken communication that meant that unless someone said otherwise, they would meet at Emily’s apartment once they were home. It was closer to work, not to mention much nicer than JJ’s tiny one-bedroom.

As JJ drove, Reid’s words were repeating themselves in her head. You could be pregnant. JJ bit her lip, trying to focus on the road.

Nausea she could explain away. She had food poisoning, or the flu. Same with her lack of appetite. And the fact that her period was a few days late. The fatigue was from working so hard.

But together? It painted a picture that JJ didn’t want to see. Pregnant? Off a one-night hookup that convinced her that the relationship wouldn’t go anywhere? Impossible. Improbable. Unlikely.

What if she was?

Still, JJ found herself pulling into a gas station just outside of DC. She parked next to the store, taking a deep breath in and out before working up the nerve to go in.

She hopped out of her car and wandered into the shop, blinking at the brightness of the fluorescent lights and grabbing a few snacks before coming up to the shelf on which pregnancy tests were placed. There were two options: one much more expensive than the other. Assuming that it meant it was probably better, she grabbed two of that brand, adding it to the pile of chocolate and bags of cheetos in her arms.

I’m not actually pregnant, JJ assured herself. This is just to be sure.

#criminal minds #cm #criminal minds tv #jemily #emily prentiss #jennifer jareau #emily prentiss x jennifer jareau #jemily fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #my writing #enjoy!!!!!!! this is kinda random but here i go #gravelyhumerus cm baby au #tw vomit #tw will lamontagne #tw pregnancy #my post

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goldafterglow · 4 years

Text

hold me in the meadows

Summary: You are Ezra’s dreamcatcher and he is your burrow.

Request: “The sleepy prompts!! Lovely! Can you do “I have had nightmares every night for the past three weeks and now they’re gone because of you, how did you do that?” with (can you guess??) EZRA” - the love of my life, @opheliaelysia

Pairing: Ezra (Prospect) x Reader

Word Count: 4.6k+

Tags: angst?, fluff, more metaphors that don’t mean anything, weird touching lol idk what the fuck this fic is, this is also not beta read so send the flood send the flu

Author’s Note: If you left a like or comment or reblog on Dissolve Me I’m telling you with as little shame as is humanly possible that I definitely reread it at least 3 times. Feedback means the word to me! also this was supposed to be a 500 word drabble and now it’s over 4.5k words if that tells you anything about me. I apologize in advance I think I’ve really outdone myself w/ my bullshit this time

Gif Credit: @pascvl; Also shout out to @pascalplease sorry I spammed you for nothing dsfgdsg

Ezra is staring at you.

He’d met you on one of those toxic moons, one of those deceitfully picturesque mirages where the dust glitters like lily petals but the air would kill you before you could think to appreciate it. You were a floater; a nomad with no place to call home, but you figured you liked it that way. Homes were permanent. They set lives and futures in cobblestone and trapped spirits in gated properties, keeping just about anything and everything tethered under the farce of security. Homes make paraffin casings around dragonfly wings and turn footprints to concrete. So you never had one, and you never wanted one. Ezra had found you amusing. You had found him to be better company than just yourself. So with great reluctance, you established a partnership. Not one forged in steel or bronze but something still fleeting, its true meaning always escaping your lips like a forgotten thought. It’s too much work to try and think about it anyway.

You had let him invite you to reside in his tent. It took coaxing, required copious amounts of golden honey spilling from Ezra’s tongue to get you to tenaciously stick to him, but you were no match for his silver tongue. He did everything he could to assure that this wasn’t a habitat, but merely a shelter - a thing that could be taken down and built back up somewhere else, anywhere you wanted. So you had obliged. He let you take the cot closest to the zipper door; you liked being closer to the exit, just a rotation away from being back on your feet. He tries to let you truly feel like if you wanted to escape, wanted to elope with liberty and run away from the loose bonds of the canopy, you could.

Three weeks of sleeping adjacent to him and you still don’t want to.

Ezra is used to temporary relationships. He has done his fair share of companion hopping, although he wasn’t really making an effort to do so. It scares him a little - why can’t he make anyone stay, make anything last? Partners passed him by, either to traverse on their lonesome or to stay with that greedy man in the eternal sky. Teams disbanded around him like glass castles shattering in his wake. Ezra, whether he liked it or not, was accustomed to transience.

He is not, however, accustomed to fearing that sharp brevity. Ezra is constantly on his toes around you, frequently wondering if he’s pushing you away or pulling you closer. You aren’t skittish, don’t constantly question everything he says or get offended by the sound of his voice, but he’s still scared of losing you. Every time he looks into your eyes he sees wonder, a certain fascination with life that he tries so hard to match because he wants to find things as beautiful as you do. As beautiful as you are. He wants to mis-quote your favorite novels that you force him to read so that you’ll scold him so affectionately and tell him that perhaps he had garnered a little brain damage from his previous escapades. He wants to trip over tree roots that have herniated through the soil so you can laugh at him, maybe lay there on the grass with him for a little bit. Just a little bit.

In your own mind, you are guarded. You try your very best not to get too personal, too deep, too much. Because you don’t like it when people can see your flushed, bloody insides. You just know that the moment you open your chest, someone will steal your heart right out of your rib cage and like the pass of a hummingbird, all of your secrets will be free to float in the breeze like the ashes of your lost quintessence; it’ll all be gone and then you’ll really be empty. So how could you ever know what you mean to Ezra?

He knows what a truly locked up person looks like. He’s spent hundreds of cycles with people that don’t make a noise. He’s sat in bustling pods of people and felt like the only man in the room, like solitary confinement for his mind. No, you are not some warning-covered steel box, padlocked and duct-taped and glued shut so that even if he’s sitting right next to you, he’ll have nothing more than his own voice bounce to off of your walls and fly right back to him. You’re a music box, a gold-trimmed heart-shaped sound bottle, and he learns that if he winds you up the right way, you’ll sing so pretty for him.

He has spent so long talking, nonsensically making those arbitrary noises burst out of his throat until they lose all meaning, but finally, for the first time in so fucking long, Ezra gets to listen.

He listens to you tell him you think his hair is stupid and that sometimes he smells bad. He listens to you lament about barren dig-sites and wasted time, about how it’s so fucking hot in your suit. He listens to you fantasize about touching the trees, burying your face in your flowers and squeezing the moss in your hands. About drowning in the river so that your body is filled with the water and then rolling in the sand so that it all sticks to you and you have to dive back in to clean off. About feeling something.

Sometimes, Ezra just wants to hear something other than his own voice. And you’re the cold towel to his inflamed skin, refreshing and addictive. You’re much braver than you think, so much stronger than you give yourself credit for, because for once, Ezra can talk into the forest and know that there’s someone to listen besides the leaves. He doesn’t feel alone.

Every night, when the moon has turned its back on the narcissistic Sun and opened its arms to the thousands of other stars, each just a prick of light but understanding of their place in the tapestry of the darkness, the two of you retire to that tent. You both redress into comfortable clothes, backs turned on each other under the guise of respect, and climb into your respective cots. Ezra would turn off that shitty lantern that illuminated the enclosure, and your shadows would dissipate into the darkness.

Except Ezra’s shadows don’t disappear; they hide. They blend into the black and mold into one man-engulfing untamable beast to possess Ezra’s throat. And they manifest again in his mind. They poison that movie that plays once you slip consciousness, instills fear into his bone marrow until he doesn’t feel safe in his own body, his own thoughts.

These slumber illusions haunt Ezra. His right arm waves at him in his sleep, the souls to which he was the conduit bridging life and death haunt his diaphragm with toothy grins to mock him, screeching into his cavities. They remind him that he was never really alone because he has the suffocating embrace of those spirits that are sewn so tight to his eyelids. Every night he somehow manages to pull himself from the darkness only for his own demons to pull him back by the throat. He is always oscillating between consciousness and unconsciousness, being tossed around like a helpless rag with no hope of liberation. Nothing scares him more than his own thoughts.

And you know. You know all of it. How could you not? You were born a tumbleweed, wandering across desolation, so of course you’re a light sleeper. And you can hear Ezra’s choked cries, his tossing and turning as he drains himself of any sense of safety. But this man is a stranger to you. He is just a person you reside with, talk to all the time, nudge gently and tease and smile with. He is just the person that you wake up wanting to see, whose attention you always crave. A stranger.

So every night you turn your body to face the zipper of the tent and pretend that you can’t hear him cry. Pretend that you don’t sometimes cry with him. A pretty lavender lie that smells sweet, tastes sweeter.

You, in your cowardice, let him destroy himself. Watch as the bags under his eyes get bigger and greyer and the strings holding his shoulders up lose their tension.

Ezra, in his flawed cratered embodiment, is only human. And he had gone so long without holding anyone, without being held. He knows what he wants, knows who he wants. But he also knows how jittery you are, how fluttery your heart is, and he doesn’t want to approach it too fast lest he startle you and you fly off into the stars. But he can’t keep doing this, can’t live with himself when he knows he’s not the one in control but those horned, slimy creatures that claw at his maxilla with their venomous grins.

The lights are out in the tent per usual, so Ezra can’t really see you. His careful eyes can trace the outline of the curves of your body - or is it that his delusional eyes are envisioning some arbitrary glow around you, convincing him that what he’s seeing is real? Reality is a concept with which he is no longer familiar.

You, laying in your cot, decide that you just can’t take it anymore. You can’t stand to let this intruder of your life break you down the way he is without even trying. How dare he look into you, how dare he listen to you without passing judgement, how fucking dare he make you feel like a flower in bloom?

Ezra hears your breaths - they’re uneven. You haven’t gone to sleep. What are you waiting for?

“Ezra?” you practically squeak into the void. His ears perk up immediately; your cotton candy voice is enticing to him, flossing its way through his veins.

“What are you doing up, birdie?” Ezra asks softly, the air of his lungs floating on top of his words. He doesn’t mean to keep you awake, but he isn’t mad that you are. It’s stimulating his nerves enough to keep himself awake, and that’s something he probably won’t ever be able to repay you for.

“I-um….” Shit. You hadn’t expected to get this far. What would you say to him? How could you tell him that you wanted to help cleanse him, that you wanted to grovel in lime-coated thumb tacks with him and absorb his pain into your tissue paper skin? “I can’t sleep.”

Not a lie. Ezra knows you mean it. He just doesn’t know why.

“Well that won’t suffice,” he decides, outstretching his left arm blindly off the edge of his cot until his fingers brush against what he’s looking for: that goddamn lantern. With a little more fumbling, a weak but good enough orange glow is emitted on the floor between the two of you. You both catch each other’s pitiful gaze. You want to take care of each other, want to shield each other from the red sprites that nip angrily at each other’s hearts. Ezra holds his left arm out to you, tentatively. He’s never been more unsure in his life. He watches you glance at his arm, and then quickly to the side. You’re trying to decide if you’ll let him add another tether to you. If you’ll let him become something sewed so tight to your bleeding skin that to leave would rip you apart.

You slowly get up and walk over to his cot.

Ezra lets out a soft breath and his lips turn to a soft smile. He’s soft.

“C’mere, dandelion” he mumbles to you, and he hasn’t missed his right arm so much as in this moment. He wants to hold you properly, wants to keep you as close to him as possible. You’re hesitant, and he can tell. You’ve never been this close to him before, and you want to savor it. When your head finally touches his shoulder, it’s like a catalyst ignites underneath the two of you. You mold into each other the way the gods intended, like lake water seeping into the smallest of crevices of an empty river bed. Like the opposing poles of two magnets, like a key penetrating a lock. Like you were made for each other. Your arms immediately wrap around him, his neck now a fixture of your body, and his arm leads you to lay down on the cot. Without words, without that candid discourse that Ezra was so fond of, his face is buried into the warmth of your chest and he feels like you’ve cast an ethereal shield around him.

Ezra doesn’t need to hold you tight because you’re holding him tighter, like you’re trying to cling to something invisible and foreign before it can even think to leave you. Before it realizes that it doesn’t want you. Don’t leave. He can feel you breathe him in, face smashed against his wild hair, and he can’t blame you because he’s breathing you in too.

“Sweetheart-” he breathes, fanning against your skin in a way that sends a deep shiver down your spine and shakes your shoulders.

“Shh.” And for once in his cursed life, he’s speechless. There’s so much, too much that he wants to say to you, but his mind is shouting all of it at him at once and he doesn’t even know where to start. So he shuts the fuck up. He feels you. He feels your heat melt him until he can barely control his own muscles because they’ve gone limp, unable to perform a single contraction because his fibers are relaxed, are at peace.

He doesn’t know when he falls asleep.

When Ezra wakes, you’re still sweet and motionless around him. The lamp was still on, still shining pathetically on the ground. He doesn’t feel the need to look around or squeeze his lids closed in an attempt to wring the bad rest out of him.

Rest?

He thinks fucking hard. When had he woken up last night? When had his banshees infiltrated his thoughts and cried into the void of his packed mind? All he can recall are caramel dreams, whipped cream clouds and berry trampolines for him to jump high into the cotton candy sky. He thinks he might like it that way. Maybe every night can be like that, every morning can feel this transcendent.

He hears you moan quietly as you stir not long after him, breaths shuddering on their way out of your nose as you slowly come to your senses.

“Good morning, birdie,” Ezra finally says. He doesn’t know what to say to you, what he can say to you, without making you flip a switch and realize that it’s all a mistake, that he is a mistake. His eardrums smile as your sleepy whining settles.

“Morning, Ezra,” you whisper, throat not ready to talk yet. It’s okay; you’d rather hear him talk to you anyway.

“Did you…were you able to achieve some sort of comfort?” Ezra asks. For a second you’re confused until you remember what you’d told him last night, and you realize that you’re holding him the same way you were when you’d gone to sleep. He hadn’t woken up.

“Yeah, Ezra,” you finally say after letting yourself simmer in the silence for a second. “Thank you.”

He smiles wide against your skin, the blunt tip of his excitement the battering ram that beats against his racing heart. He’s given you something worthy of your gratefulness, and the feeling of being worthy light his chest with blue flames.

“It’s not my intention to blow you away, dandelion,” Ezra says, his nerves manifesting into his characteristic breathy laughs, “but I can’t deny how direly I want to just touch you.” You feel the air get knocked out of you as your diaphragm begins to spasm; what is he asking? You’ve thought about it before; god, of course you’ve thought about it before. To lay back as you let him study you, memorize you and then let you do the same. Analyze the sculpted marble of his body to remind yourself why you love it so much.

“Please.”

It’s barely a whisper, a secret told to the wind, but Ezra hears you. Ezra always hears you.

So Ezra’s fingers begin to wander along your skin. He wants to map out the scars on your body, wants to learn the shape of you so intimately that he could remodel you if he wanted to. He wants to know your body the way he knows when you’re disappointed or frustrated or amazed or confused. He wants to just know.

You feel the calloused pads of Ezra’s fingers put a little pressure onto that dip of your thoracic vertebrae, draw circles above your hip right under the fabric of your sweatshirt, caress your shoulder. He’s slowly exposing your skin to the humid chill of the dank enclosure, carefully making your top cover less and less of you, but you’ve never felt warmer.

As Ezra’s mind begins to really warm up and the cogs begin to grease themselves, his words begin to flow out the way you’re used to. The way you’ve learned to love.

“Sweetheart, I have had nightmares every night for the past three weeks and now they’re gone,” he blurts. Fuck. His hand stutters against the small of your back. He’s done it now, he’s really gone and blown it, because now you know he’s fucking broken and you’re smart enough to know when to avoid damaged goods. You have to know that if you were to take your hands and try and feel him you’d just get bumps and ridges and cracks. But Ezra is selfish, can’t help himself or his thoughts, so he keeps rambling. “It is not my intention to come off as presumptuous, but I just know it’s because of you. How did you do that, birdie? You never told me you were sent to me as a dreamcatcher.”

You can’t help but smile into his scalp a little at his words. You didn’t mind taking all of his bad dreams and refracting them far away into the space between the stars for him. A light, breathy laugh rolls off your tongue like a huff, because fuck, if you were going to be embroidered to something it might as well be him.

Your breath hitches again as the back of his hand runs flat along your stomach. It travels back around and up to the nape of your neck, tracing your shoulders and then over to your clavicles, paying close attention to the dips. You can’t help but wonder if this means as much to him as it does to you; it means everything to you.

“You’re right. I’ve been holding out on you all this time,” you say, and he can hear you smile through the roses of your words. He slowly and with purpose lifts his head from your embrace so that he can look up at you, maybe even catch a glimpse of that pretty grin of yours and burn it onto his lenses.

“I’m not confident that you’ll ever know how fortuitous I was the day I met you.” Ezra’s voice is low as he speaks, his drawl stretching and fraying the ends of his words, and you soak in every last syllable. You soak in the meaning of his words. He feels lucky to have you.

You look down at him, bringing a hand to run through his hair. That stupid blonde streak snatches your attention for a moment and you thumb at the strands. You want to tease him about it, mock him a little, but you don’t. The moon marine in your arms holds so much unbridled beauty, and it’s all yours to look at.

Ezra is all yours to look at.

Ezra’s hand travels up to your face, cupping your cheek while his thumb toys with the corner of your mouth in a way that makes you bite your lip through a smile. Throwing all caution to the wind, you turn your head and press a shy kiss to the heel of his palm. Ezra’s skin burns where you’ve sanctified him. His hand begins to crave your touch in other ways, he is craving something more from you, but he knows he does far too much taking. He’s already taken so much from you, has already stolen so many moments from you out of sheer gluttony, but it’s not always his fault because you’re so giving. He knows you were a little hollow from the start, knows you were a little frayed in the first place, but still you share your thoughts and companionship with him because whether you know it or not, you’re a little taken by this space mutineer. If you fled this little thing you’ve built with him, you’d be leaving the prettiest parts of yourself behind for him to keep taking care of the way a mother makes her son’s bed after he leaves for college because what if you want to come back?

But you haven’t left, haven’t abandoned him and in turn, yourself. You’re right here, letting him bask in your reverent lavender radiation, and as he looks at how you’re giving off your own intrinsic glow because the shitty orange light on the ground isn’t enough, he knows he hasn’t earned it. He doesn’t think this is a very fair transaction at all, but he’s too selfish to stop you from paying a little extra. You’ll let him keep the change.

Ezra wordlessly lifts his head, nosing at your wrist so that you’ll bring it lower and let him kiss the delicate skin there. He looks up at you with wide, eager eyes of adoration. His feelings for you are beginning to bubble underneath the surface of his silk-lined thoughts and he is willing them to stay at that low simmer because he doesn’t want to think about anything except how fucking gorgeous you look in the lamplight.

“I’m growing rather fond of the way you feel against me,” Ezra finally says. Everything is so foreign now, so new, so he tries to do the one thing you both know, the one routine you can both dance without needing to think about it: talking.

“I like it too Ezra,” you giggle. Not a long, flittery one, but a pass of air with a note under it. You’re a little nervous too.

“I reckon I could get accustomed to this,” he whispers. Your lip betrays you, curling itself to reveal your reply before you even say it. Your teeth capture your lower lip for the act of treason, but it’s too late. “But I’d just hate it if I made you feel like you’re bearing my baggage.”

“Ezra, you don’t have crippling baggage,” you insist. What is this man talking about? You were the one with issues. You were the one that had to be convinced to stay with him, you were the one that insisted on the right cot, you were the real coward here. You were broken. “Everyone has their demons. There is so much more inside of you. You’re so full.”

Ezra’s eyes go a little wide at your words. You didn’t think he was half a man? Some incomplete mosaic that would never find his missing pieces?

“You flatter me,” he chuckles; no, he giggles.

“Well…I just figured there’s no way a broken man could handle his broken partner the way you deal with me.” His expression melts into something more than pity and less than ignorance - confusion. The tap in Ezra’s tongue pops loose and his words begin to cascade from his lips like some majestic phenomenon, like holy water spraying the filth off of your brow.

“I need you to look at me, firefly.” His voice is more stern now, his words more articulate as he shifts up the bed slightly so that he’s eye level with you. He’s still on his side, his left hand is still gripping the flesh at your hip. “I don’t think you’ll ever truly comprehend how much you’ve done for me these past cycles, but this life is quiet and toilsome. You’re capable of recognizing beauty in things I wouldn’t have even taken note of in the first place, and I hang onto your every utterance whether you’re aware or not. It’s easy for me to sit here and tell you how bad I always want you because you fill my thoughts, pretty dandelion. And if someone came here and regurgitated your exact words to me, it still wouldn’t hold a candle to the way you sing when you wonder out loud. I don’t need to ‘deal’ with you, sweet rose. I want you.”

Your lip quivers a little; you know Ezra likes talking to you, he’s told you before. But you couldn’t help but assume Ezra just likes talking, period. That he liked having you around about as much as he’d enjoy the company of any other talker. To think that someone wants you, your passions and afterthoughts and pondering notions, meant more than anything you could articulate.

“Ezra-” you start, but you cut yourself off. You want to let his words turn into condensation on your skin, to form little rain clouds above your head so that they pour back down on you in delicate drops. You want to let him linger, to sit and hang above you like the sky hangs above the ocean.

You look straight at him, deep into his inquiring brown eyes as you both begin to breathe the same air, scents mingling between you like the heat between two stars. His nose is right up against yours and you can feel his lashes caress your cheekbone. He’s so close, but you want him closer, need him to move his hand or blink his eyes or do something, because you can’t take the nothingness anymore when you’ve got everything pressed right up against your face.

Ezra decides he wants one last thing from you.

“My rose, I don’t want to ask too much of you, but I suppose if that were true I wouldn’t have invited you to stay with me anyway. In the tent, of course. Not the cot.” Fuck, what was he saying? He lets out a soft laugh as he tries to reorganize his thoughts, a blushing mess under your gaze because he’s so used to knowing exactly how to get what he wants, but he’s really pushing your boundaries and bending your fence posts now. You’re turning him into a man who fumbles, a man who doesn’t always have to know what he’s about to say, and he doesn’t mind being a little less talk around you and a lot more touch.

Suddenly, he’s reminded of what he wanted to ask you.

“Sweet creature, could I kiss you?”

You don’t miss a beat in this soft ballad you’re playing with him, letting out a gentle “yeah, Ezra.”

You don’t like homes, don’t like to be told that you’re forever nailed to walls and wood. But maybe, as Ezra’s scruffy chin leans up to slot his lips against yours, you could build a tent in him. Maybe this leaky soul was your permanent, your unyielding, your perpetual.

As Ezra tilts his head towards you with a soft moan so he can kiss you the way you deserve, speak to you through the blinding sensation of his mouth telling you how he wants you, needs you, loves you, without using a single word, he is confident that his hollow cavities are beginning to be filled by your amber essence. He can tell you’re letting yourself finally take root in him, clearing out the wretched foliage so that you can curl up in the meadow of his soul and rest your bones within him.

Yeah.

You’re home.

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#ezra x reader #ezra (prospect)#ezra prospect x reader #angst #sleepy prompts #pedro pascal #fluff #this was for what?#this was supposed to be so short #so quick #i spent the whole entire day writing this #does it make sense?#of course not #does it ever?#same answer #not gonna ask anymore of these requests #clearly I don't know how to control myself sksdfjgf

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senorarelojes · 3 years

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Ficlet: Violator (1/1)

Summary: This prompt from @songsofgayanddevotion and @raphinas: "basically, dave goes to have a prostate exam and alans the doctor and basically dave comes over the table while alan is checking him LMAOOOOO" Rating: Mature

When Dave opened the door, he thought he’d gotten the wrong office at first. “Oh, sorry,” he said hesitantly, hovering in the doorway. At Dr. Miller’s desk was an immensely good-looking young man who was scanning a clipboard, his eyebrows raised inquiringly at Dave. “Erm, I think I’ve got the wrong office--” Dave began.

“Are you David Gahan?” the man said pleasantly before rising to his feet. He was a little taller than Dave, six feet of trim muscle in neatly pressed grey trousers and a black Oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It was a world away from the casual polo tees and slacks that Dr. Miller favoured. “You’re here for the prostate check?”

Dave only belatedly realised his mouth was hanging open when the bloke’s eyebrows inched higher, waiting for Dave’s response. “Um, yeah, yeah that’s right,” he said hurriedly, stepping into the office and closing the door behind him. “Sorry, I was expecting Dr. Dan Miller--”

“He’s down with a very bad flu,” the bloke said, before offering his hand. He had the longest, most elegant fingers Dave had ever seen, and Dave forced himself not to think about where those fingers would be later. “I’m Dr. Alan Wilder, I’m the locum taking over his patients for today.”

“Oh. Um. Cool.” Dave shook his hand a little awkwardly, trying not to notice the nice firm grip of Dr. Wilder’s handshake. “I’m Dave Gahan.”

Dr. Wilder’s mouth curled up a little in amusement. It somehow made him even more attractive; Dave was fucking doomed. “Yes, I know,” Dr. Wilder said, tilting the clipboard at Dave. “Do have a seat, Mr. Gahan.”

“Dave!” he blurted out, before realising that Dr. Wilder was staring at him. “I mean, Dave is fine. No need for Mr. Gahan.”

“Sure.” Dr. Wilder just smiled at him, and Dave decided this must be divine punishment for all the grief he’d put his mother through as a wayward teenager. “So I read through your files, and I understand you told Dr. Miller that you had concerns about prostate cancer.”

Dave nodded, feeling a bit more settled back on familiar territory. “Yeah, my uncle was diagnosed with it last month. And I don’t know the medical history of my dad - my bio dad - so I thought I should get it checked on.”

Dr. Wilder simply nodded without judgement. “You’re in your 30s now, so you’re not in the typical at-risk group for prostate cancer. Still, whenever family history is involved, it is understandable if you have concerns.”

Dave let out a long breath, relieved that Dr. Wilder seemed to be taking him seriously for now. Besides, Dr. Wilder had a very calm, relaxing manner about him that felt infectious, something about his voice that was pleasant and soothing. Dave would pay money to hear this bloke read audiobooks.

Then again, Dave would also pay to hear and see the very handsome Dr. Wilder do a whole manner of other things.

“So what’s going to happen now are two things,” Dr. Wilder explained. “First, we will conduct a Digital Rectal Exam, which would be a physical examination by a trained physician to see if you have an enlarged prostate. Then we will also do a blood test to check your prostate-specific antigen levels.”

“Right.” Dave desperately tried to ignore the heat suffusing his face. He wasn’t going to blush in front of a medical professional because of a fucking prostate exam. “Yup, I get that.”

Here, Dr. Wilder hesitated. “It’s important that you feel comfortable with the doctor conducting the digital rectal exam,” he said quietly. “If you would rather have Dr. Miller do the test with you, we can reschedule--”

“No I want you,” Dave said a little too quickly. His face felt like it was on fire as Dr. Wilder’s smile curled up in amusement again. “I mean-- fuck, sorry. I meant I don’t mind you doing it.”

“If you’re sure.” Dr. Wilder was already pulling the drawer open and taking out a box of latex gloves, so hell yes, Dave was fucking sure.

Dave tried not to look too eager as he unbuttoned his jeans and shed them, going to where Dr. Wilder was telling him to stand. “Could you take off your briefs, then bend over the examination bed?” Dr. Wilder politely asked him, and Dave had to bite his tongue so he wouldn’t respond that he would do anything Dr. Wilder asked him to that involved beds and getting naked. Slipping off his briefs and folding them on top of his jeans in a neat pile, Dave shivered a little at the cold air hitting his exposed bottom.

Getting into position as he leaned against the bed, Dave heard the snap of Dr. Wilder’s gloves, along with his footsteps coming closer. “Relax,” Dr. Wilder said, a cool hand resting on Dave’s bum. “I’m a doctor.”

Dave could only nod in response, not trusting himself to speak. Already he could smell Dr. Wilder’s clean scent, a mix of aftershave and a faint whiff of tobacco. Dave closed his eyes, thinking about Dr. Wilder’s hands on his body, touching the most intimate of places that only his ex-wives had breached. He could also feel the heat emanating off Dr. Wilder’s body behind him, and Dave couldn’t help thinking about what the man would feel like in bed, spooning behind Dave and fucking him from behind, that sly refined mouth pressing kisses to Dave’s neck.

To Dave’s horror, his dick started taking a very keen interest in Dr. Wilder’s nearness as well as the lurid fantasies running through Dave’s head. “It’s fine,” Dr. Wilder reassured him, his voice dropping to that low and relaxing tone again. “Don’t worry about it, it happens to patients sometimes.”

Dave was thankful that Dr. Wilder was both acknowledging his erection while not being weird about it or put off. “I don’t, I’m sorry--”

“Relax, Dave.” The silky way Dr. Wilder said his name made Dave jerk a little, his cock starting to leak over the sterile paper sheets on the examination bed.

Now Dave could hear the squirting of lube from a pump bottle, then Dr. Wilder slicking his fingers. “Spread your legs a little wider,” Dr. Wilder said, and maybe it was Dave’s imagination but the doctor’s voice sounded a little rougher than normal. “Mmm yes, that’s good. Open up for me.”

Dave bit back a moan as he felt Dr. Wilder’s finger slipping inside him, slowly at first so as to help him get used to the intrusion. “Okay?” Dr. Wilder asked, his voice so gentle that Dave fought the temptation to turn around and kiss the living daylights out of him.

“Yeah.” Dave kept his breaths slow and easy, biting down on his forearm as Dr. Wilder slid in a second finger, in and out of Dave in an easy glide. “Keep-keep going.”

Dr. Wilder didn’t say anything, but he pressed a comforting hand on the small of Dave’s back while his fingers inside Dave were searching around for his prostate. This time Dave couldn’t hold back the moan when Dr. Wilder finally found it, pressing on it gently and making Dave leak embarrassing amounts of pre-come all over the covered bed.

“All right?” Dr. Wilder was definitely breathing faster now, even though his voice was still even, but Dave was too busy rolling his hips back, greedily demanding for more pressure from those talented fingers, too far gone with pleasure to care about propriety and inappropriate doctor-patient boundaries and getting sued by the hospital. All he cared about was the insanely hot man behind him with his fingers sending Dave through waves and waves of toe-curling pleasure, on the brink of one of the most intense orgasms he would ever experience.

“Dave--” Dr. Wilder sounded so breathless and stunned that when his fingers crooked against Dave’s prostate again, Dave came and came with a resounding yell, spurting all over the bed and his own bare feet, his legs shaking so hard that they almost couldn’t hold him up. Dave was gasping for air, trying to recover from the brain-melting orgasm as his head thunked down on the bed.

Oh fuck, Dave thought, remembering that Dr. Wilder definitely did not sign up to finger fuck one of his patients into oblivion. Shakily standing upright, Dave turned around with a litany of apologies at the ready. “Fucking hell, I’m so sorry--”

Dr. Wilder was staring at him, his cheeks pink with pleasure and his eyes brighter than stars. His gaze dropped down to Dave’s mouth, and Dave suddenly realised - with a white-hot pleasure - that he had nothing to be embarrassed about because the doctor was licking his lips while staring at Dave’s dripping cock.

“I, uhh--” Dr. Wilder quickly took off his gloves before handing Dave a box of tissues. “I will give you a while to clean up, Mr. Gahan. Someone else will be along shortly to help you. Sorry about that.”

“What do you-- wait!” Dave called out as Dr. Wilder left the examination room, but it was too late.

***

After Dave had finished cleaning up and putting on his jeans again, a nurse came in and apologetically told him that Dr. Wilder had been called to assist with an emergency, so Dr. Miller would follow up with Dave next week about his test results. “Emergency my arse,” Dave grumbled under his breath as the nurse led him out. Outside, Dr Wilder was nowhere to be seen.

Then Dave had an idea.

He only had to wait outside the hospital for about 15 minutes before he spotted Dr. Wilder heading to the designated smoking area, looking a bit shaken as he dug around for his cigarettes. When Dave walked up to him, Wilder avoided his eyes. “If you have any complaints, you can lodge them with the hospital,” he said in a tired voice.

Dave gaped at him. “Wh- wait, why would I want to lodge a complaint?” he said in amazement. “I came to fuckin’ apologise to you, mate.”

“Oh.” Dr. Wilder took a deep drag of his cigarette, a bit confused. “So you’re not mad I took advantage of you?”

Dave stepped a little closer, taking Dr. Wilder’s cigarette from him for his own drag. “As long as you’re not mad I came all over your table.”

They smoked in silence for a while, at least until one of the nurses popped her head out of the back door and called Dr. Wilder’s name, saying his next patient was here. Dr. Wilder stubbed out the cigarette, looking carefully at Dave.

“They warned us about this in pre-med, you know,” Dr. Wilder said with a little smile. “Being attracted to one of your patients. Never happened to me until today.”

Dave’s grin at him was so wide that it was hurting his cheeks a little. “Well, when Dan Miller comes back, I won’t be your patient anymore, will I?”

Dr. Wilder’s smile widened in response. “No, I suppose not.”

“Then it’s a date.” Dave grabbed his arm, taking the pen from his pocket and writing his number on Dr. Wilder’s arm. “So you don’t have to nick my mobile from my personal data.”

“Because that would be wrong.” Dr. Wilder smirked at him before heading back inside, leaving Dave laughing at the smoking area.

#dalan #fanfic #saph's and raphinas' prompt #Mo I included the Family Guy reference here as a nod to you

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