#it’s hard to recognize and remember these things when you’ve been forced to repress every single emotion possible as hard as i can forever

[dagasinfilo]

something about me is that i always forget i get super sick when i’m stressed

[bratz-kitten]

saturn through the houses

saturn in the 1st house: there's an ability present here to make friendships very quickly due to your dependable nature. you keep your word and your promises no matter what. the insecurities and inferiority complexes you felt in your childhood give you the push to pursue your ambitions and work hard; you never want to feel that way again. you put a lot of pressure on yourself to be better. loyal to your core. spontaneity comes hard to you because you're extremely calculated in the risks you take. be careful of how much stress you're inducing yourself with in the name of hard work. very sarcastic!!!! and mature. you have trouble expressing your true self and your original nature. there might be childhood memories you're repressing that are causing this fear of expressing yourself + your opinions. you're characterized by a lot of independence that makes it hard for you to ask others for help. there's a love for contemplation that enables you to achieve wisdom + deep knowledge. 

saturn in the 2nd house: saturn here sets a clear mission on developing self-worth and self-confidence while not tying it to material gains. you may have suffered a period of poverty in your childhood that led you to truly understand the importance of money and how its lack can affect everyone's mental and physical health. now, there's an underlying anxiety about losing stability once again and going back to that dark place. you feel weird whenever you have too much money to spare because your parents might've been very stingy and didn't allow you to buy anything more than the necessary. because of that, you deeply value everything you buy. saturn here teaches you the importance of not obsessing over gaining money while working hard - and most importantly, with integrity - to attain worldly achievements. you shouldn't let greed obscure your morals nor should you feel worthless for not being rich yet - you're worthy of love no matter what. 

saturn in the 3rd house: you're very anxious about your intelligence; you've spent the majority of your younger years believing your intellect to be inferior. you believed yourself to be dumb as a reflection of others' perceptions of you; your parents might have been very hard on you and you struggled to meet their impossibly high standards. saturn here gives you a mission of shedding yourself off of your fears or not being skillful and smart enough, and as you grow older, you begin to understand how impressive your capabilities truly are: you have a highly analytical and perceptive yet chaotic mind, understand things with great depth, and you're extremely strategic. you must also deal with your fear of criticism and learn to express your opinions more bravely. there’s a tendency for shyness. great listener. you hate superficiality of any kind; there's a dislike for small-talk present here, you much rather learn and talk about your various interests. 

saturn in the 4th house: from a very young age, your parents placed a duty on your shoulders of being highly responsible, as if reversing the roles: you were expected to play the adult, being forced out of your childhood so you could be the one to provide stability. you might not have received much attention nor affection from your parents, which gave you a sense of feeling abandoned. to compensate for the lack of attention you received as a child, you want to overcompensate by being extra dutiful and responsible, and by being extremely caring and protective of those around you. your restrictive childhood now makes you fearful of expressing emotions + recognizing your emotional needs, and you fear that you'll never achieve happiness and a sense of fulfillment. you feel like it's your duty to speak the truth and stand up for others. very reserved about your personal life. more than anything, you want a place to feel like home; a place that you can retreat to and heal and be at peace when everything gets too much. 

saturn in the 5th house: you might feel like your light has been dimmed by a parental figure from a very young age. one or both parents might've been very harsh and insulting towards your capabilities and personality, making it hard for you to recognize your potential. there's an underlying anxiety every time you're supposed to feel happy because you fear it might be taken away from you at any moment. saturn here makes it your mission to recognize the words that were thrown at you in your childhood as them projecting their own insecurities, and for you to rebuild your sense of self through self-love and pride in yourself. even if you feel anxious whenever you're having fun, you're incredibly playful and you yearn for a lot of attention. you're very spontaneous and sociable, and you always manage for others to have a great time when around you. there's a tendency to ignore your inner child as a way of acting responsibly, which in return makes you feel a block in your creativity; and exploring your creative side is very important. you can work extremely hard, please remind yourself to take a break from time to time. 

saturn in the 6th house: you strive for perfection in everything you do. you work so hard to try to achieve it, but more often than not, you feel like you can't meet the high standards you set for yourself, which can cause a lot of frustration and self-deprecating thoughts, like believing you're not enough. this can be severely damaging for both your physical and mental health, and induce a lot of stress and overthinking. it's like you're constantly on this battle to one-up yourself, to always improve and be better. saturn here communicates the urge to understand that perfection is an ideal and not something you should strive to achieve because it'll kill your enjoyment of whatever it is that you're trying to be better at, and you have a mission to be gentler with yourself, to work on your self-critical nature and to feel proud of yourself for everything that you've achieved instead of criticizing yourself for not doing better. there's also a need to take care of your health, to keep healthy habits and not neglect your physical needs. 

saturn in the 7th house: you’re one of the most loyal people ever, you take relationships very seriously. you love consistency and understand that it's very important to nurture a relationship daily in order to keep it strong, so you're very dependable and you expect that from the people in your life too. saturn here indicates the importance of cultivating a healthy, reliable source of self-love so that your relationships with others will also remain strong. but the problem with being so committed is that you might stay in a relationship that no longer makes you happy for much longer than you want to - please remember to put yourself and your happiness first. you might also constantly wonder if there's anyone out there for you who will love you as deeply as you love others and who is as committed as you. love and forming meaningful connections might come very hard to you; it's like you're constantly putting walls between yourself and others due to your fear of vulnerability + difficulty in trusting others. 

saturn in the 8th house: you're a hard worker and very patient, extremely loyal when it comes to relationships, and disciplined. there's a tendency to fear change here, to avoid it at all costs as something painful. saturn here gives you the mission to learn to accept transformation as not only inevitable but necessary to your growth as an individual. this placement indicates a fear of abandonment due to what you've experienced in your childhood + your past relationships; now, you have difficulty trusting others because you fear being betrayed, which also causes you to be very secretive and to fear opening up to others, and to feel deeply hurt by things that others would consider insignificant. this can cause a lot of issues in your relationship with intimacy, money and your unconscious, affecting your mental health and making you indulge in unhealthy coping mechanisms. deeply spiritual, but this is something you might fear. transformation leaves room for enormous growth when it comes to wisdom. 

saturn in the 9th house: even in your day-to-day life, you're constantly concentrating on profound issues, thinking about your beliefs, philosophy, religion, etc. if you were forced into adopting a religion when you were younger, there's a chance you might discard religion now, adopting an atheist or nihilistic point of view. you're very skeptical of others' beliefs, preferring to stick to your own because you're not so impressionable, which can work to your detriment. saturn here gives you the urge to practice more open-mindedness, to broaden your perspectives with extensive learning, specialization in an area, intellectual debates and traveling. saturn also teaches you discipline. you might have a fear of expanding your horizons because you understand how harsh and cruel the world can be, but you shouldn’t let that stop you from satiating your innate curiosity. you always advocate for what you believe in, even when all others are too scared to do it, and that's your strength. as the world evolves, so do your personal beliefs and morals, which you continuously work on. 

saturn in the 10th house: you feel a very strong urge to accomplish greatness and achieve success, and you might deal with a lot of fear and anxiety because of the burden you've placed on your shoulders. the truth is: you're terrified of failure. you're a hard worker and perfectionist by nature, wanting to be in control of everything. with saturn placed here, you must learn that to fail is to be human and that there's plenty to learn from committing mistakes. you might take more responsibilities than you can handle, resulting in added stress, so you should learn to ask others for help whenever you need it. you're determined to be successful at the same time that you fear achieving everything you want and still feeling like it wasn't enough. you must learn to stop doubting yourself, and the confidence you will build throughout life will be necessary because you truly are destined for greatness, not because of destiny but the drive and zeal you possess makes you so. remember to take a break from time to time, and to cherish what you've already achieved. 

saturn in the 11th house: you have a lot of acquaintances, but only a few close friends that you trust. you're attracted to mature, serious people who have a clear life purpose, and most of your friends might be older than you. you hate superficiality of all kinds and don't want anything to do with dull people, and you take your friendships very seriously. sometimes, you might take your friendships too seriously, and they can start to become a burden to you. you need a lot of alone time for introspection and, when you’re wanting to ecape your own mind, you might fluctuate between isolation and spending entire weeks going out (even if you feel more alone than ever in the middle of a crowd). there's a clear sense of justice here, a necessity to do what's right. more than anything, you're terrified of losing your identity, of being seen as normal and ordinary, or just as a part of a crowd, and that feeling constantly nags at you whenever you're interacting with others. there's a clear mission here to not let your restless feelings take away your passion from life and to drown out your immense potential. you must be brave when determining what you want out of life, when finding the right path for you. the efforts you take into helping the collective help you grow wiser and more mature. you're very strict about who you surround yourself with, and saturn here urges you to work on accepting the differences between everybody and on your tolerance, and to ease your necessity to be in control. 

saturn in the 12th house: you feel things very intensely, and you often feel completely overwhelmed by your emotions. very sensitive, you can be fearful and insecure and often doubt yourself. here, saturn urges you to fight against your inner demons: this placement represents the fear of the unknown, the fear you feel when dealing with the uncertainty of spirituality, your deep feelings and darkest thoughts. you might fear how complex you are, and feel this sense of guilt about everything without knowing where it comes from. you might need a lot of alone time to restore your energy - but even though you tend to use isolation as a form of escapism, you yearn to become a part of the collective because you have great healing and communicative energy. the problem is that, even though there's a war going inside your mind, you don't want to ask for help because you don't want to be deemed weak or like you depend on others. you might spend a lot of time having discussions with yourself as you escape reality. you should learn to trust others and learn to face your demons instead of locking them away. the lesson here is to accept yourself for who you are. in this house, spirituality would help you achieve great wisdom. there's a potential for great talent in the arts. 

[scuttling]

Lavender

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairings: Aaron Hotchner/Female Reader Word Count: 9,244 Tags: 18+, NSFW, Dad's Best Friend Friend From Work Hotch, Me turning a naughty, smutty story into something way more aka my specialty, Fingering, Unprotected sex, Oral sex, Semi-public sex, Office sex Summary: You absolutely dread going home for vacation, to your sickeningly cheery childhood bedroom and opinionated parents, but meeting your dad's friend from work at a stuffy cocktail party has the potential to make this a vacation you'll never forget.*Requested by anon, severely altered by me 😅 Link to A03 or read below! Most people would jump at the chance for an unexpected two week vacation, but you are not most people. When your boss emailed you to inform you that there had been some kind of glitch in HR’s system and you actually had two weeks of paid vacation that were set to expire, your anxiety had kicked into high gear. There isn’t enough time to coordinate travel with any of your friends, too short notice, and you’re kind of afraid to travel alone, though you’d never admit it, so that’s out.

There’s always the prospect of hanging out at home, catching up on all the shows you started but never had time to finish, doing things you’re always too busy for, like cooking and cleaning out your closet and going to the animal shelter to pet the dogs and cats.

Unfortunately, those dreams are crushed when you accidentally let slip during a call to your parents that you have the time off, and they literally insist you come home, will not let you get off the phone without confirming your plans.

You only live about an hour away from them, but for one reason or another, you rarely visit.

The minute you step into your childhood home, you’re reminded of why you rarely visit.

“There’s my little do-gooder!” Your dad is all but waiting at the door when you arrive, pulls you into a hug despite the fact that your hands are full of luggage. “Let me look at you.” He pulls back, hands on your shoulders, acting like it's possible something has changed about you since you had lunch together a month ago in DC. “Oh, you’ve got that serious lawyer hairstyle now,” he remarks with a chuckle, even though your hair is styled the same way it was at that lunch. He might not mean it to come out this way, but it sounds condescending.

“That would be appropriate, considering I am a lawyer,” you remark, trying to keep the snark out of your tone. You know he always means well. “You look good.” He takes his hands off of you and puts them on his stomach.

“Your mom has me on some kind of greens and beans diet, says it will help me live longer.” You smile, a little awkward, not sure what to say about that—your dad is typically the meat and potatoes type, so you figure some variety can’t hurt, but if you say that you’ll never hear the end of it, and you’ve already got a headache.

“Where is mom, anyway?” You shift your bag on your shoulder, and your dad clues in, takes it from you and starts walking up the staircase.

“Oh, she’s at the gym, then taking care of some last minute things for the party.” You pause at the base of the stairs, sigh softly.

“Party?” You weren’t told about any party. Your dad keeps walking, and you’re forced to follow.

“Yeah, nothing major, just some people from the office and their spouses coming over for drinks tonight. Maybe some of their kids,” he adds innocently, and you can’t help rolling your eyes.

By kids, he means sons: eligible sons to try to set you up with. You wouldn’t mind being in a room full of hot, single men vying for your attention any other time—in fact, it’s been a little while, and your most recent hookup was lackluster, so you’re a bit more tightly wound than usual—but the kinds of men your parents bring around aren’t your type at all. You’re career driven yourself, but all they want to talk about is how they plan to be the youngest partner at their firm, or the clubs they can get into, or worst of all, money. Your potentially somewhat relaxing vacation just went to shit in no time at all.

“I didn’t bring anything to wear to a cocktail party.”

“I think mom got you a dress, honey. Check your closet after you get unpacked.” He pushes the door to your former bedroom open, and you’re assaulted by the color lavender; somehow you’d actually forgotten how purple it is. “You’ll look beautiful no matter what you wear.” He sets your bag on the bed—oh god, the frilly purple comforter, you may have actually repressed that memory—and you drop your other luggage there too. “I’ll give you some time to get settled in, maybe order some lunch for us? Vesuvios?”

As irritated as you are about the party, it’s sweet that he remembers your favorite restaurant. You went there for dinner after you graduated from high school, college, and law school, so there are lots of great memories associated with the place.

“Do they adhere to the greens and beans diet?” you ask with a grin, and he puts his finger up to his lips to silence you.

“What mom doesn’t know won’t hurt her, right?” You shake your head fondly, and he slips out of your room and leaves you to it.

You start unloading your clothes into the empty dresser, hanging them in the closet that holds things like your prom dresses, graduation gowns, old cheerleading and volleyball uniforms. Every touch of silky fabric is a memory, and at this point in your life most of them are good, even if they weren’t at the time. It’s kind of nice to remember where you came from, when where you are now can be so hectic, so fast-paced you don’t see the forest for the trees.

Feeling nostalgic, you walk over to your desk, where you spent so much time with your face crammed into textbooks it’s not even funny, and flip through your old stationary set—what teenager had her own stationery? You were a total nerd—and photos you’d taken off the mirror but left sitting in a pile to be packed away eventually.

You snap out of the past after that, finish putting your toiletries away, setting up your laptop and chargers where you want them, then shove your empty suitcases in the closet and grab your phone to head downstairs.

You meet up with your dad in the kitchen, where he is opening steaming takeout containers full of Italian food. You grab some plates from the overhead cabinet and lean against the counter, look over the offerings to decide what you’ll have.

“So how are things at the ACLU?” he asks with a bit of a teasing tone. You’re well aware of the fact that he thinks you could be doing more—translation: making more—in private practice, or working for the government like he does, but neither of those things interest you and he is well aware of that.

“They’re really good, actually. We’re working on a disability rights case now that will probably make national news if we win.” It’s been forever since you had penne arrabbiata, since it’s not very easy to eat at your desk without running the risk of staining your blouse with spicy red sauce, so you load up your plate with it, add wilted spinach for color, a piece of garlic bread because it’s garlic bread. You lick your thumb, and your dad points a finger in your direction in that way that means he’s about to give you life advice.

“When you win; if you’re not confident about your capabilities, no one else will be.” You roll your eyes good-naturedly, nod, because that’s a pro tip you’ve heard time and time again. “If you came to work at the bureau, you’d win more of your cases; Constitutional law isn’t easy.” He says that like you don’t already know, like you haven���t been working in your current department for more than a year. You sigh.

“I’m not really the bureau type, dad.” You take your plate over to the breakfast table, sit down and start to pick at your food. Arguing about your chosen career path is enough to make you lose your appetite, even for your favorite dish. Your dad follows, sits across from you.

“You’re so smart, honey, you could be if you wanted to.” He takes a bite of fettuccine alfredo, points his fork at you. “Hey, maybe you could talk to Jim from the Office of General Counsel tonight—or maybe Aaron. You’d be really interested in the work his team does.”

“Who’s Aaron again?” You don’t recognize the name, so he’s probably not one of the attorneys on your dad’s team, but he works closely with so many departments you might have heard it before and missed it.

“Friend from work. He’s the unit chief at the Behavioral Analysis Unit. They’re criminal psychologists or something. Profilers,” he says, snapping his fingers. “That’s what they call them. They get into criminals’ heads, analyze them and interrogate them. I know you minored in psychology, I bet he could get you an internship.” You laugh at that, because he always gives you advice about furthering your career, but that’s a step backward for you and he can't be so dense not to realize it.

“An internship? I’m a little old for that, don't you think? Not to mention I have a job that I love.” You stab at your food, more than a little agitated by the current conversation.

“Never too late to get your foot in the door, sweetie. It’d be great to see you more, that’s all I’m saying,” he adds, ending on a gentler note, and you sigh. Your mom does it too, but your dad is an expert into guilting you into doing what he thinks is best. Unfortunately, you’ve never handled guilt very well.

“Okay. I’ll talk to him, if it means that much to you,” you promise, and you both smile and make easy small talk for the rest of the meal. The dress your mom bought for you for the party is a black, sleeveless, designer cocktail dress, something more form fitting than you would normally wear—she is evidently trying very hard to find you an eligible bachelor tonight. You pair it with your favorite jewelry, simple heels, and when you head downstairs your mom acts like it’s prom night all over again.

“Oh sweetie, you look so beautiful!” She puts her hands on your arms, spins you around. “You’re looking too thin—must be eating a lot of salads on that paralegal salary,” she throws over her shoulder to your dad, and they both laugh. You wish life were a documentary so there was a camera you could look into with an unimpressed expression.

“I’m a staff attorney actually. Fully accredited,” you add, but it’s no use. If you don’t follow in your dad’s footsteps, you will always be seen as living beneath your potential, and therefore always the butt of these types of jokes.

You love them, really, and you know they love you, but they are not the most supportive pair by a long shot. They made sure you got into a great college, let you follow your law school dreams—and you’re grateful, won’t deny their money is a privilege so many other people in your position do not possess—but that was only because those were their dreams as well. As soon as you told them about taking the position at the ACLU, it was like the tables were turned, and instead of your accomplishments, all they saw was wasted potential.

It’s enough to keep you away most of the time, which sucks, but it is what it is. It’s easier to love them from afar, so that’s what you do.

At the party, you shake hands, talk about the weather, introduce yourself to so many middle aged white guys and their sons that their faces all start to blur together. After half an hour you excuse yourself, head to the bar for a drink, and come to stand next to a middle aged white guy you have not introduced yourself to—this one, you’d have remembered, because he is tall, broad, serious looking, and very handsome.

If you were a dog, he’d have your ears perking up, no doubt about that. Instead, your heart just races a little.

“I have to say, these FBI parties are even less fun than I thought they’d be,” you comment as you wait for your drink. The man lifts the corner of his mouth in a slight smile.

“Get a bunch of men who are past their prime in one room, and all you hear about are the glory days. Can’t get a word in edgewise.” The bartender hands you your glass, and you turn to fully face the stranger.

“Why aren’t you talking about your glory days?” You immediately kind of want to slap yourself. Your social skills have been exhausted tonight, apparently. “I’m sorry, that was rude; I didn’t mean to insinuate that you’re… past your prime.” You give him a brief once over, because he deserves it, is even more gorgeous up close than you’d initially assessed; he chuckles softly, sips on his own drink.

“It wasn’t rude, it was… shrewd.” His own gaze lingers on your face, maybe the neckline of your dress, just a little. “Your father’s really happy you’re here, wouldn’t stop talking about it.”

“Yeah, he's one of the most ambitious people I know; he gets an idea in his head and won’t rest until he’s seen it through.” It’s a quality that sounds good on paper, but when it’s constantly being applied to your life, it’s more tiring than anything. “Right now he’s trying to get me to bully one of these poor guys into giving me an internship, as if I’m not twenty-nine years old with a career of my own.” He wets his lips, laughs again.

“I think I’m the poor guy—Aaron Hotchner. I’m the unit chief overseeing the BAU.” Wow, 0 for 2. This guy’s got to think you’re a complete idiot. He extends a hand and you shake it firmly, melt a little because his palm is so broad, his fingers so thick.

“Right, I’m so sorry. Feel free to tell me right now that I’m not the right fit, and I’ll slink off and hide in a corner somewhere for the rest of the night.”

“No need for that. You strike me as someone who would be a great fit for my team, if that was something you actually wanted.”

You aren’t looking for a career change in the slightest, but you can’t deny it would be tempting to report to this man every day.

“It’s not that I’m not curious about what you do; my dad told me a little, and it sounds really intriguing. I just have a lot on my plate right now. If the offer had come up before I started my current job, I would be all over it.” You smile, shrug. “Unless you could have me intern for the next two weeks I’ll be on vacation, I’ll have to politely decline the offer you haven't actually made me.” You smile, and so does he.

“Now who’s ambitious?” he asks with a raised eyebrow; the way he says it, like he finds it charming, makes your face heat a little. You’ve never connected like this at one of your dad’s FBI events, and even though there’s no way it ends well—if anything even starts—you feel the need to see how far you can go. Even if it’s just a little flirting. Even if it’s just tonight.

“Have you ever been here before tonight?” you ask after a beat. You take a sip of your drink, and he mirrors you. You lean in a little closer.

“Once, briefly. I didn’t get a grand tour, or anything.” You smile—bingo—and reach out to place a hand on his arm.

“Oh, I’d be happy to give you one, if you like. Usually my dad is all about it, but he looks occupied.” You both glance across the room at where he is in the middle of a group of men—still discussing their glory days, no doubt—and Aaron looks at you again, nods.

“Sure, I’d love one.” You show him around downstairs, the backyard, the garage—he doesn’t seem to care about the cars at all—and then go upstairs, show him guest rooms, the master bath your mother recently remodeled; he gets a little closer as you go, and you smile more, flirt a bit. You stop outside the door to your room, block it with your body while you talk about the art hanging in the hall; he’s very good at reading your body language, apparently, because he leans closer to you, puts his hand on the doorknob next to your hip.

“What’s this room?” he asks, feigning innocence, and you put your arm over his.

“Oh, no, we’re not going in there. That’s my old bedroom.” He smiles, and you grimace.

“You mean the room I most want to see now? Come on.” He turns the knob, hears it click, and you cover your face with your hand, sigh.

“This is going to be really embarrassing. It’s exactly the way it looked when I went to college, and that was over ten years ago.” You push the door open with your hand, walk in and flick on the light. Aaron follows, chuckles.

“It’s... purple. Cute.” He makes toward the bed, touches one of the frills on the comforter with his big, broad hand. The juxtaposition of your innocent lavender bedding being stroked by the fingers you can’t stop staring at is a very interesting one.

“No, it’s not cute, it’s horrifying,” you say, and when he walks toward the open closet, you begin to regret this little tour. He pulls out your prom dress, your cheerleading uniform.

“Cheerleader, huh? You don’t seem the type.” He looks over at you, and you push it back into the closet, lead him away from it with your hands on his arms.

“I’m not. It was important to my mom.” The two of you are by your dresser now, and he leans in to look in the mirror, at you standing behind him and not his own reflection.

“I see. Do you always put other people's needs before your own?” You sidle up next to him, and he turns to face you.

“This is what you do, right? You… deduce for a living? Like Sherlock?” That makes him laugh, which in turn makes you smile.

“It’s called profiling, but that’s accurate enough.” You feel a challenge brewing inside you, take a step closer to him.

“Okay… What can you tell me about myself by looking around the room? Remember, this stuff is from ten years ago; a lot could have changed.” He crosses his arms, nods.

“You’re right, but your core values wouldn’t have.”

Slowly, he walks around the room, taking things in, touching things, looking back at you briefly and then rifling through parts of your past. It’s a few minutes before he speaks again.

“I think your father wants you to work at the bureau, and you don’t want to because you’ve always felt like you’d live in his shadow if you followed the same career path. You want to blaze your own trail, do what fulfills you, not let his last name be what moves you up the ladder.”

That’s all scarily true, so you nod, cross your arms, lean your butt against your desk.

“I think you’re afraid of commitment because you don’t think any relationship you’re in will ever measure up to what your parents have.” That stings a little, but he’s not wrong. He points to a flyer stuck to a cork board, something about a charity project you’d worked on that revolved around recycling. “Environmentally conscious: I bet you drive a hybrid, and if your dad bought it for you, it’s a... BMW.”

He glances back, and you encourage him to go on. He points to a copy of your Georgetown diploma hanging on the wall, then picks up a cheerleading trophy on your dresser.

“You were a cheerleader to please your mom, went to Georgetown to please your dad, excelled at both; you’re an only child, so you felt you couldn’t let them down. My question is,” he says, looking up at you curiously, “what pleases you?” The words make your heart beat fast; you lick your lips, tilt your head.

“Not much.” He comes closer, arms crossed again.

“Why?” God, that’s a loaded question for a Friday night, for the first day of your vacation. You absently wonder if he’s going to bill you for this impromptu therapy session.

“I find it difficult to ask for what I want,” you ultimately say, and he moves even closer. His stare is probing, and you speculate that he may have been a lawyer before the FBI. The look on his face is the same one you’ve seen in many courtrooms over your short career.

“Of course you do. You’ve never done it before. You've spent your whole life asking other people what they want from you.”

You feel very seen, and you kind of hate it, but you also kind of like it—that he’s able to dissect you like this is a huge turn on. What that says about you, you’re not entirely sure; maybe that you enjoy being seen for who you are—for all that you are—instead of who you know, or who you could have been, for a change.

“I think you didn’t lose your virginity until college—your second year.” It feels like bringing that up is a bold move for him; he doesn’t meet your eyes when he says it. “I would guess you got drunk for the first time around then, too. Your first year you were trying to navigate the feeling of not being under anyone’s thumb anymore; your second year, you finally felt like your own woman, you wanted to try new things, but it made you feel out of control and you don’t like that. Even now you only drink socially, never to get drunk.” He is directly in front of you now, and he reaches out a hand, brushes it over your cheek. “I also think you gravitate toward men you find inappropriate and unattainable so you don’t have to worry about being the reason your relationships fail.”

He looks into your eyes with a questioning gaze. It’s a painfully accurate take, but he softens the blow with the gentle touch.

“Wow, you’re kind of an asshole,” you breathe, but you smile, and he laughs low.

“Maybe. But am I wrong?” You nod your head, and his face falls a little, so you narrow your eyes to mess with him a bit.

“Only about one thing: I actually drive a Kia hybrid. And I bought it myself, for your information.” He smiles, and you press your hands against his chest; it’s crazy how quickly he drops back into the serious expression you first saw him wearing by the bar. “Are you unattainable and inappropriate?”

“I work with your father; we’re the same age. We play golf together sometimes.” He doesn’t seem uncomfortable, doesn’t back away or remove your hands. You slide them down his body, over his stomach, stop at his belt, and he looks the way you feel: tightly wound, aroused, a little breathless.

“That doesn’t really answer my question, Aaron. May I do some profiling of my own?” You look up at him, curious, and he nods.

“Be my guest,” he murmurs, and you lean back. You rake your eyes over his body slowly—there’s no mistaking your appraisal for what it is. “No ring on your finger, but there’s no way you haven’t been married before. My guess is you’re divorced, and it wasn’t your idea.” You look up at his face, smile softly. “Sorry. You weren’t exactly pulling punches either.” He huffs a laugh.

“You’re right: I wasn’t pulling punches. You’re right about the divorce, too. Go on.” You nod, hum.

“Okay. You have a strong moral compass; you always do what’s right, even when it’s difficult. It’s what makes you such a great leader for your team. You like to go by the book, you’re a Fed through and through—but when it comes down to the bureau or the people you care about, you’ll fight the establishment with all you have. You aren’t a blind believer in the government; you have your criticisms, and you aren’t shy about voicing them.”

“Unlike your father,” he says, and you sigh. “You don’t have an appreciation for his work.”

“No, I really don’t.” Your dad specializes in Freedom of Information Act litigation—he does his best to keep the FBI from actually living up to its commitment to be transparent with the American people, and it doesn’t sit right with you, never has. You may both be attorneys, but you could not be more different if you tried. “But I’m profiling you, remember?”

“Right. Please continue.”

“This might be going out on a limb, but I think you went to law school. The way you speak, and the way you looked at me earlier? It was a little like cross-examination. Am I right about that?” His answering smile actually looks pleased.

“You are. I was a prosecutor for a number of years before joining the FBI. I think it’s something you don’t ever really lose.”

“For better or worse,” you say with a smile of your own. Happy with your assessment, you move a little closer again. “One more thing. I don’t think you’re the kind of man who would normally let a woman take you into her bedroom after less than an hour of knowing her. Childhood or otherwise.” You smooth your hands down either side of his tie, over his firm chest and solid midsection. “Maybe you saw something in me you liked?”

“I was... dreading coming here tonight.” He brings his hands up to cover yours, but doesn’t pull them away, just holds them. “If you’ve been to one of these parties, you’ve been to them all—no offense to your father—and I was contemplating a good excuse to leave early, if I’m being honest. Then you showed up at my side—my friend’s mysterious daughter that I’ve heard so much about—and you’re funny, and charming. Insightful. Vulnerable.” He squeezes your hands, presses them closer to his chest. “Beautiful. It’s been a long time since I’ve looked at someone and felt an instant connection. Do you feel it?” His voice is just above a whisper, and you nod lightly.

You aren’t the type of woman to take a man into her bedroom after less than an hour of knowing him, childhood or otherwise, but he makes you want so badly you’re almost ravenous—you’ve felt this way before, maybe twice in your life, but neither of those experiences ended with you getting what you wanted. You really hope this time might be different.

“Kiss me?” He takes a breath and then presses his lips together.

“I shouldn’t.”

“I know. But will you?” After a beat, he does, leaning in and pressing his lips to yours, moving his hands to your face as he deepens it.

It’s not a hard kiss, but rough around the edges, your noses pressed together, mouths seeking contact even as you pull apart for breath. He kisses like he needs it, tastes like bourbon, feels like heaven; it’s steamy, wet, makes your chest heave and your pussy throb. When he walks you backward, gently presses your body against your desk, you hop up onto it easily and pull him closer, between your spread knees.

“Aaron,” you sigh over his lips, and his hands move to your thighs, pushing up your dress so he can get closer to you. You glide your fingers through his hair, plant a hand on the desk, then feel something tip over, hear the soft sound of paper sliding over the edge.

Aaron looks down, picks up a lavender envelope; he holds it up with a question in his eye and an enamored look on his face.

“‘From the desk of…’ You had personalized stationery at eighteen?” His mouth is a little red from the kiss still, and he’s teasing you, perfect; you smile, can’t believe this is happening.

“I liked to write to my congressman… and Ruth Bader Ginsburg,” you pant. He chuckles, kisses you a little softer than before, then moves down your throat, sweeps his tongue over your pulse. “Mmm. Right there.”

He pauses to look up at you, hair mussed from your fingers, and you push his jacket off his shoulders; he shifts to full height, helps you take it off, and you drape it over your desk chair, work the knot of his tie loose.

“Are you sure you want this?” he asks as your fingers slip down the front of his shirt, freeing his buttons. You unclasp his belt, open his pants, and stretch up for a kiss, touching his face; you nod when you pull back.

“Absolutely. Are you?” He nods too, all serious eyebrows you want to kiss, mouth you want back on yours, on your throat, anywhere.

“Absolutely.” You step down off the desk, run your hands over his arms, then kick off your shoes and walk over to the door, close and lock it; when you pass him again, you guide him to the bed and sit in his lap, clutch at his shoulders and kiss him with as much desperation as he showed you before. There’s a lot of heavy breathing, sighing, moans from you both, and if just kissing is this good, you can’t imagine what he’ll be like inside of you.

When you can find it in yourself to stop kissing him, you pull back and climb out of his lap, present the back of your dress so he can ease down the zipper. He pushes it off, large, warm hands gliding over your body until it hits the floor in a heap unbecoming of the designer label. Your mother would lose her mind.

“You are incredibly beautiful,” Aaron says as he moves his hands to your hips, sliding your panties down and leaning in to press his lips to your stomach. You sigh, press a hand to the back of his head while his mouth explores you where you’re soft and sensitive. You’d like it lower, but there may not be time for that tonight. “What do you want with an old man like me?”

“None of that.” You sweep your hands over his shoulders, sink down onto his lap again, and his hands fall to your bare hips, squeezing you softly; you close your eyes for a moment, so overwhelmed by just the simplest touch. “Like you said: I feel a connection.” Your fingers move to push his shirt open, to lift his undershirt so you can get your hands on bare skin and soft body and hair. He groans, and you kiss him, deep and slow, hands moving to take off both shirts and add them to his jacket on your chair. You take a deep breath, reach out to touch his cheek. “Connect with me.”

He takes your hand, brings your palm to his mouth and kisses it, then drags it down so your fingers slide over his lips; you swallow hard, can feel wetness pooling between your legs, so you slide off of him and onto the bed—however sexy it may be to leave your mark on him, you do both have to return to the party at some point.

Sitting up beside him, you touch his body, ease his pants and boxers down; he takes them off along with his shoes, and you pull the comforter out from under you, push it to the side, let yourself lay back and bask in the look and feel of him as he settles between your knees, leans in for a kiss.

It’s even more intense than before, somehow, his thighs against yours, strong arms supporting him, and you drag your nails lightly up his body, tip your head back and sigh when his lips trail from the base of your throat to your jaw.

He moves a hand low, rubs his fingers between your lips and presses one finger inside you, slowly glides it in and out so you’re moaning, sighing his name.

“That feels so good,” you breathe, and he moves his mouth to yours again, soft and wet, the slide of his tongue sinfully delicious. He adds a second finger, earns more gasping moans, then a third; with the help of a capable thumb stroking over your clit, you come, and he kisses the praise right out of your mouth and then pushes inside you.

His mouth doesn’t leave yours, keeps you close as he thrusts inside, gradually lowering his weight onto you until you feel him everywhere: chest soft against yours, stomachs pressing together as you both work your hips, as your hands grasp his back to keep him close, heavy. Connected.

“You’re perfect. You feel incredible, baby,” he speaks against your lips in a rare moment apart, and you hitch your knees up higher, press the heels of your feet against his ass.

You thought he looked turned on before, but now he looks like he’s being consumed by it, like he wants to thrust deeper into you, make a home in your body and never leave; you would be more than okay with that, to spend the next two weeks beneath him, holding him close, sharing breath and sweat and pleasure so complete it changes you profoundly.

He moves a hand behind your head, cradles it, and sucks wet kisses against your throat—nothing so deep as to leave a mark, but that doesn’t mean you’re not panting, whimpering, begging for more.

“Aaron. Hmm, oh. You’re so gorgeous, I—everything about you.” He pulls away from your neck, peers down at you, and you’re sure you’re a sight to behold in your desperation; your palms smooth down his back, to his sides, and you hug him close, squeeze him hard when he comes, panting your name against your throat and pumping roughly inside.

You meet his every thrust, dig your nails into his hips, and he leans forward, covers your mouth with his and grinds against you until your second blissful orgasm shudders through your limbs. You clench tight around him, moan, then slowly sag back against the mattress, more thoroughly satisfied than you’ve ever been in your life.

He shifts, half on top of you and half off, his kisses gradually slowing, his hands sweeping over your shoulders, your face, your arms. When you’re calm, content, you sigh, kiss his hands and cheeks and lips; you’re warm, and you curl around him, overheated skin on skin, and never want to leave.

“Mmm,” he rumbles against your shoulder, mouthing at it, and you sigh, scrape your nails through his hair.

“Mm hmm. Think I can die happy now,” you murmur, and he shifts up to look at you, a smile curving softly from the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t die on me, now.” You smile too, scoot closer for slow kisses. You’re both happy to lay there, quietly kissing, but eventually it’s clear you need to return to the party in order to avoid suspicion—not that you think anyone would ever guess what just occurred.

You dress side by side, turning to have him fix your zipper, reaching up to help him with his tie. When you’re both technically decent enough to head downstairs, you plan to give him a head start, but the two of you get caught up in one more deeply sensual kiss that almost makes you want to just say screw it and take his clothes off again. He can tell, has the barest hint of a smirk on his face when the kiss breaks, and he punctuates it with a soft press of lips before walking out the door.

With your spare few minutes, you look around the room—and at your rumpled, frilly, lavender bed, on which you just had super hot sex with one of your dad’s friends, it’s still kind of sinking in—and wonder what the rest of your vacation could possibly bring that could top this night. At breakfast the next morning, you find out.

You and your parents are discussing the party, who got too drunk to function, who left with the wrong wife, which of your dad’s friend’s sons you got along with most, and then he drops the bomb on you.

“And see, honey, I told you talking to Aaron would be beneficial.” You choke on a bite of scrambled eggs, try to wash it down with a sip of juice; your mom pats you on the back until the moment passes.

“What?” you ask, voice barely a squeak. You clear your throat and try again. “What about Aaron, dad?” He flips the newspaper he’s holding to the next page and peers over it at you.

“I told you talking to Aaron would be beneficial. Before he left last night, he told me all about the internship—it’s nice of him to set it up for the two weeks you’re here, so you can get some experience under your belt.” You briefly think about your experience under Aaron’s belt, but it’s really not the time.

He really set you up with an internship—one he knows you aren’t interested in—based on the offhand comment you’d made about squeezing it into your two week vacation. You’d be kind of irritated at him for making the plans on your behalf, but if it means the next two weeks are anything like last night, he’s going to make it well worth your while.

The internship excites both of your parents, and your mom declares it a girls day, takes you out for some new clothes, since you didn’t bring any workwear, for a manicure and pedicure and then drinks. She talks about what a great opportunity this will be for you, and you don’t have the heart—or maybe you just don’t care anymore—to argue about what great opportunities you’ve already made possible for yourself.

Sunday is for relaxing, and not internally panicking about seeing Aaron again. Friday night was incredible, but you didn’t think it would turn into anything, considering he is your dad’s friend, and you’re only here for a couple weeks.

You have to hand it to him, though: if he enjoyed himself as much as you did, and this internship is his way of getting to spend more time with you, he has managed to do what you haven’t been able for twenty-nine years—find a way to please your parents while finally pleasing yourself. Monday morning, you show up at the BAU office to receive a photo ID badge and fill out some paperwork. You don’t actually get to meet anyone from the BAU until after lunch, and when you do, Aaron is nowhere to be seen.

“Hi, I’m looking for Unit Chief Hotchner?” you say to a fair-skinned woman with long blonde hair and a kind smile. “I’m interning for the next couple weeks.” There is a man with her, Black, tall, bald, with very expressive eyebrows; the eyebrows don’t look like they think very highly of you.

“You’re an intern? A little old, aren’t you?” After a beat, his face breaks into a smile, and you roll your eyes, huff a laugh.

“Charmer. Yes, I’m definitely too old to be an intern; do you have overbearing parents by chance?” He raises his hands, palms up, and takes a step back.

“No, but enough said.” The blonde woman laughs, and he nods in your direction. “I’m Derek Morgan, this is JJ Jareau. Come with me, I’ll take you to Hotch.”

You thank him, follow as he leads you across the room and up some stairs.

“So what’s he like, Agent Hotchner?” you ask, wanting someone else’s opinion of Aaron as a boss, a coworker—anything other than the one night stand that wasn’t. You really know so little about him.

“He’s a good guy; smart, fair, great at what he does. A little tightly wound; could stand to live a little.” He looks back at you with a grin. “He’ll probably remind you a little of your dad.”

God. It almost makes you throw up in your mouth a little.

“You know, I doubt it, but thanks for the warning.” He knocks on a closed door at the end of the hall, and a moment later, Aaron answers it. His expression doesn’t change as Derek introduces you, and when he walks away with a friendly pat on your shoulder, Aaron gestures you in. He closes the door behind you and looks carefully over your face.

“Hi,” he says, and you see that hint of a smirk on his face again. You take a moment to appraise the room—there’s a window with blinds that are closed, a desk and chairs, bookcases, a printer, more windows on the far side, a loveseat. You look back at Aaron with a raised brow.

“Hi. What am I doing here?” His expression gets serious, like he can’t tell if you’re pleased or upset with him for the surprise. You sit down on the loveseat, set your bag down, and he sits down next to you.

“I know you wanted to get your father off your back, and you did say if I could squeeze an internship into two weeks that you’d be interested.” You smile a little, because you did say that. “I thought it might be nice to see you a little more, too. You’re under no obligation to stay,” he assures you, briefly looking down, and then he takes your hand. “But surely there are worse ways to spend your vacation?”

You give him an uncertain look, like you’re really trying to decide what you’d like to do, and then you push up your skirt and swiftly straddle his thighs, press your hands against his shoulders. His mouth falls open a little, and you lean in to catch it with yours.

“I have been thinking about you all weekend,” he mutters into the kiss, wraps his arms around your back. “Have you thought about me?”

“Only every night.” He groans at your words, lets his head fall back a little, and you press your lips to the column of his throat, nip softly with your teeth. “Every morning. Every minute.” You bite at the shell of his ear, kiss it, card your fingers through his hair. “Do I have an actual job to do here?” You pull back, and he raises his eyebrows; you can’t help the grin that takes over your expression. “Because if not, I’m going to focus on making this the best two weeks of your life.”

He pulls you in for another kiss, a little rougher than before, deeper, and you tug on his hair, pant against his cheek when you separate.

“In that case, no. You don’t have a job to do here.” You tilt your head, and he smiles a little. “I'm the boss, I make the rules.” That kind of thing has never done it for you before, but you have to admit it’s making you feel some type of way right now. You sweep your hands inside his jacket, squeeze his sides.

“Mmm, yes you do. Hey, do you think there’s enough room for me to fit under your desk?” He wets his lips, and you climb off of him, walk around to check it out for yourself, bending over his desk in your tight black skirt to peek beneath it. You look up to see Aaron is not shy about taking in the view, and you grin. “Spacious.”

He walks toward you, and when he’s closer, his eyes look dark with need; his hands look like they ache to reach out and touch. You step forward, let yourself be caged in against the desk by his arms, and you arch your back a little, open his belt slowly.

“I didn’t set this up so you would feel obligated to do this.” You sigh, lean up to catch his lips in a soft kiss.

“I know you didn’t. But if I want to?” You tug down his zipper, slip your hand inside his underwear, feel him hot and stiff in your palm. “And you want to?” He nods tightly and you kiss him again, squeeze him softly, sweep your tongue between his lips. “Then let’s.”

You take a step back, push his chair far enough out of the way that you can crawl under the desk, come up on your knees; he exhales deeply, then sinks down into his chair, stretches his long legs so they rest on either side of your body, holds his pants open for you. You look up at him, hope he sees how ridiculously eager you are to do this, and you take his dick out, stroke it a couple times, and cover it with your mouth.

“My god,” he sighs, head resting back against his seat. You hold him with both hands, suck deep and wet, moan a little when he spreads his legs further apart. “Your mouth feels so good, baby. Does this make you wet?” You pull off, move one hand to slide up his stomach, clutch his shirt there.

“Very, but I’m patient. Want to make you come.” He wets his lips, sighs, and you dip your head, lick up the length of him before sucking him back down.

He is all perfect, desperate noises, soft grunts and moans, gently palming your head as he gets closer, and you’re pretty sure he’s about to get off when there’s a knock at the door. He mutters a curse, and you squeeze his stomach, determined to make him come in the next five seconds. He looks like he’s going to lose his mind.

“Just a minute,” he manages, his voice strained, and he puts his hands on your arms, but you stroke and suck him quickly, actually sigh in relief when he spills in your mouth; your only regret is that he couldn’t be louder.

As soon as he’s through coming, you duck under the desk to wipe your mouth, and he hurries to fix his fly, to close his belt. There’s another knock, and he exhales, calls for whoever is on the other side to come in.

He accidentally bangs his knee off the desk, winces, and you lean back against it, panting, your heart racing.

“Aaron!”

Your eyes snap closed. What are the actual chances of this? You don’t know enough about karma to have an opinion on it, but you come to the sudden realization that you must have done something wrong in a past life.

“Hey, what are you doing in our neck of the woods?” Aaron asks, managing to sound like he is in fact not talking to the father of the woman who just swallowed his come.

“Looking for my little girl, of course. Had to see what she was getting up to on her first day at the FBI.”

“She’s actually… downstairs. In the mailroom. Interns start at the bottom and work their way up.” You stifle a laugh, because despite your compromising position, that’s kind of funny.

“Oh, okay. Agent Morgan thought she was up here, but I guess she must have snuck by him. Would you tell her I stopped by?”

“Absolutely. She’ll be happy to hear it,” he says, and you think you might be out of the woods, but you hear your dad’s voice again.

“Hey I almost forgot to mention: Monday Night Football tonight, got a bunch of guys coming over to watch the game. You interested?”

“You know, that would be great. You can text me the details. Thanks for the invitation.”

“Sure, of course. I really appreciate you taking care of my girl.” You have to bite your lip this time, and Aaron taps his foot against your hip.

“It’s my pleasure. She’s really wonderful. You should be proud.”

“I am. I’ll text you the details,” he says, and then the door closes and Aaron pulls back, looks down at you beneath the desk. You kind of just stare at each other for a minute.

“Close call?” you say with a shrug, and he helps you to your feet, then lifts you up and sets your ass on the edge of his desk. He grabs your face for a messy kiss, and you cling to him, breathless when he pulls back.

“What does it say about me that I’m turned on again?” he asks, and you shake your head, pull him close for another kiss.

“I don’t know, but I’m really turned on, too. Can you—” That’s as far as you get before he strides over to the door, flips the lock, and comes back to push your skirt up, tug your panties down to your knees so quickly it makes you gasp. He gets on his knees slowly, looks up at your face, and puts his hands on your hips, takes a few deep, thorough licks of your pussy. “Oh, my god.” You put your hand on the back of his head, drop your ass harder against the desk and press your other palm against it for support.

He is as enthusiastic as you were for him, slipping his tongue between your lips, gliding rhythmically over your opening but not pressing in, the tease. It feels insanely good, so much but not quite enough.

“Aaron. Oh, mmm—please. Please.” You sigh, dig your fingers into his hair, and he puts his hands under your ass and tilts you back on the desk, dives lower to start thrusting inside you with his tongue. “Yes, yeah, right there,” you murmur, and you rock your hips a little; your hand slips, sending you further back on the desk so that you’re almost laying back on it, and it makes you feel so deliciously dirty that you groan, grab at the collar of his jacket at the back of his neck.

“You okay?” he asks, pulling back to look up at you, and you nod, frantic; he licks his lips, lifts your legs and puts them over his shoulders, then dips down to stroke his tongue inside you, to press a finger inside alongside it.

“Holy—oh, yes.” You toss your head back, whine, and come around his finger while his tongue flicks in and out until you’re left breathless, spent.

You press yourself up to sitting, and Aaron stands, kisses you deeply, hands on your face while you’re still slick on his tongue. After a couple of minutes, he helps you get cleaned and straightened up, his kisses soft presses of lips this time.

“I should try to get some work done,” he says, but he doesn’t sound like he wants to; after that, you can’t really blame him.

“That’s okay; I brought my laptop, so I can work on some stuff too, if you don’t mind.” He doesn’t of course, and you get set up at the other end of his desk. You’re both plugging away at your work when you’re reminded of something from earlier; you close the lid of your computer and look over at Aaron, head tilted. “I didn’t take you for someone who likes football.” He smiles, taps his pen against his chin.

“I don’t. But I figured you’ll be there.” You smile back.

“Yeah, I’ll be there. Maybe I’ll see if my old cheerleading uniform still fits—you know, just to go with the theme.” You open your computer back up, but the look on Aaron’s face out of the corner of your eye is very, very promising. “Mmh, that feels good,” you murmur, one hand on Aaron’s shoulder and the other on his thigh; he is propped up against your pillows, massaging your bare breast and your clit while you roll your hips in his lap. Your cheerleading skirt fits, mostly, but you couldn’t zip it all the way; still, it’s the only thing you’re wearing, and you can’t deny the whole situation is so hot it hurts.

“You feel so incredible. Taking me so well.” He can’t kiss you in this position, and you can tell he wants to—you really want him to—so you feel a little like a tease as you work your ass and thighs atop him. “You know you’re beautiful, but I can’t stop saying it. You’re perfect, baby—in this little skirt?” He moves the hand from your breast to your hip under the skirt, squeezes you there. “So sexy. Do you remember any cheers for me?”

You groan, roll your eyes.

“Not worth the orgasm to embarrass myself,” you say, and he lifts his hips, slams up into you hard. “Mmh. Okay, almost worth the orgasm, but not going to do it.” He lifts an eyebrow, pumps his hips up again.

“Really? Not even if I…” He lunges forward, lifting you out of his lap and making you laugh, then maneuvers you onto your stomach, gets on his knees behind you, flips up the skirt.

“God, Aaron,” you sigh, and he presses his thighs right up against your ass, slides inside, pumps slow and steady while squeezing your cheeks, pulling you back toward him. Your fingers dig into the stupid, frilly bedspread, which will probably turn you on for the rest of your life, now, and you move back against his thrusts, moan.

“Worth it now?” he asks, filling you so completely, and you pant, hum.

“Wouldn’t you rather I just moan your name?” He leans forward at that, hands planted up under your arms, and leans in to speak into your ear; the way he’s pressed against you, the angle is perfect, and you’re right on the edge when his lips brush your throat.

“Yeah, why don’t you do that instead.” It takes about two seconds for you to come, and you aren’t shy about it, let his name fall from your lips in an endless string of praise. He hammers against your ass, the roughest he’s been—and god, does it feel good—then comes inside you murmuring your name.

He pulls out, rolls you over, and you finally kiss, make it count; it’s like the first night, how you can’t get enough of each other, messy, desperate, curling tongues and soft, eager lips, but you know you can’t keep it up forever, because his presence downstairs will be missed much sooner than Friday’s party.

You help him get dressed—in jeans and a blue polo, maybe the only time in your life a polo has made you wet—and then throw on a t-shirt and jeans of your own, head downstairs. You detour for the kitchen to grab a couple beers while he heads into the living room, and then you plop down next to him on the couch and hand him one like you weren’t just defiling your childhood bedroom yet again.

“There you are,” your dad says when he registers your presence—it’s impossible to get him to look away from the tv when a good game is on. “So how was your first day at the office? Think you’re going to like it there?”

“Yeah, I don’t know why I was resistant for so long.” You shift, put your leg under your butt, and take a sip of your beer. “It’s not going to be a career for me, but I have a really good feeling about the next two weeks.”

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[dilly-oh]

Rent-a-Boyfriend

I need to get drunk, FAST, Kakashi thinks, taking a seat at the bar and signalling to the bartender. He wants to forget this evening ever happened as quickly as possible. He is never going on another blind date arranged by his so-called friends again - the guy they’d set him up with was some creepy artist with a ponytail who straight up asked to sculpt his dick, and when he politely declined, told him it was okay, size didn’t matter to him. Naturally, Kakashi’d dipped the moment the guy was distracted flirting with some other dude and scurried off to a nearby bar to drown his woes and seriously consider ghosting his friends forever.

Speak of the devil, his phone starts buzzing in his pocket, but he ignores it in favor of taking a swig of beer instead. He is NOT talking to them right now. Just because they all found love doesn’t mean he needs to as well, especially not with their ‘help’. They make it seem so easy, like he isn’t even trying. Yeah, right. It isn’t as if the perfect man is going to just fall into his-

“Oh my God, help me,” a man hisses, barging over and plopping right into his lap. Kakashi gets a faceful of long brown hair (which is quite delightful considering it’s wonderfully soft and smells like flowers) and has to repress a giggle as it tickles his nose before remembering he’s supposed to be in a bad mood. Nice hair or not, Kakashi is about to shove the stranger off when he twists around to look up at Kakashi with the most gorgeous brown eyes he’s ever seen, wide and pleading for mercy. A worried frown wrinkles his forehead, crinkling the faded scar over the bridge of his nose, and he bites his lips anxiously. Suddenly Kakashi will do anything for this man, including murder. “My asshole ex is here.” Okay, he was kidding about the whole murder thing, but he’s not above a firm talking-to. Maybe even a long-winded discussion about boundaries if need be. “Please, please pretend to be my boyfriend so he’ll fuck off and leave me alone.”

Kakashi blinks. 

Pretend? Hell, he would love to actually BE this cutie’s boyfriend, where’s the application, sign him the fuck up. Kakashi almost says this aloud, but the desperate, almost wild look in the man’s eyes quiets his instinctual smartass remark and forces him to actually take things seriously for once. He nods imperceptibly and wraps his arms around the man’s waist, pulling him closer just as a douchey-looking guy with silver hair struts up, glaring at him poisonously.

“Who the fuck is this?” he spits out.

“Piss off, Mizuki,” the man in his lap snaps back. “He’s my boyfriend, obviously. Why don’t you go vape in the alleyway or something?”

“Bullshit. I don’t believe you.” Mizuki’s eyes narrow dangerously as he studies Kakashi. “...Prove it. Prove that you’re actually dating him.” The man stiffens in Kakashi’s lap.

“Don’t be ridiculous! He doesn’t have to prove anything-”

“Leave him alone, he gets enough stress from teaching brats every day,” Kakashi cuts in. The man jerks around in his lap, gaping in surprise for a moment before carefully schooling his face. “He was up late correcting papers again last night. I felt bad, so I brought him his favorite Ichiraku ramen for lunch and walked the dog for him. I even offered to play CoD with his little brother.” He leans forward, pulling the man closer to his chest protectively. “Now...why don’t you get lost?” 

“...Fuck you.” Mizuki’s glare darkens even further. 

“Fuck you, too.” Kakashi sends him off with a cheery wave that turns into a middle-finger once the guy’s back is turned. 

“How the hell did you know all that stuff about me?” the man in his lap asks once Mizuki slithers away to lurk in the shadows. He looks up at Kakashi uneasily, almost frightened. “Have you been...stalking me or something?”

“Never met you before in my life,” Kakashi replies, then goes on to explain. “According to my friends, not only am I a smug know-it-all and complete smart-ass, I’m also incredibly observant.” He takes a deep breath and begins. “You have red ink marks on your fingertips, presumably from a cheap red pen. The only reason for you to be using one of those is if you’re a teacher, grading papers, and judging from the bags under your eyes, I can easily guess you’ve spent more than a few nights up late grading. You have a rather fresh stain on your shirt, ramen, judging from the smell, with a unique aromatic spice added to the broth that’s only used at Ichiraku - I recognize it, having eaten there a few times. I know you have a dog because there’s fur on your pants, but it’s too high up for it to be from a cat, so therefore it must be from a medium-sized dog, perhaps a Shiba-Inu going by the length of hair and reddish tint. And as for your brother, the cell-phone in your pocket has a case that is a rather unfortunate shade of neon orange. Given your fashionable outfit and kempt appearance, you’d never have picked it yourself, therefore it had to have been a gift, and a sentimental one at that. A parent would never have purchased something so ridiculous for you, and you wouldn’t actually use it if it was a gag gift from a friend, so it could only have come from a younger sibling, obviously a brother, who I assume is teenaged based off the practicality of buying you a case for your cell-phone instead of something silly or useless like a keychain.” He finishes in a rush and takes a breath. 

“...Oh,” the man breathes out softly, his eyes wide with awe. Then he frowns. “Wait. How did you know about the Call of Duty thing?”

“He’s a teenager,” Kakashi snorts. “Of course he’s into fucking CoD.”

“Ugh, true,” the man laughs, relaxing in Kakashi’s arms, which he, admittedly, doesn’t want to remove. “God, is there anything you don’t know?”

“Your name and number,” Kakashi blurts out, then immediately wants to slap himself. What is he, an idiot? Hitting on this man right after he’s been accosted by his ex? That’s just...it was just-

“Damn, that was smooth.” The man leans back in his lap, looking him up and down, considering. “...I’d say you earned the name, at least. I’m Iruka.”

“Kakashi. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” Iruka cocks his head and hums. “You know, it was kinda hot when you went all Sherlock like that.”

“My friends wouldn’t agree,” Kakashi scoffs, deciding his arms feel quite good where they are, as does Iruka. “Especially after I ruined Asuma and Kurenai’s surprise pregnancy announcement-”

“You didn’t.” 

“I thought it was obvious! Her feet were swollen!” 

Iruka laughs so hard he almost falls out of Kakashi’s lap.

Almost.

“Anyway,” Iruka says once he can breathe properly again, “thanks for pretending to be my boyfriend, I really appreciate it.”

“My pleasure,” Kakashi replies with cheer. “I was more than happy to offer my services.” 

“Then you wouldn’t mind keeping up the act until my ex leaves, or I do?” Iruka asks, nodding at the shadows where Mizuki is slumped over a beer, glaring at them. “What are your going rates?”

“I’ll give you a discount,” Kakashi tells him. “My only payment is you stay in my lap the entire time.”

“Deal.” Iruka grins wickedly up at him, throwing an arm over his shoulder and getting comfortable. “Although, as my pretend boyfriend, you should totally buy me a drink.” Kakashi grins back.

“Sure thing, babe.” 

Maybe he won’t have to pretend for long.  

(Written for @kakairu-fest KakaIru Month 2021, Day Twenty-Four Prompt: Fake Dating)

[emilycollins00]

Watching over you (Sakuya centric)

I’ve been working on this for so long honestly at one point I didn’t know if it would ever see the light, but thankfully here it is! 💕

-

She believes she would recognize his smile even if she lost her sight. Even if she couldn’t touch him anymore and all she could do was listen. Because when he does it, his sounds are bubbly light and silky, tickling her skin. And when he pouts, on those rare occasions, they’re sharper and a bit of a mess, but she adores it nonetheless.

His son had his husband’s smile, that was unquestionable. She knew the moment she laid her eyes on him on that spring afternoon, cherry and chubby cheeks making way to match his hair. The first time Sakuya laughed-actually pretty soon after being born, like he’d been awaiting impatiently all those months inside her belly- she distinguished that familiar brightness and peace. It was no wonder he was a spring baby. She clutches him tightly against her chest, and wonders if she’ll ever feel sad again.

“Good sleeper as always” a man remarks, entering the living room “He gets that from you, you know”

“Let’s cross fingers he stays like this when he starts growing up too” she chuckles, and he joins, looking at his son with yearning. Sakuya might look almost like him, but from what he had learnt, he definitely takes more after his wife in terms of personality. He is curious and gentle, just like her.

He sits down on the sofa resting with them, and she leans in. Sakuya is still fast asleep, but she has this sudden, selfish wish to wake him up, just to enjoy those big crimson eyes- one of the few physical traits similar to her- again.

“Our little miracle” she hears his husband whispers. The words hit her as shaky, like a soft earthquake. She turns to look at him and finds his cheeks wet. He tries to move away so the tears don’t hit the baby, but a few still fall on her.

“He has your smile, did you notice?” she says.  

He wipes his eyes, smiling embarrassed while Sakuya squirms, curling his tiny fingers around the blanket that they picked a few weeks before he was born. 

It's not been that long since Sakuya entered in their lives. But both know him already like a part of themselves. Every strand of hair. Every like and dislike. And they’ll learn more and more about him, for the rest of their lifes, and his. Even when they are gone. That much is true.

.

Sakuya Sakuma had no real clear memory of his parents.

He could recount all he remembered of his mom on one hand, and from his dad on the other. As time passed and he grew up though, those memories became tangled, sinking deeper in his brain, the list getting shorter.

So short that at a certain point, Sakuya noticed he couldn’t remember his mother’s soft laugh or his father’s clear smile anymore. His relatives never really bothered to keep photos of them, so he desperately held onto the memories of his mother’s crimson eyes and his dad’s scratchy face by drawings and sketches he made himself.

It was one of the things he regretted most whenever he went to pray during their anniversary, not really knowing how they looked like.

“…it was really close, but Tsumugi-san and the rest of the winter troupe managed to win! So now we get to keep performing at Mankai. Here, see?” Sakuya turned to his school bag excited, taking out of it a piece of paper and placing it carefully next to the small bouquet of flowers “This is one of the tickets. I asked director for one to keep as a memory. We even made a celebration afterwards which was super fun, though Sakyo-san insisted we should all be more mindful of our still new image” he giggled, reminiscing the not too long-ago event “Ah, but I’m doing my best to balance school work of course! So you really don’t have to worry”

He hadn’t told anyone at the dorm about today. Not because he thought it was troubling, but it was something he had always done alone. It felt strange talking about it, although he was sure no one would have minded it, had he asked for company.

“Director, the spring troupe… everyday is so much fun now thanks to everyone” he lifted his head to the sky and then to the names engraved on the graves “It would have been nice if you met them”

But just as the show had to go on, life did too, Sakuya knew that more than anyone. So dusting away the dirt from his knees, he stood up. And when he arrived at the dorm, he did his best to put on the brightest smile. And if anyone noticed any change in his behaviour, no one mentioned it.

.

Now it was past midnight, and he couldn’t sleep.

It had been a while since he had a night like this. When it happens, he usually goes to Itaru’s or Azuma’s- sometimes even director’s- but this time the uneasiness was manageable, so he rose softly from the bed, shuffling around and leaving the room.

Sakuya walked carefully across the hallway to the living room and then into the kitchen, where the sound tended to distance itself from the bedrooms.

As usual, there was a plate of scones left by Omi on the cupboard, just in case someone woke up. He decided to warm a cup of milk and set some aside.

He leaned against the sink until milk was warmed up, inhaling the steam from the cup and heading towards the courtyard. After setting everything besides him on the bench, he sat and stared out into the night sky, watching stars twinkle and listening to the crickets sing.

His attention was suddenly caught by a plushie on the floor. A pink one. He grabbed it, staring at it tilting his head. He had never seen it in the dorm before.

“Sakuya?”

The male voice he heard didn’t match anyone’s in the dorm but weirdly enough, it didn’t alert him. On the contrary, it set off a strange nostalgic feeling withing him, somehow. He questioned it, of course, as he left the plushie aside and turned. And then he saw them.

It was as if every memory and repressed thought emerged all at once against his chest with blazing strength.

He stood up slowly, arms laying limply on his sides. The silence before him was deafening and Sakuya was sure his ears were ringing. His eyes definitely wide.

He felt his throat clench painfully with the force it takes to not let tears out. Because it had to be a dream, but their eyes were glistening under the stars and they felt warm.

This time, it was his mother who spoke, so sweet and softly he could have melted on the spot “You’ve grown”

At this point, he was too exhausted to think logically. His feet began moving almost at the same time as theirs did towards him. All the doubts, the regrets, the worries that’d been stealing his sleep, kept gradually letting go of him with each step he gave. He threw himself into their arms, making small, gasping noises at first, and then he was crying, sobbing in earnest, fingernails digging into his parent’s skin so hard he feared he may be hurting them. But they didn’t pull away, didn’t even consider it.

‘I miss you, I miss you so much’ he kept whispering over and over, and every time he did, they would tighten their grip ever so slightly.

Slowly, he managed to calm down and step back, but gripped both of their hands tightly, as if telling them not to let go.

“Sakuya-”

“I’m sorry” he inhaled sharply, trying to calm down. He didn’t want to sound as if he was complaining “I’m doing okay. M-Mankai has become my home, you see. They welcomed me when they didn’t have to and you- I know you would have taken care of me, if you could have so-”

Sakuya looked up, and it startled him, seeing his mother crying too “Mom…?”

She let go of his hands and pulled him against her “Oh, honey” she breathed shakily “We are so sorry for leaving you alone”

“No, please” Sakuya said, his eyes were burning. That was what he didn’t want to happen “I’m sorry, I know it wasn’t- that’s not your-”

“But your feelings are still there” she coaxed, caressing his cheek, taking away the tears from the corner of his eyes “And you’re allowed to feel them” 

“We have been watching you all this time” his father placed his hand on his back.

And Sakuya broke down again.

Because just how many times had he fervently wished for that to be true. To hear them. How many times when he was in school and saw children with their families he swallowed and smile, imagining himself in their place.

He was trembling, filled with too many things he wanted to say that he was overwhelmed where to start.

“Did- Did you see me on stage…?”

His mother cupped his face between her hands and nodded, smiling. She looked beautiful under the moonlight, Sakuya couldn’t help thinking. He wanted to stay there, enjoying her crimson eyes, just to make sure they still matched his own “You are the light and joy of our lives, honey. And that smile of yours will be the light that will guide and help others in the future, I’m sure”

“We love you, Sakuya” his father nodded, kissing the top of his head and wrapping his arms around them tightly once more. He was trembling “From the bottom of our hearts. Never forget that”

He doesn’t know how long they stood there hugging, taking in each other’s warmth, but it lasted until all of his tears had stopped and dried. And when they broke apart, this time, he managed to give them a real smile.

“I’ll do my best to make you both proud”

They showered him with a bigger one “Being who you are is enough, Sakuya. We are already proud. We always will”

“I love you, Mom. I love you, Dad... so much”

.

Next time he blinked, the wall welcomed Sakuya into his room. He was lying on the side, the clock next to his bed reading five in the morning.

He turned so that his body faced the ceiling, giving a short glance around still disoriented. He didn’t remember what he was dreaming about, memories were fazing, but his chest was about to burst with a relief he hadn’t felt in a while flooding over him.

It was so overwhelmingly cozy it made him shiver.

He looked outside the window, noticing one of the stars blinked a bit brighter than the rest. Sakuya decided to embrace himself against the pillows, placing a hand over his chest.

It was a feeling he couldn’t name, but it felt warm, and he smiled.

____________________________________________________________

I stan Sakuya x Happiness

Have a wonderful day, loves 💕

[avversiera-writes]

overstepping, part 2 of 2 - tobirama senju/reader

Summary: In which Tobirama does not know how to express his concerns properly. And it turns to a mess, and then some. Smut ensues. 

Author’s Note: Had to cut the whole thing in like half! link to part 1 below <3

PART 1

Mito chuckles softly as the two of you discuss your quips with your Senju husbands. The two of you spend dinner together, like you have done so these past few days, as Hashirama is off somewhere in the gambling district, and your own Senju husband still cooped up in his office. Mito had sent one of their sons to find their father before he made a fool of himself, but knowing Hashirama, he is also good at evading problems.

Probably too good. Apparently, Senju men are skilled at this.

You are fortunate that Mito is your sister in law, because you would not know how to keep your sanity at this point.

“I love him, and I know who I married, but…” You trail off, deep in thought. You remember the peculiar summoning jutsu that Tobirama was working on earlier. It is not just a summoning jutsu and something about it scratches at your mind uncomfortably.

As a shinobi, you have good instincts of what can go wrong, and this definitely has that vibe.

“It gets hard,” Mito supplies. She knows. She has been married to Hashirama since their late teenage years.

“It does. I know he got scared for me after that mission that got me hospitalized,” you say. “Now, he’s showing his concern weirdly.”

The two of you share a comfortable silence.

“Why don’t you get some rest?” Mito suggests. “I’ll talk to my husband to reason with yours.”

You let out a breath of relief. “Alright. The two of them get along well without us, anyways.”

~

You spend the rest of the week attending to your household, doing your best to act as Tobirama’s wife, since you have nothing else to occupy your mind. You also read up on the summoning jutsus that Mito let you borrow, and the more you read up on the symbols and the patterns of the lines, the more uneasy you felt.  

You definitely saw the markings for life and death on that paper. And you definitely recognize the scrawls of bringing or pulling something out of–well, perdition? You are pretty sure it is heading in that direction, though just the mere thought of Tobirama playing god sends a chill to your bones.

You wait for him to get home, which he surprisingly did at an early time.

You want to ignore him, but days and well months of unsaid conflict is starting to burst through the lid that you capped on your emotions. You try to be understanding of your husband, to be supportive because you are proud of him being the Hokage, but there is only so much you can take from him. Your career as a shinobi is at a standstill, and your husband spends days cooped up in that stuffy office doing Kami knows what, preventing you from taking any other missions that suit you. When you try to help him and lighten up his duties as Hokage, he finds errors in your efforts and becomes irate and unyielding.

“Where were you?” You wince at the way your voice sounds, it is the type of voice you use to interrogate people for information.  

Tobirama gives you a hard look. “I did not appreciate my brother speaking of our marital affairs, and you behind my back.”

You shake your head, your jaw tensed. “You do not get to change the subject. Where were you?”

“At the office, where my brother cornered me.” Tobirama glares at you, but you don’t back down.

You’re not easily intimidated like that.

“How can you blindside me like that? Stop intruding into my work and just be my wife!” Tobirama snaps.

You thank the gods that your servants have retreated into their quarters on the other side of the house. You hate to broadcast your arguments to people that have potential to gossip.

You step forward towards him and you meet his eyes without wavering. “I am a shinobi foremost and your wife second!” You shout back.

You can tell that Tobirama came at you, charged with that temperous energy he possesses, but you are his wife and you know how to be prepared for his temper tantrums.

The two of you start arguing about anything and everything. You were venting to him about your struggles as his wife while he is trying to out-shout you by telling you how unfair you are being and how you are becoming more of a distraction than a helping hand.

Both of you do not listen as you ramble off against each other.

Then, when you paused to take a break, Tobirama is shouting, “I’d have thought we would be more like my brother and his wife! I know I am not the best husband–”

Frustrated and confused about what he is talking about, you shout back, “Oh good, you know! Tobirama, we would never be like your brother and his wife! We were never like them in the first place!”

Tobirama is staring at you wildly. “What is that supposed to mean?” Tobirama snaps. “What do you mean? That I was wrong in marrying you? You should have known what you were getting into!”

You note how tired and vulnerable he sounds, and if you had half a mind to be calm, you might have sensed the insecurity deeply embedded in his voice, but you are too wind up in your anger.

“Tobirama, what are you even on about?!” You grow, sensing that whatever you were fighting about in the first place is lost between you two. “This has nothing to do with what we’re fighting about in the first place!”

This situation is just blowing up from one pointless topic to another until everything comes flooding out, until every frustration is forming words between the charged space between you and your husband.

“What am I to you, Tobirama?!” You shout at his face. You are only one breath apart. You have not noticed how close you are to his space now.

Tobirama stares at you intensely, red eyes lit like fire and his breath a little shaky.

Suddenly, he grabs your neck. For a split second, you thought Tobirama is legitimately going to kill you with the way he is glaring and scowling at you, but then his lips are on yours. Violently, he kisses you. You kiss back, albeit with more teeth and nails involved. There was more fighting than kissing involved, but you both keep at it since this is the closest you’ve been with each other for months.

You gasp as Tobirama’s tongue darts through your lips without as much of a yes, and you push back with as much force. Your fingers tangle in his white hair and you grip and pull at it, hard. He backs you up to the wall, a hand still on your neck, but it is more like it is resting there. It does not do anything else.

At that moment, you realized that he can never really hurt you. As much as you provoke him, and even in the heat of a moment, he does not follow through.

Frustrated and desiring that you wish that he is closing his fingers around your neck, you rip his shirt off and clung to him even closer. You want him to do it, gods, it is making you crazy. You want him to fight back even harder because it is rare that he expresses frustration with you. His hands travel down your waist and hips, gripping them with a strength that he uses to spar with you.

You jump to his waist, and he pushes you against the wall again. You dig your nails into the skin of his pale back, and run them down hard enough to leave marks, eliciting a grunt from him. Your lips crash against each other, messy and filled with bites. At one point, the two of you growled, the result of months of repressed frustration finally bleeding through the cracks of your walls.

Tobirama moves towards your bedroom, and once he has managed to maneuver your bodies inside, he throws you down into the bed. He is immediately on your skin, his mouth on places that drive you insane. He is pulling your clothes off of you, and touching you everywhere, gripping your arms, your breasts, your legs. You resist moaning, but it is almost impossible when he is slipping his finger through your needy, tight hole. Above you, his eyes watch you closely. You can feel him tremble slightly, and suddenly you realized that being in contact with you like this so quickly might be too much for his senses.

You can feel how desperate he is to get closer to you, but for now, the only thing you can do is open your legs wider to let him in. You feel another finger slip and you arc towards him languidly. You catch his other hand, and you pull it so that you can hold and entwine your hand with his above your head. You feel his reluctance, but you want more. You want more, and his fingers inside of you is not enough.  

“Damn it, Tobirama,” you let out in a quick rush of air.

You feel him turn stoic, and you pull at his hand harder, and he presses flush against you. You catch his mouth and grind into his fingers, and you close your eyes as it sends a pleasurable tingle through your spine. You feel your torso tighten as you keep grinding against his fingers, and above you, Tobirama’s breaths accelerate.  

His fingers dig in you, curving at the right spot, and you cry out in pain when he starts to rub his thumb against your clit. He sits up, and he fucks you open, eyes intent on watching your face. Your body writhes in pleasure, and Tobirama does not stop. You throw your head back, and you start making these gasping choking sounds that come raw from your throat.

Tobirama is also breathing harshly, and just when it is getting too much for you to come, he stops. You let out a whimper, and a groan of frustration, urging him on. To do more.

Then, he is relentlessly slamming his cock into you and driving you upwards the bed. He is murmuring curses because of how tight you are, but it does not dissuade his rhythm; each slam is with reckless abandon, his hands are rough on your hips. Then, he is pressing his hands against your inner thighs, laying it flat on the bed so that it is spread open wide for him.

You glance down and see Tobirama’s dick getting swallowed by your hole, and you moan deliriously at the lewd scene before you. He is thick and heavy and hot inside you, and that knowledge has you mewling, completely forgoing logic.

You were supposed to be fighting. You still were, you suppose.

Unable to control your shaking legs, you settle for clenching your walls around Tobirama’s dick, and find purchase on his sturdy shoulders. Your body ripples from the sheer pleasure and you cry out as Tobirama grabs your legs, throws one over his shoulder and leans forward. The new angle is jarring, and you think you see stars.

For a second, you blacked out because the next thing you know, Tobirama is fucking you sideways, both of your legs resting held up over his arm.

Your voice keens, and you cry out for him. You start whimpering and screaming as an intense fire spreads from your lower region and towards your whole body. Your nerves are alight with a heat you have never felt before. Someone might as well have hit you with the infamous Uchiha fireball jutsu. You forget there are such things as words as you start whimpering and screaming. Sweat drops from your forehead, your chest. Above your screaming, you hear the sound of skin slapping against skin.  

Tobirama drives into you even more intensely, grinding and slamming into you deeply, and you feel like you are about to split into two. He leans over once again, prying your legs apart and pulling them around his waist; finally, and you throw your arms around his shoulder to hold onto him. His mouth goes to your breast, his tongue hot and slick against your skin and your nipples, and the hot sensation of his mouth makes you come. You cry out and arc up against him, but he keeps his pace, he keeps fucking you with no intention to stop.

Your hands go to his biceps and you feel his skin underneath your nails, feel the way you etch sharp crescents on its surface. Tobirama then kisses you full on the mouth, invading, insistent; he sucks on your tongue and flicks his own against the roof of your mouth.

The heat starts building up again, and this time, it builds much faster.

“Tobi!” You scream. You arc against him languidly, and your movements become jerky and erratic. “Tobi-hhmm-I’m so close, I’m–”

His hips jerks, and he fucks you with a speed and tenacity that makes your mind blank completely. Your body tenses, and you scream, your nails tear into the skin of his back again, and he still keeps going, until you feel his hot seed spill into you, making the slapping of skin even more lewd than necessary. You feel it trickle down to your thigh, and you whimper, your heart loud in your ears and your breath fighting to become even. Each movement Tobirama makes sends intense tingling through your body, so you hold him still. The two of you do not break away from each other, opting to just stay conjoined through the most intimate parts of your body.  

Tobirama’s breathing is harsh against your neck, and you feel his lips press against your collarbone tenderly.

When your high has finally come down, Tobirama pulls out of you slowly, puts an arm under your neck, and he lies down with you resting against him snugly.

“Did…I hurt you?” He murmurs.

You let out a small chuckle, remembering how much you tore at his back. “I think…I’m in better condition than you.”

He lets out a quick rush of air that is an equivalent to a laugh.

“Tobi…” You start, a bit drowsy. Everything feels cold and faraway, now that you had a taste of the fire between the two of you. “I want to help you. I really do, but you have to let me in. I am your wife. Not a stranger.”

“I must apologize. You must have felt frustrated and angry with me for taking away aspects of your life you deem important. You deserved better, and you knew that.”

“I did.”

You turn to him, despite the ache settling in your bones and rest a hand on his face. “But I swear to my life and to my clan’s name that I will help you become a great Hokage.”

Tobirama gives you a hint of a smile.

“Though, we do have plenty to discuss,” you murmur against his skin. You know that it will be difficult to pry Tobirama away from his own thoughts, but you are going to try.

Tobirama mumbles something incoherent, and the two of you surrender to sleep.

~

Tobirama glares at you as you sort through his documents right in front of him. You ignored his suggestions about how he wanted it arranged, but then you gave up and just followed what he was saying because he had suddenly stood up from his desk to wrestle his things from your hands. His argument is that you do not know what is important, so instead, you just ask him in your passive aggressive way and then your tone sparks another nonsense debate.

Two can go at this game.

At the end of the day, you go home together. Then, you stop him when you spot a quiet corner stand. You pull him towards it direction, and it dawns on you that this will be the first time you two will be eating together in a while.

The person in the stand is immediately alert and a little nervous from the unprompted visit of the new Hokage, and you tell them your food orders. Tobirama opts to just watch you, something he does a lot when the two of you have been apart for a long time.

“Do you know who I am, Tobi?”

Tobirama stares at you, then his face grows confused. “What?”

“I am asking you if you know who I am.”

“What kind of nonsense question is this? Of course I know you,” he says gruffly.

You take a deep breath and you look at his face intently so that you can gauge his reaction. “I’m retiring as a shinobi.”

Tobirama blinks, not expecting this.

“Look, you…I know who I married, I knew what I was getting into, that eventually you will take up harder responsibilities in the future,” you begin and you observe the expressions flitting through your husband’s face. “But if I am a shinobi at the same time as you are Hokage, you will keep getting in my way, and I will get in your way of duty as well.”

“I…” Tobirama starts, but he is at loss of words for once.

“I know, I know you. You will get antsy and irritated if nothing is going your way. You have to focus on our village, and you can’t do that with half of your mind worrying about me. So I quit.”

Tobirama stares at your face again, glum. He never wanted to take important things away from you, but inevitably, he had done just that.

After a while, he says, “Thank you.” There was not much to be said on these matters.

“And my promises from last night still rings true.”

Tobirama smiles, but it is small and quick, it is almost impossible to catch, but you are his wife and you have known him and have memorized his expressions in the most miniscule ways.

“However,” you quickly add, “should the next time you tell me what I can and can’t do, the next time you decide something for me as the Hokage and not as my husband, I do not care if you have your damn Senju name, I will ruin you.”

”Oh? And how will you go about this name smearing campaign of yours?”

“Oh, there are so many ways, husband,” you reply giddily. Then, you close the gap between you to plant a kiss on his cheek.

Tobirama visibly freezes.

You laugh, “Oh Tobi, quit acting like you just didn’t fuck my brains out last night!”

“Will you be quiet?” he snaps, his ears turning as red as his eyes.  

“Oh my, I got the Nidaime Hokage flustered!”

The server turns up with your food and Tobirama is frozen in horror like that, staring at the space in front of him.

“How about that?” This time, you smirk at his stern expression.

When the server leaves, you watch him break his chopsticks in half. You hear him sigh and mutter something about being too forward and gutsy in a public place, and you cannot help but laugh at the way he is trying to reel himself back in.  

You know him well enough that he is completely embarrassed to be caught receiving affection like that.

END.

//

buy me a coffee !

[greekowl87]

Fic: Watching in the Shadows

A/N: I’ve had difficulty bringing myself to write anything since October. I had some personal issues to work through regarding my anxiety and life. I’m still trying to work through it right now but I managed to cobble this together over the past month. This isn’t my best work and I’ve probably done something like this before (another fic that was a post-ep of FTF), but I at least managed to write something. Sorry. If you've gotten this far, thanks again for taking the time to look it over.

Also, no beta. Is AO3 more your thing, you can read this here

Tagging @today-in-fic @improlificinsarcasm @suitablyaggrieved @baronessblixen

The nightmares had started shortly after Mulder’s one-in-a-million successful rescue and their daring seascape from Antarctica. Somehow, they had made it with some minor scrapes, bruising, and some frostbite. They came back to D.C. and it was questionable whether they still had jobs or not. The x-files had been burnt in a flash of lost hopes and dreams. Only the ashes were left, smeared by the boots of the notorious Them.

After their latest jaunt in Arizona chasing more would be aliens exploding from human chests and poor Gibson Praise, Scully wondered if God was trying to take a cue from James Cameron. That ended roughly too. In addition to the nightmares she refused to acknowledge, the added insecurity of Diana Fowley was like a harbinger of the future.

Scully twisted in bed, her cotton sheets coiling around her like a python. It was suffocating. She was in that weird twilight of waking and still traipsing through a dream. Those that said you didn’t dream of color were wrong. She remembered flashes of being locked in that tube with that thing shoved down her throat. The cold that had eaten into her bones and down to her core, making her feel brittle. She remembered seeing those gelatinous bodies in Texas and remembered her fear. That would be her. That would be her fate.

Of course, she wouldn’t tell Mulder. Why would he believe her anyway? His thoughts were up in the clouds trying to get their work back. Scully finally woke up gasping. Her hand clutched her chest to feel her racing heart, mentally calming herself that nothing had exploded out of her chest. Her fingers touched the tiny gold cross and she squeezed it so hard so it would be indented in her finger pads.

“I’m alive,” she whispered to the shadows in the room. “I’m alive.”

The fragments of memory were still there, just like something you couldn’t see out from the corner of your eye but you knew it was there. She glanced at the alarm clock. 4:01 am. It was a Saturday so she would not have gone to work. She could afford to sleep. But was she going to?

During the past six years, she did not get nightmares. Not normally anyway. There were a few after Pfaster and then with her cancer. Without ignoring the science...damn her own words. She turned out the bedside lamp and got out of bed. Without really thinking (it was still night in her opinion), she went to her kitchen and filled her teapot. As she tried to decide what tea to drink, she heard a light knocking on her door.

There would only be one person who would knock on her door this early (or late).

Scully opened it without ceremony, replying, “The last time you came to my door, you were drunk and dragged me across the country. It’s Saturday and I’m not going anywhere.”

He looked tired, worse than usual. The bags under his eyes indicated something much worse. He read her unspoken question. “I haven’t slept in over 24 hours, Scully. I’m not planning on anything. I just didn’t know where else to go.”

He knew what just to say to pull at her heartstrings. She took his hand and pulled him into her apartment, locking the door behind her. “I can’t either.”

“Nightmares?”

The word was effortless, showing just how well he knew her. “Something like that. I was about to make tea. Do you want some?”

“Do you have anything stronger?”

“How about we settle in the middle? A hot toddy? You can stay here in the meantime.”

“What? You’re not going to kick out self-deprecating and self-pitying Spooky Mulder?”

“Of course not,” she said. “Is that even a question?”

She selected two bags of Chai tea with two mugs. She went to another cupboard and stood on her tiptoes, trying to reach a rarely used bottle. In three easy strides, Mulder was behind her. “The rum?”

She nodded and felt him press behind her, easily getting the bottle. “Grog?”

She chuckled. “Not quite. Hot toddy. I think it might be better for helping get us back to sleep.”

“A sleepover?”

“A sleepover,” she chuckled. This is how she liked her Mulder and she felt those insecure thoughts replaced with a warmth that she had come to know. “Maybe I’ll let you even play twister.”

“Scully,” he chuckled.

“Go make yourself comfortable. I’ll be there in a second.”

She heard him kick off his shoes and take off his leather jacket, indicating he had no plans to leave anytime soon. Scully was fine with this. He flipped on her television, keeping the volume low. She laughed when she saw James Cameron’s ‘Alien’ come on and Mulder looked at her funny. “What?”

“I...it’ll sound stupid…” She shook her head. “Never mind.”

“Tell me,” he encouraged.

“I’ve had trouble sleeping since Antarctica.” She nodded towards the television. “My nightmares. I wonder if James Cameron is playing a role. I keep seeing myself back on that ship. And after...the face-hugger.” She motioned to her chest. “Bursting out in all the bloody glory.”

“But it didn’t, Scully. It didn’t.”

“Still doesn’t stop the nightmares.” She first added generous amounts of the spiced rum and then the Chai tea. “I was awake and aware when I was in that tube. Not all the time but I was awake. I remember. I remember the coldness...” She shook her head and her voice faded.

Mulder nodded gently. “I get the impression that you don’t want me to talk about the subject.”

“I don’t want to fight, Mulder. I don’t want to fight about the report, the work, or Fowley right now. I’m tired.” She rubbed her eyes. “Nor do I want to scold you on what happened in the Bermuda Triangle. We both know how stupid that was.”

Mulder was quiet. “I do trust your judgment, I do trust you. Without you...I probably would have been stuck in 1939 with no way home.”

“Mulder.”

“I do trust you,” he repeated, with more certainty. “More than anything.”

Scully nodded, satisfied with his response. She took the two mugs and walked them over. “So,” she said, “you had to pick Alien after I told you God is consulting with James Cameron?”

“Run of the luck. Do you want me to change it?”

“No, no. It’s fine.”

Mulder sipped the hot toddy, his eyebrows arching in surprise. “You didn’t go light.”

“No, but it works well together. Don’t you agree?”

“Very good.”

“So, Scully, since we’re having a sleepover, wanna play truth or dare?”

“Excuse me?”

“Truth or dare?” He smirked.

She was tired. Maybe her brain wasn’t working correctly. Maybe the lack of sleep had something to do with it. She decided to indulge him this time. “Truth.”

“Okay,” he paused. “What was your nightmare about?”

“Very smooth and not at all obvious.” He shrugged, sipped the hot beverage, and watched her. She sighed. “What could have been if you had not gotten to me in time when they took me.” She recognized that look and she hated it. “Stop profiling me.”

“I’m not.” He looked almost insulted. “I was just hoping to hear more. But it’s your turn. Truth or dare?”

“Truth. Ask your question, Scully so we both can get it over it.”

The sharpness in his voice took her off guard. “What are you talking about?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I asked you first.”

“Truth. No. Fact. I do love you.”

“I…” She felt panic rise in her chest. No. No, no, no. “Mulder…” He held his hand up and she grabbed it, shooing it away. This was getting out of hand. “Not like this. Quit messing with me, Mulder.”

She got up quickly and downed the scalding liquid. She winced. “I’m not.”

“It’s not funny,” she said again in warning. “Stop messing with me. This entire game is stupid. Why did I even let you talk me into this?”

Scully remembered how her mom used to force Melissa to include Scully in her sleepovers. Even though there were only two years between her and Missy, Scully always felt like the odd one out. Nerdy Dana who always had her nose buried in a science book. Why don’t you marry Einstein they would tease. As much as she loved her sister, that game left nothing but bitter memories for her.

Mulder frowned, surprised by her sudden reaction. He didn’t know why the words fumbled out of his mouth the way they did. But now that it had happened, he couldn’t see a reason why not. He watched her set the forgotten drink on the kitchen table and pace.

“Scully.”

“Why did you come here? Why did you come here, Mulder?” She wrapped her arms around herself. Maybe she was caught in the throes of another nightmare. “Answer me!”

“Do you want me to leave, Scully?” He asked. “If that’s what you want, I have no problem doing that.”

“I didn’t say that. Stop twisting my words.”

“Then come back here and sit down.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she bit her lip and nodded. She sat at the opposite end of the couch. Mulder suddenly felt the dynamic shift between them and it was like a game of chess. “For the record, I do not feel comfortable about this.”

“Noted. Now, what did you dream about?”

“The first time I was abducted, there was some trauma there. Bits and pieces. But this time was different. I dream that I die. You don’t come. That thing explodes out of me like those crime scene photos. I performed the autopsy on that body and saw what happened. That was going to become me.

“And I die to expect during all this, I am alive and I feel every sensation. I don’t know what is worse: knowing that I almost died from the virus or the chip in my neck.” Scully found herself confessing fears that she had managed to repress for the past year. “Ruskin Dam. Skyline Mountain. The cancer. And now this same Earth-based virus that we also found in Gibson Praise. What do you think it means, Mulder? It terrifies me.”

Mulder fumbled over her words in his mind. Where does he even begin? “I came here because I didn’t know where else to go. The bar…” He snorted with displeasure. “After what happened in Dallas, I was devastated. After almost losing you, well, let’s just say I got my priorities straight.”

“Priorities.”

What the hell was going on between them? “What are we doing here, Mulder?”

“What do you mean?”

“This. You come over at 4 am. Make me confess my soul.”

“It is Saturday so it’s not like we have to work.”

“We may not even have jobs.”

He held up a finger. “Prohibition period, remember? We do have jobs. We just to get to do background checks and chase shit around the country.”

“I don’t see what’s so great about it.”

“I have you. You’re still here with me. She wasn’t.”

“She?”

“Diana.”

Scully frowned at the mere mention of the name. “I still don’t see why you trust her or what you see.”

“She was there when I found the x-files. But who is here now, where she could still have a promising career in medicine despite the fact most of her patients are dead?”

“Except for one.”

Mulder smiled. “You’re still here. After all this, after all that we’ve been through. You’re the one I trust the most.” He sighed and sipped the hot toddy. “I still trust her because how could I not, Scully? But she’s not the one I went to at four am.”

She remembered going to him at the reflection pool at twilight, taking his hand, a wordless promise to each other. “Touché.” She relaxed. “Look, I’m sure you didn’t mean that…”

“I did.”

Shit. “Let’s put a pin in that thought,” she said quickly. Mulder sat his mug on her coffee table. “Coaster.”

He grabbed two and slid them across her oak coffee table. “Why is it so hard to wrap your mind around it?”

“Well,” she began, struggling to find her voice. “There’s different types of love. You love me like a friend, a sister, a comrade…”

“And then are is also the type between…”

He said this as she was trying to put her mug on the table but, uncharacteristically, the mug fumbled, spilling all over the table. “Shit.” The hot tea burned her hands and Mulder was already rushing back into her kitchen, grabbing towels and the ice pack. “Mulder…”

“I got it.”

He quickly cleaned up the mess and Scully took the extra towels. She wiped the mess off her hands and frowned at the red swelling starting on her knuckles. Mulder wrapped the ice pack in another towel and took her hands. “Mulder.”

“I gotcha, Scully.”

“Mulder, I’m fine.”

“Will you just let me?” The sharpness of his voice silenced her as he took her hands gently and held the ice pack against it. “I know you want to be this badass FBI agent…”

“Want to?”

“I know you are a big, badass FBI agent. Just let me for once?”

“Fine.”

They sat in silence as Mulder held the ice pack over the top of her hands. She cleared her throat. “I meant what I said, Scully. I do love you.”

She scoffed. “I’m sure.”

“You aren’t a replacement.”

Scully shook her head, refusing to believe him. “You always do this.”

“Do what?”

“Twist words.” She tried to pull her hands away from him without success. “Mulder, let me go.”

She felt Mulder squeeze her fingers tighter. “No.” He was staring at her. Those goddamn— “Look at me, Scully.”

Why did she feel tears in her eyes? Her eyes did feel dry from lack of sleep. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I’m sick of the lies.” She rested her chin on her chest. “I’m tired of the smoke and shadows. For once, I just want someone to tell me the truth and mean it.”

Mulder sighed. She winced hearing it. “What do you want me to do, Scully?”

“Tell me the truth.” She looked

“I am.” He removed the ice pack and kissed her knuckles. “I love you. You aren’t a replacement. Nothing could replace you.”

“Then what am I to you?”

“You’re Scully.” He looked at her as if that was even a question. “When it came to Samantha, I was able to live with it. I have for 27 years. But when I lost you on Skyline mountain…” Mulder put the ice pack back on her knuckles. “I couldn’t...I didn’t know what to do. I was filled with such rage. I almost killed Duane Barry. The months during your absence, I didn’t do so well.”

Scully watched him. “You rarely talk about it.”

“Because there isn’t too much to say. I took a couple of profiling cases. Coming back to the basement office—it didn’t feel the same. It wasn’t the same.” He nodded to the small gold cross on her neck. “I wore your cross when you were gone.”

She remained quiet.

He snorted derision and looked down at their hands. “It’s stupid. There was a point, right after you came back, that X wanted me to just take a plane ticket and leave you and forget everything. You. The x-files. The shadowy men without names. Everything.” He adjusted the ice pack. “And maybe, at one time I would, but not when it came to you.”

“Do you know why seeing run off with Agent Fowley hurt me?”

“Why?”

“It’s our work,” she specified, emphasizing the word ‘our.’ “She comes out of the woodwork and, all of the sudden, I take the backseat on this. I thought it was my science that kept you honest, Mulder.”

“Your science does,” he quickly caught himself, “quit twisting my words.”

“I’m not. My hands are fine, Mulder.”

“I guess they are.” He pulled back the ice and Scully flexed her numb hands. “Do you want another cup of tea?”

“Yes, please.”

“I left you with Gibson because I know he would be safer with you rather than Diana.”

“Yet, I still lost him.”

“No. He was at the nuclear facility. I have a hunch he is safe.” Mulder looked over his shoulder. “How generous, Special Agent Doctor?”

“Shut up. Make it a generous one.”

Mulder smiled and called, “Did you know I was a bartender for a couple of months in Oxford?” Scully’s mind was trying to reel with everything that was happening. But she forced her insecurities into the backseat and let Mulder take the lead. He frowned “If I were just here for something else, we’d be halfway across the country right now.”

“I don’t know if that is a good or bad thing, Mulder.” Scully watched the tv, flinching at a particularly gory scene with a face hugger. “Do you have nightmares?”

“Hm?” Mulder shrugged with his back to her. “Sometimes. That’s one of the reasons why I don’t sleep.”

Scully was quiet as Mulder returned to her with a new mug of hot Chai tea. She took it and sipped the mug. “Good. Thank you.”

“And for the record, Scully, the nightmares aren’t just of Samantha. It’s you too.”

She closed her eyes, annoyed with this vein of conversation. “Is that why you decided to profess your undying love?”

“I thought it was a good moment. But that’s not all of it.” Mulder rejoined her on the couch. “Are you ready to talk about that?”

“I still think you’re full of shit.”

He laughed and sipped his hot toddy. “That’s why my eyes are brown.”

“Hazel.”

“I’m only half full of shit then.”

Scully snorted into her drink. “I honestly don’t know what to believe.”

“I want to believe,” Mulder teased in a fake E.T. voice. She snickered playfully and slapped his thighs. “See? Made you smile. Careful. It might stay that way, Scully.”

“Shut up.”

“Okay,” he said. He checked his watch. “It is almost 4:30 am, Agent Scully. Your guest is intoxicated. What are you going to do?”

“I thought we were having a sleepover?”

“Did I say that?”

“You’re words, not mine.”

“At least take off your shoes.”

She heard Mulder kick them off and he grabbed the remote. He changed the tv to the Sports Channel. After seeing raise a questioning eyebrow, he shrugged. “So, do you watch Sports Center or a movie to fall asleep to?”

“What happened to Truth or Dare?”

“Okay, truth, or dare?”

“Dare,” she said.

“I dare you to have a sleepover on your couch.” That eyebrow. “Just...whatever we are, Scully.”

After a few moments of hesitation, she nodded. Scully felt him squeeze her hands and smile. She stood still like a painting. He smiled at her and she forced herself to return it. Mulder unwound her like a knotted piece of string and lounged himself. Despite their height differences and oppositeness, they still were made for each other. Scully found herself curling up next to him as he grabbed the remote and changing it to a 4 am playing of ‘Mystery Science Theatre 3000.’ Mulder grabbed a knitted, over large Afghan from the back of her couch to tuck around them.

“What does this say to you, Agent Mulder?”

“I love you,” he whispered. He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “And I tell you without hesitation.”

Scully was quiet. “Why did you come here again?”

“There’s nowhere else where I would rather be.”

“Good enough for now.”

Scully quickly ran through possible scenarios. What did she have to lose? Everything. “This won’t change anything.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t want to lose us,” she replied cautiously.

“This will change nothing. If not, only for the better.”

She wisely chose not to say anything. She tried to relax but she shook her head. She pushed away towards the other end of the couch. There was a visible look of hurt on his face. “It’s not you,” she replied quickly.

“Yeah, I’ve heard it before. It’s me.”

“For once, it’s is me, Mulder. I can’t...I can’t get past my insecurities.”

“What insecurities?”

She ghosted him a smile. “The hallway? Either we have really bad timing or bees don’t like us.”

“Or?”

“You mentioned it earlier. I don’t want to be a replacement for Samantha or her…”

“Her?” It took a moment for Mulder to recognize what she was telling him. “Why do you say that?”

“I overheard what you said to Arizona. She’s staying on the x-files because it’s the best way to represent your interests. Before that, when we still had the office, I caught you all holding hands. She seemed so excited about something. That is when I called you. I told you I was driving back. I was just sitting in the car in the garage outside.”

“Watching in the shadows?” Mulder sighed. “Scully…”

“I feel like I’ve been on the outside a lot lately.” She sipped her hot toddy, the alcohol burning in the back of her throat. “So I can’t help but feel somewhat insecure. Just talking about it…” She snorted into her mug of tea. “It’s taking a lot.”

“I can understand that.”

“Do you?”

He hesitated. “I...like to think so.” Mulder leaned forward. “I know things have been tough. Honestly, I’m surprised you’re still here.”

She titled her head in question. “What do you mean?”

“I thought that you have left. Maybe try to go back to Quantico or quit the FBI all together.”

“I almost did that night when they told me Salt Lake City. But you’re my partner, Mulder. It’s as simple as that.”

He took her free hand and entwined their fingers. “And for that, I am grateful for that of every moment of every day. Do you want to know the difference between you and her?”

“Our heights?”

Mulder snorted in muted laughter. “I guess, physically, but where it counts, you tower above her.”

She arched a skeptical eyebrow.

“She left me. No warning or note. Just up and left. I haven’t been in contact with her since she left. She wouldn’t have chased me like you have or been thrown in contempt of Congress for lying to save my ass.” Scully smiled as she looked down. “She wouldn’t have thrown everything out the window to deal with her crazy partner. You are so much more than she was, or is, Scully.” He brushed her hair out of her face. “And I have never loved anyone more than I love you. Truth. I meant what I said in that hospital. I love you.”

“You really overcomplicate things.”

Mulder shrugged and grinned. “So, Scully, where does this leave us?”

The insecurities raged inside her and she averted her gaze. “I’ve had nightmares about this too,” she said softly.

“Why does it always feel like we are watching from the shadows?” He asked her softly. “Especially in our nightmares? We feel like we don’t have control?”

“I don’t know. I thought you were supposed to be the psychologist?”

“It was rhetorical.”

“I know.” She sighed and looked at the tv for a distraction. “After all we’ve been through, Mulder…”

“What about it?”

“I do love you.” She said as quickly exhaled so it came out in a jumble of words. Scully doubted he had heard her. But his playful grin suggested otherwise. “You heard it?”

“Ears like a fox.”

Mulder bent forward again to kiss her again, forgoing all shyness. She felt him bring her closer, snaking his arms around her. He sighed audibly before she returned it with much gusto. Senses alight for both of them, Scully managed to be the level headed one between them both. “Mulder,” she breathed. “I hardly think this is the place?”

He pulled back and blinked in confusion. His senses were drunk off her that it was heard from him to make sense. “What?”

“I don’t think the couch Is the best place for this.”

“Why?”

He was only now capable of single-word answers and questions. She smiled. She felt lighter. The nightmares that had plagued the back of her mind for months now seemed like a distant memory. “Just because.”

It seemed like she was incapable of speaking too. She pushed the Afgan aside and got to her feet. The cups were forgotten and Mulder clicked off the television. Words failed them but their unspoken communication did otherwise. He took her hand and squeezed. “Are you certain?”

“No,” she admitted truthfully, “but I know what I feel. I’ve learned to trust my instincts.”

Mulder smiled. She led him to her bedroom. She kept the lamp near her bed on and he looked at her tossed sheets. He exhaled, letting out a heavy sigh. “I wish you would have told me sooner.”

“What would you have done, Mulder?”

“Acted sooner.”

“Well, you’re here now, right?”

“Of course. You haven’t kicked me out yet.”

“I’m not planning to.”

Scully took his hands and pulled him closer. She felt emboldened and the room felt hotter than it was. He smiled. “So…” She grabbed him by the scruff of his t-shirt and pulled him downwards. Mulder’s spine protested but he didn’t care. Let Scully take the lead. His arms reached downwards to bring her closer. Suddenly, she felt frozen. Just a second ago she had felt so confident. Now, she was unsure. “What’s wrong?”

“Are you certain about this?” Her voice was soft but the lingering hesitation could be heard. “About this thing between us?”

“Yes, I’m more certain than anything else.”

“Okay.” There was another pause. “So...how do we do this?”

“We just do,” he laughed.

She shook her head and said, “Isn’t this better than a stakeout, watching in the shadows for some would-be informant, and then finding out it was a waste of time.”

“Scully, are you proposing role-playing?”

“No. It’s just…” She laughed despite herself. “I never imagined this.”

“Are you certain you want to go through with this? You don’t have to if you’re…”

“No, I want this.”

Mulder kissed her softly at first but deepened it. He walked her backward to her bed until she bumped up against it. Mulder smiled as pushed her to sit down. “It’s, uh, been a while.”

“Same.”

He sat next to her and laughed. “I expected this to be different.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re going to do this, aren’t we? I expected it to be a bit more...fevered? And look at us, like two scared virgins.”

Scully laughed. “So, Mulder, do you want me to take the lead?”

He rolled his eyes. “Or we can just go back to watching TV. I’m sorry. I guess it’s the sleep deprivation talking.”

“We aren’t watching TV. I thought we were having a sleepover. At some point, we do have to sleep.” She got to her knees and pushed him onto his back. “Besides, Mulder, we’ve come this far. When have we ever done anything halfway?”

“What have you done with Dana Scully?”

“Invasion of the body snatchers?”

Scully felt her courage return. She swung her leg over his hip and straddled him. “Now, correct me if I’m wrong but I don’t remember this being a part of a sleepover.”

“Well, it’s a thing between partners, right?”

She slid lower, squeezing her thighs in the process. He grunted in response. “Right. I’m not complaining by the way. I was just stating.”

She hummed. She was alight was all new sensations. Mulder let his hands drop to her waist. “I like those pajamas by the way. It’s not silk for once.”

“Cotton.”

“Huh.”

“My mom says…”

He couldn’t take it anymore. “I don’t care what your mother said.”

His long arms twisted around her and pulled her down. She braced herself, sticking her hands out on either side of his head to brace the impact. She collided into an Earth-shattering kiss. Stranger thing how time and physics worked. She sighed happily as her tongue delved into his mouth. This was good. “This is wonderful,” she whispered between breaths.

“Do you know what makes this better?”

“What?”

“Give me some control?” She paused. “Do you trust me, Scully?

“Yes.”

He smiled. “You know that you’re the only one I trust, right?”

“Do you?”

Instead of answering her, he skillfully changed their positions so she was laying on her back and he was laying on her side. His left hand carefully undid the button down her pajama top. She breathed sharply at the first contact of his fingertips caressing the swell of her breast. “I do.” He watched her thoughtfully. “You see, before you...I had a few partners. They came and went. It was like they wanted nothing to do with me. But you...you challenged me, you made me better. I can’t place the exact moment but it may have been laughing with you in that graveyard in Oregon at five o’clock in the morning.”

She hissed at his touches. “That was nearly six years ago.”

“So, I like a slow burn. I have never felt this way about anyone except you.” She laughed but she bit her lips to keep herself from crying out. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Do your nightmares involve this, Scully?”

“I don’t let myself indulge in such fantasies.”

“Why not?”

He was growing bolder with his explorations. She sighed and closed her eyes. “Lately, with everything, I don’t know.”

“What do you say we change that?”

He bent down to kiss her again and pushed up on her top. He wasn’t rushing nor did she mean his slow advances. Soon, she found herself growing restless. “Mulder?”

“Hmmm?”

“Enough of this. Let’s finish this.”

This is not how neither one of them imagined things. Scully had it imagined it fast and quick after the turmoil from a case. Mulder, on the other hand, imagined it slow after one night of verbally sparing with one another. Who needed guidance when you had your better half?

The lamp remained on. There was no hiding from this. Six years of tension resolved.

The clothes were peeled artfully like it was nothing new. She laughed between their kisses. “At least I don’t have to save you this time.”

He suckled her hungrily. “You already did. A long time ago.”

Mulder reached to turn out the light on her nightstand and Scully grabbed his wrist, stopping him. “No, leave it on.”

The first time was always awkward. They both remembered being told that my friends when they were teenagers. “I expected this to be different,” he admitted.

“Mulder, shut up.”

“This has got to be a sleepover for the record books.”

At the clock turned 5:00 and the red numbers faded against the lamplight, Mulder continued. Clothes were shed, and they crawled beneath the covers. The fire ignited and fears were extinguished. Gone was the cold that plagued the nightmares and shadows that kept them in hiding. Their bodies entwined, just as their souls had been for years.

Their ecstasy came to a crescendo as Scully felt her last orgasm leave her and Mulder followed soon after. He was laughing as he rolled off to the side and she grinned like a fool. He started to laugh too and any tension that remained fade as she came down from her high.

“Well, I certainly don’t remember sleepovers being like that,” he remarked.

Scully could hear the fatigue in his voice, finally evident from someone who had not slept in over 24 hours. She smiled goofily and nodded toward the window. “The sun is coming up.”

“How can you tell?”

“It’s summer and during that time, the sun comes through the window sometimes. It’s been so long. I can’t remember the last time I stayed in bed this late.”

“We haven’t been here that late.” He yawned and pulled her closer. “Where are you going?”

“Give me a sec.”

She reached to turn out the light and moved to get out of bed. “Where do you think you’re going? And why did you turn out the light?”

“Because, Mulder, this is supposed to be a sleepover,” she said, “and we need to sleep.”

“And based on what scientific evidence?”

“I’m a doctor.”

He watched her jog nude across the bedroom in the dark shadows to open up the blinds slightly to let in the morning light. She rushed back to bed. “Oh, your cold,” he complained.

“Knock it off.”

Scully reclaimed her spot next to him. They both turned beneath the covers to face the newly opened blinds as the early morning light began to shine through. “No more shadows, Scully.”

“No more shadows.”

[lookalivefrosty]

Summertime

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader (but, really, Winter Soldier Bucky x Female Reader)

Summary: Three days ago, the Winter Soldier walked away from Hydra. They’ve just sent you to bring him back.

Word Count: 7,656 words (!!!)

Warnings: a heavy helping of angst, descriptions of injuries and pain, canon typical violence. The reader is an enhanced human with the ability to manipulate pain. (Let me know if you come across any others I’ve missed, I’ll gladly add them!)

*Reblogs of course are welcome, but please do not repost this story to any other websites without my permission!!*

A/N: This was written for @jbbuckybarnes​‘s birthday writing challenge. Happy belated birthday, and thank you so much for reassuring me that it was okay to post this past the deadline! I didn’t mean for it to take this long, but the good news is, this is the first thing I’ve written and actually liked in about five or six years. So, yay? I really hope you and everyone else who reads it enjoys it! 

P.S: my prompts are bolded, the not too shabby moodboard was made by me, and the title of the fic and lyrics within said moodboard are courtesy of My Chemical Romance’s ‘Summertime.’ Oh, and, the totally awesome text divider seen just below (and several times throughout the fic) was created by @writeyourmindaway​ (thank you)!

EDITED ON 5/24/2021 - no major changes, only a change in spelling for two of the characters' names.

“You ever think of where you’d go if you got out of here?” you’d asked the Soldier once, the two of you hunkered down in a safe house somewhere in Alaska. It’s been so long since then that you can’t even remember what mission had brought you there - or maybe you should say, so much has happened since then that you can’t remember. 

He didn’t answer your question. He couldn’t. His programming limited his dialogue to giving orders to those ranked below him and answering the questions of those ranked higher. You’d been able to see his answer in his eyes, though, sitting there on the opposite side of the hallway from him, your faces illuminated by an oil lamp he’d found while sweeping the basement for any threats. 

They had narrowed slightly, his way of wordlessly saying, ‘No.’ 

No, because he never thought he would ever escape from Hydra; and neither did you, for that matter. But it was nice to think about, especially back then. Freedom.

“I can remember,” you’d said slowly, not missing the faint look of surprise that crossed  his usually stoic face at the words. You shouldn’t be able to remember anything that occurred before they wiped you the first time. But you remember this vividly, too vividly for it to be a mere fragment of your imagination. 

“I can remember,” you’d started again, “this place my parents and I used to go to along the Blue Ridge Parkway.” 

And then you’d told him about it. How after visiting a few tourist attractions you’d park the car at a lookout spot and stare out over the miles and miles of autumn colored trees in the valleys below, untouched by man aside from the randomly placed house. Far away from where you stood, blue tinted mountains pierced the overcast sky - and it was beautiful. 

He’d listened to every word you’d spoken intently, his gaze never straying from your face as you reminisced on happier times. And when you’d finished, he’d looked sad. You could feel the longing in his chest within your own, and see a sparkle in his stormy blue eyes that seemed to say, ‘I would take you there, if I could.’

And he has, hasn’t he?

Here you are, standing at the very same lookout you’d told him about that night. It’s warmer than you remember, greener, seeing as it’s summertime - but it’s no less beautiful. If you squint you can see ghosts of the past; two figures standing against the most breathtaking of backdrops, smiling with their arms around one another as you took their picture.

You miss them. 

Your parents. 

You wish you could remember more about them. 

About yourself. 

Your old life.

“Empat.” 

His voice startles you, but not because you didn’t know he was there. You’d felt his presence step within the reach of your powers almost twenty minutes ago; had known it was him because you know his aches and pains as well as you know your own. The phantom pain where his left arm used to be, the carpal tunnel syndrome in his right wrist and hand from years of holding a gun, and all the other wear and tear seventy years of assassination work has put on his still visibly young body. New to the roster, though, is the break in his right forearm - no doubt an injury gained during his fight in D.C. three days ago. A fight you’d been sidelined for, but should have been battling alongside him. 

If you had been, that break wouldn’t be there. You’re certain of that.

You could only do so much with the amount of distance between you, but because you care, because you wanted him to know that you knew he was there, you’d cast your healing warmth over the fracture, numbing it until you could touch him and heal it completely. As thanks, he’d given you this time with your memories. Time before the inevitable had to happen.

But time is up now, and he’s standing right behind you, his voice startling you not because it’s unexpected but because he’s never been able to call you anything, let alone the name Hydra had given you. Empat, meaning Empath. His programming simply didn’t allow for it. To hear his voice say it now - after months and years of knowing each other, fighting alongside each other, nearly dying for each other -  well, it’s quite a shock to the system.

Three days, you think. It’s only been three days since he walked away from the Triskelion wreckage, walked away from Hydra, and already he’s regained the ability to speak autonomously. And here you are, sent here to drag him back to the very same people who stripped him of his ability to do so in the first place. 

You, because they know that in spite of their best efforts to keep him as emotionless and empty as possible, he feels something for you. Because if it’s you asking him to, he might come back willingly, without a fight. Because if it comes to a fight he’ll hesitate before killing you, and give you the opening you need to-

“Empat,” he says again, interrupting your internal ramblings. The sound of it threatens to bring tears to your eyes.

You don’t want to do this.

But you have no other choice. 

“Hi, Soldier,” you greet him gently, and he takes that as his cue to move to stand at your side. He places himself on your left and it’s such a familiar position: you and the Soldier shoulder to shoulder, against the world. Normally it would bring you comfort; but today, it just makes you sad. 

As if he can sense it - which he probably can; he has a knack for reading people - the Soldier brushes the back of his hand against the back of yours in a silent offer of comfort. You turn your wrist and intertwine your fingers with his without a second thought, and together you gaze out over the mountain range, silence hanging thick in the air between you for what feels like a lifetime. 

And then, “Is it what you remember?”

So you were right. The red star on the tracking device had stopped in this town with a familiar name yesterday not by coincidence, but on purpose. He’d traveled west, deep into the peaks and valleys of the Blue Ridge Mountain range just so he could bring you here, to the location of your only remaining memory. 

It’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for you - that you can remember, at least - and, God, do you want to cry. 

“Yes,” your voice and your smile is strained, “Thank you.”

He squeezes your hand tighter in response, causing a bolt of pain to shoot up towards his shoulder and down to the tips of his fingers - but he shows no signs of feeling it when you glance in his direction. He was trained to suffer in silence; if you weren’t, well, you, you wouldn’t have the slightest clue that he was in any pain at all. 

“Your arm?” you inquire, turning your head to face him at the same moment he turns to face you. It’s only then that you realize what he’s wearing: a black baseball cap pulled down over his brunette tresses, a dark denim jacket over a black t-shirt, blue jeans and his usual pair of boots. The shoes are the only part of his attire that you recognize, but you have to admit, this casual look he’s got going on… 

You like it.

“Steve,” he tells you, as if you know who Steve is. You raise your brows. “The guy on the bridge,” he amends. “Captain...Captain America.”

Right. The target Hydra had sent the Soldier to kill not once, but twice - an anomaly, as he usually gets the job done on the first try. You’d been as shocked as your superiors when he came back from the fight on the bridge to report the mission as failed - but more so due to the foul mix of emotions churning within him than the failed mission itself.

 It was astonishing to see him in such anguish so openly; to feel the full force of his normally repressed guilt, anger and sadness. You’ve gotten glimpses of it in the past, during those precious few minutes between him being awoken and being wiped. But only one other time had you seen him so distraught, which could only mean one thing.

The target - this Steve, whoever he is - had somehow broken through decades of wipings and programming to free the man Hydra had tried so hard to keep contained, and every sour emotion he’s felt while locked in his cage - though only for a moment before Alexander Pierce ordered him to be shoved behind the bars again.

It’s not easily done; liberating the man that lingers beneath the surface of the Soldier.

You would know.

You’ve done it before.

“You knew him,” you say simply, recalling the trembling words he’d spoken that day. Words that, when combined with the look on his face and what had happened after he’d uttered them, had shattered your already broken heart into even smaller shards.

“But I knew him.”

“I don’t know,” the Soldier replies eventually, and he’s lying - to you and himself. 

But that’s okay.

You assure him as much with a small smile.

“Here,” you change the subject, “let me…” you turn your body towards him and bring your right hand up to cup the back of his, which still clings to your left one, as he turns to face you as well. You close your eyes and focus on the break, casting your warmth over it and holding it steady as it guides his bones back into place. As it does, your body takes his pain and converts it into ammunition, adding it to what’s already been piled high within you thanks to the metal choker around your neck. 

Hydra’s scientists had designed it especially for you; a necklace that would, whenever your handlers deemed it necessary, electrically shock you continuously so you would have to be constantly taking your own pain away. Whenever you use your healing abilities - regardless of whether you’re using them on yourself or someone else - your body absorbs the pain and stores it within until you either unleash it on someone or your handlers shut the necklace off and the power coursing through your veins is allowed to dwindle away on its own.

It flows through you now, but you’re so used to the uncomfortable prickling feeling that accompanies it at this point that you hardly even notice it’s there anymore.

How sad that is.

“Thank you,” the Soldier says after you’ve finished healing him and open your eyes again. That’s another first: the Soldier thanking you aloud instead of with his eyes and soft, secret touches. If it weren’t for the current circumstances, it would have brought you joy.

 “Don’t thank me,” you beg with a rapid shake of your head. “Not when you know what I’ve been sent here to do.”

“Empat, it’s okay-” 

“No,” you interject harshly, dropping his hand and retreating a few steps backwards. “It’s not okay, Soldier. It’s not. Because you knew,” your smile is sardonic as you point a finger in his direction. “You knew they’d send someone - that they’d send me - after you. You knew what they’d make me do to bring you back. So why, Soldier? Why didn’t you cut the tracker out? You could have been free,” your voice cracks on the last word, and you feel his chest ache in response.

He holds your gaze for a moment longer before dropping his focus to the grass between his boots. You stand there, blinking tears from your eyes and waiting for him to say something - anything - in defense of himself, but he doesn’t say a word. 

He’s maddeningly silent.

“Why would you do this?” you demand again, your voice frail in spite of the anger rising inside of you. The Soldier is slow to raise his gaze back to yours, and even slower to give you an answer.

“‘Cause I wanted to.”

It hits you like a punch from his left fist, and you find yourself unable to speak.

He... He wanted this? He wanted you to be sent after him? To potentially have to fight him, to have to drag him back to the people you’ve always told him you wished you could help him escape from?

“Listen,” he urges, seeing the look of hurt and betrayal that’s overtaken your features. He’s lifted his hands in a pacifying gesture, and his left one catches your attention, as it’s donning a black winter glove. Where did he even find one of those this time of year? “I did it because I didn’t know how else to find you. I went back to the bank after...after the fight, and everyone was already gone. You were gone, and I had no way of knowing where you were but I knew that if I left the tracker in, it wouldn’t be long before they sent you after me. It...It was the only way I had to be able to see you again,” he finishes with a sad, tearful smile, the same one he’d given Alexander Pierce that night after his first encounter with Steve. 

It pulls at your heart now just as it did then, but at the same time -

“You could have been free,” you echo your earlier words, sounding every bit as devastated as you feel. Your tears make the Soldier a blur as he steps closer to you, raising his hands to tentatively cup the sides of your face. You blink and a pair of them slip down your cheeks only to be quickly smeared away by his thumbs, gloved metal and bare flesh alike.

“I don’t want to be free if you’re not free with me,” he tells you softly, and you see those words for what they are: a testament of his love for you. It’s the first time he’s been able to voice such a thing, and you want to find joy or at the very least solace in it. Truly, you do. But right now, with the situation at hand, knowing he’s tossed away the only chance at liberation he’s had in seven decades all because he didn’t want to leave you behind, you can’t. 

You just feel guilty. So incredibly, debilitatingly guilty.

“I’ll never be free of them,” you state grimly, pulling out of his hold and putting some distance between you. “As long as this necklace is around my neck, I’m stuck. They’ll ramp it up as soon as I get too far for their likings and kill me. But you - you had a chance. And you threw it away because of me,” you practically choke out the last word. You pause for a few moments to collect yourself before continuing to speak, your eyes fluttering shut to send another pair of tears down your cheeks.

“I’m begging you, Soldier. If you love me, cut the tracker out and leave. I’ll tell them you beat me unconscious before I could move to apprehend you, or… I don’t know. Something. Just please don’t make me take you back there. Don’t make me the reason you go back there, I…” your throat gets too tight for you to speak any further, so you open your eyes and try to communicate with him through them, as he used to you.

I won’t be able to live with myself if you do.

He lets your unspoken words hang between you for exactly seventeen shaking breaths, and when he goes to speak, he looks apologetic, telling you he’s not going to change his mind even before he confirms it aloud. 

“You know I never get to choose what I want for myself,” he says, a pleading tone to his voice. His eyes are equally as imploring as they stare into yours, trying to get you to see just how much he needs you to do this for him. “I want this, Empat. I do. So, please, for once in my life - let me have what I want.”

…How are you supposed to say no to that?

The answer is simple: 

You don’t.

“Alright,” you sound as defeated as you feel. “Alright.”

The corners of his lips twitch upwards, but the glossiness of his eyes conveys what you feel twisting inside of him. The fear. The sadness. The anger.

He reaches out, asking for your hands, and you unfold your arms to give them to him, biting back a sob as he intertwines his fingers through yours.

“Whatever you have to do,” he says slowly, “Do it.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and inhale deeply to gather what little strength and courage you have left in you; then, you breath out a single word:

“Sputnik.” 

A moment later, the Soldier collapses at your feet.

…

...

You couldn’t do it.

You’d told him you would, and had fully intended on honoring his wishes - but it was one hour into the three hour drive back to the safe house your handlers were waiting for you within that you realized you just couldn’t. You couldn’t take him back to the people who have been holding him hostage for over seventy years, doom him to another who knows how many more  years of brainwashing and torture. You couldn’t, and you wouldn’t.

So you turned the car around, much to the displeasure of your handlers. The wattage of your necklace shot up almost immediately after you’d made the u-turn, and you’d almost driven into the guard rails due to the sudden onslaught of pain. You’d quickly smothered it, though, and righted the vehicle on the road, backtracking until you reached the abandoned house you’d spotted only a few minutes prior in the drive.

It had caught your eye because of its reminiscence of that safe house back in Alaska. It’s a small and barely standing home made of deteriorating wood, its front door hanging by a single hinge. Upon entering it you’d found it had the same damp, moldy atmosphere, and a similar, familiar layout - a ground level with two bedrooms and a bathroom, a living room and kitchen area, and a basement. Its windows were shattered, parts of the wood flooring were either caved in or missing altogether, and you’d even found an oil lamp while you were scoping out the basement. 

Talk about déjà vu.

As for getting the Soldier into the house, it was as much of a struggle as it’d been to get him into the car your handlers had sent you out in. Somehow, though, you’d managed, and had tied him to a weathered dining chair that had squeakily threatened to collapse under his weight when you’d dropped him into it. 

What had happened after that is nothing more than a blur of blood and tears, right up until you’d collapsed into an identical chair in front of a boarded up window, staring as if you could see right through the planks to whatever lies beyond.

You don’t know how much time has passed since then, but you haven’t moved since you’d sat down. You’ve barely even breathed.

There’s a pounding in your head from previously shed tears and there’s dried blood on your hands, your clothes. You’re shaking so badly you don’t know how you haven’t vibrated right off of the chair and into a clump on the floor.

He hasn’t woken up yet. You’re starting to worry he may never - that there’s another code word that has to be used to wake the Soldier after he’s been shut down by ‘sputnik.’ 

Wouldn’t that be just your luck? To do everything that you’ve done in the time since he’s been unconscious just for it all to be futile because-

A soft groan sounds from behind you, and you hold your breath.

Did you actually hear that? Or did you-

“Empat?” he rasps, a confused lilt to his voice. You almost start crying again at the sound of it. 

He’s awake. 

Everything you’ve done isn’t for nothing, after all.

“I’m here,” you get to your feet and move towards him slowly. Taking in his disoriented expression, you ask, “How do you feel?” 

You being you, of course, you already know how he’s feeling; he’s got a headache similar to your own and he’s discombobulated, stiff and sore. Still, you ask him - not only because it’s nice to do so but because you want to hear it out of his own mouth.

However, instead of answering your question, he raises one of his own. “Why are you covered in blood?”

You stop right in front of him, shaking your head. 

“It’s not mine,” is all you offer, reaching forward to brush his hair out of his face since he can’t do it for himself. You then trail your fingers down the side of his cheek, watching as his eyes flutter shut briefly in response to the gentle touch before he seemingly forces them open again, assessing you with his stormy blues.  

“Where are we?” he asks. You freeze in your movement.

“Hour away from where we were,” you supply. He ponders that for a few moments, tearing his eyes from you to take in what he can of the room before meeting your gaze again.

“Are they coming to extract us?”

You drop your gaze.

“Empat,” his tone is low; dangerous - the closest it’s been to the one he uses while giving orders on missions this entire time. You turn away from him and clasp your trembling hands together.

Every so often your handlers have been knocking up the voltage of your necklace to tell you to hurry up and get you and the Soldier back to the safe house. You’ve been having to use more and more of your powers to keep yourself from feeling it, from being harmed by it, and it’s drained you more than you’re willing to admit. 

You don’t know how much longer you can fight against it. You need to get moving before they ramp it up beyond the reach of your powers and kill you, which they’d very clearly told you they would if you failed them.

You’ve only hung around this long waiting for the Soldier to wake up to make sure that he would wake up; you didn’t want to leave him behind without knowing for a fact that he was going to be okay. 

But he’s awake now, and really there’s no reason for you to be here anymore... Yet, you can’t bring yourself to move any further away.

“Empat,” the Soldier calls for you again, this time more desperate. “What did you do?”

You close your eyes. 

He’s going to be so upset with you over this.

But perhaps that will make it easier for him to move on.

“I cut the tracker out,” you inform him, hearing him inhale sharply in response. “I…Understand why you didn’t do it yourself. I’d do the same thing, to see you one last time - but you know that if our roles were reversed you would refuse to take me back to them. So you shouldn’t expect me to,” you face him again, letting him see the tears that started running down your cheeks as you were speaking. 

He looks as devastated as you feel.

Biting back a sob, you walk back up to him and cup the sides of his face, as he had yours earlier, and lean down to rest your forehead against his. You remain in that position for only a moment before pulling away enough to peer into his tear-filled eyes.

“I’m sorry I have to be another person keeping you from what you want,” you brush your thumbs over his cheekbones, “but I can’t do this to you. You’ve been with them so much longer than I have, Soldier; you’ve been through so much - too much. You deserve to be free, to live. And you’ve got a chance,” you smile at him sadly. “I can’t take that from you.”

Those words appear to be what takes him over the edge, as with his next blink, the Soldier’s tears spill over. They run down his stubble covered cheeks and quickly find themselves wiped away by your waiting thumbs.

“They’ll kill you if you show up without me,” he chokes out. And he’s right. You know he is. But,

“You would do it for me.”

You have him there, it seems - because he has nothing to say to contradict your statement. You nod, for no particular reason, and press your lips to his forehead; your silent I love you, your wordless goodbye.

You pull away from him with the intentions of leaving, but before you can even straighten your spine he says, “Y/N.”

You freeze.

That name…

You pull further back and meet his gaze.

“What?” 

“Y/N,” he says again. “That’s your name. Your real name.”

Your breathing hitches.

You don’t know how, but you know he’s right. You can feel it. 

“How-” 

“You told me,” he answers your unfinished question. “When we first met, before they wiped you that first time - no one told you I couldn’t talk and you - you introduced yourself to me. You were terrified of me, I could tell - but you still stuck your hand out and told me your name. I couldn’t,” he pauses to gather himself, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I couldn’t have told you my name even if I could have remembered it, but I put my hand in yours, and you smiled at me. Do you know how long it’d been since someone had smiled at me? Without any malice behind it?” he leans forward against his binds, baring his wet eyes into yours. 

You don’t say anything. You’re completely and utterly speechless, staring at him with wide eyes and a trembling lower lip. You drop your hands from his face and take a step back, absorbing every single word he has to to tell you.

“They wipe me to make me forget, but I never forgot that moment, Y/N, no matter how many times they did it. I never forgot your name even though my own was long gone.” The Soldier presses on, “I don’t know why, but I feel like it was for a reason. Like I was supposed to be the one to remind you what it was - to help you remember who you were. But I can’t do that if you’re...If you…” 

He doesn’t finish, but it’s not hard for you to figure out what he was going to say.

I can’t do that if you’re dead.

“I don’t know what you think I can do,” you force the words out around the lump in your throat, “I die if I go back without you. They’ll kill me if I stay with you - either way, I’m dead. There’s nothing we can do-”

“Yes there is,” he insists, desperate. “We can go there - we can fight them-”

“And they’ll kill me as soon as they realize what’s happening,” you dismiss the suggestion, “right in front of you. I don’t… Want you to have to watch me die, Soldier. I don’t want you to have to carry that around with you for the rest of your life - can’t you understand that?”

“Untie me then. Let me try and get that thing off of you-”

“What?!” you take a step back as if he’s struck you. “Are you insane?! You’ll get electrocuted if you touch it!”

“Not if you protect me from it,” he counteracts. You shake your head and go to protest against the idea, but he starts talking again before you can. “Don’t you remember the day you realized what you could do? What you could really do?”

Of course you do. That’s another memory Hydra couldn’t rip away from you no matter how hard they tried: the day you found out the true extent of what powers Loki’s scepter had bestowed upon you. The day that you were promoted from the Winter Soldier’s nurse to his partner in crime - literally.

Seeing the look of recognition in your eyes, the Soldier latches onto it. “You can do it again. I know you can.”

“Your arm,” you point out. “It’ll conduct the electricity - send it straight towards your heart. And I don’t know if what I can do is enough to protect you from the damage that would cause.”

His face falls. 

Clearly, he hadn’t thought of that. 

He parts his lips to make another argument but before he can get a single word out the wattage of your necklace suddenly increases again, making you cry out and fall to your knees. You just barely manage to smother the pain this time; if they turn it up any higher, you’re not sure you’ll be able to.

“I knew you couldn’t do it,” a voice taunts in Russian from somewhere behind you. Recognizing it, you lift a hand in the general direction it came from and feel the power coursing through your veins gather in the palm of your hand before a cloud of black smoke erupts from it. The man lets out a scream of pure agony a moment later before hitting the weathered floorboards, dead. You look over your shoulder and take in the lifeless form of the handler before turning back to the Soldier, wide eyed.

“Untie me now,” he orders, and you know better than to argue with him.

As Hydra’s motto claims, ‘Cut off one head, two more will take its place.’

You’re gonna need his help.

So you scramble to your feet and round the chair he’s tied to, unsheathing the knife strapped to your thigh. It’s not easy to cut through the rope, which had been specially designed to restrain the Soldier, but it’s not impossible, either. You have him free before long and he puts his hand out for the blade, which you hand over without even thinking just in time for two more figures to step through the doorway.

“Sput-” the handler who had been just a syllable away from shutting down the Soldier again gets cut off by the knife you’d given him embedding itself in his chest. A cloud of black smoke engulfs him a moment later and he chokes on it for a moment before collapsing just as the first had.

Next, gun shots ring out. If any bullets hit you, you don’t feel them - all you can feel is the power in your shaking hands, the slight ease of its pressure as more of it is released onto the third Hydra agent. She does little more than gasp before her eyes roll back in her head and she lands on top of her comrade.

The Soldier surges forward, scavenging the closest body for any weapons. He finds a gun just in time to get a head shot on a fourth agent.

“We need to get out of here,” he states the obvious, taking a shot at a fifth one. 

He doesn’t miss.

You clench and unclench your hands, the power surging within them making it impossible for you not to fidget. “My tracker’s still in, they’ll just follow us,” you remind him, “and the necklace-”

“Search them for the remote,” he meets your eyes briefly over his shoulder. “Someone here has to have it.”

You nod and kneel beside the body he’d taken the gun from. You rummage through the handler’s pockets, coming up short on finding the device that would free you from the necklace. From Hydra. 

It’s unreal to you that this is even happening right now; you never thought you would ever have even a chance at freedom, but now -

As if it’s punishing you for even thinking about escaping, the wattage of your necklace suddenly spikes. And as you’d predicted, this time you can’t completely cover the pain it’s inflicting on you - it’s too strong, hurts too much. 

You scream and fall sideways, clawing futilely at the electrified metal around your neck. For several long, agonizing moments, all there is is pain, pain, pain - and then, suddenly, it’s gone. 

You think at first you’re dead; in fact, you’re certain of it. But then a hand taps on your cheek and you open your eyes - when had you even closed them? - and see the Soldier’s face hovering over your own. It melts with relief and he says something to you, but you can’t hear whatever it is over the ringing in your ears. 

You’d tell him that, if you weren’t so dazed.

After some time the Soldier gives up on getting a response out of you and helps you to sit up, watching you closely afterwards, presumably looking for any signs that you’re going to pass out. You don’t, though your head does swim, and find yourself blinking rapidly trying to get your eyes to focus. They land on the doorway when they do, where a familiar man stands holding a familiar object, the sight enough to make your blood run cold.

Having noticed the shift in your demeanor, the Soldier follows your line of sight, tensing just as you had when he realizes what you’re looking at.

The ringing in your ears fades away just in time for Talon, the highest ranking of the handlers, to speak. 

“Drop the gun, Soldat,” he commands, shaking the hand holding the remote to your necklace pointedly. “Or watch your precious little empath die.”

The Soldier swallows thickly. Then, he obeys, the gun clattering onto the wood floor just beyond your reach. 

“As I thought,” Talon muses, his smile anything but friendly as he approaches you and the Soldier at a slow pace. His eyes are fixated on the latter, but his thumb hovering over the red button on the remote is enough of a deterrent to keep you from trying anything.

You don’t refrain from openly glaring at him, though.

“You’d do anything to keep her safe, hm?” Talon inquires coolly, his lips falling into their natural frown. “First chance at freedom in almost seventy years... And you toss it away for a girl you’ve known for two,” he holds up two fingers on his free hand for emphasis, and you flinch. Even though they’re the same words you've been telling yourself this entire time, they somehow sound even worse coming from someone else’s mouth. 

The handler doesn't show it outwardly, but he notices how his statement hits a nerve. You know this because, for a moment, his irritation gives way to amusement; he can tell you're feeling guilty, and he's enjoying it.

Bastard.

Talon comes to a stop a few feet away from where you and the Soldier are sat. His eyes, their irises the color of green peridot, flicker back and forth between the two of you a few times before he seethes, “She makes you weak.”

The Soldier tightens his arm around you, and you can feel the anxiety rising within him; the anger. You want to spare a glance in his direction but opt to keep your gaze fixated on Talon, afraid of what he might do if you were to be momentarily distracted.

“It’s pathetic,” the handler goes on, “and if we didn’t need her help to sort out the mess your failure-” he jabs an accusing finger at the Soldier “-created, I would have you kill her. Slowly and painfully, to punish you both.

"I should regardless, considering what she was about to do,” he moves his focus onto you, now. “You should count yourself very lucky, Empat, and pray that I still find you useful when all this is said and done.”

Your glare turns deadly at the threat. In response, Talon hits a button - not the red one - to make your necklace come to life, albeit on a much lower setting than it’d been on before. 

It’s a warning more than anything, but it still hurts.

“Yes, you will both be punished harshly for your recent acts of disobedience - eventually,” Talon states, tossing the remote into the air and catching it, quite literally playing with your life. “There’s simply no time for it now, as we leave for Sokovia tonight, per von Strucker’s request. He’s made a call for all of his creations to return and help defend their birthplace,” he stuffs the hand holding the device into his pocket and seems to consider you before adding, “He’s very interested in seeing how your powers have developed since he’s last seen you, Empat.”

Unease claws its way down your spine at the words, and though you’re not sure why - you trust it. You may not consciously remember von Strucker, but there’s a girl locked away in your mind who does; who’s warning you that he’s no one you’ll want to see ever again. 

You trust her.

Talon sighs exaggeratedly, having seemingly grown bored of this one-sided conversation he’s been having with the two of you. 

“Get her up, Soldat; we must get going,” he commands. You feel your heart lurch, and finally tear your gaze from the handler to look at the man who’s yet to let you go. 

There’s a look of calculation on his face; the one he bears whenever a mission goes wrong and he has to come up with a new plan on the spot. What could he possibly-

“My name,” the Soldier snarls through gritted teeth, glaring up at the other man with pure hatred swirling in his chest. “Is James, Buchanan, Barnes. Not Soldat, not Asset - James. Bucky.”

You gasp silently in response to what he’s just revealed, and place your hand over that of his that rests on your waist, squeezing it tightly. Right now is the most inappropriate of times to feel happy, but you are, because the Soldier, your Soldier, he has a name. Well, he’s always had one - but now he remembers it; now you know it. You know his name and you know your own - your first one, at least - and, wow. You have names. Real, genuine names and it feels so surreal, so right, even if you are currently standing on the verge of losing them again.

“I gave you an order, Soldat,” Talon emphasizes the title pointedly, and you whirl back onto him with a glare even more murderous than the first had been. “And I expect you to follow that order, or I’ll-”

In your peripheral vision, you see the Soldier - James, you remind yourself - pull out a gun and line up a shot with expert ease. You barely register the action before he’s pulling the trigger and an ear piercing bang echoes throughout the abandoned house.

The bullet hits its mark, of course - a fatal head shot. 

Talon’s body falls towards the ground and when it makes impact, whether his hand was just carrying out his last request or your luck is just that bad and he happened to land on it, the red button on the remote gets pressed. 

The wattage of your necklace spikes, and it’s the most excruciating and unbearable pain you’ve ever felt. Your lips part to scream but the cry doesn’t even get a chance to escape before you succumb to the pain being inflicted upon you, your world going dark.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

And then…

And then there’s light.

Not a heavenly, bright light, but a dim, golden glow. 

You blink against it a few times, trying to focus your vision, all the while casting your healing warmth over the pain in your head. The world around you finally aligns and you realize that you’re in a car, sprawled across the back seat with your head lying on top of a rolled up denim jacket.

Your last few moments of consciousness return to you as the headache is successfully smothered to nothing, and immediately your hand shoots up to grasp at your neck - the action sending a jolt of pain through your arm.

Brows furrowing, you withdraw the limb and bring it to eye level, finding a bandage wrapped tightly just below your elbow. You bring your other hand up and pull the bandage down carefully, revealing a stitched up wound right where Hydra’s scientists had implanted a small tracking device beneath your skin seemingly so long ago.

The implications the sight brings forth make your heart stutter.

Slowly, almost afraid of what you’ll find, you lower your hand back towards your neck -

Finding nothing there. 

And the fact that your necklace is gone is your second indication that something huge happened while you were unconscious, as the only time your handlers ever take it off of you is when you’re off mission and locked away in a cell. Gingerly, you rub at the scarred skin where it usually rests, putting the few pieces you’ve gathered so far together. 

Your tracker has presumably been cut out, your necklace is gone, and both of those things could only mean-

You stop yourself short, realizing you’re getting ahead of yourself.

You can’t let yourself think that until you know for sure it’s true. 

So without moving - because if it isn’t him, you’re gonna want the advantage of the person in the driver’s seat not knowing you’re awake - you close your eyes and reach out with your powers, studying the only other soul in the car. You take into account every familiar ache and pain in their body, the fragile hope within their chest, and you smile.

“Soldier?” you call, ignoring the pain in your arm as you push yourself up into a seated position. Startled, his icy blues snap towards the rear view mirror.

And then they melt.

“No,” he responds, a smile tainting his tone. “I’m Bucky.”

Disbelieving and overjoyed, a laugh bubbles up in your throat. He maneuvers the car to park it on the side of the rural road and you slide off of the back seat, leaning over the center console to look at his face. He turns to look at you, too, grinning - something you’ve never seen him do before. 

He’s offered you slight tugs at the corners of his lips in moments where he was more ‘James’ than ‘Soldier,’ yes, but not ever this - this flashing of his teeth and crinkling at the edges of his eyes. Bathed in the golden glow of the rising sun and freedom, he’s one of the most beautiful things you’ve ever seen. 

“Hi, Bucky,” you greet him breathlessly, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

“Hi, Y/N,” he returns, and the next thing you know you’re being pulled - squealing - from the back seat towards the front, and his arms are around you, holding you tight against him. In the cramped space of the car, the embrace is awkward and even on the verge of painful - what with all the levers and the steering wheel digging into you; but you don’t care. You just wrap your arms around him, too, and pull him impossibly closer, a different kind of tears filling your eyes as you bury your nose into his dark hair. 

“I thought I lost you,” he heaves out the shaking words against your chest, trembling in your hold. There’s so many emotions twisting within him that it’s hard for you to decipher them from one another, but most prominent of all is his guilt; his overbearing, gut-wrenching guilt. It makes you realize, with a sinking heart, that not only had he thought you dead, he’d thought he’d been the one to kill you - inadvertently - by shooting Talon.

“I’m right here,” you murmur into his hair, pressing a kiss to it after. “It’s alright - we’re alright, Bucky. We’re free.”

At your words, he pulls back enough to meet your gaze, an almost mystified look on his tear-stained face. It’s the smallness of his voice as he repeats your last two words back to you that causes your own tears to spill over. 

“We’re free.”

He almost sounds like he doesn’t really believe it, and you can understand that, as you hardly do yourself - but still, you try and reassure him, nodding quickly.

“Yeah, Bucky, we’re fr-”

Bucky presses his lips against yours, cutting you off.

Taken aback, you stiffen at first - but then you melt into him, one of your hands moving to cup the side of his face and pull him closer, the other sliding down to rest over his heart. It beats strongly against your palm, setting the pace for the kiss, the first the two of you have ever shared. And, oh, what a first kiss it is: gentle yet passionate, grounding but freeing all the same. 

It warms you from the inside out and tingles beneath the surface of your skin in the most exhilarating of ways, making you feel so alive - reassuring you that you are, as it would be so easy for you to convince yourself that you’re not, since this is the closest to Heaven you’ve ever been. 

If you could have it your way, it would never end; you would stay in this moment for the rest of your life, reveling in the feeling of Bucky’s lips moving against yours and his arms encasing you, the mix of positive emotions swirling in your respective chests. Your lungs however eventually betray you, and you have to part from him to catch your breath - but you don’t go too far. You only move to rest your forehead against his, a happier rendition of a moment lived not too long ago.

You stay like that, just basking in one another, for an eternity. And then he asks you, in a tone that tells you he’s open to anything you might suggest, “Where do you want to go?” 

You smile as you open your eyes, meeting his waiting gaze. 

“Anywhere,” you tell him simply. “As long as I’m with you.”

A/N: first and foremost, if you’re reading this, bless you for making it this far, and I really hope you liked this one-shot! I’d love to hear any thoughts you may have on it :).

I’ve been planning the story of Bucky and this specific reader in my head for months now, so to see them finally “come to life” is a pretty great feeling. I hope you guys love them as much as I do, because I’ll hopefully be sharing the journey that led them to this ‘epilogue’ with you soon 💜.

One last thing, I want to give a shout out to every single person who has given me words of encouragement and advice over the past few months as I’ve talked about picking up writing again. Especially @stop-obsessing-over-those-actors, whose reaction to just a snippet of this one-shot and constant support throughout the writing process pushed me to keep going even when I felt like giving up and dropping out of the challenge. I’m so sorry I kept you waiting to see what happened for so long! I hope the wait was worth it!

 ( @buckyreaderrecs and @stop-obsessing-over-those-actors, I did it you guys!!  💜)

[emsartwork]

Sorry if you’ve already answered this but J was wondering if you could talk more the girls childhood/growing up? Love what you’re doing btw, absolutely adore how you’ve basically recreated the Winx world! 💗

Thank you!!! and sure thing! long post ahead

BLOOM: she never really had any problems family wise, Vanessa and Mike told her she was adopted at like…. Age 7 or so (in a positive affirming way obvi) and even if any kids teased her about it she never doubted her parent’s love for her. Even with Daphne’s spell helping her blend in with earth life, Bloom still had a nagging sense she didn’t “fit”, and got lost in fantasy books and art whenever possible. Growing up she deals with some body image issues that probably stem from the whole wrong fit feeling. Bloom grew up an artistic and quiet kid, Mitzi and Selina were her best friends from childhood, and because they both had really strong personalities, Bloom often repressed her own feelings in order to play peace maker. Up until high school, where Mitzi, who was always the leader, slowly started to turn into a bully in order to gain the approval/fear of her peers, targeting Selina specifically. Bloom was more of a follower at the time and just didn’t want to loose her friends so she didn’t stand up to Mitzi but tried to treat Selina as if nothing had changed, which was not cool with Selina and she not-so-subtly started to reject Bloom as a friend. Bloom, for her part, did get her shit together and stand up to Mitzi, loosing her only other friend right before her senior year of highschool (she was still technically friends with Andy but they had also just broken up and everything was awkward lmao). Bloom regrets not standing up to Mitzi sooner, and wants to rekindle her friendship with Selina (and Mitzi if she’s willing to tone down the bitchiness).  

STELLA: So Stella’s childhood is a little more complicated. Stella is the first SoLuna heir in Solarian history, and a very loud minority protested her very existence. Stella also had to stay close to the Second Sun of Solaria as a child, so she had a very solitary and confined early childhood in a wing of the Solarian castle. When she did figure out how to sneak out she was only 10 or so, and spent most of the time just wandering around the capital city. She didn’t have any problems in the city, but an off duty guard recognized her and took her back to the palace. Stella was then sent to an elite boarding school under a false name (Sasha), she formed close friends with Nova and Varanda, but the trio was the target of the rest of the school’s bullies (for various reasons). Junior high was peak nerd Stella, but she “princess Diary-ed” herself when starting high school and started placing all of her value in her appearance and status as a sex object. Her parents’ marriage was also starting to crumble and Stella felt like she had lost their love. Because Stella craves validation and affection, this lead to a couple bad relationships because the only way she could get people to “love her” in her brain was through physical intimacy, even if it didn’t really fill the void she felt. Nova and Varanda were her rocks during this period and Stella was able to learn to love herself first with their help. Stella was insanely nervous to leave her friends and go to Alfea, and tried to force friendships with other people originally, (this mostly lead to people thinking she was annoying and getting multiple censures from Griselda), and her first genuine connection on Magix was with “Prince Sky” (Brandon). Nova and Varanda were VERY worried when Stella first told them about “Prince Sky”(Brandon) and how fast they had gotten into a relationship and they may have stalked/threatened him on a visit to Stella but they eventually came around and started to like him. Stella being expelled was only kind of an accident, Varanda texted Stella in the middle of a Chemancy class her application to Alfea for the next year had been accepted and Stella got SUPER excited and blew up the classroom. She probably could have stayed in school but her response to Fraragona and Griselda’s “now what do you have to say for yourself young lady” was *giddy laughter* and “ i only wish the explosion had been big enough to send me forward to next year!!!!!” and griselda was like “either she goes or I go” and Stella was like “ya gurl i gone” of course her time back on Solaria didn’t go exactly as planned as her parents were just fighting every time they tried to do something together making her people pleasing/self blaming tendencies worse. 

FLORA: ahhh my baby So Flora does remember her father, not a lot and she feel guilty she doesn’t remember more, but she was only 7 when he died. Alyssa remarried when Flora was 13, and eventually she adjusted to having a younger sister who she loves very much now. Due to Rhodos’s nature preservation needing a lot of room for study Flora and Miele grew up pretty far away from any town and didn’t have a lot of friends. This is primarily why Flora and Miele are so close despite their age difference, and why Flora took her role as protector so intensely; she was the only one there (I mean besides the parents obviously). Flora did well in school though she was quiet and reserved, which made making friends even harder than living in the middle of nowhere. She figured out the best way to make people like her was to give them what they wanted, and this snowballed into Flora becoming kind of doormat not comfortable with voicing her true feelings and faking a lot what people expected from her. Flora has a lot of repressed…… everything (Bloom mostly just has a lot of repressed anger she’s good with other emotions lmao) she has trouble identifying what she’s feeling and for the most part is content to leave her feelings buried as long as the surface remains calm. The Winx do help her start to access her feeling more, and encourage her whenever she does voice an opinion. Helia is a perfect match for her in the sense that his quiet nature leaves Flora to express herself without trying to mold herself into whatever she thinks he wants (of course on the flip side this also means Flora and Helia have issues with communication and repression but that’s another topic). 

AISHA: hoo boy another complicated one. Aisha was raised in a strict environment, this mostly stems from her parents and their more…. anxious natures, but royalty on Andros is not as free as some of the other planets. Aisha’s world consisted of lessons and adults and rules and she had very little control over her own life. Aisha met Anne in a rare moment of freedom in the tidal gardens where Anne’s father worked. Anne was biding her time waiting for her dad to get off work so they could grab some dinner and was dancing. Aisha just watched her for a while before Anne noticed her and asked her if she wanted to play. The two formed a fast friendship, and Aisha finally started to feel like she had some sort of influence in her own life as she snuck out of lessons to play with Anne every evening she could(obviously their favorite thing to do was dance lol) Unfortunately Anne and her father disappeared one night. Aisha lost her only friend, the only social outlet she had, her one source of freedom, and couldn’t even figure out what had happened. Feeling so out of control lead to a pretty bad anxiety disorder for most of her teens, primarily triggered by the dark or being trapped in some way. She also has issues trusting others and letting people help her. Aisha started to act out, trying to exert any kind of control and relieve some of her anxiety. Her risk taking behavior got pretty bad, but she had started to tone it down after she met and bonded with Piff(royal business trip to Magix she skipped out on). Of course when the pixies went missing she wasn’t going to let her friendship vanish again and tracked them down with a not so healthy single minded determination.

TECNA: born to higher class parents, Tecna had greatness thrust upon her from an early age. She received extra training and education basically from birth, which she was fine with for the most part. Tecna grew up being able to handle academic pressure very well and met all of her teacher’s and parent’s expectations.  She and Riven had a brief collision as preteens in a school before Riven got expelled. Tecna’s one issue was that of her emotional intelligence, Zenith doesn’t really place an emphasis on that, so she was able to advance through high school very predictably until she attended a non-Zenith based workshop for magic. She found herself socially ostracized and very very confused. Of course Tecna had never met a subject she couldn’t master and emotions wouldn’t be an exception right??? Wrong. Zenith’s information about the brain and the chemicals produced was of no help, her teachers and parents didn’t understand why Tecna suddenly had this new interest in such an illogical subject, and worst of all, Tecna realized she didn’t understand her own brain chemicals. Tecna had a mini existential crisis, realized she had no idea what she even wanted to do with her life or why it mattered and applied to the Alfea Fairy program because “FAIRY MAGIC EMOTION MAGIC HELP” also it would offer her strong emotional experiences(transformations basically require it), the opportunity to work closely in groups, and personally obverse her dorm-mates emotional states. She got way more than she bargained for but doesn’t regret it a bit.

MUSA: my angst child T-T so basically, the first half of her childhood is p good, her parents work really hard and don’t always have enough money but the family unit is pretty stable. At around 12, Musa’s mom gets sick. Nobody is too worried at first, but she never seems to get better and she takes a big turn for the worse when Musa is about 16, Matlin is finally diagnosed with Core Failure Syndrome. CFS is similar to Core Fatigue, but while Core Fatigue can be remedied fairly easily with rest and magic, CFS is virtually incurable unless it’s caught really early. The causes are still unknown, and the symptoms (fatigue, nausea, cognition issues, and muscle weakness) can be prolonged but mild until it’s too late. In the later stages (extreme fatigue, numbness in the extremities, chest pain, joint pain, memory/focus issues, inability to keep food down)  all you can do is try to make the afflicted comfortable. Ho-boe is understandably distraught, and tries to freelance write for music but goes into a pretty bad depressive state. Musa has a few odd jobs here and there, and thats mostly what’s keeping them afloat among heavy medical debt. Musa latches on to her mother for emotional support as Ho-boe is super dissociated. When Matlin does pass as Musa turns 18, Ho-boe finally breaks, and violently destroys every last reminder of Matlin because he can’t deal with the pain. Musa, who has suddenly had her one emotional anchor cut off, is super freaked out and scared by this and it really damages their relationship going forward. Musa becomes incredibly anxious, and can’t really process her mother's death because her father won’t talk about it with her and is still shut off emotionally. Moving to Magix only worsened it as Musa rebelled and went after music with a desperate passion. Applying to Alfea was a way for Musa to get out of the house, and she and her father weren’t on speaking terms when she did leave for the college. Musa had planned on learning more magic to further her career as a musician, special effects infusing magic into a song rubbing shoulders with rich and well connected people who could possibly get her connected to the big shots in music….. The winx situations had her change some of her long term plans a little, but her connection with the group + her separation anxiety and fierce loyalty didn’t really leave any other choice lol 

[xfandomwritingsx]

Authenticity – John Constantine (2005)

-gif source unknown- 

Description: Challenge: The we have to kiss right now or they’ll notice we’re not supposed to be here trope. 

Warnings/Labels: Mentions of a hard-on but that’s about it. 

Approx. Word Count: 2,500 

A/N: For Meg’s (@thranduilsperkybutt​) 11k Follower Challenge. I was super excited to do this one. Hopefully all of you enjoy. 

---

 “You look uncomfortable,” you say at a volume that only he can hear in the crowded bar. One of his arms is behind you on the armchair’s extra plump armrest and you don’t even have to see it to know that he’s got a near white knuckled grip on the edge, digging his fingers into the cushion. You’re seated on his lap, nestled in close with your legs thrown over the other armrest and between the way his thighs are entirely too tense underneath you and the way his hand practically hovers over your shins like he’s afraid to touch you, it’s very obvious he’s not doing a good job at faking this whole cover story.  

“That’s probably because I am uncomfortable,” he snaps back through gritted teeth. Your eyes scan the dark bar, looking for your target as you throw one arm over the back of his shoulders to pull him in even closer, running your other hand over his chest. 

“We’re supposed to be lovers,” you remind him a little quieter, getting closer to his ear. He flinches and you can tell he’s resisting the instinct to lean away. “You’re so stiff.” You squeeze his shoulder. “And not in the good way,” you tease. He grinds his jaw and if he weren’t so close to blowing your cover, you might have found it funny. 

“This whole thing was your plan,” he says coarsely as his eyes drop down to your skirt that’s slowly riding too far up your thighs every time you shift on him. You wonder if he’s debating on yanking it back down for you. 

He was right though. This was entirely your plan. Information about a demon making some very illegal deals and trades had brought you upstate to a fairly new underground demon bar whose appeal was largely influenced by the sin of lust. Risqué artwork, a red motif that you weren’t entirely sure wasn’t meant to symbolize blood instead of romance, and cozy dark corners all helped embody the hedonism-esque atmosphere. So yes, it made sense to enter as pseudo-lovers to scope the place out. You’d thrown on a wig and some tight clothes that teetered the line between glamorous and grungy. Then you’d forced Constantine out of his suit jacket and tie in order to blend in, hoping neither of you would be recognized. 

But as you had forgone one of those dimly lit corners in favor of an oversized, plush, velvet armchair closer to the middle of the room for better visuals, his hesitancy to even touch you is bound to stand out and draw the wrong kind of attention. The bartender, who already had raised an eyebrow at your apparently uncommon drink order, was watching you both a little too closely for your liking. 

“Next time I’ll remember to ask someone a little less uptight,” you threaten idly as you do another quick scan of the room. You both knew it was a lie. He’s your go-to partner and on the rare occasions where his dumbass will admit he needs help, you’re his too. “Would you just touch me already?” you snap at him sharply, noticing more eyes on you. 

“Most women ask me that question with a much nicer tone.” The words are dry, but the humor is still behind them nonetheless and you catch the glint of a smile on his lips. He lets his hand come down fully and relax on your shin which still isn’t great, but it’s better. Bastard should feel lucky you remembered to shave your legs at the last minute too. “Have you spotted our guy yet?” he asks as if you were the only one looking. 

“Not yet,” you tell him, leaning in to whisper it to him in hopes of looking intimate. His flinch is much less noticeable this time at least. “You need to relax,” you chide. “You’re going to draw the wrong kind of looks.” He gives a humorously gentle squeeze to your leg in response and you can’t help but smile at his timid behavior.  

You let your eyes search the room in the most casual way you can. You lean over to the side to the small table in front of the chair where your drinks reside. Constantine’s hand finally leaves the armrest to sweep over your waist, making sure you don’t topple off his lap when you reach for your beer mug. You take a slow swig of it, eyes peering over the lip of the mug to keep fanning over the room. You put it back down, his fingers sinking into the pocket of your waist as you make the stretch.  

You readjust yourself on his legs and make a show of cuddling up to him. You’re a little impressed that he keeps his hand on you. He slides it up your side, resting it under your arm and shifting his own up your back to allow you to lean onto the armrest like you had been. You can feel the warmth of his forearm, bare from his rolled up sleeves, seeping through your relatively thin shirt and relax into it. When his fingertips brush the side of your breast, you can barely feel it through the absurd amount of padding in your bra, but you figure it’s good for show. 

Another fifteen minutes pass and you continue to unsuccessfully try to get Constantine not to look like he wants to crawl away from you. In that time, you notice the bartender cast suspicious eyes your way a few too many times for your liking. When one of the bouncers just happens to show up at the bar to talk to him, you know you’re about to have a problem. 

“Bail or sell it,” you warn Constantine. He furrows his brows, not following you. “Either we get out right now or we find a way to sell our cover story in a hot damn hurry.” You tap his shoulder with the hand you’ve flung around his neck again to indicate a direction without your eyes. “Or else beefed up half-breed over there’s gonna start something I didn’t bring proper footwear for.” You had not come in tonight looking for a fight and the black heels you’re wearing are a testament to that. You leave the decision in his hands and fully expect to be walking quickly towards the door in a moment’s time.  

“Fuck it,” he whispers harshly and before you have a chance to question what reaction that was meant to imply, the hand at your side tightens, hugging you even closer to his chest and the hand that previously rested on your shin is suddenly at your neck, pulling you into a crashing kiss. 

There’s definitely a slight mmph noise that escapes your mouth and you have to forcibly repress the instinctive surprise from flashing over your face. When your brain catches up with what’s happening, you expect a fairly chaste decoy kiss, but the way his lips are moving against yours and the heated way his fingertips press into the back of your neck prove contrary to that thought.  

You realize quickly that now you’re the one acting oddly, being unusually rigid for a woman being ravished by her supposed lover. So you return the kiss in the same way he’s giving it; hot and heavy. Your mouth opens easily beneath his and your hands are suddenly gripping at his clothes. There’s little actual romance to the kiss, your eyes still opening into slits to jump around the room, making sure it’s working. The only eyes on you now are the intrigued ones, the voyeur eyes. The bartender has gone back to his duties, seemingly satisfied with your display. 

You pull away from Constantine by mere inches, ready to let him go and release him from the ruse. He takes a single, deep but fleeting look at you before the hand on your neck pushes up into your wig. He kisses you again as he pulls roughly, sitting you up and using his other hand to help guide you where he wants you.  

It takes you by surprise, but the way he handles you doesn’t leave you wanting to fight it. The fist twisting in your fake strands of hair makes you regret wearing a wig. He’s making you ache to feel that pleasurable tug at your scalp. Your hands are forced to let go of him and brace yourself on the back of the chair in order to follow the direction of his pull, turning you to face him and slipping his hand between your legs. His fingers press into your inner thigh to push your thighs open over his lap all while keeping his lips up against yours. 

Your eyes are sealed shut this time, getting completely lost in his kiss and his touch. His hand slides around to the back of your thigh, pulling you closer to slot your pelvis over his. The moan that slips through your lips when you feel the bulge pressing up through your panties is completely involuntary and causes a twitch beneath you. Was this why he’s been so hesitant to touch you all night? If only you’d realized before. His mouth opening under you and his tongue pressing against yours ceases your brain from thinking much further.  

You move your hands from the chair back to his face to slide and cup his jaw, allowing yourself to put your full weight onto his lap with a roll of your hips. He releases your wig and both of his hands glide over your ass, giving a small, discreet tug on the hem of your skirt to prevent it from riding up enough to give everyone here an eyeful. His fingers curl over the edge of the fabric and when you feel fingertips brush over the crease underneath your cheeks, you know the maneuver was not without a selfish motive.  

One of your hands starts to melt down from his jaw to his neck and then slinks down further to his chest. And further still to his belly. And further still to his waistband. The rattle of his belt jolts him out of his daze and instantly, his hand shoots back between you to stop your motions as he pulls back from the heated kiss.  

Your surroundings slowly bleed back into your consciousness and you voluntarily, although reluctantly, remove your hand from between you. Your breathing is heavier than you realized and there’s a look in Constantine’s eyes that has you wondering if he’s debating pulling you back down one more time. And damn it all if you didn’t want him to do just that. But the look is fleeting and he clearly decides against it as he gives your waist a push to back you off his lap. 

You make quick adjustments of your clothes and your wig, hoping no one happened to notice anything awry. Getting to your feet, you spin around and quickly down the rest of your drink, a harsh mix of needing alcohol, quenching a sudden thirst, and finding something to do quickly flooding you.  

“I’m going to go… freshen up.” Your voice is dry despite the beer you finished off and you don’t even spare Constantine a look over your shoulder before whisking yourself away to the restroom, skin still tingling and stomach flipping around inside of you so much that you feel the slightest bit dizzy.  

You make it quick; splash a little water on your face and smooth out the wrinkles in your clothes before making your way back out. You don’t make it very far, rounding a corner and nearly running into Constantine’s chest. The freshness that the cool water had given your face is washed away instantly with a blush. 

“Time to go,” he says simply, his face filled with a composure he apparently stole from you, reversing how you had been when you walked into the bar. Your only response is a furrowed brow as you step back, needing to keep some space between your bodies. Had the kiss not worked? Really? It sure as hell worked on you. “Our guy hasn’t made himself known, but a whole bunch of people from Midnight’s just walked in so our cover is useless.” 

“Shit,” you hiss, shifting right back into work mode. “Alright, let’s slip out the back door.” You want to be pissed. The whole night is blown and you got nothing from it, wasting money and time. And yet, you’re still too preoccupied to be anything but a little relieved.  

Constantine follows you down the back hall and towards the back exit into an alleyway. He’s silent behind you, but you can practically feel him on your heels and you resist the nervous urge to pull at your skirt; an urge you can’t help but notice you haven’t felt all night until now. When you open the back door, you take a look over your shoulder and catch his eyes lingering on your ass. His eyes flash to yours with a smirk on his lips and you can’t help but laugh as he follows you into the alley. Such a small thing throws your nerves out the door and you fall back into your regular selves.  

Your heels click and splash on the wet pavement as you make your way back to the car parked in a garage around the block. Constantine walks besides you once you reach the sidewalk and keeps a respectable distance between you. As is normal for him, he’s quiet, his eyes watching the street. 

“So,” you break the silence, a little courage creeping into you. “Are we going to talk about that kiss in there?” You watch his face for a reaction, but all you get is a small clench of his jaw and his eyes squinting just a hair. 

“No,” he answers curtly. It wasn’t anything less than you expected so you simply nod. You wait another minute or so, until you’re inside the parking garage before asking your next question. 

“Are you going to do it again?” You watch as his lips press together tightly, something he does when he’s holding something back. For a moment you think maybe he’s not going to answer. Then, with his eyes still purposely looking away from you, he lets the smile come through. 

“Maybe,” he says plainly.  

You chuckle at him as you both start to climb into the car. You don’t need any further conversation than that for the moment, but you do spend the car ride wondering if you can convince him to continue to play lovers when checking into your motel room for the night. For authenticity, obviously. 

[zazujoy]

Darryl finally talked to his kid! I have a whole lot of thoughts about it so here’s what’s basically a line-by-line analysis of that episode 37 conversation.

Darryl: hey uh, Grant kiddo, you wanna tell me what happened last night?

Grant: uhh . . . yeah, I hung out with Yeet, and uh . . . yeah, no it just didn’t- it wasn’t-- he’s not . . . not for me. I’m good, it’s uh-we’re fine.

Darryl: I’m sorry kid.

Grant: Yeah, no, it’s good. I’m fine. How are you? Are you-There’s a lot going on with your dad, you-your whole thing, and Paeden . . . how are you?

Darryl: Yeah, I mean, you can tell there’s a lot going on there. Look, I mean we can- I’ll tell you what you want if you really wanna hear something from me, but you know, I’m here for you, and I wanna-- you know, it’s been wild and there’s been a lot going on, and I’ll just say that personally I feel like I’ve seen a change since that Fortnite since you went into that . . . I don’t know what you call it, but that big bird thing, it was pretty wild--

Okay, first thing I want to call attention to because it becomes important again later: Darryl calling Grant “kid/kiddo.” I’m struggling to properly express what I find significant about this, but while it’s a minor thing, I do think it’s important. It’s something that sort of subtly calls attention to the . . . power imbalance?? Between them--not an imbalance in a weird creepy way, but it emphasizes that it’s important to Darryl that he treat Grant as his son, not as his peer.

Along with that, I think the use of kid/kiddo somehow adds a bit of emotional distance, even though it’s a term of endearment. Darryl’s desire to protect Grant is extremely important to him, and I think interacting with him in this way is a subconscious expression of that desire/an indication that Darryl is, to a lesser extent, trying to connect with a younger version of Grant than the kid in front of him. Darryl trying to shield Grant from things he deems him “too young for”  is born out of a good and healthy desire to protect him and set good boundaries, but it also gives him an excuse to not be as emotionally vulnerable as he needs to be at times. 

Which brings me to my next point: I really like the way Darryl directs the conversation back towards Grant here. I think a lot of people interpreted this as Darryl once again being unwilling to express his own emotions or be vulnerable, and that definitely plays into it, but more than that I think it comes from that same protective instinct. Grant isn’t responsible for Darryl’s emotions or well-being in the same way that Darryl is responsible for Grant’s, and while Darryl’s parenting is definitely very flawed, that’s one thing I think he’s done a great job of recognizing and remembering. Establishing from the start that he’s here for Grant and avoiding making it about himself reflects that. 

Darryl:Yeah, you know, I only thought of that because I went hunting with my dad and I shot an animal and I know that was, you know, it was a little tough, it was mostly just really the first experience I really had with death. But yeah, you haven’t been the same since then, and it’s been tough that we haven’t had the time to talk, and we’ve got the time right now, and I just want to know what’s going on with you. 

Anthony: When you said “oh it was a little hard,” and you play off the hunting incident, he kinda looks away with an air of irritation.

Grant: No, I--it’s uh--yeah, it was a little hard, it was--

Okay so you know how I just said that Darryl trying to protect Grant and not make his emotions Grant’s responsibility was a good and important thing? I was right but this is the moment in the conversation that we start to see the negative effects of the way he’s been handling everything (not that this is the first time we’ve seen that; it’s been evident in basically every WIlson family interaction throughout the podcast, but in the context of this particular conversation, this is the point where my opinion shifts from “this is a good and responsible thing to do” to “Darryl you need to express some level of vulnerability to your kid because not doing so actively harms him.”) 

I also think that here, Darryl’s fear of expressing his own emotions plays a role moreso than in the previous lines where he turned the conversation back to Grant. In that earlier line, it was more about protecting Grant, whereas now it’s both that and his own issues with vulnerability. These two things are absolutely interconnected, though--it’s not that “I can’t express emotions because I need to be a strong leader” and “I can’t express emotions because I want to protect my son and keep that from becoming his responsibility” are separate motivations so much as a chain of cause and effect: “Keeping my emotions to myself lets me be a leader and be strong get us through this, and if I want to be a good dad and protect my kid I need to be strong.” Of course, this thinking doesn’t take into account that

 a. Repression does not equate to strength 

b. Grant needs more than protection; he has a whole host of emotional needs outside of just that, and he needs Darryl to make an effort to make that kind of emotional connection

c. Darryl downplaying his own pain makes it harder for Grant to feel safe and comfortable expressing what’s going on with him. Like, we hear him directly repeat that “it was a little hard” bit and try to shrug off what happened, and throughout the conversation he continues to downplay it a lot. 

Again, “I shouldn’t make my kid responsible for my emotions” is a good and healthy standpoint, but it’s also tied to a lot of Darryl’s personal issues that he needs to address, and feeds into some of the less healthy aspects of his parenting. 

Darryl: well hey kid, look, when I was saying that I wasn’t trying to compare--my point was I was trying to say that I think if I went through what you did, I don’t know how I would have been. I would have wanted to talk to my dad about it, ‘cause my dad was there for me when I shot, you know, my first animal, and maybe it’s just--all things considered, it was a learning experience for me, and I can’t quite remember exactly what it was like back then, but you know, it was hard, but I think it was a little hard because I got to talk to my dad about it. So, you know, I want you to know that you can talk to me and I want to hear what happened.

Grant: what does hard look like to you, even? What does that mean? I saw you vomit and shit and I saw you learn that your dad is--all this . . . and it just doesn’t-- it seems like water off a . . . I don’t even know. I don’t know what I’m saying.

What I love about the way Anthony plays Grant is just, in general, the way he expresses feelings and concepts, especially as it relates to his depression. Anthony’s able to capture and express both what it’s like to feel that way and what it’s like to verbally fumble around trying to find the right words to express it. Grant, at 12, doesn’t have the same vocabulary/experience/point of reference with which to verbalize his depression that the players and audience do, and that’s played well while still clearly getting the emotional point across

This line is a great example of this. He stumbles around with the “water off a duck” thing at the end, but he hits on a question that’s key to this whole conversation and this whole relationship: “what does hard look like to you?” And another thing I like about that is that it’s been set up well; Grant asking this is in line with what’s happened previously in the podcast: Darryl brushing things off during For Knights, during the Paeden reveal, just now talking about killing an animal for the first time, etc; and Grant telling Yeet how everything seems to come so easily to Darryl. It’s an issue that’s been building up, and addressing it here, in this way, works really well narratively. 

Darryl: Look, what’s hard for me? I mean, this is hard, but I’m . . . you don’t have to judge what you’re feeling based off of how I’m feeling. When you grow older, things are different, you know, and I might feel things a little less than I used to, cause of, you know just things that have happened in my life. And I don’t think--just because you’ve seen me act a certain way doesn’t mean that that’s the correct way to act. And this has definitely been hard, and I wish that … if there’s people around, or if your mom was here, I would talk to her. But I’m honestly just trying to get us through all of this, and get us back safe. So I don’t want you to be looking at me to think like that’s the way . . . don’t worry about how I’m feeling in terms of knowing how you’re feeling. That’s why I’m here to talk to you about it. 

“You don’t have to judge what you’re feeling based off of how I’m feeling” is, in my opinion, the most important thing Darryl says in this whole conversation. I don’t actually have a lot more to say about that because I think Darryl/Matt expressed it really well, but yeah. Super important, and one of the few things I think Darryl got 100% right. Not that it’s the only good or right thing he said, but a lot of the other good things he says get mixed in with slightly more questionable ideas (I’ll get into that later), but this? It’s just good. Mr. Wilson sir, I’m proud. 

Grant: yeah, no, I get it.

Darryl: Tell you what, Grant, I’m not gonna force you to talk to me. I trust you, and you’re obviously dealing with a lot, and I know I can’t push you, but I am worried that maybe I’m not doing this the right way for you to feel open. So I’ll tell you what: anything you want to ask me, I’ll tell you honestly, I will tell you the truth, because I’m always gonna tell you the truth. And when I’m not telling you things, I’m not trying to lie and I’m not even trying to avoid it, I’m just trying to do what I think is best. And trying to protect you from certain things right now. But maybe that’s just not doing it, and my dad always talked to me, so . . . if there’s anything holding you back, you know, ask me and I’ll tell you anything. 

Hell yeah, fuck yeah, this is what I’m here for. One of the biggest themes of the podcast is that all four of the dads have major flaws in their approaches to parenthood, and during this adventure they need to come to acknowledge and address that. I said a few weeks ago that Ron was the only one who had really done that so far, but I’m happy to say I’m officially including Darryl in that club now. Throughout the podcast, we’ve seen him address pretty much every situation the exact same way: he wants to be strong, to be a team leader, to push forward and get through this. 

Acknowledging that this approach isn’t working here is a huge step forward for Darryl, and it’s so important that he was able to recognize that and adjust accordingly, rather than simply pushing forward as he’s done in the past. 

Also! I brought up the kid/kiddo thing earlier and it’s relevant again here, because this is the first point in the conversation that Darryl just calls him “Grant” without throwing “kid” in at the end, and I like the way that that tiny detail emphasizes the shift in the conversation. Darryl doesn’t completely abandon his reticence, but he’s engaging with Grant more directly than he has been, rather than using that father/son dynamic as a way to put more distance between them. He’s acknowledging him as a whole, independent person (“I trust you”) and giving him the space to set whatever boundaries he needs. 

Grant: Okay. So, when I was talking to Yeet the other night, he said something that I wanted to ask you about. He said that he was feeling like uh . . . like he couldn’t feel anything? Like there was nothing. But when he was in certain situations, he would feel something. And it would make him be like “oh cool, I’m here” and that was kinda scary to him, and he didn’t . . . uh, he didn’t really feel like he could talk to anybody about it, because nobody else knew how it felt to feel that way. And I was like “yeah my dad definitely has never . . .” Like have you ever, has that ever . . . I don’t know, it’s stupid, you know what, forget it--

Darryl: no, I mean, to feel numb? Or that you can’t say anything to anybody?

Grant: Yeah, or like you’re not there. Like you were there, and now you’re . . . not. That’s like a thing that Yeet has. 

MR. BURCH I JUST WANT TO TALK

For real, the decision to have Grant present his depression as something Yeet is dealing with instead of directly talking about it is maybe my favorite character decision from this whole damn story. 

A major theme in Darryl and Grant’s relationship is the distance between them. We see Darryl putting distance between them with every “we’ll talk later,” and Grant mirroring this behavior by consistently shrugging Darryl off and, especially after the chimera incident, basically refusing to engage with him. 

In this instance, Grant filtering his depression through “my friend is dealing with this thing” is another way to establish distance, but in a much healthier way than before. It would be great for Darryl and Grant to have a relationship where he can talk openly and directly about it, and I hope we see them get to that point, but as of right now they’re not there. Grant knows that, and instead of pulling away completely like he’s done in the past, uses Yeet as a way to keep enough emotional distance that he feels safe. He stops treating it as a black-and-white issue (“if my dad understood this, I’d tell him about it, but he wouldn’t get it so I’m not going to try”) and instead does what he needs to in order to engage with his dad at their current level of trust/emotional intimacy. 

That element of “keeping a safe distance” is especially clear when you compare this section of the conversation to the conversation Grant had with Yeet. With Yeet, he was a lot more vulnerable and open, getting into more detail and letting himself break down a bit, whereas with his dad it’s clear he’s keeping some of his walls up. He’s summarizing his feelings/experience (while pretending it’s not his), not processing them or directly showing them. 

Obviously my experiences are not universal and not every story about a mentally ill teen needs to reflect my own life, but this particular thing is something that’s super familiar to me. I can remember the exact moment that I, at 14, realized my parents weren’t people I cried to anymore. When I did open up about stuff, my friends were the people I cried with and vented to, and (sometimes) my parents got a cliff’s notes version later of what was going on with me. 

Darryl: Yeah. I mean, I can’t speak to Yeet, but of course. I think that’s a thing that everybody . . . I mean look, one of the greatest regrets I have is that you never got to meet your grandpa. And I don’t know if you ever know exactly how . . . I mean, you’ve heard some stories about how your mom and your dad got together, but I . . . it was the reason your dad never graduated college. Like it was hard. When my dad died, I didn’t know how to handle it. He died--you know he had cancer, and he was slipping away, he had brain cancer, and I didn’t want to go to college. But he told me he was strong, he would make it, and when I was there freshman year, he went back to work. He wasn’t supposed to go back to work but I think he was just tired of being stuck inside, and he shouldn’t have been there. And he slipped, and he wasn’t ready, and he died. And I wasn’t there. And I told my mom I didn’t want to go to college. And yeah, I mean, I was shut down. I didn’t know how to feel for the longest time. And that’s . . . it’s normal. I think there’s a lot of things in life that happen to people that you don’t know how to feel. And I don’t know what’s happened to Yeet. This world is crazy, people are going into slavery when they’re young kids, so, God, I can’t even imagine what’s happened to Yeet. But--

Oof. Oof. Okay.

First off, props to Darryl for finally expressing an emotion! Talking about his dad’s death and the way it affected him and admitting that he didn’t know how to feel is a super important milestone for him.

I do take issue with “everyone feels like that sometimes” and “that’s normal” though. I know this wasn’t Darryl’s intention, but hearing things like that when I was a depressed young teen was the absolute worst thing, because to me it communicated “being sad all the time is normal, not wanting to exist is normal; everyone deals with this and I’m just handling it worse than they are.” I didn’t need people to tell me it was normal, I needed someone to acknowledge that something was wrong and that I needed and deserved help. Again, my experiences aren’t universal, but I’d wager Grant has similar needs in this case. 

All that said, I think this had more of a positive than negative effect for Grant. Even though Darryl stumbles a bit and hits on that “everyone deals with that” idea that I dislike, he also expresses that, at least to an extent, he can relate to what Grant is going through. Grant might leave this conversation thinking “this is normal and I should just get better at dealing with it,” but Darryl is also trying to tell him that he understands, that he’s a safe person to talk to, and that Grant isn’t alone, and I think those messages come through too, even if they’re not expressed perfectly. 

Grant: What made that go away? What did you . . . when did you stop feeling like that? 

Darryl: I mean, your mom. She-

Grant: oh.

Anthony: And he immediately starts crying. Not sobbing, but just like tears streaming down his face.

Matt: Tears start streaming down Darry’s face too and I go

Darryl: Yeah, it’s--she’s the best woman in the world, I mean, she knew, and honestly, sometimes I feel like you know, if I feel like I’m not good enough, I wonder if maybe she just stays stuck here, that she was . . . oh, I shouldn't say that, you’re too young for that. But your mom loves me very much and I love her very much. And yeah, she’s the reason I got through it. And you know, it’s never gone, which is why I don’t know what I should do. I don’t know if I should talk to my dad or . . . the fact that he could be here for some reason, but . . . look, kiddo, life’s never gonna get easier, life’s never easy, but as long as you’ve got people around you that love you, and I love you, you’ll get through it. And you’ve just got to hold onto the positive stuff. 

Grant: Thanks. Yeah, no I--I love you too.

Oof 2: Electric Boogaloo. 

Much like in the previous few lines, there’s a mixture of good and bad messages here, but in this case I think the more harmful ones come through more strongly than the good. 

“Life’s never easy, but as long as you’ve got people around you that love you, and I love you, you’ll get through it” is good! HOWEVER, Darryl essentially saying that Carol fixed all his problems is an issue for a couple of reasons. 

1. “Love cures depression” is just in general a really shitty idea to perpetuate, and it’s especially hard-hitting for Grant in the aftermath of getting rejected by his crush, who was one of the few people who made him feel anything. Plus, it pushes Grant back towards his perspective that his dad “got the thing that mattered the most to him early on in life.” Darryl made a lot of progress in showing Grant that he understands some of what he’s going through, but communicating that Carol made everything better and that love made those issues go away dampens that effect a bit. 

2. Darryl has a habit of idolizing the people he loves and looks up to, and we hear that especially every time he talks about his dad or Carol. He puts them on pedestals and that makes it a lot harder for him to realize they’re humans with flaws and problems of their own. 

Darryl: You wanna just cry for a little bit?

Thinking about this in contrast to Grant telling Yeet two episodes ago that he’s never seen his dad cry or be scared. I have no further comments. 

Darryl: Grant, are you hungry?

Grant: Yeah, no yeah I’m always  . . . I mean, I would eat.

I’m not the first person to mention this, but in previous episodes Grant has turned away food and said he’s not hungry, even after not being fed for a few days (that’s depression, babey!), so “I would eat” is SUCH a good, subtle indication that he’s doing a little better. 

Darryl: Hey Grant, I just want you to know, you don’t--it doesn’t have to be fixed right now. And I just want you to know, if you ever want to talk again and you just need me to be there, like . . . it’s not a one-time thing. 

This line is competing with “you don’t have to judge what you’re feeling based off of how I’m feeling” for the title of Most Important Thing Darryl said. It’s so so good that the characters and players know that this isn’t something that one conversation will fix, and that this is just one step in an ongoing process. This one conversation didn’t by any means fix Grant’s depression, but it was a huge step forward in terms of establishing a relationship between Grant and Darryl where he feels safe and supported talking about it.

[ficsandcatsandficsandcats]

Prompt Request

So, here’s the thing, dear reader. This thing kind of took on a life of its own. 

Fandom: The Witcher Pairing: Jaskier x Reader Word Count: 4,558 Rating: M Prompt:  “Hello! I’m glad to find another writer who writes for Jaskier. Can you please write a fic with Jaskier x female reader (perhaps one that is sweet and kind, but insecure about herself) that is both got fluff and angst with the prompts “Don’t be scared, I’m right here.” + “You’ve shown me what love can feel like.” + “I love you. You are what matters to me.” + “Can I kiss you?” + “Are you scared?” + "I can’t believe you’re carrying my child.” + “Shh, don’t worry, I’ll take very good care of you.” a/n: Reader and Jaskier are in an arranged marriage and end up falling in love. There are little breaks between parts to denote time passing. How much time? Who knows. But time! I hope that this is ok and that you like it and that you aren’t 96 by the time you finish reading it. For better or worse, here it is. 

It was the happiest day of your life. That’s what they told you, anyway. That’s what you’d always hoped it would be. Everything about the moment was like something from a dream. You, standing in a simple white gown with a crown of buttercups on your head. The man standing in front of you was handsome, with sparkling blue eyes and rich, chestnut hair. He smiled at you and squeezed your hands, clasped before you, with tenderness. This was everything you wanted your wedding to be, if only you knew the groom.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to celebrate the union of Y/F/N and Julian Alfred Pankratz. May their union provide happiness and bounty for both of their houses,” the priest declared, intoning the words with solemnity suiting the business merger this wedding essentially was. The man named Julian smiled at you but you could see a tinge of nervousness in his eyes as well. It helped you feel less alone.

“The groom has requested to provide vows of his own writing. He may speak them now,” the priest said. You’re surprised to hear this, wondering what this stranger could have to say to you. He squeezed your hands tighter and though a crowd was gathered around you (including many weeping ladies sitting on the groom’s side of the chapel), he only had eyes for you.

“It is no secret that this wedding is… complicated. I have only known you for a short time. Indeed, I only laid eyes on you as you walked down the aisle. I cannot speak to your interests, your tastes, or even your favorite color. I do not pretend to possess the knowledge to make you happy but I can promise you this; I will treat you with respect and kindness and I will do my utmost to make the best of this for the both of us, if you will allow me to.”

If you had to be forced into a political marriage, you’re happy at least that you have ended up with someone kind.

“Y/N, repeat after me…” the priest begins but you stop him.

“Actually, I would also like to recite my own vows,” you say, surprising yourself. You look back at your almost-husband and take a deep breath.

“I have heard you are quite the wordsmith so I won’t spend too much time trying to impress you here but I wanted to say that I offer in turn respect and kindness and also a really good loaf of bread.”

He laughs and you feel a smile break across your face as well and you both stay focused on each other as the rest of the formalities are read. When the moment comes that the priest announces you man and wife, your new husband leans forward and you can feel your heart in your throat.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, a whisper’s breadth from your lips.

“I mean, that’s what we do now isn’t it?” you ask, feeling awkward under the watchful eye of the crowd around you.

“Not necessarily. Not unless you say so,” he says firmly. You know that he means it and that you don’t need a kiss to complete the arrangement, at this point you have both held up your sides of the bargain and your families are wealthier with new trades.

“Yes,” you say decisively. He smiles and pulls you in closer and his mouth is soft and tender on yours. It’s a sweet kiss, but not chaste, his teeth gently nipping at your bottom lip as you pull apart, giving you a wink as he does.

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“My name is Jaskier, by the way. Well, it is Julian Alfred Pankratz but everyone calls me Jaskier. Everyone but my family but fuck ‘em.”

The words slip out with a slight slur, the result of the wine you’ve both been drinking. You’d gone to the after-wedding feast for appearance’s sake but he’d snuck you both out with a plate of cheese and meats and a bottle of wine to escape the pomp and circumstance. You were grateful for the opportunity to get to know your husband. Crowds always made you nervous anyway. Jaskier had pulled off the stifling doublet and undone the buttons on his undershirt in a way that you thought should shock you until you remembered that you were married now. At some point you had placed the flower crown on Jaskier’s head and he left it on, looking like some sort of fae being that was put on this earth to save or damn you and you weren’t sure if you cared which it was.

“I’m not feeling very charitable towards my family either,” you say in response to his outburst, the closest you’ve come to openly expressing how you felt about being forced into a marriage to a stranger.

“Oh come on you can do better than that,” Jaskier goads.

“No I mean, I understand where they’re coming from. I’m their only daughter and one does have to consider the future…”

“Come on darling let’s not start this false marriage with more lies. I recognize that I’m a hell of a catch to get but surely somewhere deep inside of you there is some anger over this. You could have married anyone you pleased but you get saddled with a stranger. I could have been 85 years old or had a humpback or, or, or been Valdo Marx for god’s sakes!” Jaskier exclaims. His fervent anger makes you laugh but also makes you bold.

“It was….”

“Yes?” Jaskier says encouragingly, gesturing with the empty goblet in his hand.

“Well I must admit…”

“Go on,” he urges.

“It was damned disgusting,” you finally blurt out, half-shocked at your own temerity.

“Yes! More! Keep going!” Jaskier insists, rising unsteadily to his feet to cheer you on with more gusto.

“For all of my life leading up this I have done everything they’ve asked. I’ve been an excellent pupil, I’ve attended every stupid event even though I couldn’t have cared less, I have sacrificed and tried to be a good daughter and carried this stupid legacy and I don’t know what I expected but… but they could have at least talked to me! They could have asked me how I felt, they could have pretended to give a shit. They could have tried to care, I deserved that at least, didn’t I?” your anger turns to bitter sadness and Jaskier stops pumping his fists when he sees your shoulders start to shake with stifled sobs.

“Oh no, oh bollocks, no please don’t, hey,” he crouches next to you and pulls you into a hug you’re too upset to resist. His arms are strong and he offers quiet, comforting words in your ear as you cry into his chest, your face pressing up against the soft linen of his shirt and the patch of dark hair beneath.

“Shhh, don’t worry. I’ll take good care of you. I know we didn’t choose this but you’re not in this alone, I promise,” he murmurs the words into the top of your head as one hand rubs soothing circles into your back. He holds you long after the tears dry and you fall asleep curled around each other.

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Your life falls into a sort of rhythm. He introduces you to Geralt who immediately rejects adding you to their adventures until Jaskier makes him try your bread. You hadn’t been lying about the promise, having honed your craft through years of baking to cope with the feelings you were forced to repress. He begrudgingly acquiesced to you joining them on very specific journeys for very specific lengths of time but despite himself you grow on him. You and Jaskier also grow to know each other better. Before long he knows that your favorite color is (Y/F/C) and you learn more of his life as a bard. At first you were nervous about going to the inns with him as he performed, especially when he would flirt and sing directly to you, but he always seemed to sense when you were too uncomfortable and would turn his attention back on the rest of the crowd. In time that began to bother you as well but you didn’t examine those feelings, trying hard to enjoy the relative peace you had.

At first you didn’t mind when Jaskier would go on his long journeys and you even grew to enjoy your solitude in the little house your parents had given the two of you as a wedding present. It was easily the most modest of your properties, but you didn’t care, you reveled in the ability to make a space your own. As time went on, the longer Jaskier was away you grew to wish there were more signs of him around. He didn’t possess much, bringing with him only clothes and the lute he took with him on his journeys. When he came back he would tell you all about his journeys and perform his new songs for you and you would provide him with a sampling of what you’ve done with your baking and pottery and the other things you did to fill your time. He was usually back after a few weeks but one night Geralt came with word that he would be leaving for much longer, at least a month, and while the words weren’t directly spoken you could tell that there was no guarantee they would both be coming back.

“Are you scared?” you asked Jaskier after Geralt had left ostensibly to tend to Roach but truly to give them space to talk.

“A little,” he confessed, “But I must go, you understand.”

You bite your lip and he saw you warring with some emotion he couldn’t place.

“Y/N?” he asked, “Come on, talk to me.”

“It’s just… what if you don’t come back?” you ask.

“Don’t let Geralt scare you, he always makes things sound worse than they truly are. I will be back. I made you a promise and I intend to keep it,” he says.

“But what if you can’t?” you insist.

“Well… then everything I own is passed to you and you could be your own woman again. I mean, we don’t really prevent each other from living our lives but you could find someone to fall in love with and have children and whatever else people do,” he doesn’t look at you as he says this and you’re quick to wipe away the tears that come up as he speaks. He glances back up at you and brushes the last trace of wetness from your cheeks.

“Don’t be scared,” he insists, “I’m right here.”

He pulls you in for a hug and holds you, much as he did your wedding night, and you squeeze back as hard as you can as though you can keep him chained to you through the embrace. You look up to say something else and your lips brush by accident, the first they’ve touched since the kiss on the altar. He wordlessly pulls you in again and deepens the kiss, running a hand through your hair as he tentatively brushes tongue against your lips. You part them in response and shift in his arms til you’re straddling him, arms wrapping back around his neck. His hands trace the contours of your body through the clothes and settle on your hips. You arch against him and feel him beneath you, hard and wanting. The pressure of your body pressing against him pulls a moan from his lips and the sound seems to break through the moment, pulling him back to earth. He reluctantly pulls back from the kiss and for a moment you sit there, panting and uncertain.

“You have a long journey tomorrow,” you whisper when the silence grows too long, “I should let you rest.” “Y/N…” he begins but you slide off of him and hurry to the kitchen, eager to find a way to rid yourself of the energy and emotions that have gotten away with you. Jaskier thinks about following, wants nothing more than to finish what you’d both started, but he leaves tomorrow, and you were right. He may not come back. And he could never forgive himself if he got you with child and then died to leave you to care for it alone.

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75 loaves of bread, 19 dozen cookies, and 14 pies later, Jaskier comes back home.

You’re sitting by the hearth reading when you think you hear it, that familiar strumming of a lute in the distance. Then you hear an unmistakable voice and you jolt to your feet, running to the door. You can see him walking, still a block away and you keep running. When he sees you he stops singing and places the lute on his back. By the time he’s got his strapped on you’ve tackled him in a hug that nearly knocks him off of his feet and he lifts you slightly off the ground, spinning you in a little circle as he does.

“You’re home,” you say.

“I’m home,” he echoes, one hand brushing the side of your face and cupping your chin, “And I have so much to tell you.”

You hold hands as you walk back to the house and he begins to tell you about the journeys he and Geralt have been on. You’re only half paying attention as he speaks, no story of dragons or mythical artifacts capable of competing with the sight of him finally in front of you again, the sound of his voice and the feeling of his hand in yours. Over bread he tells you about his dilemma over writing a series of songs or one very epic song to capture the tale. By the time night has fallen you’re both seated in front of the fire, your head on his shoulder. You notice his fingers twitching and you can tell there’s something left unsaid.

“Jaskier?”

“Hmm?”

“What is it?”

“What is what?” he asks, the innocence in his voice forced. You sit up and level a look at him.

“Don’t do that. Don’t pretend nothing’s wrong. We’ve never lied to each other, don’t start now,” you say. He sighs and you feel your heart pounding in your chest as you think about what he may be about to say. He’s in love with someone? He’s cursed and dying? He isn’t really here and this is just a dream and soon you will wake up alone in your bed, the right side cold and empty?

“It’s foolish really, it’s nothing to be worried about,” he says.

“Then tell me what it is,” you urge, trying to soften the demand with a smile.

“Being out there with Geralt for so long… well, it made me realize some things,” he says. Your heart stops and you fight the urge to tell him to stop, to let you live in the fantasy you hadn’t realized you’d fallen into where somehow he did fall in love with you and this marriage that started as a contract can become more.

“I thought a lot about my time here in this house. With you. I thought about the little flecks of paint on your fingers and the smudges of flour in your cheeks. I thought about that little snorting sound you make in your sleep…”

Your face burns bright red as he lists your faults. Countesses never snorted; you were almost certain.

“I thought about the way it feels when you listen to my stories, truly listen to them. Not because you’re paying me for them or because I’m forcing them on you. The way you just… listen to me. I have written so many songs about it but I think, maybe, I’ve never felt it like this before,” he takes a deep breath and turns to face you, the soft, blue eyes staring into yours intently as he speaks again, “You’ve shown me what love can feel like.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in and when they have you’re still not sure how to feel. Making someone feel loved doesn’t mean they love you back. You had learned that the hard way from your parents to your sparse attempts at romance in the past. He looks at you anxiously, waiting to see what you will say but the words fail you like a curse striking you mute.

“Ah,” he says after a while, turning back to face the fire.

“No, Jaskier,” you begin but he stands and takes a deep breath, shaking his head and forcing on a smile. It’s a performance you’ve seen many times before and the first time he’s ever turned it on you.

“Please, Y/N, it’s probably for the best,” he says.

“No but you don’t understand,” you continue.

“Heartbreak is good for the songs, really. And we never made any promises to each other. Not any real ones at least. Not ones that matter.”

The words break your heart and anger you at the same time. You’ve spent a lifetime letting people tell you how you feel or what is best but not Jaskier. Never him.

“Julian Alfred Pankratz shut up and listen,” you snap, standing to meet him eye to eye. He’s visibly taken aback, eyes going wide in shock, but he stays quiet.

“Before you go too deeply into a pity party, I would like the opportunity to actually speak for myself. How dare you say those promises didn’t matter? When from the very start we have spoken honestly and fairly to each other? Sure, the marriage wasn’t sincere, but the vows were. Respect and kindness and, and, and bread! And more than that, more than anything we could have promised each other that day, love. I love you. You are what matters to me. I’m sorry if that ruins your career plans but you’ll just have to adapt!”

The pair of you stand in stunned silence as your words resonate and then you are pulled into his arms as his lips hungrily seek yours. You begin tearing at each other’s clothes, a trail of fabric leading to the bedroom. Once inside his gestures slow a little and when you impatiently rip at the buttons on your dress he halts your hands with his and his nimble fingers slip through them with ease, his eyes hungrily staring into yours as he works. He’s shirtless now and you let your gaze fall to take in the lean, corded muscles in his shoulders and arms, the toned definition of his body. You run your hands along the veins in his neck, down to the definition of his shoulder blades, across the collar bones, down into the hair on his chest which is soft and coarse all at once to the touch. The dress falls away and you feel the cold air of the room hit your exposed skin, shocking you to the fact of your nakedness and making you lose whatever courage you had summoned in your anger and passion. He sees your eyes fall away and the blush rise in your cheeks and he gently lifts your chin back up to meet his eyes.

“What is it, love?” he asks, the word moments before unspoken now falling casually and naturally from his lips.

“I’ve never… I don’t share your… experience,” you admit.

“Well I hardly find that shocking. I am very, very experienced,” he says with a roguish wink. You laugh nervously and he runs a hand along your arm, barely grazing your breasts which are taut and eager for his touch.

“How about this time I take the lead. If I do something that you don’t like, you tell me and it stops immediately,” he says.

“What if you’re enjoying it?” you ask.

“I will never enjoy something if you’re not enjoying it too. Please tell me. And next time, if, and gods I pray and hope there will be a next time if I don’t utterly cock this up, you can take charge. Does that sound good?” he asks. You nod but he shakes his head, leaning down to give you a long, lingering kiss.

“I need to hear you say the words,” he murmurs against your chin.

“That sounds good,” you answer. He smiles at you and pulls you in for another kiss, his hands bolder in his exploration, brushing against your breasts before lowering his mouth to kiss and caress them with his tongue. You’re quiet at first, not intentionally but because the sensations are new and you struggle to breath through them. You see him looking up at you, watching your face as you react, taking his cues from your body. A hand reaches lower and you part your legs for him. He finds you wet and makes a satisfied, throaty sound as he brushes a finger lightly against the folds. You gasp and he looks back up for confirmation.

“Yes, do that again,” you say. He presses in further, two fingers roaming the length of you and circling the top. You grip his hair and he continues the same rhythm.

“Do you like this?” he asks, not because he isn’t sure but because he loves to hear you try to speak when he has you like this, wet and needy and at his mercy.

“Y-yes,” you reply. “Fuck.”

“Such dirty language, Y/N, am I a bad influence?” he teases as he slides one finger gently inside of you. You can’t respond, struggling between your need to breathe and the effect his hands have on you.

“You feel ready for me, Y/N. Do you want more?” he asks.

“I want everything,” you say breathlessly. He stands, pulling his hands away despite your whine of protest and he gently leans you back over the bed. He pulls off the last of his clothing until he is just as naked and you can see the proof of his arousal.

“Is it… odd to think a penis is beautiful?” you wonder aloud. He laughs and shakes his head.

“Oh god I love you,” he says, eyes shining brightly as he stares at you in wonder.

“Prove it,” you say, a playful challenge. His eyes darken and he climbs on top of you and you can feel the delicious weight of him, the lean, strong body and the weight of his desire pressed up against your thigh.

“You may have heard that this hurts but I’m going to tell you a secret; it shouldn’t. If it starts to hurt, tell me. I want every part of this to be as exquisite for you as it possibly can be,” he whispers, warm breath tickling your ear. You nod in agreement and then, when he doesn’t move, you agree out loud. He shifts his weight around and you can feel the tip of him brushing against your entrance gently. He slides it through in increments, halting when he feels resistance until he feels you relax beneath him once more. His kisses are softer than before but deeper as well. Before long he is fully sheathed inside of you. He rests his forehead against yours, holding perfectly still to let you adjust to the feeling until you tentatively shift your hips beneath him eliciting a soft moan. He follows your lead, gently rocking himself in and out of you, his movements slow and thorough and forcing soft gasps of pleasure from your lips. You urge him to go faster and he matches your motions, angling with his cock the way he did with his fingers, following the sounds you make and the look on your face until he finds exactly where you need him. You come apart underneath him and the feeling of your release spurs his own, buried deep inside of you where he stays until you both have caught your breath.

“All in all,” he says once he’s curled up by your side, “Marriage isn’t that bad.”

The sound of your laughter lulls him to sleep.

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Jaskier stays around for a while after this but before too much time has passed Geralt returns with word of a nearby job. He is wary about bringing you, insistently so in a way that almost hurts your feelings, but he finally relents. He asks you to ride Roach, an action that drives Jaskier nearly apoplectic and the trip to the neighboring town is spent with protests about injustice and the bonds of friendship that are meant to rise beyond that of romance. The job is quick and Jaskier is able to perform one in the series of songs about his prior adventures at the inn while you and Geralt eat.

“Does he know?” Geralt asks, yellow eyes seeking yours.

“Does he know what?” you ask.

“Hmm,” is all he says in answer before looking back down at his meal.

“What?” you insist.

“It might not be my place to say,” he says.

“Well you’ve already said this much you might as well keep going,” you say. You’ve grown much more assertive since marrying Jaskier and Geralt can’t help me pleased by it, even if it is inconvenient for him at this moment.

“You’re with child,” he says bluntly, popping a piece of bread in his mouth as he does. You stare at him blankly.

“What?” you ask.

“What?” Jaskier asks, suddenly reappearing behind his friend and reaching for your ale to take a drink between songs.

“I…” you look to Geralt for help but he gives you a look that tells you you’re on your own. Coward.

“I’ll tell you after your set,” you say.

“Is something wrong?” Jaskier asks, worry creasing his brow. “Y/N, tell me.”

“Ok. Well. And this might be wrong because frankly I don’t know how he would know, though it would make sense…” you trail off as you try to remember if your courses were due yet. Jaskier watches you anxiously and you know you have to put him out of his misery.

“He says that I’m… pregnant,” you say. You watch Jaskier’s face carefully and you can see the moment what you’ve said resonates. His eyes light up and he gives a little incredulous laugh.

“You are? With me?”

You scoff.

“No, Jaskier, with a bloody goat. Yes with you,” you say. He leans over the table to kiss you, knocking over the ale and squashing Geralt’s meal with his knee but the witcher doesn’t say anything and simply stands and walks away to leave you your moment. Jaskier cradles your face in his hands and happy tears run down his face.

"I can’t believe you’re carrying my child,” he says, his voice awed and filled with love.

“Well you’ve got a few months to come around to it,” you joke.

“I will be the best father and I will love this child with every ounce of my being. I will write them a litany of songs that would make the angels weep with the love I hold for them and their mother,” you smile at the dramatics that come of Jaskier’s emotions and press your foreheads together.

“I’m glad this will be good for business,” you tease.

“This is the best thing. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me,” he says. And for once, without reservation or fear, you believe him.

[jimlingss]

The President’s Son [3]

Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4

➜ Words: 3.5k

➜ Genres: 100% Fluff, Slice of Life, Bodyguard!AU

➜ Summary: Kim Taehyung is the President’s son, mischievous and playful, and infamous for being a troublemaker. When everyone’s given up, they call for you to be his personal guard. There’s no other choice when your dad’s assigned you to it and surprisingly Taehyung doesn’t mind either. Maybe because you happened to grow up with that brat.

➜ Warnings: Slowburn.....

Taehyung’s pouting. Again.   He’s staring at the way you peel back the plastic cover of your small cheese and crackers snack and he licks his lips before huffing again, shoulders slumping in their spot. He looks down to his chip bag, gets up from his spot and comes tottling over. “Hey.”   Silence. You continue watching the television and try to follow along with the story — it’s hard when you’re not used to watching. But Taehyung is unimpressed with you ignoring him again and he plops down in front of you, forcing you to look at him.    “Hey, I said!” He’s loud. “Pay attention to me! I was asking if you wanted to trade snacks!”   The seven year old haughtily shoves his bag of chips into your shoulder. “You can have these. If I get those cheese crackers of yours. I like them….”    You stare at Taehyung before looking down to the blue rectangular bag held in his tiny fists. Then your eyes stray to your cheese and crackers, the one snack you chose with your allowance.   He sighs. “Please. Pretty please?! Can I have them or not?!”   You hand them over.   He snatches your cheese and crackers with a triumphant smile, grinning from ear to ear as laughter fills the air. Taehyung drops his bag of chips into your lap as he leaps over the table and runs down the hall, his bedroom door slamming shut a second later. You’re alone in the living room. And as you peek into the chip bag he gave you…..   There’s nothing inside. Empty.   He already ate them all.

[Present Day]   Bam!   The man comes at you with a forefist, knuckles prepared to come into contact with your mouth, but on muscle memory alone, your body ducks. Your back turns slightly, your leg comes out at an angle and it’s brought back in a fluid spinning hook kick. Your foot collides with the side of his helmet and he’s too caught off guard to catch balance.   Seokjin allows himself to fall back onto the mats.    He laughs breathlessly, not in shame but because he’s impressed. “You’re still good, aren’t you, chickpea?”   Your arm extends, helping him get onto his feet again. A small smile decorates your lips. “You didn’t have to let me win. You know my feelings won’t get hurt.”   Seokjin shakes his head, running a hand through his hair and moving the sweaty strands away from his face. “I’m not letting you win, chickpea. You crushed me. Gave me a run for my money. Are you sure you’ve gotten out of shape? Or did you just use that excuse to demolish me?”   He grins and another smile, more genuine, tickles up your visage. “We should call it even then since you always won back when we were in the same class together.”   “Okay.” He drops a hand on top of your head, making you jolt from the sudden affection, but his arm returns to his side too soon before you can get used to it. “We’re even then. But I want a rematch, Miss Y/N. I’m not letting myself be beat by a black belt when I’m a black belt too. I have a name to live up to around here, y’know.”   The memory is fresh in your mind — every time Jin was able to kick you, hit you, pin you on the mat in front of other kids. While the tables have turned and you’re now able to beat him, the achievement isn’t pleasant.    Rather, you remember how humiliating it was. Not because Seokjin always claimed victories, but because of your father’s clear disappointed expression that came each time you fell, because you would’ve rather been wearing a dress and making chocolates to give to Jin, not trying to hit and kick him and beat him in a match. You wanted to be pretty, not sweaty and gross...and—   “That was so cool!”   There’s a shrill voice that interrupts your thoughts, coming from across the gymnasium.   Kim Taehyung is standing there with his eyes wide, baby blue bike rolled along by his side.   “Can you teach me?!” He leans his bike against the wall, throws his bag to the ground and comes running over, a grin spreading through his face. “How’d you do that?!”   Seokjin bows his head. “Mr. Kim.”   But Taehyung completely ignores him. His eyes are plastered on your face.    Before he can open his mouth and say something else, someone else comes running in, out of breath, blonde hair in disarray, sweat clinging to his forehead.   “Taehyung!” His eyes are full of fear, brows knitted together — you recognize him as Park Jimin, having read his file considering you were essentially taking his job.   The poor boy can barely keep up with Taehyung.   “I-I told you not to go without me!”   “If you can’t keep up with me on my bike then too bad.”   “I-uh…” Jimin glances at Seokjin who’s watching and then at you and then back at Taehyung.   The latter continues, “Plus, I just really wanted to see my new bodyguard. As soon as possible.” He smiles at you and your expression remains blank.   “You’ve gotten sloppy,” a familiar voice sounds near the main doors and you turn to find your dad. “You’re using too much force when you don’t need to. You’re wasting your own efforts.”   You nod. “I’ll work on it.”   Your father hums a low note and looks away from you. “Seokjin, come with me.”   “Yes, sir.” The dark-haired man flashes you a discreet smile as goodbye and he walks off the mats to grab his belongings.   “And you, go with Jimin. He’ll show you the ropes. You begin your assignment tomorrow.”   “Yes, sir.”   He walks out with Seokjin in tow and when they’re completely gone from sight, Taehyung lets out the breath he was holding. “Your dad’s still scary, huh?”   “Dad…?” Jimin’s eyes are comically large as he gawks at you. “You’re Chief’s daughter?”   You pick up your bag, walking past the two of them. “Didn’t you have things to show me?”   Taehyung grins, quickening his pace as he follows you out, practically with a skip in his step. Jimin, on the other hand, is more unprepared and is delayed, struggling to keep up as he runs.   “I don’t live at the Blue House,” Taehyung tells as all three of you cut through the grounds. “I have a place near here, but I visit a lot since this place is actually pretty nice….minus the actual people. Like my step-mom. She’s alright, but I’m not a fan. Personally.”   He’s gazing at your profile with a smile that fails to be repressed, eyes all too intense and endeared like a hyperactive child meeting his hero in the flesh. In the meanwhile, Jimin is still jogging to keep up.   “W-wait, can you guys slow down?”   “It’s not our fault that you’re slow, Chimothy. You gotta keep up! We don’t wait for anyone.”   You stop, feet halting on the grass. Finally, you look at Taehyung. “What time does your classes start tomorrow?”   “Nine a.m.” He grins. “But I like waking up earlier to grab breakfast, so you should be there hmmm….at least seven? Since I can’t go out by myself.”   “What?” Jimin’s inhaling and exhaling, finally caught up. “You don’t get out of bed until at least ten—”   “Chimothy, maybe you should just go. I got this.”   “W-what?”   Taehyung pats Jimin aggressively on the back, enough to leave him coughing and spluttering. “I can show Y/N around. Wouldn’t want to hold you up when I’m sure you have better things to do. I can handle it. Trust me.”   “B-but Chief told me to show Y/N around.”   “Don’t worry about it, okay? I won’t tell, you won’t tell, Y/N won’t either. It’s a secret between us, alright? I know you’re tired. Didn’t you say you haven’t been sleeping well?”   “Y-yeah…?”   “Well now’s a perfect opportunity. South wing, down the hall, take a left and then a right, there’s a secret spare bedroom and a mattress that has your name on it. Go for it!”   Jimin looks at Taehyung and then at you. He reads your blank expression as a sign of confirmation when in reality, you know that no matter what you say or do, there’s no going against Taehyung’s will.    After a beat, Jimin gives in, nods and slowly begins to walk backwards before turning around and walking towards the house. Through telepathy, he wishes you a tearful good luck, saluting you as a comrade about to go into battle.   You’re left alone with Taehyung.   “Now where was I? Right. Breakfast. So you better be there by seven in the morning. And I don’t go to bed until midnight. So I hope you’re prepared to spend at least seventeen hours with me every single day. And also—”   If there’s one thing that’s different from the Taehyung from years ago, it’s that he’s evolved. He doesn’t demand your attention or for you to say anything back. He doesn’t need you to speak at all.   //   Taehyung’s school is large, with different faces constantly leaving and entering campus. But rather than being impressed with the fancy institution, you’re staying alert with the potential threats that could come at any angle at any time.   “Usually I have class in those theatres. Just a heads up, it’s super boring. Like super. Won’t blame you if you fell asleep.”   “I’m taking political science cause dad wants me to go into government — it’s a good job or whatever with decent pension. But it makes me want to blow my brains out. I rather draw. Anyways, that building over there is—”   “You liked to colour.” You stop, interrupting but finally speaking for the first time since he began showing you the campus despite you already having memorized the map.   “Yeah.” His smile becomes sheepish, maybe even happy that you remembered the small detail. “But I don’t just colour.”   You nod before glancing at your watch. “Don’t you have Public Policy Analysis in Hall C in five minutes?”   “H-how did you know that?”   “I have your schedule.”   “Oh. Well it’s fine, I skip anyway. C’mon, let me show you where the dining hall is. They have the best hot chocolate and a buy one get one half off deal…”   But your feet stay rooted in the ground. “I insist that we go. It’s one of my responsibilities to make sure you attend all classes.”   Taehyung’s mouth opens and closes, brows furrowing and his lips pouting when he’s obviously not getting his way with you. “You’re worse than Chimothy. Listen, I don’t need to go. I’m doing fine without attending the stupid lecture—”   “Then I’d like to go.”   Your feet turn, walking away. His sigh is audibly heard, exhaling for the dramatics as his shoulders slump, exactly like a petulant child being dragged off to do chores.   “You’re going the wrong way. That’s the Social Sciences building.” With the new information, you do a hundred eighty turn, going towards the other building. A grin pulls on Taehyung’s mouth and he picks up the pace to join your side. “Not so good at memorizing maps, are you?”   You don’t respond.   Taehyung ends up sitting at the back of the class, the row he’s at and the one before it is completely empty. Maybe other students are aware that he’s the President’s son and they’ve steered clear, especially after witnessing a horde of bodyguards chasing him. Maybe it’s because he just has an overwhelming personality that’s difficult to handle. Or maybe it could be in the way you’re in a suit, hands clasped on the table, intense stare darted straight ahead at the projector screen that’s made everyone steer clear of Taehyung.   Either way, you make it perfectly clear that you’re his bodyguard and anyone who dares to attack him will meet your hands.   On the other hand, Taehyung doesn’t seem particularly disheartened that a class of three hundred have avoided him like the plague. Rather, he appears bored out of his mind as the professor drones on and on. His arm is propped on the table, chin in his hand, leaning over, and his head is turned to stare at you as if your face are the handles of the clock and he’s waiting for time to pass.   “Hey, Y/N…”   Silence.   Taehyung doesn’t force you to talk. Instead, he continues, “Think you can teach me how to kick and punch like that? It was...really hot. If you don’t want to teach me, maybe you can do it to me. What do you say? Hmm? Wanna kick my ass and step all over me? I welcome it completely.”   Silence.   He pokes your shoulder. “Y/N.”   More silence.   He does it again. “Y/N.”   Except this time, Taehyung is loud enough that the students two rows away turn around, frowning at the disturbance. In order to not draw any unnecessary attention, your neck cranes towards him. He smiles at how you’ve given in.   “No.”   Taehyung pouts. “You’re no fun. Still a goody-goody, huh?”   “Pay attention.”   “But this is so boring. I’d rather pay attention to you. At least you’re prettier than the professor.”   There’s no more comments made from you. Nothing is said and as usual, you let him do whatever he wants — he’ll get bored of you anyways. But you underestimate Taehyung.   For the entire hour, he stares at you with an infuriating smile. And when class is over, he’s still staring as the pair of you march across campus together. “You look good in a suit. But aren’t you hot in that?”   “No.”   “Well, you stick out like a sore thumb, Y/N. I wanted someone discreet, and not like I’m with an extra from James Bond or the Matrix.”   “This is the official uniform,” you tell him shortly.   He smiles to himself, glad that you’re saying more than one word to him. “Yeah, I know. By the way, are we actually going to another class of mine? Can we just stop for a second? Maybe you can teach me how to do that kick or throw that punch? I think that’s a much better way to spend our time.”   You stop, feet halting on the grass. Knowing him, he won’t let it go...ever. The easier way to deal with Taehyung is to appease him. So you bend your knees, halfheartedly, arms lifting to lightly punch the air. “There. Like that.”   An enormous grin spreads across his face. “Wait, wait. I have to bend my knees, okay. Elbows in….like this?” He tries it, but then quickly slumps in his spot, lips downturning.    “Not bad.”   He shakes his head. “You don’t have to compliment me. I know I’m not doing it right. It doesn’t feel right. How about you punch me.” Taehyung turns, patting his chest before you can say a hard ‘no’. “Do it. I only learn through real demonstration. You have my full consent. My full permission. Hit me. Pound me, Y/N. Please.”   You stare at him. He stares at you.   Your sigh is held in, released only internally and you prepare your stance, knees bent, arms up. As light as possible, you come at the middle of his chest with a forefist, knuckles smacking into the middle of the target. And Taehyung’s left to inhale a sharp breath, stumbling back on impact and wheezing.   You didn’t even hit that hard.    “G-Goddamn. Holy hell…..” He clutches his wound, bending over as he coughs a storm. The chance to apologize never comes. “That was so fucking hot!”   Taehyung is smitten. You’re disgusted.   “Can you do that again?! Please, Y/N?! I’m begging yo— hey! Where are you going? Don’t just walk away from me! Don’t you know that’s rude?”   You continue walking, quickening your pace. Taehyung’s teasing you and while you don’t particularly appreciate it, it’s especially hard to say anything when he’s so happy about it. Not a lot has changed since when you were both young.   “You know, you became pretty cool, Y/N. You’re not much of a cute twerp anymore. You have this whole cold, hardcore image going on. It’s mysterious. I admire that. Reminds me of your dad. Is that where you got your inspiration from?”   “You’re late for class.”   “I’m always late.” He shrugs. “Dumbo, maybe I should upgrade your name to bulldozer. You seem to just bulldoze ahead in life without stopping. Nothing affects you. Like a wall. I can appreciate that.” Taehyung’s arm moves to sling around your shoulder and you immediately jolt, not used to physical affection. It makes you hyper aware of his presence, but he notices and instantly drops his arm from you. “You alright?”   “I’m fine.”   “You’re cool, Y/N,” Taehyung says again, but more passingly, perhaps geared towards himself than praise meant to be heard.   You remind, “We’re late.”   “I know. But everyone’s always late. It’s fine, trust me.” Taehyung brushes it off. “Didn’t you ever go to university or college?”   “No. I went to the academy.”   “Academy?”   “Police academy.”    You went for six months before working as an officer for three years. While you’re relatively content with your decisions, you’re slightly curious about the university lifestyle you could never afford and what it would’ve been like had you went anyway. Although things so far don’t seem particularly impressive.   “Really?” Taehyung’s surprised, eyes wide on the news. “Did you fight crime or track down serial killers?”   “No.”   “Then what did you do?”   “Police stuff.”   “Like?”   “Patrolling the streets. Responding to calls.”   The man stares at you for an extended moment before smiling and nodding. “That’s so cool.” But there’s another curious question poking at the back of his brain. “Why’d you quit?”   “Is that the engineering building?” You point off, pace quickening once more. In the meanwhile, he continues to yap about how you always leave him behind, always ignore him when he’s speaking.   The next class of Taehyung’s is even more boring than the last one. In this one, he actually dozes off and when you nudge him awake, he whines. He tries to rest his head on your shoulder, but you move backwards, not allowing him to get close and he’s left to shake himself awake.   You try to pay attention too, to set a good example, but even you have to admit it’s rather dull.   The cycle repeats one more time before he’s done for the day and ready to head home. The simple idea of being able to leave has his eyes being brought back to life. Taehyung happily bounces his way to the bike rack outside the dining hall, grabbing his infamous, baby blue bike and jumping on without a helmet.    The metal rear seat is open and he waits for you to get on it.   “I won’t leave you behind,” he promises with a mischievous grin, telling you to hop on.   But your hand plops on the handles instead. “I’ll steer.”   “What?”   “You don’t have a helmet. It’s dangerous. And I can’t react if someone attacks us.”   Taehyung is left sputtering, absolutely baffled. “No one’s going to attack us—”   “Last I checked you almost got into an accident last time.”   He remembers the special encounter, when neither of you knew of each other and were merely passing strangers. A sly smile moves across Taehyung’s face. “But you saved me.”   “Your safety is my priority.” Your head moves, signalling for him to get to the back seat. You give in and appease him on a lot of matters, but this is the hill you choose to die on.   The pair of you stare down at each other.   It lasts thirty seconds.   Then Taehyung huffs out and gets off his precious bike seat, sitting on the back. Maybe he relented as an excuse to wrap his arms around your abdomen. The college boy ends up gripping you tight, leaning his head on your back and it’s uncomfortable, but bearable.   “How are you going to ride a bike in a suit?”   To answer his question, you start pedalling and it works, even in spite of being in restrictive attire.   “You should wear normal clothes,” he tells you in a murmur and above the warm breeze, you hear him perfectly well. “It’s not like I don’t like you in a suit, how can I when you look so hot, but I want you to blend in with me. I just….want us to be normal. Can’t you wear a cute skirt or dress or something?”   “Cute things don’t match me.”   “That’s not true,” Taehyung says. “You’ve always been cute. Even now.”   Nothing is spoken out of your mouth. Instead, you focus on pedalling across campus as he holds onto you. It might be a comical sight, but you don’t care. You remain cold, distant, professional. Awake and always alert.   This is your job now.

[yandere-daydreams]

Id bet money that yandere!bakugou watches his darling sleep. He just HAS to. He cant help himself.

You bet your ass he does. And, if I’m any good at this whole writing thing, he does so with as much repressed paranoia as possible. It’d be the closest thing he has to an actual hobby, honestly, but that doesn’t mean he enjoys it. That’d just be out of character.

Title: Loving Observation.

TW: Unhealthy Relationships, Slight Codependence, and Mentions of Somnophilia. 

~

It wasn’t like Katsuki liked watching you sleep.

That was much was common sense. Of course he didn’t like it, of course he didn’t enjoy it, who would? He’d heard stories of guys getting off on the vulnerability, the helplessness, the secrecy, but vulnerability and helplessness and weakness weren’t the kinds of things Katsuki was interested in. Staying up all night was boring. He was always exhausted the next day, always irritated, and he always told himself he wouldn’t do it again the next night, that’d he’d sleep by your side and resist the urge to perch himself at the foot of your bed and stare you down with all the intensity of a bird of prey. But, it was the next night, and here he was, standing guard with all the loyalty of a well-trained pet.

Momentarily, he wondered if he’d start growing feathers, if he kept this up.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t sleep, either. He was sure he’d be able to, and if not, Katsuki was always the type to make the best of his insomnia, he’d never liked the idea of wasting so many precious, undisturbed hours on a staring contest with the ceiling. No, if he hadn’t been able to sleep, he’d be researching the villain he’d have to track down in the morning, or meal-planning, or doing anything besides fisting at the sheets and watching you - tired, beautiful, narcoleptic you - drool onto your pillow and kick your comforter into the space he should be occupying, a habit he knew you’d never fight off. He could sleep, it’d be easy to, but he couldn’t let himself sleep. He couldn’t take that risk. He couldn’t be so careless. He couldn’t do something that dangerous and wake up to a corpse, as his reward. He couldn’t let you down like that.

So, he dug his nails into his hand, letting soothing, awakening pain run from the heel of his palm into his wrist until it infected the tips of his fingers and made the rest of the world a little more vivid. Until it made him a little more aware.

You must’ve been used to falling asleep without him, by now. There was always an effort, an extra cup of coffee or a slurred declaration that you weren’t going to bed until he found the time to carry you there, but you’d worked late, tonight, and you’d been ready to collapse the moment you dragged yourself into his apartment. He’d blamed himself for that, too - if he was really as good of a boyfriend as you thought he was, he wouldn’t let you work yourself to the point of exhaustion. But, he’d been called out for an emergency, and by the time he got home, you were already out, undressed and unconscious under the assumption that he’d join you whenever he was ready to, and you’d be able to make it up to him in the morning with a kiss and an apology for wearing yourself out. 

He wanted that. You couldn’t imagine how badly he wanted that. It was the kind of domestic, private bliss he’d come to crave, since you two first moved in together, and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to indulge in it. Holding you was just too tempting, too innocent. A million things could go wrong as soon as wrapped his arms around you. He could roll over and break your arm, he could hold you too tightly and suffocate you, he could do something wrong and hurt you, because punishing the people that loved him seemed to be the only thing he was good at doing. Because he would hurt you, if he let himself.

Because something else would hurt you, eventually, and he’d be the one to blame.

So wrapped up in his own thoughts, he almost didn’t notice when you rolled over, a small groan forcing itself through your parted lips as you settled onto your back, your hands drifting from your pillow to your sides, and then to your chest, another sound of discomfort drawing his attention to your current position. The air fled from his lungs only to hitch in his throat, and for a moment, he watched as you went still. Mentally, he went through your schedule, through the hours of the day, through every risk you’d taken and ever hazard he’d forced you into. Your job was draining, but it wasn’t dangerous, he’d made sure of that. You took the safest route home he’d been able to find, and he’d been slipping supplements into your food for weeks, a habit you wouldn’t approve of, but one he took to keep you healthy, to keep you safe. Still, there was too much that wasn’t accounted for. There was too much he didn’t know. There were too many things he hadn’t seen because you were so independent and because he was a failure of a guardian and because you must hate him--

Your expression contorted from neutrality to pained discomfort, and Katsuki stopped thinking.

In an instant, he was on top of you, straddling your stomach as he took you by the shoulders, wrenching you upward with all the frantic desperation of a soldier under fire. There was no blood, no injury, but an invisible threat was so, so much worse than a wound he could see and evaluate and fix on his own. Your eyes flew open, your hands finding his in less than a second, but your scream was swallowed down as your shock turned to confusion and that confusion faded into bleary, startled concern. You didn’t try to push him away, didn’t writhe or struggle out of his grip, only scanning over his wide-eyed, panicked expression as you collapsed back onto the mattress, adrenaline dissolving into little more than an unpleasant fatigue. That was good, that was great. You were fine, you were alright, you were perfect. He was just being paranoid, you were…

You were glaring at him.

Fuck, right. He probably deserved that.

“What is it?” You spoke slowly, your voice weighed down by sleep. Already, you were settling back down, and a second later, Katsuki followed your lead, falling to your side and keeping to himself until he felt a tap to his forearm, a signal that you weren’t that mad at him. Hesitantly, he uncurled himself, letting you burrow into his chest, your arm soon draped over his waist and your head resting on his bicep. You didn’t seem to care that he didn’t return the gesture. “Better think of something good, ‘suki. If the building’s not on fire, someone’s gonna sleep on the couch.”

He chuckled, dryly, more at the idea of him sleeping at all than to indulge your idle threat. “I thought... I mean, you looked like you were in pain,” He admitted, knowing you wouldn’t remember this conversation clearly enough to recognize the implications. “I was worried. You know how I get, about you.”

“I know how you get about everything.” There was a sigh, this time, a slight lean in his direction. Without a second thought, he plucked the comforter from where it draped over the side of the bed, laying it over your tense form despite your earlier attempts to free yourself from its plush entrapment. Immediately, you relaxed against him, thanking Katsuki with a small smile and a soft kiss to his collarbone. “This is the third time I’ve ‘been in pain’ this week. I know you’re just being protective, and I know you’re trying to help, but--” Despite the darkened bedroom, you averted your gaze. As you went on, your tone became a little more lucid, a little more genuine. His heart twisted in his chest, and Katsuki wondered if it’d be less painful to make you think he hadn’t cared at all. “The way you’ve been acting is really starting to bother me. You’re not getting any rest, and you’ve been so erratic, lately. It’s hard not to feel like this is....” You paused, biting the inside of your cheek. “Like this is bad for us.” 

It was futile to deny it. Assuring you was probably just as useless, but it felt like the right thing to do. “I know, baby. But I’m trying to--”

“Promise me.” You were clinging to him, now, your words muffled by his skin. “You have to promise me this is going to end. I don’t know what I’d do if I had to...”

You didn’t have to finish. Katsuki knew what you were going to say, and he knew it was as terrifying for you as it was for him. He didn’t want to leave you. He didn’t want you to leave him, even if he knew it was for his own good. He wanted things to be better, but he couldn’t stop, not if he wanted you to be protected, not if he wanted you to be safe. He wouldn’t be able to stop worrying, not unless he found a way to make sure he didn’t have anything to worry about.

It was an awful thought. An awful thing to even consider doing to another person. It was awful, and yet, he found himself pulling you closer, his body going slack as he finally let himself relax. It’d be awful, but it’d be safe, too. And it wasn’t like you were giving him much of a choice.

Giving you up wasn’t an option. You’d suffer, but you’d be secured and bound and safe, and it wasn’t like he couldn’t take care of you. He was a good boyfriend, or, he was really trying to be one, at least, and doing something so extreme, something so permant, would only prove he was more devoted, more capable, more loving. Even if he doubted you’d see it that way. 

From his experience, people usually didn’t react well to waking up in handcuffs. 

Not at first, at least. 

“I promise.”

[softeddiek]

so @adamlvnchs made this post about eddie living and richie taking him to the Kissing Bridge to show him where he carved their initials and it hit me hard so i wrote about it. i’m sure this has been done to death but oh well, lol

Fuck it, I love You

reddie fix-it fic; 2.6k words; read on ao3 

It’s been six weeks. Six weeks since he got that phone call from Mike—a ghost from his past that he barely remembered. Just under six weeks since they had defeated It; since they had rushed Eddie to the hospital, blood pouring out of his chest. So much fucking blood—Richie doesn’t think he’s ever seen so much blood coming out of someone in his life.

Richie had been in and out of Eddie’s hospital room for all of those weeks, only leaving when the nurses physically forced him out or when the Losers told him he’d gone too many days without a shower. The scent of disinfectant was so strong in the place, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to smell anything else and he’s pretty sure the chair in the corner of the room by Eddie’s bed has basically turned into a mold of his ass by now.

Eddie had been out of it for the first two weeks. It turns out that when you get your chest sliced into like a fucking watermelon, you need a lot of time to recuperate. The doctors were constantly pumping him with strong medication, so he mostly just slept, barely waking up long enough to process that all of the Losers had forced their way into his room (again) before he had fallen back asleep.

Okay, that was a lie. He had woken up for a significant period of time once in those two weeks, when his wife had come by in a frenzied state, demanding to know why the hospital had allowed all of these people in her husband’s room (“These filthy people,” she’d said. Richie felt like she’d been eyeing him in particular). Richie had thought he could be loud, but that was nothing compared to Myra Kaspbrak (God, he can feel himself just cringing at Eddie’s last name being joined with her first. Eddie had married a woman. And Richie had thought he had repressed his sexuality pretty damn hard). That had woken Eddie up, sending his heart monitor racing as, with some newfound confidence (Dying can do that to a man, Richie guesses), he stammered out that he didn’t want Myra to be there, in fact, he didn’t want Myra in his life at all.

He’s still not entirely sure that Eddie remembers it happening, but when the Losers had brought it up later, when he was coherent enough for normal conversation, he’d just stared at the off-white walls of his room for a minute before nodding slowly and moving them on to a new subject.

Once the doctors and nurses have assured them all that Eddie is making a speedy recovery, and should be out in just a few weeks, the Losers all begin to depart Derry, one by one.

Only Eddie needed somewhere to stay right? Someone to help him once he’s out of the hospital, changing his bandages and all of that. So, Richie had offered himself; had continued to become one with the hospital chair, keeping Eddie company. Had offered to let Eddie come out to California with him and crash at his place for as long as he needed. “It’ll be like old times, when we would have sleepovers!” Only this time it’s just the two of them and this time Richie knows what that feeling deep in his chest is every time he catches Eddie smiling at him; every time Eddie scoffs at one of his dumb jokes; every time the light from outside the hospital window hits Eddie just right, framing itself around him like a halo.

He’d expected strange looks from the other Losers as they left; questioning looks. He knows he’d been a bit (see: insanely) distraught when they were down there, trying to keep Eddie’s guts together—and for the first two weeks he was in the hospital—so he expected some prying questions. Only they don’t mention it. They smile at him—send him knowing looks instead—and make him promise to get some rest, to eat more than a fast food cheeseburger, and take care of Eddie for them. To keep in touch. And when they’ve each done that, and it’s just him and Eddie left, he feels like some of that twenty-seven-year-old weight has been lifted off of his chest. Because they know. Maybe they’ve always known.

And now Eddie’s finally being discharged, weeks later. Their plane tickets are booked, Richie had a cleaning service stop by his apartment (because he knows Eddie would have a conniption if he saw the state Richie had left his apartment in before leaving for Derry), and both of their bags are in the rental car that he’s driving them to the airport in.

But as he’s watching Eddie sign the mountains of paperwork his nurse is having him fill out before he can leave, Richie knows his business in Derry isn’t finished.

Maybe it’s almost being murdered by It (for the second time) that gives him that final push. Maybe it was seeing Eddie so close to death. Maybe it’s just this fucking town, bringing up feelings of inadequacy and just plain wrongness. But he’s sick of that feeling; just plain sick and tired of keeping his feelings a secret—a secret from himself, his friends. From Eddie. A secret that had been festering inside him for decades.

Whatever it is that does it, something inside him tells him they have to make one last stop before leaving town for good.

“Ready Eddie Spaghetti?” he asks around a smile, guiding Eddie toward the car with a light hand on his back. Eddie has a shirt and a jacket on it, but Richie swears his hand is burning from the contact.

“Don’t call me that Rich,” Eddie huffs out, frown on his face.

Richie can tell he’s not in the best mood—probably feeling sore from having to make his way to the car after being laid up in bed for so long. His lips are pulling into a frown and for a second Richie is unsure on whether this is a good idea. Eddie is coming to live with him for fucks sake, he’ll have plenty of time to confess his feelings for him later.

But then he opens the car door for Eddie, gently buckling him up in his seatbelt, making sure to move the strap as far away from his wound as possible, and is rewarded with a soft smile in reply, his hand ghosting lightly over Richie’s hand that’s tugging at the strap.

Okay, he is definitely doing this.

They start driving, Eddie fumbling with the radio dial until he settles on a station playing an old song Richie vaguely recognizes. Derry isn’t an especially large town and soon they’re just five minutes away from the Kissing Bridge. He sees Eddie tapping his hand along to the song on his knee out of the corner of his eye. Richie’s breath is starting to become a little uneven, his hands feeling shaky despite having a firm grip on the steering wheel. He’s become so distracted by his thoughts telling him Don’t puke, don’t puke, don’t puke, that he suddenly realizes that they’re already driving over the bridge and he has to brake suddenly, his right arm shooting out in front of Eddie to stop any quick movements.

“What the fuck Richie?!”

He turns the ignition off and can feel Eddie’s confused stare on the side of his face. Distantly he hears Eddie calling his name, his hand shoving at Richie’s arm, but he just scrambles out of the car, taking in deep breaths of fresh air.

All of his confidence from earlier feels like it’s suddenly vanished, because how the fuck do you tell one of your oldest friends that you’ve been in love with them for nearly three decades? Even better, how do you tell your same-sex friend this when they previously operated under the assumption you were straight?

He hears the passenger door slamming closed and turns, wide-eyed to see Eddie leaning against the side of the car, a frantic look reflecting in his own eyes.

“Richie? What’s wrong, are you okay, can you breathe?” He starts fumbling with a backpack, one Richie realizes he must have gotten out of the back seat. “I have my inhaler somewhere in here I…it helps with anxiety if you just…” Eddie trails off noticing the grin threatening to overtake Richie’s face. Eddie’s own face falls flat. “What the fuck man, I thought you were having an anxiety attack or something.”

Richie lets out a humorless chuckle. “Yeah, I probably was.” He rubs nervously at the back of his neck, taking long strides around the car to meet a wary looking Eddie on the other side.

“I need to tell you something.”

“Okay?”

“It’s kind of a big thing and, fuck. I’m terrified.”

“Rich. After everything we’ve just been through, what could you possibly have to be terrified of anymore?”

Richie gulps nervously and takes a shaky breath. “It’s not...It’s something I’ve always been afraid of actually.” He means to say more but he looks up at Eddie, sees the concerned look on his face. His relationship with Eddie had always been like this; fucking around and making jokes but knowing when one needed the other to be serious. To listen. He sees the seriousness in Eddie’s earnest expression and is hit with such a heavy wave of nostalgia. He’d been full of it since returning to Derry (it was kind of hard not to be when you were literally trying to remember your whole fucking childhood) but this is different. He knows he’s in love with Eddie; knows he always has been. But this just reaffirms how important Eddie had been to him. How their relationship worked; how well he knows him, even after all of these years apart where they had little memory of each other. It’s this that makes him reach forward for Eddie’s hand, helping him slowly walk over to the wooden side beams of the bridge. He pulls him down into a crouch beside him, right in front of that same spot he had knelt in front of twenty-seven years ago.

Eddie’s eyes are on Richie the whole time, confusion in them and a small wince of pain flashing across his face that Richie apologizes in his head for causing. “Richie, what are we doing?”

Taking a deep breath, Richie looks away from Eddie and at the wooden plank in front of them. At the letters carved in front of him. He hears Eddie’s sharp intake of breath and Richie knows that he’s looking at the same spot.

“Rich…” He clears his throat. “Richie what…”

“I’m gay, Eddie.” Richie blurts out, eyes hyper-focused on the R+E carved in front of him.

They’re both silent for a minute, only the sound of birds chirping and the soft rustle of trees around them. The longer the silence persists, the more worried he becomes. Fuck it, might as well come out with the rest, he thinks.

“I’m gay and I’m in love with you. Have been for twenty-seven years. Probably longer actually, that’s just when I remember knowing.” Eddie’s opening his mouth to say something, but Richie’s nerves keep him going, scared to let Eddie get a word in. “And I know you married a woman—which, wow, was not expecting that Eds, I mean I’m not trying to say I just assumed you were gay but talk about a surprise—” Eddie lets out a huff at that, causing Richie to turn and look at his face, scrunched up in irritation. He feels his glasses slipping down the slope of his nose and pushes them back up, Eddie’s eyes tracking the movement. “Um, yeah so, I know this is probably really fucking weird for you. And maybe you don’t want to go stay with me which I completely understand but I think you still should regardless because, well, you’re kind of still a mess Eds and I know you know a lot about proper care for wounds and shit but I really listened to the doctors and nurses, promise, and I’m kind of the only other person who did so you technically need my help and I swear I’m not going to like, try to come onto you or some shit so you should really—”

“Richie,” Eddie interrupts, voice firm. Richie stops in his tracks, cheeks burning hot from embarrassment and nerves. “You talk too fucking much.”

Richie hears a strangled laugh leave his lips of its own accord and finds himself clearing his throat to cover it up. Eddie’s eyes are on him, a soft look in them, which he supposes is better than a look of disgust. Not that pity is what he wanted. He feels his stomach drop, waiting for the rejection he knows is coming.

“Do you have a pocketknife?” is what Eddie asks instead, throwing him for a loop.

“I…uh yeah? In my backpack.”

Eddie stands up quickly, hand to his chest for a moment as he begins slowly shuffling back to the car. Richie makes to move after him but, without turning back, Eddie calls out, “Stay there.”

Richie feels his jaw clench involuntarily from nerves. Unsure what exactly is going on, he jokes, “Not trying to murder me, are you Eds? No offense, but I think I can dodge you even when you aren’t moving like my grandma.”

“Shut up,” Eddie says from where he’s rummaging in the back seat of the car. There’s little heat behind it, but Richie still finds himself worried.

Eddie seems to have found the old pocketknife, as he’s shutting the door and coming back toward Richie. Seeing Eddie hobbling toward him, knife in hand, eyes focused on the bridge, Richie has a moment of clarity. He’s going to cross it out, he thinks. Get rid of any evidence and then get as far away from me as he can. He feels sick at the thought. This is what I get for being brave once in my fucking life. Never again.

Only, when Eddie is back on the ground, opening the knife and pressing it against the wood, it isn’t to cross out the letters. No, the knife is pressed into the R, Eddie’s hand shaking a little as he repeats the same motions Richie had all of those years ago. He makes the grooves deep, the letter looking like it had just been carved as he moves onto the plus sign. Richie can only stare in shock.

When he’s done, Eddie closes the pocketknife and looks over to Richie, a small smile on his face. Richie feels his own mouth curving up into a smile, a breath he didn’t realize he was holding escaping him. His lips part, to say what he has no fucking clue, but before anything can come out, Eddie’s leaning forward, his lips pressing firmly to Richie’s cheek. It burns in the best of ways and all Richie can think about is how this is actually happening; his cheek is being kissed by the man he’s been in love with since he was a kid—a man who now knows how he feels. In Derry no less, a place of nightmares where he’d been forced to bury that bit of himself so deep.

Eddie pulls away and laces his free hand with Richie’s. Richie’s eyes dart down to where they’re joined, and his eyes begin to sting as they well with tears. Eddie gets up to his feet, pulling Richie with him.  

“Let’s go home Rich,” he says, smile still soft, as he leads Richie by the hand toward the car.

Richie lets himself glance back one more time to the bridge; to those letters, R+E, together as they’re always been meant to be. When he slides into the driver’s seat and has started the car, his right hand immediately seeks out Eddie’s left. With the warm weight of Eddie’s hand in his, he pulls back out onto the road, feeling as weightless as he’s ever felt.

[saventhhaven]

Only You - Chapter 8

Title: She Knows

Summary: When a man who left the reader six years ago suddenly reappears on her doorstep, she does everything she can to stop herself from falling in love with him all over again. Little does she know that his seemingly brief return will open an entirely new chapter for both of them.

Only You Masterlist

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Tags: Angst, protective!Dean, fight training, sweet!Dean

Word Count: 3,801

(Gif not mine)

A month. Exactly one month today since Dean Winchester had shown up on your doorstep again. Three weeks since Geoff had died. Seventeen days since Linda's death. That was the last time you had seen the witch, too. Fifteen days since you had gotten fired. This was what your life had become now. A timeline of the bad things that had happened to you throughout the past month. Your paranoia had been kicking into gear again. You would only be kidding yourself to think that the witch had gotten over her grudge and moved on. But still, you hadn't seen any trace of her for over two weeks. You didn't know how, but you knew that she knew where you were. That she was waiting, watching, and calculating her next move. And that scared you more than anything.

You took up a fighting stance again as a pleasant fall breeze pushed damp strands of hair away from your face. It had been in the early hours of the afternoon when you and Dean had started today. Now, the sun was threatening to begin its descent, and you knew it was only a matter of time before Dean would force you to call it quits. He'd had to do so the past few days, claiming you weren't going to get anywhere if you let yourself get too burnt out.

Dean was a few steps away from you, his expression focused. It was a look of warning - one that dared someone to try and go up against him. You had seen him don this look before on a hunt, but being on the receiving end of it made you uneasy. The way he had his eyes narrowed and his jaw set was intimidating to say, in the least. Honestly, you weren't sure how others were still always so willing to go up against him. You took in a few slow, deep breaths, centering your concentration. Your fighting skills had improved immensely since Dean had started training you, and you were still getting better every day. The adrenaline rush that came with having to block and then counter a blow within half a second made it easy to learn quickly, and not repeat your mistakes a second time.

You moved with precise speed, throwing a series of quick jabs and kicks at Dean. He blocked your attacks with ease, coming at you with a left hook when you faltered. Some of your training kicked in, and you ducked automatically. The movement of Dean's punch left his face open, so you took the opportunity to aim a blow at his jawline. When his hands didn't make it up to block your hit in time, you froze, your fist only centimeters from its mark. A small smirk made its way onto your face.

"Gotcha," you said. Dean nodded, looking surprised, but pleased.

"Good," he praised. "That was really good." You gave him a smug smile, planting your hands on your hips.

"I told you I know how to defend myself." Dean snorted and rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, you do now."

"Hey!" you exclaimed. Ignoring you, Dean clapped his hands together and backed away from you again.

"All right. Try to knock me down." You eyed him skeptically in response.

"What?" Dean laughed.

"Knock me on my ass," he repeated. "Come on, Y/N. I know you can do it." You gave him the same skeptic glance as before as you readjusted your stance nervously.

"And how am I supposed to do that?" you asked. Dean shrugged and bent his knees as if preparing for some unseen force of impact.

"Just think of something. I wanna see what you can come up with on the fly." Blowing stray hairs from your face, you nodded. In what you were hoping was a swift movement, you swept your leg in a half-circle, aiming for Dean's feet. He moved out of the way easily, and in the blink of an eye had spun you away from him and pinned your arms behind your back. "Too slow," he said in your ear. You let out a huff of frustration, painfully aware of how close to you he was. His broad chest was pressed flush up against your back, and the warmth from his body seeped in through your shirt. You wrenched yourself from his grip and rubbed your wrist, where Dean had been holding onto it only moments before.

"Aren't you gonna at least cut me some slack?" you asked impatiently. Dean shook his head.

"Nope." You narrowed your eyes at him and crossed your arms over your chest.

"Dean, I'm still learning," you pointed out.

"I know," he replied, nodding his agreement. "But in a real fight, no one is going to go easy on you just because you're new at this. This is how you get better." You sighed. "Now," he continued, "you've got a good deal of power behind that punch and a sturdy stance that won't be easy to knock over, but you're forgetting the most important part." You raised your eyebrows with curiosity.

"All right, well, don't leave me in suspense here," you said imploringly.

"You need to be able to catch your opponent off guard," Dean explained. "If you only use what you know right now in a fight, there's no way you can win." You let out a small puff of air along with a roll of your eyes. Normally, you would have some sort of snarky reply to fire back at him, but you knew he was right. If faced with a real fight right now, you really wouldn't stand a chance.

"Okay, so what, you're telling me I need an element of surprise?"

"Exactly." Without giving him any warning, you sent a fist flying in his direction. Dean caught your punch in his hand, his eyes lighting up with what you recognized as amusement.

"Better," he said, nodding his head. "But still too predictable." You scowled and thrust a knee up into his groin area, a move he hadn't taught you. Dean blocked the blow with his forearms before you could make contact. He shoved your knee out of the way and held up a finger, a deadly serious expression on his face. "Whoa."

"You said you wanted me to catch you off guard!" Dean nodded his agreement.

"Yes! Catch me off guard! Not damage the goods!" You let out another frustrated huff. There wasn't much else you could do. Well... there was one thing. If he wanted an element of surprise, then he was going to get one. You threw a punch at him with your left hand. Just as you were expecting, he caught it with ease. "Come on, Y/N," Dean began, "that was-" Using your free hand, you wove your fingers through the soft, short hairs at the nape of his neck,and pulled his face down to your own before he could react. And then his lips were on yours.

The way your mouths moved together in such perfect synchronization had you feeling like no time had passed at all. His full lips against yours left your heart racing, and you had to force yourself to remember why you were even doing this in the first place. You weren't playing fair, and you knew that, but Dean had been asking for it. Reluctantly, you pulled away and watched him intently as his green eyes fluttered open, gauging his reaction.

"Y/N..." he said softly. He opened his mouth to continue, but you didn't give him a chance, switching the grip on your left hand, so you were the one holding onto his wrist. Using his surprise to your advantage, you whirled him around, pinning both of his arms behind his back and pushed him down to the ground almost effortlessly. Dean laid in the grass, stunned, as you held him down.

"Gotcha," you repeated, though this time, you were hardly able to get the word out. You stepped back, releasing his arms. Dean rolled over on his back, looking up at you with a face that told you he clearly wasn't thinking about your training anymore. When you held out a hand to him, he took it wordlessly and stood. You held your breath. It was the type of silence where you knew that if you even breathed, the moment would be broken. Finally, Dean spoke.

"Why did you..." he trailed off. He was at a complete loss for words. You gave a weak smile.

"You were the one that wanted me to catch you off guard." It was as if your comment fell on deaf ears. Dean hadn't heard a word you said. Not really. He wrapped a well-toned arm around your waist and pulled you close to him. You didn't resist.

"Y/N." The way he whispered your name sent shivers down your spine. Your breath hitched in your throat as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, in a way that was so gentle, you almost thought he was afraid he was going to break you. His warm, calloused hand rested on your cheek, and he looked into your eyes seriously. "Was that real?" he asked. "Or were you just trying to get the jump on me?" You swallowed hard, heart hammering in your chest.

"It was real," you breathed. When Dean looked down at you with his eyes full of infinite tenderness, all of the feelings you had desperately been trying to repress for the past month forced their way to the surface.

Ever since he had shown back up on your doorstep, you had been trying to convince yourself that you weren't in love with him. That he broke your heart once before, and you knew better now. Still, here you were. There was a realization that you had come to a couple days after Dean had left again that you had refused to admit at the time. It had occurred to you that maybe after all that time, you had never stopped loving Dean. You knew now that you were right. After all that time, your heart had put itself back together, and you somehow found yourself loving Dean Winchester again. But then again... maybe you never stopped in the first place.

Dean clenched and unclenched his jaw as he leaned down again to recapture your lips. When you tilted your chin up slightly, you could feel how close he was by his breath fanning across your lips. And then his phone began to ring, and the spell was broken. Dean hurriedly released you, his cheeks a shade pinker than usual. He yanked the small, obnoxious device from his pocket, frowning down at the screen.

"Sammy?" Sam's voice frantically rambled on the other end of the line, and Dean's frown deepened. "Wait, wait, wait, slow down." You heard him sigh.

"Put Y/N on the phone." Dean held out his phone to you, which you took.

"What's up?" you said into the receiver. 

"Hey," Sam greeted, sounding both agitated and slightly amused. "There's a woman trying to pound down your motel door, and it's not the witch." You felt your eyebrows knit together.

"Uh, who is it?"

The drive back to the motel was faster than it usually was, which you were thankful for. Dean had barely put the Imala in park before you jumped out, walking briskly over to your door, where the woman was still standing, her phone up to her ear.

"Mom?" you asked incredulously. Your mother whirled around, her eyes frantic. She shoved her phone back into her purse as you approached her, an obvious look of relief on her face. "What-" Before you could get another word out, she gathered you into a bone-crushing hug, eliciting a small "oof" from you.

"I went to the hospital to surprise you and drop off lunch, and they told me you were fired! What happened? Where the hell have you been?" You removed yourself from the hug, holding your mother at arm's length so she wouldn't suffocate you.

"Mom, breathe," you said. "I've been at home." She narrowed her eyes at you, planting her hands firmly on her hips.

"You were not at home because I went there before I came here! Which reminds me, what the hell happened to your apartment? It looks like a tornado went through there!" She was asking questions you didn't have safe answers to. If you told her what was really going on, she would think you were going crazy.

"I-I," you stuttered. Dean began to slowly approach, and you locked eyes with him, desperate for an excuse. "I got robbed," you blurted out. Dean tucked his chin back slightly as he raised his eyebrows.

"Robbed?" he mouthed to you. He gave you the "ok" sign with his hand as he pursed his lips and nodded. "Nice."

"You what?" You glanced at Dean again with helpless eyes. He stepped back, holding his hands up, a clear sign that you were on your own here. "Y/F/N Y/M/N Y/L/N," your mother scolded. You grimaced. She only used your middle name when you were really in for it. "You tell me what the hell is going on right now."

"Mom, I'm fine!" you exclaimed. She sputtered in disbelief.

"You're 'fine?' Oh no," she admonished, "don't you try to tell me you're 'fine!' 'Fine' wouldn't be unemployed! 'Fine' would-"

"Okay, mom, okay," you cut her off. "I get it."

"Come home," she ordered. Your stomach turned uneasily. "I don't want you staying in an apartment that's been robbed, and-" You glanced at Dean again, who looked just as perplexed as you did. This time, your mother followed your gaze and turned around. When her eyes landed on Dean, she reached for you absentmindedly. "You," she said venomously. "What the hell are you doing here?" You should have known this would happen. The only person that was more protective of you than Dean was your mom. Especially when it came to Dean. When your heart broke six years ago, she was there to help pick up the pieces. She knew all the anguish he put you through. There was no way this was going to end well. You latched onto her arm tightly.

"Mom, let me explain," you pleaded.

"No," your mother replied angrily. "I don't want to hear it. This man is nothing but trouble, Y/N, can't you see that?" You brushed past her and went to stand next to Dean.

"He's helping me!" you argued. She shook her head.

"I don't care! This happened last time, too! You disappeared for two weeks, and went, God knows where!" Your stomach clenched with guilt. She wasn't wrong. The last time you helped the Winchesters with their hunt, you had to take yourself off the grid to protect your mother. She had practically gone ballistic when she hadn't been able to get a hold of you. You tuned back into your mother's screeching. "I bet it was his idea to drag you out here, too, wasn't it?" Something clicked in your brain as realization hit you in the face like a ton of bricks. Your mouth went dry.

"Mom," you said shakily. "How did you know where to find me?" She crossed her arms, still looking annoyed.

"Well, when I was leaving your apartment, one of your neighbors told me where you went." She stuck out her chin and sniffed. "Since you were apparently too busy running around with him to tell me yourself. She was really, very nice." Your surroundings seemed to buzz loudly in your ear as you forced yourself to remember to breathe.

"What did she look like?" you asked in a panicked voice.

"What?"

"The neighbor, mom, what did she look like?" Your mother looked bewildered as her angry expression melted away.

"I don't know for sure, I wasn't paying attention to that." You grabbed her forearms, giving her a small shake.

"I know this doesn't make any sense to you," you said, trying to keep your voice level. "But I need you to try and think of what she looked like, mom. please." She blinked, still looking confused.

"Well, I know she was my age, at least." She paused. "And she had long, black hair." You released your mother and took a step back as the world spun around you. "She told me to tell you that she hopes you come back soon."

"The witch," you breathed. There was no doubt in your mind that your mother was no longer safe. This was some unbelievably cruel mind game. Images of victims from the case you had worked years ago flashed briefly before your eyes, and you really thought you might pass out. When you stumbled, Dean grabbed onto you tightly. You held onto him for dear life, shaking your head wildly. "Sh-she," you stuttered, "she knows. Dean, she knows."

"I know, I know," he said, trying to talk you down from your panicked ledge. "We're gonna figure it out, okay? And we're gonna do everything we can to keep her safe. But first, you need to calm down. Your mom looks really scared right now." You glanced over at your mother, who was watching you, eyes wide. You took in a deep breath, forcing yourself to calm down. "And we need to explain this to her."

"Okay," you finally said. "Okay." Patting Dean's arm in a silent gesture of thanks, you made your way back over to your mother.

"Y/N," she said softly, "what is going on?" You wrapped your arms around her form, incredibly grateful that she was still in one piece.

"Let's go home," you decided. "We need to talk."

"Witches?" You moved around your old home's kitchen with familiarity as you made a pot of coffee. "You really expect me to believe that?" You shook your head.

"No," you answered honestly, "I really don't. That's why I need you to trust me. I know this all seems like something out of a fucked up fairytale." Despite your age, she still glared at you harshly when you dropped the f-bomb. "But it's real." Your mother sighed loudly, resting her elbows on the kitchen table and steepling her fingers underneath her chin.

"I don't really know what to say here, Y/N," she admitted after a long moment. "I mean, it's like you're asking me to believe in vampires and werewolves, here." In the corner of your eye, you caught Sam and Dean exchange a glance a few feet away. When Dean looked at you meaningfully, you subtly shook your head. Witches were enough for today. Anything else and you were afraid she would have a heart attack.

"We know it's a lot," Sam piped up. "But Y/N is telling you all this to protect you."

"What do you know about my daughter?" your mom snapped.

"Mother, please," you demurred. She sighed heavily, nodding in the direction of the Winchesters.

"I just don't understand why they're here." You glanced back at the boys nervously before turning your attention back to your mother,

"This... isn't my first run-in with a witch," you admitted reluctantly. "The first time you ever met Dean, we had just finished hunting another witch. I owe these boys my life. They've saved it more than once before." Your mother gave the two boys a wary once-over before sighing, seeming to surrender her angry facade.

"Then I suppose I owe you my thanks," she decided. She paused for a second before narrowing her eyes at Dean again. "But I still don't like you," she informed him. Dean looked to the ground shamefully, and you placed your hand over your mom's.

"It's okay," you assured her. "I'm not worried about that. Right now, my main priority is keeping you safe." She let out a snort.

"And how do you intend to do that? Never let me out of your sight again?" Your lips quirked into a wry smile. You definitely got your sarcastic sense of humor from her.

"Maybe not quite to that extent, but I do think it would be a good idea if we stayed here until this is all over with." Your mother looked between the three of you.

"'We?'" she asked. "As in all of you?" You glanced over your shoulder at the boys, silently asking them with your eyes if this was something they were okay with. Both of them gave you nods in return.

"Yeah," you responded. "All of us." The coffee pot stopped making noise, a sign it had finished brewing.

"Oh, hell," your mom swore, giving another heavy sigh as she stood. "Fine," she relinquished. Without another word, she turned to pour herself a mug of coffee. You went over to the Winchesters, giving them a half-hearted smile of relief.

"What now?" you asked quietly. Sam stuffed his hands in the pocket of his jacket.

"For now, you just stay here with her, so she isn't alone. Dean and I can go get our stuff from the motel." Honestly, you were relieved. As much as you liked being with the Winchesters, driving halfway across town and back didn't exactly sound like something you wanted to do right now.

"All right. Thanks, guys." The moment the two boys were gone, your mother rounded on you, placing her mug on the kitchen counter.

"Y/N," she said firmly. You looked up at her sheepishly through your eyelashes. Based on that tone of voice, you could already guess what was coming. You expected her to continue, but she merely raised an eyebrow at you, apparently waiting for you to speak first. Giving a shrug, you came around next to her to pour your own mug of coffee.

"I don't know what you want me to say."

"I don't want you to say anything," she chided. "I just want you to think about what you're doing here. I remember how badly he hurt you last time. Do you?" Her words made you pause. Of course, you remembered. How could you forget? It felt like someone had ripped your heart straight from your chest. Whether or not he had intended to, Dean had left scars on your heart that you didn't think would ever fade. Less than a few hours ago, you had been so sure of what you wanted. But now that your mother had gotten in your head, you weren't so sure anymore. You raised the mug of coffee to your lips thoughtfully, trying to justify your reasoning to her.

"He's changed, mom." Your tone of voice sounded like you were trying to convince yourself more than anything. You hated that. "He told me he's trying to make it right." Your mother watched you carefully while you took another sip.

"For your sake, I really hope that's true."

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Chapter 9 - Where Do We Start?