#it's just very frustrating that my mouth is arguably the part of my body that I practice the most consistent self-care on

[shitty-check-please-aus]

my mom never had wisdom teeth so my greatest source of knowledge for various adult life scenarios just has no experience with something I’m dealing with and I’m stuck with google of all things

[epiphyllous]

when morning comes (Astarion/Reader) [1]

With your bleeding heart and altruistic bravery, it is almost too easy for Astarion to come to the conclusion that his best plan of action is to seduce you. All he has to do is not fall for you-- a feat easier said than done.

-or-

(Where were you ten, fifty, hundreds of years ago when he needed you? How dare you come now, the knight in shining armor for the less fortunate, when he has been waiting centuries for someone like you to save him? How dare you come to him now when he is like this?)

Word Count: ~10k Notes: Astarion/Reader, Paladin!Reader, AFAB, gender-neutral "you", a study in Astarion's romance route + added features, [switches to your POV], annoyance to lovers, fall first/fall harder, slight Lae'zel/Shadowheart, Wyll/Lae'zel, Halsin/Reader; may have some descriptors of my Tav but generally no specifics (let me have my brown eyes), NSFW contains Virgin!Reader, trauma related to Astarion's past [Part 2]

[Act I: Druid Groves]

From the start, you and Astarion chafed at each other's presence. Granted, he had threatened you at knife point, quick to suspect you were of the illithid colony, and you had responded in kind with a painful headbutt. But surprisingly enough, that had nearly no consequence to the relationship compared to the vastly different way the two of you engaged with the world.

"Do you always just... do things for other people for no reward?" Astarion asks you disdainfully when you promise Zevlor you would speak to Kagha. It's the third favor you've picked up in the last hour. "Seems very... inefficient."

"Yes?" You reply, confused as though he were the strange one. (In his humblest opinion, you're the lunatic who decides to help everyone who asks despite the arguably more pressing issue of their hostile parasite.) "I mean, helping them is going to help us in the long-run. We need information and supplies, and they have both of that."

A half-truth at best. Astarion has seen you soothe stray animals and children on the beaten road, help wayward allies, and offer up your amenities without hesitation. Helping others happens to align with your goal rather than the other way around. He feels his mouth twist in annoyance.

Astarion sniffs at your answer, and you give him the massive eye roll you habitually do every time the two of you argue. "Would it kill you to help them out a little?" You say, "It's not like it's completely out of our way to do it."

You make it sound so simple, he thinks bitterly. He glances at the sword at your hip and the shield on your back and wonders if you could ever understand how it feels to be powerless. It would explain your naivety, the way you cling onto doing the 'right' thing, your paladin vow to protect the weak no matter how foolhardy it may be. 

(Where were you, he thinks, ten, fifty, hundreds of years ago when he was still surviving on the scraps of whatever Cazador decided to provide for him that night? Where were you when his cruel master carved into his skin, a painter on a screaming canvas? When he was buried underground, no longer alive but still living, until he clawed his way up with bloody hands, only to find out his body and soul belonged to another? When he was compelled by vampiric thrall to lead his first victim of thousands to their death?

And how dare you come now, the knight in shining armor for the less fortunate, when he has been waiting centuries for someone like you to save him? How dare you come to him now when he is like this?)

"It's a matter of principle, darling." Astarion simpers, "I, for one, am not the type to play hero."

He expects a sneer, the silent treatment-- those he knows easily how to respond to. The gauging look you give him, though, and a thin veneer of frustration just underneath before it dissipates gives him pause. "Well," you say mildly, "we can agree to disagree. You're coming along anyways so let's just get going, yeah?"

Astarion follows you then with no comeback in mind, only a question as to how far your patience can go.

.

.

.

It is with great hesitation and no small amount of begrudgement that Astarion admits he has never been one for planning. After all, why hope for a future that will never occur? What future does he have when every move he makes is in accordance to someone else's will, every decision made never his own? 

When Astarion decided to travel with the unfortunate duo (now group) with similar illithid fates, he did not anticipate how difficult it would be to hide his affliction of a vampire. For the brief moment in the sun, he thought perhaps that because he was immune to daylight, his thirst for blood would have also disappeared. Imagine his surprise, nights after, when he finds himself starving and with no inconspicuous way to feed himself. 

There is always someone on the lookout for goblins or other enemies alike. There have been few times he can sneak out without calling attention to himself, especially for such a long absence as hunting for prey would be. Astarion can feel himself grow weak over the course of a few days, and though he briefly thinks about telling you the truth about his identity, he is resistant. 

Good heroes tend to hunt creatures of the night like him. Considering his blatant disregard for those you choose to protect, he isn't sure he will continue to be under your protection if he is outed. Astarion finds traveling as a pack to be too conveniently safe, but he is so, so hungry. In the midst of his hunger, anyone's blood will do, but it is yours that tempt him most: healthy, righteous, and pure-hearted. He has never been allowed to feed on a thinking creature, and at this point, he isn't sure if he should, considering the risks.

But Astarion is tempted by the smell of your blood shed during a particularly fierce battle, and as he feels his hands tremble, he concludes that he must find a way to feed tonight.

You always, without fail, set your tent up near the fire. It is where he finds himself creeping over your bedroll at the dead of night only to find that you have woken up to look up at him in shock. (He has never been one for planning.)

"...Shit," Astarion lets slip out, backing away. You stand at the ready, eyes boring into him as you come to the realization of what he is. "No, no- it's not what it looks like."

 "...And what exactly is it supposed to look like then?" You ask tensely, and Astarion feels the situation quickly run away from him.

"I wasn't going to hurt you!” He puts his hands up and swallows. “I just needed, well, blood."

"You're the reason why that boar on the side of the road had no blood.” You realize, narrowing your eyes. "How many things have you hunted without us knowing?” You accuse, “People?"

"No!" Astarion exclaims, "No people. Never any people. I can sustain myself on animals, kobolds even-- but it is not enough. Not when we're fighting every day like this."

He sees a flicker of sympathy in your eyes and hope builds in his chest. "I feel so weak," he pleads. "If I just had a little bit of blood, I could think clearer. Fight better. Please."

You don't relax but you don't try to attack him either. Astarion considers that a winning chance. "Have you told anyone that you're a vampire?"

"They're more likely to ram a stake through my ribs than anything," Astarion mutters. "At best– even for you– you'd say no unless you trusted me." He looks up at you and sees the way your eyes look into him for the truth. "And you can trust me. I wouldn't want to harm anyone in this camp." And it is technically the truth, though Gale tests his patience sometimes. Even he cannot promise that he wouldn't betray everyone at the drop of the hat if the situation begs for it, but this is a completely different matter at the moment. 

Your gaze is unfaltering, the silence palpable as the two of you look at each other. Astarion feels his palms sweat as he awaits your judgment and for the proverbial hammer to possibly fall on his head. 

"Okay," you say instead. "Alright. I trust you. As long as you don't try biting me again without permission, it's fine. Can you promise me that at least?"

"Really?" Astarion knows this is what he could ever hope for, but a part of him is baffled that you would ever think to trust him. He supposes your foolhardy compassion has its benefits-- though he would be lying to himself if he didn't admit there was a part of him that was rather... flattered by your trust. "Yes- yes, of course. Thank you."

He presses his lips in thought. If you were so willing to put your faith in him, then perhaps it would not hurt to ask. "If I could ask you to trust me just a little further..." He says, "I just need a little blood. I won't take anything more than I need. Please."

Astarion can see the hesitation in your eyes when he asks. Are you weighing your trust in him, he wonders. Or are you worried about your safety, the benefits versus the risks? It would make sense-- you really shouldn't. But a moment before you respond, he somehow knows that you would. 

[He looks so tired, you think, heart clenching with sympathy. You wonder how you've missed it for this long or if he's that good at pretending otherwise in the presence of others. It could be both-- Astarion has shown to be a great performer, and you are one of his best audiences. You find it difficult to argue against letting him bite you; the anticipated pain, the possible negative effect, the case that his hunger is too much for you to quench all pales in comparison to what good you would do for him. 

You are halfway to being smitten already, and you cannot deny yourself this.

But you are not naive. You are not fearless. For whatever trust you give to Astarion, you are afraid of the fact that if he betrays you in this, you can never go back to how it was before.]

"Promise me you'll stop if I tell you to," you tell him quietly. 

He acquiesces quickly. Of course, he will, he promises, only just enough. You lay back down at his suggestion, body tense in anticipation. He does not let that feeling linger too long, seizing his chance before you decide to change your mind. He buffets your body with his arms before he sinks his teeth into your outstretched neck. 

You taste better than he could possibly have imagined. 

To think he fed solely on mice before-- bog water in comparison to the sweet red of your blood, invigorating and undeniably delicious. Astarion gets another mouthful and groans, feeling strength return, warmth pooling into his belly. If bears and boars were the main course, then you are the mouth-salivating dessert– irresistibly delectable and leaving him wanting for more.

Your body trembles underneath him, your hand clenched into his shirt as a counterweight to the pain. Your pulse bounds underneath his tongue, the small gasps you cannot suppress resounds into his ears. This, too, puts feeding in a different plane than before, an extra level of appeal that can only be experienced with thinking creatures. Perhaps it is you in particular that adds another layer to the pleasure. Having you at his mercy, taking what you so graciously offered with ravenous hunger: power courses through him for more reasons than one.

[Your heart beats as fast as a rabbit's, fear and adrenaline powering you in the same manner. Or, if you were being honest, anticipation and a little bit of excitement fuels it as well as Astarion climbs on top of you, hunger in his eyes. 

It is a more literal type of hunger, but it is an intense look either way that leaves you frozen like a deer in headlights. 

The bite itself is more shocking than it is painful. You barely muffle your exclamation, unused to the feeling of someone so intimately close combined with the instinctive fear that accompanies the loss of blood. You hold onto Astarion without thought, and you squeeze your eyes and bite your lips as he takes your blood in with every suck. 

As scared as you may be, you are undeniably aroused from the feeling of it all-- the numbness that gently overtakes your mind, the light, floaty feeling of pleasure of the bloodloss combined with the intimacy of someone you’ve always been attracted to. The knowledge that he is gorging himself on you, taking pleasure from you, makes your blood run hotter than it has any right to in this situation. 

And then, you feel a switch flip, and the lightness becomes disorienting, and the numbness bleeds into coldness. Panic starts climbing up your throat. You let yourself think for the briefest moment if Astarion will let go on his own, but you know you will not last long enough to wait. Worry gnaws at you at this thought, and you can only hope that Astarion is true to his word when you tell him to stop.

And he does. Perhaps it is the feeling that you have placed your trust in the right person that has felt the best out of everything that has happened tonight.]

"Astarion-" he hears you grit out, "that's enough."

“Hm? Oh, yes, of course.” It takes but a moment for Astarion to register it before removing his fangs from your neck. He sees blood trickle from the punctures and he bemoans the waste as he pulls away. Next time– if there is a next time– he'll be neater, he thinks. He watches as you breathe just as hard as him, eyes slightly glazed over, and he barely resists the urge to lick his lips. 

He stands from you to give you space, and you slowly sit up, looking at him with an emotion he can't quite place. It concerns him little at the moment with the strongest blood he's ever consumed in two millennia coursing through him.

“That was…” Astarion begins, breathless with adrenaline, “Amazing.” He delicately wipes the blood from the side of his mouth, an irrepressible smile on his face.

“Hope that helped,” you say, and he almost laughs at the understatement of two centuries.

“It very much did.” Astarion breathes in deeply. “My mind is finally clear. I feel… strong,” he nearly purrs. Happy.”

“Looking forward to seeing you fight then,” you say, hand at your neck as the punctures gradually close. You sigh, wiping your bloody hands onto the patch of grass. “Going out to hunt?” You ask like any other day.

“I am, darling.” He stands tall, head held high with a confidence he has not felt in ages. To think this is what he's been missing out on… “You're invigorating, but I'll need to get something more… filling,” he tells you, glancing back.

You give him a flippant wave of the hand, and he isn't sure if you are too tired to be wary of him or uncaring of the risk considering what you allowed him to do. “Good hunting,” you say genuinely before yawning. 

“I will. And-” You turn to him then, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion but still alert. Astarion pauses for a moment. “This is a gift, you know,” he says. “I won't forget it.”

He walks off into the forest after and finds easy prey to feast on. It's a shame it does not taste as good as you did, but he will make do and ride out the feeling of power for as long as he can. It is when he returns to camp with you fast asleep by the fire that Astarion realizes the emotion on your face was relief: relief that he had stopped when you had asked, and that he kept to his word. 

What a fragile thing trust is, to be put to the breaking point at a single moment in time. What if he had continued to consume and drink you dry? He suspects it would have rather dire consequences to your mortality and even worse effects to his relationship with you. It would be unsalvageable, he realizes, if he had not stopped when you had asked. For some things may be forgiven, but this would be reprehensible. 

Astarion finds that he understands you too well for his liking. How many times has he not been able to give consent? Wanted to say 'no' but forced to say yes? (Not knowing now how to say 'no' at all?)

For the sake of his own livelihood (the camp would kill him for your death), his budding relations with you, and a part of him that yearns for what he should have had, Astarion is glad that he was not greedy tonight-- and, as the day comes, for the following nights to come.

The pitchforks and torches do not come the next morning. Maybe it is because everyone else has their equally dangerous secret to hide or because of your influence on the camp. You are more concerned at how you would help him feed than afraid that he will hurt anyone. 

"Why, isn't it my favorite traveling companion," he says to you when you approach him.

"You mean tastiest,” you say back, and he knows you are truly well and beyond hard feelings if you can joke about it.

"Well, I suppose that as well.” He tells you, “Though you have been the only one I've bitten so there is no competition, really."

And to his surprise, telling you about Cazador, his ill-begot fate as a vampire spawn and its subsequent diet, is easier than he would have expected. You listen with a sympathetic but otherwise neutral ear that makes it easy for him– and he suspects everyone else– to confess their circumstances to you. He's rather surprised he's been able to “resist” for this long. Even Gale has confessed he has a literal living bomb inside him in the little time they've all spent together as a group. 

(It goes to show how much everyone has grown to trust you; even Astarion is starting to see what everyone else sees in you.)

“I don't mind you taking my blood once in a while,” you instruct him, “but you can't just do it to an innocent person.”

“And how about a guilty person?” Astarion asks slyly, gleefully watching as you saddle next to him with a similar smile. 

“Free real estate, I suppose,” you say nonchalantly. “Just ask before you bite me?”

“No more late night surprises, you have my word on that.” He smiles, fangs bared, and you don't even blink at the sight of them. 

.

.

.

In the druid grove, you pick up a few more favors from the locals, though at least you have begun to ask for aid for the road. Not exactly payment, though you are offered a reward anyways. Astarion thinks you are either very lucky people are desperate for help or very charming in that innocent, eager to do good type of way that compels people to be generous. It is not unlike Wyll, who joins your group of illithid-afflicted companions, as the Blade of Frontiers. 

Naturally, the two of you get along as like-minded individuals. Gale, too, gravitates toward you for your compassion, and Shadowheart trusts you for perhaps the same reasons. Even Lae'zel, who you often have problems speaking to without feeling intimidated, has come to begrudgingly accept you as the de facto leader of the group. You are, as Astarion suspected, strong in battle as you are in personality. 

He often forgets both, but he cannot be blamed. After he witnesses you stand up to Lae'zel for the sake of an intimidated tiefling, he sees you lose an argument against a squirrel. Astarion sees you send goblins off rooftops and speak to trolls with confidence, and then he watches as you ask him to unlock a barn door with raunchy sex noises simply out of morbid curiosity. 

It is in these moments-- apart from your heroism and startling sense of morality-- that you and Astarion are often on the same page. As long as it is not from the needy, you don't find it a problem to loot. (He thinks practicality plays a role in disturbing dead bodies for money and items, and your vow says nothing against it.) If it's for the sake of peace, you don't mind spinning half-truths and lies. (The lies he personally thinks you need to work on more but he is a master of deception so perhaps there is no comparison with him.)

Your curiosity knows no bounds, and it is in this, both you and Astarion take cheerful glee in raking chaos. 

"I don't know what I expected!" You say almost cheerily after the group defeats the unlikely couple of bugbear and ogre after purposely interrupting their very loud lovemaking. 

Shadowheart gives you a raised eyebrow that has you sheepishly grin at her, and Astarion lets out a laugh. "Well, I certainly had a guess, but finding out was very interesting indeed."

"Interesting... is certainly a way to describe the scene we just witnessed," Gale says dryly. Astarion catches your eyes before you smile slyly. 

Innocently, you comment, "I wonder how the mechanics worked with the height difference-"

Gleefully, Astarion is quick to join in, watching Gale balk at the topic, “Well, with the way she was on her knees-” 

"Some things need not be pondered!"

That is when Astarion realizes that as long as the world stops begging for your help, the two of you get along quite well. If anything, Astarion finds your presence and comments most amusing out of everyone in camp. Gale is exceedingly verbose and other times awkward. Lae'zel Astarion isn't sure knows the meaning of joking, though her violent tendencies are right up his alley. Shadowheart-- as it turns out and makes total sense-- is a worshiper of Shar and therefore an automatic stick in the mud. 

Wyll waxes far too much about justice, and Karlach, when they find her and proceed to not kill her despite Wyll's initial request, is the next best thing though he is still wary of how hot she burns. You, however, have the humor and wit to match every ridiculous situation they encounter, and if anything, Astarion must give you that. God knows how he'd survive the boredom of camp and not being arms deep in gore without having someone to gossip with. 

The two of you agree the most when it comes to other topics, like Mystra's treatment of Gale, how good Wyll looks with horns, feelings about Gods. It makes for great and easy conversations though the two of you are also quick to snark if there is a disagreement. Astarion admits his words were sharp in the beginning (and you gave it right back until you just mellowed out) but he eventually relaxed when his role in camp solidified after his vampiric reveal.

And what a gift your blood was; Astarion counts his lucky stars that you continue to offer your neck to him as long as it is only yours he bites-- with permission, of course.

He was almost beginning to relax when a gur comes, asking for him.

Luckily enough, it seems this Gandrel has no idea what he looks like, so the two of you can play innocent together. You and Astarion give each other a discrete look before you go back to talking to the monster hunter. It must be Cazador, he seethes. Who else would put a Gur on his tracks acres away from Baldur's Gate? 

"And what did you want to do with this vampire spawn?" You ask innocuously.

"I would like to capture him."

"Capture? Not kill? Does someone want him alive?" You question, and Astarion must give you this: you are an excellent conversationalist, to seek more without giving much at all. Your eyes widen in what can be assumed as surprise, though they remain calculating. "You said so yourself: even vampire spawn are dangerous. Why would you accept a job to capture him?"

The gur shuffles his feet for a moment, chewing on his words. Astarion watches in secretive awe as you urge the hunter to trust you with unbidden information. "Well... It's not a request from an outside source..." He trails off, "We... have questions we were hoping he would answer."

Now that's curious, Astarion thinks. What would a monster hunter need for a spawn besides its demise? He knows you have the same question when he glances over at you as you watch on thoughtfully.

"Were you hoping to capture it to get to the vampire lord or something?" You ask, "Is that something that would even work?"

"We have little leads besides this vampire spawn, if I can be frank." He sighs and Astarion watches as he unravels the truth before you. "It's our children, you see. They've been captured.”

You are ever sympathetic to the Gur's plight--genuinely so. You hold no qualms keeping Astarion's name from your mouth but you speak to the Gur and provide him with advice and information you have received from Astarion. What a cheeky pup you are, playing double agent without batting an eye. Astarion feels like forgiving you for taking away the opportunity to get rid of the monster hunter once and for all just for the show of your wit and guile. 

Though Astarion thinks you could afford to be more ambitious. If you could have perhaps a little creativity in deciding what you want to do with the little tadpole in your brain or the absolutist cult, Astarion is sure the two of you would get along more.

"I don't know how the tadpole will change me," you admit with unexpected vulnerability. "I don't want to give them more power over me, and I don't know if feeding them will let them."

"Well..." Astarion pauses, scoffing at your response before he can accept the fact the two of you have more in common that he would rather believe. He'd rather not lose what he barely got back as well, he thinks. "I suppose there is reason to hesitate so maybe I'll wait until some other brave soul decides to give it a go." He gives you a look before continuing, "Try not to convince the others too much. I'm not too eager to be the first and only one to eat a tadpole."

You shrug noncommittally, promising nothing. Astarion barely resists the urge to roll his eyes. Paladins. 

.

.

.

Considering the dire straits in which you are bound and the rocky start the two of you had, Astarion would not have imagined the relationship with you to progress in this manner. Having you trust him was already beyond what was expected, especially after revealing his vampiric origins. Giving him your blood was a gift that he could hardly believe happened. One can imagine his surprise when he finds out you are charmed by his wits, finding genuine joy in his wry commentary. 

For god knows why, you have grown fond of him-- he can see it in the way you provide him with the best equipment, the way you seek his presence. The way you laugh freely around him and turn your back to him during battle, believing he will defend it. Though arriving at this point was coincidental, it is almost too easy for Astarion to come to the conclusion that his next step is to seduce you. 

Astarion sees your laughter, but he also sees the way you throw him glances when you think the others aren't looking. You instinctively lean closer to him when he is near and when he speaks, your eyes are quick to find him. You are attracted to him– and he means to capitalize on it and make you feel as though you would rather die than have him get hurt.

It's a simple plan, really. The seduction comes easy; all he needs to do is stay unattached, so if things go wrong, he'll find someone else to take cover under. 

(The plan should be simple-- he has learned tactics that would put any to their knees, tricked hundreds of people of his affections. But something about doing this to you-- this performance-- makes him uneasy. 

It's a shame, he finds himself thinking. He thinks he was beginning to like you too.

The thought lingers only for a moment. He is quick to push it from his mind; that too is a learned habit.)

Astarion finds his opportunity after the goblin camp has been slain and the tieflings throw a celebration in thanks. 

The wine is mediocre at best, but there is much of it to be shared, so the party is still in full blast when the moon is overhead. He finds himself a secluded part of camp to sip at the sorry excuse of a liquor, discomfited by the praise they give him for participating in the fight against the goblins. 

You are unused to the praise as well, humble as you are, but you are nearly glowing from the joy you feel as you make merry with those you have befriended. The rest of the party, even companions who were ambivalent at best at the idea of helping the tiefling immigrants, are satisfied with the outcome despite the lack of progress with removing the tadpole. He would say otherwise– the trade of goblin lives for tieflings hardly makes a difference, and surely the goblins would throw a wilder party than this. He says as much to you when, faithfully, you find your way to him to talk.

“All I want,” he tells you, “is a little bit of fun. Is that so much to ask?”

You snort into your drink. “Knowing you, it could be.”

“Don't be so sour,” he croons. “I like a good time as much as anyone.” His eyes fall half-lidded as he looks at you. You raise your brow at him, noticing the change in tone as he continues. "You know, we could always make our own entertainment."

The look you give him is partly apprehensive and the other amused. He knows that glimmer of recognition of what he is asking, though you are quick to hide it for plausible deniability. "...What do you mean by that?"

Astarion, with practiced ease, leans in, watching as you instinctively do the same before he purrs out, "Why, sex, of course. Experiencing a little death, figuratively speaking, is quite fun, wouldn't you agree?"

Your face is already flushed from the alcohol, but your cheeks on high brighten in the dimly lit torches at his tent. It's evident you didn't expect him to suggest something like that, especially to you, though you are not completely unwilling if the lack of immediate denial is of any indication.

You are rendered speechless though; a first for you considering how quick you often are at retorting back at his comments. It makes Astarion think of two conclusions: you are either inexperienced or incredibly shocked at his offer. Both are familiar, though the thought of your naivety extending into sexual relations does, at the very least, give him pause.

It is not as if he has never been someone's first. Virgins are often most eager to lose or prove themselves in someone so willing to offer bliss. If you are one, well– the shy ones are always the ones that are easier to fell.

He prepares himself to drop a few one-liners to convince you to take the offer, but you glance away for a moment before you turn toward him, face unreadable.

"If you're down," you say. You smile.  "I don't mind."

"Until later then," Astarion replies easily. "Wouldn't want the others to interrupt, unless you're interested in that."

At this, you laugh, and he relaxes. "Definitely not. Though, I'm curious." You ask, "Am I your first choice, or am I just the first to say 'yes'?"

Astarion finds the best lies are in truths. "Lae'zel was quite eager to find a partner earlier. Luckily she and Wyll are in quite the agreement for tonight as far as I can hear and I have no desire to get in between whatever the githyanki has in store." He smiles slyly at you. "Besides, I couldn't help but overhear you flirting with our druid earlier so I at least knew you were in the, ah, mood. Never imagined you'd be quite so bold." 

"It's the alcohol," you mutter, rubbing your cheek. You take the wine from his hand and take another swig. "Also, I didn't realize he'd be coming with us so that was a surprise. Almost as much of a surprise as you asking me." You glance at him briefly. "Well, sort of."

Astarion feels a familiar prickle of suspicion as he stares at you, already unamused at whatever dirty truths you have prepared for him. "What is it now?"

You quip a half smile, eyes bright under the torch fire. (Your eyes are brown.) "Nothing," you say teasingly. "Guess you do like me a little bit."

Astarion watches as you walk away, feeling less victorious than he imagined himself to be.

The flirting, the seduction, the fight for survival is familiar. The banter, the bickering, the camaraderie between the two of you is beginning to be just as familiar. Astarion feels just the slightest bit unease at how true your words are. 

.

.

.

Astarion has much to prepare for the night, so it is lucky that you take center stage of the party, as the savior of the grove. You take part in the merriment and make conversations, taking genuine interest in the stories others tell. The tieflings keep you busy for the most part, but Astarion is nothing if not good at building anticipation, putting as much heat into his gaze as possible when you do have time to take a glance at him. 

You are quick to focus your attention elsewhere after giving him a look, but the smile on your face that stays means that at least he is always on your mind. In some ways, he has missed this... coyness, the thrill of the chase. The results of his previous endeavors never fail to unease him, but with you, it is different. The familiarity of seduction comes with a little bit more fun knowing you are not going to be his victim- not like it usually is. 

"Hey, still not joining in on the fun?" You suddenly ask him, your hand gently prying at his arm so you can hook onto him. You have gotten more drunk in the time you were away, the warmth of your skin seeping into him from where you've attached yourself. Your face is almost comically red if not for the carefree smile on your face and the affection that betrays on your face when you look at him.

Something in his chest warms at the sight of you.

"Unfortunately, the tieflings' company has not become any more appealing since you've been gone. Besides," Astarion says slyly, "the only thing I've been thinking of is how you'll taste later when we're alone."

You let out a huff, turning your head away with a half-embarrassed and pleased smile. "Laying it on a little thick, aren't you?"

"Not at all," he replies easily. "It's the truth, after all." 

You look at him as though you don't believe a word, but you are charmed by them anyway if your expression is of any indication. As conscientious as you normally are, the alcohol and the fact you are delving into his territory of seduction puts you at a disadvantage. Even if you are the one that knows him best in the camp, you are not attuned to every secret. Half-truths and lies come easier than anything else, if only because it allows him to keep his distance.

When the camp is cleared and you linger to bid the others farewell, Astarion slips away to the lake to prepare. It is almost ritualistic the way he cleans himself, the cold waters readying himself for what comes next. He thinks of what lines to tell you, how he should appear to you to best whet your appetite. Are you chaste or are you more animalistic? Would you prefer to take a dominant or submissive role? Astarion cannot tell these things about you based on his interactions with you, so he can only rely on his flexibility and years of experience to get him through it. 

(For a brief moment, he wonders if this is something he must do. What if you would protect him regardless of how this night goes? You are compassionate, sympathetic to the plight of others-- goodness flows within your veins like the light that beacons from your holy sword. Could that light not shield him too, without his body as an offering?

But gods are rarely so magnanimous, no matter the sacrifices. Astarion will not take his chances even with you. 

Even then-- even then, he wants this night to be at least a little enjoyable. It is with you, after all. If there is someone who can allow him to feel safe, it is you.)

Moonlight beams above, and Astarion hears your quiet footsteps come closer. His expression masks into something more suitable for seduction and he steps from the shadows of the trees to greet you. 

Upon seeing him, you yelp in surprise and- god, can you blame him?- he jumps as well. 

"What in God's name-"

"Sorry, sorry! I didn't expect to see you half naked all of a sudden!" You stammer, "I mean, not all of a sudden, I guess. Your... state of undress didn't cross my mind as something I'd see right away."

It is reckless when his mark is so close to fruition, but he finds himself dropping the act, hand at his hips in an instinctual indignant huff you seem to invoke from him easily. "Darling, what did you expect after the invitation I gave?" Your sheepish grin is your only answer, and Astarion feels a quick flash of annoyance at how easily you are able to derail his thoughts. 

Quick to redirect the conversation though, Astarion angles his body sensually, lowering his voice in the manner he knows can send shivers down his victims. "Perhaps you'd prefer if you could strip me down yourself?"

Like clockwork, your cheeks flush pink even as you roll your eyes in attempts to salvage your embarrassment. "Only you'd be able to pull those lines out of nowhere," you mutter, and Astarion allows himself the satisfaction when you approach him, eyes looking down at him appreciatively.

Only a small gap lies between the two of you now, your dark eyes meeting his. You are waiting on him; Astarion does not hesitate. 

He takes your face into his hands and brings his lips to yours. Your eyes close almost immediately to the touch as you give into him, face tilting up to align with him and mouth parted to allow him in. Though Astarion knows not how you incline to be normally, he knows that this night, he's the one in control.

Your hands curl into the front of his chest as though you do not know where to touch, so he helps you along and pulls you in until there is nothing separating you. Astarion can see the way your eyes widen when you can feel his arousal beneath his trousers, and recognizes your interest with the way your pupils darken your eyes. 

There is a slight satisfaction in seeing you this way. As stubborn as you are, you are malleable in his touch, opening up to his hands like a flower in bloom. He lifts you up against the tree, your legs quickly wrapping around his waist in response, and your little giggle morphs into a gasp of pleasure when he grinds into you fully. 

It is probably instinctual the way you arch your back and bare your neck to him. It isn't in him to resist the temptation to bury his nose into the crook, nipping at the sensitive skin between your collar bone. And this is when he feels your hands, that were curled into his hair, push him back slightly, and his stomach drops. 

He should be worried that he made a mistake and think about how to put you back on track with him. His safety depends on his success, after all. Despite himself, Astarion feels more hurt at your rejection, your mistrust, than anything. (Since when did that ever matter to him?)

"I wasn't going to bite, you know," he says, hoping nothing in his voice gives anything away.

"No, that's not it," you tell him, and your hand is quick to cup his face reassuringly. He finds himself soothed by your gesture though he wishes he was not in need of it in the first place. "I trust you not to without my say. I mean, you probably could tonight if you wanted..." You trail off. "I just wanted to let you know something before we go any further." 

The offer for blood pleases him more than it should, as does the affirmation of your trust. "Whatever you want to say, darling, I doubt it'll deter me from having my way with you tonight," Astarion says, eyes half-lidded and staying strong despite the undignified huff you give him. 

"Well, alright," you say as you try to save face. You brush over his collarbone with your thumb as you think. You're nervous, he realizes, over whatever you have to say, and he can't begin to guess what you could possibly reveal that would be of such import to leave you in such a state. "I... have never-- this is my first time. Having sex," you say, and Astarion does his utmost not to show any semblance of surprise. 

"I hope," you continue, "that's okay? You'll probably have to show me a lot of things but, you know..."

You are a virgin after all. Astarion had some thoughts on the matter but he never truly took stock in it considering how rare it is to save yourself for this long. You were modest but far from prude, and you had thoughts of debauchery like any other in the camp. But you are of untouched flesh. Inexperienced. And yet you accepted him to be your first? 

You are not so unique that he has never bedded someone like you, but it does tweak his heart in a way it has not for a long while that you are giving yourself to him as a result of his seduction. You feel self conscious about this inexperience, and it would be easy to take advantage of that for his benefit. Typical, even.

The thought does not sit well with him.

"I know you wanted a fun night," you tell him, eyes downcast when he does not respond. "So I get it if you're not interested anymore since I'm probably going to be a lot of work-"

"And what’s to say we cannot have fun while discovering something new?" Astarion interrupts in a momentary panic. He's not on autopilot but he's not stopping the night from happening despite your deference- so what is he doing? "Darling, I'm rather concerned you want to spend your first night with a vampire-" He needs to get back on script.

He recites the words in his mind. Isn't this what you want? To lose yourself in me? And all he has to do is say it-

"No, that's not-" You talk back, frowning. "You being a vampire has nothing to do with it. When you asked, I said yes because I trust you, vampire or not." 

To have and to hold, he thinks, and wonders how you have survived for so long being so willfully trusting when at times you should not. "Then trust me, darling," he says, heat building in his chest. He lifts you up again and growls. "Let's have some fun. That's what you want, isn't it?"

"If that's what you want," you breathe out, and Astarion claims your mouth with his own.

You let out a sigh when he begins to undress you, his dexterous hands easily removing every lace and button to leave you bare. You giggle into his kiss, and Astarion lets himself smile, being pulled along as you roll on top of him playfully, mischief in your eyes. You full on laugh when he rolls you back over, uncaring of the outdoors, bearing your neck for him to bite. 

Astarion doesn't remember the last time he's had fun doing this. And it is fun- always has been with you, he realizes, a type of levity that he has not experienced with anyone else. He takes leisure in biting you, sucking a mouthful of blood that has him moaning into your neck as he rolls his hips into you. Your hand gently cards through his hair as he bites, and true to his word (only taking just enough), he pulls back with blood on his lips before swooping down to share in his bounty. 

He cannot help but laugh when you stick out your tongue at him, nose wrinkling at the metallic taste of blood that is otherwise sweet to him. He pulls his remaining clothes off and smirks when he sees you follow the line of sight down to his hardened cock in compulsive curiosity. 

"Like what you see, darling?" 

You make a noncommittal hum as you sit up, quick as you are unbothered by your nakedness. "Can I?" You ask, gesturing toward him, and he would find it amusing for you to ask if not for how eagerly you grasp his member at his nod.

Astarion hisses in pleasure as you pump his cock, getting into an easy rhythm with your thumb sliding deliciously on the tip of it. He watches as you gather spit to smoothen the pace, hand delicately pushing your hair from your face, and feel arousal melt into his belly like molten lava. 

"Why, it seems you have a little bit of experience in this matter, or are you just talented?" He asks and earns himself a coy look. 

"Just twice," you say, twisting your hand in a way that has him rolling his hips. "Hold my hair, will you?" 

Astarion is quick to follow your orders-- almost instinctively-- and before he has a moment to ponder on that, he is throwing his head back when your mouth swallows his cock in wetness and heat.

Most of his so-called lovers were more eager to be pleased than please; it makes sense that you would be different with the way you are. Your eagerness is quite adorable, as is your earnestness to provide him pleasure. Astarion revels in it, ecstasy climbing up like a tidal wave.

"That's enough, dear," Astarion purrs. He sees you look at him with a protest on your lips, and he continues, "I'd much rather continue this while I'm inside you." 

Based on your expression, you are more than thrilled at the aspect. 

Astarion guides you to lay down as he climbs over, hands carving a path over your curves and into your heat. He is careful to not scrape his fangs over your bosom, though he suspects you would not mind it in the least with how roughly he plays with your nipples to elicit a moan. You are dripping by the time he is done preparing you. 

It does not take much resistance to enter you fully. You let out a short cry, reaching out to him instinctively for comfort as your body adapts to him. True to your words, you are tight beyond measure, squeezing his cock as though you are determined to milk him for what he's worth. You pant into his ears, hands grasping over his shoulders as you ease into the feeling of him. 

The moment you nod, Astarion begins to move steadily. It is easy for the both of you to lose yourself in the pleasure, and it is these moments that he feels himself drift away, and the feeling of dread settles in.

Any type of intimacy takes him acres away, the gasps and moans that was music to his ears fading into numbness. He hardly knows what he's doing, except to know that he's doing well enough, hands playing at your clit as he moves at a persistent rhythm.

Astarion wishes it were different. Sex is fun, especially with you, if only it didn't make him feel as though he were fighting for his life. Every stroke calculated, every climax comes with a price. You are not to be taken back to Cazador, but it still feels like he's going to. 

You tighten around him, and he knows you are about to come just as he is. He lets out a grunt and persists through a rapid pace before feeling your body jolt in pleasure. He soon follows after, head upon your shoulder as he shudders into his climax. 

The night is still young; why don't we go back to my place for more? 

Won't you come home with me? We need so much more time to get to know each other.

His next lines come too easily for him that it makes him sick.

A hand pulls at his cheek rather cheekily and Astarion finds himself coming back from the haze. He lifts his head to look at you, face relaxed from pleasure but still otherwise amused. 

Is it ridiculous to think that the sight of you makes him feel safe?

"That," you begin, "was crazy. Sex is like that, huh?" 

"Be welcomed to the land of the living, darling," Astarion says. "I fear you have been missing out on one of the finer parts of life."

"Well, it's not like I've never orgasmed before," you tell him, "but I guess it is pretty different with someone else." You sigh when Astarion removes himself from you. "Thank you for being so patient with me."

"No need to mention it, darling," he says, finding it easy to relax with the banter, "though I dare say it did not take very long for you to be prepared. Why, I'd even call that a record for getting as wet as you did-"

"Hey!" He avoids your playful slap with ease as you pout at him. "I... I have no comeback to that, except maybe you're welcome."

"I'm welcome? I should be the one saying that to you. I'm rather magical in bed, don't you think?"

"I don't know if your neck could support a head that big if I agree with you." You laugh, flipping your hair away again. For a moment, Astarion has the urge to take it upon himself to brush the stray strands from your face, but he does not. "By the way," you continue, "are you okay?"

Astarion blinks. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, you just seemed a little..." You stop before shaking your head. "No, never mind. You seemed a little far away but what would I know."

His heart lurches. "I had to make sure I didn't lose control," he says carefully. He clears his throat and goes for levity. "Who knows if your fragile, virgin body can handle it?"

Astarion is grateful you take the line for how it is, quick to come up with a haughty retort, the banter easy to fall back to. You are adamant on being sturdy enough and not one to waste a chance, he proposes a long night of lovemaking-- if only to cinch the deal with you. After all, he thinks as your legs close around his head, this is all part of his plan: seduce you and win your protection. Nothing more, nothing less.

He tries not to think how sex for once, as he nips playfully at your thigh, has been enjoyable. 

.

.

.

The sun wakes him up before anything else. It is unfamiliar to him, even at least a month beyond the time when his deathly aversion to sunlight has disappeared. The warmth of the morning rays, the light that dawn brings-- Astarion did not realize how much he had missed it until he had felt it again. 

He almost isn't sure if he can ever go back to never feeling it again.

He stands to bask in it fully, glancing over to his side to watch your sleeping figure for a moment. You are curled up in your own clothes-- and his shirt as well, he remembers, having a little play fight over it before you eventually let exhaustion take you. The ache in his body from last night is familiar at least, and he stares at you, waiting for the dread to come-- but it does not. 

How curious. Only good for his plans if everything is more palatable, of course, but it is... unexpected for him to feel so at ease. He decides not to question it, using this moment of strangely acquired peace to face the sun in its entirety.

Your voice filters in after many minutes, a little scratchy from slumber. "You awake already?" 

"It isn't exactly the break of dawn, dear," Astarion replies, and he shoots a glance back expecting your usual deadpan, but you are rubbing your eyes sleepily instead. A thought comes to mind that he has never seen you in your first waking moments: you are rather unguarded, movements leisurely and expression soft still. It's quite... cute. "I'm rather surprised you're awake. I thought you'd be exhausted from last night."

You let out a titter behind your hand at this. "Yeah, well, everything aches in different ways than a fight, so it's not too bad." You yawn. "Still sleepy though," you mumble, looking up at him through the gaps between your fingers as you block the sun from your eyes. 

"Say," you begin, and Astarion realizes belatedly that the reason you were looking so intently at him was because you saw his back. "Can I ask about those markings on your back? Are they scars?"

"A poem from my old master," he replies facetiously. "Or so I assume. He carved it all into my back in one night." His lips purse. "He made a lot of revisions."

"I'm sorry," he hears you say with sympathy in your voice, and he knows he must quickly move on from this topic. 

"It's fine," he says abruptly. "It doesn't matter now. I'm free and far from Baldur's Gate. And he'll never control me ever again."

"Good," you say, and he wonders if putting warmth into your words comes naturally to you.

"Yes, it is." He pauses. "May I have my shirt back? Not that I mind being half nude, by the way- if only to let everyone know exactly what went on last night."

"Don't even joke," you sputter, tossing his shirt- miraculously clean- to him. "I don't kiss and tell! And they'll definitely know, but not the details!”

.

.

.

In the morning glow, nothing much has changed. As predicted, the entire camp is in-the-know of whomever slept with who. Astarion is quick to inquire Lae'zel about her tryst with Wyll, only to find, to the mutual disappointment, that he spent most of the time talking about his feelings. Shadowheart, on the other hand, was more than happy to share her wine last night. 

"Shadowheart mates like she fights," Lae'zel says. "Precisely and aggressively."

"Which is a good thing, I assume."

"Immensely." Lae'zel pauses then in breaking down her tent to look at him intently, which, for the githyanki, is as terrifying as anything. "I see you and our paladin decided to explore each other's bodies last night."

"Why, yes, thank you for noticing. It was quite the exploration," he responds, opening his mouth to elaborate.

"I suppose even you have your charms," she tells him instead, and the conversation ends there.

(Astarion hopes to glean more conversation elsewhere to no luck. Your talk with Shadowheart this morning is brief ("Lae'zel, huh."/"Astarion."/"Yep."), and Karlach's put-out expression is enough to give sympathy and a wide berth. Astarion sees Gale gazing upon the visage of his goddess again and turns the other way.)

The camp dynamic stays strangely the same. It is to Astarion's benefit, for he was comfortable with how the way things were, though he is more generous with the pet names for you. Halsin joins the fray, and they make their way to the mountains upon Lae'zel's insistence. 

In the midst of adventure, Astarion finds that you seek his presence more often. His night invitation seemed to open an avenue up for you to be more comfortable in doing so. Astarion finds he doesn't mind it; your camaraderie is most enjoyable in the too quiet camp and as far as "seducing" goes, you are doing half the work for him. 

Your gaze holds some heat for him once in a while when the moon is high and the fire burns low, but you have not asked him for another night. He is neither pleased nor displeased at the notion, because your affections for him are as clear as day. He knows you would say yes in a heartbeat if he did propose another night together, but he rather likes the late-night conversations he often has with you, a type of intimacy that borders on his comfort zone-- exciting and enjoyable without the unnecessary reminders of his past. 

Still, he sometimes finds himself recalling his night with you fondly. It's strange: he's gotten on his back ten thousand times or more and forgotten half of them, but his time with you, he knows he will remember. 

Astarion puts the thoughts of "why" (why you? Why are you different? What makes you special?) behind him for now. A treasure hunt for the Blood of Lathander (as if you needed to shine even brighter), a stolen githyanki egg (Lae'zel keeps it safe in her backpack), and an escape from a créche later, Astarion is more than happy to find refuge in the underdark, which proves to be more beautiful than any of them could imagine.

Something makes him look over to you then, and he watches as you take in the sights with wonder in your eyes, the gentle darkness cradling your face in its dreamy blue glow.

[lxndonorris]

still got it - Mick Schumacher

Y/N x Mick Schumacher Theme: Smutish (teasing, touching) attending Mick's tire testing in Barcelona x word count: 2120+

When Mick learned that he wasn't going to have a seat for the upcoming season, the two of you were more than just disappointed. Haas in general wasn't the best fit for Mick, with a boss with a temper and the arguably worst car at the time, it was very hard for him to show his true potential. He was frustrated and tried his best to succeed, but it just wasn't meant to be. However, once he got the call from Mercedes, everything changed. Even though he won't have an active seat, staying in F1 even as a reserve driver, means the world to both of you. Now, it's time for Mick to hit the track again, because they allow him to do the tire tests in Barcelona. Of course, he asked you to join him in the paddock, and there was no way that you'd decline his request.

For over a week now, he was excited, a little nervous, and overall happy to finally fly around a circuit once more, even if it was just for tire testing. When it was time to leave for the day, Mick basically dragged you towards his bike. You held on tight, your hands hugging him tightly from behind while he got you to the track right on time. The two of you met up with a few team members, and they informed you, that all is prepared. Now, Mick just needs to suit up and they're set to go.

You're the first to enter the motorhome, with Mick staying a few steps behind. He's still chatting with his mechanics, while you walk through the trailer. Looking around, you instantly remember all the other times you joined him on race weekends, however, it's different this time. They really spared no expenses when preparing this for Mick's tire testing. It looks so comfy, beautifully decorated, and overall perfect. Then, you spot the most important thing, his racing suit. Folded in a neat pile, his black racing suit and fireproofs, lie on a shelf inside the wooden cupboard. You make your way toward them and feel the fabric between your fingers. "Feels good, doesn't it," Mick says, entering the room and walking toward you, a huge smile spreading across his entire face.

"It does." You smile as well and watch him approach you. He reaches for your waist, pulling you closer toward him, while both of you admire his new suit. Then, he turns his face back to yours and tilts his head. "Shall we begin?" He smirks, and you mirror his movements. "Ready when you are." You lick your lips quickly and he giggles. Turning around, you spot a comfy chair waiting for you to sit down, the perfect view for now. Excited, you watch Mick undressing. After he took his shoes off, the first to go is his pair of tight skinny jeans. They look so good on him, flattering his thighs perfectly, and once they're gone, his dark blue boxers are exposed.

You cannot help yourself but admire his package, with him filling those undies well. Of course, he notices you staring. "My eyes are up here." He pouts teasingly, drawing your attention back to his gorgeous eyes. "Don't blame me." You mouth silently, shaking your head, causing him to smirk. He licks his lower lip before he pulls at his black Mercedes shirt. A beautiful, tight shirt, again, made to flatter him. You are used to seeing him wear any team gear, as it's part of his job, and he loves to show off, knowing very well that those shirts are an absolute tease. Without much of a struggle, he takes it off, smirking at you again. Most of the time you forget how well-formed his body is, even through those tight shirts, making his pecs look big enough, but once you see his bare chest, you can't help but look at him, his body again, admiring his physique.

Confidently, he slowly walks up to you, running a hand through his nicely done hair, across his firm chest and even further down to his crotch, brushing over his length. "Like what you see?" He bites his lower lip and reaches for your hand. "Oh, yeah." You breathe deeply and take his invitation. Easily, he pulls you out of the chair and right into his arms. "Easy." You giggle, steadying yourself against his bare chest. "I'm just so excited." He pouts again, before leaning in to kiss you lovingly. "Me too." You say once you separate from him. "Then, what are we waiting for?" Stroking his firm chest, you motion towards his suit. With every move of your fingers, his skin is flushed with color, when he blushes.

"Are you ready?" He raises his eyebrows. "Born ready." You steal one more kiss before he separates himself from you, leaving you to sit down again. Enjoying the view of his ass as he strolls towards the cupboard, you take out your phone to take a few pictures of him getting dressed. Mick picks up the bottoms of the black fireproofs, turns around smiles. "Never had black ones before." His gaze shifts between you and the clothes when a shy smile forms on his soft lips. "They do look good though." You say comfortingly, and he nods. Without further ado, he slides into them, one leg at a time, and they fit perfectly like they were hand-made for him, and just him.

Mick looks down at himself and moves from side to side to have a good look at his lower half. "How does it fit?" You say, and he looks up at you, smirking. "Tight, but in a good way." He bites his lip, knowing very well that not only his excitement is growing bigger and bigger. "Mind if I?" You raise your phone, and he tilts his head again. "Fire away?" He chuckles shortly, and you start to take a few pictures. Mick looks so fine, and he makes sure to pose for this photoshoot, showing off. Both of you giggle while he picks up the top half, and after exchanging teasing looks, he puts it on. You watch his skin vanish behind the black, thin fabric, as he slides into it, again, one arm at a time, before his head pops out of it, with a soft groan.

"Fuck." He breathes deeply, pulling down his top, flattening it with both of his hands. Subconsciously, he keeps stroking his own chest, and his nipples with one hand, while he walks over toward a mirror. "I do look so good." He lets out a soft groan before he turns back around to face you. Nodding contently, you motion for him to come closer again, and he puts on a show. Mick knows how good he looks right now, and he is not afraid to show off. This time, he doesn't need to pull you out of the chair, you get up, embracing his hands on your waist. "You're my beautiful man." You say, again steadying yourself against his chest, but this time, you enjoy the feeling of fabric underneath your fingertips as you run them across his chest, enjoying the feeling of his whole body slowly but steadily tensing more and more.

"Thank you." He blushes again before his attention is drawn to your fingers drawing circles across his pecs. To tease him a little more, your other hand finds its way to his chest, and you feel him, his tits firmly. Mick starts to purr happily, and he watches you stroke him again and again, this time, down his upper body, to his firm abs, his waist, and even further down to his crotch. Lifting your chin slightly, your hands brush over the tent forming inside his underwear, and he lets out a low moan. Mick raises his head now too, and your eyes meet again. "Naughty." He hisses, with his beautiful eyes shining brightly, the fire of excitement burning behind them. "I know you like that." You hiss back at him, as he starts to grind on your hand, narrowing his eyes.

"I think your way too overdressed." He looks down at your outfit, as he starts to tug at your shirt. Giggling, you place a hand on his chin, making him look into your eyes again. "I think we have to do that later." You look at his suit still lying on the shelf, and he follows your gaze. "Fuck, you're right." He looks back at you, leaning in for a loving, passionate kiss. Then, Mick separates himself again and walks towards the cupboard. "Wait, photos!" You say quickly, and he turns around again, striking a pose instantly. With his hands steadied at his hips, he goes through a different set of poses, the ones the drivers would have to do for F1 marketing material.

Mick looks so good in those tight fireproofs, his well-formed body testing the limits of the fabric teasingly. His whole body is growing in anticipation of the upcoming day, and so does yours. Even though you've seen him dress up more than a dozen times, this feels different, a new chapter of a promising journey. Lost in your thoughts, you nearly missed him putting his black racing suit on, when he does a little jump, so his legs slip inside the lower half. You've really missed the sight of him wearing those suits, and this makes you smile even brighter.

Once he lifts his head to look at you, you know he feels the same. His smile covers his whole face, his eyes shine brightly, and the suit fits perfectly as well. "I love that feeling." He says, his voice shaking slightly, as he looks down at himself again, running his hands across his chest, brushing over his crotch to his thighs and back to his waist. Now you make your way toward him, and he embraces your hands on his body now. "Damn, babé." You say, feeling his chest again. This time, it's even harder than before, as he starts to flex. "My beautiful, beautiful man." You say, running a hand across his chest, to his shoulder, and along his arm. Mick, teasingly, flexes his biceps, his muscles bulging against the thin fireproofs.

"So good." He groans again, and you look at him, smirking. "That good, huh?" Your hands encompass his entire upper body, much to his satisfaction. Mick loves being touched by you this way, and his whole body starts vibrating once he starts to hum happily. Leaning in again, you place a soft kiss right on his lips, while you feel his hands now all over your body, your neck, your chest, and waist. You easily pick up his rhythm, and the two of you move in unison, both of you, purring. Just then, a knock on the door snaps you out of this moment. "Eh, come in," Mick says quickly, trying to stop his face from blushing heavily.

A young woman enters the room and spots the two of you standing right next to each other. "You're already dressed, very good." She smiles, motioning to his suit. "Of course," Mick says nervously, and you exchange knowing looks. "You're down in 10, okay?" She says contently before she walks towards the door again. "We will be there." Mick smiles back at her and you watch her leave. For a moment, you stand there, before you share a quick laugh. "Shall we go then?" Mick turns to you, smiling. "Sounds good." You look at the phone in your hands. "Wait, a few more pics?" Pouting pleadingly, you try your best to persuade him, but that isn't even necessary.

Mick nods, and you take a few more pictures. He moves his body, to show off his butt, his firm chest, his big arms, and thighs. As you take a dozen pictures, he puts the upper half of the suit on as well. He closes the zipper, buttons up the collar, and reaches for your hand. One last time you place a hand on his chest, touching him lovingly. "I really missed this." Mick frowns, looking down at himself again, reminiscing of his time on the active grid. "You'll come back soon. I'm sure." You say comfortingly, rubbing his back. Nodding, he looks at you again, before kissing you.

Together, you walk towards his garage, where his Mercedes is already waiting for him. He walks along the car, running a finger along the outlines of the 47 on the front. You watch him getting ready and inside the car, being proud of him. It will indeed be tough to get back into F1, but as other people have done it before, nothing is impossible, for someone with his talent.

[kiestrokes]

Anti-Hero | NSFW

Pairing: Kim Namjoon x Reader/You/Yn Rating: NSFW! Mature (18+) Minors DNI. Word Count: 1816 Genre: smut, porn without plot, established relationship, one-shot. Warnings: camping, bf/gf dynamics, use of the Joon's favorite word; baby. 

Sexually Explicit Content: orgasm control, intercourse (penis in vagina), camping sex, soft dom if you squint really hard, edging, morning sex, semi-public sex.

Summary: You and your partner, Kim Namjoon are off in the woods on a secluded autumnal camping trip. The morning temperatures are frigid, but that doesn't stop Namjoon from stripping you down and warming you up.

🗝️ Note: the first repost😬Which wouldn't have happened if I hadn't asked @chans-room ily bby, thank you for being the best drift partner 🖤 Happy Joonie day!

Disclaimers: This is a work of fiction; I do not own any of the idols depicted in this story. 

Read it on Ao3!

In the midst of your dream, you’re roused by the feel of large hands, hands that don’t belong to you slipping over your bare stomach.

“Joon?” Groggily you turn in your partner's arms so that your back is on the soft mat of the tent floor.

“Baby, I need you.” Namjoon breathes low, in his morning baritone. Pressing your body back into his, the erection he’s sporting despite the frigid October temperature seeking the cleft of your ass.

You know what that means and whine, “Joonie it’s too cold.”

He lets out a huff of laughter already moving around beneath the covers to slot himself between your legs. You gasp out from the shuffle of cold air and his clothed arousal pressing firmly into your core.

Namjoon looks down at your now, disgruntled face, affectionately. Blankets wrapped across his shoulders like a cape, hovering above you like some sexual superhero. Hands slipping to your face as he leans down to brush a kiss against your lips.

“You’ll warm up quickly, I promise.” He whispers into your ear, teeth nibbling the top of its curve before swirling his tongue inside.

A motion he knows makes your nipples instantly hard. You can’t push him away now, and morning sex is your favorite. Combined with the nips and kisses he’s now laying across your neck and collarbone you’re already warming up to the idea.

With a pleased sigh your hands tangle themselves in his thick hair, tugging with enough force that he understands you want his lips back on yours. Tongue ready to greet his, Namjoon melts into your mouth with a groan. His hips rutting into your pelvis and hands seeking your breasts under the many layers of clothing.

“Baby, I need your pants off now.” Namjoon breaks the kiss, panting into your neck. He begins placing some firm kisses across the column of your throat, before sitting back on his calves to survey you with darkened eyes. “I just need to feel my skin on yours.” He groans, a large hand stroking up your bare stomach again. Before his fingers curl around the waistband of his sweats and begin to slide them down his toned thighs.

Your eyes follow the movement, his thighs were arguably your favorite physical asset of his. Namjoon’s ears tint at the tips under your blatant stare. It didn’t matter how many times the two of you were together intimately, he couldn’t get over your very obvious, non-verbal praise of his body. The way you stared at his body with parted lips, how your legs opened up to him subtly, and the way your pupils engulfed the beautiful color of your irises. His favorite part, was the shameless smile you just assaulted him with when you caught him watching you admire him.

“Baby,” Namjoon groaned a hand moving to tug himself free as he leaned down to kiss your lips. Giving his length a few pumps, knuckles grazing your stomach at the movement. “If you don’t take your pants off, I’m going to rip them off.”

“Okay! Okay.” You let out a huff of laughter tinged with sexual frustration.

You start to tug your fleece-lined leggings off but are instantly met with some difficulty, Namjoon is quick to assist his dimples deepening into a smile. He pulls the leggings and socks free from their hang-up on your ankles, tossing them against the tent wall with the same urgency. His hands come up to spread your knees open with a low moan, causing your lips to spread into an inscrutable smile at his feral praise. Your hips bow suddenly when he dips two fingers inside your heat to find you already dripping with arousal.

“Someone’s a liar.” He raises one eyebrow at you, lips parted and tongue teasing you behind his teeth.

“I wasn’t lying! Just cold.” You rub at the goosebumps that have erupted on your thighs for emphasis.

Namjoon runs a large, warm hand up the outside of your thigh as he settles into you. Gasping out at the weight of him heavy between your hips. You roll your hips into him just slightly, hoping to catch his erection at your entrance. Namjoon’s jaw clenches at your movement, head turning to the side and eyes pinching shut. “Baby.” He warns. Mentally restraining himself not to ram into you, as he had been waiting for you to wake up for the last hour.

“Joon.” You beg, fingertips biting at his bare back under his loose sweatshirt to bring him closer. He nuzzles into your neck, forever a mix of soft affection trapped inside one giant body.

“You don’t want a little more foreplay?” Namjoon rasps, as his teeth recapture your earlobe.

“Joonie, you can kiss my neck while you fuck me.” You whine, hips rubbing into his restlessly.

Namjoon growls, before shifting his hips to line his erection up against your plush core. You roll your hips up to meet him, his eyes pop up to yours as he enters you slowly but fully. Watching one another's faces for a mirrored reaction of parted lips and hooded eyes as he sank completely into you. His hips established a slow, but steady rhythm right away.

“Fuck.” Your cheeks warm, as your entire body begins to heat up.

Namjoon slants his eyes at you, his large body pressing into yours again and again. Pushing soft grunts and moans out of you as his toned hips pump forward at a taunting pace. His long arms braced beside your hips to keep the angle agonizingly deep.

“Joonie!” You cry softly as he strokes the sensitive membranes at the front wall of your cunt greedily.

Namjoon huffs a smirk at your reactions, lowering himself entirely onto your body, his arms slipping underneath your shoulders.

“Namjoon.” You breathe warmly gathering him to you for a kiss as his strokes lengthen to an almost languid pace, touching all of your insides firmly.

He hums low into the back of your throat as your sheath tightens around his dick, and you take the opportunity to suck his tongue into your mouth. Namjoon’s body shudders at your motion, feeling the tug on his tongue shooting arousal straight to his balls. He breaks the kiss with a loud moan, eyes glaring into your mischievous ones.

“I should have never told you what that does to me.” He grumbled as he rammed into you suddenly, holding himself firmly at your entrance, your body squeezing him in protest. You gasped out, nails biting into his arms as he utilized your weakness against you. The way the thickened base of his cock spread you open deliciously and the pressure of his hold began activating your deepest climax. “That’s it, baby, take all of me.” Namjoon breathed, as he regarded you with slanted eyes, delicately pressing harder into you.

“Fuck!” You slapped a hand over your mouth, your body whipping briefly against the mat as your muscles began to coil on themselves. “Want me to move?” Namjoon asked, softening.

Your fucked out gazed met his, “Fuck me Joonie.”

He let out a groan before snapping his hips out and quickly back in, earning a half-vocalized scream from you.

“Namjoon,” You whimpered, hands moving to cup his bare ass.

“Ah, fuck baby! See what you do to me?” Namjoon huffed, slamming tirelessly into you. Dark strands of hair started to stick on his dampening forehead.

“Ohhh! Fuck-k.” You stuttered out as the tension between your hips began to build quicker than before.

“Not yet, baby.” Namjoon switched up his thrusting, sinking back onto his knees to swirl his hips stomach clenching circles that sent your head lolling back into the pillow. “Look at me, baby.”

Eyebrows pinched together in pleasure you lifted your head, lips parting at the sight of his hips rolling between your thighs. He knew what he did to you, exactly how to manipulate your body to give you both the highest range of pleasure and you couldn’t complain.

“Take your shirt off.” You bit out between labored breaths. Namjoon shot you his wide, dimpled grin before tugging his sweatshirt and undershirt off collectively by the collar. “Oh, just look at you.” You moaned, hands seeking purchase on the swells of his chest.

Namjoon let out a raspy laugh as he began thrusting into you again, “they’re all yours baby, I’m all yours.”

“All mine.” You moaned as a particular thrust earned Namjoon a burst of arousal from your cervix. Giving his pecs a squeeze you began to quicken the rock of your hips in hopes of Namjoon matching your pace, chasing the high that was just out of reach.

“Baby.” Namjoon moans as you squirm beneath him, the extra wetness nearly sending him over.

“Ahh fuck, Joona. So close already.” You bite your lip as your insides start to seize.

“Oooh, not yet.” Namjoon’s head whips to the side again and you hear him take a deep inhale through his nose in an attempt to ward off his own orgasm.

“Joonie!” Your hips buck desperately into his as you threaten to spill over.

“Fuck it.” Namjoon lets loose, in a way he has only done a handful of times out of fear of hurting you. His powerful body working into yours vigorously.

“Joon!” You cannot hold back any longer and your body succumbs to pleasure-racked tremors, incoherent cries falling from your lips. “Oh fuck, I’m -ahhh.”

“God-” he thrusts in entirely, filling you up with a mind-bursting stretch and retreating with a swirl of his hips “fucking-” another thrust “damn!” Namjoon’s hips still on his final moan as he empties into you, the aftershocks of your orgasm squeezing his pulsing cock through it.

You let out an enamored laugh as he crumbles into you, hands rubbing up his damp back as the slick on his chest dampens the front of your sweatshirt.

“That was a hell of a good morning, Namjoona.” You sigh deeply, every corner of your body warmed and malleable in its post-climax glow.

His head lazily raises to meet your eyes, “I’d say that is the only way you should be woken up in the morning.”

With a laugh, you pull his lips to yours for a deep kiss.

"What are you laughing about?" His voice vibrates against your lips, as you feel his pinching up in a smirk.

"You looked like a superhero with the blankets wrapped around your shoulders when you first woke me." Your eyes gaze into his warmly.

He quirked a single brow at you, "I'd say I am definitely the anti-hero of this story, baby." You let out a squeal as he buries his stubbled chin into the sensitive spot of your neck. Recapturing his lips with an echoed moan as you both feel him shift inside of you, stiffening for round two.

"You can be my anti-hero any day, Kim Namjoon."

© COPYRIGHT 2022 - 2023 by kiestrokes All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be reproduced without written permission from the author. This includes translations.

[helliontherapscallion]

Why Couldn’t it Have Been Me?

Part 2

Paring: Wilbur Soot x reader (past), Ghostbur x reader

Disclaimer: This contains major spoilers for Tommyinnit’s 4/29 lore stream

Warnings: swearing, violence, death, near death, cheating, 4/29 lore stream, grief, blood, injury, panic attack

Word count: 6,737

(A/N): So in this, you’re Schlatt’s twin and Puffy’s your older sister. Also, sorry for any mistakes, I typed a good 2/3 of this on my phone

This was your own personal hell: being trapped within cement walls with your ex fiance, your asshole of a brother, and a Dream wannabe that seemed to never lose any energy. Your life was like a trope in a novel alive you would’ve liked, however being cursed to live in it made you absolutely loathe any and all mention of it. 

Alive you would’ve killed to hang out with your brother again, not the one that turned to the bottle. Alive you would’ve craved the sweet melodies that streamed from Wilbur’s mouth. You would’ve swooned and maybe, just maybe, you would’ve forgiven him. Alive you would’ve perhaps liked this ‘Mexican Dream’ guy, you would’ve perhaps become the best of friends. 

However you despised the three locked up with you with your whole heart. 

Your ex fiance was someone you adored. Hell, you even idolized him when you were alive. The Wilbur you knew was sweet, loving, attentive, and just all around someone that you swooned over. You could still remember how your heart exploded when he first asked you out under the setting sun by the ocean. You remembered every song he's written for you, every word and rhythm by heart, even after all these years. 

You remembered how you felt your heart completely shatter when you found the songs he had in his drafts for someone that wasn't you. Someone by the name of 'Sally'. After a heated argument you had broken up with him, taking the engagement ring off from your finger and throwing it deep into the ocean. You stayed on L'Manberg's side even after all that, too loyal and proud towards the country you helped forge to drop it. You wouldn't let some stupid boy or rabid tyrants prevent you from raising your beautiful nation up from the ashes.

That had been your downfall. You should've listened to Puffy and left the country behind when you had the chance, now you paid the ultimate price for your deep rooted loyalty and devotion towards independence. And your sacrifice didn't even matter in the end! Your deranged ex blew it all to smithereens. If you didn't despise him before, you absolutely did after your dumbass twin told you about his little 'escapades' while you were gone.

Every little thing Wilbur did, no matter how small it was, made you hate him even more. Every time he would shuffle those damned cards, it made you want to rip them to shreds and throw them across the train tracks. Every time he would sing or even breathe, you wanted to strangle him. You were absolutely certain that Schlatt felt the same. 

Oh, your twin was a real card. Always boasting about how his horns were bigger than yours (who even cares anymore? Yours grew in first anyways), telling the others about your shortcomings through crude jokes, even going as far as fighting you through headbutting; you could still feel the pain of being beaten to death before respawning immediately. Schlatt hadn’t known that you respawn even in the afterlife, so you knew he was serious about killing you. You just wanted Puffy, she was far more tolerable than your twin. 

The rustling of his suit jacket and his small grunts and pants resonated within the walls as he did various forms of exercising. You now knew about all of the differing variations of a pushup and you hated yourself for listening to his explanations. He would beg you, Mexican Dream, and Wilbur to stand on his back while he did his endless routines. The only one to readily take him up on that offer was Mexican Dream.

That man was arguably the only one you slightly tolerated, and you said that very lightly. He was still annoying as all hell, but he was a new face. Well, one that you didn’t know well enough to have a grudge against while you were alive. It was slightly refreshing, in a sense. When he first got here, his songs, stories, and humor gave you a nice break away from Wilbur’s depressing songs and Schlatt’s crude jokes. However when you spend eleven years trapped in a cage with one person, everything they do becomes the bane of your existence. 

You were running out of things that kept you sane in this dump. You've read the same novel, counted the same ceiling and floor tiles (32 ceiling tiles and 57 floor tiles exactly), traced the same cracks in the walls, temporarily killing the same cellmates, you've done anything and everything that this cesspool had to offer. You've done everything billions of times over, a never ending cycle of monotony. 

Tommy joining your group of miserable has-beens was perhaps the highlight of your fifteen, almost sixteen, years spent in this shithole. Though he finally dropped the brave facade and showed just how broken down he was after everything he’s been through, having him around was the saving grace to your sanity. He told you how your sister was, how your nephews were, and most importantly what you missed. You knew about all of the events leading up to Mexican Dream's death, but you were left in the dark with everything past that. Ender, you missed so much since you died; It baffled you how much you missed. 

When the train actually stopped at your cell instead of just passing by and it's doors opened, you were just expecting another poor soul to be dropped off here. You could imagine everybody's surprise when none other than Dream stepped out of those doors. The nephew that had betrayed you without a second thought, that had murdered you, that had your severed head displayed on his mantle (you weren't sure the truth of that last statement, Tommy has a habit of over exaggerating. Though, Schlatt did say that your body was found with a missing head when you first forced him to tell you what you missed). Tommy talked to you about how he died only once, so you knew just what your nephew has been up to. It infuriated you knowing that your adult nephew was manipulating and abusing this young teenager.

While you were releasing your pent up frustrations on the masked man, he merely brushed past you and drug Tommy into the train by the arm. You could remember Wilbur banging on the doors begging for Dream to return his little brother and his angered screams echoing down the railways as the train sped off back towards the land of the living. 

Lucky Tommy, he got to live out the rest of his life and actually age. You and your crew of intolerable jesters were stuck together once again. 

Everybody was silent for a few months, reeling at the newly discovered fact that Dream could actually resurrect people. During those three months, they were quiet and tolerable. In a way, the talks that came out of it was like one of those family therapy sessions your older sister would hold in the living room (you remembered how she would grab you and Schlatt by the horns if either one of you refused to go). You would kill to attend one of those therapy sessions again, and this is the closest you were going to get to it. 

You all talked about the things you regretted most while you were alive. Mexican Dream's was that he didn't protect his girlfriend Mamacita well enough. Schlatt's was choosing alcohol and power over his family (tears were especially shed over Tubbo, he really did regret abandoning him to be raised by you). Yours was that you were too loyal to a cause that would be absolutely decimated a short while after you sacrificed everything for it. Surprisingly, Wilbur's was that he had hurt you.

He had begged and groveled for forgiveness, telling you that he just didn't feel that special connection with you anymore. That didn't take away from the fact that he was seeing another while you two were still dating and that he blew up your life's work. He had stolen everything from you, and you would never forgive him for that. 

After you made your thoughts on him completely clear, he had started treating you like you treated him in the last few months. Tension was building up between you two that had laid dormant for thirteen and a half years like a rope pulled taut about to snap.

Everybody had slowly returned to their annoying selves slowly but surely. Schlatt resumed his workout routine, Mexican Dream had started loudly singing and ranting about Mamacita's everlasting beauty again, and Wilbur eventually started up his solitaire and songwriting once again.

The three of them made you want to rip off your twisting horns and shove them in your ears in hopes of muffling them, but you knew that whomever put you here would restore your hearing and make your horns regrow. You knew that first hand after you spent a couple of years alone in this hellhole; breaking your horns off by repeatedly banging your head against the dull stone walls in a manic state was never fun. The regeneration of the keratin only slightly stung, it was like you were a kid and they were growing in for the first time again. 

You felt your eye twitch as Wilbur sang about that damned train for the umpteenth time since he arrived. It’s always ‘train this' and ‘train that' and quite frankly you were sick of it. You were sick of him. 

“Shut the fuck up about that damned train,” Schlatt seethed. You never once thought you would ever agree with your twin, but here you were nodding in agreement and shooting a glare at Wilbur’s direction. The brunet merely stopped his singing and reshuffled his cards, the sound making an ugly cacophony and grating at your ears. 

“Not my fault you two don’t want to talk to me. I’m just making due with what I’ve been given.” He dealt the cards out in piles and started yet another game of solitaire. Seriously, how many games of solitaire can one play before they lose it? You supposed that you’d find out soon, Wilbur has been playing that monotonous card game nonstop for thirteen and a half years.

“Yeah, let the hombre chill! I like his music.” The masked man reached up to stroke his goatee, the scratching sound further penetrating your focus on your book. 

Everything was quiet before Mexican Dream's voice pierced it, "hey, did I ever tell you guys how beautiful my Mamacita was?"

"You told us millions of times, fuckface. You narrate entire love letters daily, so how could we not know how 'beautiful' she was?" You complained, not once looking up from your book. Schlatt snorted to himself and returned to his workout. Mexican Dream crossed his arms in anger, cursing you out under his breath. Wilbur merely glanced at you and rolled his eyes. "You know, I'm tired of your bitchy attitude. Let him talk about Mamacita, it's not his fault every time you think you love someone it fails." 

Your grip on your book tightened impossibly. If it were physically possible, the book would be crumbling to dust in your voice grip. You practically see red as you slowly dog-eared the worn page you were on and put your book down. 

"Oh shit," you heard Schlatt mumble and move away from you, Mexican Dream following suit. When you both were alive, your anger was always something you knew Schlatt feared. However, you knew that he's never seen you this angry; nobody has. The majority of what you've been holding in for almost fourteen years is about to be unleashed. 

"You know what I'm sick of, Wilbur?"

"Oh, do enlighten us."

"I'm sick of each and every single one of you. You three have been absolutely intolerable ever since you arrived. I was doing just fine alone and the universe just had to fuck everything up for me, just like it always does."

"There you go again," Wilbur laughed sardonically, "making everything about yourself." He gathered his cards and shuffled them repeatedly. 

"I make everything about myself?! Do you even hear yourself? Mr. Oh-I'm-such-a-disappointment-to-Philza, you wallow in self pity twenty-four seven! You fucking write every single song about yourself!”

"I didn't want to come here, okay?! I didn't think it was gonna be like this! God, I might as well be in hell with you here." 

"Believe me, my hell started fourteen years ago when you guys started showing up," you growled out, your ears flattening to the sides of your skull.

"Have you ever stopped to think that you're our hell? All you've done since we came here was complain and be a massive douche to all of us." He fluttered through the deck more and more as the argument escalated, the noise making you want to scream until you tasted blood.

"I'm the one that's in the wrong here? You fucked up my entire life. He," you pointed at Schlatt, "keeps beating me to death. And he," you jutted your chin towards Mexican Dream, "never shuts the hell up… Would you stop with that damn deck?! You're literally so fucking annoying." 

He narrowed his eyes, "make me."

A mixture of an animalistic growl and a guttural scream left your lips as you charged at him, your head tilted downwards so he could feel the brunt of your horns. He moved out of the way just in time, the side of your horn brushing against his arm. You crashed head first into the stone wall before you stabilized yourself and looked at the brunet with seething hatred. 

He was staring at you in shock, "how're you-" You used his shock to your advantage, throwing a right hook at his face. His head whipped to the side and his body followed, sending him to the ground in a heap.

"How am I still conscious? I'm a ram hybrid, dumbass. What'd you expect?" You huffed angrily before you pried the cards out of his hand and stalked over to the tracks. 

He scrambled up to stop you, but before he could even reach you, you held the deck over the tracks and looked down at him. You could just imagine how your horizontal pupils were blazing with fury. 

You reveled in the betrayal and animosity gleaming in his eyes as you dangled the thing he held dearest in this hell over the railroads. If you were to drop them, he'd never be able to see them again.

"We promised not to touch belongings on our first day here!" He yelled at you, his hands wrung in front of him nervously hiding the slight tremor. "Our first day here?" You scoffed, "the last time I checked, I was here for two years before any of you showed up." You gestured around the room in one angry swipe, the cards slipping slightly with how sweaty your hands were. It was then that you saw the fear in Schlatt's eyes. Good, that bastard should be scared of you. "If anything, you all are in my domain."

Wilbur flinched at the sight of the cards slowly slipping out of your hand, his breath hitching and panic stricken across his features. Mexican Dream stood up from his place and put his hands up. He was slowly approaching you like you were a cornered wild animal, making sure that you saw his every move. 

He nervously chuckled, "let's just put the cards down and have a nice talk. Doesn't that sound better than this, mi amigo?"

You shook the cards once again, taking in Wilbur's silent anguish with glee. "I'm not your friend, I'm anything but. Don't tell me what to fucking do or else that picture of Mamacita is the next to go."

"...Okay, you're in charge, man. Do what you want." He reluctantly sat back down next to Schlatt. The ram was watching in fear, yet it looked like he was entertained with what was happening. You couldn't blame him, the last interesting thing that happened was three full months ago when Tommy was taken. That and you probably looked feral at the moment.

"You understand that if you drop those, they're lost forever right?"

You threw your head back and laughed, "of course I know, why do you think I only have one sock? I already tried that shit out before you came." You hummed to yourself in thought, then grinned. Wilbur was going to love this.

While you shuffled the deck, you kept a close eye on the movement happening inside the cell. Another perk to being a ram hybrid was that you had a nearly 360 degree scope of everything around you. The only movement happening was the panicked breaths from Wilbur, good. You huffed in amusement, "alright Wilbur, let's do a card trick. I'd ask you to pick a card, any card, but I don't want to risk you fucking shit up again. So, I'm just going to draw for you." You drew a card from the middle of the deck and showed it to him. "The eight of clubs, how fitting." 

"(Y/n), I don't know what you're getting at, but if you don't give me those cards right now-"

"Shut it, I'm not done. I'm going to shuffle this back into the deck, watch the hands." You kept eye contact with him as you shuffled the cards rigorously, the card you pulled long since hidden with the slight of a hand. After a bit of shuffling and reshuffling, you had sneakily put the card between the two halves and bridged them until the cards were in one pile with the eight of clubs on top. 

You chuckled and pulled the top card, once again showing it to him. "Is this your card?"

He nodded slightly, never once taking his eyes off from the deck. "Yes, now give it back to me!" The angry and anxious undertones were like music to your ears.

You tapped your chin in thought, "hm, I don't think I will. You've taken so much from me, it's only fair that I get some revenge." Without another word, you threw the cards behind your head and smiled widely at the sound of the fluttering down to the tracks. 

Wilbur launched himself forward with a frantic yell, his hands flailing to catch all of the cards before they were lost forever. He only succeeded in catching a few. 

His breath shuddered as he stared at the three cards in his hand: the five of diamonds, the four of spades, and the seven of hearts. The fate of the universe was on your side for once, perhaps preternaturally so. 

"You- do you realize what you just did?!" He spun around to face you. If humans could froth at the mouth, a full waterfall would be streaming through his gritted teeth. His eyes held the rage of a man that had just lost everything in one singular instant, the resentment swirling in his dark brown orbs. Several veins were bulging in his face and neck, painting the skin in a red hue.

You walked over to your book and plopped yourself down. "Yeah," you said with a nonchalant shrug of your shoulders. You opened up your book and started reading it again, leaving the man to his grief. 

Everything was quiet once more much to your delight. Though you read this book from cover to cover thousands of times, enough to know most of the words by heart, you were never able to fully enjoy and immerse yourself in it with them around. You took this time to reclaim your designated corner and spend some quality time reading. 

You spent hours with your nose buried deep in your book, savoring the peace. That was until it was snatched out of your hands and ripped away from you. You looked up in slight shock at the sight of Wilbur snapping it shut and walking over to the tracks. 

No. No. Nononono he can’t. That was the only thing keeping you sane. He can't just get rid of it when he's done so much towards you when you were alive. 

A wail left your mouth as you tackled him to the ground, your arms wrapped around his midsection. He crashed to the ground with a grunt, his forehead smacking against the painted yellow stone. You straddled his back and ripped the book away from him, throwing it across the room and away from the tracks. 

You grabbed a fist full of his hair after yanking off his beanie and tossing it into oblivion with his precious cards. You pulled his head up and leaned close to his ear, "you try that shit again and your hat and cards won't be the only things lost to the void." Venom was seeping through your every word, "do you understand me?" 

He merely jerked his head to the side, colliding it with your nose and mouth. You shouted in surprise and let him go in favor of holding your aching nose. You could feel the warmth of the blood pouring from it. Through teary eyes, you looked up at Wilbur as he grabbed your book and flung it against the wall of the opposite side of the tracks. You scampered to the edge and watched in horror as it disappeared into the void. 

Without warning, you were forced to the ground, a hand holding you by a horn and a knee between your shoulder blades. You struggled before a dark chuckle was heard, "if you keep moving, you'll slip! Do you really want that?" You begrudgingly stopped, realizing that he had all the power in this situation. If he wanted to, he could just slide you off from the platform and toss you away like throwing a piece of paper into the trash.

"Good, you're not as stupid as you were earlier today." He slid you forward, holding your upper body over the tracks by the horn. You came face to face with the swirling abyss that was the void, small shapes appearing from your eyes adjusting to the sudden lack of visual stimulant. Your breathing picked up as he lowered you slightly, "you don't wanna do this." 

"No, I do. Thirteen and a half years of having to be around you was hell, but the shit you pulled today just put the icing on the cake. Do you have any last words before you go?"

You grunted as he shook your head slightly, a slight pain coming from the base of your horn. "Fuck you." 

"How appropriate, now let's see if you'll come back this time. It'll be our fun little science experiment!"

He dropped your horn without a care in the world, sending you plummeting to your demise. A terrified scream ripped it's way out of your throat and you screwed your eyes tightly shut in preparation for the void. Your body came to a jerking halt as you held your breath, preparing for… whatever awaited you. However, nothing came.

You cracked open an eye only to be met with the uncanny inkyness, the invisible mist freezing your face and its frostbitten arms opened wide for you. But you never fell into its embrace. 

Instead, you were pulled back onto the platform. You laid on your stomach with your horn supporting your head staring at the wall, tracing every single nook and cranny of the bricks. Your chest heaved as you greedily gasped for air. You never thought you'd be so relieved to see the cement walls you've been trapped in for over a decade and a half.

You were once again pulled up into a now sitting position and leaned against the wall, your back touching the cool cement. Across from you, you saw Mexican Dream pinning a struggling Wilbur down to the floor. Wilbur's crazed eyes met you, piercing through your very being. However, that didn't affect you in the slightest; you almost were just wiped from existence completely, you stared into the abyss and it stared back at you.

You felt… strange, to say the least. While icy fear and adrenaline coursed through your veins, you felt warmth blossoming in you at the same time. It was like the void was an actual person, politely giving you some form of relief from the hell you've been subjected to for over a decade and a half. It was so welcoming, not terrifying like you initially thought it was. When your fingertips grazed its surface it felt freezing to the touch, yet you felt the staticky power it was showing you. In that split moment of touching it, you had already accepted the power it held over you. 

A hand softly slapped your cheek, "c'mon, (y/n). Talk to me." Your eyes drifted lazily to your twin. He was extremely pale, his eyes frantically searching your face for any sign of responsiveness. When you looked at him, he visibly relaxed. "It was so… so beautiful, Schlatt."

"Yeah, what the actual fuck did you just say? You almost just- just died for good dumbass." He looked at you incredulously, you could just see the cogs in his brain working hard to process what the hell he was seeing. 

You looked back at Wilbur, he had stopped struggling slightly and was instead looking at you with a hint of confusion shining through the crazed daze. Mexican Dream tilted his head, the mask skewing slightly to the side of his face. "Thank you, Wilbur. You've shown me that there's… there's more to this hellhole than suffering. There's beauty in the darkness." His struggling had come to a complete halt, now staring at you with the most confusion you've ever seen from him. You also saw a very small hint of fear from deep within his irises.

A calloused hand gripped your chin and forced you to look back at your twin. "What are you on," he hissed lowly, "the stuff that's comin outta your mouth right now is actually batshit insane. He almost just permanently murked you and you're fucking thanking him." 

"I haven't felt this at ease in nearly two decades. I feel ethereal, Schlatt, and it's all thanks to him." You let your eyes drift over to Wilbur. Giving him a content smile, you nodded your thanks at him.

The next few days went by tensely for the others, eyeing your every move and keeping you away from the ledge. You had only peered over the ledge once since then, it was just so alluring to you. It was nothing, yet everything at the same time. Mexican Dream had pulled you back to the opposite end of the room by your horns. The part that disturbed the three men was that you said absolutely nothing about it. You didn't even struggle against it, you just laid limp and let it happen. 

With each passing second you spent away from the void, the feeling of utter peace was rapidly draining from your body; instead being replaced by icy fear, paranoia, and the realization that you were almost completely swallowed whole by the void. 

After coming back to your senses, you didn't allow anybody near you. Your instincts going haywire and screaming that they were going to hurt you if they came close. The last time Schlatt tried touching you, you damn near took his finger off. They didn't bother trying to approach you anymore, instead glancing at you from the corners of their eyes. Wilbur was perhaps the one you feared the most, you knew that if he didn't hesitate to toss you away the first time, he would surely do it a second time. He spent most of his time staring at you, you didn't know if he was zoned out or not.

Everybody was against you, you knew it. You just knew it. They were plotting to toss you back into the void. That thing- or was it an entity? Whatever it was held a power over you that you didn't know was possible. That trance that it put you in, the craving you felt, was something that was repeating like a broken record in your mind. You could still feel the void calling out to you, it was terrifying. 

You spent most of the time huddled in your corner staring at the fingers that had grazed the textured nothingness. You could still feel the buzzing and popping of the power on your fingertips, that inky residue staining your skin wouldn't come off. No matter how hard you scrubbed, scratched, or scraped, it would not leave your body. It was freezing.

The oncoming train screeching to a gradual stop was perhaps the only thing you fully acknowledged outside of your safety bubble in days. You watched in shock as it stopped at the platform. The doors opened with a fwoosh, fog pouring out onto the smooth stone floors. 

Out stepped Dream, the smile etched into his cracked mask sent chills to your core. Next to him was… was another Wilbur? How in the name of Ender was that even possible? 

This Wilbur was different though. This one was desaturated. This one didn't have an insane glint in his eyes, this one had grief shimmering in the tears that steamed on his cheeks. This one was broken compared to the well established man against the wall. This one was defenseless. 

Dream shoved him to the center of the room, the man falling to his hands and knees. Sobs escaped his mouth as steam left his skin and drifted along the sides of his face before dissolving into the air. 

"Got a new plaything for you guys, this one isn't as… fun as Wilbur is though." Dream's head turned towards you before it tilted. "What happened there? Did our dear little (y/n) get too close to the void?" 

"They are none of your concern, pandejo," Mexican Dream seethed at his counterpart from his position next to the train. "Why are you even here, man?"

"Oh, I'm just here to make a trade. I'm afraid that I'll have to give you guys Ghostbur here in exchange for Wilbur."

Wilbur stared at him with pure hope and glee springing up in his eye for the first time in over a decade. "Really?" 

Dream chuckled, "yes, really. What, do you really think I'd lie to you?" 

"I don't know, ya smiley freak. You've been known to fuck people over." Schlatt scoffed, his ear flicking in annoyance. 

"I'm telling the truth this time. Wilbur, come with me." 

Stars shone in his eyes as he reveled in the sight of the open train doors. He followed the masked man with a skip in his step, ecstatic giggles leaving his mouth as he boarded. 

Anger flooded you as you purse your lips together and you darted towards the train. The doors were closing already, if you could just- 

The door shut with a clank, blocking you from freedom. Your clenched fists banged against the window, glowering at the sight of Wilbur's happiness and Dream looking at you with a wave.

"You fucking bastard! Take me, he doesn't deserve it! He threw his goddamned life away, you're wasting your time with him!" Your angry shouts were ignored by the two however as the train once again started moving with a small hiss. 

A frustrated scream left your mouth as you pummeled the iron with your fists as it moved. If only you could find a train car to jump onto- 

Now. You leapt from the platform towards the junction between two of the train cars. However, your leap of faith was set to a halt midair by Schlatt holding your upper arms. You thrashed against him, desperate to get back to the land of the living, desperate to leave this godforsaken hell called the afterlife, but once again, you were torn away from what you were trying to achieve. 

You fell limp as you watched the last train car pass the platform and disappear down the tracks and into the void. The next possible time it would show it’s face would be in a few months if you were lucky. You let him take you back to your corner, your feet limply being drug against the floor. After you were plopped back down, you stared at the clone of your ex. You were pretty sure Dream said that his name was ‘Ghostbur’. What a strange name, yet you supposed that it was fitting for Wilbur’s apparition. 

“Are ya done with your little ‘moment’, (y/n)?” Schlatt was kneeling in front of you, his hands prepared to grab you if you made a run for it. Though his tone was annoyed, you could detect the very small worried undertone of his voice. 

You nodded and watched as he took a seat next to you, also staring at the newcomer. This is the closest he’s sat next to you in years. 

“...What do you think of the clone over there?” You hummed to yourself, “he looks pathetic, but I think that might be the only thing he and Wilbur share.” 

Mexican Dream took a seat next to you, slinging an arm over your shoulders. Normally, you would’ve shrugged him off, but you were too emotionally drained to do so. “Si, he does look kinda weak. But I think our new hombre here has promise.” 

“Promise for what?” Schlatt snorted. Mexican Dream hesitated, “...I don’t know. This is gonna be interesting, mis amigos.” 

“The party’s just begun, boys. Buckle up, this is gonna be a wild fucking ride.” You mused to them, unsure of what the future would hold with the newcomer. Though after a couple of years, you were sure you were going to hate him; that is if he’s nothing like his clone. Ender help you if he’s anything like Wilbur. 

As you stared at the broken man, you couldn’t help but wonder: why did he get to go back? As far as you were concerned, psychopaths like him do not deserve a second chance at life. If anything, it should be you boarding that train. It should be you getting a second chance. He was the one that so readily threw his life away while you had yours ripped away from you.

One continuous thought was circling in your mind: why couldn’t it have been me?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You wrung your hands together as you anxiously waited for Tommy, Ghostbur, and Friend outside of Pandora’s Vault. Ranboo and Tubbo sat next to you in the grass, giving you silent comfort with their presence. You were mainly worried for your boyfriend, his worst fear was Dream using the resurrection book on him. You had calmed him down from a panic attack prior to meeting up with the teenagers, begging him to let you go in his place. Of course, Ghostbur being the caring and brave soul he was, wove you off and ensured that he’d be okay. 

When you saw someone emerging from the portal, you leapt to your feet and steadied your head on your shoulders before you examined the people emerging. Except you only saw a human and a sheep, no ghost. 

Tommy looked pale and on the verge of tears as he led Friend towards you. Before he spoke, he used his sleeve to wipe at his tears. 

“Hey, Tommy! How did it- where’s Ghostbur?” The enderman hybrid stretched his usually slouched back to peer at the portal, keen eyes searching for any sign of movement. 

“I think he’s dead… He’s dead!” 

Tubbo tilted his head and looked up at the blond in confusion, “well, yeah. He’s a ghost. Of course he’s dead.” Ranboo nodded in agreement, “yeah, he can’t die again. That just isn’t possible.”

You said nothing (not like you could in the first place, your head wasn’t connected to your body), looking into Tommy’s eyes inquisitively. They were chock full of panic, grief, and fear, staring down at the lead in his clenched hands. 

“No, no you don’t understand, it’s not that he’s dead… it’s that Wilbur’s back.”

“Hold on, the Wilbur that blew up L’Manberg? That Wilbur?” Ranboo peered down at him incredulously. “Yes! C’mon, he- we gotta get to L’Manberg.” 

He spun around and led Friend towards L’Manberg, walking quickly with a purpose. You, Ranboo, and Tubbo followed. You hugged your head close to your chest, your eyes peeking over your arms. It was always something you’ve done whenever you were scared or worried about something. You heard stories about Wilbur from your nephew, if the stories of his insanity terrified you, you’d hate to see the man in person. 

“I was about to kill Dream, and- and Ghostbur died. Dream revived Wilbur… Fuck!” Tommy walked faster, L’Manberg far off in the distance. With one hand, you grabbed the blond’s attention and finger spelled, ‘are you serious? He’s actually gone?’

“Yes! How many times do I have to explain this?! Ghostbur isn’t with us anymore and Wilbur’s back. Wilbur’s back and we’re absolutely fucked.” He turned on his heel and resumed his beeline towards the crater in the wall. No, he couldn’t be gone. This was just a cruel prank they were pulling on you, right? 

Tubbo put a comforting hand on your shoulder, giving you a small sympathetic smile. You leaned into his touch slightly and carried on, stepping into the makeshift staircase behind Tommy. 

You moved your arms to cover your eyes as you stepped aside to make room for the other two teenagers. You heard a voice; it sounded exactly like Ghostbur’s voice, yet it sounded... off. You however remained hopeful and uncovered your eyes. 

The man that stood there certainly wasn’t your boyfriend. Everything about him was just so wrong. The emotion in his eyes, his clothing, his smile, his stance, his hair, everything. This was a completely different person. This was Wilbur Soot. 

“Hello again.” His eyes flicked around your group, his gaze lingering on you for longer than the rest. You noticed that he was staring at your neck, but that was okay. You were used to it; everybody did that. What you weren’t used to was the revulsion that flashed in his eyes. The eyes that once lovingly stared at you and reassured you that he’d love you even with your… condition were now filled with disgust. 

That was what broke you, the tears that you tried to hold in came streaming out like a waterfall. Stinging pain hit you as the water worked its way through the cloth of your uniform onto your arms, leaving steam floating upwards towards the cave ceiling. You phased through Ranboo’s body and made a mad dash towards your sister’s house. You needed her, you could feel a panic attack brewing inside you. Usually you would hate to be a bother to your older sister and Ghostbur would always calm you down, but now he’s…

You pushed that thought aside and focused completely on getting to Puffy’s house in the distance. You phased through the door without a thought to knock, frantically beginning your search for Puffy. 

You looked everywhere, but you couldn’t find her. Unable to cope any longer, you fell to your knees in the middle of the living room and hugged your head to your chest, your face being pushed against your uniform. Your shoulders shook with silent painful sobs, the only sound in the room being the sizzling of your skin. 

Why couldn’t it have been you? It should be Ghostbur standing there in that cavern, not Wilbur. This was completely your fault, you should’ve gone instead of him. You should’ve volunteered quicker than he did, you shouldn’t have let him talk you into it with his soothing words. Now because of your complete and utter cowardice, he was stuck in the afterlife once again. You were never going to see him any time soon. Your other half was ripped away from you because of your inaction. 

Between sobs, your lips repeatedly formed the same phrase: why couldn’t it have been me?

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[juniorgman187]

Spoiled Rotten (Reid Fic)

Summary: After Spencer went radio silent on Reader while he was in prison, their pride and stubbornness threatens to tear them apart forever. Reader’s forced to mourn the death of who they were and experience the inner turmoil of navigating who they are.

A/N: Y’all are gonna kill me for the ending, but it’s one hell of a way to go.  Pairing: Fem!Reader x Spencer Reid Category: Angst Content Warning: Imprisonment, humiliation, abandonment, anger, frustration, angst, yelling, fighting Word Count: 5.3k Playlist: Traitor by Olivia Rodrigo

Time jumps are indicated by “. . .” or “_ _ _”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 

A rather unfortunate predicament we’ve found ourselves in tonight. I can’t say I’ve ever been quite this uncomfortable in my life, yet I’m careful not to speak too soon. Because I know the second Spencer opens his mouth to break the silence we’re currently sitting in, I’ll stand corrected. 

“You’re breathing really hard,” He tells me out of nowhere. 

See, I stand corrected. 

Now that I’ve become hyper aware of my own inhale and exhale, my respiration is just that much more restricted. I’m practically holding my breath at this moment - both from the anticipation of catching this unsub in the act and giving Spencer one less thing to scrutinize about me. 

“I didn’t say you had to stop breathing,” He tacks on as if it would put me any more at ease. Not that if he had explicitly said such a thing, I would’ve. 

Unlike other people, I wasn’t exactly jumping at the chance to throw myself at his feet so he’d like me. But to use that as grounds for his disdain would be foolish. Our rancor went deeper than the basic lack of synergy between us. 

And in the spirit of getting to the bottom of that abyssal pit, I finally asked the question with words that always seemed to hang above but never would form. 

“Why was I the only one denied visitation while you were in prison?” 

It may surprise you to know that it wasn’t always like this between us; we were actually close once, although it is hard to imagine that version of us ever really existing. However, if I think about it hard enough, I can remember with perfect clarity who we used to be. 

. . .

“Jeez, you really don’t like these things do you?” I nudged him playfully before feeling instantly guilty once I witnessed the result of my shove that must’ve been a little too much for all 120 (at most) pounds of him. I’d neglected to remember the strength I held over the lanky Doctor as well as neglected to notice where the trajectory of my push would land him - in the direct line of a circus clown walking the opposite direction as us. This, of course, brought him face to face with the character. Unfortunately, I managed to catch a glimpse of the lens of Spencer’s glasses grazing the white face paint of the caricature. 

After a shudder of mortification and a very brave shriek, Spencer ran to my other side to be as far away from the clown as possible and apparently, as close to me as possible. From a distance, you’d think we were conjoined simply by the way he was glued to me - shoulder to shoulder, elbow to elbow, hip to hip, thigh to thigh. 

While removing his glasses to clean them off with the hem of his blazer, he answered, “Carnivals? I mean, what’s not to like? What with the loud noises, the heart-attack-inducing food that’s more grease than actual food, or the sheer amount of bacteria harboring on each and every handle, hoop, ball, or button of these ridiculous game booths.” 

“Wow, you really don’t like carnivals.” I should’ve figured. 

“Nope. Never have and probably never will.” 

As someone who looked forward to the fair every summer of her childhood, any aversion to carnivals broke my heart. I had a fondness for them borne in adolescence that I couldn’t quite justify now in my adulthood. 

“But they’re fun!” was the best argument I could muster. The whine in my voice being provoked by the possibility that the higher the shrill of my pitch, the easier he’d be to sway. Turns out, Dr. Reid was not nearly as susceptible to my auditory persuasion as I might’ve thought he was. Just a stone cold, inconvincible slab of steel. 

“I’m sorry. I know you brought me here because you love these things, but I just can’t get past the ...” He surveyed the fair, ostensibly against his will, in search of the perfect word to describe our surroundings. “Filth.”

I would’ve argued in the defense of the carnival, mentioning how it’s endearing that the only bathrooms for miles were porta potties, and that the screaming, crying, sticky children galore just added to the attraction, and that there was a hidden charm to the way the roller coasters creaked beyond their means with every ride. 

But to an extent, I agreed. It was rather filthy, and I wasn’t much of a germaphobe myself so to someone like him, this would be hell on earth. 

“Well, you get what you put into it. If you’re willing to overlook some minor imperfections, I really think you’d enjoy this place.” 

Spencer by now had his hands in his pockets and his walking pace had slowed to a complete halt. There was a moment of skepticism, followed by a partially open smile to make way for the laughter that escaped from the disbelief that he felt for letting me break his resolve so easily. 

“Alright then. What do you want to do first, Brat?” 

The nickname I’d earned could be seen as meanspirited, but truly, it was affectionately diminutive. Like all good nicknames are. And like the proclaimed Brat I was, I’d taken him to all my favorite parts of the fair. 

First came the bumper cars to ease him into the experience - as ironic as that sounds. He was reluctant to submerge his gangly body into a mini vehicle, much less one that’d been inhabited by God knows how many people before us, but he pushed his reservations aside when he realized he’d get to slam into my car (safely, of course). 

Secondly, we went on the Carousel, but this was only in preparation for the real ride that I wanted to take him on next - the Swinging Chairs. He’d gotten a little nauseous, from both the repetitive circling and the galvanized chains he had to hold that were definitely held by several others. 

He had no interest in going on the Gravitron - super lame, I know - so we opted for the Ferris Wheel instead. I didn’t mind making this compromise so much after recognizing all that he’d done for my benefit that night. And for his generosity and selflessness, I thought it only fitting to end the night going somewhere so tame he couldn’t possibly have any opposition to it.

The photo booth.

The booth in particular we’d gone to was smaller than an airplane bathroom, if you can imagine that. The bench seat was barely wide enough to fit Spencer, let alone seat the both of us. While he didn’t explicitly make the offer to let me sit on his lap, it was kind of a give in that I’d have some part of my body intertwined around him like stubborn ivy. 

. . .

I still laugh thinking about the tangled mess of limbs we were below what the camera couldn’t capture. It was arguably the furthest extent of contortionist work I wanted to do in my lifetime, and henceforth exceedingly uncomfortable, and yet, I’d never felt more at home than when I was in his arms. 

That night he would tear off the top three photos to keep for himself while I kept the bottom three photos. 

To this day, I have never seen the pictures that he kept, and I’m left to wonder if he had them at all.

Because I still have mine. And they were virtually the only thing keeping me sane throughout his trial and subsequent imprisonment. 

Six Months Ago ...

My eyes were locked on the loose thread of my cardigan that I was rolling between my fingers anxiously. 

“Would you stop that?” Penelope swatted my hand away from my sweater. “You’re making me nervous just looking at you.” She grumbled. 

“Sorry,” I apologized bleakly.

A few seconds later she groaned again, making me think I was still doing something bothersome, but it turned out to be just the opposite. “Ugh, I know that sounded mean, and I hate when I sound mean, but I can feel my forehead creasing from the stress, and watching you fidget is going to give me an ulcer.”

“I wish I could help it. I’m just really worried about him.”

“Well I am, too, but that’s not gonna do us any good right now. All we can do is hope for the best.”

Sometimes Penelope’s overly optimistic view on life was futile and unwelcome, and truthfully, this was one of those times. 

“Penny?” 

As she turned her head, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the lenses of her dark green glasses. I could see my own mournful expression as I asked, “What if he’s found guilty?” 

She started to say something but stopped herself. “Right now, all we need to focus on is his bail. We can worry about a verdict later.” She put her hand on top of mine and shook it briefly to remind me that we were in this together. 

Moments later recess was over and the team came trudging back into the courtroom. 

The sound of the judge clearing her throat and our footsteps on the floor made this feel all too normal. 

How could Spencer’s life be hanging in the balance in such a place as non-intimate as this? 

It frustrated me how casual things felt today and how everyone was acting normally. Prentiss had yet to bat an eye, Rossi’s stoic expression never changed, and Penelope was telling me not to worry. Everyone was acting so aloof. 

My eyes darted to Spencer, who was looking back at us woefully. I couldn’t bear to see him like that any longer, so I kept my head down and stared at my feet after I took my seat. 

Even when I closed my eyes, I was haunted by the vision of him in a suit, just like one he’d wear to work. But instead, he was wearing it for this - this vastly different situation. 

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to look at him the same in one anymore. I’ll probably just remember this particular look on his face, in this god awful courtroom, during this horribly nauseating circumstance. 

If one thing was for certain, it was that this would all come back to me if I ever laid eyes on him in a suit, and that thought fucking terrified me. 

Because that one thought spiraled into the next: Everything was bound to change after this. Every little thing would change in every little way. 

Spencer’s lawyer, the judge, and the prosecutor were going back and forth for a while, but I tuned it all out because I knew if I had tuned in, I wouldn’t have been able to hold back my arguments. Eventually, though, I heard something I could no longer ignore. 

“If past behavior is the best indicator of future conduct, and I do believe it is, then your client presents a flight risk.”

I stood up immediately, getting a head rush from the speed. I knew what was to follow, so I needed to be on my feet the second I heard it. Maybe so I could run and escape before I had to.

“Bail is denied. The defendant will remain in federal custody pending trial.” 

“Spencer!” I shouted, losing all the composure I’d been trying to maintain. I reached for him as if he was at any capacity to reach back and hold me. God, I needed him to hold me. Hold me like how he did at the carnival. 

Hold me.

Luke held me back as I fought to be near him.

“Let me go!” I screamed, trying to break free of his tight grip. Spencer could only stand and stare, mirroring my own wistful glance. He mouthed something to me that I couldn’t quite make out, but if I knew him at all, he probably said something about not wanting me to worry about him. 

“(Y/n), (y/n) it’s gonna be alright.” JJ reasoned, pulling me into a hug. 

“How long before this case goes to trial?” I heard Prentiss whisper to Spencer’s lawyer. 

“It’s a complicated case. I’d say three months maybe?” 

Immediately, I worked myself out of JJ’s arms and pushed my way through the team, running up to the barrier between us.

“Spence!” I cried out in anguish. 

To the sound of my voice, he glanced over his shoulder sadly. He wasn’t even shocked I’d been able to get so close to him - he seemed to expect it, and for that, he was sad. Because he knew if I was going to be as stubborn as to fight to get to him at this hearing, then I was going to be stubborn enough to reach him in prison, too. And should he find himself behind bars, he knew that I’d get to him one way or another. 

That is if he’d let me. 

“Be strong,” He weakly smiled. ‘For me’ his sad eyes begged in addition. He held my gaze for as long as he possibly could before disappearing into another room. 

As I watched him walk away, I could feel my heart shattering and crumbling into the pit of my stomach. Perhaps that was a premonition, a true gut feeling, telling me something I at the time couldn’t have known and wouldn’t have accepted. 

That was the last time I would see Spencer. 

People always say when something unbelievable happens, it doesn’t feel real, but this? Nothing felt more real and more intense than this. 

There was no other way for me to see this situation but as the first defeat in an endless line of them.

If Spencer was denied bail, what else could happen to him? Could he be found guilty too? Because prior to this, the denial of his bail seemed impossible. He posed no flight risk, but according to the judge, he did. So if what I once thought to be impossible happened, then it could and would happen again.

I knew Spencer was going to be found guilty.

What I didn’t know, though, was how I was going to live with myself from then on.

I didn’t go that day. 

I knew myself too well. So did the others, which is why they didn’t object to my decision not to come to Spencer’s trial. They knew I was better off staying home. Especially, if there was the chance that I might react hysterically again.

I didn’t stay home, though. That part the team never found out about. 

I went to visit Diana instead. A much wiser choice, in my opinion. 

“You know, we’ve been talking so much about Spencer today, but we haven’t talked about you yet,” said Diana. 

“Yeah, I guess that’s true.” I feigned a polite smile. 

“You thought I wouldn’t notice?” She tilted her chin downward and gave me that sly grin of hers. 

“No, no, of course not. I know better than to underestimate the Diana Reid.” I quipped, making her smile widen. “I just figured you’d wanna spend your time talking about someone much more interesting.” 

“Oh please, Spencer and I talk about you all the time.”

I perked up from the checker piece I was fiddling with. “You do?”

“Mhm,” She nodded over and over again. “I always knew there was something between you two because you could always talk about each other to me, but for some reason, you could never actually talk to each other.”

For the first time in months, I genuinely laughed and I couldn’t help it. “He makes me nervous! I always feel like he might correct something I say, or tell me that there’s food in my teeth.” 

“You know, now that you mention it, I do remember him saying something about seeing a really big piece of lettuce in your teeth one time.” 

“Diana!” I squealed, pushing the checkerboard at her, pretending to take offense. 

“I really don’t know what you’re so nervous about! I think it would be good if you just talked to him.” 

“It’s, um, it’s not that simple. Not right now, at least.” 

My energy quickly nose-dived and I tried to do my best to hide it from Diana, but it permeated through the rest of the visit. I couldn’t fully enjoy myself after it. 

The team and I all agreed not to let Diana know, especially not with the uncertainty of the case. There was no point riling her up if there was nothing to be worried about. And I could only imagine how I reacted - Diana would be reacting 10 times more hysterically. 

But as much as I hated to say it, I almost would’ve rather been in her position. 

I would give anything to un-know Spencer’s circumstance.

Present Time ...

In this car, there was nowhere for him to run or hide, not like before.

Anytime I so much as entered his gravity by being in the same room, he’d flee the space in the next breath. Granted, he couldn’t really avoid me entirely. We did have to be on the same flight for an extended period of time, but he made that work by letting me choose my spot first, then choosing a spot directly on the opposite side of the jet. 

What a gentleman, huh?

“Kudos to you, by the way. For managing to avoid me for this long. I imagine it’s been as not-easy as it has been incredibly-cowardly.” My words stung as they flowed from my lips as badly as I imagine they seared his already cracked skin. I couldn’t believe that now that I finally had the opportunity to talk to him, I was using it to be petty and passively aggressive. But then again, I could. 

Because after what he put me through, he deserved to feel the full severity of my indignation.

My only wish was that he knew exactly how I had felt when I found out. 

. . .

Icarus. 

He died tragically while using artificial wings, invented by his father, to escape from the Labyrinth. When Icarus flew too close to the sun, it melted the wax that held the wings together, and he fell into the sea.

‘Don’t fly too close to the sun.’ That’s the moral of the story. That’s what Reid was trying to tell me. But I didn’t listen. 

I flew too close. 

I had approached the window with more zeal than this predicament warranted. 

“I’m (y/n) (y/l/n). I’m here to see Spencer Reid, R-E-I-D,” I eagerly spelt his last name with ease as though it were my own last name. 

She’d flipped back and forth between pages, running her index finger up and down the sheet for far too long that it made me worry. Turns out, I had every right to be worried. 

“I don’t see you on the list, ma’am.” 

I was so mindnumbingly dumb that I couldn’t even see how dumb I was being. “Oh no no no, I’m with the FBI. I called earlier and left a message, remember?” 

“Yeah, I remember you,” She smiled politely, giving me the tiniest fragment of hope. “But you’re not on his list.” Only for it to be shattered in an instant. 

I had yet to process or accept this information. “So what does that mean?”

“It means he doesn't wanna see you right now. And frankly, neither do I. Next!” 

“Wait, could you just please check with him? My name is (y/n) -” 

“Ma’am, you are holding up a whole line of people that wanna see their loved ones too, so I suggest you see yourself out before I call security to help see you out.” 

I knew by her tone of the word ‘help’ that meant a prison guard would most likely forcibly remove me from the premises, and the last thing I needed was to feel even more humiliated. 

I got plenty of that when I had to come back to the BAU. 

“You’re not on the list?” Luke seemed genuinely shocked. More so than I was. Above all, I just felt really stupid. 

“I’m sure it was just a mistake.” Stephen reasoned. He was so good at being level-headed. Which normally, I would’ve loved. But right now, it only fueled the fire burning in my chest.

“That’s what I thought at first, too. But later on, she asked him herself, and he said - and I quote, ‘I don’t want to see her. Not now. Not ever.’”

. . .

Those were the words that seared my skin, and he hadn’t even spoken them directly to me to do it. 

The words that did just enough to heal me back to health were, of course, Penelope’s.

“Since you haven’t seen him yet, the rest of us will just wait until you have. It’s only fair that you have your first turn before the rest of us go back for a second time.” 

Back then, it was easy to hold out hope, but the more and more time passed, the more he kept denying my visits. Therefore, the more my hope began to fade. 

It had been weeks since anyone else had seen him before I finally surrendered. Although I had newly-brewing sourness towards Reid, it didn’t feel fair to deny him everyone else’s presence until mine was permitted. 

Luke was the one who volunteered to visit first. And to my dismay, Spencer didn’t fight against it. 

The proof was finally there. Now I could say with absolute certainty: Spencer just didn’t want to see me. 

It was both ironic and utterly frustrating to think about how I’d never gone more than two weeks without seeing him. Even when the BAU got time off after big cases, we’d always spend that time together. The longest we’d spent apart was 12 days. And right when he came back to D.C, we were attached at the hip for the next week, trying to compensate for all that time we were apart. 

Now, look at us. I haven’t said one word to him in half a year. 

If tragedy and comedy could coexist, this would be it. 

“How is he?” I asked Luke as soon as he got back. 

“He’s holding on,” Luke affirmed with confidence. What he said next lacked any of that. “He told me to tell you not to worry about him.” 

Something in me knew it was a lie. “Did he actually say that?”

His lack of an answer was one itself. 

“Did he say anything at all about me?”

“I tried telling him how much you wanted to see him, but he just brushed it off. I’m sorry, (y/n).” 

This became my routine for the months to follow. Every time someone would come back from the prison, I’d ask them if they talked about me, but the answer was always no. After a while, it had gotten to the point where I purposefully started leaving myself out of the loop. At least in that case, it was by my own volition that I was being excluded, not by a predicament being forced on me. 

Not by Spencer. 

“We’re not doing this right now,” Spencer declaration brought me back to the present, where I found him removing himself from both the conversation and the vehicle. When I heard the latch click to open, my hand reflexively flew to my auto-lock to prevent him from leaving. Naturally, he still managed to escape using his door’s button.

If I couldn’t stop him, then I could follow him. 

“Then when will we do this? Huh, Spencer? When? Because anytime I try to talk to you, you run away.” The mere fact that I was speed-walking after him was proof. While he casually strolled down the sidewalk paying me no mind, I tried to be clever and walk down the street so we’d be somewhat side to side. I was tired of staring at his back every time he walked away. I needed to see his face.

For his every stride, I had to take at least three steps. He was gliding through the world so effortlessly as I was trekking my uphill battle. It was quite fitting, though. Further exemplification that, between us, I was fighting harder to preserve the people we used to be, the relationship we used to have. Meanwhile, he couldn’t care less. A stone cold, inconvincible slab of steel. Just like he always was. 

As I began to speak, I had to also be conscious of the parked cars along the curb, being careful to weave in and out. 

“For months, you have blatantly ignored me. The entire time you were in prison, you denied my visits. And it’s not like it was a one time thing. I tried to visit you over 100 times while you were in jail! 100 times I got rejected. 100 times I got turned away. 100 times my heart shattered.” 

By now, I was speaking so loudly that I could see household lights within neighboring homes turning on. I hadn’t even realized how far we’d walked down the street and away from our car, but it was the last thing on my mind. 

“Then after you were released, it’s like I never even existed. I had to find out that you were out of there a week later than everyone else because they all assumed you came to me yourself to tell me the good news,” I laughed wryly at my own stupidity. “Do you know how hard it was for me?” 

“Do you know how hard it was for me?” 

It took me a second to register that he was actually engaging with me in this conversation now. But when I looked at his expression, I could see that something within him had snapped. A little piece of me was glad, though. Now I knew for sure that there was some effect I had on him. 

“Hard for you?”

“I know you came to visit me 100 times! Want to know how I know? Because I was there, too! I was there every time a guard came to ask if I wanted to see you. I was there every time I turned you away. And while you got to walk out of those doors every time I did, I was stuck in there, rotting in that cell, thinking about how badly I wanted to see you. How badly I wanted to touch ...” His voice faltered. “To touch you. But I had to protect you!” 

“You do realize in protecting me, you were hurting me in the process.” 

“Because you just don’t know when to leave well enough alone!” His hands tugged at the root of his unruly hair like evidence of the frustration that my stubbornness caused. “You’re such a pain in the ass because you can never cooperate! It’s gotta be your way or no one else’s! ‘Spencer, it has to be this way because I said so. Spencer, you have to let me see you because I said so. Spencer, you have to talk to me because I said so. Spencer, you have to ride this stupid roller coaster because I said so,’” His imitation of my nagging voice would’ve made me laugh before. Now, it was bringing me onto the verge of tears. “Since clearly no one’s told you this before - not everything is about you! You just want it to be because you’re a whiny, little brat! You’re so spoiled rotten that you can’t even see how far down it goes. If you did, you’d know that you’re rotten to the core and that nothing will ever satisfy you. Especially me.”

His words had done more than sear me. They pierced me. They ripped me. They destroyed me. When he called me Brat, I thought it was endearing. Now, looking back, I realize - no, that’s just how little he thought of me. 

As I came to the conclusion, I stopped dead in my tracks on the pavement. 

I was done chasing Spencer.

His face had fallen from its anger, indicating he was apologetic, but I was beyond accepting his sorry excuses anymore. I couldn’t stand to look at him so I looked behind me to find our car at least a football field away. I guess in many ways, I’d gone the whole nine yards. 

“This is what you wanted right?” I turned back to him momentarily. My voice scared me how calm it was because, inside, I was boiling with rage. “Well, here you go, Spence. Have all the fucking space you want.” 

It was usually me watching his back while he walked away, and now, he was watching mine. 

“(Y/n), wait!” 

And for the briefest second, it actually felt good to be the first one to leave. 

I was free. 

_ _ _

To my dismay and relief, when I walked into work the next morning, he wasn’t there. I would’ve looked for him with more than a cursory glance except I was stuck on looking at something strange in the bullpen that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. But as I walked further in, a blaring siren went off in my head. 

Spencer’s desk is completely empty. 

I instantly sorted through my purse for my phone to reach Prentiss when I noticed something more. 

I had been desperate to cling onto any notion that he still loved me, and there it was, just sitting on his desk. Proof that the man I loved was still in there somewhere.

The top three pictures from the carnival photo booth.

I laughed, as I always did, thinking about how much we had to exert ourselves to be positioned in a semi-adequate way. In the next wave, I felt profoundly empty. He had kept the pictures all these years, and now that I finally get to see them, he’s left me.

As I brought my hand to my face to clear the tears pooling at my lower lashes, I saw that my finger had an ink smear on the pad of it. There was nowhere else I could’ve obtained it except for if there was writing on the back of the photos. 

What I read when I turned it over was as follows. 

I want to be this guy for you again, (y/n). I just don’t know how. 

I just don’t know if I can.

No matter how much I’ve changed, one thing’s still the same.

I love you. 

I should’ve focused on the message, but all that I could focus on was that if I managed to smear the ink, that meant it was fresh, written just now. 

He was still here. 

I pocketed the photos and abandoned my purse, only carrying with me the phone that I forgot to use to dial Prentiss. After a moment’s indecision, I figured that taking the stairs would be faster than the elevator, and I bounded down the steps without hesitation. 

“Spencer!” I yelled into the parking structure when I reached the ground floor. The sound of me bursting through the door caught the attention of Anderson, who was getting out of his car. 

“I just saw him leave.” Anderson threw his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the exit. I knew, even in my state of mind, there was no feasible reality where I could reach him on foot. I had to call him. 

I pleaded to myself for him to pick up with every ring of my phone. 

“(Y/n),” He said like a statement instead of a question. Again, he’d anticipated I’d do this. He probably picked it up not even having to look at the caller ID but knowing it was me and no one else. 

“I don’t need you to be the guy you were before, Spencer. I just need you to bend a little bit. I know we’re both stubborn people, but if we can just find a halfway point-”

“(Y/n), (y/n),” He was settling me and the sentences that were coming out of my mouth at 100 mph. 

“I’ll bend if you bend.” I promised. 

The static of the call filled my ears until his voice finally did.

“For everyone else, I bend ... for you, I break.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 

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[scotianostra]

23rd August 1305 saw the trial and execution in London of Sir William Wallace, one time Guardian of Scotland.

I posted yesterday stating the trial happened then, it came u in a source I was reading about Wallace, sometimes the historians can get it wrong, but the post yesterday served as more of prelude and a taster of todays more detailed one. Wallace is said to have accepted his execution without resistance and a brave heart. He even made a final confession to a priest and read from the book of Psalms before his punishment.

Types of execution at The Elms ranged from burning at the stake (for heretics) to the tried and tested hanged-drawn-and-quartered method for those convicted of high treason. For those unfamiliar with this method, it involves being dragged by a horse to the place of execution, hanged  until almost dead, then disembowelled whilst still conscious, beheaded, and finally being chopped into four pieces (i.e. ‘quartered) and subsequently having these pieces put on display across the city, or in Sir William Wallace’s case, the country.

I think it only right to give a background post about Sir William Wallace so hang on to your hats, there’ll be no mention of French Princess’s, Blue painted Australians or the like. 

Much of what we know about Wallace comes from  Blind Harry, also known as Harry, Hary or Henry the Minstrel, is renowned as the author of The Actes and Deidis of the Illustre and Vallyeant Campioun Schir William Wallace, more commonly known as The Wallace. The trouble is how reliable can Blind Harry’s account be, it was written over 150 years after Wallace's grisly demise, the stories about oor erstwhile hero would have been handed down through  word of mouth, possibly even in song. 

Harty claims that Wallace's father was named Malcolm, and on this basis Wallace has traditionally been identified as Sir Malcolm Wallace, a minor landowner from Renfrewshire. Sir Malcolm was a descendant of Richard Wallace, a native of the lordship of Oswestry on the Welsh border, (Wallace itself meaning Welshman),  who first came to Scotland in the twelfth-century in the service of Walter Fitz Alan, first High Steward of Scotland. This Stewart connection has also been used by historians to explain Wallace's place in the 'patriotic' struggle of the 1290s.

But  Harry’s story has some flaws, now I’m not decrying the story, just some details like his age.

No reliable evidence exists to gives us an estimate of his age. Harry claims that Wallace was 'forty and five [years] of age' when he was executed,  but also states that he was 'bot eighteen yer auld' shortly before the Battle of Stirling Bridge, which would place the year of his birth around 1278/9.

It shows how difficult it is to build a picture of Sir William.

The contemporary English chronicler William Rishanger implies that Wallace was a young man when he emerged as the leader of armed resistance to the English in southern Scotland in 1297, but this does little to narrow things down. According to Hary, Wallace was raised by his two uncles - both clerics - who saw to his education after his father was killed by an English knight named Fenwick

 One of his uncles was from Dunipace, a wee town not far from my home in Falkirk, it is through this uncle we get an oft quoted phrase  “This is the truth I tell you: of all things freedom’s most fine. Never submit to live, my son, in the bonds of slavery entwined.” The second pic shows part of the quote, it is on a paving stone on Falkirk High Street  that I often walk past.

He does seem to have had two brothers, Malcolm - who would provide Wallace with much-needed support in the later part of his career - and John - who would later be executed for supporting Robert Bruce after 1306. His activities before 1297 are also uncertain, but they may have been less than wholesome. Contemporary English accounts describe him as a 'brigand' and a 'thief', suggesting he may have lived outside the law even before the English invaded. Of course, these may simply be attempts by hostile writers to blacken his reputation. However, a legal document of August 1296 mentions 'a thief, one William le Waleys' as an accomplice of a cleric named Matthew of York who had in June of that year been convicted of robbery at Perth. This could well be our William.

Again I am not trying to blacken his character, I am merely pointing out the difficult job that historians have when piecing together his life. 

Whatever the details of his early life, following the English invasion of 1296 that Wallace first emerged into the mainstream of Scottish affairs in a big way. The death of King Alexander III in 1286, followed by the death of his granddaughter Margaret of Norway in 1290, had provoked a major succession crisis in Scotland. Efforts to settle the ongoing dispute between the competing Balliol and Bruce factions had led to increasing English interference in the governance of Scotland, culminating in a full-scale invasion of the kingdom in 1296. I’ve covered all this in posts regarding King John Balliol, the sacking of Berwick and  the first Battle of Dunbar all in 1296.

One of Wallace’s first encounters with the English is told in typically dramatic form by Blind Harry, the story goes that William was fishing  when he is accosted by five soldiers in the service of 'lorde Persye'  Henry Percy, 1st Baron Percy who was the warden of Galloway and Ayrshire .  The honest, unsuspecting Wallace offers them some of his fish so long as they leave the rest for his uncle - 'ane agyt knycht' - Wallace hopes to feed, but the soldiers demand all of his fish and attack him when he refuses them. Remarkably, Wallace disarms the first attacker using only a 'poutstaff' ('fishing pole'), seizes the discarded sword, kills two of the soldiers, severs the hand of another, and chases the survivors off! 

The earliest confirmed encounter between Wallace and the English administration occurred in May 1297, when Wallace and a small band of supporters killed William Heselrig, the English sheriff of Lanark, shortly before an assize was due to be held in the town. According to the indictment against him in 1305, Wallace and his men also dismembered Helelrig's corpse. Famously, Hary claims that Wallace's attack on Heselrig was in retribution for the killing of Wallace's wife - Marion Braidfute, as Harry identifies her. 

It is apparent from contemporary English accounts of the incident at Lanark that it proved to be a powerful recruiting tool for Wallace's rebellion. As Walter Guisborough put it, 'the common folk of the land followed him as their leader and ruler; the retainers of the great lords adhered to him; and even though the lords themselves were present with the English king in body, at heart they were on the opposite side'.

What I find remarkable is that the killing of the soldiers and then Heselrig kickstarted, the uprising against Edwards army and around 4 months Wallace and Andrew de Moray had assembled a combined army of over 6 thousand troops that ambushed the English as they crossed the Forth at Stirling.

Before Stirling we also had the capitulation of the Nobility at Irvine, I have also covered this in a previous post.

In the wake of the Scottish victory at Stirling Bridge, the English administration in Scotland all but collapsed. The Scots were once again able to form a government of their own, and at its head - now as Guardians of Scotland - were Wallace and Murray, although Murray's tenure was cut short when he died - probably of wounds sustained at Stirling Bridge - in November.

This was the zenith of Wallace's career. He had emerged from obscurity to the very summit of Scottish society, all in the space of a year. It also meant he had a price on his head and was the most wanted man in Scotland.

Edward I returned from the Continent in March 1298 and set his sights on Scotland, he marched with an army North in late June and quickly discovered that Wallace's response to the threat had been to devastate southern Scotland and withdraw with his army out of reach of the English. A bitter and frustrating campaign followed, with Edward almost abandoning the chase altogether. However, in late July Edward got wind that the Scots had been sighted near Falkirk, and hurriedly moved his army to meet them. 

Precisely why the confrontation at Falkirk happened is, as with so much of Wallace's career, uncertain. Until this point in the campaign Wallace had carefully avoided the English army, a prudent strategy that would later pay off for the Scots under Bruce. Guisborough claims that Wallace had learned that Edward planned to withdraw and hoped to attack the English in the rear. This would at least explain why Wallace so suddenly abandoned his previously cautious strategy. However, given the potential challenges he was facing from the nobility of Scotland it may equally have been the case that Wallace felt compelled to face the English in open battle sooner or later and prove that his success at Stirling Bridge - which was after all arguably at least as much Murray's as it was Wallace's - was not just a lucky accident. 

Whatever the case, the battle that followed was an utter catastrophe for the guardian. Abandoned by the cavalry, who may have lost their nerve as they had at Irvine or - as claimed by subsequent Scottish chroniclers - betrayed Wallace, Wallace's schiltrons - tightly-packed bodies of infantry armed with long spearmen - repelled the English cavalry but fell prey to English archery, which broke up their formations and left them vulnerable to a renewed assault by the cavalry. Wallace escaped the battle with his life, but his position as guardian had been irrevocably damaged. It is not entirely clear precisely when or where he resigned the guardianship, but by the end of 1298 Robert Bruce, earl of Carrick (the future king), and John Comyn, lord of Badenoch, were jointly exercising the office of guardian.

Wallace's time as guardian may have been decisively ended, but he remained an active opponent of the English in Scotland. The resistance he offered to the English in this period was not always in keeping with the wishes of the guardians. For instance, in August 1299 an altercation took place at a council at Peebles at which Wallace's plan to travel to France was condemned by Sir David Graham as being 'without the leave or approval of the Guardians'. Wallace's plans were defended by his brother Malcolm, who argued that they were at least 'for the good of the kingdom'

Wallace did indeed leave for France in 1299, apparently on a diplomatic mission to seek the support of King Philip IV against Edward I. Wallace's reception in France was initially hostile, since at the time Philip was himself seeking peaceful relations with Edward I, and Wallace was briefly incarcerated by the French king. However, in November 1300 Philip was writing to his envoys to the pope asking them to promote Wallace's case at the papal court. It is possible that Wallace himself visited to Rome assist in making the Scottish case to the pope in person, and the fact that when he was eventually he reportedly had on his person a safe-conduct from King Hakon V of Norway may suggest he also travelled to Norway on diplomatic business (although he may simply have planned to do so at some point). By 1303 - possibly earlier - he was back in Scotland and again involved in armed resistance to the English

By this point the tide in the war was slowly turning against the Scots. The French were once again pursuing a peaceful policy towards the English following their own military reversal at Courtrai in 1302. Scottish nobles were gradually making their peace with the English, and the surrender of Stirling Castle marked the effective end to organised Scottish resistance on a large scale. In light of his increasing success, Edward I was generally willing to be fairly accommodating towards those Scots who were willing to submit to him, but this was not so with Wallace. Indeed, in the general amnesty offered to the Scots by the English, Wallace might at best 'render himself up to the will and mercy of our sovereign lord the king, if it shall seem good to him' - hardly an encouraging prospect. When Wallace's long-standing cohort Simon Fraser submitted to Edward in July 1304, he was welcomed into the king's peace only on the understanding that he would assist in the ever-intensifying hunt for the fugitive Wallace. Nevertheless, Wallace remained at large until 3rd August 1305, when he was seized near Glasgow by men in the service of Sir John Menteith, keeper of Dumbarton Castle on behalf of King Edward. Menteith - identified as Wallace's 'gossop' ('godfather') by Harry.

Having finally captured Wallace, Edward I refused even to see him. Instead, Wallace was taken to London for what for want of a better word might be called a trial.

Sir Peter Malory, one of the king's justices, presided over the proceedings, which were little more than a formality. The charges were considerable. Wallace had, according his accusers, been a traitor to King Edward, perpetrated armed resistance against him and slain the king's officers (William Heselrig was mentioned by name), assumed the authority of 'a superior' of Scotland, submitted 'to the fealty and lordship of the lord king of France and [gave] him help to the destruction of the kingdom of England', made war on the northern counties of England, 'feloniously and seditiously assaulted, burned and devastated religious men and nuns...[and] inflicted [upon] all, old and young, wives and widows, children and babes the worst death which he could devise', and 'harmoniously and eagerly...refused to submit himself to the lord king's peace' even after being defeated at Falkirk. According to the Annals of London, he 'answered that he had never been a traitor to the king of England, but granted the other crimes charged against him'.

In the eyes of the English as an outlaw, Wallace had no recourse to a defence. Instead, he was summarily sentenced to be executed in the manner reserved for traitors. Wallace was thus 'dispolyeid of his weid' as Hary puts it and dragged naked on a hurdle through the streets of London. At Smithfield he was hanged by the neck 'for the robberies, homicides and felonies which he carried out in the kingdom of England and the land of Scotland'

Before he could suffocate he was taken down and emasculated and disembowelled 'for the dreadful wickedness which he did to the church'. His 'heart, liver and lungs and all the bowels...from which such perverse thoughts proceeded' were then burned. Presumably now dead, Wallace was beheaded - the punishment for outlawry - and his body was divided into four parts. His head was to be displayed on London Bridge (where it remained until at least September the following year, when it was joined by that of his former comrade Simon Fraser). The remaining quarters were to be displayed on gibbets at Newcastle-upon-Tyne, Berwick-upon-Tweed, Stirling and Perth, 'to put dread in and to warn all by-passers and observers'.

The savagery with which Wallace was dispatched contrasts sharply with Edward I's attitude toward the Scots in general, but let’s not forget it was the usual punishment for any person deemed to be a traitor.

However it appeared that Longshanks earlier experiences with the Scots had convinced the ageing English king that a more conciliatory approach to establishing a lasting English administration in the kingdom. Edward's new plan for the settlement of Scotland envisaged a ruling council composed primarily of Scots - including the likes of Bruce and Comyn - which would advise an English lieutenant who would retain overall authority. Scots law and custom was to be respected, at least in the short term, and it may have seemed to many at the time that the objections that had fuelled Wallace's original rebellion in 1297 had been addressed. 

As we know, the matter would be rendered moot less than six months after Wallace's death when Robert Bruce killed Comyn, forcing him to make public his ambition to become King of Scots. In many senses Bruce's struggle was quite unlike Wallace's, being primarily motivated by his own ambitions and perception of his rights. That being said, if Wallace had not maintained the momentum behind Scottish resistance to the English, particularly in the crucial year of 1297, then Bruce may never have had his opportunity to make his successful bid for power.

Pics are statues of Sir William Wallace around Scotland in order, Bemersyde near Dryburgh, Aberdeen, opposite His Majesty's Theatre,  Edinburgh Castle, Newmarket Street Ayr, St Nicholas Church, Lanark, Stirling Town Centre, The National Wallace Monument Abbey Craig, Stirling, showing it before and after it’s recent restoration,  Scottish National Portrait Gallery, Edinburgh and his memorial at Smithfield, London. There are others around the world that remember the Scots Patriot who so bravely stood up to fight for his country.

[scuttling]

Promise

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairing: Aaron Hotchner/Spencer Reid/Latina OFC Sophie Cortes Word Count: 5,844 Tags: 18+, NSFW, Biting, Hickies, Dom/sub, Daddy Kink, Exhibitionism, Coming In Pants, Dry Humping, Blow Jobs, Semi-Public Sex, Voyeurism, Praise Kink, Public Sex, Oral Sex, Oral Fixation, Unprotected Sex, Tie as Restraint, Dirty Talk, Mention of Somnophilia Summary: Two weeks after the events of 'Patient', Spencer is feeling a little bit like a third wheel. Sophie and Aaron come up with a plan to show him how much he means to them. Collection: Part 4 of 5 of Present, Perfect, Patient, Promise, Pretend series Note: This is a previously published work from A03, just moving it over to tumblr. Link to A03 or read below! For the last couple of weeks, Spencer has almost exclusively been staying the night at Aaron and Sophie’s. The three of them arrive at work together every day, go to lunch together every day, leave together every day, and no one has commented on that or found it strange in any way. He’s honestly a little disappointed; he’s happy, in love, and this is arguably the best time of his life, stuff he would most like to share with other people, but they either don’t notice or simply don’t care. It's frustrating.

He wears one of Aaron’s ties to work on a Friday, because he’d been in such a hurry to throw some clothes into his bag during a rare pit stop to his apartment that he didn’t grab enough, and he figured no one would notice, since they haven’t noticed anything else up to this point.

However…

“Hey. Hotch has a tie just like that, doesn’t he?” Garcia asks when he’s down in her cave looking over some age progression renderings she made for him. He looks down, runs his fingers over it, shrugs.

“Does he? I didn’t realize.” She sweeps her gaze over his face, tilts her head like she’s trying to figure him out, but ultimately, she just smiles.

“Maybe not. I see a lot of ties around here, you know? Anyway, see how…”

Later that day, he takes some case files up to Aaron’s office—purely for make out purposes—and they’re kissing pretty hot and heavy when Aaron slips his fingers around the knot of his tie and twists it, so it tightens around the base of his throat. He moans, a little startled, and very turned on, and Aaron hums against his lips.

“So fucking gorgeous when you wear my clothes, Spencer, but especially this. It’s so tempting, draws my attention right to your pretty throat.” His lips move there, brushing tenderly up the side, and he bites down gently, not enough to leave a mark, but enough that he feels it in his dick. “If I had my way, you’d be constantly covered in bruises here. Everyone would look at you and know you belong to someone.” Spencer licks his lips, exhales deeply.

“I wish you could,” he murmurs, sliding his fingers through the hair at the back of Aaron’s head. “Maybe—maybe just one?” He’s lightheaded at the thought, both of having Aaron’s hot mouth tease a bruise there and of being seen for the desperate, needy slut he is. Of the whole team, the whole office, the whole world knowing he is taken, happily, regularly, by not one but two beautiful human beings.

Aaron presses his hand against Spencer’s cock, which is extremely hard, giving away all of his secrets, and he huffs against his throat.

“Yeah. You want me to suck and bite your neck until you’re purple and aching, and then you want to walk right downstairs and show it off, don’t you? No doubts about who gave it to you, about who your daddy is. About who you belong to.” He nods, breathing heavily.

“Yes. I want them to see, I want them to know.” Aaron walks him back so he’s leaning against the edge of the desk, and he runs his hands slowly up and down Spencer’s body, brushing his lips so softly over his throat. It feels good, but it’s not what he wants, and Aaron knows it, the tease.

He shifts his hips, rubs against Aaron for friction, and when he finds his cock he gasps, fists his hand into Aaron’s jacket. He lifts his leg, pressing against Aaron’s thigh, and gets them to line up beside each other, sliding easily due to the fabric of their suit pants.

“Oh, fuck, Spencer,” he groans, hands falling to the desk on either side of his body. “Needy boy.” He tugs down the collar of his shirt a little more, bites down hard at the base of this throat, and Spencer moans, clutches at him, rubbing frantically.

Aaron’s mouth is hard, sucking deeply, and Spencer knows that what he’s doing is actually breaking blood vessels beneath his skin, but it feels like he’s sucking the life out of him, leaving him dizzy and achy and desperate for release. He twists his fingers in Aaron’s hair, tight, and humps his hips up against his hard body, his hard cock, and he comes so powerfully he sees stars, panting and shaking through it until he leans his weight back against the desk, his energy depleted.

Aaron pulls back, looks at him with dark, lustful eyes, and bends for a hot, wet kiss.

“Perfect, beautiful boy,” he rasps when the kiss breaks, and he unclasps his belt, takes out his cock, looks down at Spencer’s mouth; it’s all he needs to do to get Spencer on his knees, and he’s sure he looks filthy—his face is hot, and his collar is still loose, with what must be a huge, dark hickey blooming there—because it only takes a few seconds for Aaron to spill down his throat, his hand under Spencer’s chin while he swallows him down.

He helps him to his feet, and they kiss, work to right each other’s clothes and hair even though Spencer feels like his face is the real problem—his eyes half-lidded, his mouth slack and his tongue peeking out the way it always does when he’s satisfied. Aaron looks at him affectionately, probably at the dopey look he’s so capable of putting on his face, and he kisses him again, softer, then brushes his lips over his nose.

“I love you. Want me to come down and make you a tea?” he asks softly, so sweet, but Spencer just shakes his head, swallows.

“No, that’s okay. I know you’re busy, and I’ve taken up enough of your time.” Aaron sighs, sweeps a hand gently over his cheek.

“My time is your time. You’ve taken nothing I didn’t want to give.” He kisses him fully on the mouth, and Spencer hums happily against his lips. “Is there anything I can do for you before you head back to work? Or, I guess you should probably head to the bathroom first, to get cleaned up,” he amends, and he looks down at Spencer’s crotch like he would prefer to clean it up himself, slowly, with his tongue. Spencer shakes his head.

“No, thank you. I’m really alright. I love you,” he murmurs, kissing his lips, “and I’ll see you soon.”

“See you soon.” Spencer slips past him, out the door, and when he’s done cleaning up in the bathroom, he looks at himself in the mirror; he thinks he looks wrecked, debauched, but maybe that’s only because he knows that he is. He pulls down his collar, looks at the huge, dark, angry bruise Aaron left, smiles, and covers it back up.

Mostly.

When he takes his seat, Sophie looks up at him, sweeps her eyes over his face, his throat, and he can see her breath pick up. God, she’s so easy to get going, it’s not even fair. She makes eye contact, swallows, looks up at Aaron’s office, and then stands, locks her computer, and heads upstairs.

About ten minutes later, she’s back; he looks up at her, and because he looks at her so much, he notices all the little things that have changed—her hair, previously falling in voluminous waves, looks a little flat, and her chest is red, flushed, and when she logs back into her computer, he notices the edge of a purple bruise on the soft spot between her neck and shoulder, barely concealed by the white v-neck t-shirt she wears. She meets his eyes, sweeps her tongue over her lips, and buries herself in work.

He’s hard, again.

No one notices, again. They take a case in Orlando, a serial killer case like many before it, nothing so out of the ordinary that anyone should be particularly on edge, but Spencer is, and Sophie can’t figure out why. He’s retreated into himself, not as talkative, and snippy, when he does speak, so she doesn’t start the car right away when they climb in, hopes for a little partner/girlfriend heart to heart before they go canvassing for leads.

“Spencer. Hey,” she says softly, pressing her hand to his cheek when he won’t make eye contact. “Baby, what’s going on? You’ve been distant all day. I’m worried about you.” He presses his face against her palm, looks up at her with sad eyes.

“I hate when we’re on a case, and I know that you and Aaron will get to sleep together, and I’m stuck in my room by myself, all alone.” She sighs, because that can’t be all it is, but it makes her heart hurt anyway.

“Is that the only thing bothering you?”

“It’s not just that, it’s the bigger picture. You two are… out, for lack of a better word. People see you, they know you’re together, they know you’re in love. I feel like the third wheel, sometimes. People don’t know that I mean anything to either of you. They don’t know I love you, or that you love me, that we…” He shakes his head, presses his lips together like he wants to cry. “That when the three of us make love, I feel like the man I’m supposed to be. That I feel really seen for the first time in my life.” She puts her other hand on the side of his face, brings him closer for a slow, loving kiss, breathes against his lips.

“I’m sorry, honey. You’re right, none of that is fair to you, and we haven’t been very thoughtful or attentive to your needs around this. I promise things will change. I don’t know how, exactly… It’s complicated, I know you know that. But you deserve to be just as seen as Aaron and I are, so we’ll find a way to make it work.” She rests her nose against his, softly kisses his lips. “I love you so much, Spencer, and so does Aaron. You aren’t a third wheel, we’re all equal.” He nods against her cheek.

“I know, I do, and I love you both so much. I don’t want to make your lives harder, but I want more. I need more.” She pulls back, brushes her fingers through his hair, runs a soothing hand over his arm.

“Of course you do, and we want that too. You’re not asking for anything we shouldn’t have already given you.” She feels guilt like a pit in her stomach at the fact that they didn’t think of this, try to get ahead of it. Poor Spencer. “It will work out, baby, I promise. We’ll find a way. And I’ll sleep in your room tonight,” she adds, knowing it’s a small comfort, but she hopes it makes him feel better until they can make the big things right. “I’ve slept in your room before, when things were hard, it’s not like it’s a big deal.” He closes his eyes, nods tightly.

“Right. No one needs to know.” She frowns, because that’s not what she meant, but he pulls back, buckles up his seatbelt, and she does the same, at a loss for what she can do in the meantime to make him feel seen.

When she’s in Aaron’s room that night, getting ready to duck into Spencer’s, she has an idea, runs it by him. His face abruptly goes serious, dark, and he takes her face in his hands, kisses her roughly.

“Are you sure? Anyone could see—it’s not like we’re in a low-traffic city,” he warns, but she nods. She’s pretty sure, after talking to both of them, that this is something that Spencer would enjoy, that would maybe make him feel a little bit better about it all. She wants to do it.

“Yeah. We’re the only ones on this side of the hall, so I figure that’s as safe as we’ll get, in terms of the team, and… I’m okay, with anyone else. If it will make him happy.” She grips the hair at the back of his head, presses their foreheads together. “You’ll be there for me, right?”

“I promise,” he murmurs, caressing her face, and she sighs against his lips.

“Thank you. I love you.” He says it back, kisses her, and she takes a step back, grabs her stuff, walks to the door. “I’ll text you, let you know when we’re ready.”

“Okay. Remember your words. Use them if you need them.” She nods, leaves the room, knocks lightly on Spencer’s door.

“Hey, honey,” she greets, and he steps aside, takes her bag, closes the door behind them. She pulls him down for a gentle, slow kiss, smooths her hands over his body like she’s trying to commit him to memory. “Hmm. How are you doing?”

“I’m okay,” he says with a soft smile. “I was thinking about earlier, in the car, and I wasn’t fair. It makes sense that people can’t know until we figure things out; I shouldn’t have been so harsh with you.” She thanks the heavens above for the perfect segue, because she’d been struggling with a way to explain her idea without sounding like a babbling, horny idiot.

“It makes sense that the team can’t know,” she corrects, and she leans up for another kiss. “Or people we work with. But other people, people we don’t know, that would be fine, right?” He tilts his head, looks a little confused by her question.

“What do you mean? Like, if we went on a date together? And people saw us?” She nods a little.

“Yeah, something like that. Or even… you know. If people saw you kissing me, or they saw us having sex. That would be okay, wouldn’t it?” Her heart is racing, and his breathing picks up, she can tell; she can tell her words affect him just by the set of his mouth, the way his hands move to her hips and tighten there. It’s so fucking hot.

“Yeah, yeah. That would be okay. Would that be okay with you?” Aaron was right then, when he’d suggested that their boy might be harboring a hidden exhibitionism kink; she smiles, pleased, proud of their man for noticing.

“It would be okay with me,” she murmurs, pressing her lips to his. “There’s a chaise couch thingy on the balcony out there. I thought maybe you and I could put on a show for Aaron; and if someone else is out on their balcony, and they happen to see us, all the better. They’ll see how horny you make me, how hard and loud I come for you. How much I love you, need you, want you.” Her last words are spoken directly into his ear, and he shivers, lifts her up and presses her back against the wall.

“Fuck. Yeah, I want to.” His mouth moves frantically over her throat, his hands on her back, and he makes sure she’s supported before moving to pull her shirt over her head, so he can kiss and lick and squeeze her exposed tits. “Oh, god.”

“Yeah, Spencer. I can’t wait to feel you, to show the world what you mean to me. What you do to me.” He’s panting, and he puts his hands on her again, moves them to the bed, lays her back on it.

“Sophie, so good for me, always giving me so much. Always pleasing me, always.” She tips her head back, moans, and when he drags her pants down her legs, then her panties, she sighs, horny, happy, pleased. A little nervous. But she wants to do this for him more than anything.

“Let me text Aaron real quick,” she says, but she pulls his shirt off first, pushes down his pants and boxers, wants to see him, feel him. He hands her her phone, and her fingers are trembling a little as she types out the text.

Showtime.

Spencer is, of course, as sweet and kind and sexy as ever, when he lays her naked body back on the chaise, which is directly across from Aaron’s balcony. He looks into her eyes, makes sure she’s okay, and she nods, a signal to begin.

They very mindfully keep their eyes on each other, don’t pause to try to seek out Aaron—she knows he’s there, even though it’s dark, because he said he’d be—or to check for anyone else. They both decided it would be better that way.

Both hands cover her breasts, rubbing slow circles, stimulating her nipples, and she moans softly, letting her head fall back, moving her arms up on either side of it. He kisses her mouth tenderly, then trails his lips down her throat, between her breasts, down her stomach; he dips his head low, takes a gentle taste of her slick, throbbing pussy, and then one of his hands leaves her chest to press open her thigh, giving himself more room to work.

“So fucking beautiful. Wet and open—you really want me, don’t you, sweet girl?” His voice is a little louder than it would normally be, and she quickly realizes he wants to make sure it carries over to Aaron, so he can hear them as well. She tries to remember to be really loud, even though it goes against her instincts.

“Oh, yes.” He spreads his fingers where they rest on her tit, then pushes it up, harder, and she moans. “Mmmh, yeah.”

“So perfect for me. Horny, slutty, gorgeous girl for daddy.” She snaps her eyes shut, bites into her bottom lip; she hadn’t counted on him bringing out the daddy tonight, while they’re doing this. It makes her feel dirty, and extremely aroused.

“Yes, daddy. I’m so horny, s-so slutty,” she stumbles when he slides his tongue between her lips, then up over her aching clit. “Oh, god, yes. Yes, daddy.”

He takes his time, goes slowly, slips his tongue through her folds, nibbles them with careful teeth, and she is just a mass of flesh and nerve endings sinking into the sofa, squirming under his hands, whimpering and moaning at his every lick, touch. It feels like everything is moving in slow motion except her heart, her heaving chest, and her brain is already deliciously empty, like static on a broken television—it’s either her mind’s way of protecting her from the anxiety she knows she should be feeling at being this exposed, doing something so, so illegal and filthy and wrong, or it’s just Spencer.

She thinks it might actually be just Spencer.

He looks up at her from between her legs, so gorgeous, flushed, turned on, and he presses two fingers into her open mouth, which only makes her sink deeper into the place that’s all pleasure and need and wanting to please him. He pumps them into her mouth a few times, then pulls them out and sinks them deep into her pussy, making her arch and sigh.

“There you go, baby, that’s it,” he praises, dragging them in and out, in and out, in and out. He leans in to press the point of his tongue against her clit, divine sensation right where she wants it, and she comes around his fingers, moaning and gripping the edge of the cushion in her hands. “That’s a good girl. Good girl.” He shifts up, moves his hand up her body, slips his wet fingers back into her mouth so she’ll suck them clean.

She’s never felt so good in her entire fucking life. Aaron has been trying to resist shoving a hand into his boxers and jerking himself off, but his willpower is wearing thin.

Watching Spencer bring Sophie off with his mouth and his hands was... stimulating to say the least; she dropped into subspace so quickly and completely, he could see it from even a balcony away. Spencer is getting better and better at dominating her every day, better than him, even, because he has a refinement, a subtle nuance, that Aaron hasn’t found on his own quite yet.

It’s when he fucks her, though, that Aaron starts to lose his resolve. Maybe it’s because he’s truly just a spectator for the first time in their relationship, or maybe it’s because he knows—even if they don’t—that they’ve amassed a small audience, but he spreads his legs, rubs his hand over the bulge in his boxers, tries to keep breathing.

The tie thing is a tease, just truly unfair.

Before Spencer pushes into her, he reaches a hand down, pulls out a tie—one of Aaron’s, the one Spencer had worn to the office the day he’d marked him—and wraps it around Sophie’s wrists, knotting it tightly to keep her hands together, and he tucks it into the arm of the chaise so she’ll keep them above her head. She doesn’t make a sound, just stares up at him, subservient and willing, and it makes Aaron’s head spin. He can’t imagine what it does to Spencer.

With a couple of kisses, he’s inside her, up on his knees, his hands on her hips, and she wraps her thighs around his waist, lifts her ass up, and lets him pound inside.

“Oh, daddy. Fuck me,” she moans, and he licks his lips, pulls her against him with each thrust so he’s deep, fully sheathed inside her. “Yeah, just like that. All the way inside me. Tight, but I love it,” she pants, and he squeezes his eyes shut—so he won’t come, Aaron knows.

“Yes you do. Such a good little slut for daddy, taking my big cock even though it's tight. Your pussy’s mine, and I take what I want, don’t I?”

“God, yes. Take it, take it,” she mutters, and Spencer slowly brings his hands up to cover her throat, because she needs grounding and they can both tell. He slides his hands up and down her throat, not choking, just rubbing her there, and she moans, a wrecked and dirty sound. “Will you come inside me, daddy? Fill me up? Can I sleep with it inside me?” Aaron swallows hard, puts his hand in his pants and starts jerking his swollen, leaking cock. Spencer hums.

“Yes, baby, I’ll fill you with come. You can sleep with it. Maybe I’ll wake up in the night, stiff, and pump some more into you while you sleep. Would you like that?” She moans, bucks hard against him, nods.

“Yes, daddy. I’ll take whatever you give me. You do what you want to me. I’m just your pussy, just here for you to use. Use me.” He thrusts into her faster, his hands tight on her hips again, and he comes, snapping his body hard against hers.

Aaron knows he gets quickly spent and tired, but he jackhammers his cock into her a dozen times anyway, determined, and she comes calling Spencer, her hips stuttering against his until they both slow and settle. Aaron comes too, just a quiet grunt followed by a long, satisfied sigh.

Spencer unties her arms, kisses her wrists, and picks her up; it’s easy, because he’s still inside her, and her legs are still around him. A couple of people applaud and whistle from a balcony above, and Sophie tucks her face into Spencer’s neck, wraps her arms around him, and they go inside.

The two of you are incredible, he texts Spencer when he goes inside as well. I love you both so much. So perfect, so beautiful. Take care of each other.

We love you, too. I think tomorrow, you two should let me watch.

Aaron closes his eyes, exhales long, climbs into bed.

The next day, they somehow manage to work together as if nothing happened the night before, as if his two perfect partners didn’t fuck in front of a live audience, as if he didn’t bring himself off in public as a result.

It’s enough to keep him in a state of passive arousal all day, and he hopes and prays it’s not enough to give him an erection, because he doesn’t have time for it.

That night, though, is another story entirely.

Roles are reversed, as requested; Spencer sits on his balcony, in the dark, but they don’t look toward him, just the way he and Sophie didn’t look for Aaron. She said it helped, and he wants to keep her as comfortable as possible, knows this is a lot.

Aaron lays back on the chaise, and he gently palms Sophie’s head as she holds his hips, kisses and licks his dick; he knows she’ll fall hard sucking him off like this, and he liked how submissive she was for Spencer yesterday, would like to get her there himself too.

“Hmm. Good girl, baby,” he hums, brushing back her hair; she’d run her tongue over him all night if he let her, and it would get him off, too, but he wants to make it good for Spencer, so he reaches down and lifts his cock, guides her mouth down onto it.

She moans on him, wraps her hand around the base, presses her lips tight and bobs her head, slow and steady, and he tips his head back, rubs her arms, encouraging the treatment.

“Yes, baby, suck on daddy’s cock. You’re always best with your mouth full, aren’t you, my sweet, slutty girl?” She hums around him, shifts so she can get a hand between her legs, which is his absolute favorite, and moves faster, her hand and her mouth together, wet and hot, enough to make his eyes roll back in his head. He knows he won’t last long if she keeps that up, lets them both enjoy it for a moment before putting his hands on her cheeks and pulling her off gently. “Enough of that; climb up for daddy,” he instructs, and she slinks up his body, presses her mouth to his for a heated, eager kiss.

It lasts a while, because she feels so good, tastes so good, like him, and then they separate, panting against each other. “How do you want me, daddy?” He sits up, runs a hand up her body, and then guides her to sit back on his dick, making them both gasp. “Hmm, yeah. Thank you, daddy,” she murmurs, and she presses her hands against his chest and starts to move atop him.

She’s perfect, as always, fucking quickly, slamming into his thrusts, and one hand falls back to steady herself against his thigh; her chest is flushed and red, nipples hard, and he can’t resist, has to lean in and suck one into his mouth, roll it around on his tongue.

“Oh, fuck, mmm,” she sighs, wrapping her hand around the back of his head and holding him close. “You know my body so well because it’s yours, daddy. Yours to use, to fuck, to come inside.” He releases her breast and stares up at her, her breathing hard, her mouth open in a silent moan. She’s gorgeous, unabashed, riding his cock like she was made for it; he knows Spencer has to be touching himself as he watches her body work, her hips roll against him.

It’s relatively quiet, and he hears someone mutter, same girl, different guy, and he’s forced to really think about this for a moment, what they’re doing, the kind of line they’ve crossed. He wonders if this will be something done once, remembered fondly but out of their systems for good, or something they’ll need, will have to learn to navigate around safely, healthily. He thinks about how different it is for her, as a woman, compared to how it is for them as men.

She either feels none of the same apprehension or simply hides it well, because she only bounces harder against his thighs until she comes whimpering his name. He groans, puts his hands on her ass and squeezes it, urging her to keep going until the sensitivity passes, not to stop or slow. She knows what to do—another voice says riding it like a champ—just tosses her hair over her shoulder, scrapes her nails through the hair on his chest, moans long and loud.

“Mmm, yes, daddy, thank you daddy. Thank you for not letting me stop—I’m just here for you to use, to take your come. I’m your slut.”

“Yes, baby girl, you are a slut for daddy. You live to be fucked hard, destroyed by me. By us.” It’s the only time they’ve acknowledged Spencer, and Aaron can hear a faint groan coming from his direction. “One man is not enough for a needy, desperate slut like you. You need two. Separately, together—you belong to us both.” She runs a hand through her hair, bucks hard against him, reaches down to rub at her clit again; god, if she comes on his cock twice he’s going to fucking lose it.

“Yes, yes, yes,” she chants, and he leans up again, bites down on her nipple, and she cries out in pleasure, digs her nails into his chest, and comes again. He puts both hands hard on her hips, forces her down onto his cock a handful of times and then comes as well, pumping into her tight channel with a groan.

She pants, catches his mouth in a bruising kiss, and he gets her into the bedroom, lays her back on the bed, and watches her body move as she works to catch her breath, still shivering with aftershocks, clamping down tight around his cock. She touches his face, his hair, and he only pulls out when he hears a light but insistent knock on the door.

“It’s Spencer, baby, I’ll be right back,” he promises, kissing her, and when he opens the door Spencer flies in, grabs him hard, kisses him, then makes his way to Sophie; he touches her softly, stroking her hair, whispering words of praise until she’s shaking and the only thing that will soothe her is his arms wrapping around her, holding her close.

It’s the first time he actually notices how differently she sees them, as their sub. Aaron is the one who makes rules, gives orders, disciplines and corrects, and Spencer is softer, earning obedience with his actions more than his words. Aaron pushes her, overwhelms her, and Spencer is the one who helps her through when she’s overwhelmed, and it’s why this works, why it works when he’s dominating Spencer, too. There’s no clashing of personalities, it’s all complementary, all necessary. All important.

He has to find a way to make this right. “Strauss was… confused, to say the least,” Aaron explains to them at dinner a few nights later. “And I could tell she thinks I’m just a couple more twenty-somethings away from being a cult leader or something,” he says—only half joking, Sophie can tell, “but she knows, now. All that’s left is to tell the team, and then live with whatever repercussions may come.” She reaches out for both of their hands, squeezes them.

“Well, the team was okay with us when we disclosed, and this is a little more unconventional, but we know them. I don’t think we’ll have a problem. If anyone else has one, that’s beyond our control. It doesn’t say anything about us; people have always found a reason to dislike something different just because it’s different.” She glances at Spencer, who is looking so soft, pleased, that she doesn’t know how they didn’t see the signs before. He’s like a whole new person, now, their person.

"One more thing," Aaron says, and he's looking at the both of them, his face sweet and loving too. He crosses the room, opens a drawer, pulls out two small jewelry boxes and sets one in front of each of them. He crouches between them. "I know it might seem a little soon, but this isn't anything serious, just a reminder, a promise. I don't ever want either of you to feel like we aren't all equal here: equally valued, equally important, equally loved." Sophie opens hers—a delicate gold band with a small diamond in the middle—and Aaron pulls a third out of his pocket, thicker, simple, just gold, identical to the one Spencer opens. "Please don't ever think you can't talk to me when something is bothering you, and don't ever forget that I love you."

She leans over, kisses him, kisses Spencer, and they kiss each other, and the night gets away from them and they have sex in so many different positions and combinations it’s like Twister, but everyone feels fulfilled when they drift off to sleep, and that’s the most important thing.

Telling the team is… interesting, to say the least.

“Okay, thanks for letting us know,” JJ says, nodding, and Aaron, Spencer, and Sophie just look at each other where they stand. Spencer frowns, confused.

“What do you mean, ‘thanks for letting us know’? That’s it?” Morgan crosses his hands behind his head.

“Yeah. We’ve known for a while, but this is like you guys coming out, as bi or pan or whatever you two are,” he says, gesturing to the guys, “and then as like… what’s the word, baby girl?” he asks Garcia, and she waves her feathered pen at the three of them.

“Throuple. It’s like a couple, but, you know, three.” She smiles kindly.

“You knew,” Spencer repeats, and Sophie glances at Aaron, shoots him an indulgent smile. “You knew, all along?”

“Since the day you guys had your ‘partner evaluations,’” Prentiss admits with a teasing tone. “You two are extremely obvious. It’s like you can’t get laid without looking like two blushing, giggling little school girls after. So not sneaky.”

“I literally saw you two making out at Rossi’s party,” JJ says with a laugh. “I was going to tell Hotch I thought you were cheating on him, but Garcia convinced me not to. She was on to your whole thing before any of us.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Spencer asks, looking like he’s about to pull his hair out. Sophie knows he’d been so upset he couldn’t share their relationship with anyone, and they knew for most, if not all of it, so he’s understandably kind of losing it.

“What were we supposed to do? Order a cake and make you a banner that said, ‘Congrats on the threesome!’?” Prentiss jokes, and Garcia leans back in her chair to look at her.

“Throuple.” Prentiss waves her hand, accepts the correction, and Sophie reaches out for Spencer, smooths her hand over his back, presses her nose to his shoulder.

“Okay, well I think this turned out well. Let’s go make a cup of tea, baby,” she murmurs, and Spencer lets himself be led away, muttering about stupid friends that drive me crazy. Aaron follows behind them, presses his hand to her lower back, and Sophie sighs, content.

[ginkgomoon]

Victor’s Aura- A Character Aura Study

This post is my take on Victor’s aura, taken from my knowledge and intuition to depict what kind of aura he has! I did one on Gavin, as well as Gavin’s astrological birth chart so if you haven’t seen them, you can read them after this post!

What is an Aura? “Aura” by the dictionary is “the distinctive atmosphere or quality that seems to surround and be generated by a person, thing, or place”. 

It’s essentially the electromagnetic energy field that surrounds all living things. It’s the magnetic field of vibration like how a lighted candle is lit and how a scent or perfume surrounds a flower. In fact, it’s correctly described as an extension of the body. It’s a part of every cell. Your aura can be affected by anything, including traumas, memories and emotions. It can tell us a lot about a person’s mental, physical, emotional state, vitality and path of life. Habitual thoughts, emotions and even illnesses can be clearly revealed. If a person changes their long standing thoughts and emotions, the aura will too reflect that. 

Victor’s Aura There are many layers to the aura but let’s start off with the “ground” colour. This is the main colour that dominates the aura both in size and intensity. It’s arguably the most important colour as it shows what the person should be doing in their life. 

Victor’s main ground colour is dark yellow (keep in mind this is not defined as “murky”- when someone is lost and muddled in their life). People with dark yellow as their ground are confident, well adjusted and analytical. As a result, they take life one step at a time, one goal at a time, ensuring every project is seen through properly to completion to avoid problems and setbacks later. They are patient people, setting their worthwhile goals in no hurry to reach them, as they know without a doubt that they will obtain their deserved reward in the end. They prefer to do things rationally and in a logical manner, especially at work where they are required to make use of their good memory and love for detail. As they are ambitious and persistent, they often take up roles of leadership, responsibility and of importance. From his corrections on MC’s reports to the food he makes at Souvenir (that is insisted to be cooked according to certain temperatures), Victor is no doubt a detail-oriented leader even whether if the goal he wants to achieve is related to work or not. 

MC: It’s a sort of mark that can be left in literature or in a photograph… and I can feel it. Victor’s eyes are lowered. In his clear and tranquil eyes, there are ripples of light and shadows. Victor: Such as? The smile tugging at the corner of his mouth is clear, and I ponder this seriously. MC: For example, the way I write proposals has changed. The format of my proposals has changed. The indent of the first line, font size 15, 1.5 spacing between lines… it’s the format you find most pleasing to the eye! Victor’s eyebrow quirks. Victor: That’s all? MC: There’s more! I’ve become so much more picky with food. I never used to complain that food tastes bad, but eating at Souvenir has cultivated my palate. Now, when I eat even Michelin meals, I feel as if something’s lacking… -CN Exhibition Date 

“What happened with SE is just an example. We’re from different businesses and different fields. There’s no need to compare yourself with me. Also, I’m older than you. When you’ve reached my age, you might attain the achievements I have today.” -CN Night Meeting Date

“Slow and steady wins the race” is the moral that they live by, but sometimes adhering to this credo may frustrate others as they can be so analytical and detail oriented at times- usually at great lengths. A cute little add from the Tender Regards Date around the concept of snail mail, time (Victor’s evol!) and the goal of always reaching your destination in the end demonstrate this this motif in Victor’s relationship with MC.

“Looks like you should have received this Future Mail. Apart from supporting your event, I’m only going to do this once. This will not be repeated. The things I want to say to you are all in this videotape. It only belongs to you.” -CN Tender Regards Date 

“When will you finally understand? It’s all right. I’m patient. I’ll wait for you to see the light slowly.” -Rooftop Date

Although they have feelings, they only ever reveal it to people close to them. They enjoy the detail and technicality of conversations and find it hard to talk about their emotions. Victor’s Exhibition and Tender Regards Date are very useful sources of information in relation to these topics, as it displays Victor’s deep emotions of affection to MC and highlights the importance of expressing emotions to those you love. Dark yellow aura peoples’ greatest lesson in life is to be more emotionally open, and when do they do, it usually occurs later in life. 

“The writer wrote it down herself - “The time I spent loving someone, not a single second of it was wasted.” I rarely hear such words leave Victor’s mouth, and it makes me feel a little surreal. In my memory, we very rarely talk about the topic of ‘love’. Maybe it’s because he rarely says what’s in his heart. Maybe it’s because I’m used to being thick-skinned. We never have the opportunity to seriously understand the meaning in these words. -CN Exhibition Date 

“Do you still remember the special episode on “Feelings” from before? Actually, this theme was inspired by that episode. Giving gifts is a common way to express how one feels. But it’s not that easy to send a gift to the future. With Future Mail, the sender can convey their feelings and surprises in this gift to the other party across time.” -CN Tender Regards date 

People with dark yellow as their ground enjoy system and order such as routines at work and in their home life. This is applied to Victor’s strict schedules in his day to day life, such as taking on what time he sleeps and when he gets up to go on his morning jogs. They need to consider new ideas before grudgingly accepting them. This is especially applied to when Victor always says “just this once” to MC when he’s being “childish” with her (but we really know that isn’t the case, he knows this all too well, too). 

“Because a certain greedy cat always says she wants to eat something sweet after dinner, I made pudding before leaving the house. Do you think this is a mark of how I’ve been changed?” -CN Exhibition Date 

Next is Victor’s “radiating” colour. This represents his interests and motivations. It adds strength to the ground colour. They can work well in harmony, some can conflict. 

I would take Victor’s radiating as violet. Violet is a very highly spiritual colour, as people with this colour as their radiating will have a very spiritual take on life, as they are deep thinkers who like to analyse everything and think matters though logically. They are also naturally intuitive. Violet radiatings have the ability to come up with unique and unusual solutions to problems. As they enjoy learning, they have the potential to become experts in their field of endeavour- which is no surprise for Victor as he’s basically an “on top of the world tyrant” in the industry of finances. In addition, they feel things deeply, but rather operate things on an emotionally free level- again with the ground aura traits to enhance this! However, Victor too, has a high EQ despite this.

“I’m no different from you. There are many things I cannot do or force to make happen. It’s okay to not be strong, it’s okay to not do well. You don’t have to bottle up your emotions.” … “I won’t tell you to keep holding on no matter what difficulties you face. That isn’t realistic. There will come a time when you will become an even better version of yourself who will have enough courage and experience to deal with all of this.” -CN Colours of Rain Date 

Overall, Victor’s aura of darker yellow and violet depict him as more of a straightforward kind of person, hardworking and articulate, however soon we realise there’s more to what we see of Victor, like how MC thinks that Victor comes off as a “heartless CEO” throughout the main story chapters but he slowly warms up to her whilst determining to prove her wrong. Victor is wise, and doesn’t bother to put in his personal efforts to where it’s not needed, but when it’s up to him- he strives to go all the way for perfection and with the best of his ability. He spends a lot of time in deep contemplation to determine his plans of attack which allows him to execute them well. His values and worth ethics will always in the end allow him to make time for MC, no matter how busy he is :) 

And lastly…

Victor leans against the window, his face still written with distaste, but he does not attempt to remove that childish-looking blanket. He brings the red cup to his lips and gently blows on it. The warm light encases him, softening the aura surrounding him. His outline also appears gentler. He doesn’t look as impossible to get close to. My eyes land on Victor, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He puts down the cup in his hands, lowering his eyes, as though deep in thought. This is a Victor I have never seen before… In this moment, he seems to have put down his stubbornness and distant aura - becoming someone within reach. Only now does Victor finally feel my gaze. He raises his head to look at me. -CN Warm Date 

All of a sudden, he lifts his other hand gently. A water droplet pelts onto his palm, as though pulling him into the pattering rain. Seeing this, I find myself subconsciously frozen in place. Because of the enshrouding misty rain, the Victor before me appears warmer and more tender than usual. -CN Tender Regards Date 

It always has and always will be MC to see this side of him- the tenderness and the willingness of how he opens up to her- his aura willingly to embrace hers too. Fun fact- auras can deflect off one another if you’re with someone you dislike. But when it’s with two people in love, their auras connect, combine and produce an even brighter and bigger accommodating aura for the both of them. He’s certainly living working towards to achieve his greatest life goals- both in his businesses and being with MC, striving together to make great changes and milestones in their respective industries. Without a doubt, she has helped Victor’s aura grow, expand and shine the many rays through his doubts, allowing a light from within to burn brighter and evolve him into more of the brilliant, hardworking and tender man we know today.

[cheeriecherry]

Space Between [Aizawa Shouta x F!Reader x Yamada Hizashi] [4/9]

EraserMic x Reader

Part 4/8

Warnings: some descriptions of violence, therapy/doctor visit, some kiss

When Shouta and Hizashi wake up the next day, it’s to the smell of cooking food.

Unable to stay asleep, you’d given up and decided to be more productive with your time. You knew it was pretty rare for them to have time for breakfast, so you worked quickly to pull something appetizing together.

In any case, they both seemed to appreciate it, sipping their coffees and savouring the warmth of home made food.

“This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten,” Hizashi says, mouth full of food.

Shouta mumbles at him to stop being rude, but you just laugh, “You’ve still got the same shitty tastebuds, ‘zashi.”

It earns a smile from both your friends, but the blond does make an effort to swallow before speaking again.

“So, what’s on your agenda today, sweetcheeks?”

It takes you a second to realize he’s talking to you, and not Shouta. Though you can’t imagine such a nickname for him, it’s still been a while since either of your friends have called you anything but your name. It’s a nice change, even if the way he says it makes your face heat up.

“Not much, actually,” you say, pushing an egg around your plate, “I have an appointment with the doctor at one, and I’ve got some sheets to fill out beforehand. I think I’m gonna put my energy into that, instead of trying to get a bunch of things done.”

You don’t miss the way Shouta perks up slightly, even though he doesn’t say anything. Hizashi, on the other hand, almost looks deflated.

“That’s so...grown up,” he mumbles.

Shouta sighs. “He means boring.”

“I know, Sho.”

“Why don’t you do something fun, too?” the blond continues, “Go shopping, get lunch, see the city, y’know?”

You mind flashes momentarily to the day before, and the catastrophe that had been the mall, and you cringe. “Yeah, after yesterday, I think I’m gonna limit my public appearances.”

And then you remember you’d never told either of them about your eventful afternoon.

“What happened yesterday?”

You groan quietly, and run a hand down your face. This wasn’t the conversation you wanted to have right now, but you supposed you brought it upon yourself. They wouldn’t let you off the hook, that was for sure.

“I...hand a panic attack at the mall. Crowds, and stuff.”

Hizashi eyes you suspiciously. “What else happened?”

“It’s fine,” you insist, “it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“Y/N…”

Annoyance bubbles in your chest, and you snap, “It’s fine! Just some kid who tried to scare me. I’ve got it, so let it go.”

You’re all quiet for a moment, and you droop, pushing your plate away.

“I’m sorry,” you tell them, truthfully.

“Sweetheart, it’s okay-”

“It’s not okay! I shouldn’t be taking my frustration out on you guys, especially not after everything you’ve done for me.”

Like put them in danger.

“The mission I went on was just so...so…”

They know where I am. They already sent someone after me, remember?

“Stressful, I guess?”

The people I love are going to end up dead.

Shouta reaches across the table to brush his fingertips against yours, a small notion of comfort and support. “We get it, Y/N. That’s why I gave you that list in the first place.”

It’ll be my fault.

Hizashi takes your other hand, rubbing soothing patterns into your skin. “Yeah, honey. No matter what, we’re always gonna be here for you.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, avoiding their gazes, and trying to push your thoughts down. But they’re loud, and they fill you with so much fear you can barely breathe.

Their devotion to me will get them killed.

“You…”

It’ll be my fault. Again.

In a quick motion, you tear away from their grasps and jump out of your chair, skittering a few feet back. “You shouldn’t promise things like that so blindly!” you cry, tucking your arms tightly against your body.

“Y/N-”

“No! You have no idea what kind of people I have after me! Letting me stay here is putting you guys in enough danger, I don’t need you fighting by my side!”

Shouta stands slowly from his seat, coming around the table quietly and making sure he doesn’t leave your line of sight. He manages to get about two feet from you before you’re shrinking away again, like some kind of frightened deer.

“You don’t deserve to die for me. And I certainly don’t deserve to have people like you on my rotten side.”

He reaches for you again, but you skirt around him and weasel away to the bathroom, where you shut the door and lock it.

You don’t bother turning the light on, opting to stay in the dark where no one can see you and you can’t see yourself. You can see your friends’ shadows under the door, hear their low voices, and you sink to the floor with tear filled eyes.

You hear one of them sit on the other side of the door, and it’s Shouta that speaks, “Y/N...whatever you think is going to happen to us, it won’t.”

You sniffle pathetically. “You have no idea how much power these people have. They kill pros all the time. All the time, Shouta.”

Hizashi says something from a few feet away, but his voice is muffled by the sound of your heart beating in your ears. Your friends talk back and forth for a moment, clipped and worried, and guilt washes over you.

I’m making them worry. Over nothing. They don’t deserve this.

A quiet knock on the door startles you. “You there still?” Shouta asks.

“Mhm…”

“Okay. I’m...I’m going to stay home with you today. Make sure you get to your appointment.”

Like a snap, you go from frightened, to frustrated and patronized. “I’m not a child! I don’t need someone to hold my hand everywhere I go! I’m fine!”

“Kitten, you’re hiding in the bathroom because you think people are after you.”

“People are after me, they made their message very clear! But it’s my battle to fight, and one I refuse to bring you two into. I’m going to do this on my own, appointment included.”

You’re all quiet for a bit, nothing but the sound of your own breathing in the lonely dark room. But a sigh eventually emanates from the other side of the door, and when Shouta speaks he sounds remarkably sad, “...we can’t force you to accept our help. But know that we’re here for you, whenever you need us. Always.”

You don’t reply to him, instead tucking your knees up to your chest while you finally let tears escape down your cheeks.

You remain like that until the sun comes up and floods the room with light, long after your friends have locked up and gone off to work.

----

You drum your fingertips against your thigh while you sit in the waiting room at the clinic. There weren’t many other people there with you, and all of them were more interested in their phones, but you couldn’t help feeling watched.

After your friends had left the house, you’d shamefully slinked out of the bathroom and back over to the couch. You knew you wouldn’t be able to sleep again, not without missing your appointment, so you’d set your energy into completing the needed forms.

Self assessments, symptom tracking records, confidentiality agreements, the like. It felt incredibly strange to be so honest about what you were going through, and a little piece of you wanted to lie and say you were okay, but logically you knew you’d get the best care if you told the truth.

You glance up at the front desk, where a receptionist is typing at her computer. Then, you glance at the clock on the wall. You were early, and though you’d only been in the building for five minutes it felt like time was dragging on.

You pull your phone out of your pocket with a shaky hand and open the news sites you’d been frequenting since coming home. You never found any updates on them, but they were the most reliable places you had access to, and-

You pause when a new article pops up.

‘Five suspects convicted after ties connecting them to drug trafficking, uncovered. Sixth suspect remains unfound.’

Your stomach sinks at the headline, and you click on the article.

‘Five individuals have been apprehended and sentenced after their involvement with one of the world’s largest international drugs trades is brought to light. Evidence strongly supports the presence of a sixth villain, though they remain elusive to the forces trying to bring them in.

A public warning has been issued, urging citizens and heroes to report any kind of suspicious activity…’

You stop reading after the first paragraph, staring blankly at your phone. So one of them had gotten away, just like you were worried about, and you had a pretty good idea of which one. The most wily of all six of them, and arguably the most dangerous. Smart, manipulative, a taste for violence.

Your heart rate begins to pick up, and you swallow the lump forming in your throat. If she was able to get away, then she knew she’d had people coming to get her, which meant she’d had information leaked to her, which possibly meant other information had been leaked alongside it, which meant-

An aura of unnatural calm washes over you, just as a woman comes to stand in front of you. You look up at her slowly, eyes wide and scared, but all she does is smile down at you.

“Miss Y/N?” she asks, and you nod. She offers a hand to you, which you politely take, and she gently pulls you to your feet. “I’m Nurse Himeno, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I apologize for using my quirk on you. You looked like you were having a hard time breathing.”

“It’s...fine.” Your tone is carefully devoid of any emotion, though the feeling of the womans’ hand in yours sends electric spikes up your arm.

“I’m a member of the daytime staff here,” she explains, leading you down a warm hallway lined with doors. “I handle patients who struggle with anxiety, be it chronic or trauma related. Since this is your first appointment here, the on staff physician, Doctor Masaki, will be seeing you today, to determine which programs will best fit your needs. Is that alright with you?”

You nod again, mumbling a quiet affirmation.

The two of you stop in front of a door, and Himeno ushers you inside. It’s...different than you imagined it would be; cozy and warm, with dim lighting, soft carpet, and pleasant artworks on the walls.

“Please take a seat, Miss Y/N. I’ll return shortly.”

You do as you’re told, sitting on the very edge of an overly plush chair. The calmness you’d felt slowly begins to fade, and your leg starts vibrating, thoughts beginning to race again.

You had to assume that the missing villain knew your location, as well as your involvement with the takedown of her subordinates. She’d be angry, furious, that she’d let you slip away. She wouldn’t be thinking straight.

If you could find a way to take advantage of that, she might be prone to rushing into things, to messing up and letting something slip. If you could catch her at unawares, you could have the upper hand...you could have a chance at beating her, before she got the chance to use her quirk.

It meant you’d most likely have to seek her out, ask around the local underground scene and see if anyone had any information on her. It would be risky, especially given your current state, but it would likely be your only opportunity. You’d have to keep it from Shouta and Hizashi, too, knowing that they’d try and stop you-

A wave of calm rushes over you again, and your thoughts stop in their tracks. Seconds later, Nurse Himeno and a woman you’re assuming is Doctor Masaki walk into the room.

“Good afternoon, Miss Y/N,” the doctor says, greeting you pleasantly before taking a seat across from you. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise,” you reply.

She taps at the tablet in her hand, scrolling around until she finds what she’s looking for. “I’ve reviewed the forms you submitted earlier today, regarding the symptoms you’re struggling with. Do you mind if we go over them?”

You nod.

“Alright. So...trouble sleeping, nightmares, intrusive thoughts, flashbacks, panic attacks...is there anything else on the list you weren’t able to mention?”

You slouch back in the chair, thinking to earlier in the day. “Agitation...uh, paranoia, I think. Guilt. I have trouble functioning sometimes, too. Like, today was the first time i showered all week, and I didn’t eat breakfast…”

“Why not?”

“...I was hiding in the bathroom.”

Doctor Masaki makes a few notes, and you idly pinch at the skin on your knuckles.

“Do you have any idea what may have triggered these kinds of responses? Trauma, a stressful event…?”

“Yeah.”

You’re both quiet for a moment, before she says, “I need to know what it is, dear.”

You fluster for a second, thoughts jumbled momentarily. “Oh- um. Okay, so. I was undercover for two and a half years...”

You go on to fully explain your situation, going into uncomfortable detail about the things you’d done and the things you’d witnessed, the things you were now dealing with, and your fears and stresses about the entire ordeal, including the recent arrests and villain misplacements.

“...and now I think one of them is here and out to get me, which is illogical, I know, but I’m so high strung all the time and I’m sick of having to constantly look over my shoulder, and wonder if I’ll come home to find the people I love dead!”

The calming aura surrounding you grows stronger, and though you try to fight it, you eventually let it be and fall back into your chair. All the while, the doctor makes more notes in what you assume is your case file.

“It sounds like a rough time,” she says, “Exhausting, too. It’s no wonder you’re experiencing so many symptoms; you’ve been through a lot.”

You twiddle your thumbs, waiting for her to continue.

“I think solo sessions would be a good place to start, twice a week, as well as some low dose medications to help you manage your anxiety and sleep. Does that sound agreeable?”

You shrug, not really knowing the answer. “Whatever you think is best, I guess…”

You talk a little bit more about private therapy and what sorts of things will happen there, as well as what kinds of medications you’re to start on. By the end of it when you’re leaving, prescription in hand, you’re beyond tired. Physically. Emotionally. Mentally.

You take a deep breath when you exit the building, letting the familiar smells of the city ground you.

You’d taken the train to the clinic earlier, but now you’re not sure you could manage being in such cramped quarters with other people (you barely handled it the first time). The walk home would take an extra fifteen minutes, but you were willing to foot that if it meant you wouldn’t have another panic attack.

----

Ten minutes later found you regretting your decision.

You hadn’t taken into account the fact that the train had an entirely different route than the one you needed to walk in order to get home, meaning you were smack dab in the middle of a run down neighborhood. Normally it wouldn’t bother you; you knew that most places like this held no danger.

But in your years working as a hero, this particular place had been notorious for mischief and small time villain activity. Sure, it was daytime, and you were physically capable of defending yourself, but the back of your mind was still on edge.

Keep your head low, walk fast, don’t make conversation, you think, speeding up your paces ever so slightly. You couldn’t see anyone on the street ahead of you, nor in the alleyways as you pass them...

You slow your steps again, hearing the soft echo of boots behind you. It was only a fraction of a second before the person matched your footsteps again, but it was enough time for you to know.

As you pass the next building, you dart into the narrow walkway beside it and find a place against the wall. Shortly after, a strikingly familiar hooded figure follows in suit, and you lunge.

Their back hits the brick with a thud, and they gasp as the air is forced out of their chest. You twist your fist in their sweater, pushing hard against their collarbone to hold them in place.

“Why are you following me!” you hiss, glaring up and down at the teen. Same as the other day, they’re in dark baggy clothes. The only difference is the grey mask covering the top half of their face, which is slightly askew from their struggling.

“What the hell, lady-”

“Cut the bullshit, you threatened me the other day, and now you’re tailing me. What do you want?”

They squirm for a couple more seconds, but eventually give up and slump against the wall. They looked tired, and a little nervous, but then so were you.

“You should keep your ears open, lady. You’re Y/N, right?”

You’re silent, and press them a little harder into the wall.

“Geez, you’re even more wound up than the other day! Relax, I’m not here on her behalf. I’m here to warn you!”

“What the fuck does that mean,” you hiss.

“I’m a vigilante!”

“Bullshit.”

“I swear!” by now they’re looking a little uncomfortable, and their breathing is slightly laboured. “I go by Oracle.”

You pause, then, grip loosening ever so slightly. You’d heard that name before, multiple times, from people who’ve complained over the years about a kid and their freaky quirk. One of the other names you’ve heard them called is Ill Omen, a messenger of death.

It’s bad news, if they’ve sought you out.

“Let’s pretend I believe you,” you say. “If you are who you say you are, then you know something. Tell me. Now.”

“If you could let me breathe-”

You release them, and they gasp for a few moments against the wall, rubbing the new undeniable bruise on their chest. They only take a few seconds of respite before they’re standing up again, staring at you with intense sincerity.

It’s a little unnerving.

“Like I said, I go by Oracle. My quirk lets me see the future, but only specific parts of it. And I don’t have control over whose futures I see-”

You roll your eyes. “I know who you are, kid. You see people’s deaths, and warn them about it.”

“Ehh…” the kid shrugs. “Close enough. Anyways, you. You have some powerful enemies, don’t you?”

“Assuming they know my identity and whereabouts, yes.”

“Best assume, then. In two weeks -I think- you’re going to die. A lot of people are. At the hands of a woman who calls herself Akuma.”

Your blood runs cold. Of course you’d assumed she would be the one to hunt you down, she was the only one of your targets who escaped capture, but hearing it spoken out loud has a much stronger effect than you’d expected. As if suddenly...the threat was real.

“Where?” you ask, “And what time of day?”

Oracle shrugs again, stuffing their hands in their pockets. “I...don’t know exactly. There were tall buildings, highrises, and a lot of people caught in the crossfire, so it was pretty busy.”

“That’s most of Japan.”

“That’s what I’m saying! Look, I only see the moments before a person dies, a couple seconds at most. I have to rely on visual cues in order to get the specifics.”

You step away from them, and start pacing around the alleyway. If their timeline was correct, then Akuma would already be in the country, no doubt. But if you still had some time before she struck, then it was likely she didn’t know your exact location. She wasn’t a patient person; if she had your whereabouts now, you’d already be dead.

I’m safe, for now. Shouta and Hizashi…

“Is there anything at all that you saw that could tip us off to a time?”

Oracle watches you walk back and forth. “I- there was a flyer in a shop window, dated two weeks from now, like I said. But I don’t know if that was the time it was happening, not for certain.”

You sigh deeply. Not certain, but certainly something.

“Can I know how I die?” you ask, quieter now. “I mean, I have a hunch, but…”

They scrunch their face up, in a way between disgust and a frown. “It’s kind of like. Akuma secretes this kind of...sludge? It looks like tar, reeks of despair-”

“-chokes the victim and makes them hallucinate while they drown. Yeah, I figured. Fuck, of all the ways to go.” Your mind dwells back to your partner while you were undercover, the only person you’d ever seen escape Akuma’s grasp.

Only to get a gunshot to the head.

Oracle takes a tentative step towards you, reaching out for a moment and then thinking better of it. They seem sympathetic, in a way, concerned, even though you’re a total stranger.

“Is it...not possible to escape?” They ask.

“It...is. Technically.” You turn to her, “The way Akuma’s quirk works is vile. Yes it causes hallucinations, and yes you suffocate if you’re under her control for too long, but it’s how she keeps her targets subdued.”

“How?”

“The tar she makes has a special property. As it soaks into the skin and overtakes you, it destroys the will to live. And it’s mighty hard to fight your way out of her clutches when you don’t see a reason to. You need a lot of willpower. And stubbornness.”

You fist a hand in your hair, and tug. You weren’t the kind of person who could get away from her. Maybe you used to be, but now? Now, you’re all but a ghost of the person you used to be, or a shell of the person you could become again. But not right now, you were too damaged, too weak.

You glance at Oracle. “I should go. Thanks for the heads up, kid.”

They reach out for you as you walk past them and back onto the street, barely missing the sleeve of your shirt. “Wait! If you want to live, you have to stay away from her-”

“Oracle...kid. You can’t save everyone. You’ve done your part, and where I go from here is up to me.”

“And where exactly is that?”

You don’t miss the frustration in their voice, but you pay it no mind.

“I don’t know.”

----

You startle at the sound of the front door closing, looking over from your spot on the couch. Some mediocre netflix show is playing quietly on the TV, but you hadn’t really been paying attention to it, too lost in thought.

Hizashi wanders into the room a couple seconds later, looking deceptively pleasant considering the way the day had started. He smiles at you from across the room, and tosses his jacket over the back of the couch, coming around to find a seat beside you.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says softly, and you can’t help but smile.

“Hey ‘zashi. Where’s Shouta?”

“Late patrol. He should be home by midnight.”

You both fall quiet after that. Neither one of you want to address the tired atmosphere of the room. Neither one of you really want to bring up what happened earlier in the day. You certainly don’t want to talk about your visit from Oracle. But…

“Sorry I don’t have dinner ready today,” you begin, “I...kind of had a long day. I’ve been distracted since I got home.”

Hizashi rearranges himself on the couch, getting more comfortable as he turns to face you. “You had your appointment today, right? How’d it go?”

For a moment, you contemplate not telling him everything, of sparing him the details and only mentioning your appointment. You knew that wasn’t fair, though, and if you were going to get anywhere and improve, you had to let people in. And your best friends would be your first choice.

“It went okay. Doctor was nice, place was tidy. I’ve definitely got some kind of PTSD, but I’m pretty sure you guys already knew that.”

“Just a little.”

You shove him gently, a smile gracing your lips. It soon fades, though, giving way to the downtrodden expression you’d been wearing most of the afternoon.

“It’s actually not the doctor I’m stressing over,” you say, chewing on your lip. “Hizashi, I…”

You pause, taking a shaky breath. Hizashi leans closer, some inkling of youthful hope gleaming behind his eyes. You don’t know what he wants you to say, but the next words out of your mouth certainly aren’t it.

“I met someone today.”

You can physically see him deflate.

“That’s not what I thought you were going to say.”

You watch him carefully, wanting to ask what it was. Ask him anything, anything to get away from the conversation you’re about to have. “Have you ever heard of the vigilante called Oracle?”

All at once, his posture stiffens, and a wrinkle forms in between his pinched brows. He’s smart, you know he is, and you know he’s already figured it out. “The kid who predicts people’s deaths. You met with them?”

“They sought me out.”

“That’s even worse!”

He clearly stressed now, starting to fidget and pluck at the loose threads on his jeans. His gaze is focused on something far away, as the gears turn in his head.

“Please, please tell me they didn’t-”

“Two weeks from now,” you supply bitterly.

“Y/N…”

He looks heartbroken, like he wants to throw up and cry at the same time. You don’t blame him. If you were in his position, you’d be throwing a fit by now, trying to find ways to fix it, to make sure he was safe.

“Well, then maybe this is a good thing,” he says, ever the optimist. “You have a heads up. You can avoid-”

“No.”

He looks at you like you’ve grown a second head, anger bubbling in his expression. “What do you mean ‘no’? Y/N, if you’re going to die, and you can get out of it-”

“Not for long!” You wince at the volume of your voice, shoving off the couch to pace around the living room. “Do you know who kills me, Hizashi? Akuma.”

“Who?”

“Akuma! She was my...boss, of sorts. While I was undercover. She escaped arrest. Oracle told me that I get caught in her quirk. I’ve only ever known one person who escaped it, and he’s dead.”

You come to a stop in front of him, slouched slightly, tears welled up in your eyes. “She’s so strong, ‘zashi. Unstoppable. Deadly.”

He stands up off the couch, taking up most of your personal space, but he doesn’t seem to care. “We can stop her. We’re heroes, it’s what we do. It might not be easy, but if we get the city on alert-”

“It’ll only delay her,” you shake your head, “She thrives in the underground world. She’s got connections. If I don’t face her now, I’m going to spend the rest of my life running.”

“But at least you’ll be alive!”

You’re both surprised and not, to see him lose his cool like that. He grips your shoulders tightly, holding you in place. “You can’t just give up and let yourself get taken down! Just because some kid says you’re gonna die, now you gotta? It was a warning, Y/N, a blessing, to get you to stay away!”

“I never said I was gonna throw my life away!”

“That’s exactly what confronting Akuma is!”

“It’s not!” You glare up at him, refusing to soften over the tears and desperation on his face, refusing to back down to his fears and worries. “I’m sick of always looking over my shoulder! I’m sick of being afraid, and angry, and tired, all the time! If doing this means I might get my freedom back, means I might win, then I’m doing it.”

“Or,” he spits, “you’ll end up dead.”

“Well, either way, it’s my life! And my choice!”

You move to shove him away, shake him off of you, but he only pulls you close and crushes you in a hug. He holds you tighter than you think he ever has, his fingers digging almost painfully into your skin where he grips you. You don’t even realize he’s crying, until a pathetic sniffle sounds in your ear.

“Please,” he whispers, voice wet and trembling. “Sweetheart, please. Sho and I...we thought we lost you once already. Please don’t do this.”

Slowly, you snake your arms around him, returning the gesture in a more gentle manner. Your own eyes water uncontrollably as you bury your face in his shoulder, dripping onto his shirt.

“I’m going to face her,” you say.

“Y/N, Oracle’s visions-”

“-Are a warning. I know when Akuma is going to strike, and I’ll be ready. Hizashi, I promise.”

He pulls back slightly, releasing you from his hold enough so that he can rest his forehead against yours, and for a moment, your feelings for him resurface. His soft breath fanning across your face, his thumbs rubbing slow circles into your arms. You want to tell him more than ever now, how you feel about him. If you were going to die, you couldn’t bear something like that being unspoken.

“‘Zashi, I need to tell you something else.”

Your gazes connect, then, his eyes piercing and swimming with so many emotions. Your words die in your throat, lost in the moment. The moment where there is no Akuma, no impending death...just the two of you, holding each other close, silently sharing the love you feel for one another.

He looks so tired, so scared, but behind it all there is a fierce determination and a fiery hope.

If you’re going to die, you don’t want those words left unspoken.

“I-”

But he already knows what you're going to say, so he cups your face, and cuts you off with a kiss.

[infinitum-imaginaerum]

Graffiti | Jaehyun | 05

Badboy!Tagger Jaehyun | Series Words | 5,000+ Warnings | Language, Mature themes, Blood, Violence

04 | 05 | 06

The way his nose brushed against yours sent a tingle through your spine, bringing you up on your tippy toes to shift between his feet. His eyes had fluttered closed with the proximity, something in him begging to make the step, but you could hear his teeth grind together, feel his fingers covered in crusting paint drop from your cheeks to furl into your jacket against the small of your back. The shift of his feet ground against the loose gravel on the pavement, and that was the only sound besides his soft breathing mingling with your own that you could hear. One of your hands slithered away from the back of his neck and down the curve of his chest, against his immaculate black v-neck under his leather jacket where you could feel the rapid beat of his heart. You leaned into him a little further, trying to give him some encouragement, and his breath hitched a bit.

“You should be afraid of me. You shouldn’t be here. You should be staying as far away from me as you can,” he reasserted stubbornly, trying to tug you away from him with the loose fabric of your light jacket.

“And why would I do that when you’re the only reason I’m alive?” you asked him in return, a breathy reply to his statement.

“Don’t say that,” he growled, trying to sound intimidating, but deep in there you could hear the wounded wolf in that growl. “The only reason—”

“You and I both know that what you’re about to say isn’t true,” you interrupted. “Do you remember what you said to me when we first met? You couldn’t have forgotten, it wasn’t that long ago,” you continued, finding the flat of your feet again but that didn’t stop the way your gaze trailed down his chest where you were already drawing inane lines and shapes, remembering exactly what he said to you.

He scoffed, almost feeling mocked, and you could feel him shut off from you a little bit. “My apologies, a lot of things have happened in the days since I met you. Forgive me for not remembering,” he told you, but his politeness was more patronizing than anything, and it was intended to be that way.

Despite that, a small smile tugged at your lips as your gaze got lost in the dark cotton of his tee-shirt. “You introduced yourself to me, and said it was very nice to have saved my life. And ever since that day, you’ve continued to save my life, even when you think you’re not.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You did, and then you put your jacket over my shoulders, took me home, asked for my phone number, and kissed the back of my hand.”  You could see the tendons in his neck tense as he clenched his jaw before swallowing hard. “My guess is that something happened, which gave you this nick and damaged your hand, and then your whole demeanor changed because even though you’ve dealt with this for a long time, you understand that there’s someone else in the middle now, and for some reason, you think it’s all your fault.”

“Stop,” he pleaded again, the wound on his hand suddenly stinging like a fresh burn.

“But none of it is your fault. You didn’t do anything, so why beat yourself up about it? If I even remotely thought it was your fault, I wouldn’t keep coming back—”

“I’m going to kiss you if you don’t stop,” he interrupted, and suddenly his breathing was a little erratic, his grip turned into wide palms tugging you into him again, instead of trying to pull you away from him.  

“But I do keep coming back, because something about you is so captivating, and speaks to the deepest parts of my soul, and I just can’t stay away from you,” you breathed, feeling his feet shift forward, right hand leaving your back to press against the wall to imprint another hand against his work. He pulled your arch deep into him, warm mouth slanting against yours to silence you for at least a moment so he could attempt to collect his thoughts. The way your arms draped back around his neck, relishing the kiss, drew a sigh against your mouth, a warm exhale from his nose against your face.

He was the first to break the kiss, but obviously wasn’t done. He readjusted, switching sides of your nose to recollect your lips in a kiss that was more ardent, definitely not as reserved as the first sweet lip-lock, a culmination of all the times he told himself it was a bad idea compounded into one. His hand pinned against the wall slipped away enough to turn you to a bare adjacent wall, but the second you hit it, he was pulling away again. The kiss broke quietly, but not without a quick protest of your gentle nip against his bottom lip that he swiped his tongue against a second later. He begged to touch your cheek with that paint stained hand, and so vainly attempted to wipe it away on the back of his jeans.

Your eyes fluttered open, meeting his firm chest first before looking up into his glittering gaze that looked down at you like the most fragile and beautiful piece of art he’d ever seen. His jaw was clenching, and he looked somewhat displeased.

“How can you just… break me down like that?” he asked softly, hardly a whisper. And the hand he’d tried so hard not to touch you with came up to put a paint streak against your cheek. You didn’t mind, you just looked up at him with a soft smile, eyes a little fluttery and all you could think about for a moment was the burn of his mouth against yours. One of your hands cupped the side of his neck, your gaze shifting between his eyes and his mouth and eventually guided him back down to you so you could collect his lips again.

This time, he pushed you into the wall with little reservations. Your warm tongue danced with his, and his hands took such a possessive grip of your hips to pull you against him that it almost made your head spin. His mouth was aggressive against yours, trying to collect more that there wasn’t to collect, heavy exhales through his nose a good indicator of his pent-up desires, but before he got too far, he broke the kiss again.

“You’re dangerous,” he breathed, pressing his forehead against yours while his eyes struggled to open.

“That’s funny, because you’ve been spending every day since I met you telling me how dangerous you are; I think your concept of dangerous is a little skewed,” you told him. The events that had happened leading up to this moment were gone from your immediate memory; all you knew was Jaehyun—his kiss and his warm body against yours.

“I think your concept of dangerous is skewed,” he told you with the quirk of his brow after pulling away from your forehead.  “Why are you out looking for me, anyway, especially this late?” he asked you, gaze turning serious as the haze began to lift. He still had you pinned against the wall, a possessive grip around you as he looked down at you. There was a tenseness in his brow that you couldn’t quite place.

“You ignored me all day,” you reminded him.

His jaw tightened in frustration. He still hadn’t completely got through everything he should have been thinking about only to be interrupted to have to see you much too soon—not that he didn’t want to see you. A chain of events pushed those thoughts to the back because his primary focus became you in the face of danger once again because of him.

“I didn’t mean to ignore you,” he replied through gritted teeth. “I’ve had a lot going on, thinking about you—the best way to protect you, the best way to make it easier on both of us…”

His explanation died a little bit with the way you placed a chaste kiss against his bottom lip. His shoulders slumped a little bit, but not in relaxation, more in defeat. The fire against his lips was a feeling he craved, now, and without much more to say, he cupped your jaw and kissed you once more.

“Duchess…,” he growled, frustrated with the way that every time he tried to build back up, you could push his blocks down so easily all over again. His hands took your hips, pushing you firmly against the brick of the building behind your back, putting you back up on your toes. His eyes looked over every detail of your face from your chin up to your eyes where he almost glared. It was the roughest gaze he’d ever given you, and it still wasn’t that rough. It was meant to be a warning, and you took it as such even knowing there wasn’t much, if anything, behind it.  

“I’m serious,” he tried to remind you, but it was an attempt next to vain, “You’re in danger because of me.”

“I’d argue you are in danger because of me,” you replied, the quietness of your voice matching his as he tried to steer the conversation in a more serious direction, which is probably where it needed to be.

“I’ve always been in danger,” he said.

“But you arguably have to put yourself in situations now where you would otherwise avoid,” you said.

“And how do you know that for sure?”

“Because I’m going to bet that these injuries,” you started, taking the wrist of his damaged hand to remind the both of you of the injury that tainted it, “came on your way home from dropping me off, which is why your replies were delayed and spotty and why your attitude has changed so drastically.”

Jaehyun’s jaw clenched tightly; how was it that you could just look into his eyes for a moment too long and seem to know so much, or at least enough to keep him on his toes, to keep him guessing about you. You were still on your toes, pressed into that wall with Jaehyun’s feet shuffled in between yours and he looked at you like he had something to say, like he wanted to ask you how you knew about it or had enough to guess.

“Maybe it’s the way you said you’ve been thinking about the best way to protect me,” you added, as if to read his mind which was trying to figure out how you had made such an astute guess in the first place. Truth be told, he was coming to the realization of just how much you paid attention and how closely you did. Most things he has said to you, you probably remembered; the things you’ve seen, with and about him, were probably in permanent memory.  

Somehow, the shiver that ripped through your body put all of that aside from his mind. His instincts were to protect you, even if that meant from the elements, and so he stepped away and shrugged his jacket off to whip around you before noting the time, noting the sleep in your eyes.

“It seems like no matter how I try to delay this talk, you’re insistent on having it; but if you don’t mind, let’s talk about it at your place, so at least I know you’re home safely,” he finally said to you after a few moments of looking over your features, especially noticing the way you sunk into his jacket, relishing the familiar warmth and scent of oakwood fire and a teakwood musk exclusive to Jaehyun. “And I’m not about to stand out here and watch you shiver,” he reminded you, and reached for your hand to gently bring it up to his lips to kiss against your knuckles as he looked deep into your eyes.

You conceded, at least for that. You wouldn’t stand for him shivering in placement of you, only guarded by the short sleeves of his black shirt and you could already see the goosebumps pricking at his skin; so, you nodded, and let his long fingers lace with yours to begin tugging you in the direction of your apartment building. In the back of your mind, you took solace in the fact that he would be safe inside the confines of your apartment for what you presumed might be the night as you sorted things out—although you weren’t sure too much about what there was to sort out.

It wasn’t a long walk to your place, but you still noticed the caution he used while navigating the streets, a caution he didn’t have before. You were starting to piece together the territory that surrounded this area—that it didn’t belong to Jaehyun and his boys, that he was on the wrong side of town taking you home. He walked as quickly as your legs would take you without breaking into a light jog, and you could feel the relief wash through the aura hanging over the two of you as you pushed through the doors of your complex and made it over to the elevator where he was quick to press the chrome polished circle to bring the carriage to the ground floor.

You looked up at the side of his face, noting the obvious millions of things going through his mind, all trying to find their spot at one time as he stared as his distorted reflection in the polished doors of the carriage, not even noting what floor you had pressed on the array of buttons before the arrival bell was signaling that it was time to come back to life. He followed you mindlessly down the hallway before coming across a door and he couldn’t be bothered to consciously remember the number that adorned it, as you were reaching into the inner pocket of your light jacket to produce your key to turn the lock and open the door.

Immediately, he was met by a rush of incense, a scent familiar to him which had woven in your hair and clothes and swirled in his airways now a handful of times. The couch-side lamp was on to greet you when you returned home, along with a number of unscented candles. He was slow to make his way into your home, feeling like he was entering another universe without permission, before you were finally able to get the door closed behind him and courteously retrieve him a glass of water and offered him a place to sit.

Your voice was merely a blur in his consciousness, so he opted to stand with that cool glass in his hand before he drank it all down. His quick scan hardly took in the dainty and simplistic features of your apartment which surrounded a plush living room set up.

“Jaehyun…” you finally said, as if triggering him to return to this dimension once more.

“He could have killed you,” he reminded you, his voice far weaker than it was before. “He could have killed you, and it would have gotten me.”  For a moment, you thought you saw tears build in his eyes, watched the crop up against his water line as he stared into the abyss at some obscure corner of your apartment. He clenched his eyes closed tightly, and his jaw, as he staved off those emotions for a moment before he could feel your warm hands on his cheeks.

You finessed the glass out of his hand to place on the kitchen table, which you were standing all too close to just inside the doorway of your apartment, before your hands collected his cheeks again to make him look at you. His eyes were glassy, there was no mistaking it. Perhaps finally being within four walls that presumably protected the two of you without him having to be on high alert allowed him to really process one full thought—it was the thought at the forefront of his mind, that had been since Yuta had discovered you in danger in the open street.

He looked down at you, still donned in his jacket, before he couldn’t help but gather you in his arms, wrapping you tightly up at the waist to tug you into his firm body enough for him to slide his face into the crook of your neck—half hiding his face from you so that you couldn’t see, at least, his shattering resolve, and half just enjoying the very fact that warm blood was still pumping through your veins at a lively rate, that you stood in his arms drawing breath knowing that you could have easily been gone just an hour or so prior. The complexity of your situation now was beyond repair. There was an indescribable yet undeniable tug you had for each other; as it were, you were stuck between a rock (continuing the path you were on) and a hard place (splitting up knowing it wouldn’t solve anything). The way in which Jaehyun’s hands furled against you, pulling you impossibly closer, was perhaps a good indicator of his feelings, too. Not only that, but declaring that he had been trying to think of a situation that made it easier on the both of you… it seemed out of the question at this point—there was no easier option which was probably a reality he was also coming to the realization of.  

“Why don’t we sit down?” you suggested, stroking through the toasted honey hair on the back of his head by which to soothe him, at least to the best of your ability. It took a moment, but he eventually rose from the crook of your neck only to nestle you against his chest and rest his chin atop your head, at least for another moment before he let you guide him over to your couch. He took a seat first while you stayed standing, wanting to really observe him. He was breathing deeply, trying to control anything that he could about the situation, but mostly himself, as he stared past you.

“I don’t get attached,” he reminded you, “much less like this, with you… I don’t believe in fate, or destiny, or whatever; but how can’t I when I’ve been thrown into such a decisive situation? I’ve been going over all the ways to try to make it easier, but nothing about leaving you, about going our separate ways, is going to help anything,” he said, reaching out for your hand to play with your fingers only to meet your eyes at the tail end of his thoughts. “How stupid, honestly, that you’d get trapped with me like this.”

That last sentence panged your insides, gave a sinking feeling in your stomach; he had always talked as if all he’s ever done is plague your very existence.

“You know I don’t think that,” you told him, voice tender as to not disturb him too much.

“No disrespect, but you’re a fool. I was a fool to ask to see you again, knowing the risks. But you were fool to not run when I said. You were a fool to try to see the best in me despite the situation I’ve now put us both in—”

“A situation you didn’t decide. You and Yejun can, in fact, exist on your own without each other. And if you don’t recall, they were after me before I even knew you, so what difference does it make now?”

“It makes a difference now because he has a personal vendetta against me which previously had nothing to do with you, and now, because of me, has everything to do with you, and only makes the situation now far more difficult because you…” he trailed off, making his way back to his feet to take both of your cheek in his warm hands to step you back just a tad. “You’re like my own personal grade of addiction,” he almost growled through his teeth as his eyes looked over your face, scanning it a couple of times. The paint that had dried against your cheek was peeling away the more he stroked against it with his thumb. “He can get to me with you… and that’s something I’m still trying to wrap my head around, so forgive me for not answering you as I should have.”

It was funny, the way the two of you pushed past all the events of the last two days, just left with each other, both on the verge of black eyes—yours which probably could have benefitted from a bag of frozen peas, because you were sure his already had—even ignoring the scrape of the gauze around his hand against your cheek. It was almost as if you had resigned yourself already to this being the norm with Jaehyun, without him having remind you a hundred times.  You knew eventually it would be addressed; but a lot of confessions were going on beyond the fact that it was very early in the morning and the both of you needed sleep and probably a shower.

Jaehyun’s intense, yet affectionate, gaze was broken up by the incessant vibrating in his pocket. He took a deep breath, hard pressed to break away from you, but did so to finesse that phone out of his pocket to look at the caller ID as well as the time—nearly two thirty.  

“Hello?” he answered hesitantly and stepped away from you, leaving you to stand in the middle of your living room with his only warmth being that of his jacket still slung across your shoulders. You tried not to listen too close to the conversation, but there wasn’t much else to focus on.

“Yes, we’re safe. No, I don’t need you to come get me. No. No, I’ll figure something out.”

“You’re staying,” you interjected, leaving no room for ifs, ands, or buts.  Jaehyun peered over at you, a lull in the conversation. “I’m not asking. I’ll not let you go,” you reaffirmed.  All he could do was nod hesitantly at your demand.

“It’s figured out. I’m good. No. No. Taeyong, no. It’s that or I leave now—”

“I just said—” Jaehyun leaned over to press a kiss against your cheek, covering the receiver, giving you a settling look that he wasn’t truly negotiating.

“Yes; I’ll be back early. Yes. I’m fine; I’ve survived worse on my own. Yes. Okay bye.” The range of emotions that crossed Jaehyun’s face incorporated the emotions of entire novel in that one phone conversation.  He discarded his phone on the couch side table, knowing full well he’d be crashing on the couch for the night, or at least what was left of it.  His words weren’t settling, at least not at the end.

“I don’t mean to intrude any more than I already have, but would you allow me to use your shower?” he asked hesitantly, nervously avoiding your gaze before you were softly taking his arm to take him through your apartment, through your room to the bathroom and rummaged through the linen closet for a fresh towel, fresh washcloth, and fresh bar of soap.  

“Take all the time you need,” you told him, watching to overwhelmed expression on his face with just how accommodating you were being for him. You shut the door to the bathroom, leaving him to look around for a second. It was brightly lit, tidy as could be even with a countertop full of products of all arrays. Your shower looked easy enough to use after he opened the door shielded with opaque glass panes, so he got to it quickly. He would only take long enough to fog up the mirror with distinct purpose: he couldn’t stand to see himself in his own mirror, much less in yours—someone who should be putting distance between the two of you; it was still a severe reminder of the rift in his mindset over what he thought you deserved, which was better than him.  

He returned to the living room still toweling his hair, concerned about a cover for his hand which he tried his best to keep out of the water, and cleared his throat to interrupt your determined making of the pullout couch for him to stay on.  You startled in surprise and turned to him—tousled wet hair in his face, a shy smile on his lips, avoidant of your gaze before you were quick to take the towels from him, but immediately dropped them to the floor at the sight of his hand which you tugged into yours. It was red, angry, a tad bit bloody and not even touching the beginning stages of healing in your opinion. He wanted so desperately to pull it away from you, but didn’t want to cause a stink, either.

“It’s nothing,” he tried, “I just need a cover, if you have anything.”

“It’s not nothing! It’s deep… did you see a doctor?” you asked him, only for him to unceremoniously scoff in your face before apologizing.

“Dr. Yuta,” he joked. “It’s fine. It’s cleaned out and closed well I just…” he trailed off. It didn’t matter what he said, it wasn’t going to stave the concern knitting your brow together as you kept looking it over, again and again from a different angle as if it was going to change the fact. Once you’d gone through it with his hand, you were reminded of the cut on his face and looked up to him—that one was much more shallow, but still scabbed.  “I’m fine,” he reiterated softly, gingerly taking your hand away from his face.

He towered over you, but it was comforting, especially as you looked up into his eyes to note the glitter of the night sky that shimmered in them. He looked at you tenderly, still holding onto your hand as he guided it back down to your sides. His damp hair still produced droplets of water that threatened to race down his face, but you couldn’t help to look past that, focused entirely on him, his warmth, his protection.

“Do you have a big bandaid I can put over it?” he asked you, almost jolting you back to life, frozen in time just looking up at him—a truly ethereal being with such complicated history you wanted to know so much about. You took a deep breath and turned to the kitchen without a word to find your stash of bandaids, finding the largest one you had which would suffice. For some reason, when he went to take it from your hands, you pulled it away from him.

“I’ll do it,” you said to him, hardly louder than a whisper as your eyes traveled from his cut and back up to his face. His expression was surprised, probably shocked that you had tugged it away from him. He opened his mouth, prompting for words to come out.

“Okay,” he barely breathed back, and observed as you opened the packaging and slipped the large bandaid out only to take his hand and turn it so the injured side was turned upwards. You flipped back the paper protectors and lined the pad as evenly over the cut as you could, skillfully pulling the protectors away to apply the bandaid squarely, rubbing the adhesive with your thumbs.

He couldn’t help but notice how soft your fingers where against his palm, how diligently you rubbed at the adhesive to make sure it wouldn’t come off, the caring way you looked down at your work, and somewhere in the depths of his very existence, he was convinced, for once, that you truly wouldn’t care about his past. That you would, as you claimed, appreciate it because it made him who he was, especially considering the circumstances of the past couple of days. Any sane person would be jarred by the experience, would be running to get away from it but you—you had to be insane.

“Has anyone ever told you how soothing and reassuring you are?” he asked you, seemingly out of the blue. You were zoning again, appreciating the warmth of his hand against yours, hardly noting his intense gaze as he looked down at you. You caught his gaze again, the question in your eyes so you didn’t even have to ask. “Your aura is just very collected, it’s refreshing.”

“I think you’re delusional,” you laughed, trying to push the blush that was pricking the nerves in your cheeks; you could feel it rising, and your hands finally fell from his. “Or, you just need some sleep,” you reminded him, turning to snatch the cup he drank out of from your dining room table to fill it back up with water from the filtered pitcher in your fridge just to pass him to set it next to his phone on the end table of your couch. “But, I think we both could use some sleep—it’s been an interesting couple of days,” you added with a laugh, trying to keep it a bit light.

He conceded with a laugh in return and moseyed over to where you were standing, almost gesturing him to the done-up couch. He looked it over for a moment; the first time he’d be sleeping on a ‘bed’ bigger than a twin since he could remember with more than one pillow that wasn’t flat as a board and a comforter with actual body to it. He looked over to you, zoning out again, and reached for your hand to bring it up against his lips to kiss against it several times between thinking of things to say and ultimately giving up.

“Rest easy,” he finally said, dropping your hand back to your side just to tuck some hair behind your ear affectionately.

“You, too,” you replied, looking seemingly right through him. He could see it was taking a toll, now, the more tired you became. That hand cupped your jaw, bringing your eyes up to his before they traveled down to your mouth—yet another decision to make—before finally letting you go, and watched you turn to disappear into your room.

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

Humans are Space Orcs, “What Happened.”

Sorry for any issues this one might have, but I am trying to write it between flights and and scrambling to find a plug that will work, so I hope you like it anyway, and I hope it answers some questions you have 

Three months leave

IT was going to take an extra three months  before the ship would be ready for launch. Even as they spoke, it was docked at the Europa station as they put on the final finishing touches. Until then, it had been Commander Vir’s job to go through files on the personnel he wanted aboard his new crew.

He had suggested some alien additions to make the crew more diverse, which the GA had loved considering that the ship was an amalgamation of both human and alien technology. It had Rundi communications systems, Celzex weaponry, Vrul shields, and  a Tesraki warp core. The design otherwise was completely human. But for those reasons, the project was obviously very time consuming, and they were lucky that it was going to be finished in as little a time as it was.

Sunny hadn’t seen Adam very much in the last month or so considering that he had been working hard to find an extra five hundred members for his crew, and speak with the brass about what he had seen on the other side of the wormhole.

Sunny knew that it was important that Adam do his job, but a part of her was annoyed they hadn’t been able to speak properly since getting back.

Instead, she was stuck in base housing on the cost, alone and with nothing to do aside from long walks on the beach. She had never been the the beach beforehand as anin didn’t have any substantial bodies of water like that, at least near her, and there was something about the endless water that unsettled her. Even Krill and Conn were off doing important things. Krill was giving his services to a level one trauma center in New York, and Conn was helping the base MPs conduct polygraph tests, though he had sort of replaced the polygraph.

That left Sunny alone most days to think.

She hadn’t gotten over Adam’s disappearance, and not how he had tricked her, pushing her from the bridge before turning around and preparing himself for death. She felt a bit cheated, and like a decision had been made for her. She wasn’t stupid, logically she knew that is what she would have done if she were in his place, so she couldnt fault him for that, though she still coudln’t help feeling hurt over it.

And these thoughts she was left to stew on, tossing and turning in the quiet of the night while everyone else was out and busy.

Needless to say she didn’t expect the little bell on her front door to ring late one evening, and when she opened the door she certainly didn’t expect to see Adam waiting on her front porch.

HE was smiling, though the skin around his face and neck were already flushed a light pink with embarrassment.

In his arms, he held a large collection of flowers.

“May I come in?”

“Adam!” Her surprise was a bit delayed 

He shuffled his feet, “I uh, I got the go ahead to take the day off so I…. thought I would see you.”

He shifted again.

He looked better now than he had on returning from his ordeal, face clean-shaven and in clean clothes that actually fit, though she had to admit his cave-man look hadn’t been so bad.

She stepped aside, and he tentatively followed.

She closed the door and he turned to face her, “I uh…. um … well I…. flower…. Or I mean, I got you, flowers I…… Bought some, but also picked…. some ….. I not that that really matters I just.”He sighed took a deep breath and cleared his throat, “I got you flowers.” he held them out, and she took them in half amusement, picking one from the top and popping it into her mouth before setting them down on the little side table.

“Look, I’m sorry we haven't been able to talk since I got back… and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a little bit of me avoiding having a tough conversation.”

“I like that you are at least being honest with me.” She said quietly., “Do you want to sit down?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, “Actually, I was going to ask you if you wanted to go on a walk…. I.. I think better when I walk.”

She shrugged and agreed, following him outside to where a thin layer of clouds had veiled the sun which was slowly inching towards the horizon. The clouds muted the colors and the sea was grey in the distance.

Together they walked a little ways along the sand, him shifting nervously, and her walking to the side, relaxed though she didn’t feel like it 

The silence stretched on for nearly a mile before Sunny -- growing frustrated -- was forced to break it.

“You tricked me.”

He looked down at his feet, “I did.”

“You tricked me, and because of that I have had some of the worst few months of my life.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I understand you did what you thought you had to, and I get it that if I was in your place, I would have done the same without hesitation, but…. I I feel cheated, and I feel used, and for some reason I can’t stop it.”

He looked away, “I’m not sure what to say.”

“At least say SOMETHING.”

HE turned to face her single green eye wide. Looking down she could sense that his hands were shaking. A part of her felt bad about that, but they needed to have this conversation, and she wasn’t going to let him out of it.

“I… would do it again to save your life, and I won’t apologize for that, but I’m sorry that that’s how you feel.”

“I thought we were a team.”

“And we are.”

She paused, her feet digging hard into the sand, and he drew to a halt beside her, “I need you to understand Adam, when Drev say a team, they mean a battle pair and that means….”

“I know, I know……. I know what it means, and I am agreeing with you.”

“Will, you try, for me.”

“Yes, but sunny, I I don’t know how well it will work out, I…. well I’m broken when it comes to this sort of thing I don’t even know if I can.”

They went silent again and she could see the veins pulsing in the side of his neck. Beads of sweat collected on his brown and face. He looked almost nauseous, like he was scared or something, that too made her feel bad, but she didn’t really know how to help.

On instinct, she reached out a hand, inches from his before pausing, “I…. Can I?”

He paused look down at her hand.

His clenched into a fist.

He was pale whit like snow now.

“I…. I don’t think I can right now but…. Thanks for asking.”

She watched the expression on his face closely, and on his face she saw him proceed through a rapid series of emotions starting with fear, working over to shame, sadness and finally ending on guilt.

He turned away.

She walked up next to him, head tilted, “You don’t have to, Adam, but maybe if you told me why I could better understand. Of course you don’t have to.”

He took a deep shaky breath, “You deserve to know. But just don’t… I don’t know laugh or something. I know logically it wasn’t a big deal but….”

“Adam, I promise I won't laugh, you have my word.”

He nodded his head slowly and sighed, “I can trace it all back to one event I think. It was MY freshman year of high school…. Maybe and I was the awkward, nerdy sci-fi weirdo who believed in UFOs and Aliens.

***

Adam Sat Under a tree outside the school arms wrapped around his knees back tucked against the bowl of a tree which cast the shadow of its leaves down over the ground to wave and rustle in a light breeze.

It was lunch break, and he was watching the other teens standing around in their cliches. The football jocks were playing a game to one side, the cheerleaders were clustered around a bench, and all the rednecks were sitting in the back of their trucks in the parking lot laughing loudly and occasionally turning on their trucks just to rev the engines as loud as possible.

His hair was long-ish, kind of scruffy and hanging down around his ears. The clothes he wore were baggy hand me downs from his older brother Jeremy (a senior) and shoes with holes in them from his older brother Thomas.

He didn’t mention the holes to his mom, dad was in between jobs right now, not that it was a big deal, he would find work, it was just paperwork in the way, but he didn’t want to worry her with something extra that didn’t matter right now.

He looked down at the ground where he had a stack of books waiting in the grass for him, The Martian, War of the Worlds, and an old tatty compendium of start wars stuff with pictures and diagrams.

The T-shirt he was wearing was one he had purchased online, and had a diagram of the star-trek enterprise on it.

He shuffled his feet in the grass waiting for his brothers to show up and feeling sort of lonely as he waited.

Since he was a little younger, he got out a half an hour before they did, and only got to spend thirty minutes of his half hour lunch break with them, otherwise he tried to avoid people as much as possible. It wasn’t that he was bullied per-se, because he wasn’t really, neglected by his peers was probably a better term for it.

They were nice to him in the way you are nice to small children or crazy people, keeping up polite conversation just long enough to leave as soon as possible. He was used to the treatment, and didn’t bother subjecting people to his presence more than he had to. He knew he was weird.

He was sure he would have a harder time if it were not for his older brothers. Jeremy, who was a popular football player, David because he was student body president, and arguably the best looking guy in school, though he never seemed to be dating anyone, and Thomas, who was a bit of a loose cannon and didn’t mind getting in fights to protect his family members when he wasn’t hanging out with the other weird and unpredictable kids.

He was sitting there thinking about his brothers and staring down at the grass, when he saw a pair of shoes appear in his vision. They were white vans, or something similar with bright green laces, and when he looked up he saw a girl standing over him. The school was small enough that he recognized her immediately. Her name was Amanda and she jumped between the Drill team and the Basketball Girls click.

She was smiling, and he watched her as she turned her head back to her group of friends who were giggling and trying not to look like they were looking over in their direction.

Adam sat up a little straighter, “Can I help you.”

She smiled at him, her cheeks slightly pink, “HI…. Adam.”

He frowned, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

She shuffled her feet, and off in the distance, her friends giggled and looked away.

“Can I help you with something?’ He wondered, waiting for the punchline somewhere. Something about the weird UFO kid, or maybe they were going to ask him to help them do something against school rules, so when they got caught they could all blame it on him. Or maybe they were going to ask him to be the designated Sherpa for their bags or something.

He had been tricked into most of those things before, though by now the teachers and the principal knew that he was just socially stupid and not a troublemaker.

“Relax ok, I’ve just come to say sorry?”

“Sorry for what?”

“Sorry for treating you like you were weird.” When she smiled it seemed genuine, “You see its…. One of my friends.” More giggling I the background, “She thinks you’re cute, but she didn’t know how to act before.”

He glanced past her to where  the group of girls had burst in to excessive giggling.

He frowned again, “I’m not stupid, you know.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

She crossed her arms, “Serious, Adam.”

“Who is this friend of your.” His eyes narrowed, but past that he was looking towards one of the girls in the group. She was pretty  with honey blonde hair and an infectious smile.  She played the violin, and he knew for a fact that she was a comic book nerd. He had seen her carrying them around, and she was a petty good artist too. He felt his face flush a bit but tried to fight it back.”

“She smiled, “Avery.”

His eyes shot wide, and he felt his face turn scarlet. The part of his brain that had been skeptical immediately shut off as the human brain is prone to do when they think something good might be about to happen.

“I… really.”

She grinned, “Really.” She reached into her pocket and passed him a note, “She wants you to meet her by the stadium.”

His hands were shaking a bit as he took the note, but he felt his heart hammering in excitement.

Was this his way out of exile?

He had always been extroverted, starved for all the friends he wanted and all the people he wanted to talk to. Avery had the life that he wished he did, a large circle of friends, and fun things to do every weekend.

Maybe with her around, he would finally have that.

All the better if they were dating, but he was getting ahead of himself.

He watched as the group of girls dispersed and Avery moved towards the back of the building over towards the stadium, her beautiful, honey-blond hair blowing in the wind.

He stood awkwardly gathering up his things and shoving them in his bag without zipping the zipper all the way before turning and cutting around the other side of the school. His heart hammered in his chest and his hands were cold and sweaty as he made his way around the other side of the building and towards the stadium.

His heart only began to race faster when he saw her standing alone under the stadium between the cross-bars and in the shade of the metal benches above.

He approached nervously, his hands shaking in excitement.

She turned her head, bright blue eyes catching his.

He stopped in place at the edge of the shadow. But she smiled and waved him in, “Adam over here.”

He followed nervously his feet trailing in the dirt. As she approached she nervously rocked back and fourth on her heels hands in her pockets. He paused a few feet away. She looked up at him through her lashes, and he noted she was wearing little Iron Man earrings.

“Hi.” She said nervously

“Hi.” He replied back

She shuffled her feet, “Look I…. I’m sorry about laughing at you earlier today In class I…. well I think your funny, not, like in a bad way or anything.”

HE knew he was bright red at this moment, probably brighter red than any tomato, “Really?”

“Yeah, so I wanted to say sorry, and…. And maybe make it up to you.”

His heart was in his throat, “Oh, you, you don’t have to.”

“But I want to.”

It went quiet as she stepped forward, and he was frozen in place. She was right in front of him now. She leaned forward a little, and he was frozen in place. Her eyes closed, and then so did his, he waited for the moment, and waited, and waited, but nothing came.

Someone snickered, and he cracked an eye to see Avery’s once pretty face twisted up into a sneer of contempt and malicious amusement.

“April fools.” She jumped at him, and in surprise he tripped backwards over one of the metal bars landing hard. The zipper of his backpack, not all the way done up, erupted outward spilling all his books out onto the dirt.

Laughter.

He turned his head looking around to the cracks in the stadium seats where dozens of eyes stared at him laughing.

Avery stood over him as others began flooding down from their spots laughing.

He crawled back, his head down, “But it’s not even April.” He whispered

“Its not even April.” Someone mimicked from behind, and he ran into soemthing hard looking up to see one of Avery’s friends standing over him. She was state shotput champion last years, and her arms were as big as his head, “What is this.” She reached down and picked his book off the ground.

“Please, give it back.” He said crawling to his knees and reaching up for it.

“The Martian.”

“please.”

She flipped open a few of the pages. He stood up trying to reach for his book but he was blocked by another two of her friends.

The laughter continued, the mocking voices over and over and over again.

He tried to push forward reaching for his books which had been picked up off the ground.

“Gross, Its all sticky!” the friend yelled.

“No it isn’t.” He protested, it was true, he took very good care of his books. But of course no one listened. A chorus of disgust rose up around him. His books were dropped, one clattering to the rocks its pages bending, the other one landing halfway in a puddle of stagnant water.

He cried out and dove forward pulling it out of the water even as mud dripped form the hardback.

He cradled it in his arms, feeling hot tears of anger and humiliation begin to prickle at the corners of his eyes.

Laughter continued.

“Look.”

Fingers pointed.

HE stood fists clenched ready to hurt someone, but when he turned the same girl from before hand his book in either hand and when he moved she pulled.

There was a sharp ripping noise as the spine of the book tore a quarter, and as he cried out she laughed and dropped it into the puddle.

As a paperback, the book didn’t stand a chance.

Mud and water caked his hands as he reached in to pull it out on his hands and knees. Something hit him hard in the back and he pitched forward into the puddle getting the book wet a second time as the kids laughed.

He scrambled sitting up coughing and spluttering feeling the slimy grittiness of the water on his lips.

Someone knelt down next to him. A voice in his ear, “If you tell anyone. I’ll tell the teacher you tried to touch me.”

Tears dripped down his cheeks as he tried wiping mud from his face. The laughter receded and he was left along kneeling on the gravel.

His face grew hot and read as he stared down at the ruined cover of his book. Hot tears dripped onto the mud coating his hands.

His breathing started up in great gasps his heart hammered so fast he thought it was going to burst out of his chest. His head was going to explode either from anger or frustration he didn’t know. Choked sobs broke from his mouth as he knelt over the books ruined in his hands. He couldn’t breathe. He stood vision clouded face hot wet and muggy from the heat.

And then he ran.

He had no idea where he was going or what he was doing.

His paperback held muddy and dripping in one hand he pelted into the woods and didn’t stop running until his foot caught on a branch and he went rolling into the leaves.

He lay there on his stomach heart still hammering breath still coming in ragged gasps. He just couldn’t calm his breathing down.

He didn’t know where he was.

He felt like he was having a heart attack, or dying, or something. He lay there gasping on the forest floor for hours.

It grew dark. The mud dried on the back of his book and against his chest and hands.

It was only when he heard the voices did he finally sit up, mud caked and bleary eyed.

“Adam!”

“Adam!”

There were no other sounds for a long moment before the call started up again.

He stumbled over, it was dark so his feet kept coughing on branches and twigs.

“Adam, ADAM! I swear ADAM.”

“Thomas?” He said his voice so raw it was barely above a whisper.

“ADAM!” Footsteps rushed towards him through the trees, and Thomas burst from the foliage his scruffy blind hair run wild, his jeans covered in dirt, “Adam there you are where have you-“

He didn’t have time to say much else as he was hugged tight around the middle.

“Adam I…. what’s wrong. What happened! Who did this to you!”

Thomas looked ready to rip someone apart, but Adam didn’t say anything. He wouldn’t say anything about the event for the next two years.

***

Sunny stared wide eyed as Adam turned away again.

“Look, I know its stupid, it happens to plenty of kids and they don’t take it the way I did, but. I mean, with the panic attack on top of it, and then a few years later the same thing happened on my first date, so now I just… I can’t…”

Sunny was quiet for a moment while he looked away.

“Who the FUCK do they think they are.” She snarled.

He looked up in surprise, “I what.”

She marched around in a circle, “What the hell kind of person does that to someone. That’s just sick and wrong. That is just… horrible.”  She pulled out her spear, “I swear If i ever meet someone like that if i ever meet THEM, I am going to-”

He caught her arm, “Sunny stop, it was a long time ago.”

“It doesnt matter!”

A small smile cut across his face, “IT doesn't matter sunny, you want to know why.”

“Why.”

“Because I saw their pictures.” he grinned, “Avery got really fat and her friend got hit by a car, not fatally but I consider it Karma doing me a solid.” He paused, “It’ll be ok…. I just need some time. Think you can do that for me?”

She paused and nodded her head, “Yes, I think I can.”

[chick-from-nz]

Paper, Scissors, Rank (Ch: 8)

CHARACTER/PAIRING:  modern!Carrillo x Army!OC (eventually) 

WARNINGS: maybe some swearing, military slang, more military talk,  spelling and grammatical errors. Flippy floppy points of view and tenses. Could be very OOC/AU for some. Carrillo may not be narcos accurate as this is an AU. Some OC x OC. awkwardly and/or poorly written moments

AUTHORS NOTE: hope yall enjoy this, i was in fact a lil tipsy while writing this so if there is some spelling errors or something akin to that, that could be why.  @1zashreena1 i thank you so much for letting me bounce my ideas off you for most of this content, you are forever a legend. 

WORD COUNT: 4.1k

CHAPTER:  8 OF ?

TAG LIST (OPEN): @girlpornparadise @1zashreena1 @xxidontwikeitxx @nicke0115 @allalngthewtchtower @lettherebrelight

The first few days of their second week together were surprisingly more interactive than the previous week. Carrillo had been spending less time in his office and more time in the living room putting up with whatever terrible show Ash had decided to watch that day. Arguably though, not that he would admit it out loud, he was rather enjoying the quiet company and shitty tv, an incredibly different routine than what he was used to but a welcome one at that.

It was on Tuesday night that the Colonel finished any important and pressing paperwork for his team, with it all being completed by the early hours of twenty three hundred, or at least early for him, he decided that he would turn in early for the night. Before that though, he would do his usual security checks of the house, first starting with the living room. To his surprise the room was not empty, instead he found himself smiling softly at the picture before him. Greyson was slumped upright on the couch, head leaving on the palm of her left arm, and shoulders rising and falling in measured deep breaths. She was yet again asleep on the couch, an increasingly common occurrence over the last few nights.

It was as if his feet had a mind of his own as the Colonel soon found himself standing before the sleeping junior officer. He debated whether or not it would be wise to wake her up, her position did not look comfortable in the slightest, but if her soft snores were anything to go by, she was in a deep sleep, something he felt she didn't get often. The last few nights he'd woken to anguished screams coming from Ash's room, before hearing her door open and her footsteps as she began to pace the length of the living room before exhausting herself and collapsing onto the couch. He would usually lay awake for a good ten or so minutes after her pacing had stopped before he would check on her, normally finding her drenched in sweat but shivering on the couch as she had not had the forethought to grab a blanket in her exhausted and frazzled state.

A small part of him felt sorry for the fresh officer, whatever was haunting her was obviously taking a toll on her and there was another part of him that wanted to slowly crack through her defences and find out what it was so he could help her, or at least comfort her,  in some way.  These kinds of thoughts were becoming more and more common and were beginning to somewhat startle him and set him off kilter around Greyson. He usually had a good grip on his emotions and was able to push feelings away and stay strictly professional around any female colleagues, but with this officer he found himself wanting to cross that line. He barely knew the young soldier  but she had set a lasting impression on him that he had tried to shake with all his might. So for now he would indulge himself in caring for her in subtle ways that could be seen as a superior caring for his injured member of his team and wait to get a positive or negative reaction from Greyson. Either way, this former cadet was going to be around for a while, so he needed to restrain his growing feelings as best as he could, he would not want a repeat of the Sinclair situation. 

Huffing quietly in frustration he hastily snatched up a blanket that resided on the back of one of the neighboring couches before, as gently as possible, draping it over the sleeping soldier. He watched as she began to stretch out on the couch, grasping the blanket closer to her chest and snuggling down into the warmth. A strange tightness developed in his chest at that, one he hadn't felt in many many years. Whatever feelings he had for this soldier needed to be pushed aside, he couldn't afford for a margin of error in his team or a potential weakness to be exploited against either of them. With measured steps he conducted his nightly checks of the house, ensuring the locks on the front and back doors were engaged, the window locks were secure, and the security cameras that were hidden around the outside of the house we recording as usual. 

Checks completed he all but marched his way back to his room, silently closing his door, before ripping his shirt over his head, shucking off his boots and pants, and climbing into bed in naught but his boxers. Double checking that his alarm was set he decided that an early morning run would be a good way to clear his head, and he could scope out areas of the property that would make for good exercise scenarios training spots.

His sleep was fitful. Full of moments already shared between himself and the younger officer who constantly occupied his every waking thoughts and potential moments that he silently hoped would come to fruition as their time together continued to build a bond between them. Whether that be strictly professional or borderline inappropriate he wasn't sure if his resolve was strong enough to keep his feelings at bay long enough for them to fizzle out into nothing but a thought he could look back on and scoff at. 

                                                         -------

Ash groaned the moment she woke, she stretched out her legs, laughing lightly at the way her joints all seemed to pop and her muscles became taught. She missed the daily ache that accompanied the constant tiredness of her cadets course. Instead now she was stuck on prescribed bed rest, unless she saw fit to disobey a direct order from the Colonel. Just a thought of his rank sent an oddly delighted shiver down her spine. Reaching over to grab her phone to check the time had her eyes bugging out of her head, she had woken il two hours later than normal, and frankly, while she knew she needed the rest, she had wished she had had the forethought to set an alarm rather than relying on her messed up body clock.

Her injuries were beginning to heal quite well now, the stitches in her head and her side were itchy and ready to be taken out but the concussion was having more of a lasting effect than she would have hoped. While she no longer woke up feeling sick or dizzy she would now have random bouts of dizziness during the day instead, which was usually succeeded by a varying degree of nausea. This morning however, she felt great. Climbing from her bed and pulling on a normal length military t-shirt and a pair of military issue shorts, that even she deemed to be a tad on the shorter side, she quickly pulled on a pair of running shoes. Today she was determined to walk around the edge of the property and see if anything other than the house had changed since she had attended this particular training ground all those years ago.

She left her room functioning on autopilot, intending to head in the direction of the kitchen to have a quick coffee before venturing outside. Her plan, however, was foiled when she suddenly collided with a solid mass after taking no more than four steps out of her room. The momentum of the crash had her hands flying out to grasp onto whatever she had bashed into in an attempt to steady herself. It took her a moment to gather her senses, but when she did, a blush settled across her face and down her neck.

Her hands had landed on a warm, slightly damp, very shirtless and muscular chest that could only belong to one person, the one person who she had began developing feelings for since she met them, Colonel Carrillo. A small yelp left her mouth at the realisation of what was happening, he was shirtless, for some reason, and she was just standing there with her palms on his chest, not so subtly feeling him up. Time seemed to have frozen, neither person was moving except for Ash’s eyes, which were drinking in the sight that was oh so wonderfully close to her. Making the first move she began to pull away from the man before her, running her hands featherlight over his pecs in a self indulgent moment, a smile growing on her face as she felt, rather than saw, the small shiver that wracked his body. 

She took a small step backwards, intending to put enough space between them to be professional, only to be stopped by his hands coming up and grasping onto her elbows in a tentative grip. Ash let her eyes trail languidly over his body as she made her way up to his face, his stomach was well toned, the deep ‘V’ of his hips was prominent and his abs were defined but not chiseled , he was bulky in a way that screamed alpha male. It was inherently obvious he worked out alongside his already physically demanding  job. Her eyes continued their upwards, her breath  hitching while taking in the broad beautifully tanned expanse of skin that was his chest, his pecs where the most defined part about him, a key feature one might say, along with those arms of his. Ash took note of the way his breath had sped up over the course of her gaping , thankfully it seemed she was not the only one affected by the others presence. 

She yearned to reach out and run her hands along the taught muscles of his forearms and up along his biceps, feeling the strength that he held within the muscles, muscles that she more often than not dreamed about. Her eyes finally came to settle on his face. He looked pained, brow drawn downwards in feigned confusion and his lips pressed tightly together as if to stop himself from speaking, his eyes were what betrayed him. His pupils were blown so wide that the delicious brown was now but a small ring around them. Ash could only imagine her face mirrored his own, the lust was palpable, this was dangerous territory. 

His eyes were fixed intently on her and Ash had to gulp as his lips parted and his tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip. Her thoughts were getting more and more muddled being this close to him in this situation. Ash took yet another small step backwards as to put enough distance between them for them both to clear their thoughts, failing to do so when she tripped on the edge of the rug that covered the majority of the living room. Her eyes widened in shock when she felt her back hit the ground and felt the breath of the Colonel on her face as he fell with her, landing in the perfect pushup position above her. If Ash thought their previous position was dangerous territory she didn’t have words to describe their current predicament, though she would be lying if she said she hadn’t imagined this situation before but with her in significantly less clothing. It took her till this moment to realise that Carrillo was in fact, only in a towel, that was now, hanging on by only a small margin and stretched tight and low along his hips. 

The position was compromising at best, her hands had one again found themselves attached to his glorious body, this time settling on his biceps just like she had wanted, the sheer mass of muscle contained beneath both her hands had her stomach in knots and a fire flowing through her veins. She watched, mesmerized, as a droplet of water made its descent from behind his ear, along the tight muscles of his neck and down into the dip of his collar bone, stopping for a moment before continuing down his chest. Ash involuntarily licked her lips, wanting nothing more to lean forward and run her tongue along the path the droplet was taking before sucking a mark wherever the droplet stilled. A movement to her right drew her attention away from gawking at his chest and up towards his face yet again. He had shifted himself onto one arm and was peering down at her with an unreadable expression on his face, but there was clearly some kind of intent swirling in the depth of his eyes.

Ash jumped momentarily when his hand settled heavily on her now exposed midriff, a hair's breadth away from the stitches that decorated her side. The smirk that graced his face when he felt her jump sent a bolt of pure unadulterated desire right to her core, the look on his face was lustful and hungry. Her breathing was beyond erratic now, there was a pent up tension in her body longing to be released but at this moment she was going to leave the fate of the situation in her commanding officers’ hands, since he so clearly fed off being in control. It was as if she forgot how to breathe as she felt his hand began to trail upwards, lifting her shirt in the process and exposing more of her toned stomach to the man before her, his hand moved inwards trailing the tip of his forefinger along the etched grove of her stomach and up towards her breasts in a teasing manner, but before he could reach the destination she so desperately hoped for he stilled, pondering for a moment as he searched her face for any kind of hesitation, finding none he continued his journey north between the valley of her breasts and along the hollow of her throat before settling his hand there with barely any pressure. 

 Ash let out a barely there moan, the action was much more comfortable and thrilling to her than she would care to admit out loud. She watched as his face went through varying emotions before settling on determination, and with measured movements the Colonel shifted his large hand slightly to guide her chin upwards slightly to be in the optimum position to finally plant a kiss that the both wanted so badly onto her lips. Ash watched with bated breath as his face oh so slowly made his way closer to her own, eyes searching for any hesitation that would have his moments ceasing in an instant, to his surprise, she began moving slightly off the floor to meet his advances and finally seal the deal and cross the line between professional and personal. 

They were a mere centimeters apart, breath mixing and both breathing unsteadily, when a shrill ringing pierced through the silence of their moment, ruining the potential moment of bliss for the Officers. It was like a bucket of cold water had been poured over the both of them, shocking enough to have Carrillo rolling to the left as fast as someone could yell ‘gun’ and Ash rolling the opposite direction and jumping to her feet. The tension in the room was thick enough to be cut with a knife but as the Colonel looked at her with something akin to regret crossing his face Ash knew she couldn’t stand to be in the same room as him for a moment longer, so she scampered away and into the comfort of her room, slamming the door on her way in before collapsing on her bed and trying to wrap her head around what had just happened. Had the Colonel really had the intention to kiss her? 

                                                           -------

To say little interaction happened between the two officers after the incident was not far from the truth. Despite her desires for the Colonel , Ash had been all but avoiding him since that fateful morning, hoping that by avoiding any contact possible with the man in question that her feelings would also be avoided, a plan that was full of holes considering it was only the two of them on the property and a good three hours of driving between them and the rest of civilisation. She knew her behaviour towards the man in question could be seen in multiple different ways but she was stubborn through and through, if she didn’t need to be near the man then she was never found near him.

Their late night tv watches, breakfast together with interesting little chats, dinner shared together when Carrillo wasn’t doing paperwork had all been scraped at Ash’s behest. She would wake up before him and quickly make some food and disappear either back to her room or go for a brisk walk around the tree lined property. She would force herself to stay in her room even after the multiple nightmares would have her jolting awake with a scream leaving her throat, while she had once sought comfort in pacing the living room she could now only reflect on the incident  that had occurred there and the look of regret that had graced the Colonels face. As for dinner time, the Colonel still cooked for the both of them, even if she was avoiding him, something she was highly grateful for, except now instead of sitting on the couch watching any number of things in quiet company, they now went their separate ways. Carrillo to his office and Greyson usually went outside to sit in nature and calm her frazzled nerves from being around her commanding officer. 

Her plan was going extremely well for a few days until she got a call from the medics back at base confirming that it was time for her to come and get her stitches removed as it had been a good few weeks now. This put a kink in her plans, she was still getting far too many dizzy spells randomly throughout the day which meant she wouldn’t be able to drive herself to the hospital so she would be forced to man up and ask the Colonel to drive her. Three hours in a car with the man who by all means she was trying to push down her feelings for was going to be a world of hell, infinitely more awkward than the current household situation. 

She got up off the couch and began moving in the direction of the room that was set up as the teams workspace only to stop dead in her track as the Colonel exited the room and stared directly at her before pointing at the phone current held in his left hand, “I just got a call from the medics, you're needed at the hospital to get those stitches taken out”  he pointed at her head and then gestured in the general direction of her stab wound, “ Doctors protocol call for me to drive you there, they want your concussion to be cleared before you’re allowed to drive” 

Ash began to open her mouth to voice her protest but was cut short when the Colonel levelled with a look that said ‘don't try me’ and the words, “That's an order soldier! Now let's go”.  Ash wanted to protest and kick up a fuss but she knew it was no use, he was probably pissed that she’d been ignoring him for the past three or four days, and rightfully so, she’d acted much like a petulant child rather than the strong young soldier he had recruited her for. Ash knew that the only way she would be able to survive the awkwardness of the car ride was to sleep, something she hadn’t got much of for the last few nights because she had been tossing and turning trying to figure out if what she had encountered with the Colonel had been a slip in his defenses or a trick to see if she was loyal to his cause. But as she glanced over to take in the disheveled appearance and tired eyes of the Colonel beside her, she knew he had been feeling the same or at the very least, not been sleeping like he used to, he looked far too tired. 

Ash dropped her seat backward in the SUV they were travelling in, a bulletproof rig the army had provided to keep the team safe whenever they did live fire practice or did a real raid, leaning her head against the cool window of the car brought a small moment of clarity for the young soldier, it might have been easier to apologize for her actions and try and smooth things over but that was not how Greyson worked. She would apologise when things got so bad that she had no other choice. The sense of peace the came from being around her commanding officer soon had her falling into a deep sleep, hopefully one that was peaceful and refreshing for once.

They were nearly two hours into the three hour drive to the base hospital when Carrillo heard a whimper come from the young officer in the seat beside him, at first he thought she had just bumped her head on the window as the road was rough in some areas, but when he heard another whimper and a quietly whispered “no” come from the sleeping female he had no choice but to look over at her and when he did he slowed the car down and threw it into park. The junior officer was sweating profusely, shaking violent and pale as a sheet, quietly mumbled words were tumbling from her lips as her brows were drawn together in a look of muted horror.  Carrillo didn’t know what to think but he knew he couldn’t let her suffer so he reached across the car and gently shook Greyson by her shoulder, increasing in intensity when she didn’t wake up the first time, it was on his forth more violent shake of her shoulder that she finally woke, glancing around with tears brimming in her eyes and a startled expression on her face.

Ash had to take long measured breaths to calm her frantically beating heart, that nightmare had been one of the worse yet and she was silently grateful that the man before her had woken her before it had got any worse, reliving the death of a family member was not something that Ash wanted to repeat, but it seemed her brain wanted to taunt her constantly. She had to hold back a muted sob as emotion overtook her body and the tears began to flow freely from her eyes, she hated look weak in front of people especially someone who she’d be working beneath for god knows how long. The blood was rushing in her ears cause her to zone out and try and focus on bringing herself back to a calm state, it wasn’t until she saw Carrillo’s fingers snapping in front of her face that she finally snapped out of it and turned her tear stained face to meet his own pained expression. 

“Care to tell me what has got you so upset Greyson? Is it the same thing that has had you waking up screaming in the middle of the night? I want to help you Ash” 

Hearing her first name leave the mouth of the man before her was like a shock to the system, but it had the desired effect, she felt the need to confess what was happening to her and why she was indeed having horrible nightmares almost every night since she woke up in the hospital bed nearly three weeks ago. Gulping down her pride and realising that out of anyone the Colonel was probably the best person to tell her troubles too incase her past came back to haunt her, she turned to him, a sad smile on her face and uttered, “It's a long story, Sir, but if you want to know I’m willing to share” 

Carrillo smiled softly at the young officer before him, reaching out to grasp her hand tightly in his own to instill a small sense of comfort, he nodded slowly, he had finally managed to crack into her defences but what he didn’t know is he was about to find out how truly broken the soldier before him really was. 

[siobhan-bridges]

Whenever Siobhan spoke of home, she held Paris in her mouth like a prayer.

She never said anything bad about the city she was born in. She absolutely adored it. From the architecture, to the people, the music, the food, even the language itself. There was a magical aura that clung to the air, chiseled its way into the cobblestones, and anchored itself into the depths of the Seine River. Siobhan loved Paris and she was so excited to share this beautiful city with Everett; only more eager for the trip when she learned that this was his first trip here. 

However, this trip had a purpose. It was time to introduce Everett to her family. Of everyone, she was most eager for him to meet her granddad who she adored beyond words and joy filled the woman to see how well they got along. She wasn’t worried about this introduction, or the one with her mother, or three of her sisters. It was introducing him to her father that had Siobhan in a knot of anxiety by Thursday, the day of the dinner. 

Everett didn’t seem nervous at all as they arrived at the Dumas Estate. The man looked so handsome, the blue button up he wore had Siobhan swooning, only fragments at a time before her anxiety sat back in, but enough. He held onto her hand and he was her saving grace. She was so thankful for his strength today, she needed to syphon from it. 

I love you. I’m never going to leave your side. I’m with you. Nothing he can say will change the way I see you, which is in the highest regard. You are worthy and you are loved. 

Everett’s words billowed against the woman’s eardrums before satiating the ache of her heart. The words massaged away some of her fears—again, only temporary. It would be a repeating theme this evening, but Everett never gave up. Siobhan couldn’t believe how devoted he was, how patient he was when it came to her insecurities regarding her father. The very thought had her in tears and she came to a halt before they could ascend the steps. Her entire body seemed to be trembling now and she felt the heat of wetness building in the corner of her eyes. Overcome by emotion split in two. Part of this was due solely to Everett and just how honest his love was for her and the other was fear of seeing her father again. She breathed deeply and closed her eyes. Everett was there, caressing her back with a gentle rub, his lips on her temple, whispers of his love were laid here in a kiss.  

Everett had to knock on the door, because Siobhan wasn’t ready. They would have waited all evening on her to tap her knuckles against the door. It wasn’t long before Juliana was answering the door. She was a beautiful Spanish woman. Even for her age, she still held a beauty that couldn’t quite be matched. Her lips were painted in a coral color, her hair pinned back into a neat bun, not a single hair was out of place. She was perfectly presentable. She quickly pulled her daughter into a tight hug, trying her hardest to take some of her anxiety away. Juliana knew exactly how her daughter was. After a long moment, she released her and looked over at the tall man. “And you must be Everett?” she said; her accent was a lot heavier than Siobhan’s. Juliana reached for him and pulled him into a hug, a soft thank you whispered to the man before she kissed each of his cheeks and welcomed them both into the home. 

They were sent to the lounge to wait while she finished the last details on dinner while Pascal was working in his office, in no rush to greet his guests. Siobhan spent this time wiping her sweaty hands on her romper repeatedly, it seemed. Never could relieve herself from the clamminess, but this didn’t bother Everett. He’d capture her hand the moment she started fidgeting, trying to calm her nerves. It felt like an eternity before they were led to the sunroom where their dinner would be had. Siobhan knew her place here. She was to be seen and not heard until her father addressed her. He came into the room and didn’t bother to introduce himself to Everett and it felt like he had taken a dagger and stabbed Siobhan’s heart. She wanted to cry but she knew better. He would laugh at her weakness. She was always too soft growing up, too easy to push to tears. Too sensitive. She needed to be more like her oldest sister. She needed to be stoic in public settings or she’d never be a successful businesswoman. 

Dinner was painful. And none of it was at the fault of Everett or Juliana who tried hopelessly to turn the conversation to more positive things when Pascal seemed to dig into Siobhan. Everett held her with such a high regard against all of her father’s snide remarks. He never faltered. Siobhan admired him more than he would ever know for this. Throughout the dinner, Siobhan kept her hand on his thigh, tracing lines into his leg; this feat was not meant to arouse him, but simply to coax him away from his frustration with Pascal whenever it grew too large. 

Being one who believed success was based on power, it was no surprise to Siobhan when her father brought up Everett’s job and then began to dig into him about his ambition. And Everett kept up with the man easily, “I’m never satisfied. There’s always something more I can do. A new account to be opened with a major company, more money to be made. I rarely slow down.” He turned in his seat to look at Siobhan, his expression slightly adoring, slightly apologetic. “One of the many reasons why your daughter is my perfect match. Owning a string of international bakeries with no intentions to stop is very admirable to me. She’s a hard worker.” Turning back to Pascal, Everett’s expression hardened slightly. “She’s just as ambitious as I am. Together, we are going to build an empire.”

An empire? This was something Everett had never used to describe their futures entwining together, but it brought chills to her flesh. She stared at him, you could see the love they had for each other. It was powerful and real and true. Surely, her father saw how perfectly they fit?

He didn’t. Instead, he took this moment to dig into Siobhan’s sensitivity and Everett defended her without hesitation. 

“Sensitivity is steel.” Everett argued as evenly as he could, though he was sure Siobhan could pick up on the subtle anger under his tone. “With all due respect sir, an empire built without heart is one that will crumble. Investing money is just the tip of what it takes to make it work; the starting point. Anyone can make money. Anyone can make a start. It takes real ambition and dedication to keep it going. I’ve learned the hard way that working for money and success isn’t enough. You have to believe in what you do and have a motivation greater than that. Before I met Siobhan, I didn’t have that motivation. So arguably... sensitivity is not weakness. It is steel.”

Siobhan leaned into Everett’s side, giving his shoulder a kiss. She had barely spoken during the dinner. She hated how weak her father made her feel and now she felt her eyes starting to burn with tears that desperately wanted release. She looked at her mother for salvation, and Juliana was quick to chime in. “Everett, did Siobhan ever tell you I was a dancer? Siobhan, why, why don’t you go show him the ballroom? It’s so beautiful.”

Everett quickly stood up, and Siobhan joined him. Not waiting for her father’s permission. She captured her boyfriend’s hand as he said goodbye to the man who was on his fourth glass of wine. The moment they were far enough away from the room, Siobhan turned around and buried her face against Everett’s chest, her hands grabbing at his sides. 

“I’m so sorry,” she moaned out, a few tears fell from her eyes but she was in control of her emotions, surprisingly. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that, with him.” Everett wiped away her tears before pulling her back into his embrace. It was a brutal hour but they had made it through it. Everett kept his arm around Siobhan as they left the house, both of them agreeing to make the most of the rest of their trip. 

[miss-choco-chips]

Reverse Robin au

I wanted to try my hand at both Reverse Robin au and childhood friends DamiTim. So, Headcannons for all!!! 

In which Damian goes from thinking Tim has cooties, to imagining him in leather. Oh, and he trains to be a hero in between. 

Or, in which Tim goes from sassing Damian for being a prick, to sassing him because it’s their own special sort of foreplay.

They are seven and eight, respectively, when they met.

A part of Damian still believes girls have cooties; Timothy is no girl, but his best friend and usual companion is one, so he can’t be that far. Besides, he’s seven, a baby. Still, Mother and Father insist he plays with him, and he loves them too much to say ‘no’ when they ask something so earnestly.

Tim, a hand gripping his mother’s dress, takes one good look at the Wayne Heir, the hand offered to him and a superior sneer on his face, and then glances at his mom. 

‘He’s a prick’, he tells her with his eyes. She smiles benevolently down at him, but he catches the answer behind her Lady facade: ‘I know he is. Still, behave.’

While Mother and Father exchange pleasantries with the Drakes, Damian shakes hands with their son. As Heirs of the two most powerful families of the city (and arguably, the country), they are bound to see a lot of each other. 

The boy, Timothy he introduced himself as, has a very pale, very soft hand. No calluses. Damian, a martial arts enthusiast, can’t help but scoff.

The kid looks him dead in the eye, apparently not missing his reaction. With a completely angelic smile, and the most passive aggressive voice Damian ever heard, he tilted his head and asked.

‘Is there something on your throat, Mr Little Wayne?’ ‘No?’ ‘Oh, then you’re just a naturally unpleasant person’

Before Damian can even answer with a good comeback, the little boy is walking away towards where his friend, Stephanie Brown, daughter of Miss Brown, the head catheter of this events, is waiting. 

Damian is left standing, hand still out where he was shaking the kid’s own, mouth agape as he watches the little brat just leave him. His parents must have missed they ‘conversation’, but Mrs Drake hasn’t, if the equally exasperated and fond look in her eyes was something to go from.

From then on, every time they met, the little monster seemed to have a comeback ready. No matter how Damian prepared himself for their little greetings each time they bumped into the other at a party, Timothy always had some answer waiting under the tip of his tongue, both cutting, smart and deceivingly innocent.

‘Tsk. Again with Brown, I see. Can’t you do anything without your little shadow?’ ‘I can explain to you what friendship is, but I don’t think I can help you understand, sadly.’

‘Damian, I feel twice as happy seeing you as I did last time!’ ‘I’m sure you do…’ ‘Yeah. What’s two times zero?’ ‘...you brat’

‘Timothy. Your suit looks… as nice as it could, given the circumstances, I think‘ ‘And yours looks… well, I guess it’s nice to see not everyone is so obsessed with appearances’.

Both Brown and Mrs Drake seemed to find their exchanges amusing. He’s glad someone does, for he finds them exhausting and full of frustration. The little brat was seven, he shouldn’t be able to always have the last word. Damian was a Wayne. It was unbecoming. 

Still, it was… better than aimlessly follow his parents around. And he could always brag about his physical training success, which never failed to bring a frown to Timothy’s face.

He noticed too how his hand was starting to gain callousness over time. Apparently, someone was bitter about Damian’s training.

When his parents died, murdered in cold blood in front of him at the tender age of ten, he thought himself alone. Then Alfred came for him to the police station and hugged him as tight as Dad used to do, and Timothy walked right to the front seats on the funeral and held his hand during it all.

He had lost his parents, but there were people that cared for him, still. He couldn’t allow himself to fall into despair; he needed to keep this from happening to anyone else. He needed to protect the city his parents had loved.

Back in the Mannor, he endured as countless of strangers gave him their condolences, swallowing his desire to spit in their faces. None cared. Fakes, all of them; in their eyes, he was but a wealthy, vulnerable child, an open door towards the Wayne fortune. 

Timothy’s hand in his, calluses more notable each day and cold eyes keeping the worst of the worst away, kept him in check. He left his side shortly, speaking with his mother in whispers, before coming back and tugging him away. Mrs Drake, as the Waynes most close ally, took Damian’s place in thanking people for their support.

In his room, safe from the world, he broke down in the other child’s arms. Timothy, just one year younger but so much frailer, kept a tight  grip on him, arms around his back and back straight, eyes to the door. A show of strength, of protection; you can cry, I’ll keep watch.

Damian starts his training. Alfred calls master after master, in acrobatics, swordsmanship, hand to hand combat, forensics, everything that would keep his young Master from giving up and quitting on life. Anything to keep him busy, and moving.

Damian finds it humorous, how Timothy looks at him the next time they met at a party and frowns, obviously noticing the trials his body is going through on the lines of it. Something no one else seems to see.

He doesn’t tell Timothy he doesn’t need to work himself to the bone to be equal to Damian, he doesn’t need to catch up to him, because he’s already on the same level, his sharp mind and calculating disposition enough to make up for the breach in physical strength. He doesn’t say this, because wit can only take you so far, if your opponent is stronger than you, and every bit of knowledge Timothy amasses in his quest of showing Damian up could potentially save his life one day.

He likes that their exchanges are still the same; even in the darkest times, he can trust the newly turned 13 year old to be a passive aggressive little brat.

‘Oh, Timothy, it seems you’re still focusing more on your studies than… more practical areas’ ‘Somewhere out there, there’s a tree tirelessly producing oxygen so you can breath. I think you owe it an apology’

‘You seem ill, Timothy. Or is that shade of white natural to you?’ ‘Oh, I was feeling a little unwell, hence why I came to see you. They say laughter is medicine, and your face is already curing me’

‘It smells like something is burning. Damian, are you trying to think again?’ ‘....as always, you’re such a pleasure to meet with’ ‘I know, you’re welcome’

It lacked the bite it used to have, tough. Timothy was as ready to talk back at him in his bitchiest voice, as he was to ruthlessly humiliate anyone trying to fuck with Damian.

When he left the city, seeking to better himself for his mission, he and Alfred were the only ones he was sad to leave behind.

He traveled for years, safe in the knowledge that Mrs Drake was looking out for his company and her son, and that Alfred would be taking care of the Mannor and preparing everything for his return in a few years.

HE exchanged letters with Timothy. Calls could be intervened, and as long as him and Timothy spoke in code and never revelaed anything too personal, there was no problem with keeping physicals reminders of their ever growing bond.

He met Talia when he was fifteen, who in turn introduced him to her father. They both seemed to take a liking to both his abilities and goal, and took him in for training. She seemed to think of herself as a mother figure, as she kept pating his head and calling him ‘my own’, and Ra’s’ eyes would shine with greed during the times he took Damian’s training into his own hands. 

He left before turning eighteen, when talks of successors and adoptions became too unbearable. His only parents were dead, and he had no intention to replace them for such dark, shady figures. Besides, no matter how close their objectives seemed at first, the more he knew them the least they sounded like philanthropists. Terrorist, was a more fitting label.

He turned 21 on his first night back in Gotham. Alfred, who never  failed to bake a cake for him despite his absence the last seven years, shared it with him with teary eyes.

The morning after that, Timothy came to see him.

It took Damian’s breath away. 

He was still shorter, and at this point it was a sure thing he’d always be, but small height didn’t mean his charms were as well. His skin remained as white as he remembered, eyes icy blue, both in color and the feeling they gave off, hair even darker than Damian’s framing a delicate face.

His hands were rougher than he remembered, though. More calloused, packed with extra strength. Damian could tell, because the first thing this enchanting man did upon them meeting was to slap him. Hard.

‘I know everyone is entitled to act stupid once in a while, but you are really abusing the privilege, Damian. Seven years? Seven? And spent, what, three of them in company of the Al Ghuls? Are you always this dumb, or you just like showing off when I’m around? This doesn’t impress me, you know. I’ve always known you were an idiot, it’s not news anymore’

‘How…?’

‘You might think yourself above all others, smart wise, but please remember I’m someone you never won a battle of wits against. I know everything about your little world trotting, because I have spies, and about your time with the League, because I’ve known Ra’s for way longer than you. Also, your stupid little hero idea…’

‘Spies again?’

‘Alfred. Somehow, he thinks I can make you change your mind. I might be hailed as a saint by gothamites, but I certainly can’t work miracles’

Tim left eight hours later, after discussing both Damian’s travels and plans for the future. He had way more information than Damian had guessed, and had been silently but steadily growing his network of contacts and spies, and had his dainty little fingers in more pies than a baker. He growled at him, called him stupid, told him he was going to get himself killed if he pushed forward with the whole ‘Batman’ idea, but… When he left, it was as a ally. He’d support Damian, do his best to keep him well informed, and deal with over the table crimes, while Damian took care of the ones under it.

He fell in love, a little bit. Or, more accurately, fell more in love. The seeds have been planted years before, when a seven year old sassesd him and left him eating his words. Now, through… the dark knowledge he had amassed, the sharpness in his eyes, the deceptively frail appearance… 

Something twisted in his gut, in a nice way. He went to bed that night, and started to think in other aliases that would go nicely with Batman.

Wouldn't Timothy look dashing, in leather and kevlar?

[earlysunsetsoverambrose]

Crash and Burn (3/4)

Bo Sinclair x f!Reader 

Warnings: Cursing

Shit.

You look to see Bo dressed down in a shirt and jeans, his hair untamed with his face scrunched into a dangerous scowl. His broad chest heaved and his white-knuckled fists clenched at his sides as he stalked through the doorway. Suddenly, he looked up and your eyes met his icy blue irises, pinning you where you stood. You swore you saw just a hint of fear in his beautiful eyes before a familiar fiery rage replaced it upon spotting you. You stepped back down, taking in his full expression. ‘Livid’ didn’t even begin to cover it.

“Just what the hell do you think you’re doin’ out here? Do you know what fuckin’ time it is?” Bo hollered as he stood above you glowering with his hands planted at his hips, an explosion barely contained. You flinched at his unforgiving tone. You were sure his shouting could be heard from Lester’s cabin just outside town “You better start explainin’ yourself, missy. I wake up to find you missing without a goddamn trace. No note! Nothin’! Not one damn word on where you’d be! Just where the hell were you plannin’ on runnin’ to?” You expected that Bo might throw a fit, but he was reacting much worse than you anticipated. He was practically trembling with rage and his posture was almost animalistic.

“Bo, I wasn’t-”

“Christ, Y/N!” Bo cursed as he slammed his hand against outside of the house. The sound startled you, even if you knew he would never, ever hit you “Where the hell did you go? Tell me right fuckin’ now!”

“Would you let me-” you were cut off as Bo kicked some old boxes and bottles out from in front of him with another growl of growing frustration. Broken glass crunched under his boots. With the way he started clawing at his hair and swinging out at everything in his way, you were beginning to worry he was going to hurt himself. “Bo you need to calm-”

“Don’t you fuckin’ tell me to calm down! I’ll calm down when I’m good and ready. So, you best get back upstairs in the meantime!” He ordered, his shoulders heaving up and down from the short, infuriated breaths he took.

“I can-”

“Save it! Get your ass back in the house.” Bo hissed, turning his body to let you through, glaring you down. He wasn’t going to tell you again. You took a deep breath, as you silently debated whether to heed him or challenge him by staying put. Looking at his face and considering the flash of worry you’d seen in his eyes just moments ago, you let it go and moved to go back inside.  

“Go find Vincent, Jonesy.” You ordered. Jonesy gave a short whine, but did as she was told. You saw her trot off just before Bo grabbed your wrist and yanked you back up the porch and into the house.

His grip wasn’t tight enough to hurt you, but you certainly weren’t going to escape the oncoming argument. You couldn’t make out the words he was grumbling under his breath, but you could bet about eighty-five percent was expletives. He led you both up the stairs and back to your bedroom, pulling you close behind.

When you got to the door, he moved you to walk in first, slamming the door after him. You made a beeline to sit on the edge of the bed while Bo continued to pace and rant under his breath. He had been upset with you before, but never like this. There was something deeper to his anger this time and he was going to give you a hell of time figuring it out.

You’d learned that when he got mad, it always came from his protective instinct. The trick was to keep an even temper and refuse to let him intimidate you or badger you into a screaming match; which was always easier said than done. You had gotten better at communicating with him when he got like this, but it wasn’t easy to keep your cool when he was yelling and cursing at you eight ways to Sunday. You took a breath, preparing yourself for battle,

“Bo, I can explain.”

“I should fuckin’ hope so.” Bo spat back, not sparing so much as a glance at you “Tell me, where were you plannin’ on escapin’ to? How far were you plannin’ on goin’ ‘fore I stopped you?”

“I was just going for a walk. I was on my way home when you found me.” You said coolly. He was really going to make this difficult for you.

“And what gave you the bright idea to walk around alone at three in the fuckin morning? Stupidest fuckin’ idea I ever heard.” Bo asked flicking his gaze to you, before continuing to pace about the room with a scowl. He circled the room like caged animal, practically frothing at the mouth.

“I wasn’t alone-”

“Right. You had the damn dog with you, that makes it better.” He added sarcastically. Stubborn, grouchy Bo was back in full force. It was hard to believe he was the same person who was so gentle just hours ago. You knew that both sides were a unique part of him and you appreciated both all the same, but damn if didn’t make him difficult to keep up with sometimes.

“Jonesy wanted a walk and I needed to clear my head-”

“Clear your head? Seems to me it was crystal clear since there wasn’t a damn thing runnin’ through it when you took off in the middle of the night.”

“I needed a-”

“You’re practically beggin’ for trouble! Did you even stop to think if anyone was still runnin’ around out there? No! You weren’t! You weren’t thinkin’ of a goddamn thing at all! It’s like you’re fuckin’ with me on purpose, Y/N!”

“You interrupt me one more goddamn time and I’m sleeping on Lester’s couch.” You snapped as you stood from your seat on the bed. You may have been shaken by recent events, but you were by no means fragile and he’d do well to remember that. You’d never been one to take his anger fueled accusations lying down before so you didn’t plan on starting now.

“The hell you are.” Bo declared finally planting himself in front of you, fixing his sight on your face. He was still tense and rigid while you did your best to remain collected.

“Then how about you let me explain.” You said in as calm a tone as you could muster as you placed your hands on your hips, looking him dead in the eyes. You wanted to be perfectly clear you didn’t intend on backing down. You could see Bo weighing his options and he thankfully settled on crossing his arms with a grimace: a sign for you to continue “Thank you. Now to answer all your questions, I got out of bed because I was having a real hard time sleeping. I couldn’t calm down and you were asleep, so I slipped out for something to drink. Jonesy found me in the kitchen and practically begged me to walk with her. I was still feeling a bit uneasy from…well everything that happened and so I thought walking with Jonesy would help calm me down. We only walked to the edge of town, before turning around, Bo. I swear, I was being careful. I’m truly and genuinely sorry for upsetting you, but I think you’re overreacting.”

“Overreacting? You were gone, Y/N. What the hell was I supposed to think? It’s dangerous out there and you were bein’ reckless.” Bo snapped defensively “Anyone coulda been lurking around. You should know better than to just leave like that.”

“Bo, you and I walk around Ambrose late at night all the time. You know as well as I do that hardly anyone ever pulls in at this time of night, especially this time of year.” You reasoned.

“We were together all those other times, Y/N.” Bo ran a rough hand through his wild hair, pulling it a bit in his frustration and began pacing once more.

“You’ve seen me do things that are arguably more reckless than a night stroll with a dog and I’ve never seen you this mad.”

“You left in the middle of the night and I couldn’t find you! I think I’ve got a fuckin’ right to be upset.”

“You’re allowed to be upset, but this is more than that, Bo!” You argued “So, tell me are you really this angry because I took a walk when you weren’t expecting it or are you actually angry because you were scared and you didn’t know how to handle it?” A risky thing to say, but you were in too deep now.

“Watch your mouth, Y/N.” Bo hissed as he shot a glare in your direction. He knew deep down what you just said was the absolute truth, but he hated that you knew exactly what was eating at him before could even make sense of it himself.

“Tell me what’s really wrong.” You demanded heatedly. Bo ripped his hands through his hair and whipped himself to face you, fire barely giving way to heartbreak

“You were gone!” he practically roared, his voice cracking.

“And I came back.” You responded sternly, neither pausing nor raising your voice, but standing firm “I came back and I’m right here.”

This caused Bo’s grimace to finally crumble as he tore his eyes from you to glare at the wall. All the anger left in Bo’s expression started to give way to the distress lying just beneath the surface. Your brow dropped the lines of frustration as you continued to look up at him with understanding. He stood still as stone and it was clear he didn’t know how to continue. You made it easier on him as you slowly stepped toward him and dragged him down to your level by his shirt. You wrapped your arms around his neck and wove your fingers through his curls. You felt him relax in your embrace as he wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you flush against him. You both stood like that for a moment, getting lost in each other’s scent, cherishing the moment of peace.

“I’m very sorry that I scared you. I didn’t mean to worry you, but I promise I was always going to come right back.”

“I wasn’t scared.” Bo stubbornly insisted with a scoff to really drive home his point. You weren’t sold, but you let it go without a fight. You knew you’d be hard pressed to get him to admit he got scared, at least in so many words. You turned your face to the side and placed a feather light kiss on the bruising just below his eye.

“It would have been okay if you were, though. You know that, right?” you added as you pulled back from your embrace to look up at him “In fact, I’d have been flattered. Big Bad Beauregard worried about me? What a concept.”

“You’re a pain in my ass, you know that?” Bo grumbled, though he couldn’t hide the chuckle that escaped the smallest of smiles that pulled at his cheeks. You beamed up at him as though he’d paid you the highest of compliments. Bo leaned down a pressed a soft peck to your nose. You let out a small, sweet laugh at the tickle from his kiss sent a flash of heat straight to your cheeks. You felt him smile against your face before he used a firm hand to tilt your chin up to kiss him properly. Your eyes fluttered shut, savoring the warm sensation that never failed to make you feel safe and protected. His lips briefly followed yours when you pulled away for air. With a smile, you reached down to unhook his arm from your waist to lead him back to bed. He let you crawl in first and as you made yourself comfortable, he got in next to you. You faced one another side-by-side. Bo used a hand to brush your hair from your eyes and placed it back on your cheek, completely engulfing it. Both of you used the short break in the conversation to rest in comfortable silence before either of you spoke once more.