stardusksx

[stardusksx]

daylight ❀ s. reid x reader

in which communicating with your boyfriend is scary, and spencer reid can't stand to see you cry.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: comfort/fluff! tags: reader avoids her issues... for a little bit. that's kind of it. it's just fluffy and simple! word count: 1.5k a/n: something short & sweet because i thought it was cute and i write the most when i'm procrastinating assignments... um… inspired by a conversation sam willow and i were having a few nights ago🫂 reminder that pretty girls cry when they’re confronting somebody!!

Spencer Reid was not oblivious to all things in the world. In fact, he was rather perceptive compared to most people. Psychology degree and human behaviour-based job aside, he noticed things. 

A lot of it was good. He knew exactly how to wake you up on mornings he started earlier than you. How to keep you half-asleep enough to allow you your return to sleep, but also awake enough to ensure you'd remember him kissing you goodbye (there had been an argument a few months ago about it — you thought he had left without a word). He knew your go-to Thai order from the restaurant down the street, and he knew which pair of wooden chopsticks your favourite were to pull out of his kitchen drawers. 

He was also observant enough to know something was wrong. 

He was back from a case. A long one, that had worn him down enough that he felt like a pile of creaking bones when he re-entered his apartment earlier that afternoon. You had returned from your own job an hour after that, and despite the initial excitement that came from your boyfriend being back in the state again, you were a bundle of nerves. 

And he knew that.

You were on his couch, legs across his lap and back up against the arm, his hands resting comfortable in the dip between your two knees. There was a quiet episode of New Girl playing on the television (you had convinced him to watch it after he had sat you through every Star Trek movie), but your thoughts were anywhere but the sitcom you had been using to entertain yourself as of recent. 

"You've been awfully quiet," Spencer said, piercing the less than comfortable air settled around you two. 

"Sorry," you answered, tearing your gaze from the screen to look at him, meeting a worried expression you had somewhat expected. 

Hands ran up and down your legs, erupting goosebumps along the skin. "Is something wrong?" 

"No," you immediately shook your head and forced a smile onto your face. "Nothing's wrong."

He furrowed his eyebrows, lips parting in that confused look he always had on his face when he was thinking, and he stared at you for a few seconds longer, before, "Yes there is."

Profilers. "Seriously, Spence. There isn't. I'm just kind of tired tonight."

"I am as well," he said, hands stilling on your legs rather abruptly. "I was in Idaho for a week. I'm also exhausted. And usually my girlfriend is a little touchier and more talkative than this when I come home. So I'm assuming something's wrong."

"You're assuming incorrectly, then," your shoulders shrugged.

He said your name chidingly, and it was at that tone of voice that you retracted your legs from his lap, instead tucking your feet beneath yourself, gaze dropping to the couch cushion. 

"I just missed you," you told him, a slight stretch of the truth. 

"I missed you too," he said, and your shoulders softened. "But that's not all it is."

You blinked, before you fell silent, shaking your head instead. 

"Talk to me. What's happened?" his voice was achingly soft, your heart shattering in your chest to the point you wanted to take back every thought you'd had over the past week and burn them to ashes. They didn't mean much now in front of him. Not when he was reminding you of how kind he was. 

"You barely talked to me," you said, hands dropping to your lap, and you fidgeted with them under his gaze. "I never knew what was going on. You didn't call once, except for when you landed."

"I was really busy, honey," he answered, and you could hear the frown in his voice. "If I had time to do anything other than the case and sleep, you know I'd have talked to you more." 

"I know," your voice shook, and you could feel your emotions overriding your brain. As usual. So, you kept your head down. "But I would've liked you to tell me that, at least."

You heard him sigh, and curiosity got the best of you as you lifted your gaze, inspecting to see if he was sighing out of irritation or not. He wasn't — just exhaustion — and that made you feel a little better.

"I know for next time then," he said, and he met your eyes, which had watered since the last time he looked at you. Which wasn't very long ago, and so he was drawing his eyebrows together, again, confusedly. "What's that? What's wrong?"

On instinct he leaned forwards, and you let him shift his body closer to yours, hands coming up on either side of your neck. You sniffled, trying to suck the tears threatening to fall back into your eye sockets. 

"I can't communicate," you mumbled, quietly, a tear escaping and dripping down to the lower half of your cheek. 

"You communicated pretty well just then, angel," he said, voice soft as he caught the remainder of the tear and swiped it away with his thumb. 

"Yeah but—but now I'm crying," you moaned, pathetically, more tears slipping down your face. His lips twitched — though not in humour, you noted — as he adjusted his hands to your jaw, thumbs continuing to wipe falling tears. 

"Yeah. That's okay," he answered. "You've got a flood of hormones going through you right now, and so your body reacts to it in the best way it sees fit. In your case, it's tears."

"I hate it," you mumbled, and this time he did laugh a little, nodding his head. 

"I know," he said. "Are you feeling embarrassed about communicating with me?"

"I guess," you replied. "I don't know. I think I just..." you trailed off as your voice disappeared, breath beginning to hyperventilate acutely. "I—I just feel kind of sil—silly."

You cursed each sob that broke up your speech, and yet his gaze and focus on you never once wavered. In fact, his touch seemingly had grown softer, and the concern in his eyes had only grown. 

"You aren't silly," he said, once he was sure you weren't going to continue speaking. "If me not talking to you for a week upset you, I'd say that's pretty reasonable."

"I don't know..."

"Want a secret?" he asked, fingers poking into your cheeks enough for you to crack a small smile. You only nodded your head in response, chest still jolting with each sharp intake of breath. "I have to physically restrain myself from calling you every hour on a normal day."

"You're lying," you mumbled, and his smile only widened, a bashful laugh leaving his lips. 

"No, honestly. I have so much I want to talk to you about during the day, and I need to remind myself that you're busy and at work too."

A few uncontrollable tears dripped down your face, and your gaze dropped to the top of his shirt, though the smile never left your face. "I don't believe you."

"I wish you would, but that's okay," he said, evidently seeing right through your defying statement — you believed him a little.

His forefinger and thumb caught your chin, and he tilted your head back up so his eyes could meet your glassy ones. 

"I'm sorry," you murmured, before he could get a word in.

"For what?"

"Crying."

"Do you take in anything I say to you?" he chastised, though the smile on his face eliminated any fear of him being genuinely irritated, and so your shoulders simply shrugged. 

"Sometimes," you said, and his eyebrows shot up. 

"Sometimes?" he repeated back to you, and you had to bite your lip to keep the amused expression off your face. He was smiling back at you, before his face settled into something more serious, as he continued, "I don't mind you crying, angel. It breaks my heart to see it, but I'm not sitting here and judging you for it. You know that, right?"

"Yeah."

"Good," he finalised with a short nod, and you sniffled with a nod of your own. 

"I mean, technically, crying is good," you said, tongue poking between your teeth as you forced back a smile. 

"Yeah? Why's that?" 

"Releases endorphins and oxytocin."

He huffed a single laugh through his nose, nodding his head. "Yes. It does."

"I know things," you grinned. 

"You do," he agreed with a nod. "My smart girl."

"Yeah. Don't ever forget it."

"I could never," he replied, and a comfortable silence enveloped your two bodies, your heart fluttering in your chest. 

"Can you tell me about Idaho?" you finally asked him.

"You really want to know?" 

You nodded your head, and he sighed, but complied regardless. And you eventually found your head in his lap, staring up at him as one hand danced gently over the skin of your slightly exposed stomach, the other entangled in your hair, brushing through it. 

And he told you about the case he had been away on — it became glaringly obvious behind why he hadn't called or messaged you at all — and consequently eased any other remaining worries behind it.

And it dried your tears up.

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated ♡

[stardusksx]

Writing Description Notes: Facial Expressions

Updated 22nd August 2024 More description notes

Fear mounted his face.

She steeled her expression

A deep frown set into his muzzle.

He spoke softly, his brows drawn together in a sympathetic concern.

A look of relief washed over his features.

Her eyebrows inched upward, as she looked upon him in stunned silence.

He searched Jane’s expression, but found not the slightest tinge of anger, resentment, or hatred.

His brow wrinkled by a deep frown.

The adamant expression and carefree grin that followed took the edge off her reservations and she pried deeper.

A thinly veiled warning hid behind her perfect pout and she was sure to flash it at the hero menacingly.

Her brows knitted together.

A broken expression laced his features.

In his facial expression was a tiredness, a need for nurture and a chance to rest.

John’s brows drew together gently, his expression accenting his confusion, softly encouraging her to continue.

Only a hint of a hesitation gracing her features.

His brows cured upwards and golden eyes glittered with worry.

Jane adopted an innocent look.

There was a measure of anxiety scrawled all over his face and she tried to ease it by holding his hand.

A soft laugh caught her off guard and she met John’s cynical expression with one of defiance.

She tried to solve the puzzle of emotions on his face.

John’s face fractured with sympathy

A gentle pout formed on her lips

A softness came over her features, replacing the glowing joy for a meaningful affection for such a devoted friend.

Jane’s brows drew together gently, her expression accenting her confusion, softly encouraging him to continue.

He seemed to wear an expression of vague amusement, announcing his self-assurance.

All her facial muscles twitched in sync.

His expression was an open book of questions yet to be asked.

[stardusksx]

pls spencer and bombshell reader where she like sacrifices herself for him or does something outrageous for him. i love your weiting!! 💝

You don’t have any other choice, Spencer’s on the other roof being held in a chokehold by the UnSub —rational thinking goes out the window. He sees your face and, though he’s starting to look a little blue, gestures wildly for you to not do what you’re thinking. 

You jump. 

You take the landing hard —you ran hard, jumped harder, cringing as the grit of the rooftop tears through your shoulder. You roll into it. In one moment you’re standing, and then you’re knocking the assailant off of your boyfriend just before he falls unconscious. 

You forget everything you’re supposed to remember, flipping the UnSub without care onto his front, yanking his arms back, and cuffing him tightly. He’s a serial child murderer, so it’s kinder than he deserves. 

“Stay down,” you warn, cuffs so tight you can see the perp’s hand changing colour. You’ll have to fix that soon, but you have more important matters at hand. “Spencer?” 

His answer is hoarse, “Yeah.”

You leave the UnSub where he’s laid down and rush to Spencer. You drop to your knees beside him, alarmed that he’s still curled up and gasping. “Hey, hey, what can I do?” 

He grabs your arm and sucks in another breath. 

“Spencer?” 

“Why did you do that?” he asks. 

“What?” 

“What did you do to your arm? Does it hurt?” 

Spencer can barely breathe and he’s asking you if you’re okay. You can see the spots in his eyes. Fuck, he scared you. 

“I’m fine,” you say softly, holding him by the shoulders. “Take a deep breath, can you do that for me?” 

Your shoulder stings like you’d landed on glass and there’s an ache in your bones from the impact, but the source of your racing pulse is the look on his face, as though he might still pass out. You cringe at the sound of approaching footsteps, but it’s Morgan and Hotch making their way across the gravel top to help you. You turn back to Spencer in relief. 

He takes another huge breath. “Good job,” you say quietly, but saccharinely, rubbing his poor chest. “Do you want to sit up?” 

“I can’t.” 

“Okay. Alright. Just take a breath.” 

“Maybe you should take your own advice,” he croaks, putting his hand over your heart. 

“I’m fine.” 

“Just breathe.” He says your name like a secret. “Just breathe.” 

Of course. He’s lying on the ground panting for his life and he’s telling you to calm down. 

Morgan has the UnSub up and moving. Hotch kneels beside you both, face lined with poorly concealed stress. “You okay?” he asks. “Spencer?” 

“She jumped across the roof.” 

“Spencer.” You’re half wounded, half humoured. 

Hotch raises his eyebrows at you both. “Well, that’s ridiculous. Are you alright?” 

“I’m fine. Spencer almost got choked out.” 

Hotch looks as though he might give in and rub his face, but he pats your arm instead. “Okay. Reid, can you stand up?” 

“Tell her she can’t– can’t jump across rooftops,” Spencer says, suddenly full of indignation as he pushes up onto his elbows. He looks like he’s been hung upside down and shook. 

“Well, clearly I can.” 

“L/N shouldn’t be jumping across rooftops for any reason, but you’re both…” Hotch smiles wryly. “I almost said unharmed.” 

Spencer flops down onto his back. When he speaks, he sounds in a strange place, close to tears and laughing alike, “You have to look at her arm.” 

“I think you both need to see a medic, but first, why don’t we all calm down. Let’s regain our senses, and prevent any further unnecessary pain.” 

Spencer gives your leg an uncharacteristic whack. He’s so messed up from the chokehold that it’s more like a stroke, but you feel the tap for what it is. He’s saying Don’t do that to me again. 

“He really was gonna kill you,” you say, sorry. 

“I had it.” 

“Respectfully, baby, you did not.” 

[stardusksx]

Rizz

Pairing: post-prison!spencer reid x gen-z!reader Warnings: basically crack fic, dialogue heavy, this is so unserious, not beta-d, canon typical violence, no gendered pronouns but fem!coded and bi!coded, age gap (spencer in his 40s, reader in mid 20s), mention of reader vaping, reader wears glasses and described as having 'glossy lips', definitely a start of another one-shot collection.

main masterlist / misadventures masterlist

summary: partially inspired by this post by @pastanest. you were once spencer's grad student until you ask to switch. now you are just a pain on his ass. in which you teach spencer the meaning of "rizz".

“I will talk to Dr. Gallagher,” Spencer pleads. “Less teaching hours, is that what you want?”

You hum. “I'm pretty sure that's frowned upon.”

“Just this once?”

“I have a reputation to maintain!”

Spencer sighs, mumbling, “Of being a brat?”

You take the phone off your ear, making sure Dr. Spencer Reid, your former advisor until you requested a change, is still the one connected to the line. “How do you know about Charli XCX?”

“Charli—who?” He questions, but quickly refocuses. “Doesn't matter. I will give you access to the Bureau's solved cases record.”

You almost cave. “Is that even legal?”

“Since when do you care?” He's right, you don't, not really, and he doesn't either, since he caught you vaping CBD in his office once and didn't say shit. (He did confiscated it, only to find you with a Barbie themed one the next day).

Okay, so maybe you and Dr. Spencer Reid went way back. It started when your roommate dragged you to audit one of his classes right before graduation. When you got home, you applied for an open position in his department’s doctorate program and bribed him to be your advisor.

(You might or might not have withheld crucial analysis that might help solve an eight year cold case) (You told him you'd give him your full analysis if he agreed to be your advisor) (You ended up butting heads a lot, during the times he actually showed up to campus, hence the transfer request) (You had been a pain on his ass ever since).

“Throw in an autographed book from David Rossi.”

You can hear the frown in his voice. “I thought you disliked—fine, okay. Deal.”

“Okay,” you relent, momentarily adverting your eyes from your dimmed laptop screen. “What's your question?”

“Um,” he mumbles, hushed voices coming through the phone. “What is rizz?”

A pause. You bark a laugh. “You spent eight minutes bribing me to get me to translate a Gen Z slang?”

“We are in an active case trying to find a missing teenager through an online forum.”

“Why didn't you lead with that?” You gasp, straightening in your seat at the library. The other student shushes you from her seat. “Rizz is short for charisma. Like, game. Like, you know, to pick up a romantic interest.”

“I know what game means.”

You snort, “Cap.”

“Sorry?”

“It's—nevermind. Can I go now? This interview guideline isn't going to write itself.”

“Uh, yeah, sure. Thanks.”

You hang up the phone first, leaving Spencer staring at his brand new Bureau-sponsored, Emily-mandated smartphone.

Not a second later, he receives a text from you.

Buttercup (PhD Candidate)

That couldve been an email.

Dr. Jackass Reid

Would you have replied in a timely manner?

Buttercup (PhD Candidate)

Id reply within working hrs.

Im not a sociopath.

Dr. Jackass Reid

We talked about using stigmatizing terminology in a trivial, yet harmful manner.

Buttercup (PhD Candidate)

Ok boomer.

Dr. Jackass Reid

Arbitrary generational grouping solely based on birth date is oversimplifying the cultural divide of society, ignoring social, economic, geographical, and psychological values. That being said, according to Allison (2013) I am a millennial.

Buttercup (PhD Candidate)

Dont u have some creep to track down???

“Ohmygod, is that literally him?”

Spencer jumps at your voice, turning his focus from the suspect sitting in the interrogation room. You make your way next to him, eyes squinting through the one-way mirror in front of you.

“Wear a bell or something,” Spencer mutters.

“Okay, rude, you're welcome, by the way.”

Spencer turns to you, leaning on the table against the mirror, “How did you get here?”

“The metro?” you say incredously.

Spencer sighs, exasperated. “You know what I mean.”

“Chief Prentiss sent a very polite invitation via email,” you explain, glossy lips curling at each end. “You know, something you can learn how to do.”

Spencer can't hold back from rolling his eyes. “I asked you to come here for a consultation once, you said, and I quote, ‘I’m allergic to institutions holding up the American Empire and its hegemonic power’. Emily emailed you once and you came running?”

“Well yes,” you shrug, nodding towards the Unit Chief entering the interrogation room with another agent, whose name you later learn is Agent Jareau. “Look at her.”

“Oh my god—stop, stop talking.”

“Mommy? Sorry,” you grin. “Mommy? Sorry. Mommy?”

Spencer groans, this day can't get any worse.

He is proven wrong not five minutes later. As the universe would have it, you are not the only one who thinks Emily is mommy (Spencer can't help the shudder at the thought). The suspect crumbles the minute Emily and JJ strut through the door.

Turns out, while the guy in the interrogation room is a creep in all his rights, he's not the unsub. Spencer leans on the desk in Penelope's office as you sip on a Capri Sun, heart-shaped glasses perched on your nose next to the tech analyst.

“We're running out of time,” Spencer sighs.

“We'll find him,” you say, at this point just trying to annoy him. “I'm putting my whole true-crimeussy on this. Let me cook.”

“I don't want to know what that means.”

You hide your small smile of satisfaction at his comment and continue to scroll through the unsub's anonymous profile. It reads like another one of the countless misogynistic manifesto, or, just an average Redditor’s post history.

Spencer leans forward, one hand on the backrest behind you, another on Penelope's desk. “He mentions Ohio multiple times. Is there where he's keeping the victim?”

“Oh no, that's not—” you sigh. “No, it just means weird or cringe behavior.”

“Like how you talk right now?”

“Bold words from someone who tried to commit a felony just ask me to translate rizz.”

“Between the two of us, I'm the public servant.”

“What does that say about Uncle Sam's standards then?”

Spencer scoffs, but doesn't dignify you with an answer as Penelope's eyes go back and forth between you two, always observing. You pretend not to notice.

“Blake would have a field day with this,” Spencer muses.

“Professor Blake from Harvard linguistics?” You ask, and Spencer hums in confirmation.

“Girlboss,” Penelope hums thoughtfully, nodding.

“Ey, you're getting the hang of this auntie!” You exclaim in approval.

Penelope's beam from your approval turns upside down in an instant. “Absolutely not! Hank calls me auntie. Henry and Michael calls me Auntie. Not you, please, not you!”

“Sorry,” You mumble, before straightening up. “Wait, let me see the victim's laptop!”

You open the victim’s Discord, Instagram, and Twitter simultaneously, searching for users with the same handle as the Reddit guy. Sure enough, you found him, Namix69, on all platforms.

Penelope shakes her head. “We tried tracking his IP address, but he used a VPN.”

“Obvi,” you say. “But we can look up his mutuals on all platforms and track him that way. And—look, six of his moots go to John Adams High. Based on his avi, handle, and posts, I'd say white guy with an anime obsession and Japanese fetishzation.”

“The victim is an exchange student from Osaka,” Spencer points out.

"Oh, you're so right!" Penelope's eyes glisten, wide smile pulled on her face. “You ate and left no crumbs!”

“Period!” You let out a laugh at her clumsy attempt at your lingo, basking in Spencer's yet another groan of annoyance.

It's not like Spencer can't admit your genius—it's no secret that at some capacity, Spencer acknowledges and celebrates it in some instances. He can't forget, as much as he wants to, the way your eyes follow his every move the first time you ever walked into his class, how your lips curled in interest, how you caught him hook line and sinker to be your advisor.

You're brilliant, but still unpolished, not yet forged with experience. Every time you argue with him, it serves as a painful reminder of how young you really are. Unlike him.

Once the team wraps up the case, you, Spencer, and Section Chief Emily Prentiss stand in the conference room, though Spencer wants nothing more than to go to sleep—or better yet, wake up from this nightmare.

“I'm sorry, you want me to do what for what?”

“An internship program with the Bureau.”

“You want me to work for the feds?”

“Yes.”

“No,” you exclaim. “Do you know the things Sherlock Holmes here has to go through to have me explain the word rizz?”

Spencer nods. “It's a lot.”

“You have proven yourself to be valuable to our cases,” Emily insists. “You solved the Rothschild case.”

You gasp at Spencer. “You told her about that?”

“Unfortunately I have to give credit where is due,” Spencer says solemnly.

You sigh, “Look, I'm not interested in playing cop—”

“It's a six months contract, pays twenty an hour, with only a minimum of twenty five hours a week, and Dr. Lewis will personally supervise your interviews with consenting inmates for your dissertation.”

Spencer watches as you bit your lip in contemplation, holding his breath.

“I'll take it.”

He isn't sure whether the feeling in his chest is relief or disappointment.

[stardusksx]

autumn air | joel miller x f!reader

a your summer dream one shot

your summer dream masterlist | main masterlist | ao3 | follow @swiftispunkupdates and turn on notifications for updates

The heat of autumn is different from the heat of summer. One ripens apples, the other turns them to cider.

– Jane Hirshfield, The Heat of Autumn

pairing: joel miller x f!reader rating: 18+ word count: 10.4k series warnings etc: [NO OUTBREAK] we'll call him dad's buddy!joel, fairly soft!joel, age difference (28/50), angst, smut (will specify with each chapter), fluff, alcohol, food, secret relationship until it's not. series summary: after falling head over heels for your dad's buddy on vacation, it's now time to navigate the real world together. or, a year in the life with joel miller. chapter summary: it's been a month since you returned home from costa rica and you and joel have fallen into a blissful routine. when a rude awakening threatens to disrupt that peace, together you must make a decision...or two. chapter warnings: smut, unprotected p in v sex, discussions of somnophilia, BONDAGE-ish, oral (m receiving), exhibitionism, some body/cock worship, joel miller's filthy mouth, anal play, cum play, shitty landlords and shittier roommates, being allergic to cats, feelings, almost getting caught (again), fluff, angst in the mildest sense, one little pov swap. no use of y/n.

A/N: well hello. sorry this took about a hundred years. welcome to our first glimpse of life post-vacation. this turned out to be a lot more set-up than i anticipated, so please be patient as there is lots more still to come and to happen. BUT WE GOTTA START SOMEWHERE, OK?

a forever thank you to @joelscruff pretty much just for existing at this point but also for beta'ing this bad boy

It had taken just over a month for your weekends to become this. 

Lazy, dreamlike collages of playing house with Joel Miller. Learning to like black coffee and the slow, patient pace of suburbia, a stark but welcome contrast to the ceaseless stress of work and the incessant, gnawing rift that's been developing between you and your roommates.

Here, curled up on his couch or busying yourself in his kitchen, it's easy to forget. To savour the private hours you share here in his home, listening to him noodle absently on his guitar or talk your ear off about his brother's new baby. To pretend this all isn't some colossal, breakable secret. 

Summer slips away and you're still living inside a snow globe. What was once a cozy hotel room now replaced by an aging Craftsman on a cul-de-sac. A new private oasis, one that feels infinitely more real. 

Even if you are the only two people still privy to it all.

Well, three people. 

More than anything though, your weekends have become this. Joel's broad body over yours, forehead and chest dampened with sweat, glowing in the orange-pink haze of a sunset. 

His thick fingers wrap around your wrists where they're pinned against his mattress, granting a wish you'd voiced as he'd laid you down and kissed you, deep and slow. 

I think it'd be so sexy if you tied me up, you'd told him and his eyes had burned with hungry fascination, fiery at your willingness.

You don't know what it is about Joel, but you just want to try everything with him. And he is equally as willing to provide

Let's try it like this first, he'd suggested, gripping your arms and manoeuvring them beside your head, squeezing with just the right amount of pressure, just the right amount of intent to lock you firmly in place beneath him. Your cunt had throbbed and your mind had gone fuzzy but Joel had still leaned in to whisper, You tell me if you like that and–Christ, you do, you really fucking do.

So you tell him. You tell him again and again and again. Every time he asks you, implores you, orders you to tell him how good he makes you feel and how wet you are for him, how desperate you are to touch him even though you love that he won't let you.

He's asking again now, you think, but it's getting too hard to answer. He's drawing it out, the roll of his hips into yours agonizingly slow, the drag of his thick cock moving in and out nearly too much to take after he's already made you come twice.

He likes it this way, you've come to learn, now that you're home and free from prying eyes, safe to take your time and truly relish in each other's bodies. And for how torturous it can feel–like right now, sticky-wet and limp below him–he knows you love it too. 

"Fuck–listen," he commands you softly.

You whimper, straining your ears through a thick fog of pleasure to obey him. His brows are knitted together in concentration, plush lips parted as he glances between your bodies, encouraging you to follow his gaze to the place where you're connected, where his cock is still impaling you, glistening wet with your last release. You both watch as he pulls out before lazily pushing back in, a wet squelch filling the room as your drenched walls swallow every inch of him.

"So fucking wet for me. Always are, huh?"

He groans, catching your quiet sob as he dives forward to kiss you, licking into your open mouth with the same indulgent, unhurried pace that he's fucking you.

"You love takin' this cock," he says, dragging his lips downward along your neck, over the seashell that hangs there, nipping affectionately at the skin above your breasts before taking one pebbled nipple into his mouth. You moan, so sensitive, your body betraying you as you writhe against the sheets and his hands loop tighter around your wrists in response.

"I know, baby, I know," Joel murmurs, and you think you can hear the control wavering there in his voice, just a bit, as he moves to suckle at your other nipple, flicking the bud of it under his tongue just to hear you cry out again. You feel his smirk against your skin. "Bein' so good. So good."

You're drenched, soaked between your legs and around his length, sweat stuck to every crevice so you feel almost humid, dizzy and faraway and so fucking full. 

And then Joel's lips are at your ear again, hot breath condensing on the skin there too and the air feels altogether too thick. Too foggy. 

"I just wanna feel you come one more time," he whispers.

You're shaking your head before the words can even leave his mouth.

"Can't…Joel, I can't," you croak.

"You can," he assures you. "Did it last week, remember?"

You whimper and nod–he's right. With much coaxing and patience and Joel's unwavering attentiveness, he'd drawn three orgasms from you, something you'd once thought impossible. But then again, you weren't sure you could come at all by a man's hand before you'd met him.

"What do you need? Let me get you there," he pleads, teeth coming down on your earlobe and sending an involuntary shiver down your spine. 

His mouth is on yours before you can answer, kissing you until your lips are numb beneath the scratch of his moustache and your will to deny him steadily wanes. 

"Tell me," he says against your lips and your heart flutters as the hands around your wrists move, Joel interlocking his fingers with yours instead. A different kind of warmth spreads through you at that, a new form of ecstasy, one laced with devotion and tenderness for this man who takes such expert care of you, always. 

"Need it…harder," you manage as tears prick at the corners of your eyes. "Fuck me harder, Joel. Please."

"Yeah?" he grits out, thrusting into you with more force on his next stroke and pushing the air from your lungs. "That what my girl needs?"

You whine and it sounds like yes, so he does it again, just once–another quick, hard push into your spent pussy that has you gasping and keening. 

"Let me hear you say it, sweetheart."

You groan, search for the words, knowing he likes this too, for you to be just as vocal as he is. To hear in your sounds and your cries and your wanton pleas how much you want him.

"Yes, yes, yes," you tell him in a rush, already feeling some tangled swell of something curl in your lower belly. "Just–just like that. Please. More."

"One more time," he grins with another deliberate rock of his hips. Fucking bastard.

"Please," you beg, fingernails digging into the backs of his hands when you squeeze down into his grasp.

"Fuck–yeah," Joel growls, taking you by surprise when he suddenly collects your hands above your head, freeing his own to tug you further down the bed and fold your legs into your chest. He crashes forward, big hands finding your wrists again and keeping them pinned where they are as he begins to fuck you with new vigour. The new angle hits somewhere deeper, each rough thrust of his cock into you nudging at that spot inside you that makes your vision blur and your mind go blank, the tangle of pleasure building in your core already threatening to unravel.

"Shit," Joel curses above you, refocusing your attention on his face, his expression almost pained as his chest heaves above you. He's trying to hang on, you realize. For you.

You moan as you lock eyes with him and you wish you could touch his face or run your fingers through his messy curls but you like this just as much, maybe even more. The unrelenting grip of his hands around your wrists, held high above your head so your body is spread long and open for him to use. You don't think you've ever trusted anyone like this before. That you've ever felt this safe and cared for.

"Come on, baby, come on," Joel's chanting as he pounds into you, his low drawl cutting through the noise of whatever lewd sounds are spilling from your throat. "Fuckin' come for me. Just one more. Yeah? God, you're so fuckin' good. This pussy's so fuckin' good."

"I wanna come, Joel–I wanna come," you whine.

Joel groans raggedly as a tear drips from the corner of your eye and pools into your ear. His fingers remain firmly curled around your wrists as he falls forward onto his elbows and then his mouth is at your ear too, breath warm and voice deep.

"Yeah?" he hums. "Show me. Show me how you come for me. Show me how much you fuckin' love this cock. How much you love gettin' fucked like this."

A broken squeak catches somewhere in your throat as your mouth falls open, Joel's cock mercilessly hitting right where you need it with each stroke and you can feel it now, as the swell begins to crest and his words echo through you, your arms still trapped under his grasp, rendering your powerless in the very best way–you're going to come again.

You cry his name and Joel only fucks you harder, determined in his efforts as you begin to tense beneath him and a fire ignites in your belly. It's a gradual build this time, clawing and bubbling till it finally erupts in a burst of blinding white warmth, Joel's voice carrying you through the haze of release. 

"Yeah–good girl, that's it, honey, there you fuckin' go," he rambles as you fall apart, walls constricting around his length as wetness pools down his balls and Joel just keeps fucking you. "Fuckin'...shit, baby–fuck, m'gonna come. Where do you want it?"

Still lost in a syrupy daze, you say without thinking, "Mouth–my mouth. Joel, wanna taste you."

"Oh, fuck–"

But it breaks him, that request–those words in your shattered, weary voice, teary stare locked with his–and all too soon his muscles go rigid, cock spasming deep inside you as his climax hits him before he can grant your wish. 

"Shit, shit, shit," he curses as he pumps you full of his seed, his face a mess of pleasure and shame at his unceremonious orgasm, brows furrowed almost apologetically as he rides it out. His fingers loosen around your wrists and his forehead collides with yours, his form quaking above you as the last of the aftershocks pass over him and your lips crane up to meet his in a sleepy, breathless kiss. 

"Fuck, m'sorry," he sighs, shaking his head as it falls to land in the mess of sheets beside your face. 

"Shh, it's okay," you assure him. And it is okay. You just wish you were touching him. "Let me go, babe."

"Oh, fuck, sorry, honey, sorry."

Joel hurriedly releases your wrists, simultaneously pulling out of your wasted cunt and curling into your side. You turn to face him, wrapping your arms around his neck and twisting your fingers into his hair like coming home. You hadn't realized until now how much you'd missed having your hands on him. 

He's still catching his breath, gaze foggy as he cups the side of your face and tenderly strokes a calloused thumb across your cheekbone. 

"You okay?" he asks, eyes searching. 

"Mhm," you grin. "I was hoping for a taste, but I guess I'll survive."

Joel smirks, but it's a bashful little thing, and you know him well enough by now to know the pink in his cheeks is only partly due to exertion. He's embarrassed.

But hell, if he's not going to make it up to you.

You watch his face carefully as he begins to trace a line down your body with his fingers, taking his time as he draws them over the gentle curve of your hip to the sweat-laced hinge of your knee. He kisses you, slow and soft as he coaxes your legs apart, sighs into your mouth when his hand moves to the apex of your thighs. His tongue plunges between your lips at the same time his fingers sink between the wet seam of your folds, so gentle. Even so, it makes you whimper into his kiss, shudder as he dips the tips of his fingers to your sensitive entrance and coats them in the spend steadily leaking out of you. You moan softly when his tongue in your mouth is replaced by those fingers, close your lips around them instinctively and suck lightly at the welcome taste of your combined releases, salty-sweet and warm while Joel moves to press wet kisses into your cheek.

"Thanks," you whisper dreamily as Joel withdraws his fingers, trailing them over your chin before settling his hand on your waist and pulling you into his chest. 

"Dirty girl," he hums, hushed and underscored by a sleepy laugh, his eyes already slipping shut above you.

"Mhm."

You feel the comforting touch of his lips against the top of your head and then he's rolling onto his back beside you, looping an arm under your neck and encouraging you to take your rightful place against his side.

But while Joel is already drifting off, you feel strangely giddy, electric and enrapt as you gawk at the rise and fall of his broad chest, the lax set of his features, his thick lashes casting shadows over his cheeks. It's darker now, the sun faded beyond the horizon outside his window–still far too early for sleep but time, you've found, doesn't mean much when you're wasting away your weekends at Joel's. Inside these hours, you cling to the memory of a Costa Rican resort; eat when you're hungry, sleep when you're tired, fuck when it feels good and mourn when it ends. Slog through the week until you're back in his arms and free to do it all again.

You know this feeling. This beautiful, tangible, dangerous feeling. You haven't voiced it yet, and neither has he. But you know.

You sigh and steer your thoughts elsewhere.

"I really do love this cock, you know that?" you muse, brushing your fingers featherlight along its veined underside, the heft of it lying soft and heavy against his belly. 

He huffs a quiet chuckle, peeking down at you with one eye open while your fingers continue to trace absent patterns over velvet smooth skin, still faintly sticky with you. 

"Yeah?" he smirks. 

"Yeah," you nod, unable to stop yourself from ducking down to softly kiss the tip, letting your lips linger when you hear Joel sigh.

"S'yours whenever you want it, sweetheart."

You flash your gaze upwards but his eyes have slipped closed again, one thick arm slung over his forehead. 

"Whenever I want it?" you press him.

Now his eyes open, his brows coming together as he takes in the mischievous glint in your eyes and your lips hovering just above his softened cock. 

"Uh–maybe not right now."

"No, no, of course," you smile. "But maybe I…wake you up with my mouth some time?"

At that, Joel's eyes widen and then he chuckles somewhat disbelievingly, shaking his head above you, eyelids slipping closed again.

"Sure, baby," he grumbles. "You wanna suck an old man's cock in his sleep? I won't kick ya outta bed."

"Oh, fuck off," you laugh, lightly smacking his arm before settling back in to the space you've carved out for yourself against his shoulder.

Joel shifts before you can get comfortable though, groaning a little as he rolls over to face you. His eyes are open again and he's grinning, leaning in close to brush his lips over yours.

"Maybe I return the favour some time," he whispers. "Get you all nice and wet while you're sleepin' so I can wake you up and slip right inside that sweet little cunt of yours."

"Fuck," you shiver, unconsciously pushing your hips into his at the thought. Leave it to Joel and his fucking mouth to make you already want him again. "I–you wouldn't even need to wake me up, Joel. You could just take me in my sleep."

That seems to catch him off guard.

"Jesus," he marvels, pulling back to search your face. He's not grinning anymore. "Fuck, that's–you'd let me do that?"

"Anything, Joel," you vow as you loop your arms around his neck and clutch tightly at the curls at the back of his skull. "Anything."

You close the space between your mouths and kiss him deeply, mould your lips to his with all the words still left unsaid till you're breathless and impatient with it, unconsciously pressing your chest into his and sucking hungrily at his plush bottom lip. There's no real intent behind any of it, just a need to be close, to consume. 

"Goddamn," Joel moans when you break away to kiss along the greying scruff at his jawline. "You're somethin' else."

"I know," you murmur against his skin. 

"Christ, baby, I-I don't think I got another round in me tonight," he admits almost sheepishly, but you don't mind. This is enough. 

"Shh," you tell him, traversing your lips lower to explore the column of his neck, tasting the even pound of his pulse below your tongue. A reminder that he's here with you, alive and well. And how that knowledge makes you sick with warmth, a twist in your guts that almost hurts, like a preemptive pain at the thought of losing this, losing him.

Oh, god. You know this feeling. 

"Go to sleep," you breathe, before you say something else. "It's okay. It's okay."

-

As it turns out, you don't get the chance to wake Joel up with your mouth, because the next morning, he's up before you, the smell of brewing coffee luring you towards consciousness. The stand fan beside his bed blows cool air over your face and shoulders as your eyes adjust to yellow sunlight and your body aches and creaks with the reminder of last night. The sound of heavy footsteps in the hallway saves you from starting to miss him.

You can't bring yourself to lift your head up off the pillow, even as he places a steaming mug on the nightstand beside you and sits on the edge of the bed.

"Hey," he murmurs, gently shaking you to life with a hand on your hip over the covers. "You awake?"

You peek up at him, smiling blearily through the sleep in your eyes. Clad only in a pair of grey sweats, his belly–with its now fading tan–is on full display, curls messy atop his head. He's so handsome in the morning, all puffy-eyed and soft. 

"Yeah, but I don't wanna get up.''

Joel smiles back, just a fleeting thing before it fades and his brows knit together. You frown in turn as his gaze drops to the hand he has on your side and his thumb strokes nervous circles into your skin. 

"Was thinkin' we could go for a drive or somethin' today."

His voice is low, almost pensive, too sad for such a simple request. But you get it, know all too well where it stems from.

Because drives out of town are all you have beyond the safety of his home, the safest way to keep this thing a secret. Sunday after Sunday of Joel bailing on your father's invitations to go golfing, while guilt slowly eats away at him.

And it hurts Joel, you know it does. Truthfully, it hurts you too. But it's better this way, at least for now. You're still not even sure what you two are doing together, and you're not sure Joel does either. All you know is this feeling, this ache in your bones and this swell in your chest, that sense of fragility you always feel when you're with him. You're not ready to let anyone shatter it. Not yet.

You sigh, sit up a little straighter and place your hand over his on your hip until he finally meets your eyes. 

"Where?" you ask. 

"I don't know…nowhere," he shrugs, lips twitching ever so. "Lockhart, maybe, f'you want."

You squeeze his fingers playfully just to watch his smile widen–and it works.

"You craving barbeque, cowboy?" you tease and his eyes sparkle with positively endearing excitement.

"Chisholm Trail?" he suggests.

You scoff. 

"Fucking–yeah, right. Kreuz all the way."

Joel laughs, throaty and genuine in a way that makes your heart swell–even if his taste in barbeque is… questionable at best. 

"So s'that a yes?" he presses.

As if there were ever any doubt. 

"Yeah, okay. But I have to stop in and feed Henry."

He grimaces and you smirk sympathetically. You'd be offended by his obvious distaste for your cat if you hadn't come to discover a fact about him that hadn't mattered much at all until you'd got home; Joel is allergic. 

"I'll wait in the truck," he grumbles. 

-

You make yourself at home in his kitchen, topping up your coffee and leaning against the countertop while Joel showers upstairs. Staring out his kitchen window to the quiet street outside, you sip your coffee and think about how much you like it here. How comfortable you've become in his home. How much it feels like his and how lucky you are to know him here.

Cluttered and almost haphazardly decorated, Joel's house feels like somewhere truly lived in, the art and photos that line the walls borne out of memories more so than aesthetics, a mess of disorganized posters from music festivals and surely inherited paintings. 

Mostly there are photos of her, his daughter Sarah at various stages of her life. Family photos of her as a child, tucked under the arm of Joel or his brother you've still yet to meet. Polaroids of her with friends as a teenager, framed graduation photos from high school and college, action shots from countless varsity soccer games. 

One custom magnet stuck to his fridge still gives you pause, pink and flouncy and faded with time. Sarah's name, ornately printed over her exact birth date and time, a constant reminder of a truth you'd rather not think too hard about. 

It had made your heart sink the first time you'd seen it, when you'd come face to face with the unfortunate realization that Sarah is one year older than you. 

You try not to look at it too much, if you can help it. 

Of course, Sarah herself is unavoidable, since Joel had already shared with her what you're still too scared to share with anyone.

Sarah, the third and only other person to know about you and Joel. You hadn't even been mad that he'd let her in on it; if anything, you'd been envious of their trust in one another, how Joel had waited less than a day after coming home to tell her about you. 

To your surprise–and maybe also his–she'd taken it…fine. Apparently, just content to see her father happy even if she'd been somewhat taken aback by his choices. You have to admire her maturity; you're not sure how you would have reacted if you'd been in her shoes.

Sarah's acceptance had crossed one gigantic, cataclysmic fear from your long list of gigantic, cataclysmic fears.

Still, your heart nearly leaps out of your chest when you hear the front door opening behind you and a familiar voice calling out as footsteps round the corner into the kitchen. 

"Dad?" Sarah's voice says. "Dad–oh, hey."

She stops in her tracks and you straighten up from the counter, smoothing out your shirt–Joel's shirt–and offering her your best smile. 

"Oh–hi, Sarah."

She smiles back, polite if not a little unsure.

Because yes, Sarah's been altogether more accepting than she has any right to be. But that doesn't mean it's not still awkward as hell. 

"Is my dad here?" she asks.

"Uh, yeah, sorry, he's just–he's in the shower."

"Ah, okay, no worries. How's it going?"

"Good–yeah. Fine." You wrack your brain for any other details, ultimately coming up short and landing simply on, "Busy."

Sarah smiles knowingly.

"How's he?" She nods in the general direction of the stairs.

"He seems…"

You ponder it for a moment, think about Joel all giddy-eyed and soft as he'd brought you coffee in bed this morning. How every Friday since you got home, he's pulled up outside your apartment without fail, right on time to sweep you away to your own mini-version of paradise. How he does it all without pretension, just the same burning need to be together that's been plaguing you since vacation ended. 

You smile. Sigh a little more dreamily than the moment calls for.

"Great," you settle on at last.

Her responding smile is genuine, sweet and full of understanding. 

"Good," she says. "He seems it."

That softens you, that his contentment isn't just in your head, that she can see it too. Not that you have many doubts about his feelings for you–it's just nice to hear. 

"I'm just gonna grab something from upstairs," she announces then, and you make some non-committal sound, not quite go ahead–because this was her house long before it was yours–but a dismissal all the same. She flits out of the room and you take a long, steadying breath.

It gets a little more painless every time, but you expect it'll take a while to feel totally at ease around her. You're certain you were once forced into play dates with the girl and now you're–

You shake your head to dislodge the thought, swallow down the rest of your coffee so fast your stomach burns with an acidic twinge. 

How the fuck does Joel drink this stuff like this? 

She's back before you can even finish washing your mug, calling your name over the sound of the faucet.

"I gotta run," she tells you. "You can let him know I stopped by. But don't tell him about this–" she winks and waves a photo at you that you can't quite make out, clearly the thing she'd stolen from upstairs, "–It's for his birthday."

She smirks slyly and you smile back, offering her a thumbs up. 

"Got it."

"Well, see ya."

"Bye, Sarah."

She skirts out the door and you let out a long breath.

Easier with time, easier with time, you remind yourself. Everything about this gets easier with time.

-

It's hard to imagine, sitting in the front seat of his truck, how there was ever a time you didn't think Joel Miller was beautiful. 

The weight of that truth had hit you like a ton of bricks that first night in Costa Rica, and it strikes you still now, in the way you stare openly at the sight of him with one hand on the wheel, the other curled casually around the nape of your neck. His legs are spread wide, dark denim stretched taut across his thighs, the sleeves of his light blue shirt rolled up to his elbows, brown eyes on the road before him. Windows rolled down so a warm, late-summer breeze plays in his salt-and-pepper curls and sunlight glows on his exposed skin.

Classic rock radio underscores the hum of the engine and you're both singing along to the sweet sounds of Creedence and there's that damned feeling again, gnawing and incessant, burning sharp around the edges of your heart. 

Sometimes you can't believe he's really yours. 

You sigh, a deeply longing thing as your eyes rake up and down his body. Joel catches it. 

"What's wrong?" he asks, tearing his eyes from the road to turn down the music and glance over at you curiously.

What's wrong is you're fucking insatiable; you want him again already, truly mournful you'd missed the chance to get your hands on him this morning before you'd hit the road. And in the quiet confines of his truck, the smell of Joel and leather all around, his competent fingers on the steering wheel and the hand on your neck that's starting to feel almost possessive…you practically ache at the thought of having to spend a day out and about when all you really want is to be back in his bed. 

"I was supposed to…" you shake your head, unsure of how to bring up your conversation from the night before. "Why'd you get up before me?"

Joel smirks, seeming to understand your train of thought.

"What?" he laughs, gently squeezing your neck. "You wanted to suck my cock that bad?"

You frown, putting on a show of petulance. 

"Yes," you grumble. 

Joel laughs, fiddling absently with the chain of your necklace, his fingers just barely brushing your skin. You can't help the way your eyes slip closed in response. 

"How do you know I didn't take you in your sleep?" he hums, his tone light, but still enough to make you shiver with the reminder of your words from last night. 

"Mm-mm," you reply, a little breathless as you lean back into his touch and shake your head from side to side. "I would know."

Joel chuckles. 

"Probably right," he concedes, letting you go to grip the wheel with both hands, much to your dismay, his eyes refocusing on the road. "Anyway, I don't think I'd be able to–"

He stops mid-sentence, contemplative and then momentarily distracted as he makes a left hand turn. You ogle his hands deftly moving on the steering wheel until Joel straightens out and clears his throat, at last glancing back in your direction. 

 "I'd need to wake you up," he finishes. 

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he nods, reaching back across the seat to lay a hand on your thigh, just below the hem of your sundress. "Don't think I'd be able to come without hearin' all those pretty sounds you make–" he smirks and meets your gaze, his sweet brown eyes somehow doleful and smouldering all at once–"Without seein' your eyes."

The hand he has on your thigh moves to cup your chin, gently twisting your face in his direction. You bite your lip and make a show of batting your lashes at him. 

"These eyes?" you tease but Joel isn't smiling anymore. 

"Hm," he hums lowly, snaking his hand carefully back to its place behind your neck. Only this time, his grip is firm, commanding in the way it nudges you across the bench towards him. "Why don't you come over here and show me what you had planned?"

Your heartbeat stutters, arousal coursing through you in an instant, unabashedly giddy at the offer. Your mouth falls open unconsciously, as though your body can already feel the weight of him between your lips. Joel's eyes flit between your face and the road, gauging your reaction, sensing your hesitance when, in spite of how badly you want him, you find yourself peeking over your shoulder to the passing cars outside, the scattered pedestrians on the sidewalk. You're nearing downtown Austin, and the streets are far from quiet.

"They can't see," Joel assures you, easily redrawing your attention. "S'just you and me."

It steadies you, that resoluteness. Always does. You're already unfastening your seatbelt and twisting at the hip, leaning across the bench to plant a kiss behind his ear. 

"Let them look," you murmur. Joel chuckles darkly, the sound laced with something like pride. He's been rubbing off on you.

"Attagirl."

You bite down lightly on the hinge of his jaw before moving lower, making quick work of his belt buckle while Joel conveniently comes to a stop at what you can only assume is a red light. 

The lack of movement makes it easier to unbutton his jeans, to palm at his burgeoning bulge through the fabric of his boxers before yanking them out of the way too, at last freeing his semi-hard cock. 

You think you actually moan at the sight of it, salivating openly as you grip him at the base and slip his length between your lips.

"Oh, fuck–" Joel groans, one hand moving to gently cradle the back of your skull as his cock comes alive in your mouth. "Yeah, there you go…"

You preen at the response, stroking the length of him with your fist while your tongue dances around his tip until you feel him harden fully in your grasp and your jaw begins to strain around his girth. You moan around him when you taste salt, pulling off him to lap sweetly at his slit and collect the beading precum there. Joel's fingers tighten in your hair. 

"Shit, that's good, honey…" he sighs.

There's a jostling as he steps on the gas and then you're moving again, the precision of your tongue faltering as you bounce in his lap. You surrender to it, swallow him down once more and do your best to match the bob of your head with the bumps in the road. 

Of course it's more challenging than you could have anticipated, and you splutter around him when he comes to an unexpected stop, Joel quick to pull you off him with a hand in your hair. 

"Shh, hey, you okay?" he asks, voice strained but oozing concern. You just nod determinedly, already diving to take him back in your mouth, all the way down so your lips brush against the coarse hairs at his base and welcome tears prick at your eyes. 

"Fuck–" Joel grits when you begin to move again, up and down with focused intent, eager with it, greedy. "Jesus, wait."

You pull off him, glancing upwards to the edge of his window, fearful perhaps that you'd been caught. But Joel's hand on your head is already pushing you back down so your cheek brushes against the wet tip of his cock. 

"You're good–just…slow, baby," he tells you. Oops.

"Sorry," you laugh.

"Just love it that much, don't you?" he asks, stroking your hair.

"Shut up," you mumble, silencing his responding laugh when you brush your lips featherlight over his length. "But yes."

You show him as much, tilting your face and dragging your lips and cheeks along his shaft, all languid and adoring as you plant an open-mouthed kiss to the soft skin between his base and his balls. You peer up at him and your pussy throbs at the realization he's not even looking at you, eyes fixed on the road while his other hand moves downward along your spine before easing your skirt up over your waist. You sigh a breathy groan and lick a wet stripe up the underside of his cock as Joel slips his fingers below the waistband of your underwear. Then time seems to stop altogether as Joel glides his hand through the seam of your ass down to your neglected cunt.

Your breath hitches, arching at his touch, forgetting his cock for a moment as Joel dips two fingers into your slick heat with the same absent ease with which he'd been stroking your neck a moment ago. He curses under his breath when he feels how wet you are, steals your focus completely when he slowly begins to fuck his middle and ring fingers into you. You whimper as you pulse around his digits and it takes everything in you just to close your lips around his cock again, sucking him up and down, working to match the pace of his fingers moving in and out of you. 

"Yeah, baby," he praises you softly, dick twitching between your lips as his truck comes to yet another stop. It crosses your mind that at a red light, the risk of someone seeing you like this–Joel's fingers in your cunt, his cock taking up your mouth–increases tenfold. You're so far gone now that the thought only makes you wetter. 

Only then he retracts his fingers, making you gasp when he trails them, slick and dripping, to your other hole, coating the tight ring of muscle with your arousal.

"Shh," Joel coos when you falter with your movements, crying out at the welcome contact, your vision blurring when he carefully presses one thick, wet finger into your asshole. 

Fuck.

Together, you've discovered how truly crazy it makes you when he does this, whether he's slipping a thumb into that tight ring of muscle while he fucks your pussy or generously offering you his tongue there whenever he eats you out. He hasn't fucked you there yet–because you haven't asked–but each time he does this, it's like a beautiful reminder of how much you do want it, how much you're still aching to be so, so full of him, everywhere. 

Another time, he'd said, that last day in Costa Rica. You have every intention of holding him to that. 

"Don't stop," he growls because you've apparently lost the will to do anything but keen and whine at the feeling of his fingers inside you, his cock stiff and leaking in your grasp. You steady yourself with one hand against his thigh as Joel steps on the gas and you wrap your lips securely around him again. It's overwhelming–the bumps in the road now forcing his cock deeper down your throat and his finger deeper into your hole.

"Fuckin'–yes, good girl. Don't you stop, sweetheart."

You increase your pace then, near-frantic in the way you moan around him, bobbing up and down as you swirl your tongue hungrily around the head of his cock. Joel pushes his finger deeper, nearly to the knuckle, blinding you with pleasure as you cup his balls, all weighty and warm in your palm, feeling the moment they begin to tighten and Joel's face screws up above you. 

"Fuck, m'gonna–look at me," he orders hurriedly and you do, glassy gaze flashing up to meet his for just a fleeting moment before he's spilling down your throat with a ragged sigh, eyes flashing between yours and the road.

His hips jerk upwards as he empties himself, hot and salty over your tongue. You keep your cheeks hollowed around him, swallowing down everything he gives you with reverent willingness, your thoughts clouded by the image of his come filling your ass instead. It's almost impossible to think of anything else with his thick finger still impaling you there. 

"Fuck," Joel almost laughs it ends, sliding his finger free from the tight fist of your hole to lay an affectionate slap against your ass. His truck comes to a stop and you feel as though you've been pulled from a dream when he cuts the engine and a hand in your hair is pulling you off his length, encouraging you to sit up. You're on your street, you realize, already parked outside your apartment. Joel hastily tucks himself back into his jeans while you take in your surroundings, still buzzing with unrelieved tension. 

On your knees beside him, he finally turns to face you with a blissed-out gaze. You await his praise, certain it's coming, but instead, he places a hand below your chin, fingers coaxing at the hinge of your jaw. 

"Lemme see," he says expectantly.

You smile, parting your lips and presenting your clean tongue for him. Joel smirks. 

"Good girl."

You warm at those words–just like always–as he pulls you in for a kiss, long and deep, leaving you breathless when he ends it far too soon. 

The click of his truck doors unlocking breaks the spell.

"Go feed your damn cat."

You huff, exasperated and far from sated, hopping out of the truck and already teeming with anticipation over what awaits you when you return.

-

A grating voice greets you the second you walk through the door. 

"Hey! You're here."

You're not surprised to find it's Megan, the more overbearing of your two roommates, standing from her place on the couch in the living room. You are surprised to see Deena there, too, though, wringing her hands nervously in her lap and staring at Megan.

You get the unpleasant feeling you've just interrupted a conversation. 

"Uh, yeah," you mumble awkwardly, eyeing the two of them suspiciously as you make your way towards the kitchen. "Just feeding Henry. What's up?"

You think you know, but you feign confusion all the same, turning your back to Megan and rummaging in the cupboards for Henry's food. You hear the familiar patter of his paws against the laminate flooring before you see him, but then he's there on the counter, nudging his sweet face against your wrists as you crack the can and scoop the nasty sludge into his bowl. 

"We need to talk," Megan continues and you finally look up to find she's staring at you and Henry with her arms crossed over her chest. 

"I have a ride waiting," you say hurriedly. You're not doing this now.

You toss the empty can of food into the recycling bin, pat Henry's head affectionately as he eats and make your way towards the door.

But Megan says your name before you can get there, stopping you in your tracks. 

You sigh. 

"I–alright," you decide.

This should only take a minute anyway. You just need to explain, for the hundredth time, that you're still figuring out the situation with Henry. Still working on finding a new apartment since you've stubbornly decided not to take the route of asking your parents to take him in the meantime. You can figure it out, and you will. Yes, you've been putting it off, but...you just need some time.

You cross the room and take a haphazard seat on an ottoman. There's a beat of awkward silence, and then Megan retakes her place on the couch. Deena stares at her feet, her incessant fidgeting putting you uncomfortably on edge. 

Megan takes a deep breath.

"There's no easy way to say this," she starts.

Your eyes narrow. "Okay."

Another excruciating pause, Deena picking at her fingernails, Megan steeling herself with another, long, drawn-out sigh. Your eyes flit between them as an uneasy sense of dread begins to wash over you. 

"We can't wait anymore. We've had to offer your room to someone else," Megan says at last.

And that's–well, that's not what you'd been expecting to hear.

It's quiet for a long moment as you work through what that means, staring blankly between the two of them. Deena avoids your gaze, her foot tapping out a nervous pattern into the floor that's starting to drive you slightly crazy. Megan watches your face as every emotion possible flits across your features, first anger, then confusion, then something akin to panic when it finally clicks. 

"You're kicking me out?"

"Look, I know it's not ideal–"

"Where the hell am I supposed to go? I've been looking for a new place, I just need more time."

The anger seeps back in, betrayal stinging behind your eyes. They can't do this. Can they?

"You've had almost a month to figure out this cat thing," Megan contends, irritation coating her words now too. "And Steve says he'll evict us all if you don't re-home it or leave."

You know–you know that. 

"I was…I'm trying to figure it out."

"Are you? I mean, most of the time you're not even here anyway. We never see you."

"I…"

Your head is spinning, denial setting in while you cling to whatever argument you have left.

"You guys let me move in here," you say meekly. "You knew about the cat."

Megan nods. "We were desperate, too, okay? It was a mistake, and I'm sorry. But we can't lose this place. Do you know how crazy rents are nowadays?"

Yeah, you really fucking do. You just shake your head, fully aware there's nothing more you can say. They've clearly made up their minds. 

"I'm sorry," she repeats. "We can give you another month to find somewhere new. If there's anything we can–"

"No," you cut her off, hastily standing, humiliated and desperate to just get out of there and back to Joel. "It's fine. Sorry. I get it. Um, I have to…my ride."

Megan's nodding again, something like sympathy in her eyes. 

"Of course," she says, dismissive.

You ignore their lingering stares on you as you quickly kiss the top of Henry's head and then all but run out the door, slamming it shut behind you.

-

Joel Miller is an observant man.

He's still learning you, studying your tells. Though, he has to admit, you're somewhat of an open book. Silent in your sadness, stoic in your frustration, tears that well up in your eyes when you're feeling small or angry. He knows. Since that day on the back of the boat, he's known. 

So when you stalk back towards his truck, hop quietly into the seat beside him and buckle your seatbelt with a steely expression, wordless and hard, he knows. 

"All good?" he asks, knowing right away that it's not. You face him, your smile all tight and deceptive. 

"Mhm."

You nod, offering him only a cursory glance before you avert your eyes to the windshield. 

Joel frowns, wonders if he should pry. He thinks you've come to know he won't, that maybe you're in the habit of exploiting that by holding fast to silence when you'd rather not burden him with your emotions. As if you ever could.

You're an idealist, he's discovered. The type to build up a plan in the image of perfection only to deflate when it fails. One crack in the foundation and you come toppling down, walls caving in, imploding in on yourself with spectacular force. 

Not unlike him.

But Joel is adaptable. He's had to be. Whether it was becoming a father at twenty-one, saving Tommy's skin at every turn, or–most unlikely of all–meeting you, he's found a way to manage whatever life has dared to throw his way. To rebuild his plans until they take the shape of something resembling good.

So, he gives what he thinks you need, what he thinks he's always been for you: A distraction. The illusion of perfection.

He turns the key in the ignition, takes your hand across the centre console and drives you out of town. 

-

The tightness around your eyes never fully disappears, your voice always escaping you in this subdued, quiet timbre. Joel, meanwhile, never falters in his steadfast positivity, even as concern claws painfully at his insides with each passing second you keep him in the dark. You smile sometimes, like when he gripes about your choice of barbeque joints or tells you how he'd grown up in a town kind of like this one. But it reminds him of how you'd smiled at him on the plane to Costa Rica. Shy. Vacuous. A little phony. 

Still, he doesn't push it. He walks with you hand in hand all afternoon and talks enough for the both of you, tries to tell himself that when you're ready to share, you will. Because he knows, he knows there's something bothering you. He has to fight with every instinct in his body not to rip the answer straight from your throat, just so he can offer a solution or ten.

But he doesn't, because he knows. That when the time is right, the truth will pour from your mouth like a waterfall, and he'll be there to help you when it does.

It's not until he's pulling up outside your apartment that your anxiety seems to reach a visible fever pitch, your hands pressed tightly together, body tense under the arm he has slung over your shoulder. You're frozen where you sit, but it's not the familiar reluctance he's used to seeing on Sunday nights, that kind of yearning sadness he also feels when it's time to say goodbye for the week.

No, it's something else. Something like fear that keeps you glued to your seat, eyes fixed downwards, not at him.

Joel sighs.

"Hey," he nudges at last, unable to stop himself from tilting your face towards his with a coaxing hand on your chin. Your eyes appear far away, almost black with dread. It's been so long since he's seen them like that, and he fucking hates it. "Where'd you go, sweetheart?"

You shake your head, unconvincing as you frown and attempt to pull free from his grasp. He doesn't let you. 

"Nowhere."

He sighs again and maybe he should just fucking let it go, but his own fears are creeping in now, fear that it's him that's done something wrong, fear that you're not giving him a chance to fix whatever's broken. 

His hand moves to cradle the side of your face, and this time, you don't fight him. Your eyes close and you lean into his touch, soften just the tiniest bit as he lightly scratches his fingers into your hair. 

"I can't help you f'you don't talk to me," he says and it sounds almost like a plea.

You take a deep breath and when you open your eyes, he sees wetness there, glistening under the dim light of a streetlight outside. 

The waterfall crests…

"I have to leave my apartment," you admit in a whisper. 

Joel frowns. "What do you mean? Thought you already knew that."

…and then cascades.

"No, like, I have to leave now. They're giving me a month," you go on, your voice rising in volume and pitch as the wetness in your eyes pools into bonafide tears that spill out into his palm. "I'm not supposed to have the cat–I know I'm not supposed to have the cat. But I mean, they knew too! And they let me move in. I thought they'd have my back if the landlord said anything but now I guess they're giving my room to someone else and I have no idea where the fuck I'm gonna go–"

"Stay with me," he interjects simply.

"Joel."

It's a quiet protest, a tilt of your head and a flatness in your voice as you grip his wrist and pry his hand from your face. Joel just shrugs like it's not some monumental thing, like he's offering you a morning coffee or a ride home from work. 

"I got a spare room," he says but you're already shaking your head. "You're there half the time anyway."

He holds one other truth close to his chest, the fact that he wants nothing more than to have you around as much as humanly possible. That every second he's not with you feels incomplete and hollow and how he hasn't felt that way in god knows how long.

"I can't ask that of you, Joel," you argue stubbornly.

"Well, you're not askin'. I'm offerin'."

You stare each other down, a bittersweet sort of stalemate as he watches a series of emotions flit across your face. A warmth as your tears dry, a hardness as your brows furrow, concern in the way you chew the inside of your cheek and fight with what he's sure is your admittedly admirable longing for independence.

And there's the fear. There's always the fucking fear. Because he knows what the offer implies. It's fast, too much. All of it, all of this, happening so goddamn fast all the time.

"That's like...that's like living together, Joel," you whisper at last, and the fear is there too, in the hushed squeak of your voice.

Joel sighs. He knows.

"M'not sayin' you need to stay forever," he insists. Mostly true. "Just till you figure things out."

He twists to face you, reaching out to toy with the seashell that hangs from your neck, a reminder of when things were easier. It seems to placate you some. 

There's a long beat, Joel smoothing his fingers along the chain of the necklace he gave you while you watch him, deep in thought.

"What about Henry?" you ask at last and Joel grins. He knows he's won.

"I'll survive," he vows, too fast. Fuck it.

You think it through for another breath and then finally, a smile cracks your stony features.

"This is crazy," you almost laugh. Joel laughs too, because it is.

"Too crazy?" Please say no.

"No."

"Good. It's settled then," he says, and it is.

-

Another month passes, and now your every day is this.

Hurried mornings and drives to work, a bottle of cream for your coffee and an endless supply of antihistamines for Joel. Changing leaves and kisses on cheeks and a spare room that's more Henry's than yours. What little belongings you have wind up there too; a forgotten twin bed, a cheap dresser Joel had disavowed as "practically garbage," posters that you'd hang on his walls if you weren't still convincing yourself this is all only temporary.

Joel turns fifty-one and you celebrate with take-out and your best attempt at Blue Lagoons, a neatly wrapped framed photo from Sarah of him and her, years ago.

It gets harder and harder to pretend that you're still just figuring things out with him, because Joel is now undeniably your boyfriend and you are now undeniably his girlfriend and–even crazier–you're now undeniably living in his home. 

Which makes it all the more ridiculous that it's still a fucking secret. 

It's fall now, the days growing shorter and cooler, your hours with Joel spent more often tucked in bed than on day trips to Lockhart. You can't think too hard about it or else it starts to feel insane–the fact that barely two months ago your heart had seemed irreparably broken and now you're sharing a home with another man, a man with whom a future still feels altogether impossible.

It should make you panic, and you think maybe it would…if you weren't so stupidly, unbearably, perfectly happy. 

You know this feeling, this giddy all-encompassing joy, this certainty that nothing this good could ever be bad. He calls you his girl and it's never felt more true. You're his, and you're perfectly content, for now, to stay that way.

But, as ever, reality is tapping incessantly at the doors of your new life, and it's a Friday night in late October when the whole thing threatens to come crashing down.

You lay with your head in Joel's lap on the couch, his fingers playing softly in your hair while some action movie you've both seen a hundred times flashes on the TV. It's routine at this point, these moments of domestic intimacy that will undoubtedly morph into something else once his fingers wander to other places.

You think you feel it now, as he trails his touch down your shoulder, along your arm, finally resting his palm on your hip and squeezing. His gaze drifts from the images on screen to take in your body as your breaths begin to shorten and you nudge yourself a little closer to him.

That's when his phone rings. 

You peer up at him as he reaches over you to the coffee table and glances at the little screen, your brows furrowing when he frowns at the caller ID.

"Who is it?"

Joel clears his throat, and very pointedly drops his hand from your side. "Your dad."

"Oh."

It's stupid, the surge of unease it elicits, the way you sit up and bite your nails nervously as Joel answers the call. 

"Hey, buddy," he says while you hastily turn the TV down a notch or two.

Your worry deepens when Joel turns to you with panic in his eyes and asks, "Right now?" into the phone.

You stiffen–mouth the word, what at him–but Joel is looking over his shoulder, out the window behind you to the street outside.

"You're–? Uh, okay, just gimme a sec."

He hangs up and stands, reaching behind the couch to close the curtains, whispering, "Shit," to himself as he does.

"What? What's going on?" you demand, feeling suddenly frantic.

"He's, uh, stoppin' in to say hi."

"What?"

Your voice rises about ten octaves, and then you're on your feet too, Joel already flitting past you to unlock the front door, peeking through the glass there as a pair of headlights pull into his driveway.

He turns back to you, frozen in the middle of his living room.

"What are we doin' here, sweetheart?"

"I–"

You shake your head, glancing between the front door and the stairs, before your gaze finally lands on Joel, his expression almost helpless. He's leaving it up to you, just like always.

"I'm not ready," you admit hoarsely.

He nods, too understanding for his own good. "That's okay."

But it really doesn't feel like it. It feels cowardly. Guilt and fear, usually suppressed beneath layers of happiness, bubble to the surface in a white hot flush. Joel takes two steps towards and places his hands on either side of your face, steadying you.

"It's okay," he repeats. "It's your call. Always."

"I'm sorry."

"Shh, none of that," he soothes, silencing you with a kiss. "Where's the cat?"

"Hiding, I don't know."

"Okay," he says again. "What are you gonna do?"

You almost laugh, but there's little humour in the sound. "The same, I guess."

Joel smirks, offers you one last parting kiss and finally lets you go.

"I'll come get you when he's gone," he promises but you're already halfway up the stairs, fleeing in a rush as a knock comes at the door.

-

Exactly twenty-six excruciating minutes pass. You know this, because you watch each one pass on the alarm clock on his bedside table. 

Henry's there too, you find, seeking refuge in Joel's bed just like you. You sit with him, legs crossed in the middle of the mattress, and wait. And while you wait, you stew.

It's ridiculous. This is ridiculous. Hiding from your dad like some misbehaving teenager stashing drugs in their closet, as if he still had some kind of power over you. As if the big secret you're hiding isn't the one thing making your life worth living at the moment.

So what are you so afraid of? 

You ask yourself that same question a hundred different times until the doorknob turns and Joel is stepping into the room with a sympathetic smile.

He keeps the door open behind him.

"Hey, baby."

"Hey," you whisper, like you're still hiding. "How was that?"

"Fine," he shrugs. "Gave me hell for skippin' out on golf the past few weeks. Thinks I must be loved up or somethin'."

He's trying to keep his tone light, but something twists in you when he says that word, that one neither of you have said yet.

He's so good. What are you so afraid of?

"Hm."

"Almost had a heart attack when he saw the damn litter box," he laughs.

Panic paints your features but Joel raises two hands soothingly, stepping further into the room.

"It's okay, it's alright," he assures you. "Told him I was cat sittin' for a friend. He didn't think nothin' of it."

You're still frowning, but you nod, hands clamped anxiously in your lap. Joel steps closer, around the side of the bed, close enough to tilt your face upwards to meet his eyes.

"You okay?"

You shake your head. You're so afraid. What are you so afraid of?

"Feel stupid," you mumble.

Joel sighs then, his knees popping slightly as he crouches onto the floor before you, clutching both your hands in his. 

"You're not stupid," he says softly, bringing your fingers up to his mouth to plant a tender kiss against your knuckles. The same spot he'd first kissed you. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

Joel sighs, long and slow. You shimmy on the mattress so you're facing him, squeezing his hands like you're afraid he'll disappear if you don't. He stares at them as he speaks.

"I know…I know you bein' here puts you in a shitty position," he starts. "Hell, I know bein' with me puts you in a shitty position–"

"It doesn't–"

"But," he cuts you off, meeting your eyes at last, something warm and intense smouldering in the soft brown. "I'm not in any rush. Okay? We can keep this under wraps for s'long as you want. I mean that. I'm just–I'm just happy you're here."

You hold his stare, cup his weathered cheek in your palm and let whatever's burning behind his eyes melt into yours. He's doing what he always does, giving you the choice. He's so good. He's so good to you. 

So what are you so afraid of?

"I think we should tell them," you murmur and the smouldering burn turns to glittering anticipation, dulled by uncertainty while he looks for any trace of a lie on your face.

You know he won't find one. 

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"You're sure? 'Cause we can wait–"

"No," you assert, clutching at the greying curls on the side of his head fiercely, tugging him in closer. "Joel, I–I'm happy too. I want them to know. They should–they should be happy we're happy, right?"

He allows himself a smile, and you feel your fears start to fade away. 

"Should," he agrees.

"And if they're not then…then I don't care. I care about you. No more secrets."

"Alright," he whispers, emotion coating his words before he's wrapping his arms around your middle and burying his face into your chest. You hook your legs around him, some noise between a laugh and a sob getting caught in his t-shirt. "No more secrets."

He holds you like that for what feels like hours, knelt before you as though you were some kind of deity, safe in his arms while you stare down the barrel of whatever comes next. 

At last, he frees himself, the energy shifting as he rises up off the ground with two hands on your thighs and suddenly everything realigns. Joel towers over you, strong and solid, so perfect it feels almost criminal to keep him all to yourself. 

His calloused fingers stroke your cheekbones and you stare up at him, worshipful, blanketing his big hands with yours. 

"I'm your girl, right?" you breathe alluringly. 

Joel nods, his voice gruff, "You're my girl."

"Then let's let 'em know."

He hums, almost a growl, hinging to connect your mouths in a searing kiss and–finally–there is no more fear.

[stardusksx]

[stardusksx]

a darling and a virgin

summary: you are a victor from district four, having just ended your first victory tour. after being confronted by president snow, you have no choice but to lose your virginity. luckily, your previous mentor is willing to provide some guidance.

pairing: finnick odair x reader

warnings: mentions of forced prostitution, angst, gentle smut, loss of virginity, fingering, lots of consent, praise, happy but also unhappy ending??, reader takes contraceptives.

notes: i’ve recently found that i’m incapable of writing short smut one shots so… i’m sorry y’all. love describing every detail too much.

word count: 6.8k

Your hands were clasped over the balcony railing of the penthouse you were spending the night in, the vibrant artificial lights of the Capitol burning your retinas as you overlooked the city. You had finally completed your first Victory Tour and were offered one more night in the Capitol to enjoy its ‘luxury’ and ‘generosity’ before returning to District Four in the morning.

For the past two weeks, you had read fabricated speeches to each District, resurfacing both your trauma from the Games and the families of the tributes you had murdered in the arena. The toll it was taking on you was heavy, but you managed to put on a splitting grin for every interview, speech, and disturbing congratulation. But not for your previous mentor, Finnick Odair.

Finnick had been there for you through the whole nightmare, even during the week before your Games. His support was unwavering which was one of the many reasons you had managed to survive from the moment you were Reaped to the end of the Tour. It was hard to tell when his mentorship had turned into something more complicated, but it had. It had become more about feelings than simply survival. Not a relationship per se, but not just a friendship either. You teetered on the line between the two, never crossing it and never discussing the fact that you were both aware of it either.

For six whole months.

When the final destination of the Tour came—the grand celebration at President Snow’s mansion—Finnick had told you it was the easiest part. All you had to do was manage a happy face, mingle with obnoxious Capitol citizens, and eat an abhorrent amount of food. He would have been right if you were a different person. If President Snow hadn’t demanded your singular presence at the end of the night.

You exhaled a shaky breath, watching the white mist drift into the light-polluted sky. The President’s words bounced around your head: Desirable… Customers... Family. The conversation played on a loop in your mind. You could remember the repugnant smell of roses, the overwhelming whiteness in the room, and the way his too-pleasant face lit up as fireworks exploded outside the window.

Shivers trickled down your spine, forming goosebumps that were borderline painful. The fact that you were on the ninetieth floor and wearing flimsy pyjama shorts and a thin long-sleeve shirt wasn’t helping either. The crisp wind blew against your body, but you had no intentions of moving to seek warmth. It felt appropriate to stay in the cold when your body would soon know nothing but unwelcome heat.

So lost in your spiralling thoughts, you failed to notice as another body silently took up space beside yours, warming up the side of your arm. This heat was welcome.

“Pretty cold out here.”

A startled gasp escaped your mouth. You straightened up and turned to the owner of the voice, only to find Finnick leaning against the railing, forearms over the edge the same as you.

“Sorry.” He chuckled. “I know my presence can be a little breathtaking sometimes. Nice shorts by the way.”

He turned his head turned to you, revealing his infamous flirtatious smirk. The dimples in his cheeks were prominent and charming. His bronze hair was perfectly dishevelled as usual, as if someone had purposefully placed each strand to give him the ‘sexy bed hair’ look. He was still wearing his white button-up and black trousers; the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows and a few buttons were undone, revealing his toned chest. The outfit had been accessorised with a metallic golden corset-like belt among other decorations that made him fit in with the Capitol crowd, but he must have taken them off. Now the outfit sort of resembled one that a boy would wear to a Reaping. Simple yet formal. Still gorgeous, not that he needed reminding.

Normally, you would retort with a snarky remark or, on the off occasion, flirt back, but instead, you resumed your previous position over the railings. You weren’t immune to Finnick’s charms; you praised anyone who was. You would usually be internally swooning at the sight of him, especially with the way he looked right now and his obvious flirting. But this night was much different. Flirting and swooning were at the back of your mind. All you could think about was your interaction with the president; the way his guards manhandled and escorted you to his study. The conversation that destroyed your hopes of a peaceful future.

Desirable. One word that sent ice coursing through your veins. Or snow, to be more poetic.

“I don’t think you’ve said a word since we got back,” said Finnick, still a hint of playfulness in his tone. He watched your gaze—eyes distant though not really seeing. It was clear something was wrong, so he continued, this time more softly. “You were gone during the fireworks.”

You remained unmoving, staring straight ahead at the city. Only when he uttered your name did he finally gain your attention. As you turned your head to face him, tears began to well up in your eyes.

Finnick noticed the silent distress in your expression and straightened up his stance. He towered over you, brows knitted together whilst his sea-green eyes flickered across your face, looking as if pieces were slowly falling together in his mind.

“He spoke with you, didn’t he?” he said. “Snow.”

To answer his question for you, a tear escaped your eye, but you were quick to swipe it away with a sniffle.

Your arms wound around your torso, hugging yourself as the words began flowing. “After I won my Games, when I was being crowned, he said something to me that I didn’t really understand." Your voice was gentle, just above a mere whisper. “Months passed and I’d forgotten all about it. Until now at least. He told me…” You swallowed the ache in your throat. “He told me, ‘I have big plans for you, Miss (L/N). I think you will be a very valuable asset to the Capitol citizens.’”

Finnick’s face had melted into an unreadable expression. His entire body turned to stone; it was like he was a marble statue portraying a Greek God. All of a sudden, he was sixteen again. He was in Snow’s study, being told that if he didn’t cooperate and essentially sell himself to the Capitol, his family would pay the price. And they did.

With a sad smile, you whispered, “I know what he meant now.”

Something inside him snapped and he broke from his stupor.

“No.” He vigorously shook his head. “He can’t do that. You can’t. I’ll go to him and—fuck!” His hand ran through his hair, making it even more dishevelled. The bright lights from the city were reflecting off his eyes, revealing the shine that was starting to gloss over them. “I can fix this for you, I swear I’ll—"

“Finnick.”

“He’s a fucking—”

“Finnick.” The plea in your voice ceased his panicked movements. He just stood there, looking completely and utterly helpless. You both did. Another tear slipped down your cheek as you stared at him, your voice wavering as you asked, “Can you hold me?”

He let out a breath as if the air had been knocked from his lungs and in one fell swoop, he stepped forward and pulled you into his arms. Silent tears began to flow more heavily, saturating his white shirt which he held you tightly against. There was a hand wrapped protectively around your lower back and another stroking the hair flowing over your neck.

You were certain Finnick let a few tears slip too because you could feel the cold breeze nip at the top of your head the slightest bit more. He mumbled the words “I’m so sorry” over and over into your hair but you just shook your head. You told him it wasn’t his fault, but he wouldn’t accept it. He had told you months ago about his arrangement with Snow. You couldn’t have imagined what it was like for him then, but you would be able to now. You would know every single little detail.

His embrace tightened as you turned your head and pressed your ear to his thumping chest.

The tears had stopped, and you managed to find your voice again. “Snow threatened to kill my family. What if the customers don’t think I’m good enough and he takes it out on them? I mean, I don’t have any experience.”

You remained silent, awaiting his response. When the hand stroking your hair halted, you realised your mistake. You realised what you had just admitted to him and mentally kicked yourself. Repeatedly.

Finnick moved both hands onto your forearms, gently pushing you away from him to get a clear view of your face. The surprise in his expression was enough to make you want to jump over the balcony ledge in embarrassment.

“You’re a virgin?”

Hearing the words out loud would have sent you over the edge—literally—if Finnick’s large hands weren’t wrapped around your arms. You tried to turn away from him, but his grip was unshakeable. Your eyes began to water again, and you felt pathetic.

“Hey,” he said tenderly as he tried to regain your eye contact. “It’s not a bad thing.”

Your distraught red-rimmed eyes snapped back to him. “Not a bad thing? Of course it’s a bad thing, Finnick! I have to give my body to a stranger despite never even having my first kiss! Let alone sex!” As you said the words, the full reality of your situation began to set in. Panic turned to sadness as you realised yet again, the Capitol was taking another innocence you thought was your own to give away. You looked down, your tone becoming quieter. “I thought my first time would be special. Or at least with someone I loved.”

God, you felt so embarrassed admitting that to him. Sure, a lot of your conversations were flirty and full of sensual banter. Sex, however, was not a topic that came up very frequently. You would never want to accidentally cross a line with Finnick, especially given what Snow forced upon him. So you liked to avoid the subject as much as possible. Now, it was inescapable.

He released his grip and sighed heavily, looking out toward the view as if he were deep in thought. The vivid city lights cast an unnatural hue on his usually golden-tanned skin; even now the Capitol was changing him into something he wasn’t. His eyes shut for a quick second before he reopened them and looked back at you. The only time he had looked this serious was the morning of your Games and the night you returned. It was a little intimidating.

His jaw ticked and his gaze bore down into your own. “Sweetheart, I’m going to ask you something,” he began, “and I want you to know you do not have to say ‘yes’ if you don’t want to, okay?”

Alright, now he was really starting to scare you.

“Okay,” you said warily.

The hardness on his face remained for a moment longer, but then his expression softened and became the most vulnerable you had ever seen.

His voice was gentle. “Do you want me to take your virginity?”

*************

You were sat on the edge of Finnick’s bed, toying with the black satin sheets with a frown. Your room didn’t get satin sheets. It was probably one of the benefits of being the Capitol Darling. Not that you envied him very much. He would probably be content with sleeping on a dirt floor if it meant he got his autonomy back.

Finnick was in the bathroom doing God knows what. You weren’t sure if he was trying to make himself more presentable or hyping himself up to have sex with you. The latter worried you. The last thing you wanted was to pressure him into something he didn’t want to do. Then again, he was the one who asked.

After you had told him “Yes, please”, he had tentatively but oh-so-gently taken your hand in his and guided you inside and to his room. Neither of you had spoken along the way; you just walked in silence toward something that would either ruin or deepen your relationship. Despite being two victors, this was still a mentor making sure his tribute stayed alive.

You heard the bathroom door slide open and looked up to see Finnick standing outside the door. Shirtless, pants still on, and towel in hand. It took everything in you to not stare at his perfectly sculptured torso, his equally toned arms, or his broad and muscular shoulders. Instead, your eyes met his for a split second before you returned to the satin sheets.

Blood rushed to your head and everything felt too real. Finnick Odair was standing before you, looking like an angel and willing to fu—

“You’re allowed to look, you know,” he chuckled.

But your gaze remained on the bed.

“I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“You won’t.’” He spread the towel on the bed, positioning it in the middle. Then he stopped his movements as he realised what you meant. “It’s not like that. I’m not being forced to do this. I want to.”

Your head snapped up and your heart leapt as those three words left his lips—I want to. For a second, you believed him, but then reasoning came to deflate your hopefulness.

“You wouldn’t want to if I weren’t in this situation.”

He let go of the towel, sitting down mere inches beside you, his eyes amused despite the solemn context. “And how do you know that?”

“Because…” you trailed off, searching your brain for an explanation only to find none. “Because.”

He smirked. “We need to work on your argumentative skills, sweetheart.”

A small smile worked its way across your lips. He returned it with a comforting smile of his own, though the sense of playfulness never left. It never really did and that was one of the things you admired most about him. Even in the darkest of situations, he was able to provide some light.

Rosy heat crept into your cheeks and you were forced to break eye contact again. Hiding how much he affected you was pointless now; if this was going to work out, you needed to be vulnerable with him. With each other. You looked down at the space between your bodies. His hand was resting on the bed beside him and soon enough, it was slowly creeping across the sheets over to your own. He gently brushed his fingers across your knuckles before sliding his hand beneath your palm and interlocking it with yours. You couldn’t help but notice how small your hand looked compared to his, feeling butterflies flutter around your stomach at the small observation.

The both of you silently watched your intertwined hands. That is until Finnick decided to speak up.

“I would,” he said ambiguously, caressing the side of your hand with his thumb. “I would still want to. Even in different circumstances.”

The blush on your face reddened even more; your cheeks were on fire at this point. Even in different circumstances. Was that his way of confessing… that he did have feelings for you? It wasn’t exactly explicit, but it was certainly implied. Oh god, you didn’t know what to think.

You didn’t bother to reply; words probably would have failed you anyway. You just gave his hand a slight squeeze in acknowledgement—well, it was more in appreciation. It was obvious how hard he was trying to make you feel comfortable, but no matter how hard he tried, you couldn’t shake the nerves that were rattling your entire being.

Sex was a pretty big milestone—to you, at least��and here you were, on the precipice with someone you trusted with your life. Did you love Finnick? You weren’t sure. What you did know was that your feelings for him were deep, and even though neither of you had ever clearly confessed to each other, you knew he felt something for you too. Which made everything all the more daunting.

“Are you nervous?” he asked softly.

You nodded.

“We still don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

You shook your head, lifting your gaze to his. “No, I—”

His eyebrows pulled inwards, awaiting your answer. His eyes were so inviting and full of understanding, if you hadn’t lost the ability to form full sentences, you would have found yourself spilling all your secrets to him. He was so patient with you. So good. You had to rethink your uncertainty about loving him.

“I…” you tried again. Your eyes flickered back and forth from his sea-green eyes to his soft, pink lips. As shameful as it felt to admit, you had imagined what it would feel like to have his lips on yours many times before. Usually right before you went to sleep. Never would you have thought the day would come when it would actually happen.

He was still caressing the side of your palm, silently reassuring you, encouraging you to communicate with him. You sighed, closing your eyes. If he wanted you to communicate, then you would.

“Finnick,” you whispered. “Kiss me.”

Your words drifted into the air, stilling everything in the room—the air, Finnick’s hand. Your heart. He just stared at you, unblinking, unmoving, like someone had hit pause on the television at the tensest moment. The tension was tearing you apart and you almost got up and left the room. But you didn’t. Because suddenly, the sides of your face were cupped by large hands and his lips were on yours.

Finnick Odair was kissing you.

His lips pressed against yours once more in one long close-mouthed kiss before leaving again. Shock came and left within seconds and you found the courage to copy his actions. Your lips locked perfectly onto his, remaining still, enjoying the pressure and tingly warmth of simply having them connected. Then your lips moved to kiss him again. And again, and again until soon enough, his tongue had slyly slid into your mouth and you had somehow instantaneously become a master at French kissing.

This kiss felt familiar, despite it being your first. Like something you had done millions of times before, but only with him. Like having his lips on yours was the most natural thing to ever exist.

A hand moved onto your waist and suddenly you were being pulled onto his lap, legs straddling his lap. Your hands fell on his chest, mindlessly wandering and feeling the toned muscles ripple underneath your palms as he pulled you closer by the neck to deepen the kiss. Damn the people of the Capitol, but they were right to say he was an incredible kisser.

“Finn,” you huffed in between kisses, “have you got a rock in your pants?”

He pecked your lips once more with a smirk, resting his forehead against yours as you both attempted to catch your breaths. “No,” he chuckled. “I’ve just got a beautiful girl on my lap.”

Your eyes opened to see him grinning at you with mischief. Oh.

“Is that okay?” he asked.

You nodded jerkily. “Ye—Yes, that’s okay.”

“Okay, good.”

Biting your lip, you looked down between your bodies. Curiously, you rocked your hips along the length of his lap once, earning a quiet grunt from him.

He tucked a lock of hair behind your ear. “Careful,” his voice was low, tempting.

And of course, in full defiance, you did it again. His warning was a bluff. He made no real action to prevent you from grinding any further on his erection, so you kept moving, and he kept revealing how good it made him feel. The thin fabric of your shorts created a little barrier between his hard lap and the growing sensitivity between your thighs.

Meanwhile, you found yourself never wanting to be parted from Finnick’s lips. With every rock of your hips, your hands ran over every inch of his upper body, eventually settling in his hair. The way he kissed reminded you of stories of District Twelve. A district full of hunger and desperation. Only what Finnick was craving wasn’t the fullness of food in his stomach, but the desire to devour you whole. To ravage you. And by God, would you give anything to satiate him.

Forget what you thought before. This wasn’t just a victor keeping his tribute alive. As clear as the sea on a sunny day, this was a man giving himself over to a woman he loved. You. Finnick loved you.

When you pulled back to tentatively lift your shirt over your head, his eyes stayed on yours. Your breasts were literally bare and he just continued to scan the features of your face. However, you did notice the subtle shift in his breathing.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, stroking the side of your breast.

A shy, cheek-warming smile crept on your face and then suddenly, Finnick was rolling you over. Your head fell back onto the soft silk pillows, Finnick hovering above you. This position remained for a long while, the time spent simply kissing each other, alternating between deep tongue-filled kisses and soft sweet pecks. There were moments when you both stopped to flirt or giggle. These were the times you entirely forgot the whole reason you were doing this in the first place.

It was just you and Finnick. Two new lovers in a perfect world.

After a while, your lips had swollen with warm, passionate heat. You were flushed and you didn’t even need to look to know your hair was already a tangled mess. But you didn’t care.

One of Finnick’s hands had begun to wander down your stomach, breaking the established pattern of merely making out. You knew what was coming and surprisingly, you weren’t afraid. Unlike outside the penthouse apartment, there was no danger. Not in this room, in this bed, or in the hands that caressed you. He grazed across the skin beneath your belly button, causing your body to flinch up into his.

Of course, he smirked at that—the smug asshole.

He returned to your lips before lowering down to your neck and sucking soft, red marks into your fragile skin. His fingers found the edge of your waistband. At this point, you were already breathing like a marathoner.

His lips detached from your neck. “Can Itouch you?”

“Yes, please,” you breathed.

As he travelled down, down beneath your waistband, he pecked your reddened lips once more. A soft gasp escaped you and warmth tingled between your thighs. His fingers were gentle as he began circling that sweet, sensitive spot only you had ever touched. Having someone else touch you felt so much more different, so much more exquisite. Your body responded to his touch immediately, hips following each movement of his fingers, breaths quickening in pace.

Finnick gazed down at you, observing each pleasured twist of your expression. He began to pick up the pace as he noticed your body familiarising itself with the sensation. More pressure was applied and the gasps leaving your mouth were gradually turning into quiet moans.

“This feel okay?” he asked. Obviously, he knew the answer, but after years of having others take advantage of him, he couldn’t help but want to hear your willingness. Your consent.

But you weren’t sure if the words could form. Everything felt like it was vibrating. All you could do was focus on the pleasure his fingers were building.

“Come on, sweetheart. You can tell me.”

His voice had taken on that seductive purr he was well-known for and you just couldn’t deny him. It took everything inside you to muster up the words. “It—it feels so good.”

He smiled and pressed a kiss to your forehead. The gesture was so sweet, you could have cried. So sweet even with his hand stroking between your legs and his hard cock pressing against your thigh. Time slowed as his fingers sped up. Muscles in your stomach were tightening. Your insides were churning—not like when you first entered your Games’ arena, but in the best way possible. It was a sensation you had never felt before, but before it could build any more, Finnick’s hand stilled. And you genuinely whined at the loss of friction.

Then his hand moved even lower, resting a singular finger over your slick entrance. Your eyes were wide, unsure of how to feel with the sudden turn of events.

Finnick’s eyes flickered between your own. "You trust me?”

You weren’t sure if an easier question existed. “I do.”

And his lips were on yours again, deep and sensual. His tongue rolled over your own, pushing forward and then retreating in a perfect rhythm. He almost successfully distracted you from the feeling of his middle finger sinking into you knuckle-by-knuckle. Some sort of sound resembling a mix of discomfort and surprise vibrated in your throat as his finger bottomed out.

There wasn’t much pain. It was just an odd feeling.

Your lips parted from his and he looked down at you, his eyes holding an immense amount of security as he communicated through your shared gaze.

Does it hurt?

You gave him a gentle smile. No. Keep touching me.

He returned your smile with a grin. Gladly.

His buried finger curled, shooting a sharp pang up into your stomach which caused your back to arch up against his bare torso. Whether you considered it painful or pleasurable was uncertain. Perhaps a mix of both. He did it again. This time you settled on describing it as a tight twinge in your lower stomach which sent a wave of chills down your legs. Definitely pleasurable. Only, he stopped indulging you with the sensation after the second time.

Instead, you felt another finger slowly slip inside you and whimpered. Now that hurt. You felt your inner walls stretch with the second addition and it stung. Especially when he began to scissor his fingers inside you. This was him preparing you for the real deal. How you were supposed to have Finnick inside you when just his fingers had you stuffed was incomprehensible. But you allowed him to keep going, trying to enjoy the comforting kisses he pampered onto you.

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he said.

Your hands moved to push back his messy bronze hair as he hovered above you. His dimples deepened with a grin and you swore you would endure any pain to keep them etched on his face. After he deemed you stretched out enough, he slowly rose to his knees, unbuttoning his trousers and throwing them aside. You couldn’t do anything but stare. He wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

The way you gulped was almost cartoonish. How the hell was he supposed to fit? You had never seen a man naked before—you weren’t even sure Finnick was human. He had a body sculptured by the Gods, a face carved by angels, and a… well, let’s just say he didn’t disappoint in any other areas. You weren’t sure if the smug look on his face was real or a carefully curated mask created for his Capitol customers. By the way it quickly washed away, you could tell it was the latter.

He began sliding your shorts down your legs, tossing them to the floor. Suddenly, you felt extremely vulnerable. Almost inferior. Your knees fell together, concealing the most private part of yourself from him. You avoided his gaze, cheeks becoming red and hot as he observed your naked frame. He had a way of looking at you as if you were a long-forgotten masterpiece, rediscovered from centuries of being lost. No one had looked at you like that before him.

Gently, he pried apart your legs and you didn’t bother trying to resist. Only when he descended and settled between your legs did the insecurity dwindle into the background of your mind. Your naked bodies were hot against each other. His weight pinned you against the bed. Everything that was yours touched all that was his. You thought this experience would feel like a dream, but it all felt so real. You were nervous, you were trembling, and your breaths were shaky.

Finnick was quick to recognise the nervousness radiating off you. His arm curled beneath you, somehow pulling you even closer, meanwhile, his other arm rested beside your head. He brushed strands of hair away from your face, soothing you with his tender touch.

“Tell me to stop and I will.”

You nodded. You wanted this—wanted Finnick. It was just the anticipation that was killing you. Your thighs squeezed his sides to tell him you were ready. For a few moments longer, he restarted the pattern of sweet kisses, rolling tongues, and the warmth of blood rushing to your head. His hand was caressing your cheek; yours were splayed on his back, gliding over the rippled muscles.

Then finally, he shifted, his hand moving south to align himself with your entrance. All you could do was watch his focused expression. This was the moment. The threshold of your relationship would be ­­crossed as soon as he pushed forward. There was no one else you wanted to share the experience with because you knew this wasn’t just sex. Not for him or for you; it was more than that. Something bordering spiritual, breaking the bounds of physical pleasure and entering into a deep emotional connection. Something no paying customer of the Capitol could provide.

He was gazing down at you, half-cradling your head as he began to say, “Are you su—" But before he could finish, you had pressed your lips to his, answering his question. You were sure. He nodded in response.

His eyes were hesitant he began to push his tip between your folds. Your fingers dug into his back, more from anxiety than anything else. It became a game of stopping and starting as he moved deeper inside inch-by-inch, allowing your walls time to adjust around him. Never had you seen someone’s face filled with so many emotions—concentration, controlled gratification, affection. So many feelings twisted his expression. Meanwhile, yours held only one. Discomfort. He was so big; you felt like you were being split apart and he wasn’t even fully inside yet.

Finally, when his pelvis connected with yours, you exhaled a heavy breath. It hurt. Bad. Finnick had the right idea to lay down a towel because you definitely needed it. He had you filled to the brim, stretched out and stuffed. Even the slightest shift in his position had your hands flying to his shoulders in pain.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Yes, just—” You bit your lip in an attempt to suppress a whimper. “Just go slow.”

He nodded. You smiled. Then for some odd reason, you laughed. And then so did he. Finnick’s face fell into the crook of your neck, muffling his boyish laughs into your skin. The added movements had your insides dully aching, but you didn’t pay it much attention. The moment was so innocently intimate that you wanted to stay in it forever. He lifted his head to press his grinning lips to yours and the laughter began to dissipate. Your mouths moved slowly together, full of heat and fervent emotion, and suddenly, Finnick’s body began to move too.

Careful as not to harm you, he slid himself backward in one slow motion and then pushed forward again in another. Pain stung at your inner walls and your lips left his as a gasp escaped your mouth. You were tempted to close your eyes whilst riding out the discomfort but couldn’t bring yourself to look away from Finnick’s face. He was so mesmerizingly beautiful.

His cheeks were a baby pink. Lips were a rosy red. There was a thin sheen covering his forehead, slightly wrinkled by his furrowed brows. Those messy bronze locks you adored so much fell in strands across his forehead. The evident concentration and care on his face just made him look all the more picturesque.

While you admired his features, you started to notice the pain accompanying his slow thrusts was becoming more tolerable. There was still a sting, but also a dull twinge in your stomach that had you biting your bottom lip. It felt sort of… nice. And you wanted to experiment with that feeling.

Your hands were hooked around his shoulders. “Faster.”

Are you sure? His lustful eyes spoke.

You pulled him back down to your mouth. Absolutely.

And so, his hips started to rock back and forth at a faster pace. You could feel yourself clench around his cock from the change of rhythm but forced yourself to relax. He thrust in and out, rubbing against the ripples of your walls, tip brushing at a spot inside you that was anything but pain. That is what you focused on—that one sweet spot.

Time went on and he gradually increased his speed. Your lips were swollen and red, no doubt from the way he would nip and suck on your bottom lip in between each flick of his tongue. His breaths were coming out louder, heavier, as were your own. Soon enough, you were in a rhythm that was both pleasurable for him and for you. The pain lingered but it was no longer unbearable. A shudder ran down your body and your pussy fluttered around him. Finnick broke away from your lips with a breathy groan that you swore you could feel in the pit of your stomach.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

His thrusts became a little faster, a little more painful. A hand slipped down between your bodies and the pain faded quicker than it came. He was rubbing circles around your clit, occasionally running his fingers across it which caused you to lurch upward. All of a sudden, you came to the realisation that everything bad that had been clouding your mind had disappeared. The ache, the confrontation with Snow. Everything. The only thing you could focus on was the pleasure slowly building between your thighs and in your stomach. And Finnick. His tantalising eyes. His wicked mouth. His throbbing cock.

People always said your first time would be horrible; this was anything but. Maybe it had to do with the fact that you… loved him? Yeah, you loved him. Also because he was something of an expert at sex. You were in a pretty unlucky predicament but having Finnick willingly fucking you was a blessing.

His fingers were relentless, applying the perfect amount of pleasure that had you writhing beneath him. And added with the sensation of his cock repeatedly hitting that spot inside you, your uneven breaths turned into soft moans. He fucked, he rubbed, he nipped and sucked at the delicate skin of your neck. Heat was enveloping your entire body.

“Finnick,” you moaned.

“I know, sweetheart. I know.” His voice was strained and hoarse.

His hand left your clit, hooking around your thigh, and curling it around his back so he could thrust even deeper. He restarted his rhythm of rubbing circles, but his thrusts felt different. Instead of just brushing that sensitiveness deep inside you, he was mercilessly hitting it. Over and over. Your moans were louder now; Finnick was more vocal too, grunting and occasionally uttering words of praise.

This went on for a while. His stamina was incredible—if you had a moment to think, you would have realised the depressing reasoning behind it. But you couldn’t think at all. Your heel was digging into his back; nails scratching at his skin. Both of you had a layer of sweat covering your bodies, skin wet, slapping and sliding over one another. Your pheromones had filled the room with the smell of sex, driving your need to finish.

Finnick’s mouth had been everywhere at this point. Your lips, your neck, shoulders, and breasts. Everywhere except your pussy, not that it really mattered anymore.

It was hard for you to comprehend how fucking amazing the sensations you felt were. There was heat and pressure pooling in your stomach, increasing at a slow pace, and growing more powerful by the minute. Finnick’s hips moved at a steady pace, but his hand had begun to slow. Even he had to succumb to fatigue at some point. He sounded like he had run for miles though was obviously pushing himself on for your benefit.

Instead of ceasing his tiring hand movements entirely, he switched hands. And that was when the heat in your stomach turned into a blazing inferno. He was much faster now. Applied more pressure. Your head fell back against the pillow with a cry. His cock was throbbing inside you at the sound.

“That feel good? Huh?” he practically moaned.

He left kisses across the stretch of your neck, running his tongue over the skin and leaving behind red marks.

“Yes!” you cried out.

Your entire body felt like it was being dipped into a white-hot flame of pleasure and the feeling was only increasing. It was clear Finnick felt the same way. His thrusts were becoming more frantic, he was cursing left and right, and he was practically pulsing inside you.

The heat in your stomach was overwhelming but you needed more.

“Finnick, I feel—I feel—” You couldn’t describe even it.

Finnick nodded, breathing heavily above you. God, he looked gorgeous. “You’re gonna come.”

Your half-lidded needy eyes met his. Something about him saying those words sent a wave of acceleration through your body. You hadn’t known what the edge was until you were on the brink of coming, and there was no stopping it. His cock plunged in and out, pushing deep inside you, practically rocketing your orgasm to the surface with each thrust. His fingers moved at such an intense pace you didn’t even know was physically possible.

As your eyes fluttered shut, your mouth fell open and every frantic breath, moan, and cry was able to escape. Finnick had the same problem. Fuck, he sounded so sexy, it only spurred you on.

Then it hit you all at once. “Fu—"

Every inch of your body tensed. You were sent into a space where white noise filled your hearing and bliss was all you knew. No pain. No sadness. Just ecstasy. Electric sparks jolted up and down your body, rising to your head, and causing you to see stars behind your closed eyes. Your moans were uncontrollable and desperate, voicing Finnick’s name over and over.

His thrusts were frenzied and sloppy, prolonging your orgasm as long as he could. He had lifted your lower back into an arch, enhancing the sensation coursing through your body. Your walls were clenching and pulsing around him, so much that he was abruptly thrown into his own high. His hips stuttered and eventually, his cock filled you as deep as he could, spurting out warm strings of white that coated your inner walls.

He collapsed on top of you, face buried in the crook of your neck. Your fingers wound into his hair, clinging to him as the aftershocks of your orgasm ravaged your body. Legs trembling and mouth panting, you lay there allowing yourself to regain your breath and ability to move.

After pressing a lazy kiss to your neck, Finnick slid off you, falling onto the bed beside you. Hopefully the towel was enough to save the silk sheets.

Now that you were resting, exhaustion had the chance to cloud your mind. You weren’t sure what the customs were after sex—whether you made conversation or simply went to sleep. The latter sounded pretty good though. A warm hand slipped beneath your back, turning your body sideways and pulling you so you were half strewn across Finnick’s chest and legs. You made no effort to resist.

Eyes closed, you listened to the heart beating inside his ribs. Thrumming intensely though starting to return to a normal rate.

“Are you okay?” he asked with a murmur, sounding utterly drained.

His thumb drew gentle patterns on the skin of your waist.

You nodded against his chest, remaining silent. After a little while you finally decided to speak. “I’m glad it was you.” And then after a few more moments of silence, you added, “I wish it was just you.”

You felt him press his lips to the top of your head. A long and emotional kiss. The whole reasoning behind losing your virginity returned to mind. It felt heavy, weighing down the atmosphere in the room. No matter how hard you tried to deny it, what was coming was inevitable. You wouldn’t get to stay with Finnick in this bed. You wouldn’t get to belong to him, or he you. You both belonged to the Capitol. To Snow. No matter how much you wished to belong to each other.

He whispered, “Me too.”

[stardusksx]

When he clarifies things.... || Rick Grimes (TWD)

It had been a long day, one of your longest. It felt like you hadn't slept at all -nothing.

And maybe it was because you hadn't. You were on the move, then, the whole group ready for shelter and food and keeping watch of Judith, you were exhausted.

You were so busy though, you'd just. Forgotten.

Longer and longer it stretched until the group found Alexandria -clean homes and friendly faces (at least friendly than some others you'd known). Something in you felt at ease, watching as people flocked off -safely.

There was a bit of mistrust in the air, but everyone understood what a blessing it was to find a place like this -with beds, with food, with homes.

And yet, you stayed sat -holding Judith close to your chest, something in you rattling, unable to let her part. Like something could get her if you so much as moved. The Grimes household had quickly chosen a house, because well... everyone chose around him, the leader, the guide-

So, you sat on his front porch. Hadn't even picked your own home yet, something in yourself not quite happy with such an idea. You just couldn't.

"Hey," he grumbled out, slow and warm.

"Hey," you muttered, absent-mindedly rubbing at your eyes -tired.

"Ya got a second?" He asked, quietly, before darting to Judith at your chest, and something in him seemed to soften.

"Yeah," you echoed, something in your legs shook as you stood -his hand in yours to help guide you up, "-Yeah, I can talk."

"C'mon," he kept his hand in yours and led you into the house, you adjusted Judith, who was now fast asleep, onto your hip.

This wasn't anything new. Not really. But for it to be so blatant, so domestic... you felt something warm curl into your chest.

"You mind if I...?"

His hands were motioning to Judith, you almost hesitated, but he won you over, hands creeping onto your skin. He gathered her up and disappeared into the hallway for a moment -third door to the right, your mind remarked quietly.

Like you needed to know. And something within you truly felt like you needed to, especially after the prison and almost...

You found a seat on the couch, sinking into the cushions without hesitation -you hadn't felt such a pleasure in a long time. Your eyes almost shut from it, actually.

"Hey," he repeated, meeting your eyes and smiling, a sort of warm smile peering across his lips but concern burrowing into his eyebrows, "-ya tired?"

"You aren't?" you laughed out, pushing your fingers into your temples for a moment -he watched the movement languidly.

"I am," he whispered, chuckling "-just wanted to talk to ya first."

There was something serious in his tone, you stilled in the cushions -eyes shooting open, you pushing yourself into proper posture. Serious.

"Okay," you hummed, attentive, "-what's up, Rick? You're kinda freaking me out."

"No, I, uh," he paused, sitting down on the couch -distant enough to keep your space (something in you wanted him closer), "-you picked a place yet?"

"You mean a house?" you echoed, sort of out-of-it, distant, "-No. I... I haven't yet. Why? Everyone getting all the good ones already?"

Rick seemed to ignore your joke, guiding his eyes straight into yours -you stilled, further, "What if ya didn't? Choose a place, I mean."

"I..." you tilted your head, curiously, "-What?"

"What if-" he started, and he was scooted closer to you on the couch you realized -your hand almost instinctively went to him but you held it back, "-What if you stayed here?"

"Sure," you added, still a bit perplexed, "-as long as there is room with, you know, Carl and Judith-"

"No," he laughed for a moment, and something in you gleamed -pride, "-I mean. Here... with me."

"Rick, I don't-"

"Stay in the same room," he elaborated, "-wake me up f'er breakfast, I want... I want your face to be the first one I see in the mornin' and the last I see at night."

"Oh," you spoke, a little frozen in place, "-with you."

"There ya go," he remarked, scooting somehow closer -grabbing your hands together.

Almost instinctively, you answered, "Yeah, I'd... I'd like that."

He brought your connected hands to his lips, stubble prickling across your skin. It almost seemed to ground you to the moment.

And before you could so much as blink, he pulled you into his side -one quick tug, wrapping his arm around you and pushing into your skin -warm.

You, without hesitation, slunk your head against his shoulder, something about him being all around you -pressed into your side, your nose, your eyes- kept you barely awake. Eyes fluttering.

"Sleep, sweetheart," he hummed, using his other hand to intertwine with yours, "-I'll be 'ere when ya wake up, I promise."

You spoke, muffled, into his shirt, "You sure?"

"You did a great job already, darlin'," he whispered, turning to press a kiss to the top of your head, "-time for some rest."

And that would be the best rest of your life. Or maybe you wouldn't know quite yet, you had a lot to look forward to.

[stardusksx]

BECAUSE OF YOU, spencer reid x named!oc

— part three.

( summary! ) Spencer & Lydia where best friends, until they weren’t. Having to see each other at work everyday was certainly an exercise in professionalism, but when Reid is arrested in Mexico they can no longer ignore each other.

( warnings! ) Canon typical violence, discussions of drug use, best friends to lovers with a whole load of angst in the middle, dysfunctional family dynamics, talks of past neglect, future mentions of sex/smut, let me know if I missed anything! )

Virginia, 2006.

LYDIA’S PAPER CUP BURNED THE PALMS OF HER HANDS, A SLIGHTLY WELCOMED SENSATION AGAINST THE COLD THAT WAS NUMBING HER FINGERTIPS. The actual coffee itself was only lukewarm at best now— a result of her stupid alarm clock once again running out of batteries and failing to wake her up. Spencer knocking on her door was what had finally brought her out of her slumber, and when she’d answered it with a bed head that clearly said she wasn’t work ready, he’d merely offered her an amused smile and told her to meet him outside the station while he got the drinks. A saint, really. 

She’d only known him about half a year now, the same amount of time she’d been at the BAU, and he'd been more than a life saver when it came to making her feel welcome. After his initial reservations, of course. It had taken her a moment to break past his introversion, but once she’d gotten him talking about War and Peace (which she had read, thank you very much) he hadn’t stopped since.

“Busy today.” He observed, throwing the words over his shoulder as they weaved through the morning rush hour of the tube station. There wasn’t enough room to walk side by side just yet, but he was carrying on their conversation anyway. 

Lydia snorted slightly, “You think it’s busy everyday.” 

“It is busy everyday.” He craned his neck to look at her, subsequently bumping into someone and stuttering an apology. She tried to hide her amusement. 

“Careful, it’s busy.” She teased, falling into step besides him as they started up the stairs. 

He sent her a halfhearted glare, which lived on his features for all of two seconds before he launched into the statistics of Virginia’s population and their work shift patterns. Even after months of being around him everyday, she still wasn’t over the awe of just how much information was packed into his head. They were halfway up the steps when a boy stopped them— more Spencer than her, because he said his name more like a fact than a question; “You’re Dr.Reid.” 

He didn’t look like he could be older than twenty, hands gripping the rucksack on his shoulder like a lifeline. He was timid, a soft spoken voice and flickering eyes. 

Spencer looked confused, “Do I… know you?” 

“N-no, I just know what you do.” 

Spencer’s brows furrowed further and, as he slowly dragged out an “okay?” while turning to leave, Lydia almost snorted at his awkward dismissal. Anyone else would question further, but he looked like he wanted to get out of the situation as fast as possible. The boy persisted, however, “Look, I saw you at George Town afew weeks ago, you gave a lecture on sexual sadism.” 

That seemed to ease Spencer, who gained a pleased expression at the mention of his academics. He nodded his head, giving a self-deprecating smile, “I’m not much of a public speaker.” 

“I-I don’t know, you seemed cool.” The boy's gaze flickered between him and the floor, and Lydia smiled quietly at the display. She knew validation like this meant a lot to Spencer. 

“You look a little young to go to George Town.” He said, no longer in a rush to get away. 

“I’m a junior at northwest high school.” 

“And you just go to lectures on anger exhortation for fun?” He said it half in jest, half in genuine approval. 

“I don’t have a lot of friends.” 

The expression on Spencer’s face once again threatened to elicit a laugh from Lydia. He asked, “So, you're interested in profiling?” 

“Yeah, I mean, I read a lot, true crime— like graphic novels, mostly. They’re all on, like, whether or not evil exists, nature vs. nurture. So I figured it’d be smart to hear it from an expert… So you said a lot of them kill prostitutes?” 

Lydia looked up from where she’d been studying her coffee cup in a feigned attempt to give them privacy. That was an oddly specific question. 

Spencer nodded, “Number one serial killer target, actually.” 

“Is that for sex or because they think they’re dirty and need to be punished?” His eye contact with Spencer lingered for a few more seconds, as if he was attempting to gauge the man's reaction to his words. Like a child who had stolen a cookie from the jar trying to see if their parents had picked up on it. 

A cold feeling washed over her, as if someone had injected shards of ice into her bloodstream. There was innocent curiosity, and then there was… well, the non-innocent kind. She could see Spencer register it too, because instead of responding he asked a question of his own, “Were you waiting here for me?” 

“What would it mean if they were stabbing someone and cutting off their hair?” 

Deflection. Lydia began to take mental notes— the colour of his hair, the clothes he was wearing, how dark circles rimmed his eyes. The boy was shifting on his feet, a clear sign of how anxious he was. Lydia couldn’t tell if it was because of the conversation or something else. 

She was willing to bet it was something else. 

“I’ve… I’ve never heard of a case like that,” Spencer was quick on his feet, somehow managing to shove aside his own anxiety about who was possibly standing before them, “Do you want to come to the BAU with me, maybe talk to some of my other team members?” 

He posed it as an innocent question, one academic merely helping out another. Lydia saw his true intention, and it seemed like the boy did too. He began to head back down the stairs, “I’ve got to get to school.” 

“Give me your name and your number and I’ll call you—” Spencer began to follow him, but he’d already disappeared into the crowd. He glanced at her helplessly, and she wordlessly nodded, a silent agreement to get to the BAU as quickly as possible. 

Spencer had tried to hastily sketch the boy, but after a minute of watching him struggle to get the eyes right Lydia had taken over. She’d done a sketch artist class for extra credit in college— her childhood interest in drawing making it an easy way to gain extra points. As they stepped off the elevator, JJ offered them a greeting which went unacknowledged. He questioned, “Who’s your contact in the DC police?”

“Victor Barnes,” She followed behind them, “Why, do you need me to speak to him?” 

Spencer didn’t respond, merely picked up the phone and asked for the man JJ had mentioned. Gideon walked towards them, noting their tense expressions. As Spencer spoke on the phone, she offered up a brief explanation, “This kid stopped Reid on our way to work, asking weird questions about the murder of prostitutes— specifically ones who were stabbed and had their hair cut.” 

Just as she finished explaining, Spencer asked if there were any recent murders matching that M.O. He was quiet for a moment before he said, “When was the most recent victim?” 

Dread filled her, any doubt that the boy at the station was just a teenager with slightly gruesome interests had now vanished. He finished up the phone call, “I’ll explain when I see you, I’ll meet you in a half hour.” 

“What’s going on?” Gideon’s arms folded over his dark dress shirt, his neutral voice veiling any concern. 

“I think we may have a serial killer,” He answered, brows furrowed, “And I think I just let him get away.” 

⭈

After a brief trip with Morgan and Emily to speak with some possible witnesses, afew girls managed to identify the sketch with someone they’d seen out a few times. Allegedly, the boy they’d seen at the station had been hanging around the streets but never actually engaged in any sexual activity with the prostitutes himself. He’d just watch, they’d said. 

In a way, she thought that it perhaps made him seem even more likely to have committed the crimes. After all, there wouldn’t be much gratification in just watching— there had to be some sort of act. Some sort of purpose behind going out of his way to observe sex workers. If he wasn’t engaging in actual sex with them, it could indicate a level of disgust, in turn, motivating the violence to kill. Yet, he was a teenaged boy, so they also couldn’t rule out the simple possibility that he was exploring his sexual desires through observation. 

Either way, the mere confirmation he’d been in the area of the killings wasn’t enough to declare him guilty, and it also hadn’t brought them much closer to uncovering his identity. When she’d arrived back at the BAU, she’d found Spencer and Garcia in her bat cave attempting to figure out that information. 

“This is impossible.” Spencer gave an exasperated sigh, and Lydia raised a brow at his clear display of frustration that normally wasn’t so easy to draw out. 

Garcia scoffed, “Says you.” 

“There’s nothing in the juvenile offender records.” He defended, his voice cracking slightly. 

“So you think like a high school kid.” 

He refuted, “I was twelve and I hadn’t been through puberty in high school.” 

“Okay,” Garcia blinked, “Reset. We think like a highschool student, you think like a profiler.” 

Lydia admitted slightly sheepishly, “I went to a private school from fourth grade to graduation, I’m not exactly the picture of an average highschool experience, either.” 

“Reset the reset, I think like a highschool student, you guys think like the profilers.” She waved a hand, “He said he was a junior, the first rule when speaking to an authority figure, lie and say you’re older. He’s probably… a sophomore.” 

Lydia nodded— she tended to stick to the rules in school, but the urge to break them had certainly crossed her mind more than once. Her obsession with proving herself grades wise had left little time for things like lying to authority figures, but she had a dorm mate who would tell her millions of stories about doing just that. 

“Okay…” Spencer said contemplatively, “He was wearing a coat that was lambs wool but it didn’t look vintage, it looked brand new, like it had been tailored to him. Which means money… which means….” 

“Private school,” Lydia said dryly, “Guess I’m back on the side of tapping into his mindset.” 

She placed a hand on the back of Garcia’s chair, thinking for a moment. She remembers an incident of meeting one of her Grandmother’s friend’s grandson’s— he’d been talking about the school he went to which was in the same state, but a different district. She hadn’t heard of it before. “He said he went to northwest high, it’s unlikely he’d know the name of a highschool if he didn’t at least attend another one close to the area of it.” 

Spencer nodded, “Pull up the district for northwest high, see if there are any private schools.” 

Gracia typed for a second before nodding, “Three.” 

They needed to narrow it down further. Spencer said, “What about ones that offer electives at George Town?” 

“One; Morton School.” 

He nodded, pleased, “Pull up the Sophomore class.” 

An array of teenage faces were displayed on the screen, and it only took a few moments of scrolling before a familiar one popped up, “Wait, wait. Stop.” 

Spencer pointed to a boy in the middle, and Garcia brought up his personal information, “Nathan Harris.” 

Spencer's mouth hung open like he couldn’t quite believe it, “We got him.” 

She offered him a relieved smile, “Let’s go tell Gideon.” 

⭈

Lydia stayed behind as a small team was sent out to bring Nathan in, and upon Gideon’s request, she was preparing to sit in on his psychological interview. 

“Is it a good idea? For me to be in there?” Lydia said apprehensively, “I just think he’d be far more comfortable without a woman present, I don’t think we’ll get much from him otherwise.” 

He gave her a knowing look, “Trust me on this. Plus, I need you to monitor his micro expression while I focus on talking to him. You might pick up on something I miss.”  

Lydia sent him a one of reluctant agreement, and he pushed open the door into the office Nathan was waiting in. There was already a bearded man in the corner, watching silently as the younger boy's eyes darted between him and the floor. His gaze flickered up to her and Gideon, and his anxiousness seemed to increase. 

“My names Gideon, this is agent Baylor,” He gestured to her as they took their seats, and she offered up a small smile to placate his nerves. It didn’t seem to work— which she anticipated. 

“You were with Dr.Reid at the station,” He said, “You’re friends?” 

Lydia nodded, “We are.” 

“So, he must trust you then?” 

She momentarily wondered what it was about Spencer that Nathan gravitated towards— yes, they were both timid in nature and appeared to have some shared academic interests, but Spencer clearly hadn’t shared in his darker fantasies. Why did he go to Spencer, specifically, for help? “I think he does,” She answered honestly, knowing he’d really been looking for the assurance that he could trust her too. It seemed to be enough to calm the boy slightly. “You’re okay with answering some questions for us?” 

He nodded, ducking into himself slightly. He couldn’t hold her gaze for longer than a few seconds at a time, and she ruled it out as an indicator of lying— it seemed to simply be a part of his mannerisms. Perhaps nervousness, too, but that was natural for any form of questioning whether guilty or not.  

“So, I don’t wet the bed or start fires…” 

Gideon’s mouth lifted up at the side humorously, “I see you’ve read Dr.Harris warning signs of psychopathy.” 

“Yeah… is that wrong?” 

“No, it’s healthy. You’re intellectually curious, you want to understand how you’re feeling.” Gideon’s voice was calming, assuring, “Tell me what worries you.” 

“Just been, um, thinking about stuff.” 

“About hurting women?” 

His eyes briefly flickered to Lydia, and he looked more uncomfortable with her now— like he’d forgotten about her connection to Spencer and she was back to being a complete stranger he couldn’t seem to humanise. Yet, strangely, he didn’t look like he held resentment towards her. More like shame. He looked back to Gideon as he admitted, “Yeah.” 

“Have you ever hurt anyone?” 

He glanced upwards, like he was recalling a memory, “I killed a bird once. I know that’s on the list, it’s one of the signs.” 

Gideon showed no sign of disgust, “Why did you kill the bird?” 

“Cause I was sad.” 

“How’d you feel afterwards?” 

His brows were woven, like he was fighting against it, “Better.” 

“Why?” 

He seems to struggle internally, “I don’t know. Cause it was dead and I was still alive.” 

Gideon nodded, “Is that why you want to hurt women? To feel better?” 

“I don’t know...” He whispered. 

“Have you ever seen a woman naked?” 

Lydia looked down at her notebook, making it look like she wasn’t paying too much attention to the conversation so that he felt less insecure about discussing it. There was a pause. 

“Don’t worry about them,” Gideon said, then added, “No offence.” 

The man in the corner of the room responded with a “Non taken.” She remained quiet, like she hadn’t heard Gideon speak, like she hadn’t been listening intently enough to hear him. She wrote things down to look busy. 

“Afew years ago at my moms med school, her students get cadavers.” 

She could see Gideon’s fingers moving against his brow in the corner of her eye, “So, how’d that make you feel?” 

“Good. Excited.” She chanced a glance up, and he trembled slightly, “It’s sick.” 

“Perfectly natural for a boy to feel excited if he sees a naked body, even a cadaver.” Gideon said dismissively, like it wasn’t something to worry about. 

“Yeah, but now that’s the only part that I think about.” 

Lydia’s pen paused over her paper for a brief second, then she went back to writing so he wouldn’t pick up on her change in demeanour. 

Gideon persevered, “Which part?” 

He swallowed, “Them being dead.” 

“So when you watch the prostitutes you don’t imagine having sex with them?” 

“No, I think about cutting them.” 

He was startlingly honest— it was making her believe in his innocence a little more, because despite the unlikely hood of all the evidence of an actual serial killer also happening to align with a lot of the impulses he was describing, it didn’t make sense for him to be so forthcoming with his mentality if he was guilty. 

“Why?”

“I don’t know… maybe to look inside. Or sometimes I think about feeling their blood in my hands and letting it flow through my fingers.” 

He was painting a vivid image, but it wasn’t exactly an unusual one for people with similar impulses to conjure up. Nathan was speaking with shame, an understanding that the things he craved was wrong. She wondered if it was the violence that did it, or if that was only a means to an end. Was it simply the fact of them being dead, of being completely malleable to his control, that he desired? 

“Does it ever make you climax just by thinking of that?” 

He didn’t directly answer, merely gave the smallest incline of his head, “I know I’m crazy.” 

Gideon didn’t blink, “Did I say that?” 

“No, but what do you call pictures in your head that you can’t make go away?” 

The silence lingered for afew seconds before Gideon gave his answer, then began to wrap up the interview with some more assuring words to Nathan. When they exited the office, the man gave her an exhausted look. He placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it, “We’ll debrief it in afew minutes, I need a break.” 

Lydia nodded, a sigh dragging from her lips as she headed towards the desks, Spencer already perched against his and watching her like he had been waiting on her return this whole time. 

“What do you think?” His knuckles covered his mouth. 

“I don’t know,” She murmured, “It’s kind of fascinating… the impulses he’s talking about are consistent with a psychopathic state of mind but if he’s being genuine about the fear… that’s a guilty conscience. It’s a clear conflict. Being able to feign guilt isn’t unheard of, but at the same time… I’m struggling to see any tells which indicate he’s not being genuine.” 

Spencer was watching her with an almost hopeful expression, and she let out a small sigh, “There’s a lot we don’t understand about the human mind yet, it’s not black and white, we can’t apply the same theories to everyone so… it’s not impossible that he’d be able to still feel all these other human emotions that aren’t consistent with psychopathy. But… if he didn’t do this, didn’t kill all those people,” She shook her head with furrowed brows, “I think he will, eventually. Impulses like the ones he’s having, they aren’t quite. They’re loud and take over everything else. Even the conscience.” 

She could tell it wasn’t what he wanted to hear. His head ducked slightly, staring down at his hands in silence. Lydia watched him for a moment, observing his dejected state with furrowed brows.  

“Can I ask you something?” She said finally. 

He hummed, looking at her with an expression that attempted to appear impassive. The way he chewed on his lip, however, was a give away that he was anything but. 

“What is it about Nathan? What’s making you feel responsible for him?” She didn’t pose her question with any judgement, mere genuine curiosity. Over the last few months they’d been on a fair few cases together, and she’d never seen him so emotionally invested— especially with a supposed perpetrator. 

Spencer blinked, searching her features for a moment as if he was looking for any sign she would scrutinise him. When he didn’t seem to find any, he relented, “I remember what it was like being a kid and having a brain that worked a hundred miles ahead of everyone else. It was… scary. Lonely. I never had… I never had the kind of thoughts he’s talking about, but I feel like I understand him. And he wants help, I believe that. I believe that whatever it is that’s going on with him, he’s trying to fight it. Shouldn’t we… shouldn’t we help people who need it? Even if… you know…” 

“Of course we should,” She said softly, “And we are, you are. I bet no one’s shown him the level of empathy you have in a long time. Maybe not even ever. He’s been stuck in his head alone for god knows how long, and you’re giving him an outlet. Whatever happens here, whether we find out he did this or not, he’ll get the help that he needs. Gideon’s already talking to his mom about what sort of resources we can get involved for him.” 

Spencer said quietly, “I always struggle with that… the empathy side of the job.” 

“You’re doing fine at it now.” She offered him a reassuring smile, “Sometimes we can relate to things, and other times we can’t. I think that’s what makes a team work— some cases will resonate with one of us more than it will the rest, and while that person can provide empathy and personal insight, the rest of us can have a more detached and critical viewpoint. It helps us cover all bases.” 

He stared at her for a moment, then his shoulders relaxed from their hunched state. He looked back to his hands, nodding, before his gaze returned to her. “Thank you.” His quiet words were followed by that slightly awkward smile of his. 

⭈

Lydia spent the rest of her day at her desk, running over the profile and seeing if there was anything she could think of that could help to narrow it down. She managed a few more suggestions to Hotch before JJ did a press release, and it wasn’t long before the domino effect took place. With the inside knowledge of other women who had possibly come in contact with the killer, alongside a female politician who matched the identified characteristics with someone she knew, the team had apprehended the killer. 

It wasn’t Nathan, and thankfully, Gideon had arranged for him to get the treatment he needed. 

Lydia nudged Spencer’s foot with her own— it was after hours, and they were the only ones remaining in the bullpen. Hotch was situated in his office with paper work, Garcia still somewhere in the building. He was reclined in his chair, shoes against her desk, staring at the ceiling. “Hey,” She said, “You okay?” 

He hummed, “Yeah, just…” His brows weaved, “Long day.” 

She watched him quietly, “You worried about Nathan?” 

Spencer was silent for a moment before he nodded, “He’s just a kid, and he’s scared. I wish I could… help more.” 

“I think you helped him more today than anyone else has in a long time.” She sat up to look at him better, and he lowered his gaze from the ceiling to her, “You could have walked away from him earlier, and he would have been completely alone in all those thoughts he’s got going on. Because of you, he’s getting help. There’s going to be a whole support system around him now, and maybe he won’t feel better for a long time yet, but he’ll get there. You've done everything you could.” 

While it didn’t fully alleviate the tension from him, Spencer offered her a grateful smile. “I know, I just…” 

“I know.” She said empathetically. Even when you’ve done everything you possibly can, there will always be a side of you that wishes you could rewrite the very fabric of logic and reverse all the negatives that are still left lingering. But that wasn’t logical, and sometimes you just had to live with the anxieties until they didn’t feel so heavy anymore.  

“Come one,” She hit both of them with her scarf, “Us three, we’re hitting the town.” 

Lydia let out a snort, “The town?” 

“No offence Garcia, but I don’t think I’d make the best company right now.”

Spencer’s attempt at declining her offer went ignored— apparently it wasn’t an optional affair. “Oh, no. Up. Up. Do not make me hurt you.” 

Lydia didn’t try to hide her laughter as she swooped down to pick up her bag. Garcia couldn’t hurt a fly. Spencer reluctantly pulled his feet off of her desk, a small smile playing on his lips. No one could say no to Garcia. 

The three of them made their way out of the building— Garcia was insisting on driving, wanting to show off her new car she dubbed Esther. Spencer’s phone rang just as she opened her door. “What?” He spoke with a shaky voice, “Uh… stay— stay where you are, I’m calling an ambulance.” 

⭈

Spencer’s hands shook as he moved a towel between them, numbly attempting to clean away the blood stains. “Hey.” She said quietly, taking it from him to do it herself— he let her, brows furrowed while his gaze remained on the crimson stains. Lydia had always thought that the shade of blood was the most vivid colour in existence, demanding to be seen in the loudest of ways. It was a physical embodiment of the harshest emotions, like all bad things were tied to the sight of it. She didn't like that side of the job— not that anybody did, really, but her stomach for such sights hadn’t come easily. “You saved his life, you know? Paramedics said he wouldn’t have made it without you.” 

Spencer swallowed, “He wanted me to let him die.” 

“No,” She shook her head slightly, “He didn’t want to hurt people, and suicide is the only option he knew to make sure he didn’t. I don’t think Nathan wanted to die, Spencer, he wouldn’t have tried to get help if he did. I think the thoughts just became too much, and he needed a way to silence them that would be quick.” 

“What if… what if I’ve put more people at risk in the future?” 

“You haven’t, because he was wrong,” She said softly, “There are other options. They’ll give him the help he needs in hospital, and they won’t let him go until he’s no longer a danger to the public. You saved a life today, Spencer, but that doesn’t mean that you're now accountable for what he does with it.” 

He watched her for a moment, then nodded. His hands were as clean as they could get for now, and when he took the towel back so he could discard it, he offered her a tired but grateful smile. “Thank you.” 

She offered him a smile back, “Are you ready to go home? Morgan said he’d drop us off at our apartments.” 

He nodded tiredly, the weight of the last few days heavy on his shoulders. She nudged his shoulder slightly, hoping to give him something else to focus on so he didn’t fall back into the hurricane of thoughts in his head, “So, I finally managed to finish Star Trek.” 

His head snapped towards her, “What? But I’ve been trying to get you to watch it with me for weeks, I wanted to be able to point out how the—” 

Lydia listened to him talk, an amused smile on her features. The tail lights of Derek’s SUV flickered as he unlocked it, and they got in the back seat behind the older man and Garcia. There was a sense of belonging in moments like this, when the cases had wrapped up and they were riding the melancholy of making the streets that little bit safer. It settled something inside of her— the idea that she was finally gaining some sort of clarity over her own future. She could see herself doing this in the long run, and it was the clearest picture of what was to come she’d ever been able to have. 

It felt safe. Secure. Settled. She had been wanting that ever since she was eight years old, when she was ripped from the care of her father to live with her grandparents. 

Finally, she was getting there. 

[stardusksx]

BECAUSE OF YOU, spencer reid x named!oc

— part two .

( summary! ) Spencer & Lydia where best friends, until they weren’t. Having to see each other at work everyday was certainly an exercise in professionalism, but when Reid is arrested in Mexico they can no longer ignore each other.

( warnings! ) Canon typical violence, discussions of drug use, best friends to lovers with a whole load of angst in the middle, dysfunctional family dynamics, talks of past neglect, future mentions of sex/smut, let me know if I missed anything!

next part

EMILY HAD BEEN FAIRLY ACCURATE WITH HER GUESS ON WHEN THEY'D BE BACK, THE THREE OF THEM RETURNING WITHIN THE HOUR. The woman had ran over what had happened at the motel, detailing the gruesome scene that could only be born out of intentional malice. It was out of Spencer's capabilities, obviously, but Emily didn't look too excited about their odds of proving that considering the evidence which had been planted on him.

"You okay to do his cognitive interview?" Emily nodded towards the cell that was holding Spencer, where Rossi and Luke were talking him through something.

Lydia was usually the designated cognitive interviewer whenever they went on cases— her area of study had been heavily focused on it, so she was slightly more specialised on them than her teammates. Granted, she'd never done one on Spencer or any of her teammates for that matter. "Yeah, I'm okay with that."

Emily let out a relieved sigh, "I've asked Luke to take you over to the motel, first. There's a possible witness on the front desk that would have been working around the time Reid arrived. She agreed to let you do a cognitive." Emily didn't look hopeful, "She might not have seen him at all, but it's worth a shot."

"No, yeah, of course," Lydia nodded, "How far is the motel?"

"Only twenty minutes," She glanced at the cell holding Spencer, "Shouldn't take too long, but it'll give Spencer a chance to sober up more before you do his."

Lydia followed her gaze, a frown falling on her features. She hated seeing him like this. Hated it. When she looked back to Emily, the woman was already watching her, an expression on her face that said she could read her like a book. "You sure you're okay doing his interview, I can—"

"I'm fine, Emily. This is about Spencer, not me," Emily went to speak again, but she cut her off with a slightly teasing smile, "Plus, I'm better at cognitive's than you."

"Okay miss masters degree," Emily rolled her eyes, grinning as she nodded towards Luke. The man waved some car keys at her, offering a small smile, "Go put it to some good use."

Lydia gave her a salute, "Yes, ma'am."

He led her out to a black SUV, rambling on about how Garcia had been giving him hell for accidentally pronouncing a word wrong in the hurry to get some information. Penny had tried to get her in on the whole "only refer to Luke as newby," thing, but she'd affectionately told the women to leave her out of her Luke-targeting-glitter-maffia.

"I don't know what to tell you," Lydia laughed slightly, "She's normally over her transition period of the new team member by now, you're a special case."

"Great, that makes me feel a lot better." He said dryly, looking down at her seat belt to make sure it was buckled before pulling out of the parking lot.

"I'll handle any Garcia calls we need to carry out in the next hour if that will make you feel better."

There was a quiet, fond, smile tugging at his lips as he said, "No, that's okay. I got it."

Lydia grinned knowingly. She occupied herself with looking out the window, taking in the landscaping— it wasn't often she travelled for anything other than work, so she liked to absorb the unfamiliar scenes when she could. About ten minutes passed before he broke the silence.

"Hey, can I ask you something?" Luke said, only glancing at her briefly before he returned his eyes to the road. Lydia hummed her confirmation.

"What happened between you and Reid?" He said, and her eyes snapped to him in surprise. Part of her felt like she should feel annoyed at him for prying, but Luke wasn't the kind of person to seek out information for his own entertainment. His eyes were soft, and she understood that he just wanted to understand them better, "When I joined the team I just figured that you guys aren't as close because, I don't know, you don't have things in common or something. But after today... it seems like there's some history there, and when you said you'd stay with him, Rossi said something on the way to the motel..."

"What did he say?" She asked quietly.

"Emily was nervous about how Spencer was holding up, and he said something about you being the best person to comfort him. It didn't make sense to me, because, well..." 

"Because we act like strangers." She supplied, and Luke nodded.

Lydia let out a sigh, "Spencer and I became friends pretty quickly when I joined the BAU in 2006. We were younger than everyone, so we related to each other easily, helped each other out where we could. Work meant we basically saw each other every second of the day, then we started to do things together outside of work. He was just so easy to be around, and growing up everything was so busy that I'd never really had friends like that before. I think he was the same, so becoming best friends wasn't really a surprise to anyone. We were kinda inseparable. But then a couple years back something happened, I can't really explain it without giving away a story that isn't entirely mine to tell. After that, things were pretty broken between us, and I don't think either of us know how to fix it."

"Do you want to fix it?" He asked softly. Lydia was surprised at the way a lump instantly formed in her throat, an overwhelming sense that she was going to cry making her eyes burn. She squeezed them shut for a moment, then decided that just this once, she would share the weight of this thing she'd been carrying alone for so long.

She managed a small nod, her voice barely audible, "I miss him all the time."

He sent her a look of sympathetic understanding, "Was it ever..." Luke hesitated, "More than friends?"

She felt her walls go back up, "It's complicated."

He knew how to sense when someone was done with a subject, so he didn't question any further. They arrived at the motel shortly after, and Lydia conducted the cognitive interview on a women named Sara. It didn't produce much helpful information— all she managed to give was the sound of two car doors slamming at roughly the time Spencer was there, which she had said was strange because it had been quite other than that. She let out a sigh as she got out of the car back at the jail, rounding it to join Luke as they walked back into the building.

"Do you think Rossi got a hold of Gareth's team yet?"

He held the door open for her, "He said something about giving them another call before we left—"

Luke cut himself off as Spencer's cell came back into view, two figures standing there that hadn't been before. She smiled fondly at them, relief flooding through her like a tidal wave. "Matt, Clara, hey."

"Good to see you," Matt offered, returning her smile, "We've been waiting on you. Could really do with that cognitive interview."

"Yeah, of course. As long as—" She hesitantly glanced at Spencer, who actually did seem to be significantly more present than he had been when they'd left, "— as long as you're ready."

"Yeah," He said softly, "I think I ... I want to give it a try."

She nodded, turning to Emily, "Alright, got a quiet place we can use?"

Emily hummed, and soon she was directing them through the building, opening a door that led into an almost empty room save for the table and chairs. "I promised you'd record it, for their records. It was the only way they'd let us do this."

Lydia fished her phone out of her pocket, pulling up her voice memos app and placing it flat on the table. Once Emily made sure they were okay, she left them alone to get on with it.

It was obvious to both of them that they hadn't been alone like this in a long, long, time. She pushed through the tension, however, giving him what she hoped was a reassuring smile. He gave her a small one in return. "Alright," She sighed, pressing record, "You said you landed in Houston, but that leaves a gap between getting across the border. Can you talk me through how that happened?"

His brows furrowed in concentration, eyes training on the ceiling as he muttered to himself before they closed fully, "Took a bus to Brownsville," He said finally, "Then I walked across..."

She gave him a moment to give any more answers, but he  didn't seem to find anything noteworthy. So she continued, "How was the traffic, busy? quiet?"

He hummed, "... it was... busy. I was late for the meeting..." His eyes snapped open, "Rosa." He whispered quietly, more to himself at first before he repeated it firmly, "I met Rosa at the border the first time I crossed. Had to... had to call ahead to tell her I'd be late. She was understanding."

She waited, he continued, "But she said that next time... she couldn't afford to wait around by the border. It was too risky. So, we set up a meeting place. A motel."

"Is that where you met her the last time you crossed?"

Spencer nodded, "Yes. Yeah. She... she doesn't have an office here, that's why she picked the motel."

"It wasn't the first time you'd met, then. Why do you think you wrote her name on your arm?"

"I don't remember," He whispered, then repeated it like a mantra. She could tell he was losing focus, so she redirected him, "How did she act when you saw her? Did she seem... cautious?"

His brows furrowed as he thought, nodding slowly, "The curtains were closed," He said, "She ushered me in quickly."

"Then what happened?"

"She gave me the vials... the ones I'd been giving my mother... three drops a day... I thanked her. Gave her money..." His eyelids screwed tightly shut, and she noticed that his fists began to clench. She knew he was getting a breakthrough, so she let him work through it without interruption.

"There was a noise, car tyres... she... she looked panicked. We're by the window, it— the door. It opened abruptly, we didn't see them approach it."

Lydia's brows raised, but she attempted to hide the shift in her demeanour, not wanting to break his focus. If Spencer could recall a third party, it would help towards proving that some else was present to have committed the murderer. "Who opened it?"

"I didn't see..." he murmured, "They must have knocked me out... I'm on the floor... Rosa is on the floor too..." He muttered to himself for a moment, "Someone else is definitely there... there's knife. A lot of blood."

"Where is the knife?"

"My hand..." He was struggling, shaking his head, and Lydia could see crimson began to stain the bandages, "I-I'm trying to stop them. It's in my hand."

"Trying to stop who?"

"They're stabbing her... I'm trying to... it's in my hand."

"They're stabbing Rosa?"

"Yes." He said, "I'm trying to stop them. It's in my hand."

His breathing picked up, hands shaking like a power drill. The blood seeped faster. It almost looked like he was drowning.

"Spencer," She said, but he didn't seem to hear her, so she reached out and took his hand to stop him from hurting himself, "Spencer."

He blinked, chest rising and falling heavily. It took him a moment to re-associate himself with his surroundings, but when he did it was her his gaze remained focused on.

"We'll take a break," She said, nodding to the blood that had seeped through the bandages, "Someone needs to take a look at your hand again."

Lydia gave him a look of reassurance before she slipped out into the hall, instructing the guard in Spanish that he'd need medical attention. Emily, Rossi and Luke stood waiting.

"Spencer just remembered that there was another person there—" She cut herself off, features falling at their expressions. "What? What happened?"

"They just charged Reid with the murder of Nadie Ramos." Luke said grimly.

She blinked at them. Her hope for a way out of this was already merely a pile of embers, but it felt like his words had doused them in water and put them out for good. "Jesus," She murmured, pinching the space between her brows before she looked back up to them with a questioning expression, "Where the hell do we go from here?"

Rossi sighed, attempting to morph his hardened expression into a more optimistic one, "You said Reid spoke about a third person?"

Lydia nodded, but then as she thought over the interview more and more with the hindsight of the murder charge, it began to feel incriminating rather than exonerating. "He did, but... he also kept repeating that he had a hold of the murder weapon," Lydia skipped ahead in the voice memo to a point where Spencer kept repeating it's in my hand, sighing, "This...this makes him look guilty. Even with the context, they can just take what they need and ignore the part where he claims there's another person."

They all exchanged looks of agreement, and she pocketed her phone again. "We should go talk to Matt and Clara, see what they've come up with."

After Spencer's hand had been seen to, he'd been escorted back to the cell where everyone was waiting.

"Lab reports on the vials came back," Clara said, "But there aren't any illegal substances— some things that haven't been approved by the FDA, but nothing that can incriminate you."

"It's great news." Emily smiled at Spencer, and through his slightly lingering disorientation he looked relieved.

Clara watched him silently for a moment before she asked, "Is there anything else you can remember about being here?"

"I remember my mom threw out the vials," He answered, "I must have been here to get more."

Matt nodded, "Well you're off the hook for that, there's no contraband."

"Yeah but... we're still looking at the planted drugs and murder charges that could keep you here for a long time."

Emily sighed, "So what can we do to delay the transfer?"

A calculating expression overtook Clara's features, "You said you met Nadie, who call herself Rosa, in Houston. Why didn't she just give you the vials there?"

"I don't know... but she helped us, and I trusted her. I know I was right to do that." Spencer said softly.

Matt's brows furrowed, "But she convinced you to cross the border multiple times, had you risk your life."

Clara brightened slightly, "Because she must have had something to lose too."

"You said in your cognitive that Rosa set up the meetings at the motel instead of the border because she was scared of the risks," Lydia nodded her agreement, "We just need to figure out what those risks were."

Spencer looked at her thoughtfully before he asked Matt, "What was in the vials?"

The man looked at the slightly crumpled paper in his hands,"There were some nootropic compounds like Ampalex, but also some more natural stuff like Coral Calcium, Jimson Weed, coconut oil, a variety of vitamins... B12, D3."

Spencer blinked, "Where are we right now?"

"Matamoros, Northern Mexico."

He nodded, like puzzle pieces were falling into place in his mind, "Jimson Weed, also known as the Devil's Snare, originated in Mexico but it's natural growing region is further north or south of the border."

Lydia felt her lips push up at the corners as Emily said, "Now that sounds more like you."

"So it isn't from here?"

"Then where'd she get it?"

Emily pulled out her phone, the receiver picking up instantly, "Garcia, we've got some questions."

Matt spoke, "Hey, Penelope."

"Oh, my god. It's the dulcet tones of Matt Simmons." Her slightly breathy voice returned. 

His lips quipped upwards, "I'm trying. Clara's here too."

"Knowing we have you guys as backup is providing me with some much needed hope and I work better that way." The sound of her fingers against the keyboard accompanied her words.

Clara interjected, "Hey, lady. We're trying to catch up on a few things. Where is Nadie Ramos from?"

Only a few seconds passed before there was an answer, "She lives with her family just north of Matamoros."

"That must be where she got the jimson weed."

Penny continued, "What's weird is she crosses the border, like, a lot."

Emily brows pulled downwards, "Why?"

"Well, she works at a clinic in Houston and also helps at a low income healthcare centre. I can't find a visa on her, which is double weird. And finishing the weird trifecta there is a social security number on her W-2 form..."

"She has dual citizenship?" Lydia’s eyes widened, feeling those embers that had been doused earlier begin to catch alight again.

"Yeah, she was born in Houston but her family had to move back to Mexico and she lives with them but works in the U.S."

"That changes everything, if she's an American citizen we can get jurisdiction." Lydia said quickly. She glanced at Spencer, who met her eyes with a mix of relief and trepidation.

Emily nodded, "We need to talk to the consulate—"

"It's time for his transfer." The guards started towards Spencer, and he looked at them in helpless panic. Her stomach churched at the fear in his eyes, and Emily hastily pulled out her phone.

"We've had a break in the case, the victim was also American and that calls for extradition."

He shrugged, "I've got orders. Sorry."

Lydia could only watch, blood roaring in her ears as Emily exchanged words with the person on the other end of the phone, “With the victim having dual citizenship we now have concurrent jurisdiction. It was my understanding the official order to extradite SSA Spencer Reid would be evaluated." She heard her say, watching them lead Spencer away. There was a paused before Emily spoke again,  "I understand, thank you." She hung up, "They're taking it into the brass, go get him."

Luke wasted no time retrieving Spencer, and Lydia could still feel the beat of her heart in her throat. She let out a breath, willing her anxiety to calm down. This was good. It wasn't solved, by any means, but it was a step towards it and away from disaster.

Emily put a hand on her shoulder, and she could see that the older woman was going through similar emotions, "You want to go gather the bags from the lockers?"

Lydia could tell she was trying to provide her with a task to occupy herself with instead of dwelling on any negatives that attempted to creep into her mind, and she was grateful for it. By the time she'd collected all their go-bags, the extradition had been approved and they made their way to the tarmac.

She hadn't realised how exhausted she was until she stepped foot onto the familiar Jet— her body felt like concrete, as if her limbs had been filled and were too heavy to move. "Thanks for the ride home." Matt spoke, Clara nodding along in agreement with an appreciative smile.

"Thank you for your help." Emily returned, and Lydia could see her exhaustion mirrored in the older women.

"Of course, we were glad to." Clara said.

Lydia flopped into the window seat, allowing her head to loll onto the back of it. She wasn't too sure why her next thought occurred to her, "God dammit, my ice cream will be spoiled."

She was vaguely aware of the three of them turning their questioning gazes towards her, "When Emily phoned me, I didn't have time to put away my grocery's." She muttered tiredly, and if there was a response, sleep had taken her too quickly to hear it.

Still, they chuckled just as Luke and Spencer boarded the Jet. Once the latter had thanked them for helping, Emily had explained that he'd need his handcuffs on for any other eyes but theirs, and considering no one else would be setting their sights on him for afew hours the cuffs could be taken off.

They all settled into their seats for takeoff, and as Luke watched Spencer, he felt slightly inadequate in his profiling skills— the look on his face as his gaze skated over Lydia could not be mistaken or misinterpreted. He wondered how he had ever missed it before.

Complicated, indeed.

[stardusksx]

BECAUSE OF YOU, spencer reid x named!oc

— part one .

( summary! ) Spencer & Lydia where best friends, until they weren’t. Having to see each other at work everyday was certainly an exercise in professionalism, but when Reid is arrested in Mexico they can no longer ignore each other.

( warnings! ) Canon typical violence, discussions of drug use, best friends to lovers with a whole load of angst in the middle, dysfunctional family dynamics, talks of past neglect, future mentions of sex/smut, let me know if I missed anything! )

next part

"HE'S WHAT?" LYDIA STOPPED IN HER TRACKS, PHONE RESTING BETWEEN HER EAR AND SHOULDER. Her arms were full of groceries, a bunch of keys dangling limply from her fingertips. She blinked at the number on her apartment door in bewilderment.

"He's been arrested," Emily answered, her voice uneasy, "They're holding him in Mexico."

"Mexico?" She echoed, "What the hell is he doing there?"

There was a pause, "They... they're holding him on drug charges."

The bag slipped from her hands, but she didn't bother picking it up, instead adjusting her grip on the phone in case she hadn't heard right. "Emily, this is Spencer Reid we're talking about, right? He wouldn't... he wouldn't go near drugs." Not after the dilaudid. But then again, she didn't really know him that well anymore. What if he'd started taking it again?

Her thought process was cut off as Emily further explained, "They're holding him on possession, with intent to distribute. They found him with cocaine and heroin."

"Cocaine and —" She brought a hand up to rub the space between her brows, "That makes no sense, why would— what's going on, Emily?"

"I have no idea, Lydia," She sighed over the line, "I know it's your day off, but we're really going to need you to come in for this one."

"No, yeah, I'll be right there." She responded, finally managing to shove her key into the door and unlock it, "See you in fifteen."

Lydia didn't bother packing away her grocery's, merely deposited the bag on the counter before she rushed to shove on a dress shirt and slacks. She was out the door with her go-bag in under five minutes, arriving at the BAU in less than fifteen. JJ was the only one in the bullpen— she was ringing her hands nervously, and when Lydia gained her attention, the relief that washed over her face was only short lived.

"They want you on the field in Mexico," She said quickly,  standing straighter, "Emily, Alvez and Rossi are already on the plane. I would go, but the boys—"

Lydia placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, "You don't need to explain, I got this," She gave what she hoped was a mollifying smile, "Plus, your Spanish is terrible."

JJ let out a breath of a laugh, the anxiety still contorting her features. They parted ways, the women heading towards the round table as Lydia rushed out to the tarmac and onto the Jet. Luke moved down a seat to make room for her, Rossi and Emily sitting opposite. They all offered her brief greetings, but it was overshadowed by the tense energy they were all carrying. The take off was hasty, and they were in the air for a mere five minutes before Garcia connected them to the round table back at the BAU.

"This has got to be scratch," Tara spoke, "He was laying low, now we know why."

A sickly feeling settled into her stomach at the suggestion— Peter Lewis had been tormenting the team for years, forcing Hotch into protective custody after the stalking of his son and abducting members of Tara's family. The suggestion that he was now focusing on Reid was not an easy pill to swallow.

Luke's brows pinched, giving a slight shake of the head "Crossing the border as a fugitive is a huge risk."

"The reward is greater," Emily countered, "He's been punishing the team and now his target is Reid."

"Peter Lewis dropped off the map after attacking Tara's family, maybe he's been hiding in Mexico this whole time."

"We also have to consider this isn't related to him."

"Who else could it be?" Rossi questioned.

"Drug cartels, could have threatened Reid and used him as a mule." Luke offered.

"It's possible," Lydia supported, "But they'd usually go for more low-profile members of the public, picking out an FBI agent to do their dirty work could bring more trouble than it's worth."

"Not if they didn't know he was an FBI agent."

Lydia thought for a moment, but the more she did the more the cartel theory loss it's credibility for her. She shook her head, "No, it doesn't make sense. I mean, why would he be in Mexico for them to use him in the first place? This feels too... improbable to have just been a case of bad luck."

JJ voice sounded, explaining that she'd managed to get in touch with Diana Reid's nurse who had confirmed the woman was safe and stable. Lydia remembers meeting Spencer's mother on a case in Las Vegas— the man had been struggling with some inner demons, and watching how the mere presence of the women had helped to calm him had made her stomach twist. Spencer loved people in a consuming kind of way, and it was clear when he interacted with Diana that he'd do anything for her.

"How long did he tell the nurse he'd be gone?" Luke asked.

"Three days." JJ supplied.

Emily nodded, "Makes sense, after the Palm Springs case Reid said he had to get back to Houston to talk to his mom's doctor."

"Well, Houston is only a five hour drive from the border." Tara added, "Question is, why did he go down there?"

"And why did he have narcotics?"

"Yeah, exactly. I'm not going to spill any secrets i'm not suppose to, but those drugs where planted on him." Garcia stuttered slightly, determination in her voice. Lydia nodded mutely, feeling anxiety crawl up her from the mere memory.

"Absolutely, there's something bigger in play. That's why he kept it a secret. There's something he didn't want to share with anybody." Walker added.

"Okay, so what would make him risk everything?"

"His mom." Lydia answered, vaguely aware of JJ speaking the words simultaneously. Luke shot her a curious look, but she avoided his gaze so she wouldn't have to answer his silent question how do you know?

"But she's here, and she's safe." Garcia's confusion bled into her voice before she paused, "Wait, Cruz just sent me the arresting report," The sound of her fingers against the keys of her computer sounded, "Says here that Reid was involved in a high speed chase..."

The shock was palpable, "What? But he rarely ever drives?"

"Non of this sounds like him. It says he was wearing jeans, he was really confused, and according to the arresting officer, he was really high on something."

"No, no. He wouldn't do that. Not after what happened with Tobias Hankle." JJ sounded adamant, and she nodded in silent agreement.

"Who was Tobias Hankle?" Luke asked softly.

"He was an Unsub with DID," Lydia explained quietly, "He... kidnapped Reid. Drugged him. It was... well... it was really bad. He almost died—" she couldn't bring herself to say that, technically, he did. It was one of her worst memories. Luke stared at her, disquieted.

Someone must have explained it to Tara too, as she questioned with dismayed surprise in her voice, "When was this?"

"Ten years ago."

A tense silence followed before Rossi changed the subject, "What does the report say about the intent to distribute?"

"It says he was charged with constructive possession, and in the duffle bag there was cocaine, cash and three blocks of heroin."

She felt her trepidation like a vice on her lungs, bringing a hand up to rub over her eyes. It was easy to sense the group's collective unease.

"Okay, we'll be there in less than an hour." Emily said finally, "Dave, can you reach Jack Garret?"

Rossi shook his head slightly "He's busy on a case, but he promised to do what he can."

"Well, were gonna need all the help we can get."

After hanging up on the round table, they talked over more theories and tried to fill in the blanks with possible scenarios. There was too much information missing for anything near definite to be decided on, and within the hour they were landing in Mexico and on their way to the Jail that was holding Spencer.

It was windowless and barely illuminated by harsh lights, a seemingly constant rattle of metal in the air. An older aged man led the group, dressed in a uniform bearing the Mexican police symbol. "Thank you for calling us." Rossi said thankfully.

"It is not often we have a US FED in our custody." He responded, guiding them through a mesh door. Something about his tone was almost accusatory, but it was too faint to be a reasonable cause for worry.

"We appreciate you letting us talk to him, have you gotten his tox-screen back yet?" Emily questioned.

He shook his head, "No."

"You will need to expedite that, we have cause to believe Agent Reid was drugged."

"He was definitely high." He said, "And driving like a maniac with twenty thousand dollars worth of heroine in his possession. Both of which put my officers at risk, you're in our jurisdiction."

Lydia noticed Luke's attention on something else, and she followed his gaze to a sight that made her heart drop. Spencer sat curled in on himself, a set of bars separating him from the rest of the room. She exchanged an uneasy look with the man next to her, hanging back slightly as he approached.

"Hey, Reid," He spoke, and she watched as he turned towards Luke was blank look that vaguely showed his confusion. God, she thought, this is bad. If Reid couldn't recognise someone as familiar as Luke on an instant, then the drugs in his system were still heavily in effect. "It's good to see you brother. It's me, Luke."

It took another moment, and she wasn't entirely convinced he fully recognised him still when he got to his feet. He approach the bars meekly, shoulders hunched, "Luke. Thank you for coming."

Lydia's gaze dropped to the bandage covering his hand, evidence of a nasty injury. Her brows furrowed. Rossi approached next, followed sharply by Emily, "We're going to get you out of here, kid."

Spencer's gaze flickered between them, and she watched him try to piece things together in his head. "We need to work out some things with the locals, okay?" Emily spoke slightly slower, hoping to provide him with some clarity. He gave the smallest of nods.

"Who was your contact down here?" Luke questioned.

He looked up before speaking slowly, "Rosa... Rosa Medina. I think she's a doctor." He pulled up his sleeve, revealing some faint writing.

Luke took a photo of it, "Where did you meet her?"

He shook his head, "I don't... I don't remember."

Emily glanced back at her, features puzzled. She pulled her lip between her teeth and offered a slight shrug, gaze returning to the man that looked almost unrecognisable.

"If you saw her, would you recognise her?" Luke tried, and after a moment of hesitation Spencer nodded.

"You're missing time, aren't you?" Emily asked.

"It's coming in flashes."

"And you've been drugged?"

"Yeah, but I didn't take them myself." He whispered it, but it was the only thing he'd seemed certain of since they'd started the conversation. Emily rushed to reassure him.

"No, of course you didn't." She glanced at the men beside her, "We're thinking it might be Scratch."

The blank look shadowed his features again as he repeated the name. Luke's phone rang and he excused himself, returning a few minutes later with a photo of an older woman. Spencer stared at it for a moment before he nodded, confidently.

"Her alias is Rosa Medina, but her real name is Nadie Ramos." Luke explained, "Garcia tracked it to a motel just outside of town, does that sound familiar?"

"No."

"We'll need to take the officers with us," Emily said, seemingly determined.

"You want company here?" Rossi said gently, and Spencer seemed to need a minute to process what his words meant before responding with a no.

Still, he was hesitant as he spoke, and Lydia watched him for a moment before she said, "I'll stay."

Her non-confined co-workers gave her a questioning look— after all, she didn't tend to volunteer herself for anything where Spencer was involved, but she could tell he needed a familiar face and she'd probably be the most useless out on the field in Mexico. Emily looked slightly relieved as she nodded, though, as if leaving him on his own was not something she wanted to do.

Spencer's brows where furrowed, still struggling to sort through the fog in his brain. The three of them left with the promise of calling her if there was any updates, and for a moment she watched her old friend as he stood in one of the most broken states she'd ever seen him. 

"It must be scary for you," She spoke finally, gathering his attention, giving sufficient enough pause for him to cognitively catch up with what she was saying, "Not remembering things— it would be for anyone, but you even more so."

He swallowed, blinking, then nodded. His eyes were scanning over her— she could tell he knew who she was, just not exactly why she was standing there, "Lydia?"

"It's me," She assured, "Emily, Rossi and Luke just left. I'm going to stay with you till they're back, okay?"

"Yeah," He responded, and his voice was so small, "I-I don't know why..."

"That's okay," She said, "It's just the drugs in your system, I'm sure it'll come back to you with time. Do you want to sit down?"

He nodded, and she expected him to go back to the bench, but instead he took up the floor right by the bars. So she followed, sitting so that she was facing him. It was quiet for a while, maybe half an hour, then he began whispering, "I can't remember, I can't remember, I can't remember."

He repeated it over and over, and she could see the anxiety starting to take hold of him, breaths coming in faster and shorter. She knew she could try to distract him, but his brain had always worked a million times faster and strayed in ten different directions even if he hyper focused on one thing. Still, with the drugs in his system, it was worth a shot. "Spencer, talk me through what you do remember."

He looked confused, "I can't remember anything—"

"Not just about what happened in the last few days," She explained, "Like, for example, you remembered Emily, Rossi, Luke and me."

He nodded, brows still furrowed. "What do you remember about them? Start with Emily."

He thought for a moment, "Emily is the BAU unit chief," he started, "I met her when she joined the team... ten years ago... she specialises in child advocacy, terrorism and... linguistics... she watches... we watch Russian movies together at least once a month."

He looked to her as if wanting confirmation he was corrected, and she nodded reassuringly, "Good. What about Rossi?"

Spencer listed off what he could recall about the older man, then followed it with Luke. After each one, Lydia gave her assurance, and with each nod of her head he seemed to relax slightly. She had not entirely thought through her plan when the realisation dawned on her that he'd have to talk about her next. Still, this wasn't the time to focus on the weight such a topic would normally bring. This wasn't about her, or them. It was about him.

"Okay," She said, pushing aside the knots in her stomach, "What about me?"

She almost didn't want to know what he was going to say, but there was also a part of her, an overwhelming part, that was curious. He seemed to take longer to answer this time, "You're a special agent for the BAU. You started... a year after I did..." He paused to think, and she expected him to list off a couple of her credentials and maybe a vague shared memory with the team, but he surprised her, "On your first case, I took my FBI vest off and you threatened to kick my ass if I did it again."

Her eyebrows shot up, "I-I did." She offered her confirmation again, but he wasn't finished like she thought he was. He continued, "I liked that you never used to cut me off when I went on a tangent. You didn't make fun of me for not understanding a joke. Morgan called us the babies of the BAU, and when Emily was gone you volunteered to watch Russian movies with me even though you didn't speak the language." He looked at her— really looked at her, like for a moment even the drugs couldn't distort his certainty, "We were bestfriends."

Were. Were. Were. She swallowed, nodded, "See," She said finally, "There are things you remember, it'll just take time for the newer ones to come back to you."

He murmured quietly, "Thank you."

Lydia's phone rang before she could speak again, Emily's name flashing on the screen. She got to her feet and took a couple paces before answering, "Hello?"

Emily merely offered her a greeting before she got to the point, "We found Nadie's body at the motel, she was murdered."

"Shit," She muttered, trying to keep her voice down, "Shit. Emily, how bad is this?"

"Honestly?" She responded, "It's not good. This is... it's going to take a lot to clear him of this."

There was a sinking feeling in her stomach— prison was a rough place for anyone to be, but Spencer needed mental stimulation in abundances that just wouldn't be available to him in there. It could quite literally drive him insane— time would stand still for him, and he'd be left alone with nothing but his brain working overtime. "What do we do now?"

Emily exhaled, "We're coming back to you guys soon, I'm hoping he's lucid enough for a cognitive. How's he doing?"

She glanced back to see his head against the wall, eyes closed, but he wasn't breathing heavily enough to be asleep. He must be exhausted, though, and hoped he'd managed to get a-few minutes in before they started questioning him again. "He's doing okay, considering. A little panicked earlier, but he could talk me through some older memories that aren't related to the last few days. I didn't want to overwhelm him by trying to ask about all of this until he's come down a little more." 

"Okay, that's good," She could hear the slight relief in her voice, "We won't be long, should be back in about an hour. There's just a few things to sort through here."

"Alright, thanks Emily. See you soon." Lydia hung up, pocketing her phone and glancing back to where Spencer sat. He was staring into space, but he didn't seem as anxious as before, so she made the decision to wait till the others got back to break the news. She had always been more optimistic in nature, but it was a struggle to see any way out of this. Not wanting to disturb him just yet, she took her phone back out and dialled JJ's number.

"Angel, please tell me sweet boy wonder is okay." Garcia's voice came over the line, and she could vaguely hear JJ making a comment about her taking the phone.

"I'm with him now, he's–" she could hear someone in the background say put her on speaker, "--doing okay. I think he's starting to come down from the drugs, but still a little spaced out. Has Emily called you?"

"About Ramos? Yeah, she told us." JJ spoke, "It's..."

"Bad." Lydia supplied with a sigh, "But we all know whatever is going on, someone else is responsible. There will be a way to prove that."

"Exactly," She recognized Tara's voice, "We'll clear him, don't worry."

Lydia had a feeling her words were more aimed for Garcia, who she was sure was the epitome of worry.

"I should get back to him, I just wanted to make sure Emily updated you."

"Hey, wait!" JJ said, then her voice sounded closer as if she'd taken the phone off of the speaker. There was a brief pause and the sound of a door closing before she spoke again, "How do you really think he's doing? I know it's been a while since you... well, I just... You knew him better than any of us. Do you really think he's okay?"

Lydia tried to push aside the personal issues that attempted to taunt her— she hadn't had to confront anything surrounding her opinions of Spencer in a long time and she hadn't anticipated doing it under these circumstances. The worry for him, though, was no stranger to her. It had been a quiet, lingering ghost that had haunted her on every case she watched him go out onto the field since they stopped being friends. How she'd have to bite her tongue from saying "be careful."

"It's hard to say," She answered, "I've never seen him like this before, JJ. Even with Tobias, he still had his clarity. I think things are starting to come back to him, but I don't know how he's going to be with the knowledge that he lost time like this."

"God," JJ murmured, "This is all so screwed up."

"I know." She emphasised, "But he's more resilient than we credit him for, and he's got all of us to help him if he struggles."

"I'm glad you're there with him." She said after a pause, "It'll bring him more comfort than you know."

She didn't know how to respond to that. Didn't know what to do with how that made her feel. "Thanks, JJ. I should go."

"Lydia?" JJ sensed her attempt at dismissal.

She resisted the urge to pretend she didn't hear and hang up. "Yeah?"

"I mean it," She said certainly, "He misses you."

Lydia hoped she didn't hear her sharp intake of breath, "I'll call if there is an update."

She didn't wait for an answer before she hung up, giving herself a moment before she returned to where Spencer was sitting. He opened his eyes when she approached, and she gave him a small smile which he tiredly returned. It was silent until the rest returned.

[stardusksx]

Heyy! I’ve been a fanfic writer for roughly eight years now, but I’m relatively new to tumblr so I thought I’d give you guys a list of the characters I write for so, if you’d like to, you can send me some requests :)

Joel Miller, Javi Peña, Din Djarin, Spencer Reid, Steve Rogers, Jacaerys Velaryon, Aemond Targaryen, Peter Parker, Pretty much any Harry Potter character ( with the biggest FUCK YOU to JKR intended), Finnick Odair, Peeta Mellark, Bellamy Blake, John Murphy, JJ Maybank, Any maze runner character, Edmund Pevensie, Prince Caspian.

Also, if you don’t see a character you want me to write for on here, please feel free to send the request anyways and I’ll let you know if I’m familiar enough to write for them ( honestly the list would be WAY too long if I actually managed to remember all my fictional obsessions, so chances are I might be well acquainted with whoever you request! )

[stardusksx]

Masterlist <3

ONE SHOTS & IMAGINES

HARRY POTTER!

⤷ Remus Lupin!

⇸ alone together ( soon )

SERIES! 

Steve Rogers ( Lethality )

part one

part two

Jacaerys Velaryon ( Born of the Same Sin )

part one

Spencer Reid ( Because of You )

part one

part two

part three

Joel Miller ( Kill Your Demons )

part one

[stardusksx]

BORN OF THE SAME SIN, Jacaery’s Velaryon x original!fem!character . ( chapter one )

summary: Ivorlyn Targaryen is the bastard daughter of Daemon Targaryen, and despite the dysfunctional nature of living with the man, his new wife and their many children— she finds her life on dragon stone somewhat peaceful. That is, until, they’re called back to Kings Landing and her relationship with a certain future king is put under a new light.

This story is in tandem with a future aemond fic, so there is another OC ( Valaena ) who will feature through out! <3 not my gif !!

Just a preface of the ages seen so HOTD is a little vague— Jace, Valaena and Ivy are 18, Aemond is 19, Helaena is 21 & Aegon is 22.

warnings: canon typical violence & themes, angst, targ!cest, sexual assault, abuse, illusions to childhood abuse/trauma, eventual smut.

word count: 4.0k

Valaena's skirt was hitched up to her knees— more for the added agility it would grant her than to keep it dry as the scarlet fabric had become sodden long ago. Water lapped against her skin, and she treaded through it seamlessly, almost as if it caused her no resistance at all. "Luke!" She chided, her voice lilted with laughter as the boy sloshed towards her, hands full of seaweed. Ivorlyn watched with an amused sort of melancholy— her step siblings had always been so free in character, so careless in joy, and some ugly part of her envied it. Her admiration for them was plentiful, but she wished for their candour in her state of guarded introversion. Rhaenyra's gleeful laugh spilled out like honey, one hand resting on her swollen stomach as she watched her children.

Jace raised Joff onto his shoulder, water soaking the breast of his tunic from the younger boys legs. He was one or two years too old to be carried now, but Jacaerys didn't seem to care. "I fear they will never grow up." Her stepmother mused, tone indicating she had no such fears.

Ivorlyn smiled gently, "Perhaps not."

Aegon tugged at her skirt, his silky hair golden with the setting sun. He was her fathers heir— a boy of legitimate birth and clear, undeniable, Targaryen features. She had those feature too, granted, but her blood was not pure like his. His little hands made a grabbing motion at her, so she hoisted him onto her hip and allowed his head to nuzzle into her neck. "Where is father?" Ivorlyn found the question slipping out— truthfully, the man had always made her rather anxious, and she tried to steer clear of the topic of him.

Rhaenyra gave her a tired smile, "Research."

Oh. She could barley mask her grimace. Ivorlyn was dragonless— she was not born with an egg to warm her cradle, nor had she attempted to claim one in the years since, a fact which her father detested. She wasn't the only child of his to not have a dragon, Rhaena, too, was yet to claim, but for some reason that didn't bother him as much. She didn't let the thought of it being because she was his only bastard child to burden her for too long. No. She always dismissed the thought, but it lingered, he's trying to give you value. Make you worthy. No.

Her fingers ran soothingly through Aegon's hair. "Have you told them of the news?" She nodded towards the sea, her half siblings looked younger playing amongst the waves, like children— a sight she knew would become scares in the coming months. Jace, Laena and herself where nearing eighteen, Luke only a few ages behind, and the past few years had been peaceful enough to facilitate a happy childhood.

"I am to tell them tonight," Rhaenyra responded, a troubled look on her face, "I do worry, though, of Luke. He has felt the weight of... the rumours... more so than his brothers."

Ivorlyn gave a sympathetic hum. It was true that Luke was insecure of the whispers that echoed the realm, she'd seen first hand how it manifested into self doubt— his older brother was more defensive over such matters, quicker to anger rather than yield meekly to thoughts that made him feel unworthy. She felt for Luke in that regard, but the whispers of her illegitimacy where more like screams. Joff was still slightly young to fully comprehend, or care, about the topic.

"It will unnerve him, I think, but he is more resilient than we credit him for. It's his title, and deep down— he knows he has every right to it."

Her stepmother sighed, "You are right, it just bothers me. I do not like to see him distressed."

She smiled reassuringly at her, "You love them, such a dislike is only natural."

She smiled back, rubbing a hand once again over her stomach. The women watched her children for a moment longer before she spoke again, "Ivy?"

"Yes?"

"Your addition to this... to our family... we are grateful for it. All of us."

She felt the weight of Aegon in her arms, the sound of laughter that echoed back to them from the sea, the look of warmth in Rhaenyra's eyes and nodded. While her father was a difficult man to understand— to feel connected to, she was glad for the family he came with. The people who had accepted her and given her a home.

"I do," She said appreciatively, "I share the same affection for all of you."

Viserys, from where he'd been seated by his mothers feet, toddled up to her and began to tug at her skirt. She laughed slightly, struggling to crouch down and hoist him onto her hip with only one available arm. Sand stained the fabric, and she slipped onto her knees for a moment with a startled noise. The grin on her face, however, never faded as Aegon let out an excited squeal. Viserys arms wound around her neck, and with each child resting on a hip, she attempted to stand once again. It failed however, and she fell onto her backside still gripping onto them. They giggled relentlessly as she huffed.

Hands plucked Aegon from her grasp, and she looked up to see Jace smirking down at her, the sliver hair boy now resting on his oldest brother’s hip. He held out a hand to her, and she allowed him to pull her and Viserys upright.

"They have grown too big for you." He was smiling, poking Visery's cheek as he squirmed away from him in her arms.

"It's picking them up," She denied, "I think I can carry them both for a little longer."

He cocked a brow at her, then a mischievous look overtook his face before he handed the small boy back to her. Okay, Ivy struggled to hoist him comfortably onto her hip, maybe they are getting heavy. She wasn't prepared to admit that, however. It didn't matter though, Jace was grinning like he'd read her mind.

"Soon they will be just as tall as Joff."

"Don't speak such words," She feigned heartbreak, a pout befalling her lips as her head came to rest on Aegon's, "They must stay small forever so that I may always be able to set them on my lap and listen to their made-up stories."

"They will always have stories to tell you," He smiled warmly and caressed their youngest brothers cheek, jesting, "Perhaps one day, they'll even be true."

Ivorlyn snorted, "I don't know, the one about the water snake that breathed fire over their boat before falling a victim to Egg's sword sounded rather real to me."

Jace swept Visery's onto his own hip— much to her chagrin, she was clearly not going to be able to carry them both back. "Oh no, that one was most definitely true," He laughed, then sent her a wink as he turned to walk back towards the castle— glancing over his shoulder as she followed with their younger sibling, "I was there."

Ivorlyn let out a snort— which seemed to heighten his amusement— "Oh how it sets my blood alight with envy that you boys get to have such exciting adventures."

He was walking backwards now, boots kicking up sand, still grinning, "Perhaps if you're nice enough he'll let you be apart of the next adventure."

Ivorlyn mocked offence, "I'm already nice enough."

He gave her a I-don't-know-what-to-tell-you shrug, "Egg's rules, not mine."

She looked down at the boy on her hip, poking him in the cheek until he squirmed with giggles, "I'm nice enough to be in your stories, right Aegon?"

"You're a girl," he said between gasps of laughter, "You can't fight sea monsters."

"Now, Aegon," Jace protested, only a light tone of scolding in his voice— their brother was young after all, such idealisations were merely a product of what he'd been taught, "Girls can fight sea monsters— some of the best fighters in history were girls."

Ivorlyn was already confident Jacaerys was going to make a good king— he was determined to learn his duties and had a moral heart, but it was when he said things like this that she believed he would be a great one. Someone who wasn't too arrogant to deny help from anyone who could give it— be it boy or girl, rich or poor, what mattered to Jace would be what is best for the realm, not best for reputation. Aegon looked curious, tilting his head, "Really?"

Ivorlyn hummed in response, "Visenya Targaryen, your ancestor, is one of the most well known warriors to have ever lived. She was the sister-wife of your namesake."

"Oh." He said, like he'd never considered such a thing. Perhaps he hadn't— she, Valaena and Rhaena were not trained like the boys where to fight, so Aegon was not accustomed to the concept of such a thing. Ivorlyn supposed if Baela was here— who cared not for the scorn of people's opinions when it came to training with her swords, then perhaps Aegon wouldn't be so surprised. Ivy could recall a phases of interest Valaena had in learning the skill when they'd been back at the redkeep— Sir Harwin had always been kind to her, and she was determined to be involved with his training of her brothers. After his death, her interest had diminished. Ivorlyn wasn't sure wether it was the swords, or the man who was comfortingly familiar to her that had driven the desire to be taught.

She did not ponder the question with contempt— it was a sad thing, the void it created within one's heart to feel something to be inherently true within the depths of your very soul, to know a little secret that was valuable and shaping to who you are, and not be able to acknowledge it within reality. It was a feeling she knew well, so the whispered judgement surrounding the the dark hair was not a stigma she shared her scorn with.

“It’s getting late,” It was Rhaenyra who spoke next, offering a small smile to Valaena when she took the women’s arm to alleviate the strain pregnancy had put onto her body, “Time we get the little ones ready for bed.”

Luke carried Joffrey on his back, racing slightly ahead of Jace as they laughed towards the castle. Fondly; she smiled down at the boy in her arms as he gradually began to show his tiredness through the way his eyelids grew heavier. Tomorrow, things would be different, but for now she would enjoy the peace for as long as she could.

•*⁀➷

She did remember her mother. Ivorlyn was only young when her uncle had taken her in— five, in-fact, but there had been a time when it had just been her and the older women with the hair of honey and a musical voice that she could still hear in the wind sometimes. Her name had been Alessia, and she was a beauty favoured by men of depravity— one of those being her father, Daemon Targaryen. She had been kind. Ivorlyn remember that, even when her face began to fade to her memory and that part of her childhood felt so very distant. Kind and gentle. Yet, a whore house was no place for a child, and there was vivid parts of those days that where scarred into her mind permanently. Scenes too obscene for such a young age, men's eyes that burned with things that made her skin crawl— things that shouldn't be aimed at girl of not even six.

She didn't speak of those days to anyone. It took up a quite, yet screaming, part of her mind. And when she slept, and the nightmares crept in, it was those men that haunted them.

"Ivy?" She startled, her book slipping out of her grasp and colliding with the carpet. An apology slipped from her lips instantly as she reached to pick it up, the figure filling her with a momentary sense of guilt. Yet, it was only Jacaerys, and she wasn't in some place she wasn't suppose to be— this was the family library. Her guilt was unfounded, and she tried to suppress it as she looked at him.

"Jace," She fidgeted with the spine of the book, yet the apology she fought against still came, "Sorry, I did not think anyone—"

"No need," Jace smiled tiredly, his hair unkempt as he stood in just his night shirt and slacks. It was clear he'd been trying to sleep not long ago. "Tis' late, you couldn't sleep?"

"No," She murmured, "I... no." There was no explanation she could give him, it was all too long of a story to tell and she was certain he only asked out of pleasantry. He'd always been kind to her— kind like a future king should be, all chivalry and self-assuredness. He racked a hand through his hair and closed the door behind him, placing the candle he was carrying on the table.

She watched him as he walked towards her, allowed him to take the book from her hands, and noted the small smile that curled his lips. "You where always fond of this story in our history lessons."

Surprise washed over her. They'd shared lessons with her cousins and his sister in the year before they left kings landing— but education had been separated after that, she didn't think such a minute detail would have stayed with him. "You remembered these things quicker than I, the stories where always harder for me to learn and commit to memory."

"I didn't know you struggled with such things," Ivorlyn said truthfully, because he'd never seemed to miss a question, "You always knew what you where talking about."

"Only the big parts," He grinned, "The little details that weaved the story together always skipped my mind. You could retell a whole history word for word."

"They where a comfort to me," She admitted, "I think it was something to do with knowing how it ended. There is no surprises in history."

"You are not fond of surprises?"

"Not necessarily surprises," She shook her head, "The unknown."

He nodded like he understood something, and asked gently, "The whole future is unknown, do you fear it?"

"Yes," She answered honestly, but it felt more complicated than that, "It makes me silly, I suppose, to be afraid of the inevitable."

"It makes you brave," He responded half in jest, half sincerely, "To face fear everyday."

Ivorlyn blew out a breath of a laugh, "I don't think I've ever been considered brave before."

"You have," Jacaerys smiled at her, "T'was unspoken, but I have always considered you as such."

Her eyebrows pinched— Jace had never spoken to her like this. They where always friendly but never discussed much beyond small talk. He was familiar and a stranger all at once. "Why?" She found herself asking, too curious to bypass it.

"It's no small thing, to come into a family like ours when you weren't raised into it from a babe. You never cowered, even in those early days in Kings Landing when we where all strangers to you."

Ivy had always thought of herself as timid, quite, so hearing someone speak of her like she was anything but was rather jarring. Not in a bad way, but it was always strange to know someone's perception of you was far from the one you had of yourself. "I was terrified," She admitted, "It was a lot different from where I'd come from."

Jace looked curious, "You never talk about before."

"Some things are better forgotten." And it was true, there where parts of those few years she'd spent with her mother that shouldn't be spoken of— what would they think? What would the realm think? To know that the Targaryen's not only harboured a bastard, but a one who had been tarnished? No, she thought, it will remain in history, and be forgotten to it. Though she knew— she'd always remember. Yet there was good parts, parts where her mother had been kind and loving and a lost women who was trying her best. Ivorlyn wondered what had become of her.

Jacaerys was gentle as he smiled, and it was one of sympathy and sadness, "Nothing is better forgotten, not when it paves way for who you are now."

"They are not good memories, Jace."

"Where you come from is not your flaw, Ivy. It's a display of your resilience."

"Maybe," She gave him a small smile, "But the realm won't see it that way— I'm already disgraced through my illegitimate conception, but if people where to know the circumstances behind it... I fear they won't take well to a ruler that supports such a thing, and your mothers claim to the throne is already questioned enough on a mere basis of her gender. She doesn't need her name tangled in my mess."

"There isn't anything that she wouldn't bare for you," He told her, "That we wouldn't bare for you. All of us. You don't have to be alone with your torments, it's harder to be isolated in these things."

"You are to be king one day, too." She murmured, looking away from him and to the book in her hands, "'Tis best you don't know of such things, either, it'll make it easier should you ever need to exile me if your ignorance is authentic."

"I would never." Jace was frowning as he took a determined step towards her, hand curling around her wrist, "I would never exile you, Ivorlyn. There are things I'd bare scrutiny for, and you are one of them."

Ivorlyn blinked, unable to hide her surprise. She was the bastard daughter of a man who had showed up out of the shadows and wed his mother only a breath after the death of his father. Yes, he was kind and cordial, but that had always been Jace— a boy who knew of the weight he'd one day bare, and had been preparing for it ever since his birth. He couldn't afford to be cruel, couldn't afford his reputation to be that of man who displayed his contempt so brazenly for those who he didn't hold in high favour. He had conflict with his uncles, that was known to many, but he could afford such information to be public knowledge because they where threats. She wasn't. She was a girl who he could either be civil with, or display a weakness to— show the realm that he didn't tolerate people who had differences to him. It wasn't a good message to send, especially with so many rifts between the Targaryen name and other high status families that would need fixing during his and his mother's reign.

"You doubt it?" He sounded confused, as if he couldn't comprehend where such an idea would set root in her mind, "We are family," His voice was softer than she'd ever heard it, gentle, "And you are not defined by the things that brought you into this world, Ivy. It is your character I place my judgments upon, and I happen to like it very much."

She'd never known her breath to freeze in her lungs like this before, and gods, was her eyes beginning to sting? Maybe she'd never realised how much she'd wanted to know that she finally belonged somewhere, told herself that she was okay with being the outsider as long as she had somewhere safe to be. After all, how could she ever want for anything more when what she already had is beyond what she deserves. A bastard. A child born of sin, of a whore house. Ruined long before she even knew the concept of ruin.

She swallowed, unable to meet his eyes, but he was reaching out to swipe away the single tear that had struck her cheek. Oh, she thought, I'm actually crying. She shouldn't be— it was undignified, he was the future king. But for a moment, as he watched her with empathic eyes, he just felt like a boy.

"You will always have a place here, no matter what whispers follow your name. That's a promise."

But they won't be whispers, she wanted to say, they will be screams. But he sounded so sincere, and maybe it was through the haze of her emotions that she let herself believe him. "You will be a good king, Jace," She told him, meaning it entirely, "When your time to serve the realm comes, it will be an honour to witness it."

She saw something flicker on his face— a side to him she'd never noticed before; self doubt. It hadn't occurred to her that he was anything but confident in his abilities. He'd never been arrogant, no, but the way he carried himself had always been self-assured. The momentary flash of vulnerability was surprising to her, yet it humanised him in a whole new way. It wasn't that he'd been this imperial type of being to her before— she'd known him knee deep in mud laughing with his siblings, or teasing Luke in that brotherly-well-meaning way. He was teenage boy, and he acted like it, that part wasn't foreign to her. The idea that he harboured doubts about his claims to throne, however, was. Anytime she'd known him to be challenged in such a regard he'd always met it with a firm and unwavering defence. He didn't cower to whispers, to rumours, and there was plenty of them where he and his brothers was concerned.

She admired the newfound revelation about him, truthfully. It took a different kind of courage to not allow those insecurities turn into cowardice.

He gave her an appreciative smile, "Thank you, it means a great deal to me that you believe so."

She wanted to tell him that it wasn't just a belief, that it was a simple fact that she knew. He was as stubborn as his mother though, and no brief reassurance would change his beliefs. A thought dawned on her, as to why he was awake and unable to sleep at such an hour, "Your mother has told you then? About the Vaemond?"

Jace tugged at the hair on the nape of his neck as weary sigh escaped him, "She did," he folded his arms, "It troubles Luke."

"She thought it would," A small thrown fell onto her lips, concerned for her step-brother, and there was a distantly fond look on his face at her words, "The claims will not matter though, Visery's has never tolerated the entertainment of such rumours."

An unspoken understanding passed between, one that had existed ever since they where young children. The circumstances of his birth where not openly acknowledged by anyone unless they wished to know the punishments of treason, and while they where different in that way ( the Targaryen bastard being a more common title to refer to her by than her own name ) they still felt the weight of such scrutiny equally. Because, while she'd never say it, Ivorlyn knew the truth of it all— and she also knew that he did too. Born of the same sin.

"I know," Jace smiled at her tiredly, the picture of boy who was already baring the weight of something far bigger than him, "It will be sorted swiftly, of that I am sure."

Then he tilted his head at her fondly, and she realised a yawn had risen from her and exposed just how tired she was begging to feel. "Let me walk you back to your chambers," He reached to pick up his candle from the table, "It would cause quite the surprise if one of the guards found you sleeping in the hallway."

Ivorlyn scoffed in amusement, "I'm not going to keel over on my way back, Jace."

He gave her a boyish grin, "A king must take his precautions."

"You're not king yet, Jacaerys."

His grin only widened as he guided her towards the door, "However could I let such a thing slip my mind."

When he bid her goodnight as she slipped back into her rooms, their final exchange of looks was fond. She slept with little disruption.

[stardusksx]

STEVE ROGERS x FEM!READER

silver assassin ( part 2 / ??? )

warnings: violence, use of guns, anxiety/panic attacks, mentions of abuse.

( gif not mine )

THE DAY WAS STILL YOUNG, NO TRACE OF THE SUN ON THE HORIZON, JUST A MILKY MIDNIGHT BLUE THAT WAS STARTING TO FADE AS THE HOURS PASSED BY. Y/n could make out the twinkling lights of the city below, distant from the height of the jet and scattered in seemingly random intervals. Her heart was in her throat.

Rhodey had announced ten minutes until they where over the base, and she wasn't expecting the rush of anxiety that had momentarily paralysed her. Compartmentalise, she chided herself, deal with your emotions later.

Sam helped her into her harness, adjusting the straps to her thighs and shoulders until he was satisfied with the fit. She connected the buckle across her chest, then checked her weapons where secure in their holsters. "You alright?" Sam questioned, and she hoped it wasn't because he'd seen her hands trembling.

"Peachy." She muttered, then added a tight lipped smile to alleviate the obvious sarcasm in her voice.

"Y/n, you're with Rodger's." Tony gestured her forwards, "First wave."

Great. Fantastic. She glanced at Steve, and he gave her a firm nod— he was professional when it came to missions, it was just after them she dreaded. Y/n returned it, stalking towards the cargo nose that had been lowered and was now making the air colder. She resisted the urge to wrap her arms around herself.

"Twenty seconds." Rhodey warned, and she did one last check of her harness, inhaling slowly.

Ten seconds. She readied herself at the point where the level floor started to dip, hand grasping the wall to secure herself. Steve was next to her, staring intently at the ground below. Y/n really hated this part. The jump. Free falling was against every human instinct, and she'd never been an adrenaline junkie.

"Three, two, one—"

They set off, feet only on the cargo nose for a mere few seconds at the speed of their sprint. She counted in her head, trying to busy herself until she could deploy her parachute, which Rhodey normally instructed her to do over the coms— it was too dark to gage the altitude herself. "Y/n, five seconds," He warned, and after she'd started over her counting and reached five, her hand pulled at the cord that had propelled her back upwards a couple dozen feet. Then she was falling again, but much slower this time.

Steve had landed before her, not needing a parachute to break his free fall. She landed on her feet, and he helped her with the mechanism Tony had implemented in her harness that reset the parachute into its original position.

"Ready?" He questioned, and she gave a nod, not letting her thoughts drift to anything other than the task at hand.

They weaved through buildings, old and worn with metal gates and overgrowth, likely abandoned or made to look so. They crept around the biggest building, stealth leaving no trail, until they reached a grate in the floor Rhodey had briefed them on. She was vaguely aware that Sam and Nat had departed the jet through the voices in her ear piece.

Steve pried away the cover, fitting his body into the small space. She followed behind, her feet landing on something wooden and unstable, rocking beneath her boots. They where on scaffolding, about twenty feet high, the unlit room only illuminated by a small amount of moonlight that managed to seep through the space they just entered. It looked like storage.

Steve took the leap, and landed agilely, while she had to climb down the separate layers to join him. They checked for signs of life in the hallway, but it was empty, so they deemed it secure enough to move into. Everything was oddly unkept for an alleged active base, but she knew hiding tactics could be at part.

"Somethings wrong," she muttered as they walked back to back through the hallway, "There should have been dozens of hydra agents on us by now, they'd have the security to detect us. What are they waiting for?"

The mission was suppose to be about the element of surprise, but they anticipated conflict as soon as they neared any building. There was nothing.

"Maybe security isn't as tight as we predicted."

Y/n shook her head, "Not for something like this. They wouldn't risk loosing more assets like—"

Like they had when they'd lost her and Violetta. She didn't want to put the words to Steve. She didn't like to acknowledge any kind of connection to her past where he was concerned. "They wouldn't risk loosing assets." She adjusted her wording, but she knew he'd already read between the lines.

They reached a staircase, and Steve went first, it leading out onto another hallway that was almost a mirror of the last— but the only doors where further down, not evenly spread out like it had been downstairs. There was six.

"I've been here before," Y/n murmured, her steps tentative as she gazed around. Fragments flew together in her head, small moments of time that had lost their permanence in her mind. It was all coming back now, like shards of a mirror falling back into place, allowing a clear image of something she'd long since forgotten to the infinity of her mind, "I know I have."

She was sure of it. Her eyebrows knitted together as she took a-few more steps into the hallway, stopping before a door. The nostalgic feeling only grew stronger— like apart of her subconscious was playing a game of hot and cold, screaming that she was boiling close to finding her answers. She raised a hand, hesitated, then swiped a thumb across the label that sat just below eye level next to the door. It was thick with dust, but the lettering beneath became visible nevertheless. number one, reaper.

She drew her hand back like it had been burned. Y/n’s eyes darted towards the next door way, and as if on autopilot, she was moving towards it and swiping away the dust on the next tag. number two, hellcat. The next, number three, silver assassin. Her.

Oh god. This was it. This was the place where she'd been trapped all those years, suffocating in her human nature that screamed at her every time she completed a mission. They had moved her to a different base only a year prior to shields infiltration— but this, this, had been the four walls that confined her since she was five years old.

"This is where they kept us." She murmured, not quite believing the words that fell from her lips.

"How is that possible?" Rhodey's voice came over the coms, "y/n, this base was monitored for years, shield would have know."

"Well they didn't." Her words where harsher than she intended, but she didn't have the capacity to debate wether or not this was in-fact the place she knew it to be. It just was. Her head was busy re-living a million different moments all at once.

"She's telling the truth," Steve said, his face painted in subtle astonishment, "Her name— all of their names— they're on the wall."

He turned to her, "Y/n, are you o—"

Suddenly she remembered there was two other name tags she hadn't seen yet, and a stupid, completely unrealistic idea came to her head that possibly— just maybe— oh my god. The two doors on the opposing wall weren't like the other three, they where clean, well-kept, in use. Her breath hitched, and she took a-few steps forwards, "These rooms are still in use." She said, and he was at her side in an instant, staring at the doorway like it's existence was impossible. Number three, viper. Number four, serpent. She turned to look at Steve, and he gave her an uneasy look, but then the sparks of bullets hitting metal interrupted.

Steve pulled her behind his shield, gun fire clanking against it relentlessly. They looked at each other, shared a nod, and sprung into action. He threw his shield at the first guard, and when all the bullets began to target him, Y/n made a run for the second. Her arm reach out towards his, pulled him forwards, and used her leg to swipe him off balance. She was able to take his gun, using it on the remaining two agents.

"Go!" Steve yelled, beginning to sprint down the corridor as another group of agents rounded the corner behind him. He fell into step beside her, and they navigated a-few more halls before finding themselves on the roof.

"They know we're here." Steve panted into the coms.

Static sounded for a moment, mixed with the commotion of metal and grunts that sounded an awful lot like Tony dodging bullets. "Yeah, no shit."

"Get back to the jet!" Rhodey also sounded like he was in the middle of his own conflict, and Y/n felt unease settle into her stomach.

She watched Steve's eyes dart around before he looked at her, "The jet can't pick us up here, it'll be shot down. We'll have to get past the gates."

That meant they'd have to go back through the building, which would be swarmed by hydra agents by now. It sounded like an impossible— bullets clanked against metal, and in a split second she caught sight of countless assassins closing in on them, her body diving behind a raised air vent. Steve ducked down beside her as he let out a rare curse, "New plan, we'll have to jump."

Y/n sent him a look that suggested he was insane, "Steve, I'm human. I jump that and I die."

"You won't be jumping," He moved an arm around his back, fixing the shield in it's place, "I will."

Y/n eyebrows knitted, "What—"

"I'll take the impact," He chanced a look at the assassins before he elaborated, "But I'll have to carry you."

There where a millions reasons why she had a problem with that option, but it was the only one they had, so she nodded in agreement. "I counted seven agents, but they're pretty close together so the bullets won't be too different in angles. If I keep my back to them we shouldn't get hit." He said, and she could see his eyes calculating the distance between them and the roof edge.

She let out a nervous sigh, feigning optimism, "It's doable."

Steve give a firm nod, "You'll have to hold on tight, while I'll be taking the impact, the landing could still cause you damage if you loose your grip."

Y/n hadn't had any intentions of a feeble hold on something that was literally her only chance at making the drop, "Good advice, Captain."

He sent her a sardonic look. Steve waited a-few more moments before he decided it was time to move. Picking her up when they where standing would waste vital seconds they didn't have, so when he gestured her forwards she had to shove aside the awkward intimacy that came with straddling his lap and wrapping her arms around his neck. His voice was slightly ragged, and she assumed it had something to do with the life and death situation they where about to throw themselves into, "Ready?"

Y/n forced out an uh-huh, and in an instant he was on his feet. One hand hoisted her upwards by the back of her thigh, joining the other that was firmly around her waist. She could hear the bullets against his shield, some soaring past her ear in a near miss. Her head ducked into his shoulder to minimise the target on her, and gravel crunched underneath Steve's feet as he sprinted, sprinted, sprinted— her stomach dropped at the sudden free fall. It couldn't have been longer than five seconds, but it felt more like minutes as she anticipated some sort of disastrous landing. He had been right about the impact knocking her of balance, because even with an iron tight grip she still almost slipped from his hold. Yet, despite his stumbles at the lack of free arms to steady himself with, all she got was a slight scrape against the brick wall he walked them into.

She dropped her legs from his waist, and his hold moved to her forearm for a moment to ensure she was firmly on her feet. Steve's eyes lifted to the roof, "We best get out of here, it'll be raining bullets in a second."

Y/n nodded, and they where running again, weaving

through a scatter of buildings and across the court yard. It was all too familiar, like she was plunged right into the stage of her nightmares. She'd been trapped here for years, and suddenly a feeling crawled up her throat that was making it hard to breath. It was so dark. For days, weeks, months, she was left in the dark. The silence.

Steve grasped onto her arm and hoisted her up onto the jet, and she registered people, the team, but their faces didn't feel familiar to her mind. Then there was the blood shed. It had been so vivid and plentiful that sometimes she could still feel it on her like a second skin. They made her spill it, they'd forced her plunge that knife into flesh over and over and over and over— she wasn't breathing. She couldn't.

"Y/n—"

She held a hand up to silence them, doubling over with one of her palms pressed to the wall in a poor attempt to keep her knees from giving away. She was gasping. Suddenly she could feel the world spinning. Round and round and round. Metal collided with her knees, and she grasped at the rope that decorated the wall like it would stop her from sinking through the floor.

"Y/n." The voice was far away. Sam. Her mind found some clarity. It's Sam. But it was drowned out as another wave of panic hit her— the blood, the blood, the blood, the blood— "Get her head between her knees." A different voice. She was underwater, and it echoed, but she still heard it.

Hands grabbed at her, and she thought she might of struggled against them, but now she was sat with her back against the wall and her knees pulled up to her chest. Her vision was blurred. She was crying. Was that Steve?

Someone was in front of her. They where telling her to breath. Slowly, slowly, slowly. She felt like she was moving a million miles an hour, but the voice was like spikes in the road that caused the wheels to deflate and— slowly, slowly, slowly. "That's it, just like that."

Y/n still felt breathless, but now oxygen was beginning to inhabit her lungs again. It was Steve. He took a step back, allowing Sam to crouch before her. His face was unreadable, but maybe there was some trace of concern. Her eyes moved to Sam's, and he was looking at her empathetically, "You alright? You know where you are?"

"The jet." She muttered out.

"Exactly," He gave her a reassuring smile, "The jet, where it's safe. It's over now, y/n, you don't have to go back there again."

In the pit of her stomach, she didn't think that was true. Their rooms had been in use, and if they where there, she would take a million panic attacks to get to them. But she nodded at him nevertheless, and reached out a hand so he could help her up. She was slightly wobbly on her feet, but stable enough for him to let go. Y/n was too tired to acknowledge any of the other sympathetic gazes, but she offered a smile when Nat squeezed her hand after she sat down next to her.

Eyes falling shut, she allowed the hum of the jet to settle over her. Strangely, amongst all the fear and exhaustion and pain, there was a little bit of hope that she hadn't felt in a long time. Maybe she could finally bring them home.

Tags ( comment if you want to be added <3 )

@talesofadragon

@vicmc624

[stardusksx]

STEVE ROGERS x FEM!READER,

( silver assassin, part 1/? )

Summary: Y/n and her siblings where hydra assassins from the age of five, and she’s been trying to erase its stain on her humanity for the last five years after her liberation at the age of nineteen. Steve Rogers is making that task very difficult.

Warning: Angst, Violence, Mentions of abuse. I think that’s all?? Let me know if I missed anything.

Note: Hello! This is adapted from wattpad to a y/n, and I think I edited all the mentions of the oc but if there’s a random name in there please let me know so I can edit it! Also format might be weird I posted this on my phone <3 enjoy! (Gif not mine)

                  Y/N’s MIND WAS A LOUD PLACE. She was a hostage to her own thoughts, and from its taunting there was no escape. Yet she'd become quite the master at numbing herself to it's effect— she always had to keep herself busy. When she was busy there was more thoughts to drown the others out. That's why her free time away from the avengers complex was spent throwing herself into random jobs— which also helped to ease her guilt surrounding her current living predicament. She didn't like other people paying for her existence. Not when she was the cause of so much suffering.

Her body weaves through the tables of an outdoor cafe, Midtown Manhattan alive with the morning rush hour traffic. "Lucy, hey," Her mouth stretched into a smile when she reached the table of a regular, the woman's leafy-green eyes focused on something behind her, "More coffee?"

Lucy blinked, seeming to come back to reality, before a grin fell onto her lips, "Do you even have to ask?"

Y/n scoffed slightly before re-filling the baby-blue mug resting atop the cafe table. Lucy's attention seemed to be stolen again, gaze fixated on the same spot she'd been starting at a-few moments ago. "What are you looking— oh." Y/n sees him as soon as she turns her head to look, Steve Rogers' body crammed into a tiny patio chair a-few tables away. There was tattered sketchbook in front of him, charcoal pencil in hand, and — oh god, and an empty coffee mug. One which she would have to offer a re-fill for.

"Can you believe it?" Lucy excitedly whispered, and y/n plastered a fake smile onto her fallen expression.

"What are the odds, right?" No, really. What are the odds that out of all the cafes in Manhattan he'd find his way to this one. "Speaking of which," She weakly rattled the half-empty french press, "Better go do my job."

Reluctantly she ventured towards his table, convincing herself that it was best to get this interaction out of the way with.

"Captain," She greeted, her stomach twisting with the unpleasant feeling that comes when you know you're presence won't exactly be celebrated, "Refill?"

Steve's eyes tore away from his sketch book, clouding over with confusion when they landed on her. Though she was well aware of his opinion on her— he never outright displayed his dislike. He was captain America after all, but sometimes the passive aggression was worse than being forwards. He gave her a tight lipped expression and nodded his head, "Please."

Y/n began to pour more coffee into his cup, suddenly regretting her decision of approaching him as the silence ensued and his gaze acted like needles to the skin.

"You work here?" He asked finally, and it was more of a hidden question that sought explanation for why she worked here rather what he actually asked— it was already obvious through her apron and the fact that she wouldn't be pouring him drinks otherwise.

"Yes," She replied, "Keeps me busy."

He nodded, but his gaze still seemed to be attempting to figure her out. He always looked at her like that— like she was hiding something. Y/n bit her lip at the awkwardness, the guilty feeling she seemed to get whenever someone was trying to dig too deep into her past making an appearance.

"Okay," She spoke when he said nothing else, "Well, have a nice day."

His smile was tight lipped, "You too."

Then she was turning away, attempting to push aside the unpleasant feeling that gripped at her. Y/n managed to make her way through a-few more customers, taking orders and exchanging small talk about recent news. Only half an hour passed before her phone began to ring, Tony Stark's name flashing on the lock-screen. Her gaze flickered upwards as she brought it to her ear, trying to see if Steve was still at his table, but all that was there was a pushed back chair as if he'd left in a haste.

"Tony?"

"Y/n, hey. Rhodey wants us in." His voice responded.

She tucked the phone between the crook of her neck, begging to untie her apron, "What's going on?"

"Team meeting apparently," His reply didn't offer much information, "See you soon." Then the line went dead, and after informing her boss of her 'family emergency' she was hailing a cab towards stark towers.

━━Y/n unconsciously tugged at the lanyard around her neck before exiting the elevator of Stark Towers, allowing a moment to briefly survey her surroundings. The hallway was encased by windows— gifting her the seemingly infinite view of New York City, and allowing an almost blinding amount of light to engulf everything. Y/n hadn't always been able to process her surroundings like this. Once the world was just a series of locations in which her targets inhabited, not to be admired or appreciated, but instead analysed and abused to suit her missions objective.

Life was like running on autopilot back then. Now it had some semblance of self awareness that paved way for what could be recognised as living for a reasoning that was intended to be normal for everyone else. Or, at least, close to it.

Her heels collide with the floor as she makes her way towards the meeting room. Tony hadn't told her what this was about, he'd simply stated get your ass over here, y/n , on the phone and left her to wonder what could possibly be the reasoning behind it. Things has been relatively quite when it came to being called in on a mission for team avenger, and the longer than usual period of being dormant from action had began to make her feel anxious. Truthfully, she was glad for another reason to be busy.

The office was already occupied by most of the team when she opened the door— Tony, Nat, Clint, Bruce, Sam and— apparently Steve had managed to get here before her too. They where still waiting on Rhodey and Thor, though sometimes the inconvenience of not being on the same planet kept the latter from attending meetings.

"Oh," Tony's voice was laced in its usual sarcasm, "Nice of you to join us."

Y/n merely rolled her eyes, "Tony, if you call me and I'm twenty minutes away, it's probably going to take me twenty minutes to get here."

"Sounds like a excuse."

"Yeah, well, you can complain when you figure out how to invent teleportation. Until then be at peace with the time it takes me to get here in a car."

Tony gasped, "You know I'm insecure about my inability to invent teleportation."

Y/n scoffed, taking her seat towards the back of the table and next to Nat who offered her a smirk in greeting. She merely had a chance to tuck her chair in when the door opened again, and Rhodey entered with solemn expression that immediately drained any trace of humour from the room.

"Hey," He greeted half heartedly, tiredness seeming to ghost his features. The man picked up the projector remote, switching it on, "An hour ago we got sent security footage of Hydra operatives, and the government wants us in on this."

A paused black and white image displayed on the wall, seeming to depict a rainy alleyway of some city. He gave her a strange, hesitant, look before pressing the remote.

Y/n inhaled sharply as the grainy footage started to play— there was two figures on the screen, wearing black fighting gear and hoods, one slightly shorter than the other, a female and a male. She knew that uniform, and she was also pretty sure she knew the figures that wore them. Her fingers curled around the arm of her chair, not a single inhale of breath entering her lungs as she watched, and in one jolty movement of the footage, there was a brief moment where their faces could be seen.

Rhodey hit pause, but there was no need for it— Y/n already knew who they where from the instance they turned towards the camera. God. They had grown up. She hadn't seen them since they where merely nine years old, but there was nothing left of their child-like features anymore. Granted, they would only be fifteen now, but there was something about hydra that ensured no one remained in the light of innocence for too long.

"Y/n," It was Tony speaking this time, bringing her out of the thoughts she didn't know she'd been trapped in, "Is it them?"

She swallowed, willing her panicked heart beat back to normal, "Yes," She managed, "It's the twins."

"The twins?" Steve interjected, his brows knitted together as he watched her skeptically. Vienna's time at Hydra wasn't a tale she openly shared all the details to, and while Rhodey and Nat where pretty well informed, it was only Sam and Tony who knew the full story.

She steeled herself, attempting to recount her history as if it had no effect on her, "My siblings and I where all apart of the same program— the twins where the youngest, Valencia and Ivan, then me, Violetta, and my oldest brother, Elio. Violetta and I where freed when shield infiltrated the base six years ago, but hydra managed to escape with the rest. There's been traces of them here and there linked to assassinations over the years, but that's the first security footage of the twins we've recovered thus far."

The first time I've seen them in years. She felt like her heart was burning. Like this feeling could suffocate her— threads of relief and dread all coming together in a mess of chaos she'd never be able to sort.

"Where is this?" She nodded at the screen, though her eyes didn't fully land on it this time. Something in her couldn't look anymore, scared of what she'd see if she began to overanalyse it. Overanalyse them.

"Poltava, Ukraine," Rhodey answered, "This footage was two hours ago, there was shield agents based out there on a classified mission we don't have access to yet. All of them where killed."

She knew it would be something along those lines, but that didn't make it any less of a punch to the stomach. They where only children. Children she wasn't able to protect. "Okay," Her voice was small, "What's our move?"

"There's an abandoned hydra base about fifty miles outside of Poltava, no activity there since it was raided in the late sixties, but we have reason to believe it's being used again. It's possible they could be reporting back to it." He explained, a tense look on his features, "We'll fly out on the jet to check it."

A wave of nausea hit her. Y/n wasn't expecting this today— she wasn't ready for this today, but the past six years had been filled with her hoping that some sign of their location would present itself. Her grip on the arm rest tightened, but she gave a nod of approval nevertheless. Rhodey began to talk about strategy, giving a little context on the history of the hydra base, and assigning each of them a role. It was only when another voice interjected that her attention was fully captured again. "Is this a good idea?" Steve questioned, gaze briefly on her before he turned back to Rhodey, "Her coming on a mission that's so personal?"

"Steve—"

"There is no debate here." Y/n said sharply, cutting Sam off. While she'd never dared to send a glare of ice his way before, she was openly giving him one now, "I'm going."

"I'm not trying to undermine you, y/n. If you're distracted then you could make mistakes, and we can't afford that."

"I'm not sitting this one out, Rogers. They're my family."

"That's exactly my point—"

"She's right, Steve," Rhodey cut him off, "If the twins are there, seeing a familiar face could be the leverage we need to get them to back down."

"I just think that we should be careful about this."

Careful. Steve was always careful when it came to y/n. Careful when assigning her tasks. Careful when letting her in on certain information. Careful when trusting her.

Y/n a scoffed, "I'm going to suit up, I'll meet you on the tarmac." She shoved her chair back, sending another look of annoyance to Rogers as he let out a sigh, and exited the meeting room with little hesitation.

━━She tugged up the zipper of her boot, jaw clenching in aggravation. Steve Rogers distrust wasn't anything new— he always doubted her, hesitated when it came to her involvement in missions, and for the most part she didn't let it bother her. After all, she had been Hydra's little puppet for fifteen years, it wasn't like the caution surrounding her wasn't warranted. So why was she so bothered by it this time? Y/n secured the knives in her thigh holster, perhaps giving it too harsh of a tug when adjusting the strap.

"You know you're suppose to leave room for the blood flow."

She let out a sharp gaps, "Jesus, Sam. Dose that suit come with soundlessness." 

"No, I think that would have something to do with the angry, little, distracted crease going on between your eyebrows." He gave her a grin, to which she responded with a halfhearted middle finger before giving a dramatic sign and placing herself into a sitting position on the edge of the jet. Sam followed, pushing his red goggles onto his forehead— a move which she was glad for because there was no way in hell she could take him seriously with them on.

She racked a hand though her hair, rubbed her palms against her eyes, before she finally looked at him, "I just want to get them back, Sam."

"I know you do," He said softly, "We all know you do. Steve knows you do."

Y/n swallowed, jaw clenching. She tore her gaze away from him, not willing to display how... she didn't know what it was in her eyes that she wanted to hide, she just knew there was something. "He's just looking out for everyone's safety, y/n, it's not his intention to belittle you."

"It's every mission, Sam," She shook her head, "Every single mission, six years, I have to worry about every little choice I make on the field because one mistake and he'll run with it."

Sam was quite for a moment, "Steve respects you more than you think."

"That's bull, Sam." She scoffed, "If Rogers respected me he wouldn't look for every opportunity to chastise me."

He opened his mouth to say something, but the sound of the doors opening interrupted him. Nat, Tony and Steve entered the tarmac, each of them suited up and talking amongst themselves. She exchanged a look with the man beside her, but as soon as she felt the group grow closer, she got to her feet and made her way towards her seat in the jet.

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