#I think they could have articulated the mouth to move instead but whatever

[theshotgunsailor]

Aw man I really liked that they left the sea devil design alone when they brought them back last time :(

dr who is (apparently) redesigning this turtle from the classic series to be just a green human elf lady instead and twitter is eating it up because "no one would take the show seriously otherwise" and "the audience isn't able to empathize with something that doesn't look human". another fascinating data point in the psychology of doctor who fans.

[eqt-95]

a new kind of romance, pt 4

part 3 | zippers

🧁 | frosting

“Are you… baking?” Kara asked, nose sniffing toward the oven emitting scrumptious confetti-cake smells. She was interrupted only by the already-baked cupcakes sitting on the counter.

“Mhm,” Lena replied, wiping her fingers clean of powdered sugar. “No eating!”

“Wh-what?” Kara scowled, pulling away just in time to avoid a swat. “Why not?”

“They’re for Esme’s bake sale.”

“I don’t remember this being part of ‘godmother’ duties,” Kara pouted, collapsing onto a stool across from three dozen cooling cupcakes desperately wanting to be frosted, sprinkled, then inhaled by Kara Danvers, Girl of Steel and possessor of Bottomless Stomach.

“It’s not,” Lena laughed, “but Kelly called in a bind, and since I had the evening off-”

“To hang out with me,” Kara interrupted.

“-to hang out with you, yes, but I thought you could help me.”

“How?” Kara prodded, scanning the kitchen: the oven held four racks of baking tins, the dirty dishes were already churning away in the dishwasher, and there was a great, giant bowl of homemade buttercream sitting in front of Lena.

“Decorating,” Lena said cheerily. “But first, help me with this. It isn’t quite right; I think maybe too much lemon? Here:”

And then there was a finger.

A finger.

Extended.

Extended and dolloped with butter cream. 

A butter-creamed finger hovering expectantly and Kara wasn’t sure if it was her heart stopping or the world halting on its axis. Because time definitely froze. The warm smile on Lena’s face, the dimples marking her cheeks, the bright spark in her eyes sat in the periphery of Kara’s eyes which were fixed and frantic and hungry, staring hesitantly - obsessively - at the perfectly extended digit.

“T-try-? It?” 

“I need that discerning tongue of yours,” Lena said, and maybe if Kara wasn’t already struggling to overcome all of the thoughts flooding her brain, that comment might have sent her spiraling. Fortunately, that was already happening.

And maybe there was something mischievous glinting behind that sparkle in Lena’s eyes, but that was not something Kara had capacity to process because the finger was not moving.

And maybe subconsciously Kara licked her lips, but that was not something Kara had self-awareness for because the finger was not wavering.

And maybe that sent Lena’s eyebrow arching in a mix of curiosity and daring and her own unsated hunger, but that was not something Kara noticed because the finger was not backing down.

“No?” Lena asked, and her voice was low and caked in challenge. “Supergirl turning down a snack; I might have to-”

And whatever words Lena might have said were caught in a breathy gasp because Kara, automatic and unthinking, wrapped her lips around Lena’s outstretched finger and ran her tongue over the soft dollop of sugary goodness until nothing but the pad of Lena’s finger was left under it. And that’s when Kara registered the expression on Lena’s face and the dilated pupils that made her eyes glow dark and in stark contrast to the brightly lit kitchen.

And that was something Kara didn’t know what to do with. Because the tease didn’t feel so much like a tease anymore, and a line felt very close to being crossed and there certainly wasn’t a world where Lena Luthor would want Kara crossing that line because it wasn’t even a line Kara knew existed - even considered existed - until this moment and what even would it look like to cross that line? Soft and warm and heavenly and perfect and everything Lena Luthor already was but... more?

“Thoughts?” 

None. How could Kara possibly have any thoughts when her mouth was still processing lines and the light, sweet, lemon-zesty flavors and textures and feeling of Lena’s finger and then - then - Lena’s question coming dry and throaty and nothing like her retreating, glistening wet finger?

“Uh.” Gerbils were more articulate. Anything was more articulate. But Kara didn’t have spare bandwidth to weigh in on that. Instead she braced herself against the countertop and breathed in through her nose, out through her mouth.

“Nothing?” Lena asked - teased. 

“I-I just… I uhm…” Kara sputtered, her vision clouding and hands curling against the counter edge.

“Here, maybe you need another taste?”

And yea, Kara was absolutely going to be blamed for the giant crack that appeared in the countertop and blush furiously at the next game night and want to fly straight into the sun because “oh Rao.”

- - - - - - part 5 | could we? wood we?

[offworldlamb-writes]

Day 8 of #Fictober24!

Today is Are We Happy?

Original work: The Runaway Princess

Awen has had enough of Kane's bad attitude.

xxx

He refused to sit down at first, smirking and jeering when she asked again for some co-operation as politely as she could without it turning into a demand, and all patience left her.

Stepping up onto the coffee table, smashing the fruit bowl and sending apples rolling across the floor as she did so, she fixed him with a cold stare that finally-- finally-- made him hesitate. "You asked for my co-operation and given me absolutely no reason whatsoever to do so. Why on this good green earth should I listen to anything you have to say?"

Bless his soul, he tried to answer. 'Blood owed' and other kinds of nonsense, the shames of her family forcing their rule over Tilwyth, but when he once again laid all their crimes at her feet she motioned for silence. A sharp snap of her fingers shut him up, and her continued stare made him sit down as she glowered beneath her glasses. "You're not the first one to try and blackmail me, Kane Hywel. But you're the only one still standing, and if you'd like that to continue being the case you will shut your mouth before I shut it for you."

From the other end of the couch Alister pleaded for understanding but he wilted just as quickly under the same stare, and once both were quiet she let out her frustration in a long, tense sigh. This approach wasn't going to get them anywhere either, lashing out like the dictator he seemed to think she was. It felt good to get her anger across, but it wasn't worth carrying on the same way. "You came to me for help and I've been willing to do just that, but you're constantly attacking and threatening me every chance you get because of my family. Family I haven't been in contact with for ten years, that I've done my best to separate myself from. If you can't get past your problems with them then why bother with me? If I'm part of the problem, why seek me out and get me to help you?"

Anger bubbled just beneath the surface, she could see it as Kane clenched and unclenched his hands, but instead of offering any kind of well-articulated response he clenched his jaw and looked away. Tightly folding his arms he threw himself against the back of the couch, the very picture of a petulant child throwing a tantrum, and with a roll of her eyes she shook her head. This was the latest in line for Tilwyth's Royal Family; this was the person working for the independence for his people; this… was a painful display.

Stepping back down she sat on the edge of the table, once she'd cleared away some of the crystal shards, and uttered another little sigh. "You came to me. I like to think there was a positive reason behind that choice, despite your every attempt at putting me off. And you don't have to like me to let me help," she quickly cut across when he sat up, about to protest. "So swallow your pride for a moment, and think about why you're doing this."

His face pinched as he went pale and she backed up a little in case he threw up: whatever crossed his mind crossed it hard, but it bedded down that burning hatred until he was slouched dejectedly against the back of the couch, every ounce of argumentative passion gone. She would've felt bad if he hadn't been an absolute gremlin for the past week and a half, and despite wanting to be the bigger person in all this she had to admit it was nice seeing him miserable for a moment, like a cat freshly fished out of a well.

Getting back to her feet she looked from Kane to Alister. "Right, are we going to be adults about this? Are we happy showing each other a bit of respect moving forward? Or will I need to remind you why the Witch of the Red Wood carries a fearsome reputation?"

"That won't be necessary…" came Alister's modest response, head bowed.

"Good," she replied curtly, stepping over Kane's foot and sweeping what she could of the broken crystal bowl into a pile to one side of the table. "Because I'd like you to remember who exactly stands to lose more from us failing to work together. I'll have another cautionary tale to pass around anyone stupid enough to think they can threaten me, while you will be left with nothing."

That got a reaction from Kane, bringing him back from his wet-cat-misery just enough to show her an absolutely loathsome glare. It was the first ounce of sincerity she'd had from him since they'd met, and maybe the most she'd believed he genuinely hated her, but hate was easy to brush off. Most of her life was lived under a cloud of hatred before she'd left home, and Kane's ire was nothing new.

[wardowrites]

It had never gone like this in Wardo’s imaginings. Foolishly, he’d deluded himself into thinking that his willpower was far stronger than this. When he dreamed of finally getting to tell Louis just how much he’d been hurt by his vanishing act, he’d had a cohesive, perfectly articulate speech. The exact wording of it tended to change depending on Wardo’s mood, but as a whole it was all relatively similar. Afterwards, he thought he would feel smug. Satisfied and vindicated. And that telling Louis just how shit it had all been would bring him the closure that he had been desperately searching for for ten years now.

Naturally, it was nothing like that.

Instead, Wardo had his eyes screwed shut and his lips in a hard, angry press against Louis’. The kiss was insistent, angry, a direct contrast to the gentle way Wardo still had his hands framing Louis’ face. He wanted to pour every ounce of heartbreak and frustration into this kiss, but not if it meant his thumb pressed painfully against Louis’ bruised eye.

He waited to be pushed away, for Louis to shove him backwards until he hip-checked the sink and pretended that hurt more than the humiliation that would be due to sink in. Wardo in college had been no stranger to rejection, especially from Louis, but he’d ever exactly bore it well. In the face of embarrassment, he’d said cruel things and lashed out and pushed until it hit a breaking point instead of anywhere that would make Louis turn around and want him. They’d gotten past that eventually, but with ten years separating then from now, Wardo had no idea how Louis would react.

Instead of pushing him away though, he felt Louis’ hands against his waist, the heavy warmth of the other man’s palms seeping through the thin material of his t-shirt and coaxing out a surprised, hungry noise from him.

He was aware of Louis’ back hitting the grimy, tiled wall behind him and he automatically braced his own hand next to his head. He was used to messy, harried kisses in bathrooms like this, older, drunken men with a tan line on their ring finger dragging him into one of the stalls so they could grab his hand and stick it down their pants. Likening this kiss to that felt cheap to Wardo, and he tried to do whatever he could to push those thoughts out of his head.

Louis couldn’t have possibly known what he needed at that moment, but then he felt the wet slide of the other man’s tongue in his mouth and Wardo moaned, thoughts dissolving into nothing, the hand next to Louis’ head moving to immediately card his fingers through the dark tufts of hair he remembered so well.

He let his mouth move desperately against Louis’, heart thudding, wondering if this is how it was going to end for them, while also being fully aware that this was a kiss he was never going to recover from. But it was fine. He wanted this and Louis did too and there was nothing wrong with kissing your ex-boyfriend in the dirty bathroom of a bar while still having no idea why he was your ex in the first place.

There was nothing wrong with-

The ragged exhalation that came from Louis made Wardo flinch. He tasted blood on his mouth and suddenly wrenched himself away from the other man.

“Shit,” he swore, stepping back and nearly slipping on a wet puddle on the floor. It could be tap water, it could be piss, and he was in no hurry to figure out which one it was.

With wild eyes, he took in Louis’ face, stomach bottoming out at the sight of how red and kiss-swollen his lips were. But then he noticed the cut on his lip from the other man’s fight. It had been split open and, without thinking, Wardo reached up with a trembling hand to shakily wipe away the tiny bead of blood that had surfaced there with his thumb. Dropping his hand quickly, he was hit by an overwhelming sense of terrifying clarity and realised what had just transpired.

“Fuck, i can’t- we can’t…” He shook his head, Louis’ blood still staining his thumb as he pushed a hand out between them. Whether it was to keep Louis at bay or to stop himself from surging forward again, he didn’t know.

“You can’t do that,” he told Louis, voice rough as he refused to meet the other man’s eyes. It didn’t matter to him that he had been the one to initiate the kiss; as far as Wardo was concerned, Louis was the one to blame here for making it so damn impossible for Wardo to get over him.

Louis felt like a little kid, waiting in the quiet of the bathroom to be dismissed. The overhead light flickered and hummed absently, interrupting the otherwise suffocating silence that hung between Wardo and himself. The fact that Wardo knew, deep down, that Louis hadn't done anything as awful as cheat should've been a relief, a weight off his chest. But anxiety still prickled under his skin, probably because the truth was so much worse, so much more unimaginable, that Wardo had drawn the conclusion that Louis had been unfaithful instead of correctly guessing the reality of the situation. It was merely unthinkable.

And now Wardo didn't want to know. The truth crawled back inside his mouth and dropped, hard and heavy as a stone, to the pit of his stomach. That awful, sinking feeling had resurfaced. If Wardo had given him the green light, would he have let the truth pour out of him ugly and unfiltered? Or would he have bottled it all up, come up with an excuse, and watched Wardo storm angrily from the bar and out of his life?

The threat of unshed tears stung his eyes. He stood, his feet rooted to the dingy flooring under him, paralysed with fear and guilt. Maybe this was it, maybe he just needed to take it, let Wardo be angry and righteous and sharp with his words. Maybe Wardo deserved the right to be angry, too.

"Wardo, I..." he started, the words dying on his lips. He brought the back of his hand up to his mouth, urging his breath not to tremble, his bottom lip not to wobble, and his tears not to fall. He squeezed his eyes tight shut, no longer able to look at him.

"I'm sorry." he murmured, the words inaudible, muffled against his hand as they were. He shook his head, eyes squeezed tight, still feeling like that chastened child.

He'd wanted to give him his once chance to be angry, to scream, to lash out if he wanted. But it hurt too fucking much. Louis heaved a dry sob, rubbing his eyes. Wardo wanted him to feel shit? He felt worse than shit. He felt the lowest of the low. He felt every ounce of the other man's hurt.

"Please stop." he begged, dignity be damned. "I can't take it, kid. I can't, I can't-"

His eyes were closed when he felt the warm, rough press of Wardo's mouth against his own. His eyes widened in surprise, cheeks now wet with tears. Of all the things Wardo could've done... this had been the least expected. Louis' body froze in place for a moment, his hands suspended in the air as Wardo's hands roughly braced either side of his face. He let out a low, throaty noise of surprise. He didn't know what it was like to be kissed like this, it had been so long. Angry, middle of a fight kisses, with clashing teeth and Wardo's hungry hands on his face. He was startled. He was kissing Wardo Martinelli for the first time in ten years.

His chest felt like it was caving in. Because a boy who hated you didn't kiss you.

Instinctively, Louis' hands dropped to the other man's waist, fingers threading through his belt loops. It felt like years since he'd been kissed, it might as well have been years. Because none of the men who'd kissed him had ever been Wardo, even though he'd been searching for him in the dark of every bar for the past decade.

He could feel Wardo breathing raggedly against his mouth, and with a sweet sigh, Louis took the opportunity to slide his tongue between the other man's parted lips. Kissing him felt desperate, urgent, like it could end at any second. It was both incredibly familiar and unknown to him. He hardly realised he was pulling Wardo in until Louis' back hit the wall, the taller man braced against him.

It was anger, and sheer lust, and kissing Wardo, Louis had to admit that Max had been right. Wardo wasn't over him. It didn't feel like a victory, and it didn't make Louis smug. It cracked his heart in two, because this was their closure. Neither of them had truly gotten over the other in all that time apart, and it had culminated in this. Two angry, broken people venting their frustrations, their heartbreak, the only way they knew how.

"Fuck." he hissed against his mouth, tongue swiping his bottom lip briefly before he moved back in to kiss him again. He hoped he never resurfaced.

[chrisevansjellybeans]

I Love You, You Idiot | Bucky Barnes

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Here I am, once again writing in my favorite "we're best friends but we won't say we're in love" trope. Someone stop me.

A/N: This does not fall into the TFAWTS timeline!

Warnings: swearing, fluff, angsty-ish

*not my gif*

The bass rumbled through your entire body as you tried to listen to whatever story Sam was telling to the group. You tried with everything in you to listen but the mixture of the loud music of the club and your best friend's hand just casually laying on your exposed thigh was making it very difficult. You noticed the group laugh so you let out a small chuckle but if anyone asked you would not be able to say what was so funny.

“You okay, doll?” You glanced up at Bucky, who’s blue eyes were squinted with concern. His thumb slowly rubbing circles on the spot on your inner thigh where it was rested. “You look a little out of it. Do you need me to take you home?”

Say words, Y/N. You told yourself. But forming sentences was getting harder and harder with each circular pass the pad of his thumb made.

“Uh.”

Good job. Very articulate.

You didn’t want to be that person. The person who falls in love with her super hot best friend, but doesn’t say anything because they don’t want to “ruin the friendship” and then ends up sad and alone because said best friend doesn’t realize the feelings and moves on to someone else. And yet here you were. Being that cliche.

“Guys, I think I’m going to take Y/N home.” You heard Bucky say. Snapping out of whatever trance you were in you shifted away from him so his hand was no longer on your leg.

“No, I’m fine.” You stood up, strong and steady. “See? I was just thinking about some work stuff. But I’m gonna go grab another drink. Anyone want anything?”

The group shook their head and you made your way to the bar, happy to be away for a couple minutes.

Your moment of solace lasted only a few seconds though because you felt Bucky’s presence behind you. He trapped you in by placing his arms on either side of you, his chin landing on your shoulder.

“Wanna take shots?” Bucky’s voice rumbled in your ear. You really hoped he couldn’t feel the goosebumps that arose all over your skin. His breath smelled like a mix of spearmint and whiskey. A scent that if it came from any other man you would have probably been repulsed but on Bucky it was just comforting.

“Only if they’re tequila.” You turned around so you were face to face with him. Bucky gave you a cheeky smile as he waved the bartender over, ordering two shots each and then your regular drink order. As the bartender got your drinks ready, Bucky leaned down on his arms so he was even closer, your faces barely an inch apart.

“You’re my best friend, you know that?” Bucky smiled, pressing a slight kiss to your cheek.

“You’re mine too.” You whispered but you knew he heard you. Thank god for that super soldier hearing. Bucky stood back up and you could tell that he was on high alert, making sure that no one bumped into you or was making a beeline in the direction you guys were in.

You turned back around and placed your arms on the bar and leaned against it, your breasts pushing up slightly causing the guy next to you to take notice.

“Hey,” you glanced over as the guy next to you turned his body to fully face you. “You are the most beautiful woman at this bar.” You were amazed at how bold this guy was being. Bucky was still behind you, his arms still on either side of you. To anyone who didn’t know the two of you, it would be safe to assume that you were a couple.

“Thank you, that’s very sweet of you.” You smiled at him and leaned against Bucky’s arm a bit, to hopefully give that couple illusion even more.

Bucky was watching the interaction carefully, not yet ready to intervene but there if he needed to. You noticed his vibranium hand flex on the bar as the guy continued to flirt with you, that small action causing butterflies to erupt in your stomach.

“You wanna get out of here, pretty girl?” The guy leaned in even closer to you, officially popping the imaginary bubble you had around you. That was enough for you and for Bucky.

“Alright buddy, ease up.” Bucky pushed a hand against the guy's chest, moving him away from you. “She’s with me.”

“Relax, big guy. Why don’t you let this little mama speak for herself.” The guy stood up from his chair, he was Bucky’s height but you, Bucky and the guy knew that if it came down to it Bucky would kick his ass.

“This little mama doesn’t want to go home with you.” You said sternly. As you finished speaking, the bartender placed the shots and the drinks in front you.

“Bitch.” The guy mumbled, shaking his head and making his way around Bucky.

“What the fuck did you just say?” Bucky grabbed the guy by the front of his shirt. His eyes blazing as he glared down at the asshole. With each second that passed you could tell his hands were tightening around the guy’s shirt.

“I called your little slut girlfriend a bitch.” He spat out. “Maybe control your woman from flirting with other men at-”

Before he could finish, Bucky slammed his fist into his face. You let out a scream as the guy fell to the ground. Everyone’s eyes now focused on the three of you. Bucky reached down and grabbed him, pulling him back up. You had to look away as blood started to pour out of his nose and down his face. It looked like Bucky was about to punch him again but you quickly put your hand on his arm. Bucky looked over at you, his chest heaving, his metal arm shifting under the stress of his grip.

“Bucky, please. It’s not worth it. Look.” You glanced at the crowd that started to form, phones out and recording.

You could see the headlines now: Winter Soldier Bar Brawl: Is he still unhinged?

You spotted Sam making his way over, his face full of concern. Turning back to Bucky you squeezed his bicep. “Please. Let’s go.”

“Buck.” Sam made it over to you. “Go, I’ll take care of it.”

Bucky heaved as he pushed the guy away from him and then grabbed your hand. He quickly threw down a crumpled hundred dollar bill on the bar and didn’t wait for the change as he pulled you through the crowd of recording phones and out of the club.

He quietly pulled you down the street until you guys ended up at least four blocks away from the club.

“I should have killed that guy.” He huffed as he stuffed his hands into his pockets. Immediately he winced and pulled his flesh hand out. You hadn’t noticed before but his hand was definitely red and swelling. “Fuck.”

“Oh my god, Bucky,” You sighed as you gently took his hand in yours, turning it over and inspecting any damage. It didn’t look fractured but it was definitely sprained and going to be sore for a while. “You could have broken your hand, you fucking idiot.”

“It will heal in a couple hours. And you’re welcome.” Bucky scowled in your direction. “Next time, I’ll just let him shit talk you all night.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that. If you would have waited another twenty seconds we would have gotten our drinks and probably wouldn't have seen that man again.” You glared. “Instead you had to turn into a cave man and beat on your chest and prove your dominance.” You tried to sound tough but your voice was shaking given how cold you were. You had left your jacket back in the club.

“I wasn’t proving shit, Y/N.” Bucky snapped as he pulled his hand out of yours, sliding his leather jacket off and putting it around your shoulders in a huff. “Maybe it infuriates me to hear someone talk about you like that.”

“Well it’s not all cake and ice cream for me, but you don’t see me throwing god damn punches.” You sighed as you wrapped the jacket tighter around your body. “This is going to be everywhere tomorrow.”

“Who gives a fuck.” Bucky muttered.

“You should!” You fumed. “It’s not a great look to have you out here punching random guys at bars, Bucky. Especially over nothing that important.”

“Stop talking like that. God, it’s like you are the only fucking person who doesn’t see how goddamn special and important you are.” Bucky hissed as his hand continued to throb. “So please just..stop talking.”

You snapped your mouth shut as you shot daggers at Bucky which he gladly returned. You turned away from him, calling a car to take you back to his place. You both waited in silence, Bucky only making the occasional foul exclamation whenever his hand hurt. Finally for what seemed hours the car finally pulled up. Bucky, always the gentleman even when angry, held the door open for you as you slid in closing it gently but not making any moves to get in the car. You looked up at him through the window confused but he only shook his head and tapped the car, signally for the driver to leave.

“Can you please wait.” You turned to the driver who let out an annoyed huff.

“Five minutes lady. It’s almost bar time.”

Quickly you opened the door not stepping completely outside, the air having an unforgiving bite to it now.

“Get in the fucking car, Bucky.”

“You go, you have a key. I just need some time.”

“You can take some time in your apartment. Just get in the car.” You retorted.

“I’m not getting in that car.”

“James, I swear to god.” You were fully out of the car now. You slammed the door shut causing the driver to cast an annoyed look your way. “What is your problem? We argue all the time, it’s not that serious.”

“It’s not about the argument,” he grumbled. “It’s about the fact that you are so completely oblivious to how fucking perfect you are and how it wasn’t just that guy that was staring at you but every other guy in that bar. And how angry it makes me that I just want to go up to every single of one of them and tell them to put their dicks away because you’re mine and only mine.”

Your breath hitched as you processed his words.

“And I’m doing everything in power to not just shake you until you realize that I love you, and not just as my friend.”

“I-”

“I can’t believe I just told you that.” Bucky shook his head and let out a humorless chuckle. “Get in the car, Y/N. I’ll see you later.”

Bucky turned and started walking down the street.

“James Buchanan Barnes!” You yelled after him. “If you don’t think that I love you back, then you really are a bigger idiot than I thought.” Bucky stopped in his tracks.

“What did you just say?” He asked as he faced you again. He stayed where he was but you could see the tension start to leave his body.

“I said,” You smiled as you let out a long breath. “That I love you, you idiot.”

Before you knew it, Bucky was over to you and he had you scooped up in his arms. His mouth moved feverishly against yours, every emotion that the two of you had for each other pouring out in this one kiss. Your hands found their way up his chest and around his neck. He let out a low moan that sent vibrations through your whole body.

“Alright, lady, I’m leaving.” You both ignored the driver as he waved you off and pulled out and down the street. But you couldn’t care less because you were finally in the arms of your best friend.

“Say it again.” Bucky whispered against your lips.

“I love you, you idiot.”

[wind-becomes-lightning]

Jinchuuriki

Day 2:) I hope you enjoyed Day 1 cuteness, because I'm bringing the Angst. *dances*

Nohara Rin centred (Kakashi makes an appearance, he has an important role, who'd have thought.)

3863 words.

warning for canon typical violence, suicidal thoughts & suicide (canon compliant Rin death)

Ao3 link [x]

for @teamminatoweek Day 2: Jinchuuriki & Hiding/ Running from the Enemy

There was something wrong with Rin in a way that she could not articulate.

There was something wrong with her in a way that she could not articulate.

When she had tried to, Kakashi had ripped at her arm. “We have to go” he had said with panic in his voice and when she hadn’t reacted immediately: “Rin!” 

Kakashi hadn’t really taken notice of her in that moment, his mind was once again clogged off by thoughts about Obito more than they were thoughts about her. Rin could understand this, Kakashi had a promise to uphold, but she wished he’d let her talk for just a minute. Maybe she could have explained how she felt.

Rin didn’t know exactly what the Kiri soldiers had done to her while she was under genjutsu, but it strongly felt like her life had been forever altered in some way or other. There was a sizzling in her veins that hadn’t been there before, something divorced from her healing chakra that usually felt more pleasantly warm than scorching hot.

Maybe if Kakashi would slow down for a moment she could explain it to him, maybe his sharingan could see whatever was wrong with her, but her friend hurried ahead of her from tree to tree, throwing looks around himself to make sure nobody was following them and he did not give her the chance to speak up. Rin was too used to doing whatever he told her to do, he was a better shinobi by a large mile than her anyway, so she followed diligently.

The voice in her head almost threw her so off balance that she was close to falling from the next branch she stepped on.

“Young girl!”

Suddenly Rin was standing in a sea full of turquoise green fluid. The trees and Kakashi were no longer visible or audible and she wondered when she was teleported to this place. In front of her was a large blue gate, several of them actually, and they held down a monster of unmeasurable size. A monster the likes of which Rin had never seen before. She took a step back.

The thing opened its mouth: “What are you staring at me for, girl?”

It had been the voice in her head right from the beginning. Her heart was beating to her chest and from far away she could hear Kakashi yell: “Attackers incoming!” Her eyes shifted and suddenly there she was again on the treetops jumping from branch to branch, as if the monster had not happened, as if it had been an illusion.

She wondered about possible genjutsu, while Kakashi, once again gripping her arm without looking at her, pulled her behind a big tree trunk to give her shelter. “Kakashi”, she said breathless and tucking at his sleeve. “I just had this vision.. There was this… thing … and…”

“Rin please” Kakashi pulled his arm out of hers. “I have to concentrate, there are at least 10 of them and there is only me.. I mean.. Only us.” Rin frowned and in any situation she might have scolded him, but he was already jumping away from the tree, lightning screaming between his fingers.

“He is not ready to listen to you”, the thing said in her head. She was back in the water now, knee deep staring right at the giant monster in front of her. Clearly it could see what Rin was seeing.

She decided to take a step forward instead of backwards: “What are you?” That seemed to not be the right question. The creature roared in anger and pushed its body against the seals around it. 

“What AM I? You humans have no respect for us! You misuse and seal us and don’t think we are creatures worthy of any dignity!” It moved its three tails around as if they were big whips ready to strike. 

Rin waved her arms defensively: “Oh, no no no, no, no, I didn’t mean to… “ One of the tails crashed down next to her. “...didn’t mean to insult. Please, please tell me your name. Please, I’m Nohara Rin.”

The thing stopped its rampage and relaxed again, head laying down on its front legs. The voice echoed in Rin’s mind over and over again: “I am Isobu. Humans call me the Three Tailed Bijuu.”

“Out of the way, Rin!” 

Kakashi was at her side again, no, he was pushing her out of his way so he could get to the enemy behind them. They had made it to a clearing, full of rocks and stone, without her noticing. Apparently, when she spoke to Isobu in whatever in-between world they were meeting, her body continued moving on its own. She watched Kakashi take on one, two, then three enemies and she fiddled for her shuriken.

Isobu’s voice was in her ear: “I don’t think you have the strength to fight here.” 

Water again, back to staring at Isobu directly. “Why do you think so?” Rin asked provocatively. “You don’t know me.”

It looked like a giant turtle. A big shield was protecting its back from which the three tails shot out like poisoned darts. But when the creature laughed it laughed loud and all of the sound echohead in Rin’s mind and heart. She knew it must be powerful, maybe more powerful than anything she’d ever met before.

“I know you child”, Isobu laughed, “I know you better than you know yourself. I can see your memories, I can feel your chakra flow, I can hear your thoughts, I can sense your feelings. I am you and you are me.”

She paused, legs frozen in place. Suddenly there was the sizzling again, her veins alight with a fire she had never felt before. Something was wrong with her, they’d done something to her, she had known from the moment she had woken up. Rin looked up at Isobu, eyes widening with the realisation: “You are what they put into me.”

From afar she could hear Kakashi yell an ability name and Rin shook herself back to reality. There were the stones, the clearing, the forest not far. He was right by her side again, spinning a kunai in his hand that she recognised from their master. Maybe Kakashi was hoping MInato might show up soon and save the two of them.

“Kakashi”, she tried again, with a louder voice this time to convey her urgency. “These people, they sealed..”

He did not turn his head. Her words entered one ear and left the other without acknowledgement. Instead Kakashi turned the kunai again and jumped right back into battle. 

Roaring laughter from the monster. Rin found herself face to face with him again.

“So they sealed you inside of me”, she noted and Isobu looked like he was cracking a smile: “They did indeed.”

The three tails was one of the tailed beasts that had been spread out over the hidden villages to ensure peace. Rin knew that Konoha had the nine tails and that Suna had the one tail. These things were very important to the villages, strong assets to be used to defend their territory. So why had Kirigakure so willingly given up their asset? Why had they decided to let Konoha have two tailed beasts? This made no sense.

Rin scratched her facial markers like she always did when she was nervous. They were her family signifier and always made her calm down a little. She let the situation go through her head. She analysed how her chakra felt before she had been kidnapped and then how it felt now. 

“They wouldn’t just let me escape like this if they didn’t have a plan what to do with me,” she deduced out loud.

Isobu tapped his foot in the water: “Unlikely, yes.”

There was a catch. There just had to be. Their escape from Water country had been too easy and while they had a fair few opponents now, it still seems too good to be true.

No matter how much she tried to concentrate, she could not think of anything that happened during the sealing. The genjutsu they had put on her had been strong which was obvious since it had taken her several hours to find back to reality after getting released from it. It sucked, because her memories might have given some of their plans away. That's when she realised, she hadn’t been the only one present at the sealing.

“Isobu”, she asked softly, trying not to rile the creature up again, “When they sealed you… where you conscious?”

The turtle laughed and moved its tails into the water and out, pulling at the seals around it. “I could feel all of it,” it said angrily. “I can always feel all of it.” Right, Rin thought, this was not the first sealing. Over the last 100 years the bijuu had been continuously sealed in dedicated Jinchuuriki, so it was no surprise that Isobu was tired of that.

She really didn’t want him to be unhappy so she said quickly: “Yes, yes I’m sorry this happened to you.” She took a step forward: “I just… just want to know.. Why… Why me?”

“It is not you specifically, girl, but you already knew that”, Isobu said with what looked like a grin. “Sure, you have an easier time digesting me, other people your age would have died during the ceremony, but you are not special other than that. What is special about you is where you come from.”

Rin blinked. Just like she had thought this was some kind of set up. Kirigakure wasn’t going to hand over their bijuu for nothing. They had found most guards in her cell disabled when Kakashi had come to get her and they had made it to Fire country relatively easily. Sure Kakashi was ever so capable of leading them on paths that were hidden enough to not give them away, but even for him the way had been too smooth.

“This is a trap”, Rin said out loud. “But how is it a trap?” She bit her inner lip and scratched on her facial markings. Isobu’s laughter rang in the empty hall.

Suddenly her eyes shot up to see Kakashi’s raikiri fly by directly at her ear. He had just missed her by a few millimetres and was now on the offensive again. Rin’s fingers were hot at the tips from the heat in her veins. She felt under her shirt to the seal that was burning on her stomach like a tattoo. Not far from her a Kiri shinobi laughed almost as loud and hollow as Isobu had.

“You’ll get rid of that soon enough”, the shinobi laughed and motioned his hand over his stomach, “There will be a big party in Konoha for sure if you do.” She stared at him, her heartbeat the only thing in her ears. What he was saying made sense, everything suddenly clicked into place.

She looked up and Isobu was there, laying on his own front legs and watching her. “The seal is weak”, she said, “It will break.”

Isobu let one of his tails put waves into the water: “No, girl, the seal is strong -that is why it will break.”

In Konoha, she thought. They had sealed her in a way that it would contain the Bijuu until she made it to her village, then they would let it lose. With the general disdain Isobu seemed to have for the humans that constantly sealed him, this could spell disaster. So much death and destruction just through her. 

Rin swallowed. That also meant that her death was inevitable.

It was too loud around her with enemies dropping and getting back up, with Kakashi’s lightning noise and the boiling in her veins. She put her hands on her ears to shut it all out, to hear herself think for two seconds. She could go, Rin thought, run away. Tell Kakashi and live in the woods. She would be saved, Konoha would be saved. Maybe that would be better for everyone.

Rin felt Kakashi by her side, his presence next to her arm. She looked over to him and realised how much he had grown in the year since Obito had died. Kakashi used to be decidedly smaller than both of them and now he was going to outgrow her pretty soon. 

“Kakashi..” she said calmly. “I think.. I think I know what…” But his grey eyes, though looking at her, were not really looking at her. He took and pressed her hand: “Don’t think too much, Rin, okey? I can fix this.” 

“You can’t fix this!” she screamed after him, but he was already out of earshot.

It was a choice she could make. Run away, become a rogue nin. But as a jinchuuriki she’d be hunted again, no matter where she went. Plus she wasn’t sure her power would ever be strong enough to sustain Isobu inside of her. It was risky, it could have no benefits at all. And on top of it all, she would need to say goodbye to everything she’d loved forever. Her family, her cousins, Kakashi and Gai, Kushina and Minato. The places she knew, that she’d grown up in. Obito’s grave. She could never see any of them ever again.

“Isobu”, she asked, now sitting deep in the green water with her legs pulled up against her chest. “What happens to you if I die with you sealed into me?”

The turtle lifted its head. For the first time since Rin had started talking to him he seemed impressed with her. It was as if he had read her mind from this sentence alone, or maybe he just had access to her every emotion just like he claimed. 

“I would be free”, he said and his voice sounded so hopeful that Rin almost started crying then and there. “I would be reborn to roam the lands until they find me eventually to seal me again. But maybe, maybe I'll be free forever.”

She thought about it. How it must feel to be bound to another person for your entire lifespan, when all you want is to be free to go wherever you want. This would be the future for both of them if Rin decided to keep herself alive. If she ran away so that the seal could not break she would never again be able to do what she wanted to do all her life. Separated from friends and family and everything she loved. Plus, she would condemn Isobu to another lifetime of being chained to somebody else’s will. Was that fair?

On the other hand, going back to Konoha spelled disaster. The creature going rampage on revenge to shinobi would be out of the question. No, Rin knew she would not be returning to Konoha. Either way it was going, she was not going to see the great gates of the village again. Not see her mother and her little cousin and Gai and Obito’s grave. No matter the decision, Nohara Rin, like she had been, would stop existing. Maybe she had already stopped existing when they made her a jinchuuriki.

There was no other way. She was stuck.

“I’m going to die”, she said and saying it out loud was like a dagger to her own soul. The turtle did not laugh at that, his old knowing eyes on her like a watchdog. “That would be a very brave decision, young girl”, he judged. She put her head to her knees. “You know, you would do me a huge favour, girl”, Isobu added quickly.

Her eyes opened to the darkness of the clearing, the stones only lit up by Kakashi’s chidori flying from one side to the next. She fiddled in her pouch for a kunai and then turned it in her hand. She would have to do it fast or the Kiri shinobi might be able to stop her from doing it. She watched Kakashi’s hair in the wind and suppressed the urge to call for him. There were things to be done.

She put the kunai up to her throat, holding it against the soft skin there until it drew blood. It hurt, not above a sting, but it hurt and she could feel the tears spring to her eyes. She didn’t want to die here. Rin thought of the training that was waiting for her back home, all the healing techniques she knew she could learn from Senju Tsunade when she came back to the village. She thought of Shizune, with whom she had trained in the hospital together and who had admired her skill so much. What did it matter that you were a talented healer, when bad people could just take you away, ruin your life and you could not defend yourself.

But such was war, she supposed.

The kunai pressed deeper into her throat when suddenly a shuriken hit her hand and she let it go. “Ouch” she exclaimed and looked up. An enemy had her in her sights. He slowly shook his head and she could see him mouth the words “Don’t you dare” and then jump away. 

“Well, what are you going to do now, young girl?” The voice said in her head. “They won’t let you die the way you want to.”

RIn wanted to cry out loud, fall to her knees and sob her heart out, but there was no time. She was the ticking time bomb that needed to be stopped. She was the reason Kakashi was here fighting to the bone. She was the reason the Kiri-nin were still fighting too. If she wasn’t around anymore, all of this would end. Everybody could wake up from the nightmare, including her.

It had to be fast, she knew that. The other shinobi were apparently looking out for her and wouldn’t hurt her or let her hurt herself. Maybe that was why nobody had attacked her even if she had not moved from one spot for a good amount of time. So it needed to be fast and it needed to kill instantly and leave no room for healing from anyone. A clean cut to the afterlife.

Isobu rumoured on her inside: “His lightning blade can do that.” Isobu guided Rin’s eyes to the light around Kakashi’s hand. Yes, she had seen this ability kill more times than she could count. It was fast and deadly and on top of that, it was predictable. Kakashi used it in a steady pattern of zigzagging among the enemies. If Rin would calculate where he’d jump next she could…

“I can’t do that”, she said out loud even though Isobu could very much hear her thoughts. “He will be scarred. He is already too scarred.” She thought of how he'd been after Obito had died. How long it had taken him to go by his normal routines again and how fixated he had been on making sure she was fine. His promise to Obito was his most important goal in life now.

Rin didn’t want to ruin that progress for him. She didn’t want him to go back to square one. He would have to grieve both of them from now on and that was already unfair enough. If she put such a high burden on him in addition to that, could she even call herself his friend? Could she even say that she loved him if she treated him like that? 

Isobu looked at her sitting at his feet and hummed a little: “Young girl, I wish I could tell you there are other options for us to choose…” Us. Rin noticed the phrase immediately. “.. but I fear there is none. This lightning could release both of us quicker than we’d notice.”  She looked up at Isobu, the tears hot in the corners of her eyes. She knew he was correct in his assessment, but didn’t want to let the realisation sink in just yet. 

The battle returned to her eye, Kakashi’s well known movement right in front of her. In a moment he would be right in front of her, right there, she could envision the spot. The tears dried in her eyes, her hands became fists. Just a jump, it would be nothing but a short jump. Kakashi wouldn’t know it was happening, that meant that the other shinobi wouldn’t either. It would be fast and painless. Or maybe it would be a little painful, but in comparison to what could possibly happen after it was nothing.

Kakashi appeared in front of her eyes, his silver hair was visible in the moonlight. It was now or never. Rin shook the concerns and fears away, she shook away memories of her family and her home and her village, her friends and her team. She didn’t look at the forest, the rustling of the trees, the moonshine over the county. She just looked at Kakashi right in front of her and jumped. Before her feet touched the ground she could hear Isobu’s voice in her head: “You are a brave young girl, girl. And I am in your debt eternally.”

It was like a weird squishy sound. As if you’d accidentally clogged the toilet by putting too much paper in it and now needed to get it out. Kakashi’s hand went right through her middle, as if butter was cut with a knife. Rin could feel the pain and not feel it at the same time. Her body went numb almost instantly. The taste of blood on her heavy tongue, eyes wide and locked on Kakashi’s wide eyes.

He looked horrified at her and then at himself and Rin wanted to say something. She wanted to tell him. “K-Kakash…i”, she said, but the rest would not come out. Not the explanation, not the apology, not the wish for him to not blame himself. She wanted to tell him that she loved him, him and Obito and their time together, that they’d both watch over him now. She wanted to tell him that he was an outstanding shinobi, that she was thankful he had come to save her.

It’s not your fault, she thought over and over. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. But her tongue could not move, there was so much blood. 

“Girl”, the voice said in her head. “You can let go now.” Isobu, she thought, but could not even muster the strength to visit him in their in-between world again. Instead she let her eyes close slowly as they felt heavy and spent. 

“I think from all Jinchuuriki I’ve ever had, you were my favourite one so far”, the voice said from far away and Rin felt at ease suddenly, floating away from all the pain and noise and heartbreak, from Kakashi’s horrified look and the bloody taste in her mouth. 

As she faded away she could see over Kakashi’s shoulder through a crack in her eyes that there was someone there, not far, at the edges of the forest, staring at them. Even now she recognised that figure and facial shape and hair colour immediately.

Obito, she thought. Thank sage, he was still alive.

Then she was gone.

[valkyriesexual]

hey first i wanna thank you for all the work you’re doing to shed light on the truth of this situation. you’re responding to everyone with such grace and intelligence—even when you feed trolls you do it with calm wit (‘sir this is a wendys’ i fuckign laughed)

this case has been affecting me deeply and i’ve been trying to articulate why so i thought i’d try expressing it to you, here—

i can’t move past this whole thing as just ‘celebrity gossip’ the way even people sympathetic to heard seem to want to, because i can’t stop thinking about how horrifically this case implicates the way our society just….hates women. and how ‘feminists’ and ‘progressives’ and other women are just completely blind to it, and even believe that supporting d*pp is a novel and progressive take itself. it’s baffling and it’s scary.

but beyond that i think what’s been really disheartening is how little support she’s seen from her peers in the industry. like shit i was rewatching the morning show and i’ve been thinking about big little lies’ depiction of dismantling the myth of mutual abuse and like??? where are reese witherspoon and nicole kidman—heard’s colleague? hello?? seeing jennifer aniston openly supporting depp’s victory?? this woman’s humiliation has been so disgustingly public and that warrants public support….so why is no one showing her that? like is it truly that hopeless for women who speak out?? they have to face all of this alone???

i want to believe that it can be chalked up to ignorance because good god it IS a lot of work to wade through the propaganda but. so many public figures that i admire and that claim to care about these issues through their storytelling who i KNOW have half a brain cell capable of critical thinking have been completely silent and it’s deafening. it’s not on someone like d*pp’s fucking daughter to speak up. there are women in the industry that have the power and resources and the fucking protection who can afford to lend a hand to a peer that desperately needs the support. women like her need to be able to SEE that they will receive support. NOW is the time to put their money where their mouths are. so where are they??

idk and it feels gross to put blame on women who (bleak to think about but) may be just as powerless against this machine because of course it’s up to the people and the men with the power to not abuse and enable it in the first place. and plenty of men could be speaking out about it too!!! it just hurts more i think seeing powerful women purport to being champions and activists for these issues and then like…..not actually doing anything when it’s happening in front of them. it feels like betrayal.

and it’s like. i’m a white cis woman and i know that that places me in a position of privilege, and i keep seeing that same rhetoric weaponized against heard. talking about her white woman tears or whatever or like because she’s this rich white woman it’s not important and let’s talk about gun violence instead because that’s actually important and of COURSE it is, but. i can’t believe how much they’re missing the point—if even a woman arguably at the pinnacle of privilege can’t stand up for herself or receive support from ANYONE when she does, then what fucking hope is there for any fucking woman on the planet???

anyway sorry for this i’m just fucking tired and i’m fucking angry. thank you again for what you’re doing. truly, it’s important 🤍

i waited a little while to publish this message because i wanted to come up with a good response, but honestly, i've got nothing. it's been devastating to watch. i knew that tons of people were just waiting for the opportunity to come out with the whole "me too is dead" "actually DON'T believe women", but knowing it was coming didn't lessen the impact of seeing it in real time.

and the absolute dearth of support from all these women who showed up on red carpets wearing black and time up! pins. the hypocrisy hurts.

the whole 'white woman tears' thing. that's meant specifically to describe how (1) 'displays of pain or emotional discomfort from white women in feminist and anti-racist spaces distract from conversations about structural power by individualizing experiences of fraught racial dynamics' (reni ecco-lodge, alanah mortlock) and (2) 'how needing to protect delicate white women became key to the deadly disciplinary power (lynching, mass incarceration) that maintained racialized and classist regimes of extraction and exploitation of communities of color (X)'. it's not applicable to a situation in which a white woman accuses a rich, successful, famous, powerful white man of domestic and sexual violence.

it's just. yeah. if AH, with literal mountains of evidence including audio recordings, text messages, photos of bruises, videos of depp throwing things in drunken rages, writing "billy bob and easy amber" in his own fucking blood.... if that isn't enough...to be believed? if AH with lawyers from the ACLU vetting every single word of her op-ed isn't enough to protect her from depp's lawsuits? if the UK verdict finding that she proved 12 of 14 incidents of domestic violence to a civil legal standard isn't enough? i mean, what hope does any other victim have.

all that is to say, i'm with you. i really am.

[clawsextended]

it’s awful. she can see it from the outside, can see it from the lens just beyond the window. interior, enter selina’s hair slipping over a shoulder, tender touches of fading afternoon light filtering pale through the window. pan to the tender bow of a pout that creates once scarlet lips into aching expressions of her deepest self. addison’s words ring in her ears with far more acuity than her tinnitus does.

i want you.

she doesn’t often (ever) have the words to let the doctor understand. she speaks in sordid actions and strange habits — she reacts to things and calls it gospel. addison is eloquent and articulate, and sometimes selina cannot quite keep up.

but here she is beyond fluent. here addison speaks and three words find their home in her mouth. selina doesn’t expect to be off guard when that kiss is gifted to her — why the fuck would she? selina freely offers herself any way addison prefers, the cat or daphne. and addison just… likes selina.

her. she feels her cheeks deepen a distinct near fuchsia. She clutches onto her in that kiss, an entirely indecent thing all its own — the curl of her tongue in the other’s mouth, an link in a puzzle she had not yet conceived of until now. her own fingertips never change their movements, smooth-rough as her touch is, dips teasingly along with a careful attention.

“baby. whatever you want.”

she’d move the earth and the heavens and water if asked, if wanted. if wanted. she isn’t sure she understands the truth of wanting — how tied to avarice desire is, intimately hedonistic. she shudders into the doctor’s mouth and darkly, pleasantly brushes the curious flare of heat so immediately tingling between her legs aside.

“you asked so nice, i could never say no.”

she shivers against addison, a purr resounding staccato in her throat. she thinks of everything at once, and settles instead on every moment enclosed as its own.

“mm. tell me that again. i’m inclined to please when i’m pleased.”

the cat’s elegant, incredibly so. feeling again finds itself trying to walk a thin center line and its very, very difficult not to take a tumble. but addison’s voice is very, very distinct and it has such a talent for eradicating her every preoccupation. the cat dips her nose to fix her left hand to the collar of that button down and in an easy snap she tears it free, buttons not shredded but quite clearly stressed.

because it’s all about control, isn’t it? slight of hand, keep your eyes on me. she can kill as easily as addison can cure and she thinks that’s ironic but no less delectable.

she accepts her so wholly that all it does is easily press selina’s thigh between her legs when she bites down soft on her throat.

“baby, that’s fucking all i am. i’m the one who matters.”

perhaps it’s a manic sensation that takes her over, she isn’t quite sure. it’s an oceanic confidence that makes achillean of the cat, makes her something beautifully ordained with purpose focused solely on addison. maybe that’s what it is, that madness that she expresses easily when she presses down the center of her with a purr. she kisses her because she has to.

it’s somewhere between a need for control and the insane subject of want. both are fed so readily here. addison only encourages her behavior. a hand wanders between the doctor’s legs to ever so faintly ghost, intended fully to imply and yet to withhold ever so. it’s a whisper of intention and nothing more, nothing less. assurance. and yet, still a promise.

“because i liked them but i just like the sight of you much more.”

the way her eyes search are so distinct, the lean line of her own body pressed broad against the doctor’s. selina is not an inch soft, only existent of the cashmere sweater she’s wearing, a false shell to mask the hard angles that create her. she lacks the ability to be anything but severe, but she cuts to the quick.

“i’ll spare it. i’m being kind.”

your hero.

her own skin is chill, faintly warm, more imbued with what had once been warmth. what was warmth a long, long time ago. now she is unavoidably burning, but one wouldn’t assume it to her surprising chill.

she’s quietly unaffected and yet so incredibly affected at once. it’s a rush, something she’s immediately addicted to.

“i feel juuuuust fine. maybe i’m slightly warm. overall i think I’m really too content.”

[iwritefandomimagines]

AARON HOTCHNER x READER: “Are you drunk?”

requested: prompt 10

masterlist

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader

description: you’ve been fighting feelings for hotch for some time now, assuming he doesn’t feel the same. after witnessing office gossip and having a drink or two, hotch makes it clear you were wrong to assume that.

warnings: kissing, but nothing too explicit.

Another day of stolen glances. Another day of accidental touches when he was trying to stay away. Another day of sexual tension lingering in the air so thickly that it could be cut with only the sharpest of knives.

Aaron Hotchner was the bane of your existence, you were certain of it.

You’d been attracted to him since the day you first set foot into the BAU. He was still married to Haley, then, and you’d kept your distance because you respected that, but knew you couldn’t help your desperation to flirt with him. It helped that she knew how you felt -- she’d never liked you as a result.

When they got divorced, you supported him as best as you could. You thought about keeping your distance, not wanting to let yourself fall for him even more in a time of his vulnerability. But you couldn't let him suffer his heartbreak without knowing that, in whatever capacity, you cared.

But now that some time had passed, things had gone back to usual. In the past few weeks he seemed to avoid you entirely. You felt worried, like you’d imposed too much on his personal life and that was why he was avoiding you like the plague. 

Should you have stayed out of it?

He’d seemed incredibly grateful for your concern at the time, but what had changed? You didn’t want to ruin things, not with the man you were certain you were head over heels for.

Despite him trying his best to ignore you, the tension between you remained ever-present. Everyone seemed to notice, the girls taking it upon themselves to gossip and throw endless questions at you. They’d gone so far as to assume something had happened between you already, assuming that was why things were awkward. 

You were finishing up some paperwork, Garcia, Emily and JJ at your side as you pushed your last pile of folders to the back of your desk, “You’re telling us the absolute truth, right?” Penelope pressed, chin in her palm as she nosed at your personal life as ever. 

“Nothing happened between us, guys,” you laughed sourly, and they obviously could detect your tone, “He still loves her, I’m sure of it. It hasn’t been long, has it?”

Emily eyed you curiously, “And how do you feel about him?”

You bit your lip, unsure of how much to give away, “I suppose I’ve been lying saying I’m not even slightly attracted to him. But nothing will happen, he’s never going to feel anything for me... And he’s my boss. Besides, he’s been avoiding me for a while now...”

JJ laughed, glancing up towards Hotch’s office, “Y/N, he’s been undressing you with his eyes all week... And whenever you’re not in the office he’s asking after you, always making excuses about paperwork he needs from you.” 

You blushed, looking up and accidentally catching his eye, looking immediately back at the girls. Did he really ask after you? Of course you’d noticed that there was tension, but you assumed it was more on your part and that he was simply lonely as a result of his divorce.

“I-I don’t know guys,” you stuttered, raising to your feet and slinging your bag over your shoulder, “I’ve gotta head home anyway. I’ll catch up with you guys tomorrow, okay?”

As soon as Hotch saw you stand, his eyes followed you the whole way out of the doors. He gulped, seeing the girls’ eyes trail to him and knowing that he’d been the topic of conversation prior to your exit.

He left his office, pacing over to where they sat with a stern expression on his face as ever, “Is everything okay with Y/L/N?” 

Penelope smirked, “Oh, she’s just a little pent up, I think,” she teased, debating letting the truth slip but deciding instead to just suggest, “I think you should speak to her, sir.”

Hotch just nodded, swallowing hard and heading back to his office to gather hs things and leave. 

“Oh my god, I’ve never seen Hotch leave so early... Do you think he’s really going to speak to her?” Emily whispered, and the girls all felt giddy as they hoped their friends would finally make the moves they’d wanted to for as long as they’d known them.

------

You were just falling asleep when a knock rapped at your front door.

You stumbled out of bed, hardly awake enough to realise the small slip nightdress barely covering your frame. 

You were surprised to find a slightly disheveled looking Aaron Hotchner, his tie pulled loose and his face twisted in an expression you couldn’t quite decipher.

“Sorry for-for turning up like this, Y/N. But I’d like to talk to you if that’s okay,” he took in your sleepy state then, “I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

You shrugged, “Not quite. But it’s alright, come in.”

He stumbled a little as he walked in and, considering he didn’t drink much usually you brushed it off and assumed he was just being awkward as he followed you to your couch.

“What is it, Aaron? Is everything okay?”

He sighed, “I’m sorry. For ignoring you, because it’s the last thing I wanted to do, darling. Really.” He sat beside you on the couch, closer than he’d ever usually sit, his warm breath over your face and allowing you smell the scotch on his tongue.

“Are you drunk?” 

Aaron’s hand reached up to your face, his palm cupping your jaw tentatively as his eyes searched yours for the right way to articulate his feelings to you, “I had a drink or two to make this... easier to say. You know I’m not good with talking about feelings, which is why I’ve avoided you recently.”

“What do you mean?” your breathing was ragged under his touch. Was he saying what you thought he was right now?

“I’ve got feelings for you, Y/N. Feelings stronger than I’ve admitted to myself for a long time... Everyone else could see it. Even Haley saw it, as she loved to shove in my face when filing for divorce,” he pulled your face closer to his, his eyes flickering between yours and your lips, “And when you helped me through the divorce I was so grateful but... I got scared. I was scared to let you in and admit that I felt anything for you.”

“Aaron I’ve had feelings for you since the first moment we met,” you whispered softly, pressing a kiss to his thumb as it sat just at the corner of your mouth, “I was afraid I was pushing it and that you just didn’t feel the same.”

He shook his head, “Y/N you’ve been on my mind constantly. I’ve pushed the feelings away for too long and I could see you talking to the girls earlier, when I saw them after they made it quite clear what was being discussed so I... I knew I needed to bite the bullet.”

You drew in a sharp breath as he leaned in so that your foreheads were touching. You’d never quite seen Aaron this tender and gentle, even in his heartbroken state. Shivers flew up your spine and you fought the urge to kiss him for a few moments, but he didn’t give you any more of a chance as he captured your lips in his.

The kiss was soft and didn’t last long, but the passion and longing couldn’t have been more fiery. He drew back nervously, “Sorry. Was that okay?”

“More than okay, Aaron,” you assured him, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his lips to reassure him, “In fact, I’d quite like it if you kissed me again.”

He laughed a little, the corner of his mouth turning up in a small smile before he kissed you again. This time the kiss was deep, his tongue gliding along your bottom lip as you parted your lips quickly. Your hands flew around his neck as he pulled you onto his lap, panting.

When you pulled back, his brows furrowed, “I don’t want to rush this, sweetheart, but I’d like to give this a try, if that’s what you want. You and me.”

You grinned, beaming like the Cheshire Cat as he nervously looked at you.

“I’d love that, Aaron. More than anything,” your hands found the bottom of his hair, tugging slightly as you kissed him again, “You and me.”

“You and me.”

“Finally.”

Aaron didn’t leave your house that night and, for that entire weekend, it was hard to find a moment where you weren’t occupied with each other. 

After all this time, the man you’d been pining over really did feel the same.

And he more than made up for all the time spent waiting.

-----

thank u for reading! i hope this was okay... feel free to keep requests coming (especially criminal minds ones !!!) because i have so much free time to write rn hahahah <3 if you need ideas, here’s my prompt list & if you want to read more of my stuff -- here’s my masterlist!

[llamagoddessofficial]

Thank you @eldritch-and-tired for commissioning this lil’ /Reader piece of @megalommi‘s Sans, Baggs. I will ALWAYS be a simp for this sexyman. Enjoy!!

Tw: injections, unwilling hypnosis/mind control

...

You giggled.

The light was so pretty. Swirling, undulating, cyan and magenta warping and shifting in and out of one another in an endless hypnotising rhythm. It made you think of a funfair... spirals everywhere, from the tops of the stalls to the decorations on the rides, to the signs leading you around to those huge lollipops that tasted tooth-meltingly sweet. Happy memories, carefree, far away and non-solid but still wonderful. What were you doing? You couldn’t remember anything. You liked blue and purple, they were everywhere, all around you, such pretty colours. 

Pretty, pretty...

“... there we go. easy now.”

... You didn’t realise he was even there until he (somewhat cautiously?) spoke. Your senses were just colours. The voice was odd and a bit disembodied at first but slowly, slowly, you became aware of its source- a face hovering just over you. The awareness spread to your body, too... you were bent at an odd angle with your feet just barely lifted off the floor, your back flat on a rather uncomfortable table, gravity pulling your hair and cheeks. And he... he was just a few inches over you, pinning you by one of your wrists.

...

A tight and tense, cutting smile, clear signs of stress around his face and shoulders making it obvious that this was the smile of a man on the edge and not one of any particular joy. Deep sockets, so wide they looked borderline painful, glaring down at you with so much intensity...

... You could feel his body heat. And his breath against your face. Your heartbeat, your slightly itchy nose, how tight he was holding your wrist.

“... Mh... Huh?” You said, ever-so articulately, vision spinning in the same direction as the swirls emanating from his left socket. A similar way to how the world rocked when you were dizzy... except for you, it never righted itself. It just kept spinning and spinning and spinning. Everything was so bright, as you fell under a pleasant fuzzy sensation burrowed into your chest and mind, blanketing your thoughts as if you were just in the middle of a nice dream where nothing much mattered.

“shh...” 

When he gently closed his gloved fingers around something you had gripped in your pinned hand, you put up no fuss, loosening your hold and allowing him to take it... when did you pick up a scalpel? What an odd thing to have. The back of your head hurt and your knuckles felt the telltale aches of having been tense a few moments ago, even though they were now just an unwound coil like the rest of you.

... Dr. Baggs let out a long slow, breath. You could feel it against your nose and neck, he was that close... his mouth open barely a crack, the magenta hue of his tongue glinting against his fangs. 

“... alright.” He said, voice silky, gentle on your thrumming ears and head, sockets easing around the edges as he calmed down. The bluish shadows of sleep deprivation under them became more apparent as the tension in the room, face and posture waned. “that’s better.”

... Yeah. You thought, relaxed and calm. It is.

... He gave you the bare minimum of personal space, leaning back and helping you to sit, lifting you with the perfect combination of gentle but firm as if he knew you’d immediately feel so dizzy when you became upright. Your hands moved up and held onto his shoulders to steady yourself- the fabric of his lab coat was surprisingly soft, it was very nice to touch. 

... He was so close. Supportive but strict hands on your elbows, your knees on either side of him, he smelled like... the artificial flavouring they added candy that just wasn’t quite natural. And a specific, scented brand of antiseptic; clean and sterile and prepared.

“... well.” He hummed, reaching out of sight for something with one hand. Your forehead would bump his collarbone if you leant forward any more. His voice was so soothing and calming, especially since you were only a few inches from his clavicle... you were getting pretty close to shutting your eyes at this point, but a prick in your arm kept you from completely nodding off- you barely noticed it, too busy studying the aesthetically pleasing purple trim to his coat and enjoying the funny fuzzy sensation in your chest and temples. Oh, he suddenly had a full syringe in his hand that he was putting a cap on... where did he get that? 

“i knew from the start you’d be uncooperative, but... not that kind of uncooperative.”

He held something up to your face. You opened your mouth, (wait, why am I opening my mouth...) and he quickly placed it on your tongue. You swallowed, again, without knowing why... it was like your body was following a list of instructions that you couldn’t see or hear. Someone else had taken the wheel; tugging the right strings to make the right parts of you move when they were needed. 

... You didn’t think about it much. No panic, no confusion, no considering the implications. The thoughts were disconnected... just ships in the night, sailing by your muffled brain. All you could really think about was how whatever he’d given you was very strange and bitter and ew, you cringed, an odd acrid taste lingering in the back of your throat.

... Another prick in your arm. That’s weird, he keeps pricking me. Oh well. This time, you looked just in time to see him removing a now-empty syringe; he wiped where he’d poked your forearm with something very cold, then placed a little circular red band-aid over it.

...

There were six other band-aids on that forearm. Two green, three navy, one black... and now the red one.

Hm... I feel like I should be alarmed by that...

Again, all you could think about was how nice you felt right now. Dizzy, warm, safe. Like you’d had a little too much to drink, but now you were laying out in the sun with your friends... I miss the sun...

“most of my ‘patients’ are at least... consistent.” Baggs hummed, continuining to hold you carefully by the elbows, predicting your post-jab swaying. He didn’t seem to realise he was talking aloud, just a scientist observing his experiment, and you weren’t really paying enough attention to what he was actually saying- too many words to process, boooring. “uncooperative awake, uncooperative under. you’re always displaying aggression toward me... and yet as soon as you have no control, there’s an obediency so immediate it’s borderline subconscious. rather fascinating.”

Instead, you...

“... Sexy voice.”

...

...

“... what?” 

Apparently, that was enough to finally break him out of his thoughts. You glanced up at Baggs’ face, still only a few inches away, you kept forgetting where things were around you... the cushion around your soul never wavered but for a moment there was a little blip in the swirls. A slight interruption.

“Mmmhm.”

...

... His expression sort of... well, ‘melted’ was the wrong word. It was more akin to the sun peeking out from between two clouds. The detached, observational, scientific air to him thinned and began to evaporate... revealing something a little more warm.

The razor and unfriendly edges of his smile were rounding into something organic. Perhaps even, daresay, resembling forward. 

“my.” He purred. “how forward of you.”

“S’very nice. Very smooth...” Your tongue felt... eh. And your arm, where he’d poked you, was starting to itch. “And you have a nice face too... handsome man. I think so.”

...

His smile started growing even more, and he leaned back an inch or two as if to look at all of you and make sure you were really the same person he’d brought into this examination room less than an hour ago. “... oh really?”

“Yeah...” ... Your hands had been just holding onto his coat... but, spurred on by your sudden drunken confidence, you properly looped them around his neck.

... He blinked, but he only let himself appear taken aback for a moment or two. Despite how ominously his magenta eyelights glowed in his dark, shadowed sockets... you could tell he was enjoying himself, and this sudden turn of events. “i’m flattered.”

You laid your head on his chest. It was getting kinda hard to stay upright. 

... Your nose scrunched.

“Funky smell, though.”

That was enough to get an actual laugh out of him- albeit shortlived, his skull cocking like a curious mirthful bird. “are you... genuinely telling me that i smell, darling?”

“Yeah. Because it’s true. You’re gremlin.”

 “i’m... gremlin?”

“Mhm.”

“stars. i wish i could tell pap about this.”

Your body shifted, enough to make you lightly squeak- things were spinning so much that it took you a minute to realise Baggs had picked you up, an arm hooked under your legs and another around your back.

“you’re all done for the day, pet.” His eyelights had become a thrumming, almost amethyst colour as he looked at you, a far gentler shade of purple than his previous headache-inducing magenta. You weren’t sure what’d caused that but you weren’t complaining. You weren’t sure what’d caused him to carry you either, considering he usually just brought someone to collect his ‘patients’ for him... but, again, not complaining. “it’s time to get back to your room.”

“I feel funny.” You mumbled.

“that’s normal.”

He started walking. The halls all looked the same, as he moved through them, blending into one another... white and sterile, a few doors dotted inbetween if you were lucky but mostly just the exact same tiles and patterns and lack of anything that would clue you into the fact that people had actually (at some point) existed in this area. 

“Hm... is this where you work...?”

A little chuckle. He was sounding further and further away. “yes. this is my job, dear.”

“It’s so g... ug-ly.”

“oh? you think so?” Baggs’ tone had become... light? Perhaps a little teasing. 

“Jus... put up some nice posters, or something.” Your head was so heavy. Since when was it this heavy? You had to rest it against his chest, feeling that nice fabric against your cheek, hearing an equally nice humming sound from inside his ribcage. “Paint the walls. It’s so... white. Clini... ...clinicic... Calic...” 

“clinical?”

“... Yeah.Tthat.”

A gloved phalange touched your arm. It was probably an attempt at a comforting gesture- stroking the skin. “good to know. i’ll make sure to pass that eloquent advice along to the decorating team.”

“Good.”

He brought you to a cell-like room. It was... vaguely familiar? A bed with one pillow, thin white sheets... some strange posters and a window with bars over it. You felt like you’d spent a long time in there, but it was impossible to think straight enough to actually muster up any memories.

Baggs laid you down on the bed, slowly, handling you like you’d fall apart at any moment. You made a little noise- it wasn’t a very soft bed... but it was good enough. And your body felt so strange and tired that any soft surface honestly was nice enough to lay down on forever.

“comfy?” He asked. Since when did he inquire if you were comfy?

“M... no. S’whatever.”

...

You peeked at him, crouched by your bed... and you reached out, pressing your inexplicably heavy finger against the top of his nasal cavity in a booping motion. You mumbled a little victorious “Silly skeleton.” 

...

He took your hand in his gloved one, gently, before it could go limp and flop down. You couldn’t really make out his expression at this point.

“don’t tell the other subjects...” He murmured... he sounded amused, at least. “but i think you’ve become my favourite.”

“Course.” You shut your eyes. “I’m... m’amazing.”

“... yes. course.” 

A feeling, like a kiss on your hand, before he placed it by your side.

“... go to sleep.”

...

And just like that, your body obeyed him before your head could even process what he’d said, and you were asleep.

[prose-for-hire]

Face your demon

Pairing: Spike x reader

Request: Could you do A Spike x reader where the reader is in love with him, but doesn't show her emotions (except for getting easily flustered around him), but Spike overhears hears her talking to willow about it and he confronts her, ending in them being together?

Requested by: @wiccanindigo​

Requested tags: @fictionalhoomanofnowhere @artsymaddie​ @shy-ginger-in-the-graveyard​ @cameo-greaves​

​You were pretty neutral in public. Your face rarely shifted other than to a polite smile or perhaps a confused frown should the moment take you by surprise. Other than this human reaction, you would usually maintain a resting face. One that appeared to most as if you didn’t wish to be in their company. Or anywhere at all really.

You felt a lot. You really cared about your friends, the people you loved. It was just near-impossible to express this. At least, in a way that you were comfortable. It was much easier to hold people at a distance. That way, you didn’t risk rejection. Or painful, bitter emotions that you didn’t enjoy.

So, you tended to hide your emotional side completely. Rather than wrestle with articulating the way you felt. It wasn’t necessarily a conscious decision, just one that you lived with. You struggled expressing your emotions – not only on your face but also verbally. Any way, really. It could be so hard.

Luckily for you though, you had some very caring and empathetic friends. The Scoobies. They understood and gave you the time you needed – between fighting apocalypses of course.

You were sat in the Magic box with all of your friends around you. Buffy, Willow, Xander, Anya, Tara and Giles. You were characteristically just staring into the centre of the room as the usual antics played out around you.

You contributed now and again although not as passionately as the others, it must be said. You tended to bounce off of someone else’s point and repeat it if you agreed with it with a shrug. As if you would rather be anywhere but there.

You weren’t shy. In fact you came across as the complete opposite. Cool, collected. Near apathetic should your friends not understand how deeply you truly did care – you just didn’t express it as much as most. There was no need to gush in your book. You weren’t one to keep your heart on your sleeve and make the entire room look at it.

Well, that was until him.

Spike ran in, slamming the door shut behind him. It slammed so hard the entire store shook and he sauntered in as if it was nothing. It made the corners of your mouth tug into an almost-smile but you looked down to avoid anyone seeing.

There he was, your weakness. The one that could render you speechless. A flustered mess. A heat would rise in your cheeks and your voice would appear weak and just wholly unlike yourself.

You had it bad. He always did this, walking in with that swagger. Those cheekbones. That look…

His eyes were straight on you. As they always were. You were a mystery to him, one he was so desperate to figure out. You had noticed the way he always made his way to you. The way he dropped his voice and made comments about the others in the room in the hopes of you cracking a smile.

You spoke to him as much as you could, but often your words failed you. You didn’t want to give anything away. Couldn’t. You didn’t want him to tease you, reject you in such a painful way.

He was Spike, after all. He could have anyone he wanted you were sure of it.

The point was, though, that he wanted you. And you were too wrapped up in focusing on how to breath properly when he was around that you didn’t notice.

Spike found your resting face beautifully morbid. He found you to be strong-willed and the very little he sensed or heard from you he found himself clinging to. You would be stamped onto his brain for the rest of his un-life, he was sure of it.

He was in so deep. Thought about you constantly. Wanted to know what you were doing, what you were thinking. Imagined himself by your side. Taking you into his bed… oh, and I won’t even start on the dreams. They left him aching. Such deep, unending desire. For you. God, it could only ever be you.

“Alright, pet? Don’t rush to say you missed me, written on your face already” He smouldered in that way he did. Hoping for any kind of reaction.

You looked up at him before immediately looking away. A ghost of a smile on your face as you shifted in your seat. He took this as an invitation to sit beside you and so he did.

“Hi Spike” You just about managed before your voice wavered. You didn’t like the way he rendered you this flustered mess. But, at the same time you couldn’t help but completely love it.

Your usual cool demeanour gone. Lost in those beautiful eyes of his. You could happily live in his eyes for the rest of your life.

You managed to position yourself in your seat in such a way that meant he made up most of you vision, without it looking glaringly obvious to anyone else. He lived in your peripheral vision. At least this way a little part of him was yours.

You became a little brave and moved your eyes to look at him properly, no longer just from the side. He was beautiful. The way that t-shirt clung perfectly to his torso. The way his leather duster managed to land in such a relaxed way on his shoulders. Effortless cool. Or, that’s what you assumed.

You loved him. His looks. His personality. Just everything. You couldn’t escape it.

Something snapped you out of staring. Everyone’s eyes were suddenly on you. Staring.

“Huh?” You asked, feeling a heat rise in your cheeks as he turned to face you properly too. You had apparently managed to miss the entire meeting. Not one scrap of the plan had entered your head. You were consumed by him instead.

“Y/n? You sure that’s okay?”

“We’ll be fine on patrol, right love?” Spike smirked at the rest of the room and raised an eyebrow which made everyone reconsider.

“We can switch if evil dead makes you uncomfortable” Xander offered kindly which made spike glare. He wanted you to himself.

“No that’s good- uh, fine. It’s fine. I’ll patrol with Spike” you rushed out at a completely different pace than anyone was used to hearing you speak.

What you were supposed to be looking for, you didn’t know. You hadn’t been listening just focusing on regulating your breathing. Wiping the sweat from your palms at the proximity. He was sat so close to you. You wanted to just lean against him. Whisper how you felt.

You and Spike walked out into the cool night air. Mostly in silence, although you could almost hear the cogs in his mind whirring to come up with something to say. You didn’t realise but he was trying to impress you. Trying to get you to smile. He loved it when you smiled. Near melted.

He then finally asked something he had so wanted to say to you. For such a long time.

“We could, uh, blow this off, go for a drink?” He let the proposition hang in the air.

You didn’t even begin to consider this had been something more than a teasing joke because he didn’t want to be stuck patrolling anymore. Just wanted to rebel against Buffy’s sudden authority in his life.

“Yeah, because I’ve always thought you’d look great with a redwood through your chest” You spoke, referring to what Buffy would do to him should he leave you or the demon to run through the streets.

“Pet-”

“It’d make a pretty accessory. Bring out your eyes” You deadpanned and he just stared. Why were you like this? Why did your flirting so quickly descend into just being rude?

It was like a disease. You were riddled with it. Any sense that your mouth would spill the contents of your mind and something took over. Possessed you, began to say the very opposite of what you wished to say.

You wanted him to ask you out for a drink. Tell you that you looked nice, that he felt lucky to have someone like you to take out. Have on his arm. Show off. You wanted to loop your arms around him and embrace him. Kiss his lips. Have him in your bed. His body yours and only yours.

But, instead, you had just told him he would look better dead. Or, well, more dead. He had taken this as a firm no, you didn’t want to go out with him. He looked upwards, trying to stop the stinging at the back of his eyes before he nodded firmly and just shrugged.

“Whatever, let’s find this vamp”

Oh, right. It was a vampire. You were supposed to be looking for a vampire. That at least narrowed it down… kind of.

Both of you took turns in glancing at the person beside them. So desperately wishing to touch them. Have some kind of intimacy. It was hard having the one that you loved so close and yet emotionally so far away.

There was a distance. A canyon between you that you both wished to cross. But it was so hard. There would be no turning back.

You never caught up with the vampire you were meant to find and Spike walked you home instead when it got too late. You tried to thank him for the gesture but he had turned and walked away. Licking his wound at the rejection you had inflicted upon him without realising.

Despite the fact you had hurt him though, he had needed to make sure you got in safe. Protecting you from harm meant everything even if you wouldn’t give him the time of day.

It had been a couple of days since this unwitting rejection and you and Willow had arrived early waiting to meet with the others at the Magic Box. Giles had gone to pick up some order sat the back. Which left just you and your friend. Well, that’s what you thought anyway.

She was the only one that knew how you felt for Spike. She had seen you watching him, a new expression unlocked on your face. As if she had won a quest or something in a video game and been allowed to see it.

Conversation had quickly turned to this man that you were so in love with it managed to fluster even you. You near hid your face from your friend at even the implication you liked him. But you were comfortable that Willow was being supportive.

You discussed that you liked him. Truly admitted it out loud for the first time. Not realising that the man himself was stood around the corner listening. He loved to hear your voice and so had stayed back because you seemed to speak less in his company.

Spike’s jaw tensed as he heard you talking about this mystery man though. He had never heard you gush this way before. Stumbling over your words to describe such longing. You usually appeared so calm, collected. He wished to be the one that sent you weak at the knees in the way that this nameless idiot did. He guessed it was probably Xander.

Stupid bloody Xander. Gormless nit.

“Maybe, uh, you should tell him? You can’t know his feelings unless you try” Willow offered.

Spike guiltily hoped that you would have to face rejection so that he could comfort you instead. Spend more time with you, prove to you that you could trust him with your emotions. He so longed to have your attention. Your trust.

“I can’t… I-it’s too hard” You sighed and his spirits lifted, maybe this would be his chance instead. While you tried to build up your courage, he could show you how much you meant to him. How much he wanted you.

Nothing could have prepared him for what came out of your mouth next. There had been only a slight pause while you sifted through your emotions.

“He’s so- he’s… he’s Spike” You had no other description other than this spike-ness was all that you wanted. You near craved it. But also these words explained how hard it was. How trying to speak to him was near impossible. Willow nodded in understanding and patted your shoulder sympathetically.

“It could be good for you, y’know? Facing your, uh, demon…” Willow’s voice dried up. Turned into a little squeak. You looked up, confused.

There he was, as if your longing had been a magnet to the man himself. Your eyes bulged and your mouth opened in shock. The most your face had ever given away.

Willow stumbled over some excuse that neither Spike nor you heard before she left for the exit. Allowing you to both speak.

“I’m the bloke you’ve been harpin’ on about?” He said slowly. He did this only because he wanted to hear it from your mouth again. As if he wasn’t entirely sure if he had dreamed it or not.

“We don’t have to make it into a big deal… I’m sure I’ll, uh, get over it” You tried, avoiding the rejection you could feel coming.

“Don’t” He said quickly, “God, please bloody don’t get over it. You’d break a poor dead man’s heart if you did”

“What?” You asked, frowning in confusion. He couldn’t possibly feel the same way… could he?

“Don’t be daft, love. Asked you for a drink didn’t I? Trailed after you despite you not even pretending to take an interest. Been there just in the nick of time before somethin’ nasty ate you?” He reeled off things he had pretty much done in the last fourty-eight hours. It made you gasp with surprise. How had you missed this? “Tell me I haven’t bent over bloody backwards for even a shred of your affection,”

“Spike…” You looked away, it was so hard. You didn’t even know how to begin to say what you needed to.

“Please, don’t shy away. Can’t stand it when your eyes wander…”

“Spike, I…” He took your hand, nodding subtly to show that he was there. That he liked you, that he needed to hear it. Whatever it may be, “I love you”

Spike pulled you into him immediately, knowing this must have bee hard for you. He was beginning to understand. You were like him, petrified of the rejection. The idea that the one that held such promise and stirred such feeling could ruin everything. You restored his faith in love. Rekindled his affections for the notion as well as confirming that he loved you too.

He crashed his lips to yours, his reply to your words communicated in this way. And you understood completely. Lips moving against yours, a display of affection only for you. he was firm in his love but so very tender. He embraced you close, a hand along the small of your back that made you shiver and lean further into him. Deepening this perfect kiss.

You parted, somewhat reluctantly and just gazed at the other for a moment before he spoke.

“I’m just glad you don’t have eyes for the whelp” Spike grinned and it made your face brighten. A smile. One that he savoured as you rolled your eyes at him being so pleased you liked him more than Xander.

He took your hand in his and sauntered beside you. Chest puffed out and proud to have you by his side. As if you had just gifted him the entire world.

Now you just had to break it to your friends. There was no way you would be hiding this.

[cdroloisms]

haha your snippit abt the dispenser got me thinking.

Dream gets let out of prison and he talks constantly, whatever is on his mind. And he's positive all the time. To a fault where people walk over him. And it doesn't make sense because he was tortured right???? But after an incident they find out it's because he hates the sound of silence and needs constant reminders that other people are there. Also he was punished for any negative emotions in the prison so his default is happy now,,,

hi anon !! this concept makes me SO goddamn sad ,, the idea that he Has to be happy bc anything else would mean punishment im so *punches the walls*

this ,, ficlet is honestly. pretty ooc, not really related to the ask at all, and mostly an excuse for me to cry abt c!dream and c!punz for an excessive amount of time (technically the vote on twitter was supposed to have this as c!sapnap pov, but i just wrote one for him so i went for c!punz instead. mostly bc i wanted to write him LMAO). hopefully someone enjoys it despite *gestures vaguely* all of that mess

tw: trauma, disordered eating, implied torture/abuse, blood, injuries, unhealthy coping mechanisms, emotional distress, thoughts of murder/mercy killing, mentioned animal death, dark content

In the end, it’s all rather anticlimactic, the complete opposite of Dream’s vault and the whole fiasco of adrenaline and theatrics that had made up that day. Quackity ended up having one too many drinks, bragged about the wrong thing to the wrong person - Punz doesn’t know the specifics, only knows that one thing has led to another and suddenly Sapnap was screaming at his ex-fiancé, sword pointed at his chest and tears streaming down his eyes in the middle of the Community House floor, everyone else stood around and watching. A look into Quackity’s office said everything he didn’t - the chests and chests of used and new tools, shiny and sharpened and completely rusted over with blood and everything in between. There’s been a balled up shirt in the wastebasket, completely unsalvageable from how saturated it was with blood, more red than white, and perhaps most chilling of all the calendar, marked with X after X in red pen, going back months and speaking to their utter failure to see what had been happening all but right in front of them.

With Quackity down, Sam caved not too long after, and with his input getting into the prison was no challenge at all. The only thing holding them back were bad memories and the tense, worried edge to Sam’s jaw as he led the small group of them - himself and Sapnap, actually entering the facility, Bad and Puffy waiting outside - carrying them through winding corridor after winding corridor and lava pit after lava pit, until they’d come to stand before a chasm filled with flowing lava, slowly draining before the main cell.

“I- I have to warn you,” Sam had muttered, uncharacteristically hesitant, “it looks…pretty bad,” and Punz would’ve questioned him further, but the lava had fallen far enough to reveal the topmost edge of the cell, so they let Sapnap hound the Warden for information as they directed their full attention on the cell itself and holy shit.

Nothing Sam said could’ve possibly have prepared them for the sight - it was a complete fucking bloodbath, crimson painting the walls and smeared over the floor and splattered over every visible surface like some abstract art experiment gone wrong. The stench of iron and burning flesh and viscera was awful, even over the gap marked by the still-draining lava. Punz strained his eyes; at the very back of the cell, huddled, unmoving, was a similarly bloodstained shape that must’ve been Dream. They remember the crack of Sapnap’s knuckles meeting Sam’s face and breaking his nose, remember themselves chucking a pearl and feeling along Dream’s neck desperately for a pulse - everything beyond that became a swirl of voices and panic and crying that makes their head hurt to think about, so they don’t.

Recovery is…messy. The physical side had been bad enough - pulling Dream out of the cell, barely breathing, limp in his arms and far too light, all Punz could think about was a sheep he’d found a year ago, frail and struggling to breathe, one he’d ended up killing - quick and painless - with a sword through the skull because it seemed kinder than letting it suffer. Watching Dream struggle on the bed, laid up in Bad’s mansion because none of them knew if he’d survive going any further, body resisting the potions they’d slowly forced down his throat after being so over-saturated on them, temperature spiking and heat baking into his skin like the lava from the prison had been imprinted onto his body, Punz feels the same strange mixture of pity and unease, wonders if it’d be a hell of a lot kinder if they just put him out of his fucking misery.

Still, because Dream is a stubborn bastard, against all odds, he ends up surviving - his fever breaks, the potions begin taking effect, and a few tireless, aching days later his eyes flutter open, lucid for the first time in a week. Punz isn’t even in the room when he wakes, only knows that it happens because the too-quiet room suddenly erupts in noise and activity, muffled thumps and sounds of a struggle undercutting Bad’s frantic calls for someone to help, anyone, and they run into the room to find Dream thrashing on the bed, wounds reopened and blood dripping onto the sheets, eyes wild and wide as his head whips from side to side so hard Punz is half-afraid that he’ll straight up break his neck. Somehow, worst of all, not a single scream falls from his lips, nothing but muffled whines squeezing past his mouth, clenched shut, and for a singular, awful second they wonder how long it took before he realized that screaming was useless.

Fortunately enough for them, or unfortunately, it’s not like he can tell the fucking difference anymore, the panic and strain end up with Dream passing out altogether, and they trade uneasy glances with Bad before going to clean off the worst of his wounds. If everything they’re doing feels hopeless, dressing up wounds that’ll be torn open hours later when Dream is awake enough to feel fear but not much else because he’s forgotten what it’s like to not be afraid - well, that’s for them to think and everyone else to pretend not to agree with.

Weeks pass along the same vein - Dream wakes up, panics; they try to calm him down, fails; he falls back into unconsciousness, and they move on and pretend that they’re cleaning up wounds from battle and not from someone that’s literally been tortured for months on end. People stop by, occasionally; Puffy spends more time than not inside the mansion, but hardly ever enters the door into Dream’s room, Sapnap and George drop by occasionally with potion brewing supplies that the rest of them can’t go out to get; once, he’d gone out to the front door to find a chest with an enchanted golden apple, sender nowhere in sight. He knows that the server is busy; Quackity’s admission had brought more than a few secrets to light, and from what they understand, the political fallout has been pretty damn messy. Still, he stays in the mansion, and watches.

He doesn’t exactly know why he stays. They’re not a stellar healer, not beyond what they know to dress their own wounds, and spend most of their time doing odd-and-ends tasks for Bad, who looks more tired than ever. Maybe it’s because he’s seen Dream at his worst more than the rest of them, had been there through his entire fall from grace, watched as his eyes became clouded with anger and madness and a single, desperate hope that he’d chased at the cost of his world and himself. Maybe it’s because they have no ties to the rest of the server - not to Las Nevadas, falling apart under the scrutiny of the eyes that now fall upon it, not Snowchester, caught up in the chaos, not the Badlands, half-dissolved after the fiasco of the Egg and with Sam’s actions having just come to light. Maybe it’s because above everything else, he feels guilty.

They’d thought the prison was the answer. It’d seemed too simple, back in that Vault - a perfect answer, because everyone else was perfectly happy to watch Dream die another time and some part of them had clenched painfully at the thought even thought they knew it was for the best. The prison meant that he’d be alive, if angry, and at some point when he had the time or the nerve or the guts he could go and visit, and they would talk, and Dream would be angry but with time maybe he could even understand.

They hadn’t wanted this. He can’t imagine anyone wanting this.

“Punz?” They don’t jump at the voice at their back, they don’t, but Bad still has a tiny, tight-lipped smile when they turn around anyway, eyes creased in the corners and still not as bright as they’d been before the Egg. Bad looks at him knowingly, setting a bowl of soup into his hands. “For Dream, if you can get him to eat.” He shifts a pointed gaze towards the door. “Maybe you two could talk.”

“About what?” The words come out harsher than they intend, and they take a moment to bite back the mostly self-directed anger that Bad doesn’t deserve to receive the brunt of. “I just-” he waves his hand in the air, trying to articulate the mess that is his relationship with Dream without the words to explain it. “I don’t know, man.”

“You don’t have to talk about everything,” Bad says, calm as always, eyes flicking down to the bowl of soup in his hands. “Just start with the soup.”

Punz sighs. “I’ll try.”

He enters the room in a single, fluid motion, mostly because he knows that if he were to stop at the door then he’d never actually make his way in. Dream flinches back when they enter, eyes going wide and stance going rigid, and the familiarity doesn’t make the sight any easier to bear as they wait, as always, for Dream’s eyes to clear enough for him to realize he’s in the mansion and not stuck in that same obsidian hellhole.

“I brought soup,” they say, finally, when Dream looks up. Dream’s lips twitch up in what he probably means as a smile; between the still-healing gashes on his face and the fear that flashes over his expression, still, it comes out as more of a grimace.

“Thanks.” Dream looks away. “I’ll eat it later.”

Liar, Punz thinks tiredly, moving closer to set the bowl down on the nightstand by the bed. They frown as Dream’s expression goes slack and distanced, again, eyes fixed to stare blankly at the wall once again.

“You should have some now,” he tries, careful to keep his words even. “You need the calories.”

“I’m good,” Dream says, automatic, just shy of sincere. “Thank you.”

“Dream,” they don’t quite succeed at keeping a displeased sigh from falling from their lungs, and bite back a curse at themselves when Dream pulls back with a silent flinch. It’s so goddamn hard, to talk to this version of Dream, both of them feeling around the edges of their relationship like walking on goddamn eggshells. A few months ago, he would’ve straight up called Dream out on his bullshit, get it through his thick skull that the whole ‘I’m fine and don’t need anyone’ act was stupid and completely failing to convince him. Here, they bite back another sigh, look forlornly at the bowl of the soup on the nightstand, sure to go uneaten once again, and force themselves to sound completely neutral when they speak again. “Alright. You’ll have to eat at some point, though.”

“Mmhm,” Dream hums noncommittally, once again staring at the wall. Punz stares at his hands. This is so fucking pointless.

“So,” they say after a few seconds, Bad’s words echoing in their head - they can try to make an effort to talk, sure. It’s just that Dream’s not going to cooperate. “How are you, man?”

The words come out stilted, awkward. He looks up to watch Dream’s expression, as the other man begins to gnaw on the inside of his cheek.

“I’m good,” he says, words deliberately light. “You?”

“Dream…”

“I’m fine.” Dream’s voice sharpens suddenly, breath hitching, before he shakes his head and turns his head away. “I’m fine.”

Punz looks at him incredulously. “Are you serious? Do we need to get into exactly how not-fine you are?” They wave a hand in his direction, jaw clenching when he rears back. “Do ‘fine’ people lose their minds from someone waving at them, now?”

“I-” For a second, Dream glares at him, eyes burning with a familiar, irritated fire that Punz knows all-too-well from having it directed at him a few too many times, before it suddenly dies and Dream is swinging his head back to the bedsheets, hands tightening on the cloth as he stammers. “I- What do you want?”

Punz breathes a soft sigh, regret blooming in the center of their chest. “Sorry,” he mumbles, careful to keep their gestures overly-telegraphed and away from the other man’s face. “I’m just- you’re not okay, man. No one’s expecting you to be okay after...all of that.”

“But why?”

Dream’s voice is small, nearly a sob, and Punz directs wide, alarmed eyes to where he’s hunched in over himself, knees pulled to his chest, hands staring at the sheets pulled over them. “Why?” he says, again, quieter, lip trembling slightly.

“Because you were tortured,” Punz begins, words slow as they watch Dream’s expression, trying to pull out the thoughts behind his averted eyes, “Because the cell was inhumane, and nobody deserves to be treated like that. Because you were hurt very, very badly because of what we did, and none of us are expecting you to be fine right after going through months of trauma.” He pauses. “You know that, right?”

“But I’m out,” Dream says, quiet, disbelieving, instead of answering their question. “I’m out of there. It’s over. It’s- everything’s good,” he whispers, more to himself than to them, hands curling into fists and then uncurling. “I’m- they said I would never get out. And I’m outside, and it’s not- not the cell, and I get real food, and Quackity doesn’t visit anymore,” he shakes his head, eyes squeezing shut as his breath catches in his throat. “I’m happy- I should be happy. Right?”

“Oh Dream,” the other man flinches back, breath quickening, and Punz’s hand stops short from where he’d almost let it fall onto the other’s shoulder. “You don’t have to be happy, man. Not- not after all of that. Not if you’re not ready yet.” Dream’s eyes, wide and wet, rise to look at their own, and they feel more than hear the soft, wounded noise that leaves their lips. “It’s ok to be hurt. It’s ok to be scared. No one’s blaming you, alright? No one’s gonna hurt you anymore.”

This, more than anything, seems to be the breaking point, because Dream collapses forward, hands flying up to pull at his tangled hair before Punz manages to ease them away and into his own hands, watching as he grips onto them until his knuckles go white. His breathing shudders, quiet, even his sobs muffled as to make as little noise as possible, and they murmur meaningless croons and hums as he cries into their chest.

“I wanna- I wanna be okay,” he hiccups, and Punz smooths his hair back behind their hand.

“I know,” he swallows around the lump that has risen in his own throat. “I’m sorry.”

[maybege]

Work Song

Summary: You meet once again.

Pairing: hot dad!Boba Fett x fem!Reader

Wordcount: 4.2k

Rating: E (18+ only!)

Warnings: explicit sexual content, dom/sub relationship, use of sex toys, dirty talk, consensual degradation and namecalling, multiple orgasms, double penetration, oral sex (m receiving), come play, sexting

When I was pondering which to post (bodyguard!Paz ord hot dad!Boba), I figured: why not both? So tonight I am serving you some delicious hot dad!Boba smut and tomorrow or Tuesday evening you will get the next part of The One! I am really excited to share this with you and as always, feedback is greatly appreciated and I hope you enjoy it!

masterlist | crossposted on AO3

Work was boring.

Or rather, it wasn’t boring but your thoughts kept drifting to much more exciting prospects. Like the next meeting at the motel.

Boba had messaged you that he had gotten scheduled for the midnight calls almost all through the next month and had suggested you meet on Fridays instead. But since Fridays were your yoga course days, and the only real opportunity for you to go out and meet new people and potential friends, that was not an option either. And so, you had remained on Saturdays - even if it meant he wouldn’t get to stay the night.

Even over the phone, you could see the reluctance he had to agree to it. (“I’d prefer if I could buy you breakfast the way I buy you dinner,” had been his exact words to which you had only smiled.)

So now it was Thursday, almost the end of the week, and you could not wait to get back home, to get to the end of the week and into the motel and, most importantly, to Boba.

With a groan, you let your head onto your desk in your cubicle. All around you, you could hear the tapping of the keyboards, people talking, phones ringing, the alarm of the printer going off when there was – once again – not enough paper there. Even sitting at your desk among a sea of people you never felt so alone.

“What are you thinking?” Nat, chewing a piece of gum, popped up on the wall of your cubicle, resting her chin in her hands. You flinched in surprise, looking up at her cheerful face. “Dreaming of mystery man from the bar again?”

If only she knew.

You smiled, “I, uh, I was just checking over these numbers again, I think I might have to start from scratch and ask marketing for the raw numbers.”

Nat popped her gum, clearly disappointed that you did not seem to share any details. “Well, Marketing really needs to get their shit together,” she grumbled, “I had to ask them for the full numbers – twice! – last week. can you believe that? Twice!”

“Now that I have them in front of me, it’s not that hard to believe,” you grinned, leaning back in your chair and looking up at her, “But that is not why you came to talk is it?”

“Well,” she sighed dramatically, sending you a wink, “Since you don’t let me live through your love life – you want to come for drinks this Saturday? Me and the girls want to check out a new restaurant in town, I’m sure you’ll like it.”

“I’d love to but I already have plans,” you declined, your heart skipping a beat at the thought of whom you had plans with, “Maybe next time?”

For a minute, you were afraid that maybe she would be suspicious. That maybe she would keep asking you about Boba and you would have to dodge your questions.

But thankfully, Nat seemed to have completely forgotten all about your love life.

“Sure!” she perked up, throwing a look towards the kitchen, “Wanna do lunch together? I’m starving.”

You nodded, smiling when you heard her basically skipping her way to the kitchen from her cubicle. Grabbing your phone, you went to follow her.

*

Nat kept talking about one thing or another, completely oblivious to the internal fight you were just hashing out in your head.

Never had your phone looked more menacing.

You did not know when or how exactly but somewhere in the two minutes it had taken to microwave your food, a tiny little thought had manifested itself in your mind.

Boba had asked for your wishes the last time and you had been too nervous to think about them. But surely, with the safety of a screen between you, you would be able to articulate at least some of them?

Then again, would he even want that? After all, it was not Saturday and maybe he did not want to have that kind of contact out of your agreed meeting hours?

You tapped your fingernails on the table top before deciding to just fuck it.

You: I want you to fuck my mouth.

There. It was sent. It was done. You had half a mind to switch your phone off and never look at it again, you felt that embarrassed. But before you could do so you saw how the read notification popped up and now it was like a car crash you couldn’t look away from. Boba had seen it. It was too late now. Shit, what had you done?

Boba: So princess has some dirty wishes after all.

Boba: Any more things you want to try out?

You huffed out a laugh, shaking your head towards Nat who looked at you questioningly. “My friend just sent me something funny,” you waved off while making sure no one would be able to get a look on your phone screen.

Toys. you typed out, I’ve never got to try any and I want to try them all. Want you to use them on me.

Now I’m thinking about getting you a dildo, little one. Maybe even two. One for that tight little kissy and the other to train your mouth.

The implication made you clench your thighs and you took a deep breath, hoping no one would notice how you were almost squirming in your seat.

Lunch forgotten, your eyes were fixed on your phone as the three dots kept moving on the screen. You weren’t really sure if this counted as texting per se but you had never been this explicit with someone over texts and your heart skipped a beat as the next message appeared.

Boba: Does that turn you on?

You: Yes.

Boba: Where are you?

You: On my lunch break. Why?

Boba: Because if you’d been home I’m this close to take a half-day and fuck you silly in your own bed.

You shuddered, your thighs clenching.

I’m this close to going home sick if that’s what awaits me.

The read notification popped up but you saw how he wasn’t online anymore and frowned. You tried to avoid your thoughts of how maybe you had been too forward or too awkward or maybe he thought you were weird now for being willing to go home in the middle of the workday just to get in bed with him. But the truth was you were.

Work was boring today and while you appreciated Nat’s attempts to get talking, you didn’t really feel in the mood to talk. Besides, you knew she was just out to get more info about the bar mystery man as she called him and even though you liked her you really didn’t want to talk about Boba to anyone. So yeah, the thought of being able to go home and be able to feel Boba against you instead of going through the different numbers sounded like heaven to you.

Reluctantly, you got back to your pasta salad, aware that you only had a few minutes on your break left and trying to not spend them checking your phone constantly. How much more pathetic could you be?

“Ready?” Nat asked suddenly beside you as her friends got their dishes into the dishwasher and you nodded with a smile.

“Although when is one ever ready for work?” she asked, faking a British accent and you grinned, pocketing your phone in the pocket of your dress.

“Never,” you replied, “one can just hope it’ll be over soon.”

The dark-haired women turned to you with a conspiratory grin before twirling into her cubicle, leaving you alone to go back to your desk. You stood at the entrance of your cubicle for a moment, eyes roaming over the papers on your desk, ruined with your scribbling as you tried to decipher whatever numbers marketing had sent you.

You rubbed your hand over your face, forcing yourself to smile with the hopes that it would release endorphins or some shit. You could do this. There was no need to feel overwhelmed by this. What would be the first step to make this better?

Typing the email to Brenda from Marketing should not have been as hard as it was. But your mind was swirling with trying to find the right balance between polite and insistent because you could not afford to lose any more hours of work over something that simply could not be worked with.

Just as you were ready to give up, your phone pinged.

Boba: Sorry, business call. But believe me, little one, I can’t wait until this weekend. Would you be okay with me buying some toys for you?

You smiled, answer already ready.

*

“Shit, little one, you looked so good like that. You like that?”

You gasped for breath, eagerly nodding. A thin layer of sweat had built all over your body as you knelt on the end of the bed. You were so intoxicated by these feelings, by him, it felt like everything was on fire, getting ready to burst.

As soon as he had arrived – you being the first in the room this time around – he had framed your face in his hands and kissed you until you both been breathless. And then he had shown you the toys.

That was how you had ended up here, on the bed, completely naked, moving yourself on one of the dildos he had brought for you.

“Look at you, such a good girl for me, hm?” Boba murmured, his hands moving once again and you choked, tears stinging in your eyes from the effort of trying to relax your throat and keeping your hands behind your back as he had instructed.

Boba had not just brought one toy. He had brought two. And you while you were fucking yourself on one, thighs shaking with the effort, Boba had pushed the other down your mouth. “To train you to take me,” he had rumbled with a glint in his eyes.

A particularly hard thrust down your throat forced you lower on the shaft between your legs and you moaned, tears of pleasure and despair pricking your eyes. He was still completely closed, looking as dominant as ever and you could feel your clit and y our nipples aching wanting to be touched and played with.

You whined, drool slipping down your chin and Boba showed mercy, slowly pulling the toys away from your mouth. “What is it, little one?” he asked, “What’s got you all teary-eyed, hm ?”

“My – my nipples are so sensitive,” you pleaded with him, “Please, please touch them, Boba.”

He grinned darkly, running the tip of the dildo over your wet lips. “So, touch them.”

You shook your head as best as you could, wanting to remind him of the one rule he had set for you but then he pushed the toys back into your mouth. Your back arched as you leant forwards, humming when the dildo shifted inside you and even more so when your chest brushed against the rough material of his shirt.

It was like little pricks of pleasure coursed through you.

Boba looked down at you, the blue dildo still in his hand and you felt heat seep into your cheeks. From shame? Maybe. But all you felt arousal as you saw the admiration in hid ryes.

“How desperate you look,” he mused, his fingers holding your chin, “How pretty. Just for me.”

“Yes,” you gasped, mouth falling open as you sank down on the toys again, your nipples brushing over the harsh fabric, “J-just for you.”

“My pretty little fucktoy,” he smiled, leaning down and kissing you open-mouthed. You gasped into him, pleasure overtaking you and when his hand wandered down to your right nipple, pinching and pulling it sharply, you came. Everything in your body tightening before it felt like you were bursting at the seams, the sudden wave of pleasure making you whimper.

Where you had been so precariously balanced on top of the dildo, now you lost your balance, completely falling against him but Boba was there to catch you.

“Good girl,” he mumbled, his hand still squeezing your tit, “Think you have another round in you?”

Your eyes fell to the very obvious bulge in his pants and you nodded eagerly. Even with your legs still trembling from your orgasm, you were already carving more. More of this, more of him and the pleasure he could give you.

With calloused fingers gently wrapped around your forearm, he helped you up.

You followed willingly, letting him turn around until you were facing the bed, sheets messy where you had kneeled.

“I’m going to let you choose, little one,” he murmured into your ear, his warm body pressed against your back. You could hardly concentrate with your hands on your skin like that, one hand holding you by your throat while the other dipped between your folds. “Which toy do you want to fuck now?”

First, you were disappointed that apparently you did not get to fuck yourself on his cocks but then his finger swiped over your clit and you shuddered.

“Answer me, princess,” he growled, his hand slightly tightening on your throat, “Or are you too cockdumb already?”

“Nuh-uh,” you tried to shake your head just as much as your legs were shaking from the pleasure he was giving you. You tried to focus on the toys. The one you had used already and the one he had had you suck off. The blue one was glistening from your juices and your thighs clenched at the thought of having it inside you again.

But the other one, the purple one, was much thicker than the blue and you knew it was closer to what Boba’s cock actually felt like.

“The purple one,” you murmured, head leaning back against his shoulder and he mouthed at your neck, humming in satisfaction.

“You’re so kriffing sexy, you know that?” he whispered, planting a playful bite on your shoulders before leaving you alone in the middle of the room. You whined, pressing your thighs together as you saw him so meticulously prepare for what seemed to be the next scene he had had in mind.

With a soft towel spread on the floor in front of the armchair, Boba looked at you as he sat down, legs spread wide before planting the dildo on the towel. “I think good girls deserve a treat,” he murmured, working on his pants before getting his weeping cock out and you swore your knees were that close to giving out underneath you.

You gaped at him, practically falling on your knees with your hands placed on his thighs. The impact made a dull sound and your heart skipped a beat as he immediately leant forward, fingers gripping your chin as he searched your face for any sign of pain.

“I know you’re eager to suck my cock, little one,” he smirked, “But no need hurting yourself over it, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you breathed, feeling a little embarrassed for how needy you were being.

Boba smirked, leaning back in his seat but not before running the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip. Your eyes flicked down to his weeping cock, your mouth watering at seeing how a drop of precome had already collected at the tip.

Without thinking any further, you sank down on the dildo, mouth falling open at how it stretched you. You ducked down, closing your lips around his shaft and taking him as deep as he would go in one smooth movement.

Boba groaned loudly above you, one hand going to the back of your neck to keep you there. Just like your pussy, he filled your throat completely, your tongue feeling as if it was running out of space so you did your best to press it against the underside of him, wriggling along the prominent vein he had there.

Tears gathered in your eyes again and you moaned as the toy inside you hit a spot the previous one couldn’t. Your hips stuttered, slowly starting to grin against it in hopes of it hitting that spot again. You did not move your mouth from him.

“Fuck you look good like that,” he praised you, his free hand coming around your throat and you tried to swallow when you felt his thumb rub over the bulge in your throat. You had not even realized how far you had taken him but when you saw the grin on his face, his eyes glazed over in pleasure, you felt proud of yourself for making him feel like this.

Slowly he pulled you off his length and you followed, gasping for breath when you could. A trail of saliva connected you still to him and through your lashes, you looked up at him. Even now he was a sight to behold, jaw clenched, a glint in his eyes.

You would do everything to please him.

“Don’t think I can last long, little one,” he grumbled, lips twitching as he spotted how you still moved your hips, “Think you can come before that? Don’t want to leave you hanging.”

You nodded, rising on your knees again just like before and sinking back down, moaning when it hit that sweet spot.

“Good,” he smiled, warping his hand around his cock, “You can touch yourself how much you. Just want you to come for me, okay?”

“Okay,” you smiled, obediently opening your mouth to take him in again. Your fingers went to your clit, circling it to spread around the wetness that was already making its way to the towel. You gasped, hips jerking at the pleasure.

Boba groaned, rubbing the head of his cock along your tongue, precoma coating your taste buds. He pushed your head down again, quickly building up to a rhythm that had you choking and gagging, spit trailing down your chin, making you feel filthy and desired.

One hand came up to your chest, pinching your nipple and throwing you off the cliff. Your moan got interrupted by Boba shoving himself down your throat even more and you shook where you sat, your wetness coating the toy until all you could hear were obscene squelching sounds from between your thighs.

“Where did you want my come little one?”

“On my face, please,” you gasped.

A deep, guttural groan left him and you opened your mouth even wider, sticking your tongue out as your fingers played with your nipples. Hot roped of come splattered on your face, landing on your brows, your nose, your tongue, dripping down your chin and onto your chest. Boba continued pumping his shaft milking himself of every last drop and collecting it on his thumb before gently spreading it over your cheek.

“Did I do good?” you asked, heaving for breath.

“You were perfect,” he rumbled, scooping some of his come onto your tongue and you swallowed eagerly.

You shifted on your knees, wincing when the dildo moved inside you.

Boba leant down to you, his hand carefully holding you by the elbow as he stood up slowly, taking you with him. Your legs were shaking from the strain and your knees hurt from straightening them. You shivered.

A soft kiss was pressed to your lips and he led you back to the bed. The fabric was cool under your fingertips and you took a shaky breath. His warm hands were on your shoulders, thumbs brushing the skin as he looked down on you.

“Let me get you something to clean up, okay?” he murmured.

You nodded silently. He disappeared for a moment and you simply sat there, wringing your hands and trying to focus on your surroundings. Everything was fuzzy still, pleasantly warm from your orgasms but you also felt could now that it was over.

You heard the sink run in the bathroom and a moment later, Boba was in front of you again, a warm cloth in his hands that he gently ran over your face.

“Look up at me, little one,” he murmured and you did, closing your eyes as you tilted your face towards him. With gentle movements, he cleaned your face but you were too tired to smile. You felt drained but in a good way, like your limbs were too heavy from pleasure to really move and so you just let the feelings wash over you.

When he was finished, his hand came up to cup your cheek and you leaned into him.

Boba hummed, “Would you like to take a shower or a bath?”

“Bath, please,” you croaked, flinching as you heard how hoarse you sounded. Boba’s lips quirked up and he nodded. Slowly he guided you to the tiled bathroom, sitting you down on a towel at the edge of the tub before getting the water running.

You frowned, the rushing water almost too loud in your ears. Boba turned around, spotting you curling in on yourself and just like that he had you in his arms.

“It was a bit intense, wasn’t it?” he asked quietly, his lips brushing against your ears and you nodded, burying your head in the fabric of his flannel.

“I – I don’t know why I feel this way,” you whispered, “this … sensitive.”

“You’re coming down from a high, little one,” he explained, thumb brushing the back of your neck, “It’s normal to feel a little exposed. But I will make sure, you’re okay, okay? Anything you need, princes, you just tell me, yeah? Anything.”

“Okay,” you whispered, already feeling a bit better with him here.

You did not know for how long you stood there, but when the water shut off and Boba helped you in the tub you sighed in content. The water was just the perfect temperature and you sunk in with closed eyes, the only thing guiding you being Boba’s hands.

“I will get us some food, okay?” he asked quietly, sitting at the edge of the tub and holding your hand. You had never felt this cared for. “I will get us the same order as the last time, does that sound good?”

You nodded with a smile. He stood up but you held onto his hand, only letting go when the distance became too much. Stars, you were really fucked out good, weren’t you?

With your eyes closed in relaxation, you could only hear his low chuckle as he got ready to leave. The door to the room closed not long after. You soaked in the tub for what felt like an eternity. The water was warm and you were positively surprised by the scent of the motel shampoo. It certainly was not as bad as you thought it would be.

Slowly you felt yourself coming back to reality, feeling more energized and more awake and aware of your surroundings. Boba had not come back yet so when the water got a little too cold for your liking, you decided to get out anyway.

You got dressed in your nightgown you had taken with you – thankful that Boba had left it for you on the counter in a moment of foresight –, hurrying barefoot over the carpet into the bed.

Just as you turned on the TV, the lock of the door turned and a whistling Boba came in, arms laden full of brown paper bags.

“You got more than last time,” you stated, frowning as you saw him put down a second paper bag on the small TV desk.

“Well, I won’t be able to buy you breakfast tomorrow, now will I?” he replied, “Thought I could take care of that now and then you don’t have to worry about it tomorrow.”

“Oh really?” you asked, sitting up on your knees, not minding when the blanket fell down, so you could at least make an attempt to peer into the bag.

Boba chuckled, indulging you by handing you the mysterious food bag and immediately you took a peek. There, neatly arranged, was a croissant, a chocolate muffin and what looked like a little breakfast sandwich.

“I’d keep the sandwich in the fridge,” Boba commented from the other side of the room, already taking out the familiar smelling food containers. He did not seem to know how your heart swelled in your chest at the sweet gesture.

You knew he had wanted to be here for breakfast – he had literally told you so on the phone – but when it was clear that Saturday would remain your meeting day of choice, you thought he had just shrugged it off. Maybe it had just been a flirtatious remark?

But the fact that he had gone out of his way to somehow show you he had been serious about what he had said made butterflies appear in your stomach.

“It’s very sweet,” you murmured, looking at the way the muscles in his back moves as he fished for the plastic utensils, “You didn’t have to.”

“But I wanted to,” he replied easily, still smiling when he turned around and carried the food with him, “Now let me slip under that blanket, princess, what will we watch?”

You giggled, watching this giant man carefully position himself on the bed, before stretching out his arm, offering you the food to eat and his chest to rest against once again.

“I could get used to this,” you murmured, taking a bite of the pita.

“Me too, princess,” he rumbled, “Me too.”

[afeb]

Chris Evans - Could

Having only met Chris a few hours ago, we oddly hit it off. We realised we had the same interests and opinions, ideas and jokes. We spent most of the day talking mindlessly in the garden as everyone mulled around us, a mix of his friends and family.

Now we were in the kitchen as he grabbed another beer and I hopped onto the counter. “Kids?”

I shook my head. “You?”

“No,” he popped the cap. “Want them though.”

“Me too.” I sighed dreamily.

“How many?”

“As many as I can get.” I chuckled, however Chris didn’t.

His eyes seemed to dance with a look I hadn’t seen yet. “Who would you have them with?”

I shrugged and fiddled with the hem of my dress. “I’m not fussy, I just want children.”

“You’re young, you’ve got plenty of time.” He reassured as he stepped a little closer. “Me? My clock is ticking - fast.”

“You’re thirty-nine, hardly dead.” I scoffed.

He shrugged and stepped closer still, abdomen brushing against my bare knees. “Still though, I need kids asap.”

“Who would you have them with?” I asked.

“A nice girl.” He hummed. “Smart, funny, pretty, articulate.”

“Big boots to fill.” I noted.

“You fill them.”

Silence flowed between us as I furrowed my brows, looking into his eyes. He didn’t say another word, simply tilted his head back and took a long sip of his beer.

“Me?” He nodded. “You’d have kids...with me?”

“Would you not have them with me?” I thought over his question for a moment.

“We met four hours ago.” I stated.

“And?”

“I could be a psycho-murderer who collects cocks I’ve cut off.” He choked a little on his beer. “I don’t, but you wouldn’t know.”

I jumped a little as he parted my thighs, cool beer brushing against my skin as he stepped between them. “We’ve talked for the past four hours with no breaks, no silences, just easy conversation. We’ve told each other about family, ex’s, dreams. I may not know every inch of you, but fuck I want to.”

“How would it even work, having children together?” I warily asked as his hands splayed over my knees.

He placed the bottle down. “Well, we would...you know...”

“Obviously.”

“Then I’d take you out whenever you wanted, go wherever you wanted to,” his hands inched up my thighs. “Touch wherever you asked. Then, you’d move in, or we’d find a new place, we’d decorate and prepare for the baby. We’d fall in love.”

My breath hitched as his palms eased under the skirt of my dress, my hands softly coming to run over his biceps. “How could you be so sure we’d fall in love?”

“Because I think I’ve already started.” My eyes widened. “Not yet, but I feel it blossoming.”

“Chris...” his head moved closer to mine, breath fanning over my lips.

“Everyone’s staying tonight,” he whispered. “You stay too.”

“Is that a question or a demand?” I asked.

“Whatever you want.” He chuckled. “Stay up until everyone is in bed.”

I nodded. “Are you sure?” I couldn’t believe what I was getting myself into.

His lips pressed to mine for a matter of seconds before pulling away. “Absolutely.”

The rest of the day we danced around each other, looking at each other from across the room and softly smiling. Chris’ eyes were transfixed on my stomach sometimes and I was positive he was invisioning me swollen with his baby. I caught my brain day dreaming too, imagining a baby in his arms as he softly cooed the little one to sleep.

One by one, everyone either left or went to their designated rooms. The group around the sofa thinned until it was Chris, me and his brother, Scott.

“I’m gonna hit the hay.” Scott sighed as he stood.

“We won’t be long after.” Chris lied from the sofa, peering at me as I sat on an armchair across from him.

“Night guys.”

“Night.” Chris and I said in unison before we were left alone. We both waited for the click of Scott’s door before Chris spoke.

“Alone at last.” He hummed, shuffling a little on the sofa and spreading his thighs. “Come here, baby.”

I stood with shaky legs and nervously folded my hands, standing in front of him. I squeaked as Chris gripped the backs of my knees and tugged me into his lap, my dress rising up exposing my thighs.

My hands rested on his chest. “Are you sure?”

“Are you?” He cocked a brow.

“Yes.” I whispered, leaning down a little. “Is this mad?”

“Completely.” Chris sighed, hands rounding to pinch my behind. “But fuck, I’ve never wanted someone more.”

His lips trailed over my cheek and jaw, sucking softly on the spot below my ear as I rocked my hips against his. “Maybe we should get to know each other better,” I gasped. “Things we haven’t said.”

“What’s your favourite book?” He asked as he harshly fisted the flesh on my behind, aiding my rocking.

“Little Women,” I gasped. “What’s your favourite song?”

“Every Breath You Take,” his voice was muffled in my neck. “Favourite piece of jewellery?”

“A ring my Mum got me when I was eighteen.” I whined as he nibbled in the skin of my neck. “Favourite position?”

“Any.” He pulled back and pressed his lips to mine, quickly tracing my lips with his tongue before pushing in to meet mine.

I moaned and threaded my fingers into his hair, softly pulling. Chris groaned deeply before pushing me onto the sofa and climbing on top of me.

“Please.” I whimpered.

“Fuck,” his eyes rolled to the back of his head. “I’m gonna fuck a baby into you.”

His hands hasilty went up my skirt and looped around the band of my underwear and tugged them down. He peered at the plain white knickers.

“I didn’t think I’d be doing this.” I bashfully said.

“Anything on you drives me wild.” He threw haphazardly across the room and focussed back on me. “Gonna be quick baby, okay? I’ll show you what I can do another time.”

I pawed at his chest and peered wide-eyed up at him. “Please.”

He easily pulled himself out and stroked a few times. His tip ran up and down me a few teasing times, testing to see if I’d stop him or recoil. When I simply peered up at him and softly pouted my lips, he eased into me slowly.

His head dropped to rest on mine, eyes boring into mine as he bottomed out. A steady breath ran past his lips and washed over my face.

“Okay?” He asked.

“Yes.” I breathed.

He quickly set to work. His pace was bruising, a man on a mission as he rutted his hips into mine. His hands firstly rested either side of my head as he peered down to where we were connected before he dropped onto his forearms and enclosed around me. His hands stroked over my hair as he closely watched me.

I muled and whined at him, hands skimming over his shoulders, his hair, his cheeks and his lips. His mouth parted as my thumb slipped in. Chris softly sucked the digit as he closed his eyes momentarily and moaned. His teeth skimmed over the skin before I retracted my finger and instead tugged the hair on his head.

His hips easily glided in and out, my legs wrapped around his waist aiding his movements and his thrusts grew more and more sloppy.

“Gonna put a baby in you,” he promised. “Fuck, all day I’ve been thinking of you swollen off my cum.”

“Please, I want your baby.” I whined back.

“Take it,” his groaned as his hips stilled and he emptied into me. “Fucking take it.”

My back arched in pleasure as I screwed my eyes shut and took what he gave me. Chris collapsed on top of me, weight resting on my chest as I looped my arms around his broad shoulders and hugged him right.

“Do you think we made something?” I whispered after a moments silence.

“I hope.” He sighed back, pressing a kiss to my lips. “I think I could love you.”

I smiled. “I think I could love you too.”

[elena-reina]

You’re Done - Bucky Barnes x Reader

Request: Can I get a bucky imagine where the reader messes up really badly on a mission, can she have fire powers, and bucky is there for her in the end. Maybe like a friends to lovers kind of vibe? Thank you! Love you!- Anon

Warnings: none

a/n: [For the sake of this imagine my bby Pietro is alive for his two seconds of fame ;)]         There will be a pt 2. Idk when, but eventually.

“I need you all to lay low,” Steve’s voice spoke through the earpiece.

“Copy,” you along with the other Avengers said into the intercom in unison.

You have gone on many missions with the Avengers, however, this one was different. Most of the ones you’ve experienced were small track and point ones. Nothing like this where it was a life or death situation.

You had to capture one of the men named Azazel. He had vital information that was going to help the team out on a lead for the rest of the mission. You were a powerful asset to the team. The only issue was how much you underestimate yourself.

For weeks you had been training your powers and learning to keep them under control. There had been many incidents where you accidentally caused the sprinklers to go off at the tower for reasons we shall not speak of. But let’s just say they were all minor setbacks in your progress.

The team loved having you go on missions with them, but most of the time Steve wanted you to stay back at the tower and continue to train. You underestimate your powers and It took you many days to convince him to bring you on this specific mission. It wasn’t until you had a one on one with him that he finally gave in.

You had all the weight of the world on your shoulders. However, the adrenaline masked all the doubts running laps throughout your mind.

“I can see four of the guards standing by the door.. and I think a couple more on the other side of the building,” Wanda said slyly moving around the compound unseen.

“Could you at least try to make an effort to stay hidden,” Tony groaned, maneuvering around in the sky. “I can literally see your red head from here.”

“Listen Stark, you’d be caught long before I am,” Wanda smirked, sassily.

You softly chuckled to yourself.

“No, you listen Maximoff-” Tony began before Pietro cut him off.

“In all honesty, you’re not that witty Tony. Sorry, not sorry.”

“You know I don’t appreciate this slander on my title,” Tony mumbled.

While they bickered back and forth, you noticed one of the guards waving at the men to go inside the building. You ducked down when one of the men gave one last look around the area and went inside.

“They’re going inside,” you announced.

“Alright, here’s what we’re going to do,” Steve commenced going over the mission.

After listening to the entirety of Steve’s plan, you felt like there were some flaws in it. Naturally, you had your own plan in your head. Steve wanted everyone to go inside unnoticed and basically move around incognito. You, on the other hand, wanted to do it the old-fashioned way and all gang up together because there were more of you guys than there were of them. Or so you thought.

Sneaking inside the facility, you hid behind boxes and waited as Wanda and Pietro were the first ones to begin. Wanda would use her powers to mess with the men’s minds and make them fall asleep while Pietro would move their bodies to somewhere outside away from the rest of the Avengers. The building was old and looked like it could fall apart at any given moment.

Everything was going smoothly until one of the men, who had gone unnoticed by the rest of you, punched you harshly having you slam into the wall, sending an immediate alert to the people inside.

Clint and Natasha took awareness of this immediately and rushed by your side, but it was like the man had a vendetta on your head. He was overpowering all three of you and none of you understood how. Everyone was in full combat mode, and soon enough, almost a full army of them was coming out in groups. There was more of them than you thought there were.

Your fire powers were flowing out of your hand as you disintegrated any daggers or weapons they would try and throw your way. By this point, you were growing irritated and were having enough of this nonsense.

“Tell us where Azazel is!” you shouted holding one of the men up by the collar of his shirt. He smirked and pulled out a machine from the back of his pocket. You looked at it confused until you noticed a timer on it fastly counting down.

Your eyes widened.

“There’s a bomb in here!” you shouted into your earpiece.

“We’ll get this under control. Y/N, Bucky, and Clint get everyone out now!” Tony responded, already using his suit to find and defuse the bomb.

You were about to respond when you caught something out of the peripheral vision of your eye. You saw a door that was left cracked opened and decided to do a little digging for yourself. Looking around at the Avengers busy, you slipped away and entered the room. Silently closing the door, you moved behind a big crate to remain hidden.

Inside, you noticed a man dressed in all black with his back to you. You bet this was Azazel.

“Y/N, where are you!” Steve yelled into the earpiece.

You knew that you had to respond to Steve, but doing that would compromise your position. Without saying anything, you made a B-line towards the man.

“HEY!” you shouted, as who you assumed was Azazel, frighteningly looked up. He pushed boxes of glass out of his way and started to run. You weren’t going to leave him that easily and every place he tried to dodge into, you would blast up with your powers.

Picking up speed, you threw a firebolt at him hitting him in the back causing him to fall to the ground. You slowly sauntered over to him, a small triumphant grin on your face.

“Tell me what you know!” you fiercely shouted. Feeling bold, you had him exactly where you wanted. However, that confidence you once had faltered as his face then fell into a smirk. He pulled out a cylindrical device with a red button on top of it.

“Y/N! Do you copy!” Steve yelled again.

Ignoring Steve, you quickly extending your hand out to grab the device out of his hands but instead, you accidentally triggered your powers and blasted out an uncontrollable flame you’ve never seen or done before.

Azazel let out an excruciating scream of agony and the device slipped out of his hand. He was being burned alive.

“Oh no no no! What’s happening?!” you freaked, trying to get your powers under control. The flames emerged from your hands and began to consume everything within its path. It had a mind of its own and it was determined to burn everything to ashes.

Your screams rang throughout the room and Tony busted through the wall, frantically looking around. His eyes landed on you and the fire coming out of your palms.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! Y/N STOP!” Tony yelled, wanting to get close enough to grab you, but the heat coming from the flames was too much, even for his suit. If anyone came close, they would have gotten burned as well. Pietro followed suit next to him.

You tried to stop them and bent down trying to grab onto Azazel, but this only made matter worse. It wasn’t until you felt a knife slice through the side of your arm, distracting you, that the fires coming from your hand died down.

You brought your hands up to your face horrified. His face and body were burned beyond recognition. You slumped to your knees and grabbed his lifeless corpse with one of your hands. His blood pooled out of his burnt clothes, coating your hands in warm crimson.

Looking further down his arm, you grabbed the device that was now barely holding together and looked at the odd wiring.

He was bluffing. It was a fake only to intimidate you.

“The bomb is going to go off! Everyone out-”

An ear-shattering explosion began to erupt throughout the facility before he could finish. For the most part, everyone was already on their way to the outside.

Pietro took awareness of you being out of it and quickly scooped you up into his arms and sped out of the exploding building. All of you had made it just in time before the entire building was already engulfed in flames. Pietro safely placed you down and grabbed onto your shoulders.

“Hey, are you alright?”

You nodded still shaken up.

“We almost fucking had him!” Tony exclaimed frustrated. “Let’s go.”

The ride back was silent. You had ruined the whole mission. You were mentally beating yourself up with a war inside your brain.

Why couldn’t you have just listened?

Back at the Avenger’s Tower, Steve ordered you to meet him at the office. You knew that whatever was coming wasn’t going to be good.

“Y/N, do you realize what you’ve just done?” Steve groaned, angrily placing his hands on the table in front of him. You looked around the room and at your hands that were covered in Azazel’s dried blood. You didn’t know that you were being set up. As a matter of fact, you didn’t even know that your powers had that much potential.

“I.. I didn’t mean to I was just-” you whispered, backing up to create some distance between you and Steve.

“You ruined the whole mission, Y/N! I told you that you were not ready!” he snapped, making your head jerk towards his direction. You opened your mouth to form words, but nothing came out. If you would have just had a moment to collect your thoughts, you would be better at articulating yourself.

“If you would just let me explain myself!” you shouted growing frustrated with overwhelming emotion, you felt your body getting hot. Taking a deep breath, you tried your best to calm the fire inside of you, quite literally.

Steve placed his hands on his hips and disapprovingly shook his head.

“You’re done.”

Your chest felt like it plummetted twenty feet underground. Despite the fire running through you, you felt your body grow cold. You had been training countless nights just to get where you are. There were so many things you wanted to say, while at the same time, you had nothing to say.

What was there to say anyway?

“What?” you managed to breathe out.

“Just go, Y/N.”

Steve then walked past you, leaving you standing in the middle of the complex. You clenched your fists and turned on your heel. You needed to get out. To blow off some steam before you burned the whole building down.

You rushed down the stairs, down every elevator, and all the way down to the empty field in front of the Avenger’s Tower near the aircraft. You felt the flames wanting to come out of your hands, but you tried your best to suppress them. Frantically looking around, you finally spotted a metal storage container.

Running inside, you shut the door and dropped to your knees finally letting the flames ignite. You cried your feelings out, this time not holding back. The flames engulfed the entire space.

A small part of you was fearful about not being able to contain it, but you knew you had to let it go. No one in this compound listens to you. It’s like they just want to keep you here to stay out of the way.

Was it for your benefit or theirs?

A knock on your door interrupted your thoughts, but you didn’t bother to turn around. Not that it would have mattered at this point. After releasing your emotions, you took a cold shower to cool off before coming back to your room at the Tower. The tower seemed empty. There was a stale stillness in the air that could be cut with a knife.

You couldn’t help but feel that everything was your fault. If you had just been able to stop underestimating yourself, maybe things would have happened differently. Or if you would have maybe just trained a bit more.

The door clicked signifying that someone was entering your room.

“Hey, mind if I come in?”

You turned around, lifting your gaze as your eyes fell on the handsome soldier before turning back around to face the window. There was nothing to be said. You and Bucky had always had this unspoken bond since the day you joined the Avengers. Whenever you were having a bad day, he was always there to talk about it and vice versa. Was there more underneath the surface than the two of you would like to acknowledge? Yes.

You watched as the trees flowed in the wind looking as peaceful as it could be, the opposite of how you were feeling.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

He closed the door behind him and trudged next to you. He pulled up a chair and sat down, mirroring your actions by gazing outside the window.

“What’s there to talk about?” you dismissed.

“No one is blaming you,” he said, leaning back in the seat and crossing his arms over his chest.

You scoffed, shaking your head. “Oh really,” you mumbled, “I’m sure Steve would beg to differ.”

Gossip spreads like wildfire throughout the Tower and there was no way that anyone was going to be oblivious to what was going on. There was no easy way to sugar coat it. You fucked up and Steve knew this would happen. It’s plain and simple.

“Steve is just upset right now and will get over it. The mission was already a work in progress, to begin with. I don’t know exactly what went down, but your powers are stronger than you realize and with just a little bit more training-”

“Stop!” you shouted, standing up. Your chair fell behind you with a loud thud. Bucky jerked his head at your outburst but remained seated. He knew you were overwhelmed and wasn’t going to invalidate how you were feeling.

“No one listens to me! I was doing what I thought was right! I didn’t realize what I was doing until it was too late. It doesn’t matter how much ‘training’ I do, no one is there to help me!”

“And you have every right to feel that way. No one is blaming you, things happen. We live and we learn. It a part of life, Y/N. I recognize that I will never understand the struggles you are going through, but I can try.”

“Don’t patronize me, Buck,” you frowned. Truth be told, you just wanted someone to appreciate you.

This time, he stood up and placed both hands on either side of your shoulders. “I’m not. Look, how about we go out tonight to get your mind off things. Then, when you’re feeling better, we can discuss a plan to talk it out with the rest of the team.”

“They’re not going to listen to me.”

“I’ll make sure they listen, okay? Now, go get dressed before I dress you myself. You’ve got thirty minutes,” he winked pulling you in for a hug, to which you gladly returned.

Maybe you do need a night out.

[welllpthisishappening]

Emma Swan, Olympian is not a phrase Emma Swan, totally normal person, ever expected to hear.

But she never expected one night at a party hosted by her college's baseball team to change her entire life, either. So, it should really come as no surprise that Emma Swan, Olympian, is now something of international sensation. Or that her husband has become a bit of a social media star.

——— Rating: Teen with sports feelings Word Count: 7.5K AN: As promised and because of who I am as a person, I wrote Olympic fic. I can neither confirm nor deny that there is an actual plot here, but there is a surplus of fluff and sports-based feelings. So, that’s something. Thanks to the Detroit Lions, specifically, for posting this Tweet and to my husband who is very much aware of what content I want the internet to provide me. Operation: Make Killian a New York Yankee as often as possible continues.

|| Read on Ao3 if that’s your jam ||

———

No one told her the questions would start to blur together.

That would require media training, Emma imagines. And no one is giving a first-time Olympian in a sport that only a handful of people marginally believe warrants notice from the IOC any sort of media training. She got, like, an orientation packet. With a lopsided staple in the top left corner. On her commercial flight. That she booked herself.

Twenty-plus hours crammed into a seat that she’s only a little concerned did permanent damage to her right knee, with a meal that was so chewy Emma was about four seconds and one exasperated, entirely exhausted exhale from asking if it was, in fact, made of plastic.

Mostly, the staple is what’s still managing to frustrate her. As frustrated as she can be at the Olympics. No one is supposed to be frustrated at the Olympics. Not really. Not while experiencing the pinnacle of athletic achievement, the calluses on Emma’s fingertips some sort of badge of honor that she’s wearing with at least a modicum of national pride, and everything is fine.

Her qualifying time was absurd. Where absurd is a compliment and very close to a record she’s suddenly determined to shatter.

So, she’s alone.

Big deal. So is everyone else. This Olympics, at least. Plus, Killian wouldn’t have been able to come no matter what the state of the world was. Even so, the quiet stands are admittedly weird. All these empty arenas with empty seats, the distinct lack of a roaring crowd no more obvious than when the world’s best athletes step to the line. Staring at the climbing wall in front of her four hours earlier, Emma swore she could hear every single beat of her heart echo between her ears.

And that’s—well, solitude is par for the course with an adolescence like hers, half-filled suitcases and brand-new faces in brand-new towns, but she’d gotten used to one town, and the town is actually a city, and the city has long since felt like home, and her fingers reach for the rings dangling above her Team USA t-shirt. They did give her an absolute shit ton of t-shirts, so that was nice.

Except—

Something keeps tugging. Nagging at the back of Emma’s consciousness, almost like she’s forgotten her keys on that flea market table they found in Park Slope two weeks after they moved into the apartment. Because for as well-versed Emma may be in that singular sort of existence, she’s also well-removed from wanting it, and at least three of her knuckles crack. Curling around her rings.

Muscles in her cheeks stretch, another nod and quick blink to avoid the threat of blinding via camera flashes. Someone really should have told her about this. She probably should have assumed. Human interest is the driving force of at least three-quarters of the stories in sports, and Emma’s not used to being the story, per se, but even she has to admit most of hers makes for a good one and they are still asking her questions.

Emma blinks again. Hopes she doesn’t look like a serial killer or the weird blonde, slightly sweaty cousin of the Joker, her smile starting to feel as if it’s painted on her face. She nods. Hums. Listens to questions that are startling in their tonal similarity to Charlie Brown’s teacher, and Emma wonders if Charlie Brown ever got a different teacher or what the school structure of the Peanuts’ universe is and, God, how old was Charlie Brown, even? To withstand that sort of consistent bullying. Was Linus the same age as him? No, right? How long did he carry the blanket around? Was Linus the same age as Sally? Why didn’t the red-headed girl with curly hair get a name?

She nearly falls out of her chair.

That might make the front page of several blogs. Possibly even the back page of a New York tab.

Careful to keep her feet on the ground, Emma lifts her head, directing her eyes toward the source of a question that must have been asked several times if the note of amusement mixing with deadline-based exasperation is anything to go by. Her smile definitely makes her look like a serial killer.

“Sorry, sorry,” Emma mumbles, and none of the oxygen she does her best to inhales makes it even close to her lungs. “I, uh—what was the question?”

The reporter grimaces.

“I wanted to know if you’d seen the video of your husband yet.”

Ice runs down her spine. Every single drop of wholly disgusting sweat falling in rivulets down either one of her cheeks freezes. Oxygen disappears from the room. Or so Emma assumes, what with the crushing feeling pushing down on her lungs and whatnot.

Her mind whirs. Races through possibilities and pitfalls with a speed that would be impressive if Emma weren’t already so close to that record, and she is going to break that record. Somehow she manages not to fall, though. From her chair or the metaphorical climbing wall in her brain, ignoring the sudden dryness of her mouth and the increasing size of her tongue.

Her nails are going to leave little half-moon creases in her palm.

“I don’t—” she starts, and eventually she will wish she was more articulate. For what turns out to be a very nice story.

Standing up, the reporter’s seat creaks as she moves toward the desk they deposited Emma behind after even. Several Olympic officials move to block her, but Emma shakes her head again, and she’s not exactly high-priority on the list of defensible athletes, anyway. So, none of them flinch when the reporter slides a phone closer to Emma, her crazed thoughts briefly lingering on how many phones a reporter could possibly need, but then her eyes drop, and she’s not sure if her ears can actually perk, but Emma certainly tries because she hears him yelling before she sees him.

Her smile shifts.

And the cameras flash again.

It starts, as with most things in Emma’s collegiate life, because Anna demands it.

She’s only half-listening, so Emma can never be entirely sure what it was, exactly, she was agreeing to, but in her experience, the agreement doesn’t matter so much as the action, and her roommate’s younger sister is unstoppable when it comes to action. So, Emma is dimly aware of a plan. Something about the baseball house and that one left fielder is in a handful of her classes.

David—something.

He’s got a girlfriend, too. A nice one. Who always smells like sugar when she slides into the seat next to David whatever his last name is, sitting in the row in front of Emma during their Tuesday-Thursday statistics class.

Emma hates statistics.

She doesn’t hate Anna, though. Or her roommate, one of the better college-based surprises, and either Anna has magic or Elsa is an enormous pushover because somehow all three of them are ready at the same time, and the walk to the baseball house isn’t far.

First-year players guard the door — passing out color-coded wristbands that absolutely do not do their job because it takes about six seconds of well-meaning flirting and batted eyelashes between Anna and a mountain of muscle masquerading as the team’s starting catcher to get them inside. With purple wristbands and two tickets for jungle juice instead of the keg.

“Victory,” Anna cries, twisting through the crowd. Half of it is already teetering on the edge of drunk, the rest free-falling into the pit of imminent hangovers, and Emma isn’t sure she’d classify their drinks as a victory, but it’s definitely better than watered-down beer.

And it doesn’t take long, really. By Emma’s shaky count, it’s not even a half-hour before the muscle — who introduces himself as Kristoff, and really is pretty cute, actually — returns, standing unnaturally close to Anna’s left shoulder, furtive glances shared out of the corners of their eyes. Emma rolls hers. Elsa’s appear perpetually stuck to the ceiling. It looks oddly sticky up there.

“Go,” Elsa says, and it’s not an instruction. Barely counts as more than a whisper, really. Anna lights up all the same. Like an alcohol-fueled Christmas tree.

Who does not need telling more than once.

Hands reach and smiles widen, Kristoff mumbling something that sounds like it was nice to meet you before he’s following Anna back to the beer pong table, leaving Elsa and Emma standing in the middle of a sea of raging hormones. All of which want to be there way more than either one of them does.

“Well,” Elsa mutters, “that was polite.”

Emma snickers into her glass. A mostly empty glass. That’s surprising. “Got that going for him.” “Plus, his on-base is nuts this year.”

“Say that again.” “On-base percentage,” Elsa repeats, making sure to do it slowly for maximum sarcastic emphasis. Emma’s eyes are going to fall out. That won’t end well. There are too many shuffling feet in this room.

“What does that mean?” “How often he gets on base.” Opening her mouth does nothing. Closing it does even less. Elsa looks overjoyed. “I know things,” she shrugs, “and I’m pretty positive Anna and Kristoff have been not-so-secretly dating since the start of the semester, so—” “You stalked your sister’s secret boyfriend?” “Stalk’s a very dirty word, don’t you think? No, no, there was no stalking. There was light research. One Google search and a single click to the team’s roster, and now I know he’s from Minnesota, too.” “Awfully convenient for the romance of the century.” Humming, Elsa takes a larger-than-usual sip before scrunching her nose in displeasure. At her empty cup. Emma has no idea how they ended up with empty cups so quickly. Suddenly the baseball house feels a bit like a time warp. Enter and drink and find the love of your life. Or something like that.

“I got next,” Emma says, ignoring Elsa’s laugh because she is not the sort of person who says things like that. It’s this house. This place. With its music and its happiness, and she’s not really a sports person. Can only marginally understand the joy of watching other people accomplish something. She has no idea what on-base percentage is.

Still.

Her feet move. Fingers curl over the rim of red solo cups, like the most cliché version of her college self. Her drinks get refilled. And it’s just as Emma’s about to let herself wonder if, maybe, sports aren’t all that bad and might even possess a bit of inherent romanticism, she slams into something.

Someone, more like.

Taller than her, he has to peer down his nose to glare at Emma. That’s fair. They’re both far more damp than they were ten seconds before. Some of that moisture ensures that the hem of his shirt sticks to his stomach. A very flat stomach. That draws Emma’s eyes because she’s human and slightly intoxicated, and it takes quite a lot more than she’s willing to admit to lift her chin, but then she’s glad she does. Even with the understandable glare.

“Shit,” she breathes, “your eyes are stupid blue.”

He narrows them. She hates that. Which is about all it takes for her to get royally pissed off, too.

“Can you pay attention to where you’re walking?”

The stupidly blue eyes blink. Darken a shade, like all his frustration is centered directly around his pupils, and the shirt he’s wearing is team-branded. Another baseball player, then.

“You ran into me!” Oh, Oh. Well, that sucks. He’s got a good voice, too. Eyes and voice and the few strands of hair that fall toward those eyes when he continues to glare at Emma likely aren’t supposed to make her stomach flip.

It’s the alcohol’s fault.

Or sports. Like, in general.

“Because you take up so much space,” Emma snarls He leans forward. Looms, really. Over her and around her, smelling like punch and body wash. It’s gross and absolutely wonderful. “Gotta pick a lane, love. Either I ran into you, or I was in the way.”

“It can definitely be both and there is nothing resembling love here.”

“So I can see. You have a name, wrecking ball?” “My shoes are never going to unstick from this floor.” To his credit, he does waver. His lips twist — which makes it all too obvious how much Emma is staring at his lips, but, seriously, the alcohol. Plus, it’s so hot in this house she can barely think straight. She wonders where he buys his body wash. He smells better than he should in this house. So, it's clear he considers. Ponders, even. Until his hands dart out and those hands are somehow warmer than every person in this house combined, heat scorching through Emma’s t-shirt as he lifts her off the ground.

Only to deposit her approximately fourteen inches to her left.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” “Look,” he grins, “you’re unstuck.” “Bastard!” “Eh, not technically.” “What?” “Not technically a bastard. Orphan, I suppose. But that’s kind of a mood ruiner, don’t you think?”

Emma’s fish impression is really going great. The grin becomes a smirk. Her stomach refuses to stay still. “Is there a mood to ruin?” “Might be if you tell me your name.”

Emma wavers, that time. Considers and ponders. Weighs the pros and cons while laughter drifts past her ears, consummate collegiate experiences that she’s only ever let herself be passably jealous of. A dark-haired girl’s talking to Elsa in the opposite corner.

And the hand hanging in front of her wiggles its fingers.

It’s still ridiculously warm when she grabs it. “Emma Swan.” “Killian Jones.”

Anna’s secret relationship becomes a real relationship no less than sixteen hours following what Elsa begins to call the Drink Incident.

And they become—

Baseball people.

Becoming baseball people is not bad. Not really. Emma likes the baseball team. She understands what WHIP is, now. Kristoff adores Anna, so that’s good. David, who does, in fact, have a last name, continues to be as nice as assumed, and his girlfriend sort of quasi adopts Emma. Mary Margaret Blanchard brims with positivity and an innate sort of joy that would usually annoy Emma, but most of that joy also serves as a direct counter to the snark that Killian Jones appears flush with. So, it’s something of a wash, really.

Plus, he’s a very sore Monopoly loser.

And Emma finds it endlessly entertaining.

“Stop that,” he grunts, glaring at the board with the sort of force Emma’s become accustomed to in the last few months, while she taps on the space in front of her, “I know how many spots it is.” Emma smiles. “So move, then.” “I’ll be bankrupt.” “Capitalism does that.” “Tell me more about capitalism, Swan.”

She doesn’t startle, so there’s that. Not much else, though. Not when a noticeable bit of equally familiar heat skitters down her spine. Her head tilts. His head remains frustratingly still, staring at the board like the spaces will change or Mary Margaret will tear down some of her hotels on Marvin Gardens.

Neither thing happens.

The heat pools. At the small of her back, inching dangerously close to that space between her hips, like it’s trying to tether her to this spot and this moment and its people. Baseball people. People who so clearly care about everything so much that even the cynic in Emma can appreciate it. Plus, they’re all ridiculously competitive.

David had to take a walk when Mary Margaret bankrupt him earlier.

“That’s about the extent of my capitalism knowledge,” Emma admits with a shrug, “I sucked at economics.” Pulling his gaze away from the board, Emma’s less prepared for the force behind Killian’s eyes than she was for the appearance of a nickname that might not warrant the title. It’s just her name, after all. But it sounds like more than that. Sinks under her skin with alarming ease, the precise tone of it wrapping its way around a variety of internal organs until they’re all beating at the same tempo and— “Move my piece for me.”

Kristoff groans. Mary Margaret chuckles. Elsa looks far too sure of herself. Knows everything, indeed.

And it’s not really a command, but there’s that same sense of something that found its way into the sound of Emma’s name and Killian’s voice, and he catches her by surprise. On a variety of levels. His fingers jump the moment hers reach out, all heat and an alarming size difference, his brows lifting when she turns her head.

“You’re taking this game way too seriously, you know,” Emma says. What she doesn’t say is more important, though. Because they’re not friends, really. They’re—acquaintances. Some kind of appropriate metaphor regarding a planet’s many moons and the tendency of those moons to orbit something far bigger than them. But they like each other, too. As much as they dance and twist, do their best to avoid getting hit in the batter’s box, Emma’s more comfortable bantering with him than just about anyone she’s ever met, a challenge in every conversation, and she’s rather loath to realize she’s memorized the different ways the blue in his eyes flash.

Now it feels a bit like a spotlight.

“Matter of pride, Swan.” “Is it just?” If there are other people laying on their stomachs in that living room, half-empty glasses by their hands and equipment stacked in various corners, Emma forgets about them. Quickly. Immediately. Killian doesn’t move his fingers.

He nods.

And Mary Marget only kind of gloats when she bankrupts him.

She dances when she wins, though.

It’s embarrassing. It’s absolutely, goddamn wonderful.

Realizing that baseball is a game of statistics ruins kind of Emma’s day. It makes Killian laugh. Her favorite sort of laugh. Where he throws his head back, an arm around his middle, and his shoulders shaking. Those same strands of hair she noticed that first night fall back toward lidded eyes, the corners of his mouth lifting in an angle Emma is sure she could determine if she just didn’t hate math so much, and it takes about four seconds, her head tilting back and forth twice and one swipe of her tongue to lean forward on the couch they're sharing, tilt her head up and press her lips to his.

Press is a vast understatement.

Crash, more like.

A bases-clearing double into the left-field gap.

She knows so many baseball terms now, it’s ridiculous.

It’s because she keeps going to games. With Anna. Without Anna. With Elsa. Without Elsa. With Mary Margaret every single time. And it creeps on so slowly, she’s practically a Jane Austen heroine, but then Emma finds she cares as much as everyone else. Screams herself hoarse at every crack of the bat. Jumps and fist bumps with startling regularity. Experiences the flutter of butterflies in her flip-prone stomach before ninth-inning rallies.

She memorizes statistics. Killian’s statistics, especially.

Because the Draft is a week away, and the nerves rolling off him are even more potent than his body wash. Bought in bulk from a locally-owned company, she learns.

Killian hates capitalism, too.

Which is only part of the reason she likes him, but right now all of the reason is centered around how it feels as if the world is shifting on its axis and what, precisely, he is capable of with his tongue. Quite a lot if this first time at bat is anything to believe.

Emma laughs.

Joy bubbles from the very center of her, pushing at the seam of her lips, and it’s not much of a seam when her mouth is open to accommodate tongue, but it’s enough of a sound that Killian pulls back. No glare. Definitely eyebrow movement, though.

“That’s not the best confidence boost, you know.” “I’m straddling you,” Emma counters, nodding toward the knees on either side of his, and she has no idea when her fingers found his hair. It’s very soft.

“How did that happen?” “What was that about confidence?”

Dropping his head, she gets a different sort of laugh, one that’s just as potent in its ability to settle into her bloodstream and the empty spaces around her heart, and sports have turned her into a sap. “I like you a lot,” Killian murmurs. Emma’s heart explodes. Metaphorically speaking.

“Good.” “Expand on that, for me.” She pinches his side, almost prepared for the way it leaves him bucking beneath her. Less prepared for the mutual groan it causes. Killian’s eyes widen. “I like you a lot,” Emma repeats, and his arms tighten, and her heart knits itself back together, and the second time through the kissing order is even better.

It starts, as with most things in Emma’s nearly-adult life, because Anna demands it.

“I just think it’ll be fun,” Anna says, not for the first time. And, not for the first time, she ignores the pointed look Emma and Elsa exchange. Elsa’s lips have all but disappeared behind her teeth “Think about it,” Anna continues, “we need something to do before the game, anyway. This way we’re—you know, staying active.” Emma’s eyebrows jump. Fly. Soar into her hairline where the level of her disbelief sits, all too aware of the ring hanging around her neck.

A Draft Day gift. As much as a family heirloom can be a gift. But Killian claimed it was good luck, his brother’s ring, because turns out that snark is at least a partial product of a wholly depressing childhood, and Emma supposes there’s something to be said for common ground. Understanding, too. Stories shared over weeks that turned to months that turned to years and seasons in the minors, and it absolutely figures Killian’s Major League debut is happening in Cincinnati. Where Kristoff plays.

It’s ridiculous how in love with him she is.

Killian. Not Kristoff.

Anna is still talking. “There’s nothing else to do in Cincinnati,” she reasons, which seems unfair to the city itself but not entirely untrue, and even the concept of chili on spaghetti grosses Emma out. “Also,” Anna adds, sounding as if she’s reached the final bullet point on her list of possible arguments, “I’ve got a Groupon deal for this place.”

Elsa blinks. “I didn’t realize Groupon was even still a thing.” “Surprise!”

Emma’s laugh isn’t entirely honest, but her sigh of acceptance is and—

Turns out she’s pretty good at it.

Goddamn fantastic, actually.

At rock climbing. Indoor rock climbing. Her feet push her up the wall with ease, the steady ache in her arms welcome and wonderful and a slew of other alliterative adjectives. That leave Killian grinning like a maniac, but it’s been a weird and equally wonderful day, without a hit, but two walks, so that ups the on-base, and Emma’s really, seriously in love with him.

“I don’t know what it was,” she says, preening just a bit under Killian’s stare. Hotel lighting casts shadows on his cheeks, slumped as he is against every pillow they could find. Even the ones in the closet. He’s not supposed to be in here for much longer, both of them aware of the team-ordained curfew hanging over them, but the pre-game nerves are long gone. Replaced instead with exhilaration and endorphins, the kind that could win Elle Woods a headline-making case. “But,” Emma continues, “I just kept moving, and the guy said it was, like, a course record. Is course the right word, you think?” Killian lifts a shoulder. Even as it’s covered in ice and tape. The play he made at third is going to show on loop. On TV. In Emma’s memory. She’s never yelled that loud before.

People took pictures.

And then she cried. Like a giant sap.

“This is your show, Swan,” Killian chuckles, pride infusing the words. As if she’s the one who deserves the pride today. It’s entirely possible she cried for multiple minutes after that play. They definitely showed that on the YES Network. Mary Margaret texted her no less than forty-seven times.

“I was really fast.” Killian hums, fingers fluttering enough to make it clear he wants her closer. Emma doesn’t argue. They’re a mess of limbs and mouths and that tongue thing they’ve collectively gotten better at giving and receiving over the years, hands that warm with the sort of confidence borne of repetition. Some joke about BP and finding your swing.

“Plus,” he says, a soft laugh at Emma’s noise of displeasure when talking means far less kissing, “becoming a rock climbing savant means more upper-body work, and you know how I love your arms.” Guffawing the way Emma does is not particularly romantic. Doesn’t matter. The sound comes, and the joy remains, a steady stream pumping through all her extremities and clouding her thoughts. In the best way possible. Before Killian, Emma didn’t know this could be that. Fun and easy, not quite simple, but something she’s willing to work for. Athletes are notoriously determined, after all.

Part of her wonders if a proclivity to rock climbing makes her an athlete, too.

“Please,” she says, laughter clinging to the letters even as she finds herself moved directly over Killian’s outstretched legs, “provide, in detail, everything you enjoy about my arms.” “I didn’t say enjoy.” “Were you misquoted, Jones?” His eyes flash. Glow, honestly. At her and because of her and athletes also know how to work their opponents. Goad them into making mistakes. Something about a pitcher’s duel and a battle in the box. Where the box is this bed. And Emma’s winning.

“I love your arms,” Killian says. Dragging his mouth against the column of her throat leaves goosebumps on Emma’s skin. Her back arches. His hand flattens. The compliments continue. Turn into promises. Guarantees. Of a future that’s spread out at their feet now, if only they reach for it.

Turns out Emma’s pretty good at reaching for things. When she wants them.

“This isn’t, like, free-scale, though, is it?”

Her heart cannot be expected to handle much more of this.

“Don’t worry,” Emma says, “all proper safety precautions were taken. Plus, I wouldn’t fall off the wall.”

Killian’s expression shutters. Not in any of that frustration Emma so clearly understood when his shirt was damp, and her shoes were unsalvagable despite his best efforts to get the school’s equipment manager to dry-clean them. No, it’s—it’s something big and important and unspoken, and Emma pulls his hand up. To rest directly over the rink that’s still tucked beneath her t-shirt.

His t-shirt.

It’s got his last number on it, at least.

“Would you catch me if I fell off the wall?” He doesn’t answer at first. Doesn’t mention the absurdity of a question that does not make sense, but those literal and metaphorical clock hands are ticking, and if they don’t replace his ice soon, they’re going to destroy these sheets. “Every single time, Swan.” “Right back at you.”

Killian doesn’t miss curfew, but it’s pretty close.

And Emma wakes up to twelve texts with links for indoor rock climbing gyms in the greater New York City area.

“Holy shit, this is hard.”

Grunting more than laughing, Emma’s fingers curl around the rock in front of her. Chalk cakes itself on the pads of those fingers, stuck beneath her nails and, somehow, the bend of her elbow. “Are you not an All-Star?” she asks, glancing at Killian.

“I do not see how that factors into this at all.”

“Huh, weird.” “Suspiciously sounds like an accusation.” “Weird,” Emma repeats. They’re halfway up a wall only one of them is really supposed to be on, but the other person several feet below them is faring far worse than the pair of them combined, so, that takes precedence in her mind. “He knows a lot more curse words than I realized.” “He’s showing off,” Killian grumbles, forehead resting against the wall.

Will Scarlet hasn’t moved in five minutes. Possibly six. Maybe a round ten. He's much better at second base.

“I cannot feel my arms,” he calls, and Emma’s laugh is better that time. Purer, somehow. As if happiness can actually have a sound. Even happiness that comes with sweat on her temple and a noticeable ache in her triceps and she sort of loves this.

Sort of is a vast understatement.

“Showing off, huh?” Emma asks. She finds her next footfall with ease, happiness blooming into confidence that’s become nearly consistent these days and weeks and years. It does not take her long to feel the stare that’s lingering on her. On her ass, specifically.

She glances over her shoulder. To find her fiancé smiling at her. And staring at her ass.

“Can I help you, love?” “Whatcha doing?” “Ogling you, obviously.” “Forearms feeling good?” He nods. Sort of. There’s a distinct slope to the back of his neck and more sweat on his brown than Emma’s. Not as much as Scarlet’s, probably. “Fantastic,” Killian drawls, “keep going, Swan, someone’s got to show us how to do it.” “Try not to fall off the wall, huh? Last thing we need is the might of the Yankees front office coming after us.” “I don’t think I can move my hands,” Will shouts. Killian doesn’t move. It’s impressive forearm strength. Blushing on the wall is not usually how Emma’s days go.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Killian promises, and Emma moves. He follows her. Up the wall and to the top, a quick brush of his lips against her shoulder that leaves Scarlet cursing even more, despite his presence on the floor, but then there’s lemon-flavored water and exceptionally soft towels and Emma’s caught a bit off guard by the question.

“Are there leagues for this?” Will asks. “Because you should probably be winning things for this.” Emma blinks. Considers. Wonders. Turns to Killian.

He’s still smiling. Broadly, in fact.

“We could look.” They do. They fill out paperwork. Buy fancy climbing shoes that Emma claims cost too much, but Killian’s a pushover and even more stubborn and she wins the first race she signs up for.

Plus, ten more after that.

Emma climbs indoor rock walls. Killian hits home runs. Occasionally they do these things simultaneously, and it usually leads to her nearly falling off the wall because everyone in her Tribeca gym knows what it means when WFAN is playing on the speakers.

Sometimes they shout out John Sterling’s home run call with him.

She gets better. He gets better.

They do end up destroying sheets in various hotels across the country. For various reasons. Not all of them post-game or ice related. There are games and events. Wins and losses. Back page spreads that Emma frames and hangs on their apartment walls, right next to other, smaller frames, with the same smiling faces who, once upon a time, called a sticky-floored baseball house home, and Killian’s fingers are warm in hers when the tears prick her eyes at Anna and Kristoff’s wedding.

There are stories. Think pieces and hot takes on a variety of drive-time radio shows. Those are all about Killian, though. He’s the athlete. The true one, some stories say. It’s impressive what Emma does, they admit, but it’s a hobby, and she’s got a grown-up career, anyway. So, she’s got more climbing records than she knew ever existed, but she’s not doing it for press, and both Mary Margaret and Anna weep at her and Killian’s wedding.

She wears her ring on a chain next to her other one when she climbs.

Every time Killian notices them hanging there, Emma swears, his eyes brighten. It’s her favorite thing in the whole, goddamn world.

“What is this?” He doesn’t answer. Just holds the sheet of paper he must have printed out in the clubhouse because they certainly don’t have a printer at home, and one of the edges is bent. Like he had to fit it in his back pocket.

“Going the stoic route, huh?” Emma quips, but there’s a noticeable hitch in her pulse. One that’s been there for weeks. Since the rumblings started, and the rumors began, whispers of possibility, and first-ever has a very nice ring to it. One side of Killian’s mouth tugs up. “Oh, that’s not fair.” “I’d like the record to show, that the only reason I didn’t know immediately was because I was in the trainer’s room, so—” “What were you in the trainer’s room for?” Killian ignores her. Well, sort of. His eyes shift, and his gaze holds, and Emma knows. Right down in the marrow of her. What the paper is and how Scarlet is the one who printed it out, but she’s even more confident Killian carried it home, and that does something funny to her entire worldview. Widens it and minimizes it at the same time, focusing on this and them and the possibility that creates.

In an athletic sort of way.

“My shoulder’s kind of sore.” Emma scoffs. “Oh, that’s pointed.” “I’m sure your shoulders are fine. Golden, even.’ “This is not your best work, you know that?” “Look at the paper.” “Did you fold it yourself?” “And then took a car back home. You really didn’t see yet?” Emma shakes her head. He knows the answer, too. He’s the one with the Google alert, after all. Because she’s still a bit of a pessimist at heart and an adult with a real job, and this is too much and abjectly terrifying, and the last thing she expects is for Killian to crouch in front of her.

One of his knees cracks.

“Don’t,” he warns, even as Emma does her best to swallow her laugh. Warm hands land on her thighs, a quiet steadiness that helps the state of her pulse and makes the possibility of the unknown a little less overwhelming. The lines crossing the center of the paper are absurdly straight. “You’re going to go.” “Oh, that sounded like a decree.” “A suggestion.” “A strong one.” “Mmhm, with the utmost confidence.” Emma makes an impressive sound. “Who’s doing your media training? What an impressive vocabulary you’ve got on you.” “Ready and willing to use it in a persuasive manner.” “Keep talking like that, and you won’t have to.” The smirk disappears. Evolves into a grin that is only Emma’s and only appears in moments like this, support clinging to air molecules and the ends of hair that constantly seems determined to fall into Killian’s eyes. “Passed, huh? All cool with the IOC.” “Decidedly cool. Officially an Olympic sport, now. Although the name could use some work. Sport climbing lacks a little oomph, don’t you think?”

“What would you call it?” “Emma Swan wins Olympic gold.” “Kinda wordy.” “Prophetic,” Killian corrects, hands shifting and pulling, and Emma has to widen her legs. His head’s at a very good kissing angle. “You’ve already got the qualifying numbers.” “You looked at the qualifying numbers?” “Don’t insult me like that. What do you think I did in the backseat?” “Planned the entire 2020 Olympics, apparently.” “Not the entire Olympics,” Killian counters, "just the part involving you. And maybe my individual expectations regarding the United States baseball team, but that’s another conversation altogether.”

“Naturally.”

“You’re using that voice.”

Widening her eyes does nothing. Emma didn’t expect it to. Not after years and games and events because rock climbing has events, and one time Mary Margaret made her a sign. Killian held it. He’s taller, that’s why.

“Don’t,” Killian repeats, “this is happening.” “Yuh-huh?” “You heard me. It’s your turn, now.” Melting is an impossibility. Like, for a human. Even so. Emma feels like she’s melting. Some of that pessimism evaporating under the warmth of Killian’s gaze and his hands and the determination in the precise angle of his chin. Same one he uses when he steps into the box with runners in scoring position.

Lumping herself into that group isn’t as insulting as Emma once believed it would be.

“God,” Emma groans, “that’s romantic.” “You’re really selling it, love.”

“This is supposed to be a hobby.” “One you’re exceedingly good it. World record good at it.” “I like you.” “That’s my end game, yeah.” She laughs. Smiles. Continues melting. Which is easier once they get rid of their clothing, and their bed is way more comfortable than any hotel they’ve encountered. And she falls asleep with Killian’s lips against her ear, Emma Swan, Olympic gold medalist whispered on loop like it’s a mantra he’s been practicing.

They postpone the Olympics.

It sucks. Everything sucks. Baseball sucks. Gyms are closed. Emma gets creative, and Killian gets research-prone. They build a makeshift wall. She tosses him BP.

People write stories about it.

It doesn’t help.

Until—

Time passes. Some things change. Others don’t. Their wall stands up to the elements of their building’s courtyard, and Killian’s hitting better than ever this season, a victory Emma’s going to claim as at least partially hers. And then the Olympics are back, and it’s qualifying and racing and a record that’s just out of reach, but she’s good enough even without it, and, this time, she’s the one packing a suitcase.

He kisses her.

Does the tongue thing.

Holds onto her like he’s only a little afraid she’s going to fall off the wall, but now the wall is international competition, and Emma’s freaking out a little.

“I love you,” she says into the crook of his neck.

His arms tighten. “I love you too.” “Gold medal?” “Gold medal.” “Hit some home runs while I’m gone, huh?” Lips graze her temple. Her forehead. The bridge of her nose. Emma might be crying, and Mary Margaret’s definitely recording, a small mob of red white, and blue surrounding them. “I’ll see what I can do,” Killian promises.

“Good.”

He hits three before her first qualifying round. So, Emma takes that as a challenge. She’s an athlete now.

It’s why, she figures, her fingers don’t slip on her first run.

Her feet are sure. Her breathing is steady. There’s no one cheering her name, but she’s long since memorized the exact way Killian’s voice lifts above a crowd. How he pushes up on his toes to watch, as if standing up taller makes sure he’s closer to her. Should she need him when she falls off the wall. Only, Emma doesn’t fall, and she’s got no intention of ever falling and—

Her laugh shudders out of her in a watery sort of way that makes the journalist still standing in front of her flinch ever so slightly. Twitter makes sure the video starts playing again as soon as it finishes, which is somehow the best and worst thing that has ever happened to her. Best because, well, Emma’s honestly not sure she’s ever seen her husband like this.

Worst because she’s very nearly goddamn crying. Again.

Bobbing on the balls of his feet in front of his locker, whoever’s recording the video — it’s Scarlet, obviously — is practically frenzied behind the camera, barely able to contain their laughter. Killian doesn’t notice. He’s holding his own phone, all five of his free fingers firmly entrenched in the back of his hair. It’s gotten softer with age, Emma thinks.

She can’t stop watching him.

Every inhale is a clear struggle, the bobbing turning into pacing and quiet mumbling she can hear perfectly. As if she’s standing right in front of him.

Or at least slightly to the side. So as not to stand on the logo in the middle of the clubhouse.

Athletes are notoriously superstitious, too.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” Killian chants, another noticeable snicker from Scarlet, “right there, right there, and pull, pull—Swan, pull up!”

“I did pull up there,” Emma mumbles. To the reporter, maybe. Or the world. Possibly her husband. Who was definitely more nervous about the first run than her.

God, that’s romantic.

Killian’s still talking. Shouting, more like. It’s a miracle Scarlet hasn’t fallen over yet.

“Faster, faster, you can go faster than that, Swan—” Emma clicks her tongue. “That’s kind of insulting.”

There’s an appropriate titter of laughter from the peanut gallery, which is a joke she was not trying to make, but she’s also dangerously close to swooning in the middle of press and she should have asked the Yankees for media training. Someone would have made sure she didn’t make a total ass of herself.

“Show me the time,” Killian yells, another demand that isn’t that. It’s too wobbly a string of words to hold any real power, just the supportive sort of desperation Emma’s felt in a variety of ninth innings and series-clinching moments. “Faster! Faster!” “Talking to the time or the judges or your wife?” Scarlet asks.

Killian nearly snarls.

Emma blinks. Hyperactively. Crying is not usually her shtick. More camera flashes...flash, Emma barely noticing them with her eyes glued to a phone screen that isn’t hers because she at least knows not to bring her phone to a press conference, and she can only imagine how many text messages she’s gotten.

Even on the other side of the world.

They post the times.

She knows because Killian gets some rather impressive height on his celebratory vertical. Fingers abandoning his hair, his fist pumps the air, and Scarlet’s not laughing so much as he’s whooping, a steady stream of yeah, yeah, yeah in the background. And for about half a breath, Emma’s worried Killian may turn one of his ankles on his landing, but he’d think that was insulting, and she’s really just full-on swooning now.

“How many people have seen this?’ she asks the reporter, already knowing the answer.

The reporter smiles anyway. Emma should learn her name.

“Pretty much the whole world.” When Emma was a kid — the sort of kid who believed alone was better, and there was strength in singularity, that would have terrified her. Bowled her over, really. Left her running without looking back, desperate to shed any sort of notoriety because notoriety meant attention, and attention meant inevitable disappointment.

Maybe that’s why she was never much of a sports person.

Sports disappoint you. They build you up and let you down, a sharp and sudden fall without a safety net. But sometimes. Sometimes, every so often, something wonderful happens. Sports lift you. Right up an indoor wall. Because, she knows, sports’ power comes from belief, from surrendering yourself to something bigger and better, and she’s back on that alliterative kick, but the tears are barely clinging to her eyelashes now and Emma herself is bigger and better, now.

In an international, decidedly romantic sort of way.

The video’s playing away.

“Let’s go,” Killian cries, and there it is. Her sound and their sound, cheering across an ocean and time zones that are still kind of messing with her sleep schedule.

Emma’s smile stretches.

“Let’s go,” she repeats.

It ends, as with most things in Emma’s gold-medal-winning life, because Anna plans it.

Stepping out of the terminal, it takes less than a full breath for the cheers to start. For the banners to lift and the tears to flow, a small platoon of support covered in the sort of patriotic gear they definitely got from the Old Navy in Herald Square.

Flashes burst behind Emma’s eyelids because she’s got to blink or she’ll definitely fall over. Her legs wobble beneath her, contending against a wave of triumph and jubilation, which is sort of the same word, but they’ve got a game at the Stadium tonight, so she doesn’t expect, she just hopes and reaches, and he has to twist around both Anna and Mary Margaret.

It’s wonderfully cyclical.

As is the way Emma slams herself against him. On purpose, this time. Killian’s arms tighten, more cheers and shouts, and people a few feet away start chanting USA over and over. Emma barely hears them. Her feet aren’t touching the ground, so she’s kind of preoccupied.

They’re all arms and mouths, and her legs wrapped securely around a body that probably shouldn’t be supporting hers when she knows he slid into second two nights ago, but Killian clearly has no intention of letting her down, and the medal around her neck bumps against her rings.

“You’re a very good cheerleader; you know that?” He hisses. In what, Emma can’t imagine. Embarrassment, if the red tips of his ears are anything to go by, and she’s got ideas as to why that is and how long the conversation about social media with Scarlet went, so Emma does the only reasonable thing.

She slams her lips against her home-run hitting husband’s, doing her best to make sure the gold medal doesn’t mistakenly impale either one of them, and the world tilts again. With victory and sports-based support and the sort of love that comes from believing in something bigger.

And better than Emma could have ever imagined.

“I didn’t want to steal your thunder.”

“Please,” Emma scoffs, “don’t insult me like that. Plus, I’m claiming every one of those home runs as my own, so comparatively—” He kisses her before she can say anything else.

That’s for the best, probably.

“Your arms looked ridiculously good the whole time.”

Her laugh doesn’t even sound like her when Emma hears it played back — another video that someone tells her goes viral, only she doesn’t care about hits or site traffic, just about the particular shade of blue in Killian’s eyes, and she wears her medal to the game that night.

Because they’re a sports power couple, now.

Or so the New York Post back page claims the next day.

Emma frames it.