#I’m itching to draw SO BADLY right now

[batwynn]

Honestly, why is it always the days I’m the sickest and stuck wrapped up in blankets or in bed that I get hit with all these drawing ideas that I must draw RIGHT NOW?

[hazbinshusk]

blitzø x afab!reader. you're holed up at home with a broken leg and blitzø has surprised you by coming by to keep you company. you feel depressed and completely bored stuck in the apartment, so he decides to take your mind off it. for totally noble, selfless reasons, of course. featuring: oral sex (female receiving), masturbation, overstimulation, squirting, and horse drawings of questionable skill. 2.3k. anon request. I hope you're feeling better!

Fucking gravity.

You were a complete badass, both in Hell and on Earth – you’d spent a good long while now building up that particular reputation through your work with I.M.P, and no one was ever going to argue with that. At least, no one smart.

So, if someone could explain to you just how in the ever-loving fuck you’d managed to trip down a flight of stairs and break your goddamned fibula, that would be great. Because right now, you feel like an idiot. A hobbled, immobile idiot.

The cast wrapped snugly around your leg is bulky and irritates your skin, and Blitzø glances up from his place on the floor when you groan, an eyebrow raised. You’re sitting on your couch while a movie you’re only half paying attention to plays in front of you, your injured foot propped up on the coffee table, a pillow tucked under your heel. The other imp is sitting cross-legged between the couch and coffee table in front of you, a marker in hand. He has been happily doodling away at your cast for a while now, his forked tongue poking out as he concentrates on his latest addition to the plaster.

His tongue slips back between his lips as he registers the discomfort in your expression. “You good?”

You sigh. “My leg itches.”

“Which one?”

You give him a pointed look. “Take a wild guess.”

He snorts a laugh, abandoning whatever he’s scribbling – probably his latest (and as always, greatest) horse design – and tosses the marker on the table beside him. The plaster is already covered with his drawings; scribbles of horses all labelled with names like Bumblebee and Octagon, his name in bubble letters and badly designed graffiti, Loona giving everybody the finger. There was even one that looked like the two of you side by side, the lines jerky over the uneven expanse of the cast.

“Where?”

You lean forward long enough to tap your finger over a drawing of a horse that was christened ‘Crayon’, a couple of inches below the top of the cast. You exhale softly in relief as he slips the spade of his tail down into your cast and rubs it over your itch, letting your head fall back against the back of the couch.

“Oh, that’s godly…”

“’Bout fuckin’ time someone else said that about me.”

You chuckle, smirking at the ceiling. “Idiot.”

“Oh, c’mon.” he teases, wiggling his eyebrows at you. “You weren’t exactly fuckin’ shy about callin’ me a ‘god’ the other night…”

“Is that what I was doing?” you reply, even as you feel your cheeks warm. “Maybe I was praying for you to stop.”

“Yeah? And the shakin’ thighs and beggin’ for more?”

“…I’m an incredible actress.”

Blitzø scoffs and leans his arm on the sofa beside you, resting his temple against his hand. He gives you an appraising look as he withdraws his tail, letting the tip of it skim over your knee and over the top of your thigh as he does. You raise a brow at his expression.

“What?”

“Nothin’,” he shrugs, a devious grin curling his lips. “’s jus’ kinda fun seein’ you all helpless like this.”

“You think so?” you say, faux-brightly before letting the fake smile drop and flipping him off. He snickers. You were actually grateful, if not still surprised, that he was here. He turned up a few hours ago and let himself into the apartment – despite him not actually having a key – apparently fine with skipping work in order to keep you company and alleviate some of the boredom. He’d brought shakes and greasy diner food with him, and had been doodling away on your cast for the last hour, as content and as boyish as you’d ever seen him. It was endearing, really, if not still completely weird.

“Just give me my meds, would you?”

“What, you can’t reach ‘em?” he asks, feigning innocence, and you scowl at him. Blitzø grins, but straightens so he can collect your painkillers and your milkshake from the table. You swallow the pills down with the last dregs of the shake, sucking down the mix of chalky pills and chocolate foam noisily.

Blitzø takes the cup from you and sets back on the table, and you wince as he leans his elbows on your leg, his chin resting in his hands mockingly.

“Do you mind?”

“Not really.” he shrugs, his tail switching back and forth behind him in a slow, steady rhythm.

“Asshole.”

“You love it.” You roll your eyes despite your smile, and his widens. He removes one hand from under his chin, tip-toeing two of his fingers teasingly up along your cast and past it, from your ankle to the bare skin of your knee and higher as he speaks. “Y’know what I really love about you bein’ all busted up like this?”

“Vivid imagery?”

Blitzø gives you a sharp, wicked grin, ducking under your leg to plant himself between your thighs. He takes hold of your knees, pressing them wider, leaning in closer to you tauntingly. “You can’t go anywhere.”

A shiver rolls up your spine at the sudden huskiness to his voice, and you flush. Still, you try to push yourself further back onto the couch, away from him. “Blitz, I’m all sweaty and—”

“Not yet, baby, but you’re about to be,” he shoots back without hesitation, his claws squeezing the flesh of your thighs. “C’mon, bitch. You know I can make you feel so good…”

Your breath catches, a soft whimper slipping out of you before you can stop it. His smirk twitches wider, his tail switching back and forth predatorily behind him. He’s watching you with heavily-lidded eyes, and his expression burns into you, excites you in a way that makes you want to squeeze your thighs together to quench it. But his claws are too tight on your legs, and you can’t do it. He feels your muscles tense though, and he growls, low and hungry under his breath.

Blitzø slides his hands further up your thighs slowly, delighting in the way your breathing grows unsteady in response. The sleep shorts you’re wearing are threadbare cotton, and it takes so little once he hooks a claw into the leg of one for the threads start to tear.

“Say you want it, slut,” he urges roughly, eyes still burning into yours. “Say you want me.”

You bite your lip and nod, and that’s all Blitzø needs before he’s leaning up to catch your lips with his in a rough, hungry kiss. His tongue meets yours, his breath hot and sharp as it mingles with yours, and you sigh into the kiss, one hand coming up to cup his cheek. You can feel his smirk still playing on his features, feel his hands take hold of the waistband of your shorts and underwear. There’s the sharp sound of fabric tearing and then his hand is cupping your cunt.

You whimper into his mouth as he slides a finger up between your labia and finds you clit. He kisses you again, his fangs catching your bottom lip before he pulls back. Blitzø waggles his eyebrows at you cockily before he lowers himself back onto his knees between your thighs.

“Look at you, all wet already,” he growls before his mouth is on your clit and you moan, bucking up as best you can without moving your injured leg. Blitzø hums a laugh into your cunt, the vibrations a heady teasing against your clit, and he wraps an arm around your thigh. He hooks your injured leg up over his shoulder, and you grab blindly at the back of the couch with one hand as he smooths his claws up the outside of your thigh. He tugs you further towards the edge of the couch, opening you up further to his tongue. “Fuck, always taste so fuckin’ good…”

He doesn’t know subtlety, and he doesn’t work you up slowly to the sensation of his tongue against your clit. No, Blitzø practically attacks your cunt with his mouth, a groan rolling through him and into your pussy in a way that makes your eyes roll back. When he slips finger up into you, you moan aloud, wrapping a hand around his horn and bracing the other on the couch so you can grind against his tongue.

“Shit, Blitz, fuck…” you can feel yourself already soaking, dripping onto the cushion beneath you whenever he pulls away to tease you with biting kisses to your thighs and hips. He sucks a possessive mark into your hipbone, lathing his tongue over the same spot just as he pushes another finger up into you. “Holy fuck!”

He snickers, flicking his forked tongue tauntingly over your clit again, eyes on your face. “Careful, whore, you’re gettin’ close to callin’ me a ‘god’ again.”

“I’m…” you pant, brow creasing as you screw your eyes shut as though it can help you focus on your words instead of the way he curves his fingers inside you. “…rehearsing. Big role coming up.”

You jerk as he sinks his teeth into your thigh. “Only thing fuckin’ cummin’ here is you.”

“Satan, that’s lame, Blit—” you break off with a loud, keening moan as Blitzø sucks your clit into his mouth and tortures it with his tongue, your eyes rolling back and your hand tightening so much on the couch cushion beneath you that you hear the threads pop. The heat inside you expands, tingling through your limbs and making your back arch, and Blitzø reaches up to grope at your chest, palming your breast through your t-shirt. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck, fuuuuuck…”

That heat clenches inside you and releases and you cum, hips lifting off the couch, your cast balanced against his back. Blitzø moans into your cunt as you soak his face, lapping at your clit relentlessly. He slows only enough to let you catch your breath, keeping you burning on that breathless precipice, too stimulated to come back down, but not enough to keep the orgasm rolling through you.

He releases your breast and you hear his zipper lower. Blitzø groans against you as he wraps a fist around the base of his cock, stroking himself with the same pace he finger-fucks you with. He’s muttering the filthiest sweet nothings into your pussy, each touch of his tongue against your clit sending sparks through you that make your body jerk.

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, a thin trail of drool leaking from the corner of your mouth. “Blitz… please…”

“Fuck, that’s it, bitch,” he moans, withdrawing his fingers from your pussy to roll over your clit, his fist quickening around his erection. “Fuckin’ beg me for it, c’mon…”

“Please, baby…” you whine obediently, too far gone to care about how he’ll lord it over you as soon as you’re done. He pushes his tongue into your quivering cunt, eager, hungry for every part of you he can taste. You’re boneless against the couch except for the disjointed jerks of your hips into his face, your body chasing another release even as it finds it too overwhelming to continue. “Please, Blitz… fucking, God, please…”

He presses his fingers down on your clit just as he quickens them further and you cum again, eyes rolling back and your vision going white. Blitzø groans loudly, leaning back on his heels to watch your cunt throb and pulse, his fingers still moving over it ruthlessly. His eyes flicker up from your pussy to your face and he cums too, shouting a string of curses you don’t really understand through the endorphin-fueled haze leaking through your brain.

“Shiiiit…” he lets his head fall against your thigh, and you giggle breathlessly, punch-drunk. His shoulders shudder as he catches his breath, then his head snaps back up as though he were completely unaffected.

He rests his chin on your thigh, raising an eyebrow at you with a small smirk. “Feel better?”

You run a hand through your hair, and Blitzø watches the movement lift your breasts under your shirt. “About being stuck on the couch, or do you think your tongue somehow heals broken bones?”

“Bitch, my tongue is a fuckin’ miracle and you know it,” he shoots back, grinning against your leg as you laugh.

“I do feel more relaxed…” you admit.

“Fuck yeah, you do.”

“…But now the couch is all wet.”

His grin widens lasciviously. “Fuck yeah, it is.”

“Blitz.”

He rolls his eyes, unhooking your injured leg from his shoulder and setting your foot back on the coffee table with surprising care. He stands, making a show of tucking himself back into his jeans, winking at you when he doesn’t do them back up. “Alright, alright. Unclench that ass, sugartits, I’m on it.”

You raise a brow. “You are?”

“Yup.” he says, clapping his hands together before grabbing your crutches from where they’re propped against the coffee table. “You’re gonna take a bath, I’m gonna scrub your cum outta the couch—’

“Ew, Blitz!”

“—and then,” he continues pointedly. “You’re gonna go get all comfy in bed.”

You feel a smile twitch at the edge of your lips, surprised by your thoughtfulness. “Really?”

“Yup.” he says, popping the ‘p’. “And then we’re gonna see just how well you suck dick lyin’ down.”

You snort a laugh, shaking your head. “There it is!”

He grins widely, holding a hand out to help you up off the couch. “Fuckin’ right. Now get your ass up before I decide to make your crippled ass run this fuckin’ bath bullshit by yourself.”

[rosemaidenvixen]

Witch Hunter

Chapter 17

<Previous Next>

Ao3

Reverend Greystone’s sermons were never the most riveting, but now Jim couldn’t even pretend to pay attention.

He sat ramrod straight on the wooden bench, gripping the side with all his strength. Twice he’d caught himself tapping his foot before forcing his limb to still. And he was far from the only one, the entire crowd seemed to itch with nervous energy, shifting and fidgeting in their seats as the Reverend droned on.

Even Constable Mayhew, the one normally tasked with ensuring their good behavior, was just as badly afflicted as the rest of them. Shifting from foot to foot and glancing nervously about.

Eventually the Reverend must have noticed and given up trying to hold their attention because he called the service to a close far earlier than usual.

Jim pried his fingers off the bench and forced himself to stand slowly and not jump out of his seat. Using the excuse of walking outside to look Claire’s way.

He glanced upon her, face pale and gaunt, and the two of them locked eyes. Less than a second later Claire made a subtle nod towards the back wall.

Resisting the urge to nod back in acknowledgment Jim turned and headed outside. Breaking away as discreetly as he could to head around to the back of the meeting house. 

After what felt like hours, but what was likely only a few minutes, he heard the sound of Claire’s footsteps crunching through the leaves as she headed towards him.

“No word on who they’re suspecting of witchcraft,” Claire stepped around the corner of the building towards him, voice flat and eyes hollow “No word yet of accusing your mother,”

“Good, we still have some room to maneuver then,” that was good to hear, but it was far too soon to bask in any relief. And something else was weighing on Claire as well, she wouldn’t risk meeting during the day just to tell him nothing had changed.

Claire nodded, head flopping limply like a doll “And another thing, the Greystones have discovered our drawings, they don’t know what they mean but I think it would be safer if we avoided meeting at night for a while.

Jim’s heart skipped a beat, but miracle of miracles he managed to choke back a very undignified squeak “How long till your father arrives? Have you heard any–”

“My father is dead.” 

Jim froze, staring Claire dead on, trying to spot any sign that she was jesting. Only to see the grey cast to her skin, the heavy bags beneath her eyes, gaze dull and lifeless.

It was a struggle to make his feet and voice work again “....What?”

“Took ill at sea, died before they ever reached Spain,” the words fell from her lips like stones, voice dead flat “Chances are he was dead before my mother was. My uncle has no interest in collecting me and Enrique, he’s content to inherit my father’s estate and leave us to rot–”

“Claire!” he shot a hand out and grabbed her arm “You mean to tell me that your family is…”

“I haven’t given up,” she continued as though Jim hadn’t done anything, but he could see the shine in her eyes from unshed tears “We can find work out of town, become indentured at another settlement–”

In a move that may have very well been the stupidest thing Jim had ever done, he reached up and pulled Claire to his chest, holding her tight.

Claire shuddered in his grip but didn’t pull away.

“I’m so so sorry about your father,” he said softly “We were both relying on him to take us away from here, but he was your family. The only parent you had left, and I can’t even begin to imagine the pain you must be in right now,”

A single sharp sob escaped her, muffled into his shirt, her shaking arms rising up to squeeze him tight.

Their embrace lasted a few more seconds before Claire rubbed her face against his shoulder and pulled away, Jim releasing her.

“Goody Greystone and some other women are heading to the next town over to trade in a few days,” her voice was thick “I can seek out opportunities then,”

Jim swallowed hard, and straightened up. Even though the knowledge that no rescue to Spain was coming for them made him weak at the knees, he knew Claire needed him to be strong right now. He’d lost his escape but she’d lost her family. 

No, there was no question which of the two of them had it worse right now.

Claire had precious few people to rely on now, and Jim was one of them. Which meant he needed to force his own worries aside and be the anchor in a storm that she needed.

 “Right, I’ll ask around about indentured labor and people hiring traveling companions while you’re gone,” he gave a curt nod of his head, willing a confidence he didn’t feel into his voice “No matter how far or how long it takes I’ll find something. You can count on me,”

The smile she gave him in response was a weak, watery thing, but a true smile nonetheless. One that pulled and tore at his heartstrings. 

[riahlynn101]

"Safe In Your Arms."

Summary: Izuku manifests an All for One quirk during his fated battle with All for One.

--

They stand atop the ruins of what-Izuku thinks might have-once been a movie theater or a bank. Most of the refugees were evacuated via helicopter, and those that weren’t are either bunkering down somewhere or….

Izuku doesn’t want to think about the or in that particular situation. He can’t afford to lose control of his emotions. 

“One for All!” All for One calls out. His face isn’t hidden away behind a mask, and for some unmistakable reason Izuku feels a weird sort of wrong (familiar, the word you’re looking for is familiar) when he stares too long at his enemy’s face. 

“I’m going to stop you!” Izuku shouts back, letting One for All crisscross his body in lines of green-white lightning. He won’t attack, at least not yet. Not without a semi-thought-out plan. But he still needs to keep All for One at bay or amuse him (judging by the smirk on his smug, very familiar, punchable face).

“Will you now?” He asks, taking a step closer. “I would love to see you try.”

He’s closer now, and Izuku can’t stop staring at his face. All the alarm bells are going off in his head. 

(You know him; he knows you.)

“Get back!” Izuku gets into position to fight just in case All for One lunges for him. His hands are shaking quite badly, and his palms are starting to itch. 

“Now, One for All,” he croons, mockingly, “it almost seems like you’re afraid of me. But that can't be true, can it?”

Izuku itches at his palms, trying to avoid looking at All for One longer than absolutely necessary. “You know nothing!”

(He knows you; he’s always known you.)

An odd look comes over All for One’s face. “I know you, Izuku Midoriya.”

Izuku cringes back. This can’t be good. U. A’s student files have a lot of information in them. Everything from what allergies they have to their home addresses and everything in between. It’s likely he got the file from Aoyama. He hopes his friend, despite the current circumstances, is faring alright in protective custody. 

All for One continues on. “Your favorite color is red. Katsudon is your favorite food.” He clasps his hands behind his back, the smirk returning to his face. Slowly, he starts to creep closer. “You live in an apartment with your mother right here in Musutafu.”

Izuku feels warm, like he’s slowly but surely burning up from the inside out. His palms hurt, and it takes everything in him not to draw attention to it. 

All for One is a few feet away now. “Her name is Inko Midoriya-”

“Leave my mother out of this!” He yells, even though it’s unlikely All for One will listen. Using people’s families against them is his thing. 

“-she’s forty-one,” he continues on as if never interrupted. “She’s married to your father.” The villain monologues more, but Izuku can’t concentrate. Even with everything at stake, all the lives on the line, and seven predecessors cheering him on, he can’t focus. 

All Might would be so disappointed in him. He’s certainly disappointed in himself. 

A sharp pain radiates from the center of Izuku’s palms all the way up to his wrists. “Ah!” He cries out, knees folding in. Izuku clutches his hands to his chest.

“Have you finally given up?” All for One ask, but his voice doesn’t have the same mocking edge it did a few moments earlier. When Izuku doesn’t respond, he sighs heavily.

Izuku stares at the ground, eyes unfocused. There’s so much dust. When the heroes get everything back under control and they can start rebuilding their livelihoods, he wonders where they’ll start first. It’s hard to imagine what this town, the town he’s grown up in most of his life, used to look like.  

A hand is shoved in front of his view. “Let me see,” All for One says, voice oddly monotone. 

“No!” Izuku shouts, coming back to his senses. He scoots back, ignoring how the pieces of rubble dig into the ripped areas of his costume. “Get away!” 

All for One kneels down. He doesn’t look the least bit happy. “Izuku Midoriya, give me your hand.” The tone of his voice reminds Izuku vaguely of the times when he was younger, and his mom or dad needed to get his attention for something important. 

Izuku hunches in on himself, holding his sore hands to his chest even tighter. He shakes his head, dirtied curls bouncing with the movement. 

“I won’t ask again. Hand now,” he says. 

Seeing as how he let his enemy get right in front of him, Izuku doesn’t think he has the upper hand here. Maybe if All for One sees his hands have simply been banged up from the excessive number of fights Izuku has had to get into during the last few days, he’ll leave him alone. 

Izuku pulls his trembling hands away from his chest. Cautiously, he places it in the steady hands of the enemy. His hands tingle and burn without pressure being applied to them. 

All for One’s hands are calloused and rough from his many years of being alive, but they are also comfortably warm. (Izuku remembers the feeling of his dad holding his hand tightly because otherwise Izuku would slip away and get caught up in the villain attack down the street.) 

The villain hums, peeling off one of Izuku’s gloves. The humming stops suddenly, and Izuku thinks he might have heard All for One’s breath hitch. “Oh, no,” the villain says, sounding horrified. 

A thumb gently runs across his aching palms, soothing the hurt just a little. “I’m so sorry, Izuku.”

 Izuku looks up, alarmed. “Wha-” Whatever he wants to say dies on his lips, because his hands-at least one of them-has a hole in the center of the palm. Just like….

(You know him; he knows you.)

“No!” Izuku screams, throwing himself backward. “What-what…. did you….” he can’t bring himself to say it, but the proof stares at him when he looks down at his ungloved hand. 

“Izuku, I know you’re afraid. But it’s alright.” All for One speaks to him as if Izuku is some kind of frightened animal. He maintains a respectful distance. “I can help you.”

“No! Stay away from me! Get away! I-I don’t want your help,” Izuku struggles not to cry. 

Growing up, his mom always told him there’s strength in crying and showing your emotions, but right now, in front of the very person he’s been training to fight (and hopefully end), Izuku feels so, very weak. 

“You know, I manifested All for One right before my tenth birthday. It was during a tumultuous time, and my parents didn’t understand it. They refused to let my brother, or I leave the house in fear we’d be hunted down. Even all these years later I can still recall the searing pain as the holes in my palms made themselves known. I remember being afraid. I remember thinking I was a monster, and that was before I even learned what I could do.” 

Izuku glances up, the confession taking him by surprise. 

“The worst part, though, wasn’t the pain, or the whispers from my parents. It was the greed that came with my newfound ability.”

All for One reaches a hand out. “I don’t want the same for you. I’ve always wanted better for you, Izuku. Let me help you.”

He thinks briefly of telling All for One where he can stick his so-called ‘help,’ but quickly thinks better of it. His enemy has already stuck him with some copy of the All for One quirk, and there’s no telling what other damage he’s done. Maybe if Izuku plays along, he can get the villain to undo whatever he’s done to him. 

Izuku takes All for One’s hand, hating himself for being reminded of his parents and All Might. 

“Good,” All for One hauls him back up to his feet. “Let’s get you somewhere safe.” 

In the back of his mind, Izuku thinks he might be hearing the vestiges scream at him to run away. 

“Are you going to vault me?” He asks, still light-headed and in no state to fight (but he would if he has to, especially if the outcome is being locked away for however many years). 

All for One laughs. “No, you only make that mistake once.” He strokes the freckles on Izuku’s cheeks. “Besides, I’m having too much fun to lock you up. Maybe another day.”

“Oh, okay. Can you take back your quirk now?” 

A deep sigh and then, “no.”

Izuku blanches. “No-no? What does that mean? I thought you said you’d help me.”

“Calm yourself,” All for One says, tucking a stray piece of hair behind Izuku’s ear. “I’ll answer all your questions, after we get somewhere safe.”

Izuku wants to ask how All for One plans to leave this absolute hellhole Izuku used to proudly call home, but he finds his throat feels funny. He coughs trying to expel whatever it is. All that comes up is a dark liquid and then there’s more of it, and then even more of it until it’s all he can taste and think about. 

He’s tossed into a vast, near-ending void. At first, Izuku thinks he might be dreaming. The void looks similar to the vestige world he finds himself in every time he falls asleep, but it doesn’t last long before Izuku finds himself staring at concrete flooring. 

“Come on,” All for One says, pulling Izuku to his feet. “We have much to discuss.”

The room they’re in is large and filled with rows of vats with nothing inside them. The large computer in the center of the room has a giant crack in the middle of it. 

“Where are we?” Izuku asks, eyeing All for One. 

“Does it matter? We’ll be safe here, for now.”

Izuku says nothing after that. 

He follows the villain to a side room in the back of the lab. All for One herds Izuku inside first before easing the door closed behind him. 

“Now, can we discuss you taking your quirk back?”

“Sit down,” he orders, motioning to a chair in the corner of the room. He sits, crossing his arms. All for One takes the chair across from him. 

“There, now-”

“Yes. Ask your questions.”

Izuku still hasn’t figured out why All for One would pass on a quirk he holds so dear, or is it a copy? He hasn’t figured that part out yet either. Does he want to isolate him? Maybe he doesn’t need to vault Izuku if he has him under his protection. Yeah, that sounds right. All for One gives him a quirk to control him.

“One problem with that, Izuku.”

He was muttering again, wasn’t he?

“I wouldn’t give such a powerful ability away just to spite my enemies. Especially one that’s as unpredictable as All for One. Furthermore, when I said I wanted better for you, I meant it.”

That doesn’t make any sense, and he wishes first would come out of hiding and explain what his brother’s going on about. 

“You keep saying that, but none of it makes any sense. Before I got One for All, and even for a little while after, I didn’t even know you existed. So, how could you have always wanted better for me?”

All for One runs a hand through his neatly trimmed hair, taking a deep breath. “Do you…” he licks his lips. “Do you remember your father?”

Izuku thinks of hot summer days and walking hand-in-hand with his father down the streets of their neighborhood, ice cream cones in hand. He thinks of warm, strong arms that would pick him up and hold him tight every time he had a nightmare. He thinks of his parents swaying to music a generation or three too old for Izuku’s tastes in the living room of their apartment. Of dad jokes and burnt pancakes and of being chased around the oak tree in front of their first house. 

Izuku closes his eyes, a feeling of longing welling up in him. He hasn’t thought much of his dad since he left on that business trip however many years ago now. He’s had his mom and now All Might to fill the hole in his heart that his dad left behind. 

“Not much,” his voice shakes. Izuku feels his throat tighten up, and for a second, he thinks All for One has simply gotten bored with him and is teleporting him somewhere else. Tears well up in his eyes, but he keeps them stubbornly closed, refusing to let them fall.

“Not much, hm?” Thumbs are brushed gently but firmly across his lower lash line. “Then why, my dear, are you crying? Do you miss him?”

Izuku hates these questions. Hates himself for allowing All for One to do this to him. He can feel One for All crackling underneath his skin, always within reach.

“That’s none of your business,” Izuku snaps. 

“I have a son,” All for One admits, a wistful look in his eyes. 

A gasp leaves Izuku. Whatever he expected All for One to say, it certainly wasn’t that. “A son?” He asks, flabbergasted. Izuku wonders what such a person might look and act like. Out of curiosity and nothing more he looks up at the villain and asks, “what’s he like?”

The villain gives a light chuckle, running his fingers through Izuku’s curls. “Well,” he starts, “for one thing, he’s a big fan of heroes.”

“Karma,” Izuku says, simply. It had to be.

“Perhaps,” All for One agrees reluctantly. “But I’ve never held his love of heroes against him. It’s the only thing that’s ever made him smile.” He frowns at that.

 “Why not give this quirk to your son?”

“Izuku, do you really not recognize me?” All for One scoots his chair closer, knees touching Izuku’s.

“Yes, you’re All for One,” he answers. If the man wasn’t his mortal enemy, then Izuku would definitely be asking if the rewind quirk he used to heal his face didn’t also rewind all his brain cells. 

“Correct, I am All for One. But that’s not what I was hoping you would say.”

“...Sorry…?” Izuku tries, clenching his fists to ward off another round of stabbing pain.

“You’re forgiven,” All for One says without a hint of irony. “I guess we’ll have to come back to this conversation later. For now, let me see your hands.”

Just as before, Izuku places his hands in All for One’s. He stares at Izuku’s hands for an uncomfortable amount of time. “You’ll have to wear gloves from now on. Not that seems to be a problem for you.”

He yanks his hands out of the man’s grasp. “You said you would help me!” 

“I did, and I will.”

“Then why won’t you take your quirk back? Why burden me with it?”

All for One tilts his head to the side, looking at Izuku like one would a particularly cute but annoying puppy. “I thought you were smarter than this. Perhaps I was wrong.” Before the insult can set in, All for One leans in closer. He takes Izuku’s face in his hands. 

“I suppose I need to bring you up to speed on a few things. One of which is that I’m Hisashi Midoriya. Ah, ah, don’t interrupt just yet, I can tell you want to say something but save it for the end. Which, in case you haven’t caught on, means I’m your father. And since you're my son you had the potential to inherit my quirk.”

Izuku can do nothing but stare back, mouth agape. His mother….did she know? She had to know, right? But she seems so happy that All Might’s his mentor. Unless she’s allowing it for purely petty reasons, but that’s not like his mom. His mom is kind and gentle and would never settle for the scrounge of Japan.

“My mom…did she…”

“Know? No, I took an interest in her for an unrelated project of mine.” A soft, dreamy look crosses All for One’s face. “But Inko was kind to me. She has this way about her that makes you feel wanted.”

Izuku sighs, exhausted. “Yeah, mom’s the best. I hope she’s doing alright.”

“She is, don’t worry. Even when I was gone, I never left you guys alone.”

“Can you skip to the part where you tell me why I suddenly have your quirk?” Izuku would usually love to engage in small talk with his estranged father, but at the current moment his head is killing him and he is three seconds away from seriously considering cutting off his hands.

“Not one for casual discussion, are you? No matter.” He lets go of Izuku’s face in favor of grabbing his hands. “You started manifesting the quirk at a very young age. One day you were a happy, cheerful two-year-old, the next you were constantly sobbing and clinging onto Inko or I. The contrast was night and day. We thought perhaps you were teething, but a trip to the doctor’s revealed you already had all your baby teeth. Then we thought that you were just going through a phase. Well, at least, your mother did. I personally thought someone was hurting you, and you didn’t have the words to tell me yourself. Turns out, we were both sorely mistaken.” All for One smiles, widely, showing off all his teeth.

The air in the room is stale, and Izuku suddenly wishes to be back on the battlefield again. The vestiges of One for All hover anxiously over his shoulder (minus the first). They whisper words of comfort. At one point he swears he can feel Nana’s long, dark hair tickle his face when she presses a kiss to the crown of his head. 

“Go on,” Izuku presses, teeth gritted to bear the pain. 

He’s broken his bones countless times, over and over again. So, why does this hurt so much?

“Ah, be patient, I’m getting there.” He takes Izuku’s hands and turns them palms up. Gently, he strokes his thumbs across Izuku’s palms, just like he did back at the ruins of Musutafu. It helps the ache, and he finds himself relaxing ever so slightly. “For what it’s worth, little one, I am sorry. I didn’t want you to manifest my quirk. The moment I realized what was going on, I did everything in my power to suppress it.”

“How?” There existed pills that could maybe, potentially suppress quirk symptoms, but-to his knowledge-there exists no way to fully suppress the quirk-itself.

“I won’t lie, it was hard. I went back-and-forth with Doctor Garaki about different solutions. We came up with a three-step plan. First, you were exposed to videos and conversations on why ‘villainous’ quirks are wrong. To make you feel shame, which, according to Doctor Garaki, works to make you unconsciously try to suppress it.”

That….sounds….exactly what a villain would do. Izuku doesn’t understand why he feels so shocked at the admission. Then something occurs to him. “But I didn’t know All for One was a dangerous, or a villainous quirk. In fact, I probably didn’t know about the quirk at all. So, how would I associate discrimnation against villainous or unsavory quirks with the one I was still developing?”

“That,” All for One starts, looking to the side, “wasn’t thought of. Not my brightest idea. The project was scrapped immediately. Steps two and three worked a bit better.”

“And they were…?”

“Memory alteration and then, a couple years later, making you think you were quirkless.”

Izuku’s heart skips a beat. 

All the bullying.

The loneliness.

The isolation.

The pain. 

It was a….lie?

Izuku stands up, pushing All for One away. “How dare you,” he says, jabbing a finger into the villain’s chest. “How fucking dare you.”

“Izuku,” All for One tries, voice uncharacteristically soft. 

“No!” He knocks his chair over in an effort to maneuver around his nemesis. All for One grabs onto him. Shaking with anger and weak from the pain, Izuku silently begs his body for one last adrenaline boost. “Let me go!” He hits at the villain’s arms and chest, throwing himself to the floor in an attempt to get away. 

It works, for a moment. He lays there, on the ground, looking up at the ceiling. Wires stick out in places and there’s obvious signs of water damage. If he stays still, maybe he can count all the tiles…..

There’s a clicking sound and then All for One is standing above him, blocking his view. 

“Please,” Izuku begs, he has no energy left to fight or argue, “just go away.”

His nemesis doesn’t respond. He sits down next to Izuku, a serious expression on his face. 

They sit like that for a while, side-by-side, not touching, and quiet.

Izuku’s hands tingle and every so often he has to clench them into fists to make the stabbing pains manageable. Out of the corner of his eye, Izuku can see All for One move forward as if to touch him, but then jolt to keep himself from touching Izuku.

“I would never leave you-”

“Yeah? Well, you did,” Izuku snaps. 

Fingers card through his hair, an expression of long-lost paternal love. “They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but it only made me grow weaker.” A kiss is pressed to his forehead. “I can’t begin to imagine how hard it was for you and your mother, but please, please never, for one second, think I didn’t want to come home.”

Tears well up in Izuku’s eyes. “I needed you. Mom needed you,” his voice breaks. The lump in his throat grows, and he struggles to keep his composure. “I thought I did something wrong. I thought you went away because I was defective, and no matter what mom said, it never made the pain go away.”

“Oh , Izuku,” All for One-his father (that feels almost illegal to think)-warbles. 

He’s pulled onto his father’s lap. The villain holds him tightly to his chest. 

His father hums a familiar tune under his breath, rocking them back-and-forth. Just like he used to do when Izuku was small. Well, smaller.

“I can’t go back like this,” Izuku says, voice hoarse. “I-I can’t face All Might and my friends like this.”

He’s shushed, and a hand resumes carding through his curls. “Not now. That is tomorrow's problem.”

“It hurts. Why does it hurt so much?” He squeezes his eyes shut, the semi-darkness helps with his mounting headache. 

His father kisses his temple, muttering something unintelligible. “I know, and I’m sorry.”

“Can’t you take it away?” Izuku asks, hating how safe he feels in the confines of his father’s arms.

“I’ve tried,” his father admits. 

Something wet falls on Izuku’s face. It takes a second for him to realize it’s his father’s tears. 

He goes on. “I tried so hard to protect you guys. I kept you hidden in plain sight, and when you started developing your own version of All for One, I panicked. I thought of what the hero commission would do if they ever caught wind of your ability. I thought of what heroes with morals on par with the lowest criminal scum and the backing of the law could potentially do to you and your mother. I…I didn’t know what to do.” Tears fall onto Izuku’s face faster. “I didn’t know how to make it all better…..I wanted to make you smile again.”

Izuku cries harder. “All Might’s going to be so angry with me.”

“No, the blond oaf is a lot of things. But he seems to genuinely care for you as if you were his own. Loathe as I am to admit that.”

“But-but he hates you,” Izuku insists, tired brain latching onto any relevant thought. 

“Yes, and I can guarantee any hatred he has for me will be instantly overridden by his love for you.” His father shifts. “I wish I had more concrete answers and permanent solutions, but alas I do not. Tomorrow, I will answer all your remaining questions, and then we will find a viable solution to get you back out there, unashamed and as brave as you’ve always been, 

together.”

[atlas-of-a-human-soul]

Draw your swords, pt. 7

Summary: In order to win, she might have to lose.

Warnings: angst, swearing, bit of fluff, sexual content

Part one // Part two // Part three // Part four // Part five // Part six  

=================================

Waking up to skies lit by the wintry sun is what Y/N expected. In the back of her mind, she remembers opening her eyes. Perhaps it’s her mind playing tricks on her, but she could swear she heard Aleksander’s voice softly speaking to her. 

Telling dreams from reality felt like an impossible task, but if it were a dream, would she really dream of him?

Death never crossed her mind. She was a soldier in an expendable army for most of her life, yet she never feared death. There was never a lingering sense of what if when they asked her if she believed in life after death, but she wondered now. Looking death in the eye had forced a realization upon her – she would die and achieve nothing. She married arguably the most powerful man in all of Ravka and she failed to utilize it. In the end, her name would be forgotten in history for her plans would all die with her.

Inhaling sharply, she wanted to open her eyes. A heaviness settles on her eyelids, making her groan. Her entire body felt dismantled, every nerve bare, inflicting pain.

“It’s alright”, a hand pressed to her forehead and Y/N frowns. Breathing heavily, she felt vulnerable, exposed.

Swallowing thickly, her eyes flutter open. With blurry vision, she looked up at the dark presence looming above her. Blinking fast, her lips part and before she can ask, cool liquid runs down her parched throat.

Taking a deep breath, her eyes closed again. She needed a moment to collect herself, to stop the world from spinning.

“It hurts”, she mumbles meekly.

“Shhh”, his voice reaches her. “I’m here”, she feels a gentle squeeze of his hand, “You’re safe.”

Resisting sleep, she opened her eyes once more. The sight of his tormented gaze leaves her nearly breathless. He’s still handsome, but it looks as if he’s aged ten years in just a few days.

“What happened?” Her voice is hoarse, still raspy from thirst and sleep.

“You’ve been in and out of consciousness for a week”, his forehead wrinkles, “We’ve just made it back.”

Despite the little voice in his head, the Darkling held onto his wife throughout the night. He kept her close to his chest, running his fingers through her hair. She was exhausted, injured so badly he could hear the strain her body was under with every breath she took.

Her eyes remained closed, her lips slightly parted and his pressed in a thin line. Absurd. It was absurd to think that someone like that – so delicate, so fragile, could have any power over him. It baffles him just how quickly he found himself attached to this woman who was unremarkable in every possible way – or so he told himself.

Truth be told, he couldn’t take his eyes off her since he first saw her. She radiates genuine beauty few possess, a confidence he’s never found in anyone in hundreds of years, and an air of mystery he couldn’t quite understand.

By the time morning light reached their tent, the Darkling just stared at her with care, studying every inch of her face as if it could be the last time he’ll ever be given a chance. He memorized the way she fit in his embrace, the rhythm of her beating heart in the dead of night and every labored breath as it threatened his sanity.

Anger was his best friend for so long, his shield against humanity, but his anger wasn’t all-consuming as it once was – it was directed to those who caused the swelling around her eyes and cuts across her cheekbones.

“General”, Ivan’s head peaked inside the tent only to swiftly disappear once he caught sight of a moment he was sure wasn’t meant for his eyes.

Rolling his eyes, the Darkling gently laid her head down. Caressing her cheek, he let a heavy sigh pass his lips. It’s been too long since he last felt so defenseless and helpless as he did now. He promised himself he’d never feel that way again and yet he found himself in the same cursed whirlwind of emotions as he was in when the fold came to be.

Biting his lower lip, he pushed it all down. If he’s distraught, his people would know. He cannot be emotional and still lead an army. He has to be strong – for Grisha and for Y/N.

“Ivan, we’ll have to find a healer soon”, Kirigan spoke in a hushed tone. Glancing at the tent, he felt a lump growing at the back of his throat. “I believe she’s developed a fever too.”

“Fedyor can try to cool her temperature”, Ivan offers, “He’ll slow her heart and keep her breathing. I’ll trade with him if necessary.”

Nodding, the general was satisfied with Ivan’s solution. For once, Ivan didn’t question why he wanted to protect her. This time, he was offered aid rather than words of discouragement.

“I’ll have to leave some of our own here”, Kirigan looks at the direction they came from. “The Fjerdans came too close and I need to know why. Why would they take my wife?”

Ivan lowers his voice, making sure he doesn’t wake up Y/N, “Perhaps it was a coincidence.”

“I don’t believe in coincidences. Not when her safety is at stake.”

Nodding, Ivan glances at Fedyor. He’d be the same if anyone touched his beloved. Suppressing a smile, Ivan finally realized it – no matter how vehemently the general denies it, his heart is no longer his.

“What are the orders? I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”

“Take back what they took, place their heads on a stake and wait. More should come soon and when they do, I want to know why they came so close to Little Palace and who ordered them to take my wife.”

Squinting, not in anger but to see him better, Y/N frowns, “A week?”

“Winter made it hard for us to move faster and you were in no shape to ride back.”

Letting out a shaky breath of air, she raised an eyebrow, “So you carried me?”

“Ivan and Fedyor kept you alive too.”

Wetting her chapped lips, she hesitated. Her fingers burned, itching to touch him, to intertwine with his.

“A healer should be here any minute now”, Aleksander informed, pulling his hand out of hers as if he could sense her inner battles and decided to help her by removing himself from it entirely.

“No”, she decided.

Standing abruptly, his jaw clenched. Despite his stern expression, his eyes hold all the sadness in the world, pleading eyes that both threaten and adore.

“No?” He repeats with disdain, “What do you mean by no?”

Holding her breath, she endures a sharp pain in her ribcage as she propped herself up on her elbows. Breathing heavily, she directed her determined gaze on him. “I’m human, am I not?”

Squinting at her, his lips part, “And?”

Struggling to prevent herself from laughing at the way he looked at her now, Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Humans aren’t allowed aid of a healer. We go to the medics.”

“You’re my wife”, he remarks almost instantaneously, slightly wishing she remained unconscious for a while longer. If she slept, the healer would have done their job and there would be no argument. There was no doubt about it, their truce was over.

“But I’m still a human. The rest of my kind don’t have the privilege of being married to you.” Her voice is stern, low and frustratingly righteous.

“You need a healer or you might not survive”, Aleksander insisted.

“Then let me die.” She stared at him, no signs of crumbling and it made him feel like he’s drowning.

Rubbing his forehead, the Darkling shut his eyes in frustration. After all the sleepless nights, his head felt like it would implode. All he had on his mind was her safety and now when he brought her home, she refused help.

“What do you want?”

Knitting her eyebrows, she glanced at his jaw as it clenched. “What?”

Her voice is higher, almost confused but he knew better than that. “I’ve known you for almost two months.” Two months too long, he thought. “I know when you’re trying to extort me.”

Covering her mouth, Y/N suppressed a laugh. Truth be told, it’s exactly what she’s doing, she just didn’t expect him to cave so quickly.

“Healers for the First army”, her lips twitch. Pursing her lips, she bites the soft flesh on the inside of her mouth to stop herself from smiling at all costs.

“No”, he spoke through gritted teeth.

Shrugging, she laid back down. “Alright then. I only regret I won’t be here to hear you explain my death to the Tsar and my father.”

Growling under his breath, he swipes his hand down his face. “One healer.”

“Two”, she argued, sitting up with a pained expression on her face.

“We can’t spare two”, the Darkling crosses his arms, his eyes darker than ever before.

Lifting her chin in defiance, she narrowed her eyes at her husband. “Two healers or no deal.”

Releasing a long, heavy breath in frustration, the Darkling felt his insides turn. “Two healers but only for those who can’t get better with a week long rest on their own.”

“Two healers for those who can’t get better in a few days of rest AND the same amount of food and water for the First army.”

Running a hand through his hair, the general’s nostrils flare. Cracking his neck to the left, to the right, he turned his death glare back on his wife. “Food and water are limited for Grisha as well.”

“I saw them eat grapes”, Y/N deadpans. “You have enough, so share. If the First army dies out, who will protect your precious Grisha?”

Folding her hands in her lap, she maintained eye contact with the general who refused to blink. He stared back at her, aghast. The woman was impossible! She made every word that passed her lips a contest of wills.

His jaw set, he moved closer to stand before her. He looked formidable with the relentless, firm pools of black ink for eyes devouring her with intensity, too hard in comparison to what she had seen in the tent. He looked like he could kill her without even putting a hand on her…something she still expected him to do.

What was stopping him? She was far behind enemy lines, no reinforcements and she saw what he can do – he could kill everyone who stood in his way.

“Fine”, he huffs. “Under one condition.”

Rolling her eyes, she nods, “What is it?”

“I want a kiss.”

Her eyes flashed to his. Ringed with golden bruises, she was still alluring – like a wildfire or a storm. No…she is wildfire, a storm. She is deadly and uncontrollable and slightly out of her wits and he’s asking her to be his ruination. It isn’t love, he tells himself, it’s obsession.

Raising her eyebrows, Y/N didn’t bother hiding her surprise. A kiss? Of all the things he could have asked, the big bad general who can summon shadows is asking for a kiss?

A part of her trusted Aleksander and that trust demanded intimacy. She wanted his hands on her – in her hair, his lips on her neck. She longed to be vulnerable and that’s what worried her. Trusting him, needing him, it’s bound to breed love and self-inflicted madness. If it were anything else, she would outright refuse him, but she has so many lives dependent on her answer.

“Tonight”, she decided. If her own sanity is the price to pay, she will do what she has to do.

Nodding, the Darkling retreated. Leaving the room, he opened the door for the healer to enter. Sparing her a quick look, he swallowed thickly as the thought of her willingly kissing him made his heart slam into the rib cage. Even his heart wanted to escape him as it too longed for her hands’ touch.

He didn’t make more than two steps outside the room when a Grisha joined him - one of his many spies.

“What do you have for me?”

The spy beckons him to the side, looking around wildly. “This could change everything.”

“What is it?” The Darkling speaks through gritted teeth, demanding an answer.

“There is talk”, the spy pauses, “Of a Sun Summoner.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Healed, bathed and properly fed, Y/N had paced their room in anticipation of his arrival. She had seen the look in his eyes earlier that day – something between them has changed.

As the door opens, her breath halts inside her throat.

“I thought you were lost”, Genya admitted. “When they found your mare, I lost hope.”

Smiling, Y/N cupped her cheek. “I did too”, she sniffled.

The Darkling felt, more than saw, her presence as he entered the room. He turned slowly, his breath held. Her hair looked darker in the candlelight, its rich color gleaming against the green velvet of fresh sheets on the bed she leaned against. He could hardly speak. The nearness of her, the quiet room, the candlelight made him question the reality of what he was looking at.

“You look better”, Aleksander managed a curt smile, looking at Y/N and her attire. The sheer nightdress she wore was back, perfectly outlining her figure.

“Why did they take you?” Genya asked, unshead tears weighing heavily on her eyes. “Did they know?”

“No”, Y/N shakes her head, “But they found out.”

“How?”

“It doesn’t matter. Kirigan killed them all.” Y/N glanced at the door where she expected her husband to appear later on.

Chewing on her bottom lip, Y/N felt her heart flip. “It helped me realize something.”

Frowning, Genya waited for Y/N to explain.

“Your General does have a heart”, she states. His request for a kiss lingered in every thought her mind could concoct.

She stared at him then slowly untied the belt of her robe and it glided languidly over her smooth skin, falling to her feet.

His gaze roamed over her as if he is unable to fully comprehend her beauty. Only when he looked back at her eyes did he see she was troubled. 

“Of course he does”, Genya chuckles, “He was most worried when you were taken. He promised he’d kill them all and bathe in their blood.”

“I think I can use that.”

Knitting her eyebrows, Genya’s frown deepened. “How?”

Pressing her lips, Y/N sighed. “In order for me to win”, she paused, “He needs to believe he did.”

“Husband”, she spoke clearly. She feigned confidence, but inside she quivered.

She had barely finished the syllable when she was in his arms, being carried to their bed, his lips already fastened to hers. She felt his lips hit hers like a tornado, his admission of burning the world in her name spinning in her head. It could have been a fever dream, but she would bet her life it wasn’t.

Holding her chin in place, he rested his forehead on hers, heaving from the kiss. She couldn’t open her eyes, clinging to him for dear life, but even with eyes closed, Y/N could hear the emotions thick in his voice.

“I don’t want to do anything you’re not willing.” He whispered against his lips, all too prepared for his hands to roam her body now.

Y/N was afraid of herself as well as of him. He could sense it as he kissed her. He’d waited a long time for her to come to him and now it seems she was more than ready to give herself to him without his talk of her marital duty.

He expected anything but to find her with her arms wide open.  But even now, as he held her, he felt no great sense of triumph.

Pulling the sheet over her, he stood. “I can wait.”

The sheet accented her shoulders and the full swelling of her breasts. The candlelight deepened the shadow above the sheet. Her bare throat pulsed with life. Her face was set in a firm, serious expression that caused her eyes to darken. Her lips were hard, as if carved of marble and he ached to part them into a smile.

Turning away, he began undressing himself for bed, wondering how he could survive a night beside her if she remains as she is now.

She averts her gaze, whispering under her breath in confusion, “Wait?”

He laid beside her, barely dressed at all. She found herself achingly aware of his presence. The only light in the room was from the flames of candles she placed across the room. The light danced on her hair, played with the shadows of her delicate collarbones. At this moment, he remembered nothing of the arrangement their marriage was meant to be. He knew only that he was in bed with a desirable woman, one he never expected to claim. She seemed too headstrong to ever give into his charm, yet she bared herself before him and he couldn’t take advantage of her.

“Why don’t you want me?” She sat up, glaring at him. She let the sheet fall as his eyes met hers, bravely fixing him with her fiery gaze.

Rolling his eyes, he looks away. How can she torment him like this with no shame?

If anything, he felt like she’s attacking him. “I don’t want to hear about how a demon took you by force for the rest of my life.”

“It’s not force if I’m giving myself willingly, is it?” She raised an eyebrow, deciding on a tactic finally. Aleksander is a general, a conqueror at heart and she saw the desire in his eyes. If there was any hope of her plan to work, she had to harness his desire to convince him he won.

Licking his lips as he cracked a smile, Aleksander nodded in surprise, unable to keep his eyes from wandering lower to her breasts. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” He wanted to possess her, to claim this difficult, headstrong woman for himself. His mouth came down brutally hard on hers, claiming them, nearly bruising them.

Y/N fumbled with the sheet that wrapped around her, making Aleksander chuckle into the kiss.

“Let me help you,” Aleksander purred and tore the sheet away, pulling it from under the mattress.

Wrapping his hand around Y/N’s neck, his grip was oddly weak, gentle even. She laid nude before him, his gaze fixed on her. He stared at her in wonder; her full breasts, curvy waist, round hips. Then he looked back at her face, her eyes blazing. Her lips were reddened from his kiss, and suddenly there was no power on earth that could stop him from taking her.

“You make me feel”, he pauses in anguish, “You make me feel”, he said quietly, fiercely, “And I don’t like it. I want it to stop. Now.”

He pushed her into the mattress and Y/N saw the ruthless general in his eyes and for a moment she feared it. A general isn’t gentle at all, not like Aleksander could be. She feared the pain he’d cause and the tears that would follow. She feared what he’d do to her, but then the fear she felt dissipated as he spoke against her lips.

“I’ll go slowly.” Aleksander stopped himself, remembering she’s never had a man in her bed before and once he saw the fear in her eyes extinguish the flame he already adored, he reeled himself in.

“Your hands are bloody from murder”, she paused, “But I trust them completely.” Her voice had never been smaller, her hands never as desperate as she clung to him. She wanted to trust the sudden, overwhelming warmth in his unrelentingly tender gaze, but she still awaited the pain that was yet to come. He moved on top of her, his lips attaching to her neck gently as he pressed a kiss above her pulsating carotid, knowing she’s nervous as he felt the pace of her pulse.

With one thigh, Aleksander parted hers. He kissed her again, passionate and slow, distracting her as his hand moves lower, down to the intimate parts she never allowed another only man to see, to feel. Slipping his finger between her folds, he found if applied enough pressure a desperate moan escapes her without a fail. He feels her breathing change as he begins to rub circles, her thighs trying to push against his in a need of more friction. And that’s when control escapes her and she closes her eyes completely, letting the pleasure take over.

Unable to wait any longer, Aleksander pushed the head of his hardened length between the folds, feeling her wetness pooling over as nature’s lubricant. Feeling the membrane, he stops for a moment. Looking at her carefully for any signs of distress, he wonders if she even realizes what is about to happen.

“Do you want this?” He asks again, fearing she may change her mind.

Gripping his arm, she nods. “Yes”, she replies, breathless.

Pressing himself inside, he bows his head in the crook of her neck, growling lowly in pleasure. It’s not the first virgin he had, but it’s the first one that made him want to come on the first thrust.

“Go on.” She encourages him, surprising them both. Swallowing thickly, she sinks her nails into his back, anticipating the next thrust. It would be a lie if she said she wasn’t in pain, but she knew it would get easier as he moves again and she would feel the pleasure again – and she wanted the pleasure more than the pain.

Nodding, Aleksander starts moving in and out slowly, refusing to risk her pain for a little more pleasure he’d find in speed and his untimely release. Instead, he’s using deep, slow strokes with a relentless care for the nerve bundle between her folds. Every passing second draws louder moans from her until he feels her clench around him, his own mind blackening as he feels himself nearing the edge. She’s holding him so tightly to her body, so desperately as she unravels beneath him. Picking up pace, he finally loses control, jerking his hips to meet hers in a deep thrust only to finish deep inside her, allowing them both to breathe.

Rolling off her, Aleksander decided to stay quiet, allowing her to have control of the moment. If she wants his embrace, he’d do it for her and if she wants to talk, he’d talk to her, otherwise, he’d just sleep. It’s been so long since he truly slept – since the day they went for that ride.

He placed an arm around her for comfort alone, not pressing himself closer than necessary, closing his eyes once he realizes she’s not interested in him at all after she came down from her high.

Waiting for a few minutes, Y/N pretended to sleep. After the hurricane of emotions he’d given her, Y/N didn’t know how to feel. She wanted to relax, to sleep in bliss, but a part of her ached. She ached for who she used to be. Would her father hate her for what she just did? Would her people denounce her for sleeping with the enemy?

Her eyes opened wide, finding his are still closed. Lips quivering, she felt herself crumble as tears fled her eyes. She watched his sleeping figure and sighed deeply, telling herself to stop crying. She was supposed to be in control of him, to make him want her and crave her, yet she found it was the opposite. She didn’t love him, but she did feel a connection…perhaps it’s the kindness he showed her when he rescued her or the pleasure he had given her, but something inside her changed and the heart she hardened on purpose found a soft spot for the general.

=============================

Tags: @bruxa0007 @rangotangomango @kaitlyn2907 @thestoryofmylife9 @shelivesindaydreamswme @hxrgreeves @safetyhtom @kaqua @savannah-elliott @all-art-is-quite-useless  @azure23x @girlmadeofavocados @ashdab2611 @acciorudolphx @ladyblablabla @wckedheart @xceafh @sanna2020 @tarkanelima-blog @takethee @mellifluous-cosmos @marvel-ousnesss @tea-effect @starlightofsolaria @p3nny4urth0ught5 @blackbirddaredevil23 @sarcastic-and-cool @slytherinsbiggestproblem @within-thehollowcrown @notthatchhavi @musicconversedance @freakytillthemoon  @lgkoval @honeyofthegods @queenmalhinewahine @misselsbells06  @whatthefluffrichard @aami98 @britriestbr @itsfangirlmendes @padme-parker @readingsssssssss @runawayolives @thehighladyofasgard @emlynblack @keithseabrook27 @dailydoseofchoices @deceivedeer​

Part 8

[notebooknonbinary]

All the Time in the World Chapter 2 is Out!

Mike and Will finally get to have their talk.

Thank you thank you to @buck-yyyy and @evil-ontheinside for reading this chapter and helping me refine it!!

Chapter under the cut for non-Ao3 people!!

It’s after everything is settled—Will and Mike are both finally out of the hospital. Mike will probably have to use a crutch for the foreseeable future, and Will gets painful, dizzying head rushes if he stands for more than twenty minutes, but they’re healthy enough to leave.

Healthy enough to be alone, in Will’s room, with the door shut. Healthy enough to finally have the conversation they’ve both been wanting to have for two whole months. 

The Byers’ new house is a sprawling single story place, with enough rooms for everyone to have their own space. Will knows Mom picked it specifically to make it easier to access, since half of the Party now needs help getting up stairs. He also knows they wouldn’t have been able to afford it without the government footing most of the bill.

(Like how they’re paying for the hospital bills, and the medications. Like how they will be paying El’s tuition if she goes to college. Will knows this is half hush-money, and half apology for how badly the Lab fucked them over—at this point, Will doesn’t even care. It’s not like anyone outside of their motley crew would believe them.)

Mike makes himself comfortable on Will’s bed, propping his casted leg up on a pillow they snitched from the living room. Will has the fleeting thought that Mike looks good like this—even though this is far from the first time Mike’s sat on his bed—like he belongs in Will’s space. He keeps the thought to himself. As much as Will loves their new connection, he’s very glad that he has the option to keep things to himself. He considers himself a private person, even around the people he loves. But having the option to send Mike thoughts is its own kind of privacy. And Will likes that too. It’s romantic, and safe . The exact opposite of how it felt to be connected to the Mind Flayer and Henry. 

He gives Mike a smile as he joins him.

“So are we boyfriends now?” Mike asks, as soon as Will’s sat down beside him.

Immediately, Will feels his face flush at the blunt and earnest question. Even though they’ve been mentally sending each other, what amounts to, pure love through their connection—to hear the word boyfriends out loud makes a swarm of butterflies erupt in his stomach.

“I would like to be, yes,” Will tells him, doing his best to look at Mike like his heart isn’t beating out of his chest. He knows that Mike can tell.

Mike grins—that big, dopey, sunshine grin that Will decided a long time ago (fifth grade, to be exact) was his favorite of Mike’s smiles. “I’d like that too.”

“I’m glad. I love you, Mike.” Will takes Mike’s hand, intertwining their fingers. He runs a thumb over a healed burn scar. “And it’s okay if you can’t always say that back—I can see and feel that you love me and I know that…well…that it might be hard to say it out loud sometimes.”

It’s Mike’s turn to look flustered. He uses his free hand to briefly hide his red face. “I do, l-love you. You’re right, though. I might not always say it, but—”

“—but you don’t have to.”

They smile at each other. Not for the first time, Will thinks about how pretty Mike is. He’s always thought that Mike is beautiful, with his freckles and his smiles and his lovely eyes. But these past couple years, Mike’s begun to settle into his looks with what Will sees as a clumsy sort of grace. The elegant line of his nose, the stretch of his hands, the curve of his lips—all of it, wonderful and lovely. The ever present itch to draw him is intense, but there is something else Will wants a little bit more.

“Can we kiss again?” he blurts. “Because, I really would like to kiss you again. Especially since you’re my boyfriend now.”

Mike beams. “I’d love to!”

This kiss is the polar opposite of their first one. Where the first had been borne of relief and desperation, filled with adrenaline and tears, and dirty (in the literal sense); this kiss is soft, just the dry, shy press of lips on each other. Mike’s mouth is still chapped, but Will doesn’t mind that. All he cares about is this new connection, and the press of Mike’s warm, lovely hand against the side of Will’s neck. Mike smells good—clean skin, the familiar apple scent (because he’s had the same body wash since they were eleven), and the cinnamon of his toothpaste. He must have brushed his teeth just before he came over here. The combination has always made him think of apple pies.

Will doesn’t have any idea what constitutes a good kiss. He’s heard El and Max gossip about whether Mike is a good kisser. The jury seems to be out. For his part, he thinks Mike is. He hopes Mike thinks Will’s doing an okay job too.

For a while, they exchange these soft kisses. Each one sends a bright spark from his lips down to his toes. Eventually, though, Will starts to get dizzy in the not-good kind of way. So they switch to cuddling on the bed and talking. They curl together like two parentheses, facing each other. Mike is warm against him.

Will finds he likes this just as much as the kissing.

“Are we telling anyone?” Mike wonders, petting at the soft peach fuzz on Will’s face. “I know it’s not safe to, like, go to school holding hands—but…”

Will wishes it were safe enough for that. The idea of it sends a thrill of fear down his spine, but also a sad dip of longing. It would make having to go back to school next week infinitely more bearable, if he were allowed to seek the comfort of Mike’s hand when he needed it. To be able to sneak a brief kiss in between classes like he’s seen the straight couples at school do. 

But it’s Hawkins, it’s not safe.

What is safe is Will’s family. Despite the gut twisting fear he’s had about it, despite his anxiety being an asshole—he knows they love him no matter what. 

“I’d like to tell El first, if that’s okay?” he broaches. “Because she’s my sister, and our friend, and I want to keep her in the loop.” Mike nods immediately. “Absolutely! She already kind of figured out I have a crush on you, so she’ll be okay with us.”

“And she wasn’t mad about it?”

“Of course not, she said it actually made much more sense than her and me.”

Will can’t help the pleased grin that takes over his face. “I think so too.” 

Mike laughs. “So are we good with telling El? It can be like a practice round.”

“Yeah. If you’re okay with it, El’ll be home in a hour and we could tell her then?”

Mike agrees, beaming, and presses a chaste kiss to the corner of Will’s mouth. The casualness of the gesture makes Will flustered, and he presses his face to Mike’s neck. They sit in comfortable silence, cuddling and enjoying each other’s presence.

“At some point, I’d like to tell Jonathan and probably my mom,” Will says finally, pulling back a little to look at Mike. “Jon already basically told me he’d be okay with me being g-gay without actually saying those words.” He stutters on the word—it’s the first time he’s said it aloud to another person. Even though Mike’s his boyfriend now (!!!), it's still a little scary to name himself. But Mike only smiles warmly, cuddling closer.

Then he says, “Actually, I think Jonathan may have given me his blessing to date you?”

Mike explains about the brief conversation he had with Jonathan at the hospital. Will beams, blushing. “That was absolutely him giving his blessing!”

It makes him warm, to know that not only is Jonathan okay with Will liking boys, but okay with Will liking Mike specifically. Although it wouldn’t change anything if Jonathan didn’t think they should be together, Will wants Jonathan’s approval. 

“And you feel comfortable telling your mom?” Mike confirms.

Will nods immediately. “She always defended me, whenever Lonnie would call me a…” He pauses, grimaces. “Well, you know, and stuff, and she’s never tried to make me feel bad about how different I am.” He smiles tentatively. “She always does her best to make me feel safe.”

Mike smiles back, but after a moment it falters. “The only person in my family I think I feel safe telling is Nancy.”

The bright mood dims a little bit. It will likely never be safe to be boyfriends around Mike’s parents. There is something deeply sad about that.

“Once she’s older, we can tell Holly,” Will provides, trying to brighten the mood. “She’s a good, smart kid, she’ll understand.”

Mike’s eyes soften, just like Will hoped they would. “That’s true.”

He cuddles closer to Will. Will presses a kiss to Mike’s forehead and gives into the urge to pet his hair. The contented noise Mike makes is adorable and Will has to swallow down the urge to giggle at it.

It’s been rare that Will’s gotten to touch Mike’s hair, but it’s soft and curly and feels nice under Will’s hands. Mike reaches up after a moment to reciprocate, threading his fingers into Will’s hair. It feels even lovelier than Will’s imagined it would. He’s so distracted by the sensation, he almost jumps when Mike speaks again. 

“I wanna…maybe wait on anyone else, for now. As much as I care about our friends, and know that they’d probably be okay with us, I don’t think I’m ready for them to know.”

“Totally fair!” Will agrees.

Mike smiles in relief, then buries his face under Will’s chin. The mental connection of their thoughts and the physical connection of the hug are both warm and loving. They end up falling asleep for a little while, safe and wrapped around each other.

-

When El returns home, Mike and Will join her in her room. She’s been spending a lot of time at the library (finally repaired after last summer), scouring the place for any books written in braille. For Max. She’s only found a few so far, but she shows them to Mike and Will excitedly. 

“I’m going to try and learn with Max and Lucas,” she tells them. “Hopefully it will make it more fun for Max.”

She doesn’t offer an invitation to join, however. It makes sense, honestly. She’s gotten a lot closer to Lucas in the past couple months, with all the time spent in Max’s hospital room. And obviously, Max is her favorite person. Mike’s happy to see them happier. 

Her hair is finally long enough for braiding again. Mike, having two sisters, has learned over the years (originally unwillingly) how to braid. El thinks it looks pretty, and he likes doing it. So he sets out putting double French braids in El’s hair, while Will lounges on her bed, sketching.

It’s comfortable. One of the things Mike’s missed about not being in a relationship with El, is no longer getting to play with her hair. He secretly really likes making things look nice—pretty. Thankfully, they’ve reached the point in their friendship where it doesn’t feel out of line to do this again.

“You should teach Will how to braid,” El tells him, humming. She’s flipping through a teen magazine, folding down corners of articles she thinks Max might enjoy hearing about. 

Mike grins. “So you can have another hairdresser?”

She shrugs unapologetically. “Yes, but also, you would look pretty with braids too.”

“She’s not wrong,” Will teases gently. 

Mike’s face is hot. “Maybe some other time,” he mumbles, trying not to think about how much he’d like that—Will’s hands twisting his hair together, Will making Mike pretty . He finishes off the second braid and takes a breath. 

They came in here with a purpose. He looks up at Will, making sure to catch his eye before glancing at El. You wanna tell her, or should I?

I will. Will takes a deep breath and the noise makes El look up.

“Something wrong?”

“We wanted to tell you first, El,” he says. “We, um…” He looks about half a second from hiding his face in his hands. Though whether that’s from shyness or anxiety, Mike can’t tell.

Either way, he doesn’t get a chance to continue.

El’s face lights up and she swings around to look at Mike. “Did you tell him?!”

Mike feels his face erupt in a blush. Apparently he’s too predictable to her. “Yeah, El. We’re dating now!”

She cheers, springing up to hug first her brother, then Mike. When she unhands him from her excited squeezing, she’s grinning widely. “I knew you two would be good together!”

Will is beaming, though he’s wringing his hands a little bit. “Thank you El.” He pauses. “And…you’re not mad?”

El tilts her head, looking honestly confused. “Why would I be mad? Two of my favorite not-Max people are making each other happy.”

Mike snorts and she kicks his leg softly. 

Will fidget. “Well, it’s kind of considered shitty for someone to take their friend’s ex, doubly so if it’s a sibling’s ex.”

“That’s a stupid rule.”

Mike’s heard of the rule before, but he has to agree with El. As long as there weren’t hurt feelings in the break up (and Mike and El had both left their relationship happier than when they were in it), then why does it matter?

Unless…

“Will, even if you didn’t like me back, me and El wouldn’t get back together,” he clarifies. “You know that, right?”

“Oh.” A bit of tension goes out of Will’s shoulders. He slumps a little against Mike, who automatically reaches up to put an arm around him.

“We weren’t right for each other,” El agrees, smiling again. “I am not Will-shaped enough, and--” She pauses. Considers them both with her big, wise eyes. “--And although Mike is pretty, he is not pretty enough for me.”

Will sits up. Between his and Mike’s minds, there is a feedback of shock. Positive shock, but shock nonetheless. “Wait, are you saying…?”

“I’ve been thinking lately, and girls are much prettier and nicer and cooler than boys,” El tells them, proudly. “Unless their name is Angela, in which case boys are preferable.”

It’s Will’s turn to spring up and wrap his sister in a hug. “Holy shit El, thank you for telling us.”

Mike is grinning. “That’s super cool, El. Is it just girls in general, or is there a certain girl you’ve got an eye on?”

El gives him the stink eye when she pulls back from Will’s hug. It’s not a serious glare, though, and she smiles after a moment, a small, shy thing. “Maybe there is a girl that I like.” And she won’t say anything more on the matter, though neither of the boys push her especially hard.

Talk turns to other things. El has been studying so that she’s not terribly behind them when the school year starts--Dustin has been helping. Though, El says, he doesn’t always know how to explain things in ways that make sense. Will offers to help translate Dustin-speak after these tutoring sessions, which El gratefully accepts. She fidgets restlessly. 

“School in Lenora was hard,” she says, frowning at her socked feet. “The teachers there didn’t care that I was behind, except for how it affected them.”

“One teacher yelled at her in front of everyone.” Will frowns, brows furrowing in residual anger. “Told her to stop making him look bad ‘on purpose’.”

“Will got a detention for telling him to ‘shut up, dickbag’.” That part of the memory, at least, makes El smile. Will shushes her.

“It only made things harder on you,” he says.

“But it was funny. He turned the color of a tomato.”

Pretty cool, Will. Mike gives him an impressed grin and Will blushes.

“She’s my sister, I couldn't let that asshole bully her.”

It takes a long moment for them to realize their mistake. They turn to look at El, who is observing them with a disconcertingly knowing look in her eyes. “Are you finally going to tell me what has been going on?”

Mike shares a look with Will. Busted .

“When did you know something was up?” Will asks her, guilty.

El smiles, a little smugly. “After the two of you came back from the Upside Down, you were acting weird . At first I thought that Mike confessed, finally. But you did not start to act like a proper couple--but you started to stare at each other more. Like you were talking, but without words.”

“I mean,” Will murmurs. “Mike did confess then. But, we also discovered I could find him with my mind and things progressed from there. I could talk to him in my head and he could talk back.”

“That’s bitchin’,” El says seriously. “Although, why did you not get together then, if Mike confessed? Was Will not sure if he liked you back?”

Will lets out an involuntary sounding laugh. “It wasn’t that. I definitely already liked him back.” Mentally he tells Mike, don’t tell her how long I’ve liked you, it’ll make her sad, probably.

Mike nods. She might feel guilty. Neither of them want that. “It just wasn’t the right time to get together.” They’d both made that decision. It’d made them sad. But, well, they’d waited years to get together in the first place--a few more weeks was nothing in comparison. And, in the meantime, they’d had the privacy of silent conversations and the comfort of warm feelings. And, in the end, it made their getting together feel all the more sweeter now.

Speaking of their mind powers…

Mike asks something he’s been half-thinking about since he and Will discovered their mental link. “So, do you think our connection technically means I’ve got powers too?”

El shrugs, looking thoughtful. “I never saw anything like it in the lab. But that doesn’t mean much.”

“Henry never saw it either—and he was actively searching out powers.” Will fidgets and Mike immediately scoots nearer to him. He knows that Will dislikes how much insight he got into Vecna’s mind.

“I just…You and Will have that magic twin thing, and me and him have our whole—” Mike pauses, trying and failing to come up with a word that isn’t soulmate connection , because that’s entirely too sappy to say out loud—especially to his ex-girlfriend. 

“—soulbond?” Will tries. It’s not all that different of a word, but it’s a little better. Something in Mike’s mind settles at it. 

“Yeah, soulbond works. It just would kind of make sense if part of the reason for it came from both of us having powers.”

“Then we test it out,” El says. She gets off the floor and sits cross-legged on the bed with them. “If you have other powers, perhaps they are also like Will’s.”

Will, Mike knows, is still getting used to his powers. Parts of it are similar to El’s, of course--access to the void, a limited ability to move things with his mind that is weaker than hers. (He has yet to be able to repeat the feat he’d made against Vecna when he’d rescued Mike.) However, Will has easiest access to electrical currents, which is how he’d communicated so freely with Joyce when he went missing four years ago.

Will does his best to demonstrate, carefully flicking out his hand and making El’s lamp switch on. He sniffs a little as blood begins to trickle out of his nose, ignoring it and switching the lap back off. 

El hands him a tissue.

Even though Will’s mind had been open to Mike for the demonstration, Mike still doesn’t really understand. He bites his lip.

“Just focus on the thought of the electricity,” Will murmurs, catching his worry. “Think of the currents running through the lamp.”

Mike stares hard at the light, trying to picture it how Will suggested. Then he holds out his arm like El and Will do and just, thinks about the light turning on. Urging it to.

The light remains shut off.

“Maybe you have regular telekinesis,” Will suggests after a few failed tries. He’s smiling optimistically. El nods and fishes an apple out of her bag.

“Why do you have that?” Will asks.

“In case I get hungry?” The implied duh makes Mike snort. El rolls her eyes and puts the apple on the nightstand. “Try to move it.”

Mike stares at the apple, hand stretching out again.

…

Nothing happens.

It’s not like he really expects it to, but there’s still the smallest pang of disappointment. He doesn’t actually want any other powers--from what he’s seen of Will and El’s powers, it takes a lot of mental energy that Mike wouldn’t have to spare.

“Maybe it needs some kind of trigger?” Will wonders hesitantly. Mike immediately shakes his head.

“If it was scary experiences, I’d have developed powers right along with you.” He hunches his shoulders self consciously. “All that time spent losing you, Will—thinking you were dead, watching you be in pain. If there had been anything in my power to stop that, I would have found it.”

Will laces their hands together and brings Mike’s up to press a kiss to his knuckles. Then he seems to realize he’s done this in front of his sister and goes bright red. He doesn’t drop Mike’s hand, though.

El beams at them. “You’re so sweet together.”

“ Anyway , I’m not upset that I don’t have powers,” Mike says, ducking to hide his own blush. ���Really, I’m perfectly happy having my only bit of magic being a two-way radio between me and Will.”

“Cheeseball,” Will murmurs, though he’s smiling in a pleased way.

“Says the one who came up with soulbond .”

“You know what —?”

There’s a honk from outside, interrupting the banter. 

“That must be Lucas’s mother!” El smiles brightly. “She is going to take him and me to the hospital to visit Max.” She springs gracefully to her feet and quickly gathers the books and magazines she’s taking with her. Mike and Will watch her flit about and then leave with a cheerful wave. They share a look.

“You don’t think,” Will murmurs. Max is the girl…?

Mike hums. “It’d make sense.”

There’s a brief second of silence.

We shouldn’t speculate, they think at the same time.

“She’ll come to us if she wants to talk.” Will gets up and holds out a hand to Mike. “Want me to kick your ass at Sky Diver?”

Mike accepts the topic change without a word. “Talk is cheap, William.” He smirks, trying his best to put a flirty edge to the grin. “Put your money where your mouth is.”

Will’s cheeks go a cute pink, but he grins back. “You’re on.” He’s on his feet in an instant. “Race you to the living room.”

“Unfair!! I still have a broken leg!” But Mike still smiles as he follows Will out of the room.

[ggukbabyy]

bro... idk about the whole plot of the drabble but it definitely should have some sexual tension going on but i'm not talking about a quick tension, you know... it could take hours or days idk i feel like you would kill it

“No, never,” you comment with a small shake of your head. Taehyung looks indignant.

“Everyone has done something outside of the bedroom at some point.”

You simply shake your head. “Not me.” Your eyes flick to Jeongguk briefly, his gaze drilling holes into the side of your face. He leans forward, forearms resting on the table.

“You’ve never needed someone so badly you couldn’t wait?” His voice is deep and husky, a hidden implication giving his words weight. You hold his gaze.

“The waiting is the fun part.” The corner of his mouth forms a faint smirk.

“That’s where we’ll have to disagree,” he replies, holding your eyes as he takes a long pull from his drink. Everyone breaks off into different conversations, the intrigue of your reluctance to perform sexual acts in a public space no longer the most interesting thing to discuss. Jeongguk appears to be the only one not ready to let it go.

You sit opposite him in the pub, enough people occupying the space that the din of background conversation makes it hard for others to hear as Jeongguk leans across the table once again.

���Do you really believe that? About waiting?” You’re not quite sure why he’s so interested but you entertain his line of questioning.

“100 percent,” you reply without hesitation and Jeongguk nods slowly as he considers your answer.

“You don’t think the desperation to have someone near you, in you, there and then is fun? How is that not better than waiting?” His eyebrows are drawn together in skepticism. He can’t for the life of him understand how you could enjoy waiting. It’s disheartening to hear when he’s spent the better part of the night trying to figure out a plan that would get you to follow him into the toilets. You’ve been acquaintances for about 4 months and he’s spent an embarrassingly large proportion of his time in your company thinking of all the different ways he’d like to spend his time with you if he could get you alone. And not for one second would he want to wait.

“I enjoy the anticipation,” you begin, moving to mirror his position. Jeongguk gets a wonderful eyeful of cleavage and he takes his time appreciating it.

“Wanting it so desperately and knowing you can’t have it now makes it all the better when it does happen.” For most of the sentence Jeongguk is picturing his dick between your tits so he only half hears what you say.

“Anticipation doesn’t change shit,” replies Jeongguk, leaning slightly closer. A small smile plays across your face, head tilted to the side slightly.

“It’s my favourite,” your voice has turned sultry, the alcohol muddling Jeongguk’s brain preventing him from noticing the change immediately. “The person is so close and not close enough, almost touching where you want and you could scream in frustration because two centimeters to the left and it would feel so fucking good, but they make you wait,” your voice is soft and captivating; even with everything happening around Jeongguk you’re the only one he can hear. His whole body feels jittery yet he’s glued to the spot, his chest beginning to rise and fall just a little deeper as you draw the perfect picture for him. “And wait some more, until I could cry, until I’m begging for the slightest touch or kiss in just the right place, so desperate and needy.” The switch from describing a situation to talking about yourself doesn’t go unnoticed by Jeongguk. In fact, it makes the room seem a little hotter, his pants feel a little tighter, his brain seems a little more clouded as he tries to focus on anything but the sounds you’d make as you beg or the words you’d say to get what you wanted from him. Saliva pools in his mouth at the thought of you spread below him close to tears with desperation. Your eyes are alive and wild yet the rest of your face is the picture of innocence and he’s not sure how much more he can take. You’re inching closer to his face across the table as you speak.

“But you don’t like waiting, do you Jeongguk?” You ask and he can faintly feel the warmth of your breath against his lips from this distance. He swallows thickly.

“You don’t want to keep me waiting, don’t like the idea of making me beg for it? For you?” You add on innocently, eyebrows raised as though you’d asked a perfectly simple, appropriate question. Jeongguk can barely form a coherent sentence with his head so full of everything you’ve just said. You stay there leaning on the table for a few more seconds, Jeongguk’s eyes flicking down to your lips, the air around you both suffocating and heavy. You grin widely before leaning back into your chair triumphantly. Jeongguk’s eyes are clouded with arousal, not trying to hide where your words have taken him and his reluctance to return to the real world. By the time he does you’ve moved on to a conversation with Jimin, giggling at his shit jokes. You don’t look Jeongguk’s way once for the rest of the night and it drives him insane.

-----

Two weeks later and you’re at Jimin’s place for a barbecue with a friend. Only Jimin’s housemates are Yoongi and Jeongguk, and no one told Jeongguk you were coming over. Ever since the night at the pub, Jeongguk has fantasised about you more than he would care to admit - even to himself. More than a few times his hand wandered south with pictures of you flashing behind his eyelids, replaying the conversation you’d had over and over, vividly picturing you doing the things you’d described. So when he walks out of the patio doors into the garden to see you laid across a towel on the floor, the smallest bikini he has ever witnessed wrapped around your body, to describe his feelings as shocked is a gross understatement. From his vantage point he can watch you while you remain none the wiser, so he takes the precious time to appreciate everything that you are. Your legs go on for miles and are toned to perfection, your tits fill out your bikini with some left to spill over the side and yearning burns deep in his stomach to have his lips against the smooth flesh, dragging his tongue leisurely across your nipple. Images of you begging for him flash violently across his mind, and he’s itching to return to his bedroom for a few minutes. But then you turn over and notice him, a lazy grin creeping slowly across your mouth.

“Can I help you?” You ask innocently, eyes dancing with amusement at having caught Jeongguk staring. He saunters over to you, arms braced behind him as he sits down.

“You’re in my garden, I should be asking you that question.” Your eyes are glued on the way his biceps tense to support his weight. It should be illegal for Jeongguk to walk around shirtless, even if it is the height of summer. For the sake of your own sanity he should walk around in a full wetsuit - but you’re sure he’d manage to make that look sexy. His broad chest is on full display, the golden skin pulled taut against the toned muscles of his abdomen. Your eyes continue their journey down his stomach, thoughts swirling at the dusting of hair beneath his belly button, following it down until it disappears beneath his shorts.

“Are you nearly done?” Amusement drips from his words as you pull your eyes from their pleasant detour. You fight desperately to keep the heat from your face.

“Almost.” Jeongguk’s tongue pokes the side of his cheek at your answer. He’s used to girls fawning over him, melting into a puddle of shy giggles and doting compliments. Not this. The idea of having you begging beneath him becomes more and more appealing the more you demonstrate all the ways you need to be taught a lesson.

Both of you bask in the heat of the sun in silence, music drifting out from the kitchen, Yoongi’s contagious laughter bringing a smile to your face. Surreptitiously you peek one eye open, looking sideways at Jeongguk. The perfect definition of his jaw is showcased with the way his head is tilted towards the sun, little beads of sweat developing at his temples and clinging to the nape of his neck.

“You should really put suncream on,” you state, shutting your eye before he can catch you again.

“Are you offering?” His tone is bored but excitement thrills through his chest.

“Not really.” Jeongguk fights the smile threatening to reveal itself.

“If I end up burning, it'll be all your fault,” Jeongguk complains, and when you say nothing in return, his arms buckle under his weight dramatically, his back thudding against the grass.

“I can feel the blisters forming already,” he groans, rocking side to side. You suppress chuckles as you watch his performance.

“Unngh,” he groans, turning his head to look at you, a fake pained expression pulling against his features. “I need you to put suncream on me,” he whines, “please.” His lips jut into a pout.

“Only because you asked so nicely,” you reply with an eye roll, Jeongguk all but ignoring it as a delighted grin lights up his face.

While you grab the cream, Jeongguk arranges himself into his original position, a satisfied smile gracing his plump lips as he basks in both his small victory and the heat of the sun. His smile vanishes, eyes snapping open, when he feels the cool of a shadow passing across him only to be faced with you straddling his lap. Your expression is the picture of innocence, eyes wide, head tilted, soft lips slightly parted as you hold to bottle of cream in one hand expectantly, but a flicker of wickedness flashes across your eyes, there one second and gone so quickly Jeongguk could almost convince himself that you’re clueless to the effect your close proximity has on him. But the way your back arches into him gives you away.

Jeongguk hisses a breath through his teeth at the first contact of the suncream against his warm skin and you giggle. There’s no hint of amusement on his face. Having you so close and yet unable to touch you has his mind reeling and frustration bubbling like acid in the pit of his stomach. You smell incredible, sweet and floral, and your hands are delicate as they roam his chest and stomach, eyes completely focused on the task at hand. He sighs deeply as he lets himself become lost in the way you touch him, the way your hands rove confidently, traversing low enough to have him forcing down the urge to buck his hips against you.

Nothing in the world is going to pull your gaze from the path your hands trace against Jeongguk’s skin. From his broad shoulders and collarbones you would be happy to drag your tongue across, to your palm grazing his nipple, noting the muscle in his jaw jumping at the contact. Down, down, down his stomach as low as his shorts allow, over his hips and waist. All amusement has vanished as your fingers explore. Jeongguk’s breathing is deep as you toy with the waistband of his shorts, slipping the tip of your finger just underneath. He’s watching you like a hawk, nostrils flaring as he wills you to just reach down, give him the look so he can take you upstairs and show you there’s no fun in waiting. Instead you raise your eyes to his and breathe out, “I need to do your arms.”

He shifts his weight forward, one arm held out for you, the other sliding around your body, hand resting gently on your arse. Raising your eyebrows questioningly at the placement, Jeongguk simply shrugs, a devilish smile flashing at you.

“What’s the matter, darling?” His deep voice questions. You forego a reply, squeezing cream directly onto his arm. He watches your face with delight as you continue.

“Turn around so I can do your back,” your voice is barely above a whisper. Having him so close for so long is starting to prove difficult. You can’t get your thoughts away from his hands, how strong and big they are in your own, how they’d wrap perfectly around your neck or how easy it would be for Jeongguk to prod and massage your g-spot until you were exhausted from overstimulation. It hasn’t slipped your notice that he’s been getting progressively harder beneath you, every inch of him pushing against your core. It’s getting hard to breathe, hard to look him in the eye - he relishes every second of your struggle with a cocky grin. His eyes are heavy and clouded with arousal and he drags his gaze leisurely down your body and back again.

“I’m sure you can reach from here, darling.” The determined look in your eye has Jeongguk chuckling. The action of reaching your hands over his shoulders and down his back has your chest pushing into his face and a small groan rumbles in Jeongguk’s throat. Your stomach burns with desire at the sound, a desperate need to hear the sound over and over, louder and then whispered into your ear, claws mercilessly at your insides, threatening to suffocate you. Without thinking you push your hips down in an effort to garner some friction against your swollen clit. The manoeuver doesn’t go unnoticed.

Jeongguk’s mind is blank. Your arse is pushing back into his palms, his fingers massaging the supple flesh delicately. With your tits so close to his face he determines it would be criminal if he doesn’t lean forward just a little more. His hair tickles your cheek as he moves, his nose brushing your chest as he gets closer. He flattens his tongue against the swell of your breast, licking a stripe against your glowing skin before sinking his teeth into you. A small gasp escapes your lips, hips rutting against him of their own accord. He groans again, using his hands to push you into him harder, desperation and frustration intermingling at the clothing separating your pussy from his bare skin. He pulls back to look up at you, the muscles of his jaw jumping as he restrains himself. Your lips are so close, both of your chests rising and falling rapidly, each waiting to see what the other will do, the atmosphere suffocating as the tension rises. Jeongguk’s gaze is intense and his eyes flick briefly down to your lips, his intentions and desires clear.

“Come to my room.” His voice is gravelly and shoots heat directly to where you need his touch the most. “Let me touch you, make you feel so good, princess.”

“We can’t,” you whisper back, lacking conviction.

“Why not?” Whines Jeongguk.

“Everyone will see and they’ll know.” It’s a feeble excuse and your resolve to stick with it is crumbling quickly.

“I’ll happily fuck you out here if that’s what you’d prefer.” Your cheeks flame at the idea. “It would be easy,” he continues, mind so consumed with you and his need to have you as close as possible. His fingers skim the apex of your thigh, toying with the edge of your bikini. “I’d just have to pull this to the side and then I’d see your pretty pussy, but I bet you have a tight cunt, couldn’t take my cock all at once.” Your core clenches reflexively at his words and you know you’re absolutely fucked.

“Come to my room,” he states, moving your hips over his with his hands. You smile devilishly, leaning forward until your lips almost brush.

“I’m sure you can wait a little bit longer.”

an; so i clearly don't know the meaning of the word drabble and you said i'd kill it so the perfectionism took over and i couldn't stop until i thought it was good

[gojology]

Strawberry Flavored Pocky.

pairing : teen! gojo x gender neutral reader warnings : the big three: unedited, most likely badly written, and some cursing. also there’s like.. graphic imagery that gojo and reader exchange to eachother. it’s just banter though! wordcount : 2273 a/n : for that one anon that wanted teen gojo. my stroke of genius always occurs when im eating strawberry flavored pocky i swear.. anyways yeah this is unfiltered writing n it’s probably like not the best tbh and maybe i didn’t nail teen gojo’s personality but u know what this was so fun to write

     The sound of the tear of the wrapper containing the Pocky you had just bought was music to your ears, crinkling with every touch. Your fingers are itching to grab for the deliciously coated sticks, but you’re stopped by someone none other than Gojo Satoru himself.       “What’d you get?” he inquired, seemingly unbothered by the face you were making, he hadn’t even greeted you with a simple, “Hello.” he sat down on the bench seat right next to you, uninvited.       In his hand were many bags of various sweet treats, you could only make out some familiar ones- ramune flavored gummies, a bag of chips, vibrantly colored candy. Your lips quirk downwards, exhaling, turning to face the setting sun.       “Just some Pocky.” you flatly respond, beginning to pick the biscuit up. Contrary to Gojo’s wide choice of snacks, you only really had one favorite- Pocky. Specifically, Strawberry flavored Pocky. The sweet, yet somewhat tart aftertaste treat dominated your mind almost day and night. It wasn’t everyday that Yaga would be lenient enough to take the four of you to the local convenience store. You were waiting for Shoko and Geto to finish shopping to finally head home for a night of yummy snacking.       Gojo sighs, lazily dropping the treats right next to his side, they sat idly, limply resting on his thigh as he crossed his right leg over his left knee. His hands warmly nestled into his snowy white hair, his elbows jutting into your personal bubble.        “Not one to chat, are you? What’s the problem? You scared?” his tone is teasing, and you jerk your head to face his. Your head is tilted, like your confused, but in reality you’re just astounded how obnoxious he was.       “Why in the world would I be scared of you? You wouldn’t lay a finger on me. Yaga-Senpai would rip your limbs off one by one and fling you into the horizon! And he’s not even that far away, I could report you to him if you even get on my nerves in the slightest.” you shot back, huffing and taking your first bite on the biscuit. You instantly melt.       He flashes you a toothy smile, and you stiffen, did he ever take anything seriously? “Oh my, so riled up. Only scaredy-cats would talk about how not scared they were. Look, you’re even shaking-” he gestures to your just slightly shaking, tightened grip on your Pocky. “-I win, Y/N! Boo hoo, case closed, gimme your Pocky~”        “No, fuck you and your fat ass trying to take my Pocky, I’m not shaking from fear anyways.” you sternly retort, warmth rushing to your cheeks for whatever reason. “I’m shaking because I’m resisting the urge to duct tape your mouth shut and gouge your eyeballs out.”       He chuckles warmly as if your gruesome detailing was humorous, he probably didn’t know you meant it. He too, ripped open one of his snacks. “Calm down, Y/N. I was joking, I could buy Pocky’s whole stock and probably also buy my position up as CEO if I wanted to. I wouldn’t leech off of you, sugar.” readjusting his crooked, circular shades, he looked down at your now slack grip on the wrapper.      Unanswering, you’re grumbling instead. Under your breath, you’re curious as to how Gojo hasn’t realized how obnoxious he was, and how much longer could he survive without his head exploding from how big it was from his inflated ego?      Gojo grinned. He was all too aware of those things, but who really cared?      “Not unless you let your guard down!-” unable to finish the rest of his sentence, he yanked up the wrapper from your hands, using the extent of his long arm to dangle it high above your head. Your reflexes are far too slow to react, causing you to glare at him in a mixture of shock, hatred, and disbelief.      “Give-” you jump, arm reaching towards your snack, but he backs off, snickering and still dangling it above your head. “It-” now you’ve leapt up on the bench, grabbing at the wrapper to no avail. “Back!-” whimpering and flailing your arms out, every time you came close to retrieving your rightfully owned pack of Pocky, he’d simply throw it to his other hand so carelessly it pissed you off. All the while giggling, juggling it like a clown.      A breath of laughter escapes his lips as he looks at you, prancing around like a circus act on the bench, yelling curses and many death-wishes to his clan. Your eyebrows are knitted together, and he can’t just help but realize how adorable you were when concentrated in getting something- so stubborn.    “Okay, okay!” and as if Gojo had flipped a switch, you simmer down, looking at him with an impatient side-eye. “You want it, doggie?”     “Refer to me as doggie, and I’ll send a pack of strays to ravage you.”       Gojo exhaled out of his nose. “You’re a funny one, doggie.” did he just dismiss the conversation you two were having literally 2 seconds prior? “I’ll ask this again, do you want to get your treats back?” his eyes are glinting with amusement and child-like glee. You were almost sure that he had started calling your beloved Pocky as treats because of just how well it suited the nickname Doggie. It looked like you would be getting no where unless you paid no mind to him calling you such a.. Derogatory name.       Grumbling and studying the concrete you were currently trampling on, you exasperatedly sigh.       “Yes. I do want my Pocky back.” you grunt, averting your gaze to anywhere but Gojo’s shoes.       He perks up in approval, drawing out a long, “Hmmm?” as if he hadn’t expected you to give up so easily. “What are the magic words, Y/N?”       This was so humiliating.       “Please?” you politely say through gritted teeth. If it weren’t for the general public bustling about, you would’ve lunged for his unruly hair and tear it out of his scalp.       “Hah! You think I’m gonna do that sorta bullshit?” he crosses his arms, Pocky tucked safely under his arm. You wince, thinking about how the biscuits may potentially be snapped in half. Did you really want your snack still? It probably smelled like Gojo’s armpit sweat, death, and all the bad things in the world combined. “You’re gonna have to earn it, Y/N, in a game.”       Now convinced that Gojo was the manifestation of all the bad karma that you had avoided, you stare at him with wide eyes and fear, the irritation long gone. Games, no, scratch that, literally anything with Gojo only resulted in a small, or maybe large piece of your sanity torn away from you, lost to the infinite dark abyss. Maybe that’s why Geto seemed to slowly go insane everyday.       “On second thought, I’ll just go-”      He cuts you off, alarm now displayed on full view, his face contorting back to neutral. “Wait, no! It won’t be hard. Pinkie promise.” extending a pinkie towards you, you gently slap it away. The mood change was so instant, you were still shocked, that, and he was almost a legal adult and still believed in pinkie promises.      Still hesitant, you quirk an eyebrow, crossing your arms over your chest. “I’d rather spend another two dollars than play whatever game your planning, unless you tell me about it.”      “That’s a given, besides, it won’t take too long, Y/N. I think you’ll like it.” he replies cheerfully, leaning and whisper-yelling into your ear, fruitfully jolting you up. Seriously, did he have any idea what personal space was?      After just a few seconds of thinking, you roll your eyes in defeat. “Okay, what’s this game?”      His incredibly long fingers inserted themselves inside the crinkling wrapper, pulling out a slender stick. You’re almost sure your salivating, and subconsciously swallow the lump at the back of your throat. “Okay, rules of this game are... Hm, we both place our mouths at both ends of the stick. You get the pretzel part because that part sucks.” mischief flickers in his eyes briefly. “Whoever can get down the Pocky longest without being afraid of kissing and pulling back, loses and doesn’t get the Pocky. Whoever stays in their place wins. I’ll throw in some money, deal or no deal?”       “This doesn’t sound.. Fun.” you were still skeptical, but curiosity was blossoming rapidly inside of you. Could you really resist such an intriguing request? The guy was rich, and he did say he’d throw in some money. Gojo probably hated the thought of you, too. You could probably get up and close, get him to cower away from the thought of locking lips with you, and you’d be on your merry way.       “Um, actually, never mind. Let’s do this.” you chirp, the weariness had depleted completely. Besides, Gojo would pester you into doing it anyways, this would effectively save time. The expression on his face was indecipherable, silently wishing to yourself to see his eyes. You wonder if they’re wide open, in shock of your acceptance.       He gently placed the biscuit between your lips, his thumb brushing against it. Your breath hitches, now he’s up close. The shades adorning his handsome features, concealing those vivid blue eyes of his made your heart pace quicken in just seconds, maybe it was because he could see you- and you couldn’t. Your gaze shifts to the tufts of white hair hanging above his forehead. His bangs look lusciously soft, so soft you wonder what it’d be like to ruffle his unruly hair, what did it smell like? What conditioner did he use?     Your cheeks darken, but you hope he doesn’t notice it. This was what people thought of when they saw pretty people up close, it wasn’t like you had a thing for him, he was just attractive, that’s all.      “You look real stupid holding that stick between your teeth and looking at me.” he comments, charmingly smirking as you give him another death glare, unable to speak in fear of dropping the Pocky stick. You could count each individual hair strand he had on top of his head with the amount of time he was taking.      Chomp.     You take the first bite, and you can’t help but realize how much your heart is fluttering about in your chest. Eyelashes fluttering, nerves getting jittery, the exchange was strangely intimate. No kidding, of course it was- if the two of you were adamant and continued to chomp on the stick, it would only end in a kiss. There was no way around it.      He takes a bite too, his lips look curved in a dopey smile, but there’s not a single word traded between the two of you, just tiny, slight nibbles. It would be eons until someone finished, and you were growing impatient by the minute. Quicken the pace. Quicken the fucking pace.     So you did the unthinkable, you quickened the pace.     Taking a large bite, he pauses for a minute- as if to think, before taking an even larger bite. Now, 2/3′s of the original stick is gone. One more large bite, and a kiss would follow suit. Now, you’re sweating bullets, eyes bouncing from him, back down to the microscopic sized Pocky. His lips are so, so close. Soft, plush pink, so glossy you’re inclined to ask what brand of lip gloss he uses. You can hear his breathing grow heavier, why wasn’t he giving up?      The two of you don’t take a single bite, plainly avoiding the objective, the world around you had evaporated into thin air. It’s you, and Gojo Satoru.      You nibbled a little bit more, and then you make up your mind. You’re going to kiss-       Growing chatter grew closer to closer, and you realize Shoko’s monotone and Geto’s lively voice, alongside a very disgruntled Yaga.       “Yeah, she’s pretty hot. I actually liked the movie- Uh...?” the steady rhythm stopped against the concrete. Immediately, you straighten and clear your throat, spitting out the Pocky stick into the nearby grass. Gojo follows suit, shoving his hands deep into his pockets and twirling around. “Oh hey, Geto!-”       “Are we interrupting something? Something.. Important?” Shoko quizzes, struggling to stifle her giggling. A sheepish smile was displayed widely on your face for the world to see, hands behind your back like you were hiding something. Gojo, on the other hand, is facing the other direction, whistling and staring at the now setting sky.       You stutter, cheeks growing even darker. Yaga looks as disgruntled as ever, facepalming and murmuring to himself. Geto looks ecstatic.        “MY MAN!” he beams. “WERE YOU GOING TO-”       “SHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!” Shoko shushes him in response, turning her head back to the two of you. You looked like you had just seen a ghost. “We thought you hated Gojo, we’re just...” her head is cocked slightly, an understanding expression on her features. “Just surprised, is all.”       Spluttering, you try to explain yourself- but no sound comes out. Your mouth is opening and closing, struggling to find the words.       “I do hate him... I just... He.. Pocky.. He uh...”       “Sheeeeeeeesh! Poor Y/N over here is going through some shock right now!” Gojo muses aloud, he places an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in under his arm. There’s a small, coy grin on his lips. As if he didn’t try kissing you 1 minute ago. “Just ignore them, anyways, what are we having for dinner tonight? I heard there’s a really good KBBQ place down the street that just opened..”      As much as you hate Gojo, his ability to escape anything did come in handy.    Well, maybe you didn’t hate him as much as you were leading on.     You’d go as far as to say.. Maybe you enjoyed some parts of him.      

[bloomyagi]

beautiful, beloved, mine (m)

summary: you set him ablaze. he can only hope you like watching him burn for you. alternatively: this love for you is consuming him, and it all comes out in a badly vomited confession after he corners you at a gala.

pairings: shouto todoroki x f!reader

genre: pro heroes au, characters are aged up 20+

warnings: smut, dry humping, shouto comes in his pants, sub!shouto, he’s a good boi for you, he loves you very much n wants to be your baby

length: 2,447

notes: can u tell how much i love him pls -

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.

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“Can I be yours?”

Shouto Todoroki, ranked third pro-hero in Japan, has his strong arms braced around your head. In all your years of friendship, he has never been anything but exceedingly polite. He is well-behaved, thoughtful and sharp. He is guarded, though not intentionally, not anymore—it is reflex, a shield he has never really learned to lower. A reminder of his childhood.

You think he’s drunk. He must be, beautiful dual-coloured locks dishevelled, black button-up half-open and exposing his gorgeous collarbone. You watch, unwittingly, as a bead of sweat trickle down his neck. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, biceps flexing.

The dimmed lighting unfairly accosts you with his devastatingly handsome features and muscular body. And his eyes. His heterochromatic eyes are alight with something fierce and intense. They are also clear, glowing, almost, in the dark.

The two of you are somehow on the balcony, shut away from the rest of the world, the bass and the sounds of life fading in your little bubble until all you can hear is the blood rushing in your ears, the warmth of his breath, the heat of skin and the fluttering of your heart in your throat. The cement wall digs into your back.

No, you correct yourself. He isn’t drunk. He’s barely tipsy. He doesn’t like to drink, rarely acquiesces to Kirishima’s insistence of shots.

He doesn’t smell like alcohol. His scent has always been calming, detectable under the thin layer expensive cologne he uses—he doesn’t like perfumed smells either, only uses it on nights like these, when he’s obliged to look the part—that fresh, cool scent. Of clean sheets, laundry detergent.

Still, this is out of character. Todoroki has never once crossed a line with you, with anyone. He’s quiet, reserved, though he smiles more now, the forming dimples in the corner of his eyes a living testament to his character growth. He treats others fairly. He is not unkind, honest and straight-forward. He is many things, and with the way he’s gazing down at you now, you are suddenly reminded of Midoriya’s hushed remarks earlier.

“You can’t see it, but Todoroki-kun treats you differently. He thinks about you, what you’d like and what you like. He cares about you so he’s careful around you. He wants to cherish you. He’s cold because he uncertain. He doesn’t know what to do. This is all new to him.”

“What is?”

The number one pro-hero had looked at you strangely. “Being in love.”

Midoriya is indisputably Todoroki’s best friend. Still, his actions are baffling. Why you? Why now? No, you couldn’t see it at all.

“Todoroki, are you drunk?”

“No. Though I required a little … liquid courage, as they say,” he rasps. He’s so close. His voice, so deep and husky, has you biting your lower lip. His gaze falls immediately.

He doesn’t touch you. The way his arms flex, hands clenching and unclenching, and his stiff posture tells you he wants to. He’s visibly restraining himself. Waiting, watching. Hoping.

“You never … why me?” You say softly.

“I could not. I wanted to, so badly. I have always wanted you. I always thought it was impossible for someone like me—to find someone I would want to share my life with, given my upbringing and dysfunctional family. But then things changed, got better, and then I met you.” He takes a shaky breath.

“I found wordless comfort in your mere presence. I found I could be emboldened, empowered, changed by your words. Every day I wondered how I could be worthy of you—if I could ever be worthy of you. Then I realized it was you … it would not matter to you, so long as I was honest with who I was. That is just the kind of person you are …” He shuts his eyes. His lashes are so long, you note absently.

“I am touched by your existence … I find joy in your spirit, yearning for your embrace, for the heat of your skin pressed against mine, I crave it … these foreign desires, they elicit something dark within myself,” he continues, breathing a little ragged now.

“This need, this desperation, like fire spreading in my veins, uncontrollable and hungry … I feel restless, itching for something, someone … Now I finally understand. I feel like I want to—to devour you. It is no longer enough, seeing you as I do, being as we are, mere friends … I want more, need more. With this desire to monopolize, I fear I have become … insatiable,” he trails off, turning his face to the side in shame.

Oh. Shouto Todoroki is in love with you, you realize with a jolt. He longs for you. For your companionship, your wit, your soul and your body. Your heart.

You reach up with a trembling hand to touch his jaw, guiding him until he looked at you once more. He doesn’t resist, pliant and eager as he leans into your hold.

“Only if I can be yours in return,” you say.

He lurches forward, knees nearly giving out as he slumps in your arms. “Oh, thank god, I … I was anxious I would have ruined everything. I knew it was unlikely they would be reciprocated, but I—I had to try,” he gasps. “This desire, it was consuming me.”

“Todoroki …” You thumb his cheekbone. He sighs faintly, body curving over yours as he presses close. “Call me Shouto, please …”

“Shouto.” He makes a strangled noise.

“Again. Please. You must understand, I have longed for this for so long …” He pleads shyly.

“Shouto,” you whisper, stroking his cheek. He’s so unexpectedly adorable. So, so adorable.

“My apologies, darling. I know I’m taking liberties, but I’m weak … I’m not strong enough to resist such temptation. Not while you are here, in front of me like nights when I dared to dream… So beautiful.” He nuzzles your palm.

You flush at his term of endearment, at the rawness of his tone. He has laid himself bare, singing his truth like a Shakespeare sonnet.

“You woo me like you’re waxing poetry … does this often work with others?” You murmur. You think you’re in real danger of melting.

His eyes fly open in alarm. “No. Never. It has only ever been you. I speak only from the heart, I have never—never done this before, am I explaining myself poorly? I am often told my words could use some more tact …”

Your heart swells.

“I’m just teasing, Shouto,” you say softly, combing a hand through his locks apologetically. “Your words are beautiful, I’m touched, truly.”

He relaxes, curling closer in your embrace.

“You don’t know … how I dream of building a home with you, of sharing all my firsts with you, cooking and setting the table with you … breakfast after long nights, filling the space between us with laughter and joy. Sleeping next to you,” he slurs. And then he goes on plainly, “How I fist myself every night thinking of the swell of your hips, the curl of your lips, your sweet, enthralling scent …”

You inhale sharply. Part of you is entirely taken back by the dual-haired hero’s use of uncharacteristically vulgar descriptions. His words drip over you like a honeyed aphrodisiac. Sweet and addictive.

“May I?” He draws closer, hands releasing you to brace against the concrete behind. Your body shivers involuntarily, missing the heat of his palms immediately.

“Yes,” you whisper.

Shouto dips his head, beautiful heterochromatic eyes watching you carefully for any sign of hesitation or indication you wanted to stop. Ever the gentleman.

This is who he is, you realize. Respectful of your boundaries, honest and, with you, gentle. He eyes flutter close when his lips touch yours. They’re warm, sweet with a hint of the alcohol he consumed earlier. Your fingers bury themselves in his locks, the kiss unhurried, savouring each moment.

Then you open your mouth, tongue touching his. And Shouto falters. He groans throatily, your nose tickling at the scent of ash. Ah. He’s losing control. He jerks away quickly, right hand enclosing over his left.

“Don’t tempt me,” he rasps, blush rising.

You snag the rumpled collar of his shirt, pulling him close. “Kiss me again.”

And when you guide his hands over your hips, he grips them tightly and crushes his mouth against yours, kissing you hard. Spit runs down your chins, messy and sensual.

Something hard presses against your inner thigh. You push his legs apart and shove your leg in between. He chokes, eyes rolling back.

“Ngh—!” He gasps. “More—hngg—please!”

You pull back to survey him. He chases after you, lips slick and swollen.

“Shouto. You like this?”

He pauses, sucking in a breath sharply, eyes flickering. And then—

“Yes,” he whispers, a whisp of flame flaring on his left.

Your core clenches over nothing at his needy, humiliated tone.

“I like this too,” you confess, trailing a hand over the ridges of his abdomen, fascinated by the way the muscles clench.

Shouto mewls, chest thrusting forward when you pinch his nipples experimentally through the cotton. “Ah—ughh—yes!”

“Can you come like this?” You wonder absently as you twist his perked nubs harshly. He moans brokenly, hips jerking.

“I—I d-don’t­—kno—hah,” he pants, eyes half-lidded as he struggles to focus. Pleasure clouds his senses, head fuzzy and vision hazy.

“Can you get off here, like this?” You ask softly. “I want to see you come undone.”

Shouto blinks blearily at you, nodding eagerly. “Hng—yes, wanna be good for you,” he slurs. Oh. My. If you weren’t dripping before, you certainly are now.

He stumbles a little as you push him against the wall, switching positions. He’s barely standing at this point, leaning heavily against the cement as he gazes up at you with glazed eyes. He looks utterly fucked out and utterly delectable.

You undo the remainder of his buttons, holding him back firmly when he whines, pawing at the fabric, wanting to rip it off.

“We still have to walk out of here,” you remind him, giggling. His only blinks at you blankly as if to say and? Too gone to think of the consequences.

“This view is reserved for my eyes only,” you murmur, nails scraping against his nipples. He gasps, back arcing. “Yes, yes!” He agrees mindlessly.

He grinds against your thigh desperately, the weight of his cock heavy and hot. He throbs at every touch.

“Kiss—kiss, please,” he whines, reaching for you. You oblige, internally fawning over his cuteness.

His hips move faster, chasing release as he moans and keens into your mouth.

He parts from you with a gasp and wet shlick. “Feels so good—sho good—hngg,” he babbles. His asymmetric temperatures intensify, the heat of his left searing you and the chill of the right piercing you.

“Oh—I’m—I’m c-cu—” he cries out, gripping you tightly as he fucks himself against your thigh urgently. You push your leg against him harder, nails digging into his stomach.

“Come for me Sho,” you murmur, biting his lower lip. His mouth parts in a silent wail, head tossing as his eyes roll. His body shudders, something warm seeping into the fabric of your jeans.

With a strangled groan, he sags against you, exhausted and spent. You stroke his hair soothingly, brushing back the sweaty locks and peppering chaste kisses over his face as he comes down slowly.

Faintly, you register someone calling your name.

“Oh, Midoriya. Over here.”

Shouto is too out of it, still coming down from his high, his soft moans tickling your ear

“Oh, there you are! Have you seen Todoroki-kun? I—oh!” He squeaks loudly, spinning on his heel immediately and covering his reddening face.

What a sight the two of you must be. A perfectly debauched Shouto, shirt falling over his broad shoulders, the fabric clinging to his glistening skin, raised lines over his bare chest that appear angrier in the darkened lighting, slumped over you, body trembling from the aftershocks of his orgasm.

The One for All user pales when he spots the noticeable burn the size of a palm on the wall behind your head.

“Uh—neverminditwasn’timportanthahahaohsomeone’scallingmegottagobye!” Midoriya practically screams in your face before bolting from the scene in the next beat.

Shouto manages a tired chuckle as you blink in the wake of his dust.

“You’re surprisingly shameless,” you remark when you turn back to him.

His wry smile slips, letting out a weak mewl when you squeeze his cock over his slacks teasingly. He’s already chubbing up, hips rolling slowly against your touch.

“I told you, didn’t I? I’m insatiable when it comes to you, darling,” he murmurs, cheeks dusting.

“Then let’s continue,” you say, helping him stand. He valiantly tries to salvage whatever is left of his shirt, but it’s hopeless. He gives up, letting it drift apart, sculpted abdomen and chest in full view.

“Hmm. I quite like this view,” your palm rests on his stomach, smiling when he jolts at your warmth.

“My place or yours?” He breathes, pulling you flush to him.

“Yours, I think. I’ve been meaning to try out your new jacuzzi,” you rest your cheek against his chest, tracing nonsensical patterns on his pec. Goosebumps rise on his skin, and you can hear the rapid fluttering of his pulse. He’s—nervous?

“I built it for you,” he confesses, burying his face into your hair. “After you mentioned how much you wanted to try one, I thought—well, I don’t know what I thought. I only know that I went out the next day to hire a contractor and expand my bathroom. I suppose part of me nurtured a hope I’d one day pluck enough courage to ask you to come over and give it a try …”

You pull away, looking up at him in disbelief. He laughs dryly at your expression.

“Yes. I know. It sounds as irrational as it felt. I still haven’t used it yet.”

“Then …,” you hesitate. And then you say shyly, “Then if you’d like … we could try it today? Together?”

“I … yes, I’d love that,” Shouto swallows thickly.

You take his hand as the two of you start to make your way back. He squeezes your hand once.

“Let’s go home,” you say softly. The corner of his heterochromatic eyes crinkle, lips curling into a gentle beam. He looks radiant, beauty amplified by his dishevelled and unkept state. He leans down to kiss the corner of your mouth.

“Yes,” he says. “Let’s.”

[magniloquent-raven]

soulmate au part 3!!!!

(read part 1 and part 2 here)

it takes three weeks for anything to happen.

they see each other at school, exchange glances in class, brush past each other in the hallways, fingers grazing as their shoulders bump, incidental touches that wouldn’t draw attention but still leave billy tingling and giddy and embarrassed at himself but…

he’s still getting used to having a soulmate. a real, tangible person he can reach out and touch.

and maybe he’d get used to it faster if he could touch him more, but life keeps conspiring against them. they can’t seem to get a second alone. when it isn’t steve’s kids are crawling all over him 24/7 it’s neil breathing down billy’s neck because he ran out on one fucking class.

well, and then had to lie to neil about why, which was probably what put neil on high alert, but still.

three goddamn weeks.

and neither of them have been patient about it. steve keeps writing billy notes. in the middle of class scrawling things like you have nice eyes and i wanna spend time with you and billy can fucking feel how smug steve gets about making him blush. it’s all he can do not to make a scene in front of half their peers. sometimes he’s not sure if he’d punch steve for being an asshole or kiss him for being sweet.

or both. he can do both.

but mostly he wants time, and somewhere to just...be. with steve.

and he gets that, three weeks after their conversation in the parking lot. steve’s parents will be out of town, and his kids have some stupid game night planned. max keeps asking to go but pretending she isn’t, badly feigning disinterest, and best of all, neil and susan are planning a weekend trip to visit susan’s bedridden aunt a few hours away.

billy is determined to take full advantage of those thirty-six hours. neither of them will acknowledge it directly, but he knows max will tell neil he was home all weekend if she has to. he has no reason to be nervous about being caught, or anything else. it’ll be fine.

it’ll be fine.

he tells himself that over and over but it doesn’t stop him from checking every corner of the house in case neil’s hiding behind a door somewhere before he can even think about getting ready to leave.

he checks again after he’s showered and dressed.

thankfully max is already gone, so she’s not there to see him pacing around like a neurotic rat in a maze.

it almost worse that he isn’t just anxious, he’s excited. and it’s making him twitchy.

there’s no plan. they aren’t going on a date or anything. he’s just...going to steve’s house. steve’s empty house. he’s going to be alone with his soulmate. the list of reasons why that scares him is endless.

and he’s not sure if he’s more terrified of the possibility that steve won’t ask about the makeup thing or the possibility that he will.

knocking on the harringtons’ front door is. an experience. it shouldn’t be. it’s just a fucking door. but billy’s palms are sweating and suddenly he has no idea what he’s even going to say, and he keeps glancing over his shoulder even though he doesn’t really know what he’s looking for, and it feels like he’s been standing on the porch for a fucking eternity but—

his worries don’t exactly melt away when steve opens the door but there is a warm flutter in his chest that’s...new. and distracting.

and steve smiles at him all sunshine and chocolate, and the second the door closes behind them he grabs billy’s hand, wide-eyed, questioning, watching billy’s reaction.

his palm is just as sweaty as billy’s and it’s gross, but also kind of comforting.

“hello to you too,” billy snickers, and steve visibly relaxes, lacing their fingers together properly.

“hi,” he breathes quietly, his gaze soft, but intense, focused. “waiting sucked, okay. i’ve been wanting to do that forever.” he shakes their joined hands for emphasis.

“...that all you were waiting to do?”

steve’s grin turns sly, and his gaze drops a little. “no.”

billy wants to kiss him. he wants to be kissed. he wants steve’s mouth on him, somewhere, anywhere, right now. it’s a nice mouth. he’s spent a lot of time looking at it, and thinking about it, about the way the steam from the showers turned his lips so, so red, wet and slick and both too close and too far away, wondering what he’d taste like—

but steve turns away, taking all the air in billy’s lungs with him. it’s so jarring a shift that billy actually sways a little before he gets ahold of himself and lets steve tug him by hand and lead him upstairs.

the wallpaper in steve’s room has to be some kind of hate crime, but billy doesn’t have time to dwell on it, because there’s a beige bag sitting conspicuously on top of steve’s neatly made bed. the clear plastic top is zipped shut, dusty with age and spilled powders, but billy can still make out tubes of lipstick and eyeliner pencils through the haze.

he stops in the doorway and stares at it, thoughts at a stand-still.

steve’s still clutching his hand, tighter now, and no longer pulling him along. “i—uh. the bag was my mom’s, i think. found it crumpled up under the sink, so, like. she probably doesn’t even remember it exists. and the stuff in it is...new.”

“...new,” billy echoes faintly.

“yeah. yeah, i—i bought it. had no idea what i was looking for though, so i hope i did alright.”

billy blinks at him.

“was—was that okay? i know maybe isn’t exactly a yes, but i kinda hoped it could be, y’know? it’s—it’s totally cool if it isn’t. if you’re—if you’re not up for it. or…” he trails off awkwardly and grimaces.

billy takes a breath. “i’m up for it,” he assures steve with more confidence than he feels.

and steve absolutely beams at him. “yeah?”

“yeah.”

turns out steve not knowing what he was looking for meant he bought...everything.

as billy pokes through the mess he tries not to feel too apprehensive. or at least tries not to let it show. too much. he chews his thumbnail, picking up an eyeliner pencil with the other hand. it’s good shit, all the products are, with fancy names for colours and designer labels. it’s all leagues better than the drugstore clearance shelf crap he lifted as a kid. which doesn’t make this any less nerve-wracking.

“it’s been a while since i did this, so. don’t expect it to be, fucking, art or anything.”

steve shuffles closer from his spot at the foot of the bed and touches billy’s knee. “the eyeliner earlier this year…?” he gestures vaguely at his own face, eyebrows raised.

“friend of mine did that,” billy mutters.

and then his whole goddamn life came crashing down around him because of it.

his anxiety spikes, and he drops the pencil back into the pile, shoving the bag away. “i can’t fucking do this,” he snaps, and he’s halfway standing already when steve reaches for him, alarmed.

“billy, wait—” the hand on his elbow is soft, gentle, but he still flinches away. steve withdraws, fingers curled, lips parted, shock and hurt at war on his face. “i’m sorry. i—shit, i’m sorry—”

“don’t.” billy shakes his head, pulling away further. his lungs hurt. there isn’t enough air in this room. “just—forget it. this was a mistake.”

he’s through the door and heading down the stairs before he can think about it, before steve can respond. he wouldn’t have heard him anyways, not over the echoes of his father’s voice that follow him no matter how fast he flees.

but he stops just short of leaving. stands on the ugly little mat by the front door and stares down at it, his forehead inches away from resting against the wooden doorjamb.

he doesn’t want to leave.

he doesn’t want to go anywhere but back upstairs.

and...he kind of hates it. he has no reason to want that. he barely fucking knows steve, and he certainly doesn’t owe him anything. not a look at his authentic self or even a fucking apology. nothing.

so why does he want to give him all of that and more.

why.

it’s fucking terrifying and ridiculous and confusing and…

“billy?” steve calls out tentatively, far enough away that billy doesn’t startle. he’s making his way down the stairs.

if he’s gonna run, it’s now or never.

now…

or…

he turns around, and leans back, his shoulder thudding heavily as he hits the wall. his eyes itch, and rubbing them doesn’t help.

“billy…” steve’s right in front of him now, hovering just shy of being close, worry etched into every line of his face. “i’m sorry. i shouldn’t have pushed, i’m sorry—”

“not your fault,” billy mumbles, muffled against his palm. “stop apologizing, harrington.”

steve sucks his bottom lip between his teeth. “i...uh.”

“you were gonna do it again weren’t you.”

“...no.”

billy snorts quietly, head falling against the cold wallpaper at his back. “fuck,” he exhales, hand dropping to his shoulder. “look, this is...threatening to be the best fucking thing that ever happened to me, and good things don’t just—it never lasts. it always blows up in my face, and you should know that before you get caught up in it too.”

there’s an awful, drawn-out pause while steve purses his lips and tilts his head and looks billy up and down, his gaze gentle despite the scrutiny.

“i want to touch you,” steve says quietly. he waits for billy’s hesitant nod before he wraps his arms around and tucks his face into the crook of billy’s neck. “i’ve been waiting for you my whole life, hargrove, you’re not scaring me off that easily.”

and...billy always wanted to believe in the romantic notions people wrote about in songs. soulmates being destined for each other. epic, unconditional love. he never had any reason to believe it was real, but he clung to it anyway. despite the part of him that was wary, afraid of putting too much stock in something that might break his heart later on.

so for steve to just outright say it like that…so matter of fact. the reality of the situation smacks him in the face a little.

he puts his hands on steve’s waist, slipping under his shirt to rest against soft bare skin. touching him feels...right. when he lets himself feel, lets himself be here, in the moment. the sweet scent of steve’s hair, the warmth of his breath, the soothing pressure of his fingertips smoothing the wrinkled fabric of billy’s shirt. it all adds up to a feelings that billy can only describe as home.

not home like the place, but home like the warmth of sunlight and sand between his toes, ocean spray on his lips. a feeling he’s always had to chase to capture, but somehow it’s...here. quiet and still, and nothing like he’s used to, but it’s here.

and his touch seems to put steve at ease as well, he practically melts into billy’s embrace, which does strange and addictive things to billy’s heart.

but he can’t just shut his fucking mouth and enjoy the moment.

“bet i could, though. scare you off. i might, some day.”

“billy,” steve sighs, and pulls back enough to look him in the eye. “trust me when i say, you’ll never even make the top ten scariest things i’ve seen.”

and he wants to scoff, or feel insulted, or push the issue, start a fight, but. there’s a hollow look in steve’s eye. it’s not the face of some sheltered rich boy who thinks he’s a big man, no, there’s truth there. billy believes him.

stopping the tide of questions is almost physically painful, but he knows there’s no going down that road today. he’s hiding enough of his own skeletons to be sure they aren’t ready for that yet.

he might just be ready for something else though.

“i wanna try again.”

steve blinks at him, confused for a beat, two, and. “oh!” his lips part around the exclamation, distracting billy for a moment. “the—the makeup? you don’t— you don’t have to.”

“i want to.” he hesitates, and then presses a brief kiss to the tip of steve’s nose, startling a smile out of him. billy grins back. “i want to.”

[smurphyse]

The Future

Masterlist

Chapter 16 of Over Your Shoulder

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Jasper Donnelly Keaton (Long Lost Love AU)

Word Count: ~9k

Summary: Jasper comes back to D.C..... four weeks later!

Warnings: spoken of child abuse, torture, murder, talks of infertility, talks of pregnancy

George Washington University Hospital, D.C.- Present Day

“You ever cut somebody's hand off with this thing?” Jasper asked over the buzzing of the cast saw, the oscillating blades drawing perilously near her skin as Doctor Osted finished his work. The last layer of the material finally gave way, releasing her arm from the pressure it had been under for the last two months.

The scent of sweat plumed from the cast as he pulled it off her hand. Dr. Osted set the cast on a table and turned her wrist around in his hand, eyeing the new pink scar on both sides of it that led up into her palm and a quarter of the way down her arm.

“Not yet,” he told her with a small smile, “but I am getting old. The day that happens, I think I’ll retire.”

“I’ll try to hold off breaking my arm again until you’re done.”

Osted sighed and gave her a hard look. Jasper tried not to wilt underneath it, but she knew the conversation he was ramping up to.

“This is the third time you’ve broken it, yes?”

“Yeah,” she nodded, and her cheeks began to warm as they flushed. “Once when I was fifteen, another time eleven years ago.”

“When you broke it this time we had to remove your old pin and put in a new one. I’m sure you’ll remember the scar can itch because of it. If you feel any burning within the arm, you need to come in and get checked for infection. Without your spleen, your body has a harder time fighting such things off.”

“I’ve heard this spiel before, I believe.”

“Covering all my bases,” Osted said, and he released her. Jasper rubbed the scars with her other hand, the deep pink lines ominously dark against her white ones. Osted watched her carefully before speaking again, “You’ve got a lot of metal in your body, Mrs. Keaton.”

“It’s Agent. I’m in the FBI and I’m a widow, Doctor.”

“Right, my apologies. I guess that tells me it’s not your husband breaking your bones left and right.”

Jasper grunted in agreement, her mind flashing back for a moment to the day her father broke her arm for the first time. He had twisted it behind her back during an argument with her mother, threatening Jasper to put her mother in her place, but he had pulled too tightly and the bone snapped under his strong grip.

“Have you thought about retiring?” he asked her. He was sitting on his little rollaway stool, his paunchy stomach hanging over his belt as he watched her. It was making Jasper angry, and her arm pulsed in tandem with the boiling rage that simmered beneath her skin.

“All the time.”

“Your body has been through numerous traumas, Agent Keaton,” he began, his bright blue eyes piercing her. He was doing his job, and she was grateful for it, but she had a job to do as well. “You have a pin in both of your arms, shrapnel in your chest, three pins in your leg and how many scars in between?”

“You’re only thirty five years old, and your body has been through so much. The fact that you’re not on a regiment of painkillers is a miracle in and of itself, but I’ll chalk it up to some…” he waved his hands around for a moment as he thought, “mental fortitude. You’re going to start slowing down, if you haven’t already, and your body is going to stop healing so quickly from these things.”

Jasper thought about how much worse this gunshot wound had hurt during it’s healing. Whereas getting shot in the chest had faded within a few weeks for the most part, her stomach was still aching and pulling if she moved the wrong way.

“You’re still young. You still have the time to do anything you want with your life, but I’m telling you right now: you get injured this badly again, you might not make it.”

“I’ve had worse than a little gunshot wound, Doc,” Jasper smiles cheekily, but she felt the weight of his words on her shoulders. It was something she’d feared for a long time, that she’d die before she got to tie up her loose ends.

“Yes, I noticed that scar on your hip, Agent Keaton. You know, mental trauma is just as violent and long lasting as the physical.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Do you want children?” Osted asked sharply, and Jasper’s shoulders tensed.

“I’m not sure,” she whispered, but she did know. She did want children, she wanted a life and to watch them grow up. She wanted to be a force of good for them, to help them lead normal lives unlike the one she’d had.

“I would think about starting now, while you still have time.”

“I-I’m only thirty five, Doc,” she stammered, her breath quickening as the fear of her future slipping away from her once more began to burst to the surface. “I have time.”

“I don’t believe that you do,” he said firmly. He pulled a set of films out of her file and tacked them up on the light board. He pointed to what she assumed was her uterus and lower stomach, “You have substantial scar tissue from your multiple injuries and blunt force trauma that might pose a problem. Pregnancy isn’t like it seems in the movies, Agent Keaton. Your body goes through a large amount of changes as you create a child, your body moves to make room for it, to help it grow. I’m not even sure at this point if you could carry to term unless you did so very carefully.”

The heat spread from her cheeks to her neck and shoulders, and Jasper’s hands began to shake. She tried to keep her face neutral, but stray tears began to well in her eyes. Doctor Osted sighed and folded his hands in his lap.

“I recommend getting pregnant soon if you do decide you want them. If and when you do, you’ll have to take a lot of time for bed rest, little activity and staying calm. Your blood pressure already concerns me, and I’m sure any OB will tell you the same.”

“Thanks, Doc,” Jasper muttered, then stood from her spot on the table and grabbed her jacket.

Jasper left the hospital on autopilot, her brain swimming with worry and fear. She had never thought about a timeline , about when all of these things needed to happen. Jasper had always assumed such things would come naturally, that one day she’d have her partner or be by herself, then her kid, and she would be okay.

She had betrayed her body in so many ways over the years, putting it through constant abuse and pushing pushing pushing, until it felt like it would give out under the strain. Jasper thought… perhaps foolishly, that her body would always be on her side, that she would always be on her side.

Jasper spent too much time surviving, and now she might not get to live like she wanted.

It wasn’t the aspect of children that made her feel this way. There were many ways to become a parent, whether through childbirth or adoption or having dogs for the rest of her life, she knew she had many avenues to live a life she wanted. She just always thought that she’d have the option to have a baby naturally as an adult.

Spencer wants kids, she thought suddenly, and her heart squelched painfully in her chest.

Spencer didn’t want her, and even if he did, he wouldn’t care whether they had children naturally or not. He’d love any life they had together, because they would choose each other. Whenever she had allowed herself to imagine such a life with Spencer, it had been a specific image.

The two of them in a hospital room, a small bundle of blankets in her arms as Spencer sat with one arm around her, the other rubbing light circles into the chest of the little baby. The image had been so clear once, but now it looked fuzzy and off center.

She didn’t need Spencer to be a parent, or to live a normal life, but she did want him. She wanted the hazy sunlit mornings in bed, rainy afternoons spent reading on the couch, hot humid summer days in D.C. spent walking Booger down to Moe’s and sharing a strawberry milkshake in their booth… God, did she want all of that and the future that would follow it.

This uncertainty was killing her, and it was driving her fucking crazy.

Jasper pulled her car up to a coffee shop, then walked the six blocks to the Misfit’s secondary location. Gaelan Gallagher was tied to a chair inside, and he was waiting for her to extract information from him.

Some knuckles on flesh might make her feel better, and getting one step closer to Liam would as well. If she could wrap up this investigation, then one day soon she could retire and focus on the future for once instead of dreaming about it.

Belle Terre, Louisiana- 20 Years Ago

The hospital was busy.

Deena hugged her arms tightly to her chest, doing anything she could to stop her shaking. Gerard watched her from across the waiting room, sipping a cup of coffee and leaning against the nurses station.

His eyes were dark, that mass of black curls sticking about wildly at the top of his head. Deena hated those curls, but only his. Her little girl was beautiful with hers. Whereas Gerard’s hair was ominous, venomous snakes that held nothing but pain and rage toward her, Sugar’s were full of life and promise.

They were waiting to see Sugar after her surgery, when she was finally wheeled to recovery. She had been under for over two hours now, and Deena was growing more anxious with each passing second. They had already spoken to the police, Gerard cooly lying his way through their interrogation as he always did.

We was just wrestling, like we always do. Things just got outta hand, sirs.

Deena bit back a scoff, glaring across the room at her husband. The police believed him, as they always did, ignoring Deena’s bruises and going on their way, never attempting to look further into the situation.

She couldn’t really blame them, as Deena never would have told a soul about Gerard’s violence. His power over their lives was too great. He didn’t meet the blood requirements to be inducted into the tribe, and federal law meant that he wouldn’t be arrested unless the FBI decided to take the time to do so.

Sugar deserved better. Hell, even Deena could see that she deserved better.

She was off the drugs, finally. Deena had managed to detox herself a few months back, and she was gaining her confidence. She had been with Gerard for almost two decades, and enough was finally enough. Sugar just… deserved better.

It was cruel, the way that children existed as existential mirrors of their parents. She was everything Deena and Gerard could have been, and they were all she might be. It was too much pressure to put on such a little girl.

Would she become an addict like Deena? She had the capability. Sugar was young and naive, always looking for an escape from her home and drugs could be the way she did so… just like Deena had.

Or would she become a monster like her father? She had the capability to be that as well. Sometimes Deena could see it, the pure rage and fear that followed Sugar’s every move like a grotesque shadow. It pushed her to do so many risky things, like fighting at school, stealing food from the grocery store when they had no food, and sneaking out each night with that Donnelly boy.

She prayed each night that Sugar would find her way, and that it would be far away from here. Maybe Sam Donnelly would take her away, make her a bride and keep her safe and happy, and Gerard could do nothing about it.

Deena wanted nothing more than to leave Gerard. If they could just find a way to leave without him pulling them back, Deena would take Sugar and run.

Gerard’s hand waved toward her from across the room, beckoning her to him. She walked over to him, his fierce gaze causing her to shiver once more. He reached out as she approached, pulling her in for a hug and kissing the top of her head.

“She’ll be fine, Deena,” he said, and he tugged her sleeve over her wrist to hide the bruise that had blossomed from that night’s events. “Kids break their arms all the time.”

Do they always break them by having them twisted behind their backs? she thought. She nodded, but boiling hatred pulsed through her.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” she told him quietly, and he released her. She made her way through the hallways until she found a bathroom down the hall from the patient rooms.

Deena watched her whiskey-colored eyes in the mirror as she washed her hands. She leaned down and splashed some water across her face, but when she looked back at her reflection, the desperation and exhaustion hadn’t been washed away.

How are we going to survive this?

If she left, he would drag her back, kicking and screaming. Then, he’d probably kill her. If he killed her, he’d kill Sugar too. Then there would have been no point in leaving at all.

“Deena,” a voice came from the door as it opened. Matthias slipped in and locked the door behind him. He checked the stalls before he finally turned toward her.

He was dressed in casual clothing, his long hair pulled back and tucked underneath a beanie, a far cry from his usual look as Police Chief. His eyes immediately latched onto the bruises on her wrist, his gentle hand reaching out and caressing it softly.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed, but she was grateful to see him. Even the mere thought of her childhood friend turned lover brought comfort to her, and Lord knew she needed him tonight.

“We need to go,” he said, and he brushed some of her long hair behind her ear. “This has to be the last straw.”

“I can’t,” she told him, shaking her head. “I already told the police it was a wrestling accident.”

“Change your story. Tell them you were scared, and have Sugar tell them the same thing when she wakes up.”

“No.”

“The FBI opened a file on him, Deena,” he whispered, his dark eyes full of hope and safety. God, she wanted to fall into those eyes and the love they had for her, but she just couldn’t. Not yet. “It’s only a matter of time until they close in on his drug running, and you and Sugar are home free.”

“Matthias, I’m pregnant,” she blurted, expecting him to pull away, but he didn’t. His eyes blazed, that protective spirit that inhabited him only burning brighter.

“All the more reason to leave!” he pleaded, his grip tightening on her arms, but Deena shook her head.

“It’s not yours, it can’t be. You know that.” Matthias had told her earlier in the year that he was sterile, after he completed one of his yearly physicals. The baby couldn’t be his, but he didn’t skip a beat.

“Neither is Sugar,” he chuckled bitterly. “You know I don’t give a shit. Sugar’s just as much mine as this one will be, when we raise it together .”

“Oh, Matthias,” Deena whimpered. She shook her head again as tears began to fall down her cheeks. “He’ll kill us before he lets us go.”

“I’ll kill him first before I let him hurt you or the kids.” He spoke harshly, and Deena believed him. She knew how much he loved Sugar and her, and that he would do anything to take care of them. Her closeness to Matthias had led Gerard to move them away from the reservation. But if he killed Gerard, if he went to jail, how could she survive with two kids? She’d break under the pressure, and she just couldn’t risk doing that to her daughter.

“I have to go,” she said, pulling away from him. He let her go, but his face was full of grief.

“Just think about it, Deena,” he said as she walked toward the door. She nodded, and as the bathroom door shut behind her, Deena heard a choked sob burst from his chest.

Deena rounded the corner back to the waiting rooms, and her heart clenched in her chest as she saw Gerard speaking with a doctor. It was the same doctor that had checked Sugar when they came into the emergency room earlier tonight.

“Is she okay?” she asked frantically as she rushed up to them. Gerard shot her a warning look, but Deena did her best to focus on the young doctor instead.

“Mrs. Devereaux, Shawnee is fine,” he smiled gently at her. “She’s in recovery right now if you’d like to see her.”

“Sugar,” Deena corrected him, and he cocked his head in confusion. “Her name is Shawnee but she prefers Sugar. It’s what we all call her.”

“Sugar it is, then,” he said, then led them back through the maze of hallways to Sugar’s room.

Deena’s stomach twisted painfully as she laid eyes on her daughter in the hospital bed. A girl of almost sixteen, Sugar was small for her age, and she looked smaller still in that bed. She rounded the side, settling on the edge and smoothing back Sugar’s wild curls.

Gerard plopped down in one of the seats and watched them, seemingly uninterested in the entire show. Wires trailed out of the back of one of her hands, various tubes snaking down the side of the bed and into various machines. Her right arm was bound tightly with a blue cast, and she somehow managed to look peaceful even though she must have been in great pain.

The only time Sugar looked peaceful was when she was sleeping. When she was awake, she was hesitant, quiet. The girl held her tongue and spent most of her time watching , observing, and staying in the shadows as best she could. Deena envied her for it sometimes, her ability to somehow see everything and react accordingly, as though she knew the future just by glancing at the past.

After a few hours, Sugar’s eyes opened, wincing against the bright fluorescent lighting of the little room. She looked around for a moment, her eyes settling on Gerard in his chair.

Neither of them said anything as they made eye contact, and eventually Gerard excused himself from the room entirely. Sometimes, Deena could tell that he was frightened of his own child, and some scary part of her delighted in it.

Sugar took whatever Gerard threw her way, and rarely let him have the satisfaction of seeing her cry or get upset. Deena had tried to be the same way, but she was so scared of Gerard that she never really succeeded.

The last time Sugar had ended up in the hospital following one of Gerard’s “training sessions” that happened when Deena was away with Matthias in Charenton, she had stared at Gerard in a similar way.

Her eyes were steady and dark, boring into Gerard’s with an intensity that Deena had never been able to muster. Gerard had shouted at her to stop staring at him like that, his fists shaking at his sides as he tried to control his anger in such a public place, but Sugar just blinked and continued to stare.

His face had turned red, his mouth curling into a threatening snarl, but she didn’t relent. It was a warning, Deena had realized later, a promise on Sugar’s part. I only keep quiet because I want to , it said, I hold power over you by keeping my mouth shut.

Deena wished she felt the same about her own silence, but she was a rabbit in a snare. Gerard was the looming shadow of a hunter, slowly reaching to snap her neck as she squealed in fear and panic. Her silence was compliance. Sugar’s was domination.

“Momma?” she said after a few moments, tearing those dark eyes from the doorway and facing her. Deena brushed her fingers over her forehead, her heart bursting with love as Sugar closed her eyes as her touch.

“What is it, Sugar?” she asked quietly, and those eyes opened again. They were dark, like Gerard’s, so much darker than Deena’s, but unlike his they were endless puddles of warmth and love, directed at her.

“I found something last night.”

Deena’s brows knitted in confusion, and she frowned, “What did you find?”

“The future.”

Deena’s blood ran cold, ice water washing over her in a brutal wave. Sugar reached out with her good hand and brushed her hair back behind her ear, just like Matthias had done only hours ago.

“I had a dream, too,” she whispered, a small smile on her drug-addled face. She pointed at Deena’s stomach, “It’s gonna be a girl. Nana Little Bird told me so.”

“You think so?” she asked, her voice shaking with fear. She glanced up toward the door, making sure Gerard wasn’t anywhere to be seen. This was Sugar seeing, once again, things she wasn’t supposed to.

Sugar nodded sleepily, “We have to go away, momma. We have to protect Aysha.”

“Aysha?” Deena’s breath caught in her chest. How could Sugar have even known? Deena only found out about the pregnancy from the rez doctor a week before, and she hadn't told anyone but Matthias.

“That’s her name,” Sugar swallowed thickly, smiling once more. “It means ‘alive and well.’ Do you know what Matthias means?”

Deena shook her head, but her body was coursing with adrenaline. She thought she had been so discrete, but of course, Sugar had seen , had known the secret she was keeping.

Sugar’s eyes burned brightly, and she watched Deena with such an intensity, it frightened her. She was seeing something that Deena wasn’t, and Deena needed to listen.

“It means ‘gift of God,’” Sugar said, and Deena burst into tears. Sugar’s hand tightened over hers almost painfully, “He’s going to save you, momma.”

“We’re going to save ourselves, Sugar,” Deena told her through her tears. “He’s just going to help.”

“I think he’s going to save you,” she murmured, her eyes fluttering shut as her head lolled to the side. “Will you sing to me?”

“Of course, baby,” Deena whispered, but her heart was thundering through her chest. She palmed her flat stomach, which in a few months time would begin to grow and she would have to make her choice of whether to stay or leave.

She’d inflicted this life on Sugar, and it was too late to protect her from it, but she could protect this child. She could protect Aysha.

“As I went down to the river to pray, studying about that good ole way,” she started, her voice shaking with the fear and anxiety stilting through her veins.

Gerard would never let them go. If he found out about her child, she would spend another eighteen years with this man, and she wouldn’t survive this time.

If Matthias was right, and the FBI was closing in on Gerard, then that meant in a few month’s time she could take Sugar and leave. It was that or leave Sugar for the time being, help the FBI’s case, and bring her to the reservation after Gerard’s arrest.

“And who shall wear the robe and crown..?”

One wrong punch and she could lose the child, though. Deena couldn’t wait, and if she took Sugar and ran, Gerard would track them down and hurt them so badly she’d lose the baby, if not both of her children.

She had a choice to make- the child she already had? Or the baby that needed her more and hope that eventually she could save them both from Gerard’s wrath.

“Good Lord, show me the way.”

Home- Present Day

“C’mon, Gaelan,” Jasper pleaded as his head rocked back for the fifth time that day. “I just need you to tell me where Liam is.”

Gaelan groaned and spit the blood out of his mouth while Billy shook out his fist. The Misfits had spent two weeks tracking him in Boston before picking him up. They had spent two more weeks waiting for him to break, but Gaelan was holding out longer than she’d thought he would.

“You’ve really bucked up in the last year, huh Gaelan?” she asked, reaching out and brushing back some of the hair that had fallen in his eyes. A whole family of Irishmen, and Gaelan was the only one with red hair. She always liked that about him.

“I can’t tell you anything, Brittany,” he breathed heavily, using the only name he knew her by, her undercover one. His bright blue eyes pleaded with her but she knew she couldn’t help him. Jasper needed answers.

“You can tell me everything,” she started, then moved behind him where he was tied to the chair. She rested her hands on his shoulders and began to rub them. “You think I don’t remember the way you used to treat me, baby brother?”

“When Liam would beat me up, you were the one who helped me clean up, kept me stocked in ice and Ace bandages. Let me help you now.”

“I don’t feel so bad about that now, knowing that you weren’t a victim,” he spat, but his voice was full of sorrow.

“Oh, I know you don’t care about that, Gaelan, you’ve never had a hero complex,” she squeezed his shoulders twice, and he winced in pain. “I appreciated everything you did for me. Why do you think you were never arrested for the drugs you used to peddle?”

“T-That was you?” he asked quietly, and his chin began to wobble. “I just thought I didn’t matter enough.”

“If they’d known about the marijuana plants you were growing, they’d have put you in jail and pressed you until you broke,” she spoke softly, running a hand through his hair once more and speaking into his ear. “I’m trying to save you from that, baby brother. I’ve been looking out for you since I met you, same as you did for me.”

“I can’t…” Gaelan begged, trying to turn his head to look at her, that thick Irish accent filling her with regret. Jasper was full and ready to slaughter each of the Gallaghers, all of them except Gaelan. “Liam’s fuckin’ crazy.”

Jasper knew all too well how crazy Liam was. She had watched that man tape a stick of dynamite in Taqib’s mouth so he couldn’t spit it out, lit the fuse and didn’t even blink as his head exploded. Despite all the things Jasper had seen, it was without a doubt, one of the worst.

When she was undercover, Jasper slept with Liam the whole time. He was sweet one minute, his rage and temper taking over the next, and Jasper had lived once more with bruises she swore she’d never have again. All for the sake of a mission.

The mission, she thought bitterly. More and more she was resenting her mission. The damned mission had gotten them in this mess, killed Taqib and sent her to D.C., forcing Jasper to confront parts of herself she hadn’t known existed.

Each hit that Gaelan took felt like a punch to her own gut. She knew that inevitably they’d have to kill him, and the anxiety from the mere thought was turning her stomach into a pool of acid.

She’d never experienced this before, this hesitation. It was deadly in her line of work. Questioning your orders, your intentions, in the line of duty could put a bullet through your head, or worse. Jasper couldn’t afford something like that to happen now, not when her future was so close.

“You think Liam’s crazy?” Jasper snarled, whirling around his seat to face him. Her eyes met his with a blinding rage and panic, because she was not going to let another Gallagher fuck her over. “I’ll happily show you crazy.”

Jasper whipped out one of her knives from the belt in her waistband, pressing it tight enough to Gaelan’s neck that it drew blood. He swallowed thickly as he watched her, his eyes glazing over with fear.

“Crazy is infiltrating the Irish Mafia. Crazy is sleeping with an arms kingpin for a year just to put away all of his customers,” Jasper hissed, and she felt her voice rising a dangerous octave as she began to lose her control. “Crazy is being beaten for three days, watching an innocent man get his head blown off, and still not giving up my cover. Don’t tell me about crazy, Gaelan, because I just might show it to you.”

“Boss,” Billy’s voice came from behind her, and his bloody fist clamped down on her shoulder. With a flick of her wrist, Jasper sheathed her knife, then let Billy lead her into another room.

“You wanna tell me what the hell is going on with you?” he asked angrily, shoving her further away from the room as he let go of her shoulder.

Jasper’s shoulders shook as the anger threatened to take her over completely. She stared Billy down, mentally willing him to move out of her way, but he squared his shoulders and set his jaw, staring back at her.

“Boss, you’ve spent the last week almost losing your shit in that room. Did something happen when you got your cast off? Do I need to kill someone just to keep your head on your shoulders?”

Jasper deflated, all the breath whooshing out of her as she looked away from him. All of a sudden, Jasper felt like she weighed nothing at all, and she might just be carried away with a heavy gust of wind.

“Do you want kids?”

“I-I don’t-” he stuttered, shaking his head in confusion. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Kids, Bill! Do you want to have a family when you’re out of this shit?” she yelled, reaching out and grabbing his blood speckled shirt in her hands. “Do you want to have a normal life?”

“Of course I do, boss,” he whispered, wrapping his own big hands around hers gently. “You know that I do.”

“Will you be able to look at your kids knowing the things we’ve done?”

“Why are you asking me that?” he asked, then his eyes grew wide, “Oh, my god, are you pregnant?”

“No!” she grunted, sighing angrily and pulling away from him. “I don’t think I can do this anymore, Bill. I’m losing my edge.”

“Boss, despite what you think, you never had an edge.”

Jasper turned sharply to glare at him. Part of her was grateful to hear that, the other wondering how dare he say such a thing?

“You’re scary as shit, don’t get me wrong. You have a ferocity and a force of will that I’ve never seen before,” he told her, chuckling to himself, “but you’re not some heartless monster like you think you are. You’re… a caretaker, always have been. You’ve been taking care of us for a decade.”

“I ruined you,” she told him, and he looked at her sadly.

“You saved us. Without you, you know what would have happened to us. We wouldn’t even have the option to have kids if we wanted them.” Billy took a few steps forward and pulled her into a crushing hug. Jasper did her best to return it, but he was much stronger than her. He whispered against her hair, “You wanna retire? I’ll throw you a fucking party. You wanna finish this mission, and then keep going? I’ll be with you to the end.”

“I know what I want, Bill,” she muttered against his chest, and he squeezed her again.

“Then take it,” he told her. Jasper pulled back and looked up at him, and he looked back at her, those blue eyes full of nothing but faith in her.

“Fine,” she said, turning on her heel and stomping back into the room.

"You don't want to tell me anything, Gaelan, that's fine," Jasper grunted as she came in, her gaze turning to steel as she prepared herself for what she was about to do.

"You have no use for me anymore, baby brother," Jasper whispered, tears welling in her eyes as she pulled a gun from her waistband and pressed it against his forehead.

"W-wait!" he stammered, his eyes wide and pleading. It gutted her, but she couldn't worry about him anymore. "I don't know who his contact is, okay? But he's not a buyer like Kader told you!"

"Keep going," she said, her voice stern. She pressed the muzzle harder against his skin and he winced.

"He's a broker. He sets us up with buyers that aren't on the FBI's radar. He makes sure the buys are safe for us."

"I need a name, Gaelan."

"I don't know it, I swear!" he cried, and her heart twisted again in her chest. "He knows everything about everyone in the FBI. He knows all their secrets, but I don't know how."

"That's all I know," Gaelan sobbed, "I swear that's all I know."

"You did good, baby brother," Jasper said gently, pulling the gun away and moving behind him. His shoulders loosened as his guard fell, but Jasper held the gun a few inches away from the back of his head.

"You did good," she said again, then pulled the trigger.

As Gaelan’s brains splattered across one of the plastic sheets they had hanging up, Jasper burst into tears.

Her team moved and began cleaning up, avoiding her grief as she sobbed on the floor, her knees soaking in the blood on the plastic tarping.

"Put him back where you found him," Jasper cried, sucking in a wavering breath. "I want one of the brothers to find him. Make sure they see him when they walk in his front door."

They went about her, cleaning up the blood and stripping their clothing to burn later. Billy helped her undress, peeling off her blood soaked shirt and pants, then redressed her in Spencer's Caltech sweater and a pair of leggings.

He drove her home, not saying anything until he had carried her up the fire escape and returned her to her bed, then carried Booger up and returned him to her.

Billy smoothed back her hair and kissed her forehead, and Jasper sighed happily at his touch.

"You're leaving us soon, aren't you?" he asked quietly. She looked up at him, expecting to see disappointment, but he only looked concerned.

"I have a life to live, Bill. We all do. It's time we moved on," she whispered, and he nodded.

"Wren and Oona are sleeping together."

"Good."

"I asked Baheera out on a date. She laughed at me but she said yes."

Jasper sat up, reaching out and cradling Billy’s head in her hands. He closed his eyes and she felt his body release it's tension.

"Good," she said, and it was her turn to kiss his forehead.

"We'll be okay without you," he said softly, "We'll all probably retire, too. You'll be an aunt sooner than later, with the amount of times I've caught those two in supply closets."

Jasper laughed, "Good. I can't wait."

"I wish…" Bill whispered sadly, tears welling in those ice blue eyes, "Luke could know about me and Bee."

"When we retire you can do what you want, Bill. You can tell him if you want to,” Jasper told him. It was true, if Bill wanted to tell Luke that he was alive, he could. Billy was completely exonerated from his crimes when his five year probationary period was up with the Agency. He had a clean record and a new name, and he could live whatever life he wanted.

“He’ll hate me for it, boss. He went to my funeral, for God’s sake.”

“He’ll get over it.”

Billy didn’t look too sure, but he nodded anyway. If they sat down and told Luke what happened, all of it, he would understand. Billy and her team didn’t really know how Jasper got to the position she had, but they knew she had come up through similar avenues. Jasper had destroyed the Church program before starting the Misfits, but she had used a similar recruiting tactic that Eli had. Unlike him, Jasper had curated a family through trust, not torture and brain washing manipulation. Luke knew enough about government kill squads that he’d understand. He’d be hurt, betrayed, even, but eventually he would come around.

After a while, when he knew she was alright, Billy left quietly out the fire escape, so nobody in her building could identify him. It was how they went into all of each other’s apartments, and by now was second nature. He shut the window softly and tapped twice, then he was gone.

Jasper hadn’t been home in about a month. Since Spencer had left her apartment all those weeks ago, Jasper had been staying in motels or in a few of the Misfit’s safe houses. She hadn’t felt like returning to these walls, where memories of that last night could haunt her.

The sheets still smelled like citrus and cinnamon, and she twisted the comforter in her hands as she inhaled his scent. It comforted her, and she wondered idly if he’d come by and read her note.

Nothing in the bedroom looked touched, and a quick glance at her closet hiding space told her nobody had disturbed it. She padded out to the living room, her eyes latching onto the coffee table. The note was gone.

Jasper rushed back to her bedroom for her work phone. She had stashed it in her nightstand while she went to Louisiana and then hid out around D.C.. She turned it on, and it immediately began buzzing with notifications.

She had a number of calls from Luke, JJ, Prentiss and Garcia. Rossi had called twice, and so had Walker and Lewis, but their names weren’t what she was looking for.

Her breath caught in her chest as she scrolled through the missed calls, and her eyes landed on Spencer’s name.

Spencer Reid- 7 voicemails

Dialing the voicemail, Jasper pressed the speakerphone to listen to the thirty five voicemails she had.

“Jasper, it’s Luke. Call me back, Kicker.”

“Dammit, Jasper. It’s been over a week,” Luke’s voice grunted through the speaker, “Call me back, you asshole.”

“Hey, Jazz, it’s JJ. Just checking in. Reid says you went out of town, but it’s been a couple weeks. Just let me know you’re okay, okay?” Jasper’s heart warmed at the sound of her friend’s voice. The last few months she had gotten close with the BAU, and knowing they wanted to check up on her made her smile.

“Okay, chickie,” Garcia’s voice rang through, “It’s been three weeks. I know you got your cast off because you have an appointment with Dr. Alsted at Quantico in two weeks. If you don’t stop in and let us know you’re alive, I’m going to go all crazy-hacker lady and track your tiny ass down.”

“Kicker, I’m serious. If you don’t call me back, I’m going to hunt you down and kill you, okay? Don’t worry, I’ll bury you next to Jack in Arlington, but it’s going to hurt.” Jasper rolled her eyes, but guilt blossomed through her stomach. She should have been less selfish and checked her messages instead of going MIA.

“Jazz?” Spencer’s voice spoke softly through the phone, and Jasper’s ears perked up. “Hey, you said you were going out of town… I’m not trying to push you, but we need to talk. I’m… I’m so sorry, Jazz. I overreacted. Please, just call me back when you get back into town.”

“Jazz. It’s been two weeks. I know you said you were coming back, but please… call me back. Let me know you didn’t skip town,” he pleaded, his voice strained and choked full of emotion. Jasper felt tears well in her eyes as she listened to his gentle voice. “Just don’t… don’t leave me again without saying goodbye.”

“Hey…” Spencer mumbled through the speaker. He sounded tired and upset, like he hadn’t slept. “We’re all worried about you. I’m worried about you. Sweetheart… shit, I’m sorry. Jazz, just call me back. I need to see you.”

“Okay, I’m done asking. Come back,” he growled into the phone. He sounded angry now, and Jasper shrank away from the phone knowing that she had caused it. “Come back, and come see me, Jazz. I swear to God, I’ll track you down this time and make you listen to me.”

“Jasper Marie Donnelly,” his voice was softer this time, wracked with grief. “Please, just come home.”

“I hope you’re being safe, whatever you’re getting yourself into. Just make sure you can come back to me, okay? I don’t care what you’re doing, I don’t care what laws you’re probably breaking, just so long as you come back.”

“It’s been a month…” Spencer’s voice was small now, and she could almost hear him chewing on his lip as he breathed heavily against the speaker. “Can you just let me know if you’re coming back? Can you send me a fucking smoke signal or a telegram? I don’t give a shit, Jasper, just tell me whether or not you’re coming back, and whether or not I need to keep holding on to this hope that you will. I just… I just want to see you again. I just want to say that I’m sorry. This is the last call I’m making. Come home or don’t, but don’t think for a second that I don’t want you here. I want you, all of you. I want you with me, okay?”

Jasper sobbed as she listened to the sadness in his voice. She hadn’t meant to cause it. It hadn’t even really occurred to her that anyone would care that she was gone so long. She had needed time, so she took it without a second thought.

She hadn’t realized that they loved her as much as she loved them. She knew Luke cared, that Spencer would always have some feelings toward her general well-being, but knowing that all of the BAU had left her concerned messages broke her heart.

She had been wrong assuming that she was alone all this time. She’d had the Misfits, and they loved her, and now she had the BAU, who loved her too. Jasper dropped a message into the group text, her hands shaking.

I’m sorry, guys. I’m alright, I’m safe. I went to visit some friends since I had time off. I didn’t bring my phone. I didn’t expect everyone to miss me this much.

Oh my gooooooodddddddddd!!! You moronic woman, of course we did! -Garcia

Glad you’re safe, kid. -Rossi

For someone so smart, you’re kinda dumb -Walker

See you Monday for Girl’s Night -Prentiss

Oh, yes, we’re getting ‘toasty’ and you’re telling us EVERYTHINGGG -Lewis

Omg! Glad you’re back home, Jazz! See you Monday!!! -JJ

Luke texted her out of the group chat with that angry red emoji: You’re getting the ass kicking of a lifetime, Kicker.

Lookin’ forward to it -Jasper texted back.

There was nothing from Spencer, though. She waited over an hour, replying to the group chat here and there, but nothing came. She called him twice, but he didn't pick up.

Jasper pulled herself out of bed and slipped on a pair of white Vans. She grabbed Booger’s leash and coaxed him out of the covers with a treat, and then they were on their way.

The scar on Jasper’s arm thrummed along with her pulse, steadily rising and beating faster the closer she got to Spencer��s apartment. She wasn’t sure what was going to happen when she got there.

Spencer wanted to apologize for his reaction to Mexico, but she had told him that it didn’t matter. She understood why he’d reacted that way. Spencer thought for so long that he had gotten out of Mexico by himself, and here he found out that Jasper had committed at least one crime to get him out.

She remembered the night that she’d snuck into the American consulate in Mexico, padding her way softly through the halls and past the guards. They never noticed her, and Oona made sure the security cameras hadn’t either.

She watched him sleep for a while before she woke him up, slipping one of her knives from her belt and pressing it against his jugular. His eyes were the size of dollar coins, bright and frightened in the moonlight.

“I have a proposition for you, Jorge.”

Jasper shuddered at the memory. She could see herself in her mind’s eye, dark and cold, scaring the living shit out of a man she’d never see again. She hadn’t thought twice about what she’d done that night, happy to do Luke a favor, until she told Spencer about it a month ago.

Was she… wrong to have put it out of her mind? Until she’d killed Gaelan, Jasper had hardly bothered dwelling on the things she’d done in her line of work. They were just the things she’d done to survive, to finish the mission.

Jasper was slipping, and she could pinpoint exactly whose fault it was.

He made her question herself, her intentions. Jasper had lived her life surviving one moment to the next, and she had been fine with that until she’d met Spencer. When she lost him, she went right back to living her life clawing her way through the blood and gore.

Jasper had let Spencer see her, and he rejected her. Parts of her were angry, full of rage and hurt that couldn’t be explained. Other parts wanted to change, to do better, to be the kind of person that Spencer, Luke and the BAU deserved to have in their lives.

She wanted to make up for what she’d turned the Misfits into, to heal from what she’d done to Jack, to Sam. She wanted redemption, the same redemption she had searched for in her work, in God, but had never quite achieved.

As Jasper walked up the stairwell to Spencer’s apartment, she could hear Mozart’s Requiem in D Minor reverberating through the halls. She knocked on his door, but nobody answered. The music blared through the walls and she knocked louder.

“He’s had that shit going for weeks,” a voice bellowed from down the hall, causing Jasper to jump. It was an angry looking older woman, her face pinched in a scowl.

“I’ll ask him to turn it down,” Jasper hollered back, and the woman grunted at her.

“See that you do,” she said, then slammed the door.

Jasper looked down at where Booger was sitting patiently, and he looked back up at her. She shrugged at him, and he wagged his tail nervously.

Jasper’s hand shook as she reached out and grasped the doorknob. It turned, and she looked to Booger once more for permission before she opened it. He didn’t seem to think it was a bad idea, so she opened the door and stepped inside for the first time in fourteen years.

The place was a mess.

Jasper stood in the middle of what seemed to be the aftermath of a twister. Books were strewn all over the floor, along with Spencer’s discarded clothing and scraps of paper. His tiny handwriting was scrawled all over them, and Jasper could make out her name in some.

Kneeling down, Jasper picked up a few of them, her eyes welling as she read them. They were apology notes, hastily written and angrily discarded, crumpled into balls and tossed carelessly aside. Jasper shook her head as she read through them, unable to believe that she had caused this sort of madness in her skinny genius.

Jasper took a cautious step toward the record player, still in its place in the corner fifteen years since she’d first stepped foot inside. She lifted the needle from the vinyl, and the over-loud sound of violins and piano blessedly stopped.

A book snapped shut behind her, and Jasper turned around just in time to see Spencer sitting up from the couch. He looked dazed, rubbing one of his eyes as he searched the living room for the intruder. Spencer’s eyes brightened as he spotted her.

“Jasper!” Spencer gasped, jumping over the back of the couch and rushing over to her. He scooped her up in a crushing hug, and Jasper was so shocked she just let him pick her up and squeeze her.

“You came back,” he breathed as he let her go, and his eyes were full of tears. Confused, Jasper reached out her hand and cupped his jaw, watching him sadly.

“I told you I would,” she said, rubbing circles into his jaw. He had let his beard grow out, something she hadn’t even known he could do, and his eyes were bruised from a lack of sleep, or maybe too much of it.

What the hell happened to him?

He wore only a pair of pajama pants and his robe, the fabric hanging open and exposing his chest and stomach. He was well muscled now, and Jasper found herself staring at his body with an appreciatively hungry eye until she remembered why he probably had it.

Prison.

He probably never wanted to feel helpless again. Jasper understood that feeling.

“You said you’d be gone a week, it’s been four,” Spencer said, leaning into her palm. His arms were still wrapped around her waist, and Jasper pulled away from him.

“No,” he whispered, his hands reaching back out to her, and she clasped his hands in hers. She let him hold her once more, but she was so confused. What was going on with him? What was making him act like this deranged man?

“I didn’t…” she started, letting his arms wrap around her waist and pull her close. Spencer pressed his forehead against hers, and Jasper felt herself begin to cry. “I didn’t expect anyone to worry about me while I was gone.”

“Jazz,” Spencer groaned,” after all these years, do you really not know the effect you have on people?”

“You’re the one who said you didn’t want to know me,” her voice wavered, shaking as he held her.

Spencer flinched, his eyes clouding with regret, but his arms tightened around her. “I’m sorry, Jasper. I’m so sorry I said that to you. I was upset, and embarrassed.”

“You need a shower, Stick,” Jasper murmured, and finally pulled herself free from his arms. This was too much, she was feeling too much. He let her go, but he looked lost.

“Oh,” he said, looking down at himself. He released one of her hands and scratched at his jaw. He looked around the messy apartment, his cheeks turning red. “I… I need to talk to you.”

“Let’s get you in the shower, okay?” she coaxed him, gently pulling him toward his bedroom where the bathroom was. He looked hesitant to leave the same room as her, his hands clenching hers tighter as he eyed the bathroom wearily.

“You’ll be here when I get out?” he asked, his sweet eyes scared and hopeful at the same time. Jasper reached out and pulled him to her. She stepped onto her tiptoes and kissed his cheek.

“Of course I will, honey,” she said as she pulled away, and Spencer let out a sigh of relief. He nodded, then slowly let her go and entered the bathroom.

He… missed her. He had fallen apart without her. Jasper didn’t know whether to be happy that he must love her enough to miss her so much, or horrified to know that she had that much power over him.

Now she was glad she hadn’t disappeared like she’d thought about. If Jasper had picked up and left, never looking back, who knows what grief she’d have put him and the BAU through?

When she heard the shower start, Jasper took another look around the apartment. There were clothes everywhere, random takeout boxes piled high on his little dining table, books tossed and thrown this way and that, paper littering the floors.

Jasper decided the best place to start was his bedroom. She picked up the clothes from the floor and walked them over to his laundry room and dropped them in the washing machine. She went through the rooms and picked up more, then headed back for the bedroom.

Jasper pulled the sheets off his bed and folded them up to wash later. She pulled open a few drawers before she remembered where he kept his extra sheets, then dug through for an extra fitted one.

She pulled one out, but her eye caught something at the bottom of the drawer. It was a little green velvet box, one that she had seen before. Diana had shown it to her that Christmas that they visited, whispered excitedly how she hoped Jasper would become part of her family.

It was his grandmother’s engagement ring.

Reaching out with a shaky hand, Jasper picked up the box and opened it. The little gold band still sat inside, glittering under the dim lighting. A large emerald sat in the middle, encased by tiny pearls and diamonds. It was just as beautiful as she remembered it being.

Her heart shattered in her chest as she held the little band, her own ring on her left finger shining in the room. Jack, Sam, Spencer, somehow the weight of her love for them came down to these little bands of jewels. It felt like the weight of the world sat on them at that moment.

Tears rolled down her cheeks as she set the box back in its place, closing the drawer and continuing her mission to clean up. Jasper changed the sheets and stooped down to look under the bed, knowing she would find more clothing under there, even though most of it was Spencer’s brightly colored mismatched socks.

She dragged a pair of slacks and a handful of socks out from underneath the bed, draping them over her arm and then on the back of the couch as she reentered the living room. Jasper picked up the takeout and papers and shoved it all in his garbage bag, making a mental note to take it out later. She didn’t want to leave the apartment to put it in the dumpster and have Spencer think she’d left again, not when he was so upset.

Snagging the trousers from the back of the couch, Jasper searched through the pockets to make sure she didn’t accidentally wash his wallet, money, or badge. She felt something round and hard in his pocket, and fished it out.

Jasper stopped in her tracks as she finally saw what it was. It was a black coin with Self, God, Society, Service written around a diamond shape. Within the diamond were the words Freedom and Goodwill, with a big X settled at the center. She knew what this was. She’d seen her parents take these home only to give them up again within weeks.

“Jasper, are you still here?” Spencer called as he walked into the living room, clutching his towel to his waist. “We need to-”

He fell silent as he saw the coin in her hand. Jasper looked up from it and stared at him. His soft features were twisted by guilt, his eyes full of fear and shame as the water from his shower still had yet to dry on his skin.

“I can explain,” he started, taking a few steps toward her. Jasper took a step back and shook her head.

“You’re a drug addict,” she said quietly, her voice shaking as a million memories flooded her senses. Her mother passed out in a pile of her own vomit, covered in bruises and God only knew what else. Her father fast asleep on the armchair with a needle still sticking out of his arm, his head rocking back and forth in a daze as he rode his high.

“Jasper, please,” Spencer started again, but Jasper stopped him with a raised hand.

“No,” she snarled, and he flinched away from her. She scoffed and shook her head. Too many memories ripped through her, too many nights running from her father or cleaning up her mother.

How did this happen to you?

Jasper wanted to be supportive, wanted to be what he needed her to be, but could she? Was she… strong enough to learn more about what all he’d been up to the last fourteen years if drugs, of all things, had been a part of it?

Her breath quickened as she looked at his frightened face, still damp from his shower as citrus and cinnamon floated through the apartment. He silently pleaded with her, and she begged back. When she spoke again, her voice shook.

“You’re a drug addict.”

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Notes: Okay, I KNOW what you're thinking! but BEAR WITH ME and you will be rewarded babes <3

How are we feeling? Any theories ?

Also, how do you guys feel finally knowing Jasper's real name??

CM Forever Taglist:

@simplyparker, @spencerreidsmommy @hotchandspencearedilfs @gspenc @kbakery @nomajdetective @givemeth @hoshihiime @halloween-is-my-nationality

[ieattaperecorders]

May You Find Your Rest

Somewhere else. Two men who were not born in this reality lie in bed together, hold one another and unpack a few things. (Just 4k of cuddling and talking about feelings, really.)

Read on Ao3

---

It's dark in the small, quiet room where they sleep. Not completely, neither of them feels entirely safe in the dark anymore, so the curtain is always parted to let a sliver of light in.

Curled against Martin, Jon is warm and still and finally thinking of nothing. He's just starting to drift off when he feels him reach over and plant light, careful kisses on his cheek, on his temple, on the top of his brow. He sighs with pleasure. It would be so easy to keep drifting, to let himself sink into sleep as the one he loves kisses him softly and sweetly. But instead he opens his eyes, not really knowing why he does it.

Maybe it's the way Martin moves, slow and deliberate. Maybe there's a subtle a hitch in his breathing, something Jon senses without seeing or understanding. Something that tells him he shouldn't go to sleep. Not yet.

So he lies listening to the silence as Martin's hand moves over his side, outlining him. It nudges itself under the hem of his nightshirt, tracing the softness of his waist. Then, as if this hadn't been its destination all along, it brushes the wide, ragged scar over his stomach. A twinge (not sharp, not much more than a tingle) runs through his body. His breathing barely changes – it's not a gasp, just a slightly deeper inhalation. But Martin notices, hand hesitating, drawing back.

"Does it hurt?" he asks, and he sounds so horribly solemn.

"Not really," Jon says quietly. "Just a little sensitive. Scar tissue."

Gently, he places a hand over Martin's and presses it down into his abdomen, until it's covering the center of the scar. Jon has scars that are sensitive in other ways. Martin has learned to be careful around the thin line that cuts across his throat. Knows there are days when the chewed circles that pockmark his body itch uncontrollably, when he'll scratch himself bloody if he isn't thinking.

(In the safehouse, Martin had pulled the hand from his face and whispered don't. Had kissed his scars over and over, until he couldn't feel the itch, could only feel the gentle pressure of his lips and his kindness and love.)

He wants to say, it doesn't hurt when you touch me here. To show Martin that his body won't flinch from his touch. It wouldn't be his fault if it did. It wouldn't be either of their faults. But it doesn't, and he needs him to know that.

The hand relaxes against him. It moves in a slow arc, finding the edges of the wound, mapping and knowing it. Jon keeps his own hand in place, letting it move with his.

"I'm sorry," Martin says.

Jon brings a hand to his cheek. "So am I."

He wonders what Martin is apologizing for. For cutting the tether, letting them out? For the wound that could only be made by his hands? For not being able to let him go? No . . . Jon doubts he would be sorry for that.

Maybe it isn't an apology at all . . . maybe he's just sorry. Sorry he had to be hurt again.

"So am I," he repeats. "But it's done. We're here, now. Together, and alive. Despite it all."

Martin's head rests on the pillow, gaze turned to the side. He's subdued in a way that feels meaningful but that Jon can't identify. So he says nothing, lies still and lets his hand trail up the side of Martin's face, over his temple, around his ear. Affectionate touch, easier and less confusing than the jumble of words and questions swarming in his brain.

After a long silence, Martin says, "I wish you had trusted me."

" . . . What do you mean?"

"In the Panopticon. I just wish you'd trusted me enough to go along with the plan."

Jon frowns. "I . . . don't know if that was about trust."

"Wasn't it, though?"

"I didn't do what I did –" he pauses, rephrases. "I didn't kill Jonah because I thought you were lying, or going to betray me, or – or controlled by spiders. I didn't think your intentions were anything other than what you said. But I couldn't bear the thought of what we were doing . . . or I thought I couldn't. Clearly I could. In the end."

"Yeah. Well. Turns out both of us did things we didn't think we could," Martin says bitterly, thumb still tracing the scar.

"Funny how often that happens."

"You could have trusted that I knew what I was doing."

"But you didn't. None of us did . . . no one could in that situation."

"That includes you, you know," Martin frowns. "You kept going on about all you knew, but even you said you weren't unbiased. You don't think maybe the idea that the only way out was global euthanasia had anything to do with your own baggage?"

Another twinge, sharper this time. Without realizing, he'd pressed Martin's palm down harder than he should have, in where the nerves were still healing. He eases off.

". . . Maybe," he says eventually. "Probably. I doubt any of us were unbiased. How could we be?"

"But it was your biased plan you decided to go with. Like you always do. You always think you know better than everyone else--"

"I don't think that's entirely fair."

"It's not entirely unfair either."

He feels something stirring defensively in him. Then he stops. Assesses. "No," he says eventually. "I suppose it's not."

The hand is warm against his stomach, and he can feel the dampness of sweat just forming between their skins. It's not pleasant or unpleasant, just something he can feel, and he focuses on it for a while.

"You didn't trust me either, you know," he senses an objection coming, and he heads it off. "You were right not to. I wasn't trustworthy. You thought that I would go behind your back, and I did."

The tension that was rising deflates a little at the admission, and Martin's voice is gentle when he says, "you did."

"But I don't think you were lying when you said you trusted me." Jon adds. ". . . Do you?"

" . . . Fine, I get it. Trust is complicated and all that," Martin sighs, "it just. It hurts."

". . . I'm sorry."

Martin nods, is still for a moment, then leans forward and kisses him once. He kisses back.

"Do you regret it?"

"Which part?"

"Killing Jonah. Not waiting for us. Trying to go the other way."

Jon thinks of the hours before it happened. Of whimpering into Martin's chest, almost pleading, begging him to see. Horribly aware that Martin was as deeply set in his feelings as Jon, that there would be no budging for either of them.

He thinks of the moment he spent watching Martin's sleeping form, just before he climbed those stairs. Seeing his brow creased with unquiet dreams, and knowing that he was about to hurt him. He thinks of the terror, the dawning horror that fell over him as he saw what it all had been leading to.

"I don't know," he finally says. "I regret the pain you went through . . . I regret making you feel that."

There's a curved line trailing over Martin's forehead, just above his eye, which Jon follows with the edge of his thumb. The one on his shoulder is larger, took ages to heal, and there are more that travel down his back and arms. Places where the rubble struck him, before they both unraveled.

The scars aren't really what Jon is referring to when he talks about pain. But he supposes they're a part of it too.

". . . Do you?" he asks.

"Do I what?"

"Regret any of it?"

"I'm not sorry that I didn't let you stay in that tower and kill the entire world, if that's what you mean," he says firmly. "I'm sorry, but I'm never going to regret that."

"No . . . I wouldn't expect you to."

"I wouldn't have told the others to start if I'd known you'd already done it. But if I'd known that . . . that would've been it, right? We'd be stuck there."

"Unless the others went behind both our backs."

"What, you think Melanie wanted to stick a knife in you that badly?"

"I don't know about wanted. But I think Basira could have done it."

"Yeah . . . maybe."

". . . I'm sorry that I went behind yours."

Martin breathes into the space between their bodies, a long and expressive exhale. "I know. . . And I know you were hurting. And scared. I do know that."

"We both were."

"Yeah. Yeah . . ." he sighs. "I forgive you for it. I do. I don't want to hold onto that."

Jon finds Martin's hand in the dim light, pulls it closer to himself and kisses it. He hesitates – not sure if he should say this, should even acknowledge it – before linking their fingers together and pulling the hand back to his stomach, over the place where the knife went in.

"I don't need to forgive you for this. That is – I, I don't believe there's anything to forgive? It was what you had to do, and it was what I asked for. But . . ." he pauses, hesitates. "I know guilt can be an insidious emotion--"

"Oh, do you?" the lilt of sarcasm does not go unnoticed. Jon ignores it.

"–And I want you to know . . . if you feel like you need to be forgiven for it, you are. Entirely and unconditionally."

Martin nods, moving his hand off the scar and over around Jon's side. As he leans in for another kiss he grips him a little more firmly, his touch seems less hesitant and Jon is glad that he said something after all.

"Anyway, I was right, wasn't I?" Martin says after a moment. "We're here. We're in another world, and things are fine. It's normal. Maybe the fears are here, but it's not an apocalypse. Maybe it never will be."

That makes Jon frown. "You don't know that."

"Neither do you."

"And we never will," he says firmly. "We won't ever know the cost of what we did. Maybe it balances out. Maybe it doesn't. Either way, you and I won't have to feel it."

"At least it's normal here. You're not even an avatar," Martin says, and Jon nips back the impulse to quibble about the nature of that term. "You haven't been having the dreams, and you haven't needed a statement since we got here."

". . . I'm still feeding the Eye." It isn't until he sees the look of confusion on Martin's face that it occurs to Jon he didn't already know. "I don't have the power I once had, or the same needs," he explains. "But I feel it sometimes, using me as a conduit. It's as if the signal's fainter, but the receiver is so much more sensitive."

"Do you know it's happening, though, or are you just guessing?"

"I'm not sure how it happens, exactly. Maybe it just grazes off the fear I witness when I see something terrible on the news, or pass by someone in distress. Maybe in time it'll push me to seek out more, to force myself into other peoples' tragedies in service of the Beholding. Or maybe it never will, and I'll stay this way for the rest of my life."

Martin's brow furrows, and his voice is insistent, pushing back with some need Jon can't quite understand. "Okay, but it's not like you're actually hurting people--"

"No . . . I am," he says firmly. "And I am certain of that. It might be more subtle now . . . a lingering feeling of invasion, or paranoia. Or a trauma that would have otherwise passed leaving a decades-deep mark." He stares thoughtfully at his own thumb. "It feeds through me, and I give it strength. On some level, my existence still depends on the suffering of others. That's one consequence we can't avoid."

Martin is quiet for a long while. ". . . Guess it doesn't matter, right?" he finally says. "It's done. Can't undo it."

"No. Not any of it." He shakes his head. "It's funny, really. All my paranoia and suspicion, all my worry that the Web would slip an agent in under our nose, and the whole time I was looking in the wrong place. Seeing and seeing and never understanding."

"What do you mean?" Martin fidgets, and Jon wonders if he's said something he shouldn't have, though he can't guess what. "Looking in the wrong place?"

"I mean myself. The mark when I was a child. The lighter I could never remember. Even the tapes they sent to press on my wounds, keeping that anger fresh. All of it leading to that moment."

". . . Oh." Martin sighs. "Yeah, Jon. They manipulated you, that's what they do. They manipulated all of us."

"They did. And I was more theirs than I ever realized."

He feels Martin's fingers tapping against his side, thoughtful. After a moment, he speaks. ". . . She said that about me, too. Annabelle. That I was suited to the Web, or something."

"I imagine she'd say anything she knew would rile you up."

"She was right, though. At least a little bit . . . ." he takes the edge of Jon's sleeve between his fingers, twisting and fidgeting with it. "When we were down there, waiting, I could feel you coming through the web. The vibrations just spoke to me, I knew Basira was with you even before I saw her."

That surprises Jon. Startles him, even. He feels Martin fidget again, and in his mind he plays back what do you mean, looking in the wrong place. Notices the quiet nervousness in his voice. Considers how deep and old Martin knows his hatred of the Mother of Puppets to be.

"I always knew," he says, voice light and casual, "that there had to be a reason you'd defend anything as vile and repugnant as the common house spider."

Hearing Martin laugh, feeling that tension release in a sudden startled lungful – it's beautiful, it's a victory, and he smiles as Martin nudges into his shoulder. Halfway between a gesture of affection and a headbutt.

"Arsehole," he mutters. "It's not just that. I know I'm . . . well, I'm not always great at being direct. And maybe I can sometimes be passive-aggressive . . . ."

"Well—"

"You don't have to agree with me."

". . . Right."

"But that's sort of Web stuff, isn't it? And I – I was always good at telling Peter what he wanted to hear. I know why she said what she did."

"Mmm." Jon lifts Martins' fingers from where they're worrying at his sleeve, rolls them between his own. "You've learned that it's safer to nudge and suggest than to be direct. To make yourself look smaller than you are. I can see the . . . thematic overlap, I suppose. Imagine it drawing the attention of the Spider."

". . . Does that bother you?"

"Well I'm not worried you're some spider-controlled double agent," he says, then adds something under his breath.

". . . What was that last bit?" Martin lifts his head.

"Nothing."

"Did you just mutter ‘anymore?!"' he asks incredulously.

"My point is, we call to them in countless ways, often without knowing or wanting to," he sighs. "Besides . . . I'd hardly be in a position to judge. They had their strings on me from the start."

"That makes you a victim of them. Not an agent or an avatar."

"Martin . . . ."

"Don't ‘Martin' me, I'm right."

"Do you really think the two are incompatible? Being a victim of a power, and being a channel through which it feeds on others? After all you've seen?" his voice softens. "After all you've been through . . . after the Lonely?"

Martin goes quiet. Jon runs his fingers over his shoulder, absently stroking.

"In the end, I chose to be theirs. With it all falling down around us, I saw what they'd known I would do from the very beginning. I witnessed my fate laid out for me and instead of defying it, I ran towards it."

". . . You still regret it, don't you? Letting them out."

"I don't know, Martin. Truly, I don't," he says. A smile starts, then dies on his lips. "There's so much I regret nowadays, it's honestly hard to keep steady how I feel about most things."

A vague, hmm sound, an expression of some emotion that Jon can't guess at, though he suspects that wasn't what he'd wanted to hear. He brings both his hands up, cupping the sides of Martin's face between his palms. Martin startles, but says nothing.

"Most," Jon says, looking back at him seriously. "But I know how I feel about you. That doesn't change. And I don't regret staying with you."

The beginnings of tears form in Martin's eyes, and there is quiet in the room as Jon brings his face to his. Brushing a soft kiss over his mouth, the trails on his cheeks, the space above each closed eye. He doesn't stop until Martin shudders, swallows, and speaks again.

"I love you," he whispers.

"I love you too," Jon says. "And I'm glad that I'm here. I'm glad we're together and alive . . . whatever else comes with that."

Martin shudders again, a weak and pained sound coming out of him. It's all Jon can do not to pull Martin's face into his chest and let out a thousand desperate apologies, to self-flagellate, to beg forgiveness for ever allowing any pain to come to him. He sensibly quiets that urge, because he knows it's the last thing Martin needs. It's the last thing either of them need.

"Do you promise?" Martin whispers.

"Promise what? That I love you?" Silence follows, and Jon frowns, confused. ". . . I do promise that, if that's what you mean."

Instead of answering, Martin silently reaches between them, fumbling for Jon's hand and squeezing it tightly.

"Some nights I pretend to sleep," he says after a pause. "Or, well. Pretend's too strong a word . . . I just lie quietly in bed. But I'm waiting for you to fall asleep first."

Jon's fairly sure he lost the thread of this conversation, and he doesn't know where or how. ". . . Why?"

"Because I'm scared I'll wake up and find you gone."

"Oh. Oh, Martin . . . ."

"I don't-- it's not that I really think--" he shakes his head, "just sometimes can't let go of the thought of it, and it scares me." A wry smile crosses his face. "Which power feeds on that, you think?"

"I mean –"

"Not actually looking for an answer, Jon," he sighs, a mixture of affection and irritation. "Anyway, I think we both know which one it'd be."

He nods. Holds Martin's hand, rubbing the knuckle of his thumb. "I don't know what I can say . . . I can tell you that I won't leave, that I'll be here when you wake up. But I don't suppose that helps unless you can--" he hesitates, not wanting to say trust. It's starting to feel like a deeply troublesome word, both imprecise and emotionally weighted, the sort Jon tends to despise. ". . . believe me?"

"I don't actually think you're going to just vanish in the night someday. It's hard to explain."

"It's unlikely that we'll live to see another ritual for me to be the apocalyptic tipping point of."

"There's still more . . . ordinary things."

"Don't tell me you think I'm going to run off with one of the locals?" He raises his eyebrows, smiling, lets a teasing superiority into his voice. As if he considers the people of this reality to be below their station.

Martin doesn't laugh or smile. He gives him a look, like he's being stupid on purpose. Jon half wants to tell him it's completely involuntary.

"You don't need a bottomless coffin or an all-seeing eye to run off and martyr yourself. People do it with their own hands every day."

And now he understands. Now the thread comes back, winding itself directly around his throat.

". . . Come here," he says, though there are scant inches between them. Martin does so anyway, fitting himself into the space between Jon's arms, head tucked into his collar, legs twining with his. Jon's hands run over his shoulders, through his hair, down his back. He kisses the crown of his head over and over, pouring it all into touch and action until he can find the strength for words again.

"I love you," he whispers. "I'm not going to leave. Not that way . . . not in any way I have control over."

"Seeing his body there next to you . . . it felt like when I was coming back from the shop, and the sky went dark, and the ground started reaching and –" he swallows. "E-everything had gotten so horrible but we finally had a way out, a chance to start over. And then it was just gone again."

And Jon's heart is breaking, and he's afraid if he speaks he's going to start crying, but he can't be silent after that. So he tries.

"I'm so sorry . . . ."

"I know . . . I know." Martin sniffs. "It's not . . . I'm not looking for that. Honest. I just . . . ."

He goes quiet for a while.

"I know you were in pain," he continues. "The night before it all happened. I know – I knew that it was killing you, what we were about to do. It wasn't that I didn't care. But I told myself that someday – even if it wasn't right away, someday you'd be glad we'd done this. Because there'd be a someday."

". . . Maybe I would have been."

"And maybe you wouldn't have. I didn't know. I don't know. We'll never know. But I know you were hurting, and that's just it. Because I also know it . . . s-still hurts."

"I couldn't do that to you."

"We've both done things we thought we couldn't do," Martin says humorlessly.

"Right . . . I take your point."

"I know you feel guilty," Martin whispers, "and you – you just said that while you're alive others are suffering –"

". . . Yes."

"I know how tempting it can be. To just give in to it."

"I know you do."

"So . . . ."

Martin trails off, helpless. Jon feels helpless too. He clumsily feels for Martin's hands and brings them up against his own chest.

"Whatever else I feel, I promise you that I'm glad I'm alive," he says, holding their hands over the place where his heart still beats, steady and warm and living. "Even when it's difficult to bear it all, I'm glad that I'm alive and with you. I want to build a life together, here and now, more than anything. To take whatever chance we've got."

He wonders what Martin is looking for as his eyes trace over his face. Whatever it is he seems to find it, or maybe just trusts that it's there, because he takes a shuddering breath and nods.

". . . I believe you," he says.

"Thank you," Jon breathes deep, feeling the sharp heat behind his eyes fade as he blinks his own tears away. "And . . . I can hope that we made the right choice. Really it's all either of us can do, anymore."

"True."

They lie together in the silence. Martin slides his arms around Jon's sides, resting his head against his chest, and Jon feels the rhythm of his pulse next to his ear. His body is heavy and real, meat and bone, tangled up together with one that he loves. He feels the heat of Martin's breath as he sighs, the gentle weight, the tickle of hair, the hard ridge of skull beneath it. Abject, bloody systems of life.

". . . Martin?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you . . . for coming back."

In the dark he feels a smile against his body. ". . . Which time?"

"Any. All."

"I always will," he whispers. ". . . Thank you for staying."

"That's the deal."

"Yeah. . . yeah." Martin lets out a long, steady sigh. "That's the deal"

Jon feels Martin's limbs relax around him, grip loosening as eyes tiredly close. He twines his fingers through Martin's hair, stoking softly and sweetly as his beloved drifts. Jon doesn't close his eyes just yet, instead watches the face that rests against him slowly go slack in the moonlight. Thinking that maybe tonight, Martin will fall asleep first.

[blutopaz15]

Flufftober Oct. 1

Winning a Prize for the Other

Hi friends! I've been badly needing some writing inspiration, so I think I'm going to make an effort to do some @flufftober2021 prompts! Some of the other things I've been working on have been getting a little heavy, so...what a good excuse for some sweet, sweet Rayllum fluff!

NOTES: modern au rayllum + ez at a renaissance faire, 1.3k word, rated g

ao3 link

“--so all I’m saying is I’m pretty sure this is supposed to be a toad, not a frog. I mean, have you ever seen a frog this grumpy looking? Toads on the other hand--” Ezran chatted on happily, despite Rayla’s inattention. He turned the bright yellow stuffed animal towards her once more, showcasing--then mimicking--its definite frown. “Rayla?”

“Sorry, Ez,” Rayla sighed, glaring at the corner that Callum had disappeared around, then glancing down at her phone.

He’d been gone thirty whole minutes, and the more time passed, the more impossible it felt to stop looking for him...and it wasn’t just the hunger pangs that’d kicked into gear.

She opened their messages again, and tapped out the text she’d held off on sending.

Where’d you go?

She’d been scanning the crowd, looking for Callum--and their lunch--every few minutes all along. It didn’t help that every so often some other boy in blue or with messy brown hair or even once with a red loop around his neck would come down the dirt path. Her breath kept catching, hoping it was Callum...and then she’d deflate each time when it turned out not to be her dork in his prince-(but-like-not-obnoxious)-turned-mage get-up.

Rayla returned her phone back to the pouch sewn into the holster at her back and her attention back to Ez and the much-loved prize she’d won for him when they’d first gotten to the Faire this morning.

“You’re probably right,” she said, fidgeting with the tape that held her pinky finger to her fourth, regretting how the distraction of looking for Callum kept making her inadvertently ignore Ez. “A toad for sure.”

“A glow toad, I think,” he commented, holding it up for her consideration again, “named Bait.”

“That...sounds made up,” she teased. Really, she was only mostly sure that a glow toad was a species from Ezran’s imagination rather than from the near-encyclopedia of animals she knew he had in his head.

“Well, yeah,” he said, serving her sass right back and gesturing to the gold crown Callum had spray-painted for him last night. “Every king needs a magical animal companion, obviously. He even had a stint as my regent, but it didn’t work out.”

“Yeah?” Rayla’s focus drifted again, her eyes pulled back to the path she kept expecting to see Callum on.

“Mmhmm,” Ezran nodded. “He--”

The fairgrounds weren’t that busy, she thought, itching to check her phone again despite not having felt it buzz against her back, but...maybe they should’ve all gone to get lunch instead of letting clumsy Callum try to manage food for three. Maybe he needed a hand?

“I’m sorry, Ez,” she interrupted, too distracted by picturing Callum and their lunch dumped all over the walkway. “You good here if I go find your brother?”

Ezran agreed--with a groan and a remark about sandwiches that she didn’t think was all that related to lunch at a Renaissance Faire--and she followed the path Callum had taken on his quest to find them all some food.

Rayla made herself pass quickly by the booth that Ez and Callum had nervously accompanied her into so she could buy her pair of props: two blades that fit just right with the elven assassin costume she’d spent all summer saving for and piecing together.

She then happily sped past the creepy, dark shack that seemed to sell replicas--she hoped they were replicas, at least--of random animals and parts of animals in jars. On her way by, she tugged the headband holding her horns--that looked an awful lot like ones the shack had on display--back into place and pushed platinum blonde hair back behind the pointy-ear prosthetics that were starting to itch.

Rayla slowed, though, when she came to the vendors where Callum had lingered earlier, not putting it past him to get so caught up in googly-eyed amazement again that he’d forgotten all about lunch. It definitely wouldn’t have surprised her if he’d spent the past half hour thumbing through old-looking books that his bedroom didn’t have space for, or poking at weird amulets and pretty-looking stones.

But...no Callum.

She was practically back at the entrance to the fairground by the time she found him--looking somehow both determined and demoralized--back at the carnival game she’d won Ezran’s Bait from earlier.

Rayla waited to speak until he’d thrown the last dart in his hands.

“You know the food’s that way, right?”

He startled like she’d thought he might, shoulders bolting upward, and sighed as he turned to her, following her gaze down the path they hadn’t yet taken before slumping over.

“Yeah...I know.” He sounded exasperated, but the dejected look on his face cleared a little when she came closer, leaning her hip against the counter of the wooden booth.

“Well,” Rayla said, drawing out the word and tilting towards him, “we’re starting to get a little hangry back there.”

Callum’s barely-there smile twitched a little wider. “Sorry,” he said, shrugging and pushing the handful of change he’d dug out of his pack across the counter. “Got...distracted.”

“By darts?” She asked, crossing her arms and leaning back against the counter now, eyebrow raised. The attendant exchanged the money on the counter for another three green-handled darts.

“You said you liked him.” Callum looked up--above the colorful balloons he’d apparently spent the last half hour trying to pop--at the blue stuffed dragon she’d said was cute when they’d stopped at the booth the first time. “And it looked so easy when you did it earlier, so I thought I’d surprise you with a cute baby dragon when I brought the food back, but…” Callum trailed off, looking down.

She reached for his hand, her taped-together fingers settling awkwardly at the side of his.

“How very noble of you, your highness.” She tugged on his scarf, pleased by how her teasing had made his eyes roll and his smile brighten again. “Want some help?”

Callum sighed again, picking up the darts and offering them to her.

Shaking her head, she untangled her hand from his, but only took one of the three.

“Which one do we have to pop?” she asked, turning slightly to the side and lifting the dart to eye level.

“The one that’s all glowy,” he answered, pointing up at the iridescent balloon near the top of the board.

“Watch.”

She took aim for the one just below the single, solitary dragon-winning target.

Pop.

A wave of satisfaction fluttered in her chest when she let loose the well-aimed dart and then immediately turned, a hand on her hip, to see Callum looking at her so attentively, eyes wide and head cocked to the side.

“Your turn, mage,” she smiled.

Callum lifted the dart to eye-level--just the way she had--but she cut him off before he could throw his second-to-last dart.

“Hang on.” Rayla stepped closer to gently press his shoulder to the side, encouraging him to split his stance the way she had.

His eyes followed when he turned and then his lips were right there, just inches from hers. It was nothing to drift closer and kiss him softly, her hand trailing away down his arm.

“For luck,” she explained, squeezing his elbow before stepping to the side.

Callum, a little more smiley and a lot more red-faced than before, nodded, seemingly having recaptured his sense of determination. He took aim, and…

Thud.

Missed.

But...it was close.

“You should probably just do the last one,” he grumbled, looking down at the last dart in his hand before holding it out to her. “I can’t do it.”

“You can, Callum.” She shook her head and closed his fingers back around the dart. “Just...breathe. I believe in you.”

Callum listened. He sucked in a breath as he pulled back the last dart, then exhaled, and...

Pop.

[bluejayblueskies]

Jmart and #18?

jonmartin + things you said when you were scared!

.

Jon’s hand is hovering over the tape recorder sitting on his desk, trying to decide whether or not to bring it with him to Great Yarmouth, when there’s a soft knock on the doorframe to his office.

 It’s really not Martin’s fault that Jon startles so badly at the noise. He’s just… he’s been on edge lately. They all have, he supposes. The tension in the air has been palpable, growing stronger every day as the Unknowing grew nearer, and it’s reached a fever pitch by this point. His nerves feel stretched paper-thin, and he feels terrible at the way his flinch draws a guilty expression to Martin’s face.

 “Sorry,” Martin says, his hand hovering in the air for a moment before dropping to his side. “I just, er. I saw the light on and I wanted to…”

 The sentence hangs in the air, like Martin isn’t quite sure how he wants to finish it. After a moment, Martin clears his throat and says, “Got everything you need? I know it’s not exactly a vacation, but you are staying overnight, so, er, maybe toothpaste? And- and it can get cold by the coast, so maybe a jacket—though it is summer, so you might not need one. Maybe we should check the weather forecast—”

 “Martin,” Jon says, softly but firmly.

 Martin’s mouth snaps shut, and one of his hands comes up to grip his upper arm in a protective gesture. “Sorry. Just- just nervous, I guess.”

 “Yes,” Jon says, suddenly very, very tired. “Me… me too.”

 They stand there in silence for a moment, Jon’s fingers still lingering on the tape recorder and Martin still shrinking into himself slightly. It’s been a while since he’s done that around Jon, and the thought makes something twist in Jon’s stomach.

 Maybe that’s why Jon pulls his hand away from the tape recorder, hugs his arms tightly to his chest, and says quietly, “I’m scared, Martin.”

The vulnerability itches underneath his skin, but Jon doesn’t shy away from it, even as Martin’s eyes widen slightly in surprise. He continues, “I- I don’t know what’s going to happen. Elias played us that tape, and we have a- a plan, but there’s just so much that’s out of our control, and the chances that things are going to go wrong are… quite high. So much has happened, I- I haven’t had time to process so much of it, and I—”

 Jon breaks off with a small noise that sounds suspiciously like the beginning of a sob. “I don’t think we’re all coming back from this,” he says, so quietly he’s not sure Martin hears it. “I’m… I’m not sure that I’ll come back from this.”

 “Jon,” Martin says, his voice breaking around the word. “Please… please don’t say that.”

 Jon hugs himself tighter and looks down at the ground. “I’m sorry,” he says.

 “You’re going to come back,” Martin says, with such conviction that Jon can almost believe it himself. “You and Tim and Basira and- and Daisy, I guess—you’re all going to be okay. The plan is going to work, and- and you’ll all be okay.”

 The last bit comes out choked and wet, like Martin’s barely holding back tears. And god, Jon wants to believe him. He wants to believe that everything will be okay, that they’ll set up the explosives and get out in time and detonate them at just the right moment and stop the world from ending. But he just… he just can’t.

 “Martin,” Jon says, haltingly. “If- if I don’t make it back—”

 “Jon,” Martin says, but Jon keeps going.

 “If I don’t make it back, I need to tell you- well, I need to tell you so, so many things, really, but you need to know that I—”

 “Jon.”

 Jon draws in a shaky breath and looks up at Martin. Pain and sadness are etched into every line of Martin’s face, and beneath it lies a mute fear that Jon feels reflected within him. “You’re going to make it back,” Martin says firmly, leaving no room for discussion. “You’re going to make it back, and- and you can tell me then.”

 Jon shakes his head and takes a step toward Martin, his arms unfolding from his chest and one hand reaching for Martin’s. “Please, just- just let me say this.”

 Martin allows Jon to take his hand. It’s shaking ever so slightly, clammy with nerves. Jon squeezes it tightly, thinking about all the times Martin’s handed him tea or files or pastries and Jon’s been unable to look away from his hands. “I… I am not a brave man,” Jon says, studying Martin’s hand in his so he doesn’t have to look at Martin’s face, to see the incredible sadness in his eyes. “I’ve been scared for my life so many times over this past year, running from things that- that meant me harm. I’ve made… so many mistakes, with Tim and- and Sasha and… and you, and I- I don’t want to make another. Whether or not I make it back, I… I want to tell you this now.”

 Martin’s quiet for a long moment. Then, tentatively, his hand squeezes Jon’s in return. “Okay,” he says softly.

 Now that he’s been given the chance, Jon finds that he doesn’t know how to put it into words. How can he describe the way that Martin makes him feel like he’s safe? How can he describe the way that tea feels like home now, or the way that his office feels cold and empty without a mug perched on the edge of his desk, steam curling in the air? How can he describe the way that his mind, throughout every horror and kidnapping and lonely moment, finds comfort in the shape of Martin’s smile and the way Jon’s name sounds on his lips?

 I love you feels too hollow. Not enough to capture the swirling mess of affection and longing and aching sadness clustered in Jon’s stomach. He says it anyway, finally looking up at Martin so he can capture every miniscule expression on Martin’s face and catalogue it for later. The way Martin’s lips part slightly in surprise. The way his eyes grow wide and his cheeks flush ever so slightly, his freckles stark against the light pink beneath them. The way the corners of his mouth twitch into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, a bittersweet thing that Jon feels echoed within him, because it’s a bit too late, isn’t it? Jon leaves in a few hours, and Martin’s staying behind, and this might be all they’ll get to have.

 Still, Jon says it. And when he dares to rest his hand against Martin’s cheek, Martin leans into his touch with a small exhalation.

 “Stay with me?” Jon says, a bit of raw desperation leaking into his voice. “Just- just for a bit longer. Please.”

 Martin draws in a small, shaking breath that Jon can feel against the palm of his hand. “Yeah,” Martin says, barely more than a whisper. “Of course.”

 And when Martin pulls Jon into his arms and whispers a quiet I love you too, Jon can pretend, at least for a moment, that it’ll all be okay.

[starlightsearches]

The Supreme Leader’s Wife

18+ Only! Minors will be blocked.

Armitage Hux x Reader (she/her pronouns) x Kylo Ren

Warnings: Smut (18+ only) PIV sex, name calling (very minor), cuckoldry, brief orgasm denial, fingering, masturbation (m), choking (minor), some dom/sub elements (also minor), religious imagery (whoops), language. Please let me know if I missed anything!

Wow, okay, I don’t really know where this came from and I probably won’t write anything like it again. Very loosely inspired by this drabble that I did a few days ago. Shout out to the wonderful @thembohux for their support and encouragement. If you enjoy this, you should definitely check out their Emperess AU.

Let me know what you think! I appreciate any and all thoughts 💖

General Hux stands outside the door, hands clasped behind his back in tight fists, the fingers of one hand circling his other wrist with enough pressure to bruise. The nape of his neck itches, leftover moisture from the shower dripping down the collar of his greatcoat and wetting the back of his uniform. He had spent too long in the refresher, trying to wash the thoughts from his head, trying to decide whether or not he would even come—it had almost made him late.

He’s here, right on time, whether or not he should be. The door opens, and he steps inside the darkened room.

“Come in, General.” It’s Ren who speaks, voice low and quiet. Hux follows the sound, moving carefully in the darkness to the sitting area. Ren lounges arrogantly, sprawled on the couch like a throne, arms bare and stretched casually over the edge of the sofa, regarding Hux with the faintest hint of humor in his eyes. It puts him on edge.

“I didn’t think you’d show.”

“Yet I’m here.” Hux looks away, hoping he appears bored as he takes in his surroundings. He'd been in the Supreme Leader's chambers before—on business—but you had never been around during those meetings. It's strange how habitual it feels to look for you when he enters the space.

“She’s still getting ready," Ren pulls the thought right from Hux's head, responding as if he had spoken aloud, "but I’m sure she’ll join us in a moment.”

“And it's— I mean, she knows that she doesn’t have to . . .” He sighs through his nose, his jaw clenched tight. Ren doesn't bother to finish his sentence this time, sinking further into his seat—enjoying the way the general fumbles.

“Fuck you?" He finally offers, running his tongue over his teeth when a blush spreads over Hux’s cheeks, "this was her idea."

Oh. The general’s knees go weak, the blood rushing from his head, his cock certainly flushed and aching. How many times had he imagined what it would be like—fooled himself into believing that it was your hands, not his own, bringing him his release? How many times had he watched you speak and thought about pulling a moan from those pretty lips?

A part of him trembles, his body on full-alert, trying to bury those thoughts where Ren could not find them—as he had done before—but he manages to brush the fear away with some effort. Ren had certainly already seen them, and, apparently, he didn't mind.

The refresher door opens and you appear at the threshold, hesitant, but when your eyes meet his, you soften. The air is charged between you, hints of your desire evident in the warmth he feels just looking at you, in the way your teeth run softly over your bottom lip.

Ren beckons you to him with an outstretched hand, and, reluctantly, you peel your eyes away from Hux, moving across the room to your husband, the fabric of your robe swishing gently against your thighs.

He doesn't usually let himself stare like this. He can resist the urge, most of the time, when you're dressed for a meeting, or a gala, but he's never seen this much of your skin before. His eyes stay glued to the hem of the robe, the sway of your hips as you make your way to your husband.

You curl into Ren’s lap, and he holds you tightly, one possessive hand splayed wide over your stomach, the other trailing to fingers up and down the inside of your thigh. He presses a kiss to the junction of your shoulder and neck, and you melt, lips parting gently when he grazes the delicate skin with his teeth.

"Sit down, general."

Desire pools in Hux’s stomach, and his palms grow moist in his gloves. He can’t help the shame that floods him, a ruddy heat that spreads through his torso all the way to the tips of his fingers and tells him to look away. His mind can not let go of the idea that this is not something meant for him to see, but he can’t deny the way his heart races when Ren’s hand trails higher, and he spies a hint of black lace at the apex of your thighs.

"I'd prefer to stand."

“Sit down or leave,” Ren’s voice is steady and hard, totally unaffected as you move against him, writhing in his lap. He slips the hand on your stomach under the fabric of your robe, parting it beneath his fingers. He kneads your breast beneath the fabric and you press up into his touch, spine arching, jaw hanging open, your head falling back against Ren’s shoulder. Hux does as he’s told, falling into the chair behind him, holding back the curses that threaten to spill out from his lips.

"If I'm going to let you do this, you have to do as I say," Ren continues, but Hux only half-hears him, infinitely more interested in the way the tendons in your neck flex as Ren slips one hand beneath the waistband of your panties, the fabric distorting with each long, slow stroke of his fingers. A low moan escapes your lips.

“Well, will you?” Ren smirks at him, pulling his hand from between your legs, taking his middle finger into his mouth, letting it linger before he pulls it out with a soft, wet pop. You whine at the lack of contact, the sound cut off by a small cry when he pinches your nipple beneath the fabric.

“Will I what?”

“Do as I say?”  

Hux’s core tightens, his jaw so stiff it’s a wonder it hasn’t snapped. He knows that Ren’s getting off on this—torturing him, making you so desperate and needy. He wants the one thing Hux swore he’d never give him.

“We’re waiting, general,” Ren strokes his hand from the hollow of your throat, between the valley of your breasts as he parts the robe down its center, exposing the barest sliver of skin before he meets the black lace again, stroking three thick fingers over your clothed cunt. Hux presses his lips together so firmly that they turn white.

Unphased by Hux’s stubborn response, Ren changes tactics. Shifting his attention to you, he grips your jaw in one massive hand and forces your eyes to meet his as he whispers, just loud enough for Hux to hear, “So wet already, little slut? Do you need the general to fuck you that desperately? Why don’t you tell him how badly you want his cock?”

“Please,” you’re grinding against nothing now that Ren has removed his hand, the word distorted by the strength of his hold on your face. A sharp pain draws Hux back from the scene before him, and he tastes blood, his teeth digging sharply into the meat of his cheek. He wonders if Ren would refuse your release if he decided to leave right now.

“Alright, fine. I’ll do whatever you want,” Hux can’t stop himself, can’t imagine going back to his quarters alone. His hands ache at the thought, unsure how many times he’d have to fuck his fist raw to stop seeing the image of you begging for him engraved on the back of his eyelids.

“Good. Why don’t you show him to the bed, love?”

Ren releases his grip on your jaw, sliding his hand out from under the robe, propelling you forward with a smack to your ass. Hux forces himself to make eye contact when you offer him your hand.

He follows you through the doors, to the bedroom, the heat of your skin sinking easily through the leather of his gloves and doing nothing to quell the sweat beading against his palms. The sight of the bed, with it's dark, silky sheets makes him light-headed. This is the place you lay every night—the place where Ren has you, the way he’s about to have you. Hux reminds himself to breathe.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Hux whispers as you turn around to face him, pulling him closer with a hand at his waist. Ren hasn't entered the room yet, and although the other man assured him it was fine, he'd never forgive himself if he learned that you had been coerced.

“I’m sure,” your smile is sincere, and you’re close enough now that your bodies brush, the material of your robe slipping gently against his uniform, "I’ve always wanted this. From the moment we met," You stroke your hand up his side, fingers dancing lightly over his ribs before you take the collar of his great coat in your hands, pushing it down off his shoulders.

“You’ve always wanted . . . me?” The edge of the bed dips under his weight as you pull him into a sitting position, and he resists the urge to rub his palms over the tops of his thighs. You smile again, dropping your chin to your chest, suddenly shy.

“You didn’t know? I thought I had been too obvious.” 

Ren enters, chair in hand that he rests at the end of the bed before stretching out across it, his legs spread wide, making no effort at all to hide the considerable tent in his pants. Hux averts his eyes, more than a little flustered. He had passively assumed that Ren was well-endowed, given the man’s stature, but having his assumptions confirmed is an entirely new feeling.

Ren refuses to shy away from the attention, resting his hands behind his head, the picture of self-satisfaction. There’s a suggestive humor in his voice when he speaks.

“What are you waiting for, general? Kiss her.”

Hux collects himself, taking a moment to remember why he’s here before he does as he’s told, cupping your jaw lightly. There’s a soft sheen of moisture coating your lips, but you lick them regardless, darting your tongue over your skin as he pulls you closer. He presses his mouth to yours gently, and you sigh against his skin, sinking into him. He can feel your heartbeat in the tips of your fingers when you brush them over his cheeks.

“Like you mean it.” Ren's voice cuts in, and Hux resists the urge to roll his eyes. He is kissing you like he means it, not that Ren would understand that. He’s not about to argue that point, though. He pulls you closer instead, one hand firm at your waist, slipping his tongue into the warm center of your mouth. You taste sweeter than he had expected.

The room grows warmer, your heat sinking through his uniform, deep into his skin and he's almost able to forget Ren's presence, caught up in the infinitely more pleasurable feeling of your hands and your body on his. Your grip on his uniform is desperate, needy, but never harsh. His stomach lurches when you lay back, letting his weight rest more fully on top of you.

A thin layer of sweat glistens on your neck, and he collects it on his tongue, licking a stripe up the column of your throat, the salt of your skin mixing with the lingering flavor of the leftover perfume that still clings to you.

His fingers find the collar of your robe, pulling it down off your shoulder, lips trailing leisurely over your collar bones. He can feel, more than see, Ren’s irritation at his reluctance to speed up the process—his annoyance permeating the room—but he chooses to ignore Ren more fully. If he only had one chance to experience such long-lived fantasies, he was going to take his time. 

Your fingers card gently through his hair, stroking from the back of his neck up, pulling him closer, the wet heat of your breath soft against his ear. One of your hands finds his, letting him feel the soft lace that covers your breast under his fingers. 

He pulls away slightly, absorbed in the gentle shift in your expression when he runs the pad of his thumb softly over your pebbled nipple, relishing the quiet gasp the move elicits. 

You shrug the robe off your shoulders the rest of the way, leaning back with a coy smile, letting him admire the way the lingerie enhances your frame—the peaks and valleys of your body on display for him.

There’s no need for Ren to order him to continue—he’s back on you before the other man can express any kind of frustration, his lips on yours, clumsy and desperate and so damn eager that he surprises himself. Hux’s fingers tremble against your back as he works to undo the clasp of your bra, a shaky breath of relief leaving his lungs when it gives way without too much trouble.

You slide the garment off your shoulders, letting him look at you, your chest littered with fading bruises—Ren’s marks. The general’s mouth waters, and he leans in closer, ready to taste more of you, but he comes to a halt when you press one hand lightly to his shoulder, stopping his approach. Your tongue traces the top of your teeth before you turn to look at Ren. 

Of course. He needs permission.

Ren’s leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped tightly together, the blood gone from his fingers. Hux is surprised that he had not touched himself yet. He would not have expected Ren to have that kind of restraint.

“You can leave marks of your own, if you’d like,” he says, shifting in his seat. His thinly veiled desperation brings a smile to Hux’s face—Ren didn’t have a monopoly on being difficult.

He turns back to you for confirmation, and you nod, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth.

“Just nothing above the collar, general,” you snake your hand over his again, pressing it into the supple flesh of your breast. 

Hux has never believed in the existence of a pleasant afterlife—especially not for someone like him—but he’s sure that if one did exist it would pale in comparison to the way you gasp when he presses a kiss to the valley of your breasts, the hummingbird beat of your heart making itself known against the tip of his nose. 

He wastes no time now, lavishing your body with the press of his lips, occasionally surprising you with a soft bite, the gentle graze of his teeth. Subtly, he lets one hand trace its own path down the curve of your waist and over the swell of your hip before nestling it gently between your thighs. 

“General,” you gasp when he slides one finger past the hem of your panties and into your waiting heat, your cunt giving a preliminary squeeze around the solitary digit. Your hips shift against his hand, body desperate for more, but he refuses to give in, pinning your hips in place with the edge of his own. Hux has always been a patient man. He wouldn’t dream of rushing this.

“So needy, Your Highness,” he whispers, ghosting the pad of his thumb gently against the stiff peak of your clit in slow, languorous circles, “Has your husband not been fucking you the way that he should?”

You moan quietly in response, the sound muffled by the fabric of his uniform as you bury your head the crook of his neck. He keeps his movements slow and methodical, curling his finger against your tender front wall on each stroke, increasing the pressure on your clit with steady precision. A lower, deeper sound joins the steady chorus of your sighs and Hux’s heavy breathing. 

He catches Ren’s eye over the expanse of dark sheets. It seems the Supreme Leader has finally given in, one hand stroking up and down his clothed length with excruciating leisure. The muscles in his jaw tighten, a testament to the restraint it must take to only offer himself this inadequate kind of relief, his dark hair plastered in slick strands against his sweat-soaked skin. There’s an animal, in his features—a carnal and base burning in his eyes that he cannot mask. 

Hux snorts. Ren had spent all this time pretending that this was a favor for the general—bargaining chip, a kind of leverage. But the veil has been lifted. Ren is enjoying himself just as much as you are.

He adds a second finger without warning, savoring the way you shake against him, how exquisite you look with your head against the mattress, eyes shut tight and jaw pressing against the boundaries of your skin in a silent scream of ecstasy.

“General, please,” you manage to whimper, the languid movement of your hips meeting him at every stroke, chasing after the peak of your pleasure. He stills his hand.

“Armitage,” he says brusquely, breathing labored, the sound blocked out by the soft cry that escapes your lungs, tears of frustration pricking the corners of your eyes, “call me Armitage if you want to cum.” 

“Do as he says,” Ren orders with no attempt to mask the tremor in his voice, stilling the pace of his hand to a stop, savoring the pain of his own stolen release. 

“Armitage,” you grip at his uniform with both hands, pulling his mouth to yours, desperation evident in your every movement, “please, gods, please—”

He lets you kiss him, focuses all the attention of his hand on your clit, the movement of his thumb against the sensitive skin quicker and harder but no less steady. 

He feels you break against him, your jaw left slack as he licks into your mouth, your thighs quivering at his sides, cunt clenching around his sopping fingers. He holds you against him until the shaking stops. 

Your kiss finds his cheek first, arms heavy and graceless as they pull him closer, your lips traveling sloppily against his skin until they meet his own. You press your mouth to his, and some part of him thinks that it feels like love. Wishes that it could be love. 

You whisper something to him, breathing too hard for the words to come out clearly, your hand teasing him through the fabric of his trousers. His cock jumps, unfamiliar with this kind of attention; it’s not love, but maybe it’s enough.

Your fingers make quick work of the fastenings on his uniform, pushing it from his shoulders, your hands trailing down his arms, the cold air collecting against his skin for only a moment before you sweep it away with your searing touch. You lift your hips into his, slipping your underwear off with both hands, totally bare for him.

“Enjoying yourself?” You’re not talking to him, Hux knows—his enjoyment is more than obvious as he licks and sucks over the soft flesh of your chest, your voice catching when he takes your nipple into his mouth with a soft bite. You’ve turned your attention to Ren, now, and Hux pauses his ministrations, passively curious. He watches as you pass the sweat and slick-soaked lace in your hand to your husband, who balls them into his tight fist, working the fabric leisurely over the head of his now-uncovered dick.

“I think you’re being spoiled, love” he says, leaning closer, on his knees at the side of the bed. He strokes his thumb across your cheek, sparing a short glance for Hux, “you’ve been letting the general do all the work. Why don’t you show him how good you can be? How good you always are for me?”

Hux’s breath hitches. He likes the sound of that. 

You smile wide at the thought, pressing a soft kiss to Ren’s unsuspecting lips. He stands quickly, turning back the way he came, but not before Hux catches the softest hint of a blush spreading across his temple.

You press against Hux’s torso, guiding him into a sitting position. He rests at the edge of the bed, chest thrumming as you straddle him, your thighs caging his hips against the mattress and your hands on his shoulders. Your fingers slip down his spine until you reach the hem of his undershirt. He stops you from untucking it with a hand on your wrist.

“I’d like to keep it on,” he knows you can feel the trepidation in his shaking hands; he sees the questions in your eyes, and for a moment he’s afraid, wondering if you also have your husband’s talent for picking thoughts from his mind—if you somehow know the way his stomach sinks at the thought of being totally uncovered. 

“Alright,” you say, brushing past the pause, leaning closer to caress the ruddy skin of his chest with your lips, the glide of your tongue over his neck pulling any and every insecurity from his head. When you drag your hips over his, your bare cunt sliding deliciously over his dick, he forgets everything but his own name.

He’s not sure how it happens, whether it’s your hands or his own that finally pull his cock into the open air—he’s gone lightheaded, arms shaking as he grips the sheets in white-knuckled fists, focusing all the energy he can summon on keeping upright.

The head of his cock stutters against your entrance, the slick on your skin coating his own as you shift your hips back and forth with just enough pressure to keep him hard, letting out a delighted gasp when he twitches, the tip of him bumping up against your swollen clit.

“That’s enough teasing.” Ren stands behind you, one hand on your shoulder, the muscles in his other arm flexing as he pumps his cock in his hand more vigorously. You roll your eyes, turning to press a soft kiss to Ren’s chest before seating yourself fully on the general’s stiff cock.

The air punches from Hux’s lungs, his brow furrowed, breathing hard as he adjusts to the feeling. 

Hux had spent plenty of time jealous of Ren, a kind of awed hatred that his greatest rival had so much of what Hux desperately wanted for himself. Power, glory, accolade. It's all dust compared to the way you envelop him on that first and divine thrust.

“Does he feel good, love?” Ren asks, peppering the skin of your shoulders with a few soft kisses before he tucks one finger under his chin, admiration in his eyes as he takes in your pleasure-soaked expression. “Is it everything you wanted?”

“Hmm,” you hum contentedly, circling your hips steadily, getting a feel for his length and size, squeezing him just right, “perfect.” 

You speed up slightly, lengthening your strokes, pulling away from him until only the head remains inside before seating yourself down once again, trembling with each sublime impact, your thighs shaking with each movement. 

“Just— Just like that,” Hux stutters, head lolling back, letting himself enjoy this. He likes it more than he thought he ever would—allowing someone else this kind of control, letting you set the pace. He wants you to feel good. He wants you to use him.

Ren looms over both of you, his chest flush with your back, the pressure from his body only heightening the gratification Hux feels.

You whine, pressing the general into the mattress, laying him flat on his back with your hands on your shoulders before you sit up, the deeper angle pulling cries from your lips like never before.

“Please, my love,” you press one hand back against Ren’s chest, fingers too limp to reach for him, but he already knows what you want. Hux watches as one of Ren’s giant hands encircles your neck, and he kisses you deeply, the tears that coat your cheeks glistening in the low light. It’s a mess of a kiss, all teeth and tongue, Ren so eager to please and you so desperate for pleasure.

“Gods— f-fuck,” Hux reaches his precipice sooner than he might have hoped, the sight of you so thoroughly fucked and writhing against Ren bringing him to a high he had not previously thought possible. You recognize his need, snapping your hips faster.

Ren removes his hand from your neck and slides it down over the damp skin of your stomach, pushing one thick finger to the space where your body meets Hux’s, sliding it between your folds.

“Cum for me,” he commands, working quick hard circles over your clit, “both of you. Cum for me now.”

You let go with one shattered breath, riding him through your release, fracturing over him with a scream. It’s celestial, this divine indulgence. There is no god in this universe but you and your magnificent cunt.

Hux abandons himself, spilling deep within you with a groan, every muscle in his body aching as his own climax finds him and his vision goes white. His heart leaves his chest, no other reason to beat now that he’s had this.

You fall into him, stroking one hand absentmindedly over his hair, your shaking bodies unable to do anything but breathe together. The slap of skin and soft grunts fills the room as Ren chases his own release, breath stuttering in his chest when he finds it, ropes of his thick, white cum painting down your spine and then he collapses, too.

Ren lands in a messy heap, half on top of you and half on the bed, smearing his own spend over his skin. Without warning, Hux finds Ren’s mouth against his own in a fierce, urgent kiss. 

Hux waits for some kind of repulsion to overcome him, waits for the return of the burning hatred that normally occupies his chest whenever Ren is present, but it never comes, a different kind of burning taking his place. More than anything, he’s annoyed. Annoyed how good Ren’s mouth feels against his own. Annoyed that he wouldn’t mind if it happened again.

“There,” Ren says, rolling back on the mattress, relieving you of the weight of his body, “now both of you are mine.”

Hux scoffs, offended at the implication, but he can tell you notice the way his cock twitches inside of you at the thought. You smile knowingly, pressing a soft kiss to his temple as you roll off of him on the other side, the three of you lying together in the rosy-colored afterglow.

Minutes pass, or hours, Hux is unsure how many when he finally decides to move, his muscles stiff and aching.

“I should return to my quarters,” he says, lifting himself to his feet and reassembling the pieces of his uniform. You move to sit up, but Ren holds you in place with a gentle hand.

“Rest, love,” he says quietly, “I’ll show him to the door.”

Hux leaves you with one final kiss, one of longing, and hope and gratitude. Your fingers brush against his just before he leaves.

There’s an uncomfortable silence between the two men as they move through the abandoned living area.

“This doesn’t change anything,” Ren says as Hux stops just before the threshold, turning to look at him. 

“I didn’t expect that it would,” he replies. Both men know that they’re lying to each other. And maybe, at this moment, while their skin is still warm from a shared love and the scent of your perfume lingers on both of their clothes, it’s a form of kindness to keep believing that this wouldn’t change their world. For now, this is enough.

Hux returns to his quarters, alone but not lonely. For the first time he can remember since he boarded the Supremacy, he sleeps through the night. 

[the-bau-quinjet]

And I confess, babe

Part 6 of In Breakable Heaven!

Summary: Feelings are confessed... sort of.

Warnings: none 

Word count: ~2400

“There’s something I haven’t been completely honest about.” You blurted out taking a break from cleaning. It had been a few months since Halloween, and you and Spencer have hung out whenever possible, but never calling anything a date. You had both gotten pretty busy with the holidays, but still made time. He is basically your best friend, but you want more than that. You just aren’t sure he feels the same way. 

Spencer turned from where he was reading on the couch immediately mirroring the nervous expression he could see on your face. “What is it? You know you can tell me anything. That’s what friends are for.” Ugh, friends. This is so confusing. As he walked up to you, you thought you noticed a glimmer of hope in his eyes, but you brush it off. You need to focus.

You have never told any of your friends about this. It’s almost like you were living two lives and all the sudden you wanted them to merge. Well, really you just wanted an excuse to sing love songs to the man standing in front of you without completely freaking him out. “You know how much I love Taylor Swift, right?” You could see the confusion growing on his face 

“Um, yeah. That’s not exactly a secret…” he chuckles as he searches for the truth in your eyes. 

“Well, um... I kind of... well… it’s not really a big deal, but I… you see…”

 “Y/N, just tell me. I promise not to freak out.” He interrupted, the confusion evident on his face.

“Okay, just… I’m inaTaylorSwiftcoverband…” You blurt, the words rushing from your mouth. You cover your face with your hands. Of course, boy genius understood the mess of a sentence you just said, realization slowly dawning on him.

 “Y/N, why were you so nervous to tell me?” He sounded shocked. “You know I would support you no matter what. When’s your next show? I would love to go see you perform.” The sincerity in his voice made tears well up in your eyes. 

You rushed to hug him as you said “I don’t know why I was so nervous. I guess people can be really harsh when you are a Taylor Swift fan. Nobody takes you seriously, ya know? I started the band because her music made me better at conveying my emotions. It was actually a kind of therapy for me at first, but then I fell in love with performing. I actually wanted to tell you so I could invite you, and the rest of the team, to my next show. It’s Saturday night.”

 He ran his hands up and down your back before pulling away to look you in the eyes. “I will be there.” He said, matter-of-factly. 

“Yay!” You were practically jumping with joy that the conversation went well. It felt kind of stupid to be so worried over other people’s perception of your music interests, but you’ve always been self-conscious of being the “weird” girl. It made even the smallest decision so hard for you. “I want you to invite the rest of the team, but keep it a surprise. I haven’t told Penelope, and I’ve known her 2 years longer than you.” He laughed as you realized how comfortable you must have felt with Spencer to be inviting him and his friends to see you perform. Usually the only way you made it through was knowing there was nobody in the audience that would recognize you enough to make fun of you. But, it was time for a change. You have always been proud of your accomplishments, and the people you called your friends should be a part of that.

 “You should know there’s always a theme to the show. I like to tell a story with her songs, pulling from all the albums helps make it more cohesive.” You wanted him to be a little bit prepared for what you had planned. 

“What’s the story for this show?” Spencer asked, curiosity brewing in his mind. 

“Well Doc, I’m afraid that’s a secret. You’ll have to wait and see.” Spencer kept pestering you to find out the theme, but you refused to tell him. Finally, he returned to reading as you cleaned the rest of your apartment.

--

 Saturday came much faster than you were expecting. The nerves you felt kept growing as you tried to finalize the set list you would be performing in just a few hours. The stories you usually tell don’t normally rely so heavily on your own life experiences. But, that’s why you fell in love with Taylor’s music in the first place. The songs are so relatable. It’s incredible how well she can convey emotions and stories with her lyrics. Plus, this is your chance to tell Spencer how you feel without having too much pressure. If he doesn’t say anything about the obvious theme, you could just pretend you made up the story for the audience. It would be fine. No pressure at all.

 The hours until your show drifted away as you got ready and arrived at the venue. You were actually playing in an auditorium instead of a bar for the first time in a few months. The night had been heavily marketed for couples since Valentine’s day is next week, but you knew your friends would all be there to support you. Going over the set list with the band, they knew exactly what mood you were going for. It was clear there were three sections to the night: 1) the break up, drawing heavily on your experience with Drew, 2) moving on from the failed relationship as you form a new crush, possibly on an incredibly hot doctor, and 3) where you wanted this new relationship to go. That storyline is what made the marketing so good. Couples could come and just be in love, relating the music to their own lives. Plus, people were itching for something to do since no real artists were touring in DC right now.

 You glance out at the audience as the lights flicker, indicating only a few minutes until show time. You find Spencer and the rest of the crew, barring Hotch and Rossi, easily as you put them in the front row. You wanted to be able to see their faces, or completely look over their heads. It all depends on the expression of the one and only Spencer Reid.

 “Hello, and welcome to the show!” You try to hide the nerves. You’ve done this plenty of times, but knowing who is in the audience is taking a toll. “In case you didn’t know, with every show I do, I try to tell a story. Usually, it is based on a movie or a book, but today I am trying something a little bit new. No book, no movie, just a story. It’s got three parts to it. Part one sucks.” You laugh along with the audience. “It’s about a breakup and learning to move on. So let’s get started!”

 You immediately jump into the first song Babe. Technically it features Taylor Swift, but she wrote it so it counts. Plus, it is the perfect song to describe your feelings to finding Drew cheating on you, and she did write it.

 This is the last time I’ll ever call you Babe.

 “Now, I know how hard it can be to get over someone who you’ve been with a long time. Especially when combined with the pain of them cheating on you. This next song describes that mentality of recognizing that someone won’t change because you want them to. Sometimes, the best thing to do is cry and scream and move on.” The instrumental to You’re Not Sorry begins to play as you calm you’re nerves.

 This is the last straw. Don’t wanna hurt anymore. And you can tell me that you’re sorry, but I don’t believe you baby like I did before. You’re not sorry. No, no, no no.

 “I know, I know. No more sad songs! After you break up with someone, it can be pretty hard to not miss what you had. But eventually, you’ll get to a point where when they call you in the middle of the night, all you have to say is We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together. Like ever.”

 You make it through the next song without a hitch. The crowd is clearly enjoying the show, which is actually helping with your nerves. You’ve glanced at your friends a few times, but nothing that lingers. You’re not quite mentally prepared to look at Spencer yet.

 “With every breakup, there is some amount of time afterward where you can’t help but think about them. No matter how badly it ended, there is at least a day. It could slowly fade out or it could just disappear one day, like magic. Either way, this song is how I personally feel once that window of time ends.”

 I forgot that you existed. It isn’t love, it isn’t hate, it‘s just indifference.

 This song really helped turn the mood around. Everybody is dancing and singing, clearly enjoying themselves. As the song ends, your nerves return a bit. This is the scary part.

 “And with that, we move on to part 2! As the saying goes, the best way to get over him is to get under someone else. Well, that’s not exactly where this is going, but it follows the same general logic.” The instrumental to Enchanted has already started as you finish the intro “Meeting someone who helps take your mind off the bad by making new memories.”

 All I can say is I was enchanted to meet you. This night is sparkling, don’t you let it go. I’m wonderstruck, blushing all the way home.

 This is the first song you are singing directly to Spencer, even if you can’t even look at him. You glance at every other member of the BAU, but you just can’t bring yourself to admit it to him. Not yet.

 Please don’t be in love with someone else. Please don’t have somebody waiting on you.

 You can feel the sting in your throat that comes from thinking of Spencer being with someone else, finally making you look at him. He seems happy. He’s not dancing as much as everyone else, but he is swaying. You count it as a win.

 “Now, I’m not saying the only way to get over a breakup is a new relationship. Sometimes, you just need a friend.” You clear your throat to go right into the next song.

 Wanna hang out? Yeah, sounds like fun. Video games, you pass me a note. Sleeping in tents. It’s nice to have a friend.

 This is where it’s supposed to be obvious who you are singing to. None of your newly formed friends really know the extent of your relationship with Spencer. But, you’ve convinced him to try a lot of new things. It started small, with hiking, but eventually you got him to agree to a short camping trip over a long weekend. It was freezing since it was November, but you just cuddled together around the fire. That is what makes this so nerve wracking. You are terrified of messing up your friendship.

 “Friends are the best resource post breakup. They always know how to put a smile on my face, no matter what I’m upset about. You could go so far as to say I’m Only Me When I’m With You.” You laugh at the corny joke, knowing that’s the next song you’re singing. “To be completely honest, this is kind of a story of the past few months of my life. I had a pretty bad breakup, but I met some new friends who really helped me through it. It’s nice to be completely honest about yourself with someone else.”

 I don’t try to hide my tears, my secrets, or my deepest fears. And through it all, nobody gets me like you do.

 “Now, we move onto the third and final part of the show. We’ve covered the past and the present, so all that’s left is the future! The future is unknown, which is kinda of scary when you think about it. So, it can really help to have someone who makes you feel Fearless.” So many lyrics make you want to stare at Spencer.

 I wanna ask you dance right there, in the middle of the parking lot.

-

Run your hands through your hair, absentmindedly making me want you.

-

And I don’t know why, but with you I’d dance in a storm in my best dress, fearless.

-

You’ve decided against looking at Spencer and the rest of the profilers. If you make eye contact you know they would 100% be able to see right through you. Just two more songs to get through. You don’t even pause to talk before the next song is playing.

 Cause all I know is you said, “Hello” and your eyes look like coming home.

 You’ve spent so long thinking about Spencer and his perfect freaking eyes that you subconsciously glance at him right then. The second you realize, you look away again, missing the look of complete adoration on his face.

 And meet me there tonight and let me know that it’s not all in my mind.

 “Alrighty folks, I’ve got one more song for you. You probably could’ve guessed it by now, part 3 is about a future relationship, one I’m not currently in. But that’s the thing about the future, you never really know what it holds.” This is where shit goes a little bit sideways. You didn’t plan on changing the lyrics. Most of the profilers seem to miss it, not recognizing that you switched one very crucial word in the song. The one profiler that notices the mistake has spent the last four months listening to every Taylor Swift song ever written because he’s spent so much time with you, and you are always listening to something.

 Dark jeans and your converse, look at you. Oh damn, never seen that color blue.

 Oh damn is right. You somehow manage to make it through the rest of the song, but now Spencer knows you were singing to him. You can’t decide if you’re glad it’s out there or if you are going to puke the second you run off stage.

 “Delicate is about the beginnings of a romance. It’s that point where you are scared any sudden movements will shatter everything you’ve built so far.” You take one final deep breathe. “It’s about admitting your feelings because you can’t move forward without taking the next step. That’s what the future is all about. Thank you all for coming, goodnight!” And with that, you left.

 tag list:

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