#The scene where he's so desperate he screams at the doctor they just had sex willing to show everyone just to let him keep Sek alive

[benkaben]

I seriously can't stop thinking about it.

[variousqueerthings]

I note that I don't, and I never, was much of a fan of doctor-and-rose as romance, but that I -- rather than get annoyed at the romantic-coded scenes -- had a tendency to simply read them from a totally different perspective, and really maybe should have been a sign of sooomething different about me, that I continuously felt that the doctor's concepts of connection must be so alien, that to call it romance would be to diminish the actual Thing that they had, which was presented as such onscreen (to my mind then, now I realise what was happening, but I prefer what I had going on), which is basically that the doctor was a shell of a person, hurtling towards destruction (he would have died without rose in ep1), desperately lonely and sad and traumatised, and she retaught nine -- and by extension ten -- how to love the universe, at the same time as nine and ten taught her the same. (I think about the scene in father's day, where while they're arguing, rose says that she knows how sad he is, and he'll just hang around the tardis waiting for her -- she knew!)

and then on top of that with sarah-jane (which, I never watched the classics as a kid, so I didn't have that context for her beyond what the episode presented) it felt like that was sort of confirmed and made even more canon through this idea that the doctor is constantly mourning the inevitable deaths of their companions and would rather simply leave them behind at some point than watch that happen (and they've seen that happen before, although dying for a cause versus just... dying, because you die, while they don't, they just continue on and on, always seeking connection, always knowing that time will take them away, that's a whole other thing)

and then of course there's ten's... I would call it "sex appeal" because it's david tennant and with his performance there's immediately a bit of a focus on oh he's quite pretty and he faints/is knocked unconscious in both of his first episodes, and a lot more flirting, and the people want to see sparks or what have you... but the doctor as portrayed and written is still... not coming at it that way. yes yes girl in the fireplace but also, once again, doesn't work for me, because I find it soooo much more interesting that the doctor would imprint on A Life - and a life that they admire -- and speedrun the exact thing that they're most afraid of with their companions... that she ages and dies and it's the one thing that the doctor simply cannot stop

meanwhile rose is quite young and swept up in this whole massive adventure and very much reads the doctor not as an alien (frequently surprised by their alien-ness) and gets jealous of sarah-jane as if she's an ex, and renette as if she's... a replacement? but really it's more that the doctor met her at the point when she was about to accept her life as it was. not an exciting life, not a bad life, but always having to ignore the idea that there must be more to it than this. and the idea that she might be unceremoniously dumped back in that after seeing just how This the this could be, of course that's terrifying. and of course she's simultaneously taken with the dashing doctor and the jetset life, and worried she could be replaced, because to her the doctor saved her at 19 years old. in some ways the doctor created her (considering who she becomes after dooms day)

contrasted to martha who initially has a similar kind of experience, but the doctor doesn't meet her at the space she's in with them -- ten is leaning on her, like they did with rose, but not giving anything back unless kicking and screaming and traumatising her whole family. martha's trajectory is so so tragic, because she barely gets a taste of the splendor versus the horrors and the latter marks her for life. but she also knows to walk away from those overwhelming feelings, rather than give into them, she knows they'll never be rewarded and she also grows beyond wanting to be a crutch for the doctor (the fact that she then ends up as a soldier, well... ouch)

and then of course donna, who never has those fucking awe-feelings to begin with and whose connection with the doctor is explicitly de-romanticised but never placed on a lesser pedestal as if there's a hierarchy of alloromanticism. topples those pillars, never sees the doctor as anything but what the doctor is. good old donna. (sobs.) (but also... cautious hope for the specials.) (but also sobs.)

my point being. just don't buy alloromantic doctor, they're a near-immortal alien. it's such a dull simplistic way of reading their relationships to other beings. other point being. all those women who were making heart-eyes at ten, wish they'd met thirteen and had a... "yeah, this still works for me," moment. their horizons, too, are broadened by seeing More. (that or they realise they were never actually "in love" but just thought ten was a sexy skinny little snack and it blinded them.) (although jodie whittaker, too, is a snack.)

and lastly lastly ofc, is that if the doctor has a longterm (by doctor time measurement) intense relationship with anyone, whatever that might be called, it's the tardis. and that relationship is also so alien it cannot be quantified by human words for concepts

[aimfor-theheart]

COIN TOSS– PART III

(18+ MINORS DNI)

PART I → PART II

PAIRINGS: Tomura Shigaraki x Reader, a little Shouta Aizawa x Reader

SUMMARY: As you fall asleep, you wonder faintly, almost sadly, if you’re the first thing he’s fully touched without losing in a long time.

You are Eraserhead’s troubled protege with a Quirk that cancels out others the moment they touch you. Tomura Shigaraki takes great interest in you.

(Enemies to lovers, a lot of angst, some hurt/comfort)

WARNINGS: Unhealthy/complicated relationships, age gap/power struggle, violence, gore, Tomura’s trauma specifically, (in later chapters) murder, smut, some blurred lines, rough sex, a smidge of a spit kink, a smidge of somnophilia (let me know if I’ve missed anything!)

If you are under the age of 18, you should not be reading or interacting with this!

↳ A playlist I made for this fic, if you're interested!

A/N: here is your final part to this series! again, thank you @randomrosewrites for beta-ing this!! and thank you guys so so much for your support and comments, they mean so so much to me!! i had a lot of trouble with this last part, there was a lot of scenes i cut out and alternative endings before i settled on what is there now and i'm not even fully happy with it still lol. i have a lot of Thoughts about this, so feel free to reach out if you want to know more or just chat!! i hope you guys enjoy this!!

Read on Ao3

***

Shouta apologizes to you soon after. You sheepishly get out your own apology, even though you’d planned on holding a grudge a little while longer.

Still, Shouta confides that he also had his doubts and worries as a young hero and that he shouldn’t have dismissed yours. He talks in a soft, low voice for you, sits beside you on the edge of the couch.

You hate it because it’s easier to be at odds with Shouta lately, easier for your conscience. He put distance between the two of you, but you forced it apart further– if only to keep him in the dark. Maybe if only to spare yourself all the lying, all the pretending you’d have to do.

He says, “You know, you can always come to me. Whenever you need me.”

You have to swallow hard around the lump in your throat.

“I’ll always be here for you, despite everything.” he promises gently, trying to catch your eyes. Your gaze ducks away, out of his line of site.

Still, you hug him, tuck your face into his shoulder so he can’t see the guilt written across your face. Your secrets will constrict around you if you’re not careful. You know Truth is tricky and likes to reveal itself with Time’s help.

Once more, you become acutely aware of the clock ticking away on your relationship with Tomura.

But this time, you also realize how much trouble you could get in. You realize that you’re endangering Shouta now, too. You swallow hard, try to keep all of that down inside of you, but you feel nauseous suddenly. Bloated with guilt.

You wonder if you would’ve confessed to him then, if you would’ve spilled your guts the way you’d wanted to, if it would’ve saved you the heartache of it all.

Instead, you’d just clung to him, little fingers twisting in the back of his shirt, praying that you’d never need to make good on his promise. Praying you’d never need to test how far he’d go for you.

(It’s far– you’ll realize, further than it ever should’ve been. And you’re all the worse for it.)

***

Tomura thinks one of the troubles with heroes is their willingness to sacrifice anything for their greater good. He doesn’t think there’s anything noble in it, there’s nothing glorious or good in leaving their friend behind because they think it will save more. Nothing honorable in facing down a threat you know you can’t win against alone. What good is their world if they’re willing to sacrifice all that’s good to them in the process?

Everytime he watches you patrol, go up against other villains, maybe yakuza members, throw yourself in harm’s way needlessly, he realizes the Hero Commission uses heroes’ bodies as collateral damage. You are nothing to them. Even to other heroes; your sacrifice is expected. He knows it isn’t wanted, per se, but it isn’t surprising.

It doesn’t help that you have a streak of recklessness in you. You are quick to danger, just as quick to flash teeth and stand your ground, to fight mercilessly.

You struggle against large, powerhouse types. He watches you nearly get crushed or strangled some nights. Your Quirk doesn’t do much for you when your opponent has strength and weight to defeat you with a singular blow.

Your mentor is often pulling you out of danger with his capture weapon, yanking you away from a massive swinging arm or a curled fist about to smash you into the ground. But if it came down to you or the greater good, he knows what your mentor and your heroes would pick.

He thinks it’s strangely unfair, for you to give them your loyalty over him. He’s more loyal to you, isn’t he? There is very, very little he wouldn’t destroy for you. They would sooner let you be destroyed for the sake of their world.

Destroying the hero society that is so careless with you now feels, in part, like his gift to you. Freedom from the world that only cared about you when they realized you could be useful–

There is a night you become not just useful to your heroes but imperative.

It starts with your sacrifice, just as you were trained to do. You shove a civilian out of the way of a villain’s Quirk– it’s something with tusks and teeth that jut out from his body, sharp and ready to gut you.

Your mentor is busy with this villain’s accomplice.

Tomura watches when he shouldn’t. He was supposed to meet with Kurogiri, but he knows you patrol in this area and when there’d been commotion, he couldn’t help but watch from the shadows.

He watches one of those tusks jut towards you, your hand reaching out in hopes of disengaging the Quirk. But it’s a physical Quirk, not something like Dabi’s fire or his disintegration. And he doesn’t know if this Quirk disengages with it’s user or if it’s just his body.

Tomura feels his heart drop, the trapdoor given way to all icy fear as he watches one of those tusks pierce into your stomach.

Tomura stops breathing.

You grab hold of it, a scream getting caught behind your clenched teeth. Your fingers are tight, near frantic as you press into them– hope with everything in you, in him, that his Quirk disengages with yours.

Your broken off scream is wretched from your struggling body when another tusk rushes to crash into your shoulder.

You’re the only thing between the civilians behind you and this villain.

Your other hand reaches for the tusk at your shoulder, digging fingers and nails into it desperately.

Your eyes are bright and feverish with the hot pink of your Quirk.

Tomura stutters towards you, before the villain let’s out a pained groan. Your teeth are bared, blood bubbling up in your mouth, but you’re still standing, vicious and undeterred.

The tusks begin to crack where you grip them, splintering apart–

A sudden fission of light through those crevices, same fire pink as your eyes, arcs throughout the villain. A flare of it that makes the villain almost see-through, the lines of his bones burned by light, an x-ray flash, as if you’d struck him with lightning for a moment.

Eraserhead shouts for you.

When the flare dies, there is a scream of pain and it’s not yours.

The tusks shatter, splinter apart into gleaming bone that flies through the air.

You’re left standing, blood oozing from your stomach, your shoulder, but still standing, your eyes crackling and too bright.

The villain, tuskless, crumples at your feet, smoking. A normal, Quirkless looking man.

Did you–?

“What happened?” he hears the distant voice of your mentor, laced with worry, whose already reaching to staunch blood, blood that seeps so dark out of you. Tomura’s stomach rolls, twists suddenly, but you’re still standing. You’re okay– you’re okay–

“I-I don’t know.” you manage, but you sway into your mentor’s arms and Tomura has to look away, jaw clenched tight, swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat.

He hears, “I need an ambulance– there’s a hero and villain down–”

But he’s already turning away, his mind churning, trying to keep the nauseousness from overcoming him. He feels suddenly furious, that it can’t be him at your side, that he has to watch, pushed to the outskirts. His fingers rush to scratch at his neck, his throat, desperate for relief from the pressure that has built in his chest.

He will try to call you– later, much later– the only time you’ll answer him. He is certain you will be okay with your healers and–

He thinks of the flare of light, the breaking of those tusks, the sudden heap of that man on the ground. If Tomura is correct about what you’d done, about what your Quirk actually is, the heroes won’t let you die now.

No, now you’re imperative. Now you’re trapped.

And the destruction of hero society will be his gift to you, an end to all the strings in place, the hands holding you both back.

***

“You destroyed his Quirk.”

“W-what?” you manage to get out, wobbly. You’re bandaged up, your torso and shoulder wrapped in fresh gauze after Recovery Girl healed the worst of your wounds. You’d been sleeping, hooked up to an IV to aid you in recovering. “That’s not possible, my Quirk only cancels–”

The doctor that has entered to give you this news shakes his head, “No, we’ve done scans, tests, the works on this guy. His Quirk is gone from his DNA. No trace of it.”

Shouta, who's sitting beside your hospital bed, speaks up, “Is it possible that it will eventually return?”

“I suppose, but we think it’s unlikely. It’s gone from him. There’s nothing left. She destroyed it cleanly. It’s like it was never there at all.” The doctor answers.

“I don’t understand–” you manage to get out, your head beginning to swim, giving a painful throb at your temples.

“It seems your Quirk isn’t so simple as cancelling out another’s. It’s likely that subduing other’s Quirks was just the surface of yours.”

“Is the man okay otherwise?” Shouta asks now, fidgeting in his seat when he senses your sudden distress. He leans towards your bed more and you have the sudden urge to latch onto him and not let go.

“Physically, yes. He’s fine.” the doctor answers, “However, mentally...he’s inconsolable at the moment. As you know, Quirks are incredibly– well, they’re a part of who we are, aren’t they?”

You swallow hard around the lump in your throat.

You think Shouta says something else, finishes speaking to the doctor for you. The moment the door clicks shut, the tears that you stubbornly had been holding back rush forward.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” you get out on just a hissed breath. “I-I didn’t know I could.”

Shouta shushes you gently, “It’s okay, this happens. Sometimes people don’t know the full extent of their Quirk.”

“I destroyed his Quirk, it’s not okay!” you respond, guilt thickening inside of you, dragging you down heavy, clogging your throat and chest. “I didn’t mean to do that– what if I do it again?”

“You were under distress,” he soothes, reaching out to brush a tear away from your cheek, “Really, you were fighting for your life.” And when he says it, something gets caught in his throat. Something hitches in yours, too.

His eyes rove over your face slowly, taking you in carefully, as if he hasn’t been by your side the entire time. As if it wasn’t him in the ambulance, or him kneeling beside your bed when Recovery Girl put you back together.

“I should’ve been there. It shouldn’t have happened.” Shouta admits, the confession filling the small space between you two.

You take him in now, too, tired and worried, his face finally displaying the fear and care he has for you. It softens out his features, turns his eyes gentle and dark.

You realize suddenly that you miss him. You miss quiet nights on his couch as he graded papers. You miss his clothes and his cats and the tenderness that blossomed in all your silent spaces to fill you both out.

You wonder if he misses you as bad as you’re realizing you miss him.

You think of him cooking for one again, eating alone, and it does something horrible to your heart– mangles it, twists it up horribly.

It’s made all the worse because you’re lying to him. And here he is, at your bedside.

“S’okay, Shouta,” you get out, reaching up to touch his cheek with a trembling hand. He leans into the touch, letting his eyes flutter shut for a moment. He savors your touch in a way that he hasn’t ever allowed himself to before.

But after a moment, he shakes his head fractionally, and he murmurs “I’m supposed to protect you.”

You don’t know why, but your bottom lip wobbles. Big, fat tears well up in your eyes, burn hot and put pressure on your already foggy head. You feel like you’re unraveling, your chest all swollen and tender, too, aching horribly.

You can’t decide if it’s because you’re lying and disobeying him so badly or because no one has ever bothered to say something like that to you, let alone mean it.

And you’re betraying him, your mind hisses.

When he notices, his face falls, his thumb moving to try and brush away your tears. “Don’t cry,” he hushes, “I’m sorry, don’t cry.”

You lean into his large and warm palm at your cheek, let him cradle and coddle you.

“I-I’m sorry–” you barely manage to choke out, for reasons far beyond him.

“No,” he coos, “No, sweetheart, don’t apologize.”

You choke on a sob and he grows more worried, leans over you more, brings his other hand up to stroke at your hairline, too.

He says your name softly, trying to soothe you, “Why are you crying, huh? What are you apologizing for?”

You shake your head, more tears loosening, your small fingers twisting themselves in the shoulders of his shirt. You think you’ll drown in all this guilt, it’ll fill your lungs with pressure, choke you out slowly as you struggle and thrash.

But for now, all you get out is a warbled, slurred, “Please don’t hate me–”

Shouta moves then, shifts to sit beside you on the bed. He’s painfully careful with you as he slides strong and sturdy arms beneath you, lifts you slightly into his lap, mindful of your IV, and cradles you to him.

You bury your face into his chest and try to hold back another sob as he murmurs, “Why would I hate you? I could never hate you.”

He strokes your hair, he hushes your cries, rocking you gently. Rocking you until you can stop crying, until you’re exhausted and aching and tender.

“I’ll help you with your Quirk,” he promises gently, holding you tight to him, “We’ll be okay, huh?” he murmurs, and it just forces another cry out of you, swallowed up by his chest that he cradles you to, “We’ll be okay, sweetheart.”

It’s the we’ll in that sentence that makes you squeeze him tighter. You wonder how willing he’d be to use it if he knew where you were every other night, who you filled your time with.

If he knew who called you late that night, when you’re alone in your room, aching and sore and alone. If he knew who you answered to, your voice hushed in the inky darkness;

“Tomura,” you exhale his name through the receiver.

“I saw what happened,” he answers instead, “I saw what happened today.”

You can feel the sudden jump of your heart, your nerves wringing themselves tight. “Oh,” you respond lamely.

To your surprise, Tomura rasps, “Are you okay?”

You don’t know why, but you cradle the phone to your cheek tighter, your eyes slipping shut for a moment.

“Yeah, I’m alright. Sore and tired, but I’m okay.”

“Good,” he responds, his voice softer than it usually is, just a breath when he asks, “What happened? What’d you do to him?”

You’re silent for a long moment. You can’t decide if you should tell him or not. You think of Shouta earlier and his voice like a hearth and the tender way he holds you, you think of his we’ll be okay.

But you can hear Tomura’s soft breath on the other line. You can see Ryuji in the patch of sun that splays out against the corner of the couch in the evenings. You think of him curled tight around you, like you’re the last good thing left on earth.

“I destroyed his Quirk,” you say, voice barely above a whisper, “With mine.”

“That’s new,” Tomura almost hums, but it nearly seems like he was expecting the answer.

“I didn’t mean to.”

A quiet snort from him, “What are you trying to prove to me?” he asks, “I’m not your heroes. I won’t look at you differently whether you intended to or not.”

The thought strikes like an arrow between the ribs, sharp, sudden. It stings, when you realize it’s truth. How hard have you tried to prove yourself to Shouta? How hard are you trying to prove your goodness to yourself?

“You could’ve killed him,” Tomura says, “And I wouldn’t think differently.”

You wince for some reason when he says that, “Don’t–”

“What would your heroes think then?”

“Tomura–” you snap, voice gaining some bite, a warning.

But for some reason he presses, “How badly does the Hero Commission want you now? With a Quirk like that?”

“What?” you ask, suddenly shocked.

“Don’t be naive,” Tomura says and there’s an edge to his voice. He sucks in a breath, “That’s a big Quirk. Destroying someone else’s? You don’t think they’ll be interested in that?”

You feel the pressure of tears work their way through your head, your throat. Your fingers clutch so hard at the phone that your knuckles are turning white and before you can think, you hiss out, “And how interested are you now?”

“As interested as I was before.” he returns, sharp and quick, and then with a vitriol he hasn’t directed at you in months, he says, “Don’t compare me to them.”

You bare your teeth, tears stinging sharp at your eyes, prepared to fight back when he hisses, “Mark my words, they won’t let you go now.”

“Stop it,” you spit, “You don’t know anything–”

And he laughs at that, caustic, harsh, a grating sound. Villainous. It slithers through the phone, down your spine. Your stomach twists. You hate this– your head is throbbing. You don’t want to fight. You want to stop crying, God, you wish you could just stop crying–

“I’ll be here when you realize it.” he says and there is too much heat behind his voice, simmering and venomous. You can feel the end of this conversation, the bitter goodbye in his words.

Your bottom lip trembles, and for some foolish, lovesick reason, you gasp, “Wait– don’t hang up–”

But you hear the click of the other line and he’s fallen away from you, leaving you with an empty, static silence that buzzes around in your head. In your heart.

You throw your phone across the room. You hear it clatter somewhere in the darkness. You turn to press your face into your pillow and let out a sudden, childish scream. It tears at your throat, before tapering off into this pathetic little sob.

It’s worse because he ends up being right.

And it’s ironic because it’s another string tethering you to him, the ability to destroy something with a touch.

It’s like some part of him knew all along, or maybe some part of you.

You scream into your pillow again, louder, kicking at your covers before it breaks off into a bitter cry.

***

The Hero Commission is very interested in the new discovery of your Quirk. They run tests and scans on you, over and over again, trying to find something interesting. They want you to practice with it, but there’s no way for you to practice without potentially destroying other people’s Quirks.

They offer up criminals to practice on.

It turns your stomach.

“I don’t want to do this,” you tell Shouta one night after another long series of poking and prodding at you by white coats from the Hero Commission.

Shouta is silent for a moment, “No one is making you.”

“But they want me to. It’s expected of me.” you tell him.

“They want to make sure you can control it,” Shouta answers, “And the only way to do that is practice, unfortunately.”

Or do they just want to be sure they can control me? The question bubbles up unbridled inside of you. It sounds suspiciously like Tomura’s voice.

You frown, “I can control it. I don’t go around destroying Quirks with every touch. I just mute Quirks still.”

“Under distress, too? Can you summon it completely calmly? Or stop it in an instant?” Shouta asks.

“I don’t know– no, I don’t think so.”

“Then you can’t fully control it.” he answers, which makes you ball your hands into fists.

“It doesn’t feel right taking people’s Quirks– practice or not. And it’s controlled enough.” you respond, gaining a sudden edge to your voice.

“Then don’t do it.” Shouta responds, almost impassively.

You try not to grow upset or so frustrated that you say something you might regret. You swallow tightly. “Will you be disappointed? If I don’t?”

Shouta tilts his head and in the quietness you fear he will be, but he eventually answers, “No. You’re right; you have it controlled enough that it doesn’t hinder your day-to-day life.”

You let go of a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“Besides, if you’re under that amount of distress again, it probably flares for a good reason. It’ll probably save you if you ever need it again.” Shouta then says, “And if what they want you to do doesn’t feel right to you, then you shouldn’t do it.”

You stare up at him, a little surprised but–

Relief sweeps through you, sweet and cool.

“I trust your instincts,” Shouta says, the curl of his lips small but promising, as he reaches out to nudge your chin with his knuckle.

The guilt blindsides you later, so hard that it makes you lock yourself in your bathroom and keep a sob trapped behind the palm of your hands.

But for now, you smile up at him, the curve of your smirk playful, something he hasn’t seen from you in what feels like forever that you give to him again freely.

“Can I get that one in writing?” you ask and his answering laugh strikes you so suddenly it almost makes you dizzy and it’s like hearing the notes to one of your favorite songs that you hadn’t heard in a long time.

Like you couldn’t ever imagine forgetting it, now that you’ve heard it again.

***

Tomura wonders what it will take to make you leave your heroes.

Specifically, your precious mentor.

When he sees you again, you look like you did before nearly bleeding out in front of him and destroying the Quirk of another. It’s almost as if it never happened at all, almost like your argument never happened at all, either. In this little apartment where the rest of the world doesn’t exist, just you and him and sometimes Ryuji.

Except when he lifts your shirt there is a twisted, ugly scar from where they patched you up. Another at your shoulder. He doesn’t kiss it or run his fingers over it gently, he doesn’t make any sort of comment. He just thumbs at your waist and glares at it, wishes he could make it disappear like the villain who gave it to you.

(Not because he finds it ugly or unacceptable, only that it is now a permanent reminder of what he’d seen. Only that it reminds him that you are not guaranteed to him, not in life nor in loyalty).

You’re a little hesitant with him now. You feel more fragile to him now, too, like you’re holding something back, waiting for everything to finally fall.

The inevitable crash and break.

Tomura is gentler with you– he knows he needs to play his cards right now. It’s crucial. Something is building, even for the League of Villains. There’s more on the horizons.

And despite everything, he wants you there, when the sun is bloody and falling on a dismembered, new world.

He thinks he shouldn’t have pushed you now, when you’re so delicate, barely stitched together. But he had– he’d started another argument. He’d tried to convince you of the heroes’ lack of care for you, their greediness upon discovering the depth of your Quirk.

You throw it back in his face; isn’t that what All For One does to him? Isn’t that what he does for the League of Villains? Aren’t they all just pawns for him? Is that what he wants of you?

He seethes, digging into the skin of his neck desperately. You don’t stop him. He can feel the facade of this little apartment beginning to crumble, fall away into dust and he–

He knows he destroys everything he touches.

But you were supposed to be different.

(You are, his mind hisses, you are, you are, and that’s the worst part of it all).

You storm out that night. You leave him, no doubt to return to your precious mentor.

He thinks about destroying the entire apartment complex. He could now– he knows what’s coming. He won’t be staying here any longer. He has plans, so many plans.

You come back to him a week later, though. You’re bound to him in some way, returning again and again when you know you shouldn’t.

The make-up part is nice, with him buried so deep inside you that he’s trying to turn your stomach. Make you sick with him, the way he is with you. Your gasping moans, with the arch of your body far too pretty for hands like his.

And still, you lay on his chest afterwards, you let him run his fingers over the planes of your shoulders, the line of your pretty neck. He drags his knuckles against your soft skin, enamored with the feeling, with the way you soothe the haunting, sunken part of him. His Quirk submits to yours easily, dimmed inside of him. Maybe he should be frightened of your new potential.

But you’ve never been frightened of him, so he’s not of you, either.

You’re very bold, though, he thinks, for you to say, “Your parents were cruel.” After the argument you both had last time.

He tenses beneath you, grits his teeth. He’d thought you’d both learned your lesson, getting too personal in a place as sacred as here.

“You don’t know anything,” he says and it’s just a breath. Surprisingly toothless. He’d said it to you last time, in your argument. You’d said it to him before that. It feels almost ironic now.

You shake your head against his chest, your nose nudging into him, lips soft against his skin. You remain calm. “I know your name is Tomura. They were very cruel to give you that name.”

You say this as if it’s a fact, something as simple as the sky being blue. But it’s dark out now and the stars are dull, the moon just a scythe in the sky, caught in the window’s glare.

“What?” he demands quietly.

At least you have the guts to tilt your head up to find his eyes now. You look up at him through dark lashes.

“Your name–” you say again, gentle, “It means ‘to mourn.’ I don’t know why anyone would give their child such a sad name.”

He knows what his name means.

But this takes him by surprise, for some reason. Only because it’s not the name his parents gave him. You don’t know that, though. You don’t know anything about him, technically. He has the urge to tell you suddenly, that’s not my name.

He doesn’t, though. He stays silent. It’s his name now. And he likes the way you say it, the syllabus softened by whatever it is you feel for him.

(He won’t give it a name, he’s realizing now that names can be very powerful.)

Your fingers are gentle on him, rubbing strange patterns against a scar near his collar bone.

You have rendered him silent.

And eventually, as you begin to drift off to sleep, you murmur, “You were just a kid, you know?”

He doesn’t really know what you’re getting at, only that it does something strange to the tempo of his heart. He swallows hard, tries to keep his fingers gentle on you. Your breathing has slowed, the rise and fall of your back measured and even, but his has gotten tight.

He squeezes you against him, glaring at nothing, at darkness.

You were just a kid, you know?

It’s this part of you, the one that sees the human in him, that makes him think maybe you will be at his side until the bitter end of it all. Your compassion, the sympathy you have for the child he was, for the person he somehow became. Your unending ability to understand the worst of people.

He doesn’t dwell on the child he was, just has buried it in the cemetery of his chest– a part of him that only you have been able to reach through Quirk, through something too massive to name. You’ve soothed it, put it to rest like the dead, lit your incense in the spaces of his heart. Said your prayers along the notches of his ribs. Tried to appease that restless spirit that possesses him.

He doesn’t know why, but he starts to shake. He can hardly breathe.

And in the dark, when he thinks you’re asleep, and his secrets will be lost to your dreams, he admits for the first time in years what has always trembled inside him. He speaks the tragedy that has made a home of his body, the mourning that he was given name to;

“I wanted to be a hero– when I was a kid.”

***

Tomura thinks, for a moment, when you’re splattered in blood, that this will be your great turning point.

Your fall, the tearing and burning of your wings from your holy back. It will hurt, but he will be there on the ground with you, a hand extended to guide you. He will be there to cradle you into his chest, to hold you close when your world falls apart.

The way All For One was there for him.

The beginning of the end starts with you being a hero.

But you save the wrong person.

Toga’s been following him around as she does every so often, dogging in his shadow, skipping along beside him. You’ve become accustomed to her, too. She likes having you around. Something about not being the only girl. You’re kind to her in the same way he thinks you probably wanted kindness at her age.

The sky is mottled purple, bruised as the day sets into night. The sun looks like an open wound, violent and red.

When he thinks about it, he figures he should’ve been more careful, but then there’s a petty villain Tomura knows vaguely, someone they’ve clashed with before, who he’s pretty sure Dabi and Toga pissed off. He spots Toga first. Your back is turned to him.

“Uh oh,” Toga says, peering over your shoulder.

Tomura grabs your wrist, “Hide,” he hisses, and when you try to peer over your shoulder at what Toga is looking at, he forces you back around so the villain doesn’t see your face.

He doesn’t know why he saves you like that. Only that he doesn’t want you to get in trouble, doesn’t want you taken from him like that. He is not an idiot; if the villain recognizes you, if it somehow got around that you were seen with two of the most notorious villains, the Hero Commission would eat you alive.

And here’s the part that really gets him. You listen to him. You trust him.

You dart away, swift and fast like a fox, disappearing into the shadows the way you were trained to.

“Hey!” the villain shouts and he’s large, Tomura remembers now.

Stupid, too, he thinks, as he barrels towards them.

The glint of Toga’s knife in the sun makes him pause.

Better to not engage, Tomura thinks, not yet, not now. Too much on the horizon for something foolish to happen tonight. The apartment isn’t far from here. He hopes you’ll retreat there. He just needs to get Toga away safely now.

“Oh, I’ve missed fighting!” she sings.

“No,” Tomura rasps, “Don’t engage. We need to go, too.”

She whines a long and drawn out, “Why?” just as the hulking mass of a person swings at her. She ducks away easily, quickly.

However, then his Quirk bursts to life and it’s far worse than what Tomura had hoped for. He doubles in size, his arms in particular growing longer, and fill out with what seems to be rushing water.

“Dammit, Toga,” he hisses, shoving her out of the way as the villain blasts a large cannon of water at her.

Tomura takes the hit hard, black coloring his vision when he hits the ground.

In truth, he thinks he is out for at least a full minute, because when he’s come to, you’re shouting at the villain. You’re tugging desperately at his massive shoulder, clawing and screaming. You’ve canceled his Quirk, but he’s still too big, even without it.

Toga is pinned beneath that arm, choking and spluttering, drenched. It actually looks like she’s choking on water. She can’t even scream, too garbled, too water-logged. She looks like a doll, she looks horribly small. Her face is turning a deep shade of red as she struggles for breath. Her little hands claw at his wrist, too.

Tomura tries to stand, his vision swimming, swaying so bad that for a minute everything goes sideways.

Fuck, he curses, just as he watches you get tossed away by that villain’s other hand like you’re nothing. His Quirk suddenly ripples back to life and he blasts Toga with another bout of water, plastering her to the gravel, the onslaught of it unending.

You’re up in an instant, throwing yourself onto his neck, trying to wrench him off. His Quirk disengages again, and Toga heaves and gasps for breath, coughing up large amounts of water.

“You’re going to kill her!” Tomura finally can catch onto what you’re saying, what you’re desperately screaming. His ears ring.

You get thrown off again. More water. Toga is being blasted so hard that she can’t even choke or struggle.

Tomura thinks you’re trying to rationalize with them, you’re trying to explain you’re a hero. And to disengage. Stop, please stop, please stop–

He’s not listening, though, of course.

And he’s too big. You tried knocking him out, tried putting him to sleep with the grip of your elbow. You’re trying everything, even to crush his Quirk beneath yours. Tomura catches the flutters of pink, your inability to summon your destruction when you need it.

It wouldn’t matter anyways, not with how big he is. You struggle against powerhouses.

Tomura stumbles.

But you’ve always been gritty and sharp and determined, if nothing else. You have always fought so desperately for your life, never mind law or honor or glory.

He thinks he catches the glint of your knife, the desperate threat to let her go, leave her alone!

The villain grabs you with a massive hand around the throat, lifts you clear off the ground.

Toga has gone slack against the pavement in a puddle of water, face colored a strange shade of red and blue. A little like the way the sky blurs before his eyes.

You kick and thrash, a horrible growl wretched from your throat. You don’t think, just lash out.

And then there is blood. So much blood. It’s all over Toga now, seeping into the water– did she cut him? She managed to cut his throat? Because that’s where the blood is pouring out of–

Tomura sways.

You’re dropped.

You stumble away.

Your blade– the one you used to threaten him with, is bloody.

“Fuck!” you shout, raw and so sudden that it jars him a little. He forces himself over to the scene. So much blood. His stomach rolls.

He looks at you, your shell-shocked face. You’re looking at the knife, at the blood. At Toga, who's still not moving.

He goes to her first, tries to shake her a little, fingers held away from her shoulders carefully. For a moment, she doesn’t respond, limp and lifeless and something inside of him threatens to overwhelm him. No, no–

Her eyes flutter, though, and she wheezes for a breath, suddenly turning over to vomit up far too much water.

“I-Is she-?” your voice, so small and lost, cuts through his thoughts.

He looks at you again, blood splattered and terror caught in your eyes. Pale and slack faced and half-mad. You look like a ghost, standing there in the aftermath, in your gruesomeness.

“She’s fine,” he says, just as she wretches up more water, “You saved her.”

Toga falls limp again. He checks frantically for a pulse at her wrist with two careful fingers. Still there. She needs a doctor, though. He stands to face you.

You make a noise, high pitched, trembling. You cover your mouth to keep it in, it’s something like a sob, an animalistic noise.

“I didn’t mean to– I didn’t, I didn’t– she was just–” you’re trying to get out, almost doubled over now.

Tomura doesn’t bother to check if you killed the villain. He knows the dead when he sees it. And he won’t lie to you now, he won’t soften this blow or shield you from it.

But he also knows what he needs to do.

You keel over, about to scream more and– no, that won’t do you any good.

He grabs for you, hauls you back up and you’re shaking so hard that he fears you’re going to split apart. You’re about to lose it.

“Listen to me,” Tomura hisses and you choke on a cry. He shakes you a little, tries to force you to look at him and not the body behind him. Your eyes, feverish pink, meet the wildfire of his, “Listen to me.”

“I– I don’t–”

“Sshh,” Tomura hisses, palm going to your cheek, a little too rough, forcing you to look at only him. “Sshh, listen.”

You try to swallow and he continues, “You’re going to call reinforcements. You’re going to tell them there’s a villain down.”

“W-what?! I’m going to– they’re going to–”

He shakes you again, harder, your teeth click together with the force of it. He needs you to understand this– needs you to hear this if he wants to keep you safe and out of jail.

“Tell them I decayed him. And before that, tell them Toga cut him, and it splattered onto you. Say you heard commotion and like the good hero you are, you ran to help.”

“Tomura–” you sob.

“Do you understand me?” he snaps instead, grabbing you harder, his fingers curling against your cheek to press desperately into you. “Answer me!”

“Yes–” you gasp, wide-eyed and terrified. “Yes!”

“Good,” he hushes, wiping blood from your cheek, “Good. You saved her,” he tells you, “You saved her, do you understand?”

You nod, jerky, and he continues, hand petting your cheek, messily pushing your hair from your face, “You did everything right.”

Your breathing is still labored, but you’re quieting with the praise. When he thinks you can handle it, he breathes, “Now, are you ready? I’m going to decay him and the knife, then I’m going to leave with Toga. You’re going to call for help.”

You glance at the villain, lying lifeless, in his own pool of blood and Tomura ducks his head to force you to look at him. “Okay?” he asks, “Answer me.”

“Okay,” you exhale slowly.

“Good,” he murmurs, “Good. Now give me the knife.”

You press it, trembling, into his hands. It’s slick with blood. He forces himself to stay calm for you.

He steps away, let’s go of you. The knife turns to dust.

“Look away,” he commands then, his voice a rasp.

And you– you listen to him. You trust him. You turn away. He sets his hands on the villain. And just like that, his body breaks down, gore at first, until it is nothing but dust. It blows away easily.

And then he goes to Toga and he lifts her carefully. She’s like a ragdoll in his arms, soaked and cold. He’s certain to keep his hands away from her, fingers lifted away, but she lolls into his chest.

When you turn around, Tomura says, “Thank you for saving her.” And he means it.

You swallow hard. You look to where the villain was. He’s gone now.

“Now call your heroes, just like I said.”

You nod, eyes filling up with tears. That’s fine. They’ll have more sympathy for you, for what you’ve witnessed. They’ll believe you more. Your mentor will protect you, with those tears in your eyes.

Tomura’s eyes burn crimson as you pull out your phone, “Do what I said and you’ll be okay.”

And you do, just like that. You lift the phone to your ear. That semblance of calm that he had coaxed you into shatters the moment someone picks up on the other end.

Your voice goes high, near hysterical, “T-There’s a villain down–”

He turns away from you as you stutter and cry into the phone about what happened. You give them the lie he told you to feed them. You make Tomura out to be the villain, you make yourself out to be innocent. He holds Toga close to him.

He tries not to smile, a dizzy slip of a thing, as you do exactly as he told you to– as you lie and lie and lie through your teeth.

Toga stirs in his arms. Police sirens are heard in the distance. An ambulance for a pile of dust. The sun sets, darkness blanketing the world, shielding it from the light.

And as he stalks away, with Toga alive and in his arms, he thinks maybe he’ll make a villain of you yet.

***

The police believe you. It’s hard not to, when there is so little evidence otherwise. Tomura destroyed it all for you. It’s hard not to believe you, when you’re crying and terrified, as you should be for witnessing the death of another person at the hands of Himiko Toga and Shigaraki Tomura.

Shouta, however, is not as easily convinced.

Not after so many strange occurrences with Tomura.

When he brings you back to his apartment, when the door is shut tight, and you still stand in bloodied clothes with your teeth chattering, Shouta eyes you warily.

You want to shower, burn yourself beneath the spray of water, like you could wash away what you’d done. You squeeze your eyes shut.

You saved her.

You swallow down the lump in your throat.

“What really happened?” Shouta asks, almost tentatively, standing in the middle of his living room.

You turn and you don’t– you don’t know how you should react. Should you be offended that he’d doubt you? React in outrage after all that’s happened? Should you act confused? Play dumb?

You can’t stomach any of it. Not when someone’s dead at your hands. But someone is alive because of them, too.

Your eyes well up with fresh tears.

“I-I told you.” you choke out.

Shouta’s jaw ticks. He draws in a slow breath, “Something isn’t adding up. You have had more contact with Shigaraki Tomura than anyone has been able to have.”

Your stomach drops. Your tears fall harder.

“What’s going on?” he asks and the distance between you two feels massive. It feels continental in the small space of his living room. He seems suspicious.

The lie comes out on a sob, “I–I think he’s been stalking me.”

“What?” Shouta asks and any uncertainty he has in you evaporates as he watches your face crumple.

You let your guilt overwhelm you into choking on another cry, cover your mouth as if you could catch it in the palm of your hand. Shouta doesn’t know the truth of it, so he believes it.

He crosses that distance like it’s nothing now. He stands tall in front of you, reaches to try and brush tears away from your cheek.

“I don’t know–” you gasp, filling out your lie, “I think he's interested in me because of my Quirk. Because he can’t– I can’t decay, when he touches me.”

Shouta tips your face up towards his but you can’t look him in the eyes, let your eyes squeeze shut when he asks, “Why wouldn’t you tell me that?”

“I don’t know–” you choke out, “I wasn’t sure.”

“Did something else happen?” Shouta prods gently and you grit your teeth to keep back another sob. More tears cut tracks down your face, right into Shouta’s waiting, gentle hands.

There is a long moment where you think of giving everything up. You think of telling Shouta everything, if only to lift the weight that has settled onto your chest. Surely, it will crush through your sternum, surely your heart will burst with it’s pressure.

“It’s my fault,” you whisper, “It’s my fault he’s dead.”

“No,” Shouta says then, gentle but firm, shaking his head, “I know it may feel like it–”

“He was going to kill her.”

This stops Shouta. He goes very, very still.

“What?” he rasps softly.

“He was drowning her– he wouldn’t stop. I tried to get him to stop and he started choking me–and she saved me by–” It’s a fabrication to save yourself. That’s not how it went! Your mind screeches, that’s not how it went– you saved her by killing–

Toga was turning blue, she didn’t help you. She didn’t save you. She was drowning. She didn’t kill him. You did.

“You saved Toga Himiko, a notorious villain, one of the most wanted–”

“He was killing her!” you hiss, “She was turning blue–”

“She’s a powerful villain, too, you should’ve tried–”

Something inside of you fractures, bursts apart the way glass does when thrown against a wall. You think there are a million, shining pieces of you now lying on the floor.

“She’s Shinsou’s age!” you snap, hoping one of your shards cuts him, suddenly half-furious through all your tears. “She’s Shinsou’s age, do you know that?!”

You break now, wrenching away from Shouta’s touch and rushing to double over the sink to dry heave again, body squeezing painfully. You threw up everything in your stomach already at the scene, when recounting the story to the police, to Shouta. You claw at your stomach, trying to stop it, to keep it all down inside of you. You curl your fingers into the divots of your ribs, try to force them to give you air, but they won’t– betrayers that they are, they squeeze and squeeze until there’s nothing of you left.

Your knees buckle, head spinning when you turn away from the sink and crumple into a heap on the floor,“She’s just a kid,” you wail desperately, “That’s all I saw when I tried– when I–”

Your head bows forward, body folded in on itself, forehead digging into the ground as you cry, “I didn’t mean for him to die, I didn’t mean it– I didn’t, I swear I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

Shouta moves again finally, drops to his knees down beside you. He cradles your skull in his large hand, pushes your head into the crook of his neck to hold you, “It’s alright,” he breathes, curling his other arm tight around you, “It’s not your fault,” he hushes, “It’s not your fault.” You sob hard into his chest, fingernails digging into him, clawing at his biceps, “Sshh, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

And he holds you, buries you in the bulk of him, like he always has when you need him. Your constant, the love you never once deserved. Especially not now. Especially not here, with blood stained on your clothes, sunk to the floor with nothing but the anchor of your guilt.

He strokes your hairline, gentle, cooing softly to try and calm you.

He murmurs, his voice so deep and soft and earnest, “You’re a good hero.” When you make a strangled noise against him, he presses on, “You are. You’re compassionate. You see everyone’s humanity and that’s a good thing.”

He hushes more of your cries, fingers gentle in your hair, and you try not to throw up again when he tells you;

“You’re a good hero, I promise. I promise.”

The beginning of the end starts with you being a hero for a villain.

***

The next time you see Tomura, he questions you about what happened, if you pulled it off. You tell him you managed it, somehow. You don’t tell him anything else. You don’t tell him you haven’t been sleeping, that you can hardly keep food down. You don’t tell him that you take too many showers, trying to wash away the phantom blood.

You remember when it was Tomura’s blood on you, so long ago. A beginning that now seems so hazy. You hadn’t minded blood, then. You had never been particularly squeamish but now–

Now it could make you sick on your best days, downright hysterical on your worst.

Your guilt tears chunks out of you, bites down and shakes the meaty, soft parts of you until you’re all torn up.

It is easier to be with Tomura than Shouta now.

We have more in common, you think, and it makes you want to laugh, empty and wobbly.

You look in mirrors and hardly recognize yourself, wonder if this is really your body. If this is really your life, or if it’s someone else’s. Maybe you are possessed, maybe that explains how you got here.

You don’t tell him any of this. You stay silent.

And that’s okay because Tomura seems strangely quiet after that, pulling you to lay on his chest. He doesn’t let you put the TV on. You can tell he needs to think. You let your eyes drift close as he runs his fingers through your hair with a surprising amount of gentleness, compared to his usual petting.

But eventually he says, so soft that you fear you almost imagined it, “A yakuza head visited the League recently.”

Your eyes flutter open and in your surprise, you sit up a little, looking down at him. “Tomura–” you start, almost a warning.

He knows he isn’t supposed to talk like this here, in this little slice of another world.

But he continues anyways, his voice just a rough scratch, “He killed Magne.” And then, “And Compress no longer has an arm.”

Now you really pull away to look at him. You can feel your eyes widen out, your shock, then the stomach-turning sadness. His face is unreadable, but his jaw is tight. His eyes are simmering, so red, even in the low light like this.

“It was a set up.” he hisses, “I failed them.”

He doesn’t cry, but you can feel the slightest tremble in his body.

You hurt for him, you realize, your heart falling into the pit of your stomach. Those are two of his closest, some of his inner circle.

He looks shaken.

He looks young, with the weight of his world on his shoulders, with the crown of thorns placed on his head. Heir to a monstrous throne. All For One’s successor, boy prince to inherit an underground empire.

You just see him, though, just Tomura who's twenty, who likes sour candy and video games.

He swallows hard. He looks angry and hurt.

“Nobody mourns us,” he says eventually, looking away from you, somewhere in the darkness of the apartment.

Except you, you want to say, with a name like Tomura.

You lurch forward, throwing your arms around his neck, hugging him tight to you. “I’m sorry,” you tell him, soft, the way Shouta speaks to you, “I’m sorry.”

And then you think, I’d mourn you, and you squeeze him tighter, I’d mourn you, oh God, I’d mourn you–

He doesn’t hug you back, but you can feel the shaky breath he exhales, and the way his fingers tighten in the fabric of your shirt.

***

Tomura thinks it should be you, at his side, when he takes Overhaul’s arm. You are everything Overhaul wants. Your Quirk is what he has tried to bottle.

Tomura thinks you could’ve been useful, to switch off his Quirk, to destroy it in an incredible twist of irony. It would’ve been the ultimate power move, to have you at his side by the end of all of this.

But you’re not there, no, not with him.

You’re with your heroes, Toga had told him.

It shouldn’t, but it feels like a betrayal. It stings hard and sharp inside of him, like a livid bee that jabs at his heart.

He seethes about it. Hadn’t he done everything right with you? He’d played this game slow, knew that the rewards would be worth it.

You’re still walking away from him, though. You’re still not his.

And you’ve still got one of his ribs, left a gaping wound inside of him.

He wants it back. He wants it back.

***

Eri looks up at you with watery, red eyes when you first introduce yourself to her. You crouch to be on her level. She has silver hair. She’s timid, wobbly bottom lip and flushed cheeks.

You almost start crying, looking at her now. You wonder if this is what Tomura was like as a child– small and terrified of his Quirk, round red eyes pleading with the world. All you see in her is every other forgotten child.

“Hi, Eri,” you hush, half for her, half because you’re scared your voice might break.

“H-hello,” she trembles.

You try to keep your smile in place, but it’s a weak, sad thing.

Still, you say, “I’d like to be your friend, if you’ll have me.” And you extend your hand to her, palm up and offering. “I have a Quirk like Mr. Aizawa’s.” you tell her gently, “If you touch me while using your Quirk, it’ll stop.”

She brightens at this, not smiling but, surprised, “Really?” she asks, just a breath.

You nod, swallowing around the lump in your throat, “Really.”

She takes your hand then, eager, tightening with her small fingers, despite her Quirk still being off.

Then she looks up into your face and offers you a tentative smile. Small, just the corner of her lips lifting up.

“I’d like to be your friend, too.” she murmurs bashfully and you close your hand around hers. It’s small, almost fragile. She’s all bandaged up, arms wrapped in gauze.

You look at Eri and her red eyes and silver hair and see a coin toss, see it up in the air, spinning and spinning, catching in the light. A twist of fate like the flip of a coin.

But you think you could call it now, with her hand in yours, and the heroes that hover protectively around her.

***

There is a morning shared in blush light that isn’t the ending but feels like it could be one. In truth, you’d prefer to remember this as the ending, more of a whimper and less of a bang. The night before had been one of your better ones, too– you’d only woken once with a nightmare. Tomura had already been awake and he’d soothed you with a careful hand that drew patterns across the bare skin of your back.

That night, that morning, was gentle in the wake of all that violence, love taken root, finally bursting through your veins to make a mess of your insides.

Dawn is too mellow a place for the two of you.

(You have come to the conclusion that Tomura looks best in dusk, saturated, sharp and rich in color. Bold and vivid. You didn’t know it, but he thought the same of you.)

You never told him you loved him.

You think about that a lot, wonder if it would’ve made a difference in anything. You wonder who was the last person to tell him that, if anyone at all.

He’s still half hoping that you’ll follow him, but you think he knows he’s losing you. You are not content in fuming misery, cannot stomach to leave the mentor that has loved and cared for you with such perseverance and softness. You cannot stomach to turn away from the boy with violet hair, or now the girl that reminds you of him.

You wish you could keep him, too, despite it all, but all you see in the future with him is rubble.

In the least, you’ve always had a sense of preservations, survivor that you are, scavenger that you are. You know when to move on, can’t linger too much longer now or you won’t live through it.

You sleep better with Tomura, though, and that’s the cruel part. You wake with less nightmares. You sleep more soundly, wound up in him, so tight that you two might just grow together. Palm to palm, your Quirk quieting his, lulled and softened.

And that morning, you wake slowly, twisting around fitfully with the warmth that has blossomed gently inside of you.

Consciousness creeps to you, fighting against the pull of sleep, being coaxed awake by the fluttering of your heart, the slow roll in your core.

Your eyes lift, heavy with sleep, finally awake. You blink blearily before a sudden, sleep soft cry escapes past your lips.

You glance down the line of your body to find Tomura nestled between your legs, tongue tracing messy patterns into where you’re most sensitive. Your stomach swoops sweetly, flares into a spark of heat.

The light is soft on him. He cracks a ruby eye open to gaze at you, to open his mouth so you can watch the flash of glistening pink as his tongue laves against you slowly.

“About time you woke up,” he gets out, voice still morning-rough, a little grating. His fingers squeeze your thigh, pulling you apart further to be at his mercy, spread open all for him.

“Tomura–” you gasp, your hands finding their way into his hair, fingers gentle and weak with sleep.

He sets his mouth to you, sucks on the bundle of nerves in a way that makes you keen, almost arching away from him. He fixes his eyes on your face, watches as your expression twists up.

You can see the way his hips are twitching into the mattress. Sometimes you think he does this more for himself than you, takes pleasure in rendering you down to your most basic, most desperate.

Pleasure coils warm, simmers on the inside of you. Your fingers flex, tighten in his hair until he groans against you. When he pulls away for another moment to admire you, his lips are spit slick, a string of translucent spit and slick bridging between the two of you.

It makes you flush darkly, makes you throw your head back and whimper.

He takes you apart with the savagery and viciousness that he has always carried. Dawn spills over the bed sheets in rays of peach and honeysuckle, lovely for the impending destruction. You shatter like glass, pretty and ringing beneath his hands.

And then he’s flipping you onto your stomach, letting you claw at your pillow as he sinks deep inside of you. He hisses when he fucks into the crux of your sweet, supple thighs. Your hair is messy with sleep. He presses his chest to your back, presses you into the mattress.

You fist at your pillow, whining at the burn and stretch, and you can feel the sickle cut of his smile against the arch of your shoulder blades. He leaves sloppy kisses, scattering them, sucking at your skin until he has claimed and marked and branded you.

He nudges his nose against your cheek until you tilt your head back to his, to rub back affectionately, nudge into him like a cat. He hums in satisfaction, in pleasure, the sound of it rumbling against your back.

You feel like he’s trying to savor this. He doesn’t pull your hair, or speed up his hips. No, he waits until you arch your back for him, until you’re near begging.

He likes you weakened, maybe delirious, maybe like he’s giving you a dose of your own medicine. He’s trying to make you as addicted as he is, but there’s no need.

No need when he covers your hand with his, slots his fingers between yours. All five of them, squeezing at your hand.

“You were made for me,” he gets out, giving you a rougher thrust, his eyes flashing to your hands, “See?” he groans, fingers digging into your wrist, your knuckles, “Made for me.”

You moan, too, all wobbly and pitched, with all the pressure, with the squeeze of his hand. With the stretch of him inside where you’re vulnerable and soft and slick.

He drags everything out that morning, fucks you both into oversensitivity, until you’re both shuddering and gasping. He breaks you down, until there are tears streaming down your face, until he’s gripping you so tightly that he’ll leave a bruise in the shape of his hand.

He fits his hand against your throat at one point and your eyes roll into the back of your head. You end where you began, with the violet petal bruise of his fingertips into your skin.

You linger in bed with him that morning, letting him pet and stroke and touch you. You stay gentle, even when he gets rough.

You make cheap, bad coffee for the both of you.

You feel twenty something with a boy and his tiny apartment. A cat chirps at the window and you’re smiling when you let him in. The breeze is cool. You don’t put on clothes because you feel like an adult, with a lover.

You feel normal for a fraction of a moment after everything that’s happened.

You feel sated and tender and saddened. Your chest fills with aching as you watch Tomura drift in and out of sleep in the sunbeams.

You were made for me, he’d said and you reach out to brush a strand of hair from his face. You were made for me.

You swallow around the lump in your throat, the one that feels like needle pricks and the hard truth. You don’t have the heart to tell him that he may need you, but you don’t need him.

You want him, though, your fingers trailing down the lines of his face, you want him so badly that it hurts. Your fingers travel over the hitch of his scars, his body as familiar as a home.

You want him, but you don’t need him, you try to tell yourself in this moment. You want him, but you don’t need him. You will survive this.

Still, it’s going to hurt. You’re bracing for impact, can feel the free fall rush up to the ground, can feel your stomach swimming up where your heart is.

You’ll survive it, you think, breathing hard, trying to keep back your tears as you look at him. But it’s going to hurt, it might tear out something very precious inside of you.

You’d rather he just break your arm again. At the thought of it, you try not to choke on the bitter, furious laugh that splits from your aching ribs.

***

You get to know Eri, try to spend more time with her and Shouta and Shinsou like you’re trying to fix something you broke. The pieces aren’t quite matching up right, though. It can’t be fixed, not really, not fully.

You can’t close your eyes without seeing that villain in a pool of their own blood. Or Toga’s face made blue. Sometimes in these dreams, it’s Shinsou who is drowning. Sometimes the villain in blood is Shouta. Tomura is always the one who saves you.

You can’t look at yourself anymore. You can’t stomach to. Your lies explode out of you when you catch a glance of yourself, haggard and exhausted and beaten down.

Shouta takes you to a hospital after your fist collides with the mirror in your bathroom. Glass shatters into hundreds of reflections of your warped and terrible image. They’re not as pretty, when the sun isn’t setting in a warehouse with a boy that you think you love.

Your hand bleeds the way that man’s necks did–

Your world spins as you lean over the bowl of the toilet to throw up your lunch. You’d made it with Eri earlier, before Shouta had gotten home from class.

Shouta finds you on the floor, sitting in all that glass, with your hand clutched tightly to your chest. He must’ve heard the commotion next door.

“What happened?” he asks, voice flooding with concern. He doesn’t hesitate to step carefully over the glass to you.

The question feels too large for you.

I did something horrible, you think, that’s what happened.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter weakly, lifting your chin from its place on your chest. “I didn’t mean to.”

(That isn’t true and you know it.

(But you’re always trying to prove you’re good. Especially now. Especially to Shouta– trying to prove you’re worthy of his love.

You suddenly crave Tomura. You didn’t have to prove anything to him.)

Shouta lifts you carefully, cradles you to his body to carry you out to his car to bring you to the hospital. He treats you like you’re fragile, made of glass yourself. “What’s going on with you?” Shouta murmurs gently, but there's almost a plea in it, concern that is so transparent it hurts, “You’re scaring me– I’m worried about you.” he confesses, almost desperate, “You know you can talk to me, don’t you?”

The laugh that sputters out of you is hollow, a grating noise that gets choked off. Shouta looks at you warily, uncertain and fearful.

The hospital keeps you for three days. Eri asks Shouta about you, apparently. She misses you. Shinsou helps her decorate a card for you.

Get well soon! Is written in her poor handwriting with far too many colors, and in Shinsou’s messy scrawl at the bottom;

Miss getting my ass kicked by you.

The doctors tell Shouta you’re struggling with a lot of survivor’s guilt and you have to fight back another absurd, off-kilter laugh.

Part of you thinks you’d be better off with Tomura at this point (your coin uncertain, hanging suspended in the air), if only to relieve you of this guilt, when Shouta tends to you and cares for you and loves you so steadfastly that it makes you feel rotten and horrible and monstrous. He has no idea who he’s loving. And you don’t deserve any of it–

But you think of Eri and the way she clings to your sleeves. And how you and Shinsou share granola bars during training.

And mostly, you are terrified to be without them.

None of it’s the same, though, and you think it’ll eat away at you until you’re nothing at all but the empty lies you kept feeding them.

You want to be better, you realize, when Eri draws you in pictures, holding her hand. You want to be better, you realize, for kids like you, like her–

(Like Tomura–)

So you decide one night, with your hand still bandaged, with Eri sleeping peacefully on the couch in the crux of your arms, and Shouta at the opposite end of the couch, that you will stay with them. The easy thing to do would be to leave, to not look back. But you have always been nothing if not determined, if not a fighter.

You will become who they want you to be, who they believe you to be, even if it tears you apart from the inside out.

Which means giving up Tomura, which feels like giving up a rib.

***

You had hoped you’d be able to slip away from Tomura and leave your secrets in a rundown apartment in a part of the city you grew up in. You had hoped that you could get away unscathed, without Shouta ever knowing more.

But Dabi mentions you to Hawks.

Offhand. Something about another traitor hero. Something about Shigaraki’s bitch.

Tomura also mentions Hawks to you.

And here is your trouble, what you were hoping to avoid by never allowing him to speak about his plans; you now know that the Number Two Pro-Hero is a traitor. However, the only reason you know that, is because of your secret relationship with the leader of the League of Villains that you have been slowly, painstakingly trying to sever yourself from.

(It doesn’t help that he’s latched on tighter–)

So, if you go to Shouta to warn him that the Number Two Pro-Hero is a traitor, you have to also conveniently come forward with your own truth. And what if he thinks you’re a traitor, too?

Surely, it looks that way.

Truthfully, you might as well be– you killed someone.

You killed someone.

Your stomach squeezes tight.

You think of Shouta and Shinsou and Eri and the loss of their love, when you’ve been trying to earn it back.

You don’t get much time to mull this over, though, because while walking back to your own apartment at U.A., a shadowy span of wings fall over your form.

Your heart falls into the pits of you, the drop of it sharp, horrible.

You think running will make it look all the worse.

Besides, he’s fast.

You can’t decide how this will go. Maybe he’ll only want to speak with you, traitor to traitor. But then you will be confronted with the undeniable truth that you now need to share with Shouta, with the Hero Commission, for the sake of people’s safety. You will have to come clean. Maybe it will be worse. Maybe he’s not after you at all, but just in your neck of the woods because–

All other thoughts are cut short when he lands in front of you.

You try to think of a proper reaction. Should you be expecting him? On guard? Should you act surprised?

His wings flare and you realize quickly how massive they are. They throw you into their towering shadow, make you feel like a mouse.

His eyes glint when he pushes up his visor, the gold of them sharp, his pupils a pinprick. The eyes of a predator.

You try not to cower. You stand your ground, lift your lips a little like you might bare teeth in warning, your hackles raising. Backed into the corner, you feel half wild, too.

But Hawks beats you to any form of a greeting, his smile a menacing twist of his lips, like he’s trying to be pleasant but he wants you to see all of those sharp, white teeth of his. You think he doesn’t look like much of a hero in this darkness, with the way his wings look thorny and maroon. His voice is barbed wire, the drawl of it stinging.

You know you’re in deep trouble now;

“You and I need to have a little talk.”

***

You are kept in a steel room that the Hero Commission tells you is not a holding cell, but you definitely think is a holding cell.

Your mind has not slowed since you got here.

You scramble for a story to tell– for lies to sew.

Hawks is not a traitor. Not to the heroes’ at least. He is a traitor to the villains and you know, logically, that this is for the greater good, but something about it bothers you. Villains aren’t people to the Hero Commission. You feel strangely protective of Tomura’s league of outcasts, even if you know you shouldn’t.

But they’re young, with feelings and thoughts and lives and pasts.

Nobody ever mourns us.

No, they don’t, you think, trying to keep away bitter tears from springing to your eyes. They don’t bother trying to see the big picture, they don’t bother to try and figure out why villains are on the rise.

They can’t stomach the idea that maybe their precious hero system has given birth to their villains.

Or maybe they can and they just don’t care.

They need heroes for their charts and money and power, don’t they? So they need villains. A never ending cycle, forever going around on this carousel. You’re dizzy with it, you’re sick of it, caught up in it’s riptide.

You don’t look at Tomura Shigaraki and see the most dangerous, wanted criminal in the country. You see a twenty-year-old pawn, a chip in a bigger game. You see someone as starving and desperate as you were.

You see a coin flip.

(You see the person you fell in love with–)

Shouta enters silently and the moment you see him, you have to try to keep from bursting into tears. Your lip wobbles.

He approaches slowly, cooly, but when he gets near you, his eyes are livid and searching your face, like maybe he could finally find the lies you’d kept buried so deep inside of you. They’ve finally blossomed, you think, all of them sprouting from your body, creeping through your lungs and up your throat to choke you out.

“Tell me the truth finally.” Shouta says, sharp and icy. He speaks like he’s speaking to a criminal, “Now.”

You suck in a shaky breath, try not to flinch when he leans across the metal table and snarls, “And if you are a traitor, at least have the decency to tell me now, before they come in here and interrogate both of us.”

Tears catch in your lashes.

Through the throbbing of your head, you realize you have jeopardized Shouta in the way you never wanted.

“I’m not a traitor.” you get out, voice quiet but firm, barely above a whisper.

“No?” Shouta clips and you can see it now, the hurt in his eyes. He feels betrayed, deeply so, and you can’t even blame him. “Hawks says differently. Says you’ve been working with Shigaraki.”

You rub furiously at your cheek to try and keep the tears from falling, shaking your head quickly, “No–”

“Then what happened?” he snaps and through the blur of your own tears, you catch the way his own eyes glisten.

“I didn’t tell you everything, when I said I thought Shigaraki was stalking me.” you say, having readied this lie the moment that Hawks brought you to the Hero Commission’s doors. You give them the story they want to hear of you, not the one where you fell in love, but the one where you jeopardize yourself for them. You are careful to peer up at him through damp lashes, “I–I got close to him, because he let me, because he was interested in me.”

Shouta goes very, very still. All you can see is his chest rising and falling, quick, as he slowly begins to walk the path you’re leading him down.

“And I thought he might tell me his plans, I thought that I could help–”

“No,” Shouta says in disbelief as it all begins to connect, leaning away from you in shock, “Please tell me you didn’t–”

You lurch towards him slightly, naturally, your hands coming up to the table like you’re reaching for him. “I wanted to prove I could do this–” you choke out, voice breaking, “I wanted to prove I could do undercover work like you wanted– like they wanted!”

“What were you thinking?” he hisses in return.

“You never would’ve let me do this!” you snap, almost plead with him, and it must strike true because he looks away from you momentarily, “I-I saw an opening so I tried to take it– I was perfect for it. Shigaraki was interested in me. I used to be a thief. I would’ve fit in.”

The moment you say it, you realize how true it rings. It startles you, maybe, with how close you were. Almost, but didn’t, your coin doing an extra rotation in air. And why didn’t you? Why not be with Tomura now? Why not be where you fit in most? Where hero society wanted and expected you to be?

“I’m not a traitor,” you cry, tears tracking down your cheeks freely now– you think you’re trying to convince yourself as much as Shouta now, “I promise I’m not a traitor– I couldn’t do that to you. O-or Shinsou. Or Eri–”

And there is your reason. The truth to disguise your lies. You look at him, across from you, his face almost unreadable, with his furrowed brows and tense jaw. His eyes shine, though, gleam with unshed tears as he listens to you. The man who gave you everything, who has cared for you since the moment he found you– perhaps the sole reason your coin has flipped in their favor. All because he did more than what was asked of him, because maybe he just saw someone starving, too, like the way you did with Tomura.

Believe me, you plead, believe this.

There is a long stretch of silence after that, where all you can get in is hiccuping breaths.

Finally, Shouta asks, “Did you find anything out about him? Or the League of Villains?”

You exhale hard with relief, your shoulders finally falling. You collapse somewhat, exhausted, folding in on yourself.

You hang your head, then shake it slowly, “No,” you sniffle, wipe at your drippy nose, “He didn’t tell me anything. He didn’t trust me.”

Shouta eyes you warily.

“So that’s why you encountered him so much. That’s why you were there with Toga Himiko when–” Shouta cuts himself off when he sees your wince, the shuddering of your features at the mention of that incident. But he finally put all of the pieces together. All the pieces you’ve given him, at least.

You nod, stray tears falling quick, dripping off your chin, “I’m sorry for lying,” you get out, “I hated it— I hated lying to you.”

Truth.

Shouta throws you a hard look, “You shouldn’t have. It was dangerous and irresponsible. And now look at what you’ve done–”

Your stomach knots up tightly.

“I thought I could handle it.” You breathe and there is another truth, sprinkled throughout your lies.

But you were so horribly wrong–

Shouta is about to open his mouth again, but the door swings open and a man in a suit enters slowly. His gaze is cool as it falls on you and Shouta. You know this isn’t the end of your conversation with him, you know he wants to know more. But now, he focuses on the higher up that encourages him to sit, too.

He says, because Shouta has been such an upstanding hero and teacher, they are allowing him the courtesy of explaining everything now.

And then you watch as Shouta opens his mouth and lies and lies and lies for you.

He tells them that it was his idea to allow you to get close to Shigaraki. He knew, every step of the way. He tells them he bypassed speaking with a committee at the Hero Commission’s because it would’ve taken too much time. He says that they needed to act quickly and accordingly.

He takes the brunt of it, saves you from far more trouble. He’s a trusted hero. You’re an ex-thief in the eyes of the Hero Commission with a too-big Quirk. They won’t believe you and truthfully, if they did more digging, if they pried more, there is a chance that the truth might leak out of you, open like a wound.

Shouta protects you, the way he always has. You don’t deserve it and you can feel your heart tearing itself to shreds.

You know you can’t go back to Tomura, not after all this.

You watch Shouta lie for you, speak for you, get you out of the grave you have dug yourself. For the second time in your life, Shouta saves you. You try to hold back more tears, you try to hold back from throwing yourself onto him, clinging to him.

And finally, they ask, “Did you learn anything, then? About Shigaraki Tomura?”

He likes sour candy. He has trouble sleeping. He drinks too many energy drinks. There is a scar at the corner of his lip. He has a beauty mark on his chin. He is desperate and starved of love. He let’s a kitten sleep in the sunlight of his apartment. He tries to take care of the League to the best of his ability– he cares about them more than he will admit. He is not heartless. His hands are often cold but seeking, longing for what he can’t have.

Your eyes well up with tears but you take a slow, steadying breath. They don’t want those pieces of him, the human, messy ones. No, they want to know how evil he is, how diabolical his next plan is going to be. But you don’t know any of that, just that he holds you as if he never wants to let you go when you fall asleep at night.

So you’re not lying when you say;

“I don’t know anything about Shigaraki Tomura.”

Only that he wanted to be a hero– when he was a kid.

***

The days following are the worst between you and Shouta.

He doesn’t trust you anymore. You can’t fight him. You have nothing to say, which is perhaps worse than if you tried to fight with him.

There’s no defending you, especially if Shouta even knew half of the truth. He barely speaks with you some days.

He wedges the distance between you two wide, forces it apart further.

He does not comfort you, he does not hold you when you cry this time. He’s not there with soothing, hushed words or the gentle touch of his hand to your cheek.

A piece of his trust is broken, now so severely that it’s just a jagged edge, something you don’t think can ever be soothed.

(And you’re right, in some way– there’s a deep shift in your relationship with him, changed and scarred. It never returns to what you once had, when your life was very simple and all you knew was him.)

He doesn’t ever say, I forgive you. I will trust you again, in time.

But he eventually will make dinner for you again and you will sit beside him, shoulder to shoulder at his table with a respectable, lonesome distance between his heart and yours.

Nothing is ever the same again.

You think about running– from Shouta, from Tomura, from all of it. It would be the easiest option, where you never have to look either in the face again.

But the Hero Commission looks at Eri the same way they looked at you when they discovered you could destroy Quirks and you can’t stomach the idea of leaving her to them.

(Tomura was right in a lot of ways.

And when there’s a war on the horizon and the Hero Commission seeks to use you as a weapon, you will think of him again.

I’ll teach you, if that’s what you want, he’d said to you once. And he did.

You hate the system, the endless cycle, Prometheus chained to his rock, the need of villains to have heroes, the creation of heroes to make villains. The endless bodies, the using and discarding of real, human lives for a greater good. You wish you could destroy it.

But there is more than only destruction, too. What good is rubble and ruin and death?)

You stay so you can do what you can, so you can protect a child with red eyes, with silver hair, and a Quirk too big for their own body.

And you think maybe if you stay with her, it makes up for leaving Tomura.

***

You go to Tomura one last time, walk the distance to his apartment with your hands shoved into your pockets. It’s a familiar walk now. The pavement is wet from rain. It’s cold out. You don’t know what you’re going to tell him. You wonder how he’ll react– for a moment, you’re fearful. Will he lash out? For a moment you wonder if he’ll try to kill you.

But you know, deep down, he wouldn’t. Won’t.

And you won’t pretend you’re scared of him now. You won’t play the innocent hero, not in front of him.

The moment Tomura sees you, he knows something has changed. You are too expressive and now you look at him with a sense of foreboding. With a sadness that he feels uncomfortable gazing at.

You tell him, “I got in trouble with the Hero Commission.”

For a moment, he lets his hope grow and stretch inside of him. Maybe this is finally your turning point, your fall from grace that he will catch you on. But no, your lip wobbles and your eyes dart away.

“I can’t see you anymore,” you whisper.

At first, he wants to snap at you, hiss out something cruel between his bared teeth. Maybe if you had done this a few years ago, a few months ago, he would lash out, try to tear into his neck or you or the world. He thinks about hurting you, slamming you against a wall or–

The thought is unfortunately repulsive to him. He doesn’t want to hurt you, not like that.

His anger and resentment wells inside of him, swarms his chest viciously. He wants to argue, to point out every way your heroes have failed you. The world feels so absurdly unfair suddenly, to give him you– you who quiets his Quirk and touches him gently and winds your arms around him in the way he likes so much– only to then take you away, too. You who destroys with a touch, too. Who is perfect at his side.

But for all his work and care and strategy, he can’t get you to stay.

You will run back to your heroes.

You don’t need him, he realizes now. But you have his rib, tucked away inside of you. He wants to dig into you, pry it out, rip it from your body and take it back for himself.

But you’re crying.

And you’re pretty in the dark, like you’ve always been. This time, though, you’re not looking for a fight, there is no viciousness in you now. Maybe you’re too tired to fight.

So instead of erupting, instead of lashing out, Tomura steels himself. He’ll play the longer game, then. You don’t want to go, but you will. You’ll go back to your heroes and they will disappoint you. As they always do, at some point, eventually.

You will come back to him again, he tells himself.

And he will be forgiving, the way All For One has been with him. He sees it now; you, needing his hand, needing him to take you back. He will welcome you back into his arms, as if you hadn’t even left, and you will know then that you were right to leave.

He gazes at you, red eyes smoldering, “Then don’t.” he rasps and he’s trying to remain dispassionate, but his voice has a trembling note in it, the hidden fear underneath the harsh coolness.

Your eyes flicker back to him, your lips parting in surprise. You wipe at your eyes.

“So that’s it?”

And this makes him angry, the sharp tug of it like a dog at the end of it’s leash. He lurches forward threateningly, like he might hurt you.

(You don’t flinch. And he stops himself before he gets too close.)

“What?” he snaps, “Did you want me to beg for you to stay?”

He wants to, he realizes, he wants to howl and scream and tear apart everything in sight. He wants to say don’t go, don’t go, don’t slip from me, too.

He wants to bargain with you– what is it he can’t give you that they can?

Your heroes only love you because they don’t know you, they don’t know what you’ve done. Your heroes only love you as far as truth and justice go. A hero would sacrifice you for the greater good and you would agree with them, even if you were shaking and crying, even if you burned with all that liveliness.

But he’d sooner sacrifice the world for you.

You have his rib, he wants to scream, of course he wants to beg.

You shake your head, though, more tears falling free, “No,” you say, voice surprisingly strong, “No, I never made you beg.”

The truth of it burrows beneath his skin. He knows. The itch squirms beneath his skin. His hand reaches up, digs into the crook of his neck to scratch at it.

It’s Dabi’s voice in his head that says something about getting too distracted with this braindead hero. He has bigger plans than hiding in an abandoned apartment with you. More to do. You were nothing but a side quest.

His pause screen.

Besides, what’s there to be upset about? You’ll come back.

He won’t even punish you for leaving, he promises. He promises.

“Then that’s it.” Tomura tells you, a bitter curl to his lips.

There’s no goodbye, just the breeze between the two of you, the empty space that he always hated. The nothingness between that he always sought to destroy.

Eventually, he just turns away from you. He can’t stomach looking at you any longer. He can feel your eyes pressing into his retreating form– he imagines you rushing for him, crashing into his back to throw your arms around his middle. You can’t do it, you’ll cry, burying your face between his shoulder blades. And he’ll freeze, but eventually he’ll wrap his arms around yours and bow his head with the strength of your feelings for him.

Or he imagines later, when it’s the end of the world, and you emerge from the rubble to reach for him. It’ll be like his dreams, when the sky is falling, and you only want to hold his hand in yours.

He imagines you shouting to him, changing your mind, saying his name like it’s a song to sing, not mourning bells, not a curse or an affliction.

But none of it happens.

And when he turns around, you are gone.

You leave his life as viciously as you entered it, suddenly there, all furious and beautiful, and now gone, like a lightning strike, like a lifetime.

***

You tell yourself you’re going to be fine, but you spend random days weeping over a villain. You spend long nights awake, missing him, replaying it all in your mind. You cover all your mirrors. You try to be different. You wish you could say you regret ever getting involved with him, but it would be one more lie. You wish for the time before the worst of it, the strange honeymoon you never should’ve had.

You wish you’d remembered to slow down, to savor it all a little more. You try to remember what your first kiss was like and the shade of his eyes through the evening light of an abandoned warehouse.

You try to remember when you didn’t feel so heavy, so corrosive and lost.

It doesn’t help that you’re suspended from heroing; a choice made by both the Hero Commission and Shouta. There’s nothing for you to do some evenings.

Shouta lets you train with him and Shinsou still. Shinsou tries to cheer you up, though he doesn’t know what’s wrong with you. Still, it hurts because he’s trying. It hurts because he cares so much, even about you.

You don’t deserve it, after everything.

You take care of Eri more, too, now that she is nearly in Shouta’s care. You babysit her while he’s away. You grow close with her, fiercely protective of the young girl, careful to keep the Hero Commission at a distance from her. She settles in your lap on the couch in Shouta’s apartment most evenings, watching TV and movies, while he grades papers at the opposite end.

Sometimes she falls asleep tucked into your side. You stroke her silver hair and try to bite back tears.

She catches you, sometimes, perceptive as she is, and asks very gently, “Why are you sad?” even if a tear hasn’t slipped free yet.

And you always shake your head, trying to dispel the thought of Tomura and the parents that gave him such a tragic name as a child. You force a smile for her and you tell her something silly to distract her, “I’m not,” you promise, “I just think there’s an onion nearby.”

She wrinkles her nose at this, “No, there isn’t!” but she’s easily distracted with tickles or the promise of painting her nails or having a tea party with Shouta.

Miraculously, your relationship with Shouta begins to heal, despite your betrayal. You think he can tell something worse happened to you during your time with Tomura, you think he can tell that you’re hurting, so he ends up gentler with you. He doesn’t trust you, though, keeps you on a tight leash. He looks at you some days like he isn’t quite sure he knows you.

Nothing is the same. Part of you wants to regret it. The part of you that loves Tomura can’t stomach the idea of regretting it. Someone is dead because of you. Someone is alive because of you, too.

But Shouta doesn’t ask and you don’t tell, can’t seem to speak the words.

You can’t even say, I fell in love, can’t speak the truth because it is so horrible.

And you know what everyone would ask; who could love the likes of him?

Me, you think, vehement and grief-stricken, me, you think defiantly. Why couldn’t you? He was a child once–

Shouta lets you burrow into his chest, wraps his arms around you. He sways with you in the kitchen until you can keep back your tears, until your heart has slowed to the tempo of his. He kisses the top of your head.

And it’s Shouta who is with you, when you return from training, and open the door to your apartment to reveal a scruffy, mangy looking grey kitten that wasn’t there when you left.

Ryuji chirps happily at you, rushing to the open door.

For a moment, you’re so shocked that all you can do is stand, startled, as he rubs himself against your legs.

“Don’t tell me you found another stray–” Shouta starts, but all you get out is a small, choked noise.

And here is the impact from the fall, you think, looking at that little cat that is excitedly winding itself around your legs. You can feel the shattering of your heart, like he’d lobbed it against the wall. You wonder if it catches light the same way glass does, all stained with color and broken into shards.

You drop to the floor with the weight of it all, with the clean splitting of your heart.

The moment Ryuji climbs into your lap, a sob finally ruptures out of you.

Shouta is fast, coming down beside you, you think he’s asking what’s wrong, why you’re crying, but you’ve already gathered the kitten into your arms, cradling him to your chest as the tears come quick and furious down your cheeks.

You think maybe you should be more concerned as to how he got Ryuji here, in U.A. dorms, you should be worried about security and safety but all you’re thinking about is that little apartment that you hid from the world with him in.

No, all you’re thinking about is the way light fell through the lone window to turn him hazy and soft in your memory. You’re thinking about how he never denied you affection, so long as you gave it tenfold in turn. The drawl of his voice. The pressing of his fingers into your skin like you were a miracle.

To him, you were.

Another sob spills out of you, from somewhere deep inside you.

What a lonely life, to only be able to touch one person in certainty. You wonder who will be the next person that will lay their hands gently on a body that has known too much pain. You wonder if you will be the last person to do it.

The thought hurts, opens up a part of you that is tender and shaking and desperately furious.

When Shouta can’t figure out what’s wrong with you or why you’re crying, he gives up, and sits on the floor with you. He gathers you into his lap so your back is pressed to his chest, pushing your head beneath his chin, Ryuji still cradled in your arms.

You cry harder when Shouta tries to comfort you, when he hushes softly, so sweetly, only because you don’t think there’s anyone to comfort Tomura like this.

You think of Tomura alone, even without Ryuji and it just–

Crushes you.

You squeeze the kitten tighter to your chest as you cry and cry and cry. You let Shouta hold you against him, but there’s no comfort in the aching hollowness that is growing in the pit of your chest.

You want to scream at the world that tossed the coin.

But all that comes out is a garbled, misery struck, cry.

You never told him you loved him, never gave word to what consumed you. And you realize, sitting on the floor with a kitten in your arms, that you won’t ever be able to tell him now.

It will live and die inside of you, never spoken into existence.

And even though it’s too late and Tomura Shigaraki is readying for a battle with a giant without you at his side, you still whisper the words you never got to speak into the top of Ryuji’s head.

Your lips barely move with it, the quietest, most desperate, “I love you– I loved you.” that escapes you with a trembling breath.

Shouta doesn’t even hear the confession.

Ryuji nudges your cheek with his, though, purring softly, keeping your secret safe.

And in the least, you are able to twist into Shouta’s arms and bury your face in his chest to cry as hard as you need. There’s no distance between the two of you now, like you always wanted.

Always here when you need him, even now, when it’s not him you want.

The irony isn’t lost on you.

You mumble incoherent apologies into his shoulder, try to hide in him, like he might be able to shield you from all the hurt and ache of your first love. He doesn’t ask, but he tells you very gently, his voice like the hearth of your home, “If you ever want to talk, I’ll always be there for you.”

You keep Ryuji, clean him up, fit him with a new collar, a new life. Shouta helps you care for him.

Eri adores the kitten, hugging him to her smiling face every time she sees him. Thankfully Ryuji is even-tempered, eager for affection. Almost desperate for it.

Ryuji is like proof of another world, proof that it all happened.

Sometimes you rub between his ears and ask, “Do you miss it, too?” but all he does is peer at you inquisitively, eyes large and fixed on you.

You sleep with him, though, let the kitten curl up in your lonesome arms, hold tight to him the way you used to hold tight to Tomura.

***

In the middle of the night, your phone wakes you with its insistent chime and buzzing. You blink awake sleepily, slowly and blindly paw for your phone.

You turn the screen towards you and squint at the bright light, making out the word that flashes on it;

Unknown Caller.

You grimace, rubbing at your eyes. You debate putting your phone down, letting it ring and go to voicemail. Why should you answer for an unknown caller in the middle of the night?

And yet, something in you squirms, urges you to pick up. You have no idea who it might be— maybe someone needs your help. Is it possible it’s Shouta? Shinsou? What if it’s—

You answer finally, groggy voice slurring out, “Hello?”

You’re met with static.

“Hello?” you say again, voice hushed with sleep.

Still nothing.

Tomura sits on the other side, with the phone pressed desperately to his ear. He holds everything inside of him, barely allows himself to breathe on the other end.

He doesn’t know why he’s done this, only that he is on his way to proving himself with the League and he wishes you were still at his side.

He swallows, hears you call again, “Hello? Anyone there?”

He tightens his four-finger grip on the phone, squeezing his eyes shut at the sound of your voice, sleepy and soft in his ear, wrapping around the jagged parts of his heart.

He exhales and you must hear it because you say, “Is someone there?”

He bites back an answer, feels his lip tremble slightly.

He hears you huff, indignant little thing that you are and his lips pull into a shaky, painful smile. “I’m going to hang up now,” you say, all prickly, the way you’d get if he woke you too soon.

He used to soothe you with lips and teeth and tongue, run diligent fingers over you until you were sighing and arching into his touch. Until all your hard, vicious edges softened with the flattening of his palm on your body.

And for some reason you try, one last time into coaxing him to answer, “C’mon,” you say, almost like you know, “Nothing?”

Nothing, he wants to echo, but doesn’t.

His heart pounds an uneasy rhythm, a haunted tempo. He feels himself shaking again.

“Okay,” you exhale, slow, like you’re giving him a chance to stop you, “Goodbye.”

A beat passes, before he feels his heart lurch painfully in the hollow place of his chest at the thought of not hearing your voice again like this, so near. He doesn’t want you to go, wants to listen to you until it coaxes him to sleep.

“Wait– don’t hang up–“ Tomura hisses into the phone at the last moment, unable to decide if he wants you to hear him or not.

He gets his answer in the buzzing silence, long and drawn out, that fills his head. His heart.

And he sits there with his phone still in hand and his heart still on the line.

***

Tomura shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be watching you from afar, in the park that he thought you’d looked like a painting in. You’re beautiful.

But what does someone like him know about beauty, anyways?

The fireburst leaves are nearly gone, barely clinging to lone and stark branches. They claw up into the sky now, but the sun is shining. It’s mid-morning. You’re in the park with your mentor, with the violet haired boy he’d seen you with before, and the little girl with silver hair. The one that was in Overhaul’s care, with the devastating Quirk.

She tugs excitedly at your sleeve now and you give her your undivided attention, your face lighting up with whatever it is she tells you.

You scoop her into your arms and her echoing giggle is like wind chimes, melodic and childish and care-free.

You look happy, he thinks, with your mentor’s hand on the small of your back, looking down at you and the girl fondly. The violet-haired boy says something that makes the girl laugh, it makes you smile as you watch her.

You look back at your mentor with a look that Tomura has come to know; one that begs of attention and approval and affection. He can see the desperate glint to your eyes, hungry for his love.

He swallows around the sharp bitterness he feels. Jealousy floods him in a way he has never fully known. But it’s more than just jealousy for you and your attention, for the way you’re looking at your mentor.

No, it’s something greater, far worse.

He’s jealous of your mentor, with the easy way he gets to touch and look at you out in public. But he’s also jealous of you and your life.

He doesn’t realize it at first, but he’s begun to shake.

Because you were saved– isn’t that it? You were saved. And he wasn’t.

Maybe he’s jealous of the boy with you, too, with the possibility of his life so much brighter already. He has more of a chance than Tomura ever had.

Or maybe it’s the girl in your arms, with eyes like his, who he is most jealous of now. He has never allowed himself to ask;

Why couldn’t it be me?

But now he does and he can feel the pit in his chest grow with a livid sort of despair. Grief for a life never lived. Didn’t he deserve to be saved, too? Like the girl in your arms? Like you? Didn’t he deserve a life like this, too? What’s the difference? He wants to demand it, what’s the difference?

You were just a kid, you know?

His fingers dig into his neck. There is no one to stop him from breaking skin, for drawing blood on his own body. His chest festers, angry, like a blister. His stomach turns, his body trembling harder, like he’s a child, like he’s going to shake apart.

He looks at your smiling face, the curve of your lips, and wants you so bad it hurts. He wonders if you ever dreamt of him as a hero, the way he dreams of you as a villain. He wonders why it feels so unfair suddenly, the turning of your lives, the coming together and falling apart.

He shudders, feels the sudden lump in his throat. He tried not to mourn you, when you left him. He told himself that there was nothing to mourn; either you would be back or you weren’t worth it. He feels the pressure of tears now, though, much to his frustration. He feels his lungs burn for breath as he watches you hand the little girl off to your mentor, who props her onto his hip easily.

He watches you throw your head back and laugh, the sound of it distant, but he catches it, the outskirts of it. He used to feel that laugh against his throat, against his lips.

But now he watches you live a life he apparently never deserved.

His bottom lip trembles, a furious scowl marring his face.

He could scream or shout at a world that wouldn’t listen. The fact of it all, the helplessness of it all, burns beneath his skin like wildfire, like acid.

Tomura takes one last look at you; the expressive glimmer of your eyes, the flash of your teeth. He lingers on you, commits you to memory as if he could ever forget you. Maybe someday he will. Maybe he won’t have to, if you come back to him.

But he won’t wait on it, in an apartment that still has traces of you in it’s corners and crevices. No, he has more to do, bigger than him. Bigger than you.

Even if the horrible tempo of his heart begs differently, even if the shaking in his shoulders is an indication otherwise.

One last look of you– you’re talking, saying something with your hands. The little girl laughs again, her red eyes crinkling up happily.

Tomura turns away.

He walks a familiar path to the apartment, the wind tries to slice through his jacket, kicks up leaves and litter in shadowed alleyways.

He enters and there is no one trailing behind him, your hands twisted into the back of his hoodie, or his sleeves. It’s quiet. Empty. He surveys it once, the bed with unmade sheets. The window that let in beams of colored light, that Ryuji would sit at.

And then he sets his hands on the wall, all ten of his fingers down, the way he used to touch you.

The wall begins to decay, cracks and crumbles beneath his hands. It spreads, and spreads, and spreads like a disease filling out the body of the apartment. Dust begins to fall like early snow.

His heart squeezes painfully, his eyes suddenly flooding with pressure, with tears he tries to keep back. His head throbs, feels like it’s going to cleave apart. His ribs ache– hurt so bad it’s like he can feel the one you took from him, the gaping part of his chest.

His Quirk flares hard and hot and fast. It burns through him, floods his veins in a way that makes him cry out, suddenly shaking, suddenly pained.

He destroys the apartment, disintegrates the tiny world he created with you that existed outside of the real one. He unpauses the game. He takes apart what the world should’ve been, when he was here, with you. He sees now that a world like this cannot exist.

The peace, the ideal, the way you had understood him. Your unending compassion. It’s rare. Not enough to save the rest of them.

So he tears it all apart, pushes at his Quirk in a way he hasn’t been able to before, nudges at its strength to test it. It flares outward, eating away at the entire space, at the furniture, at the floor. Everywhere.

He seethes, blooming, finally allowing that livid and vicious thing inside of him to burst forward. It’s explosive, wrenching out of him in the form of terrible destruction.

He’ll grow into what he was supposed to–

I wanted to be a hero– when I was a kid.

The only option he ever really had, the hand extended to him a villain’s, gentle when he’d taken it.

He destroys the boy inside him, the one that was naive and hopeful and weak. He let’s that boy inside of him fall apart, split open and leaks gore before turning to dust, too. He kills the part of him that he had only ever shared with you, in the blue-dark of night, when you were lulled to sleep with just the sound of his heart.

He swallows down his anguish and his jealousy and his bitterness, keeps it safe inside him, like All For One always said to do. He’ll nourish it, let it grow, fester inside of him until the only thing it can do is explode out of him to tear the world apart, too.

When he’s standing in the rubble of the tiny world you’d made with him, the apartment complex demolished, the people inside gone, he knows what he has to do.

And he has so much work to do in order to achieve it.

He tries to forget you, to destroy your memory, too. He will not carry the weight of you around inside him.

(But in his dreams, you sit cross-legged in front of him, serene and beautiful, like a painting he knows nothing about.

In his dreams, you ask for his hands to have, and he gives you them to hold.)

[pomegranatearildreams]

Worlds Away | Jax Teller

Fic for the wonderful @hotdamnhunnam and her 1k follower celebration 🎊. I’m very late to this and I know you’re closer to 2k followers by now but congratulations my lovely ❤️, you deserve all this love!!! 18+ content ahead. For this super fun challenge my prompts are Jax Teller + really rough sex + intense possessive/jealousy + breeding kink.  I’m firmly a reader of Charlie smut as opposed to a writer, but this awesome celebration and kink prompts had me in the mood to write a fic (and I’m super scared to put this out here 🙈). This was supposed to be around 1k of a smut scene but when I started writing this, I’m also on an SoA rewatch which gave me an idea for a plot and I thought it would work well with these prompts … so 1k turned into 5k 🙃

Pairing: Jax Teller x F!Reader (no y/n)

Fic summary: Set in a post 7x12 world: Tara’s gone, Gemma’s gone. Jax stays as President of SAMCRO. Reader’s job brings her to Charming from time to time where she meets Jax. Unable to resist the mutual attraction, they fall into a just-sex arrangement. But she’s become more than just sex for him, and the main premise of this fic is Jax battling with his deepening feelings for her and with his decision to either finally leave MC life or to stay

Author’s note: In this fic reader is a doctor. This isn’t supposed to bear any similarities to Tara or Jara. I made her a doctor because I felt like this gave a natural way for her to meet Jax whilst also playing into her having her own world that’s very different to his. Also, I don’t live in America so some hospital vocab might be different but I’ve tried to use the same terms since this fic is based where Jax Teller’s stunning 🍑 lives 😅

Themes: Angst, smut 

Warnings: 18+ only, smut, unprotected p in v, breeding kink, lil lactation kink, car sex, swearing, angst

Word count: 5.1k

He can’t stand anything these days. Not the reflection of the soulless man staring back at him in the mirror, not the kutte of the club that’s taken so much of what he’s loved from him, not the ruthless actions of his brothers and most of all himself.

He can’t stand anything at all. Guess that makes sense since you bring him to his knees. The first time he laid eyes on you, your clean white coat and shiny stethoscope, skilful hands stitching up one of the prospects scratched up from a brawl, for the first time in years he felt something other than hate.

A couple years had passed since he had lost the only woman he’s ever loved. Since his mother had lost her life at the hands of her own son. His father, mother, best friend and wife all taken from him, he has only his sons to live for. The voice inside his head screams at him every day that those boys would be better off without him. Safer. There’s an aching part of him that thinks it’s probably true.

But this life is the only thing he’s ever known. He’s been cladding himself in the kutte and diving head first into club business for as long as he can remember. So he continues waking up every day and living this way. Lawless, violence, merciless.

He tries. Every second he tries. Runs around the town making connections in desperate attempts to rid his club of all illegitimate business. But he fails. Every bid to dig his club out of the lawless hole has only ever buried them deeper into the blood stained ground. He hates it here. Hates it at church. Hates it on the road. Hates it all around the town all day long because he just can’t escape it all. It was the only thing he felt until he caught glimpse of you that first day.

You heard all about him before you ever saw him. SAMCRO and their notoriety. Your first time called into St Thomas Hospital, Charming. Your usual place of work as an emergency medicine doctor is the major trauma centre based in the big city an hour and half away. Since St Thomas is a smaller hospital, it’s partnered with your usual hospital as it’s the closest trauma centre and you pick up some extra shifts here whenever they’re running short on staff.

Your first shift here you heard the talking. Your colleagues whispering about which poor Charming native got caught in cross fire between SAMCRO and their rivals and took a few bullets or cuts to end up in the ED. Some nurses and doctors gossiping about wanting this man called Jax Teller to whisk them out of the hospital so they can “ride him like he rides his Harley”.

Couple minutes in and you already knew these men are dangerous. Going to keep your distance. You’ll treat them as you would any other patient of course, but outside of needing to interact with them, you don’t ever want to. Why would you when they seem to only bring danger and death like everyone is recounting them bringing?

Towards the end of your shift you opened the cubicle curtains to one of them, bearing “prospect” on his back, on the hospital bed. He wasn’t alone. Accompanied by another man, bearing “president” on his broad chest. Standing tall he smiled softly at you. 

So this is him. Jax Teller. The man of the town. And oh god did your body react to him. Lips parted, breath caught and heart felt like it stopped in that very moment your eyes set on his unbelievably handsome features, rugged and chiselled.

The subtle shine of the black leather covering his torso caught the cubicle light and the corner of your eye, reminding you that he leads a life you knew from talk to stay away from. 

So you shifted your focus onto your actual patient, who only came to the ED because his injuries couldn’t be tied back to any of the club’s illegal activities, and worked away stitching him up. 

Once your work on him was done, you saw off the two men and the clock had run down on your day’s shift so you headed to the staff locker room to change out of the hospital scrubs and pack your belongings to make the 90 minute drive back home.

When you walked to your car parked in the hospital’s parking lot you noticed the prospect and the president still there, finishing a conversation before the prospect drove away on his motorbike.

You couldn’t get to your car without walking passed him so you shot him a polite smile thinking it would be returned and then you’d both be on your ways back to your respective homes.

But he didn’t just flash a smile your way.

He called out your professional title of “Dr” followed by your last name. At that, your limbs instantly felt slack, lungs inhaling a sharp breath.

Having already made small talk earlier at the hospital, you were acquainted with his name.

“Jax,” you began with a smile, pausing to allow him to finish walking closer to you. You then insisted he calls you by your first name, since you’re off the clock and he’s not a patient of yours.

You’d never know as he would never tell you but that bright smile of yours warms him. Weakens and breaks down the hardened barriers he’s built around his heart and soul in attempts to prevent anything else this life of his may continue to throw at him from hurting him.

From the conversation in the hospital, Jax knew that your life is miles away in the city, working wonders in one the continent’s best hospitals. In that first second of meeting, your beauty was the most stunning he had ever seen and it had already made him fall that little bit for you. But that was just at a superficial level.

Now knowing that you have a happy life away from this town drew him even more to you because it had him wondering about joining you in that life. He knew it was foolish to think about something so far out of reach, especially when he had given up hope of living in any other way than he does now, but he let himself with you.

Standing in front of you, he placed a hand on the top of your shoulder, grip firm yet gentle as he gave your shoulder a squeeze.

“Thank you for taking care of my guy back there,” he spoke staring softly down into your eyes.

“It’s no problem at all,” you could barely reply feeling nothing but his touch on you.

Jax knew he should leave you to get back on your way. That you’re a person just trying to do their job and get on with their day peacefully, and that he should steer clear of you, not get you involved in anything to do with the club, including himself. But having you so close to him stood right there in front of him, in that moment he couldn’t stop himself.

His eyes travelled down to your lips before drifting back up to your eyes as he leaned his face closer to yours. Every fibre of your being wanted to dive straight into him. But you heard the talk. So before anything else could happen you took steps back and away from his hold.

As you left his hand he stood still shocked for a moment before clearing his throat and running a hand through his hair, eyes breaking away from you in embarrassment.

You let a few moments pass to cool off the initial awkwardness. “Good night Jax. I’ll see you around,” you finally broke the silence.

“Uh yeah, yeah, good night. See you,” he replied looking back to you.

You gave him half a smile before making your way to your car. You wished you were in his arms lips smashed against his right now, but knew that the sensible option was to turn in the opposite direction. So you followed your head instead of your heart and drove away from him.

*****

A month had passed since your first shift at St Thomas and this night you were called in again. A mass casualty. Open gun fire on the busy streets left dozens with serious gunshot wounds, many more with severe injuries, and an overwhelmed emergency department with beds and staff running thin. The cause of it all, a long shoot out between SAMCRO and a rival MC on the streets of Charming.

You and your colleagues did your best. But even that wasn’t enough to prevent the loss of one too many lives. Another end of your shift and you ran out of the hospital, away from the horrid memories of bloodshed and helplessness, to your car as you wanted nothing more than to drive as far away from this damned town.

But he was waiting. Standing in front of your car, look of despair painted across his face. Your eyes locked when you first spotted him, but in the sheer shame he felt, his gaze dropped.

Anger coursed through you at the wreckage his club had caused. All the lives lost at their hands. You bit your tongue and fought the urge to scream as you walked passed him and opened the door to your car. But you needed answers. So you shut the door again and walked to face him.

Your eyes scanned his face and kutte.

“What is SAMCRO?” you asked desperately, voice barely above a whisper at the pain of all the lives you couldn’t save today.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen,” his voice breaking, and eyes dull with pain and shame as he referred to the collateral damage of those lives lost.

“But it did,” your fingers limply tugged at his kutte. “Jax what is this?”

He went on to tell you it all. From the beginning of what his father set out the club to be to its slip into illegal territory and current struggles with legality. He spared you the knowledge of their illegal actions, just enough for you to know the background but he told you enough so that you now know he’s not a monster. Sees himself as one. But you can see that he knows right from wrong, and his hand has been forced to do the wrong for so long now that he can’t see any good in himself any longer.

But you see the good in him. You believe there’s good in him. Holding onto that thought is the only thing that eases your conscious when you pulled onto the collar of his kutte and let him take you in his arms and into the back seat of your car. You immediately slipped the kutte off of him because you just can’t stand what it means. With your lips dancing together, your hands unbuttoned and unzipped the clothes off each other before your bodies locked in a hard slow pace.

This is the summary of you and Jax. Hot heavy sessions in your car’s back seat the once or twice a month you happen to be in town. He meets you in the parking lot kutte-less because he knows you resent any sight or mention of the club. Always a soft yet pained smile upon his face when he greets you, before ravaging you in the most heavenly way you’ve never known until him.

You know the history of the ghosts that haunt them. You’re many things for Jax. He’ll never tell you this but you’ve become his only ray of hope in his bleak world. You and him both know you’re his slut. His filthy whore. Hell you even let him call you his bitch when he’s inside you ruthlessly tearing apart your holes. But the one thing you swear never to become is his collateral damage. Promise to never get yourself so far involved to be yet another woman’s life lost as expense for her man’s status as SAMCRO. That’s why it’s just sex between you and him. No feelings to talk about, no future, just fucking. Yeah no feelings to talk about, but that doesn’t mean there were no feelings felt.

*****

It’s a few months into your arrangement with Jax and he’s leaning against his Harley in the hospital parking lot waiting for you to finish your shift.

He feels his jeans tugging taut as his stiffness rages at the thoughts of the ways he’s planning on tossing and bending your body and gaping your holes.

But a sight pulls him out of those fantasies. He sees you chatting and smiling with another doctor, a close colleague. One who’s standing too close and making you smile a little too wide for Jax’s liking. He grits his teeth and slings his kutte back on him, striding towards you and your colleague. He knows it’s extremely petty but he’s hoping the sight of his patch sends that doctor running away.

As he reaches you and the other, he wraps an arm around your waist and rests his hand on your abdomen, a show of your unavailability to your colleague. Upon seeing Jax’s kutte, the other doctor knew trouble when he saw it and couldn’t excuse himself fast enough. They exchange swift "hey”s before you and Jax are left alone.

“What was that?” you turn to ask him confused at his public display of affection, or as you’ve come to know Jax very well, display of possession. You and him had agreed that whilst this arrangement is mutually exclusive, it’s also on a no one-else-needs-to-know basis. It’s not a secret, but it’s not going to last long so there’s no need to gush to friends and family about it.

Jax is still seeing red from the other doctor’s fondness towards you. He knows there was nothing in it from your side, but insecurity pours into him at the thought that you could abandon him for a man living a life so much more compatible to your own than his. 

“Oh I’m sorry, did I interrupt you and Dr Squeaky Clean?” his sarcasm takes you aback as you wonder why he’s in a bothered state. “Did I interrupt the start of a fairy tale love story between you and him?” he pauses to clench his jaw. “Mr and Mrs Doctor, of course you would run to him for a white picket fence, two kids and a dog,” his exasperation isn’t directed towards you, but at himself as it pains him knowing there’s no way of achieving that future with you.

Realising it’s jealousy that’s seeping through him, you place your hands on the sides of his biceps holding him reassuringly.

“Jax,” the simple word of his name spoken softly from your lips and the pleading look on your face tells him there’s no one else but him. He's it for you.

He hears you. But he needs to feel how much you’re his right now.

His body’s fired up and he channels that energy into running riot on yours. He takes your face in his hands and crashes his lips against yours, pressing hard and relentlessly draws the breath out of your lungs, biting your lower lip in between strokes of your tongue with his.

You can only get seconds of gasps out as Jax doesn’t let up the siege on your lips. One of his hands slide down your cheek and holds your neck firmly whilst the other tangles through your hair and wraps your locks in his hand until they’re balled around his fist.

He breaks the seal between your lips and stares down at you, pure heat radiating off of him as he mercifully gives you a moment to catch your breath. When your breathing evens out he lowers his head to rest his forehead on yours.

He knows he shouldn’t be doing this. He knows it’s going to end at some point and that he should set you free of his hold. But he’s fallen. Not just for your face and body. These past few months he seeks comfort and escape in you. When you’re both laid on the backseats of your car in the after glow, your arms hugging his neck and his cradling your waist, the conversations of everything and anything but his club make him feel like he’s living in a whole other world there with you in those hours before he’s pulled back to his reality when he clambers out your car and onto his town’s streets. You’re the one pure light in his sorry ass life. He should let you go. But he doesn’t want to. He’ll never want to. But he has to, so he will. Just not yet.

“You’re mine,” he spews out those words, starving eyes burning an inferno into your soul. It’s a reminder to himself more than anything. It’s a desperate bid that saying those words will make them permanently true. 

Keeping the hold on your neck and hair, he guides you to your car. His hand releases your hair to dig into your pocket until he finds your keys and unlocks your car. Once he’s opened the back door, he grabs your hips and throws you down onto the seats before climbing in himself and closing the door.

You prop yourself up on your elbows and he balances himself over you by kneeling in between your legs. He grips your hips again pulling you towards him, causing you to fall from your elbows onto your back.

Jax’s hands make quick work stripping your belt off their buckles and onto the floor, and to tug your trousers down your legs before he tosses them to the front seat.

His hands grip your knees to spread them further apart, before his palms stroke up the length of your inner thighs, his strong touch drawing shallow breaths from your open mouth.

He smirks when he sees the dampness pooling in the centre of your panties and further adds fuel to the fire when he uses one hand to press down on your inner thigh and the other to rub his palm hard up and down your lace covered cunt.

“Aaah J… Jax,” you can feel the heat building rapidly through your core at the intense pleasure he’s piling onto you.

The throbbing in your clit intensifies with his motions before he removes his hand and swiftly pulls your panties to the side. Two fingers slide the length of your soaking slit, your juices falling over the tips of his digits. 

“Mmmm, so fucking wet already,” Jax coos, before leaning forward to grip your hair in his fist again and ensure your gaze remains fixed on him as he then takes his fingers that were so achingly close to your entrance a few seconds ago into his mouth. He smiles and groans at the warm taste of your arousal all the whilst staring into your star-struck eyes. 

He takes a few more seconds to lap up your flavour before moving his hand to grope your tit with his face just millimetres away from yours. 

You moan against his lips as he continues kneading your breast firmly and tugging on your hair. He lets you bask like that for a moment before moving his face and hands to your chest and you soon hear a loud sharp tear.

You can only pant and stare as Jax hastily pulls the shreds of your shirt off your arms followed by him unclasping your bra and tossing it to the floor. Your panties follow the same fate as your shirt, the torn piece flung off of you and away.

He bites his lips staring down at your exposed bare body spread out for him, the sweet sight causing his cock to throb ever harder and he can feel the precum oozing through his boxers. 

He’s looking like a masterpiece that has every right to be framed in gold and hung up in some Italian museum amongst the other sculpted gods for all the world to rightfully admire. Just the scene of him kneeling in between your legs has your body weak and his touch has only left you even more limp in lust. 

You reach up to slide his kutte and top over him, your hands moving to his belt but he cups your breasts in his hands and presses you back down on the seats. He gropes and squeezes your tits, before moving his fingers to pinch and twirl away at your nipples, whilst his mouth bites and sucks at the soft skin of your chest leaving deep red marks and him proud of his brand on you. Moans and gasps pour out your mouth as you grind your dripping pussy against his jean covered crotch as Jax matches the slow rhythm of your hips. 

Your fingers grip his gelled locks and his mouth moves from your chest to your nipple where he sucks hard whilst his fingers tweak your other nipple. His sucking turns to swirling before he nibbles down, and a deep gasp escapes your lips at the sharp feeling but you soon melt into the blissful pleasure, eyes rolling and head flopping back as you arch your back and sink your tit even further into his mouth. 

You can feel his hard cock pressed through his jeans and the grinding just won’t do anymore. 

“Jax please, please fuck me,” you breathlessly plead. Your hands release his belt and zipper before diving into his jeans. You swipe the drops of precum from his tip and your hands travel further down to palm his stiff length, pussy getting even wetter eagerly waiting to be ripped wide. 

You didn’t have to ask twice as Jax pulls his jeans and boxers down his mid-thigh before gripping your hair and holding his erection with his other hand to align it in between your slick folds. He slides his cock up and down your slit, cruelly teasing you. All you can do is whine as the feeling of his huge width between your legs leaves you lost for words.

“You want this?!” he taunts against your lips, dealing quick hard slaps to your swollen clit with his firm tip.

“Mmmmh,” you helplessly nod trying but failing to answer him. 

“Say it!” he snaps at the exact second his cock deals another slap to your clit. You’re about to cum from this alone if he continues for even just a few slaps more.

“Yy.. y... yes Jax please,” it’s all you have the strength to say and all he needs to hear as he slams his entire raging length deep inside your cunt.

“Aahhhh yes!” you cry out as your tight wet walls clinch around him. 

He keeps his cock buried the whole way inside you for the few seconds it takes him to handle your thighs from around his waist to around his biceps, the wider angle opening you further up to his length and girth. 

“Fuuuck Jax yeah,” you whine in ecstasy.

At that he grips your hip and hair, holding you in the place he wants you and ploughs hard with significant speed.

“Oohhh fuuuck,” you gasp at his pace. 

All the other times you’ve fucked you both set a hard yet slow pace. They’ve all been dirty yet tender fucks. 

Nothing about this is tender. It’s all heat, relentless, feral. 

“Such a perfect pussy,” Jax grunts as he continues railing you into the seats. He’s got the strength and stamina to keep up the ferocious pace as he spews pure filth into your mouth.

“So tight, you take this cock so well.”

Your breathing’s shallow and fast and stops altogether when he leans down to kiss you. His taste of smoke and whiskey burns the back of your throat as you swallow his heavy heated breaths, moaning in bliss as you melt into his hold. 

You break apart from his lips when you can’t hold back the sigh forced out of you by the sensation of your pussy being mercilessly stretched by his unfaltering pace.

His walls fall apart at the sight of you underneath him, lips parted, mouth breathing only his name, glistening eyes staring up longingly at him. He just can’t hold it in any longer. 

“Fuck, I’m gonna put a ring on you one day,” he pants. “Diamonds and gold, everything that your perfect ass is worth,” his heart laid bare to you. 

Your eyes widen in sheer shock at his words. You know he doesn’t mean it. He can’t possibly mean it. You both know you’re not going to be in each other’s lives for many months more. So you guess he’s just caught up in the moment. You figure all the sparks set off when he’s getting his dick wet inside his latest slut must be causing him to spout some shit about a future love. But dammit you’re caught up in the moment too. It’s not just your pussy willingly taking him in, your heart is all ready and set to too. So you play along. 

“Then I’m gonna put a baby inside you,” he can’t stop where his mind is daring to dream to. “A little girl, fuck you’re gonna give me such a beautiful daughter.”  

“Jaaax,” you whimper, tears in your eyes pooling at how much you want for all that to be true. 

“You’re gonna look so stunning, belly swollen carrying my child. I’d fuck you so good too knowing my baby’s growing inside you. Fill you up with my cock and cum whilst your belly’s filling up with my child. Suck on your sweet tits filled with milk all ready to feed our baby. I’d take such good care of you and our family,” his eyes never once leave yours and fierce pace never once let up as he declared his wish. 

He wants that all. Wants to beg you to not leave him once this latest round of car sex has finished. Better yet wishes you’d take him with you. Away from the cursed club, away from the god forsaken town, to a happy ever after at peace and safety in your polished city. But that’s just some bullshit pipe dream and he knows it. A life with you so far out of reach, he hates himself for even having the nerve to think about it.

So he doesn’t say another word. Just groans and grunts as he continues driving his cock into you, balls slapping hard against the inner cheeks of your ass. You take his lead and put aside all he had just said, try to drown them out with your cries and whines. 

His cock hits your squishy spot again and again and again, the tension in your core builds until you release yourself with screams of euphoria around his length, legs frantically shaking around him, his entire cock milked with your cum. He holds you tightly in his arms as you catch your breath and recover from your high. Your soft moans only encourage him further.

The delicate sight and feel of you wrapped around him pushes him over the edge. His thick hot ropes of cum erupt inside of you, filling you up with his cream as you both cry out in pleasure. 

He collapses onto you, a deep kiss blessing your lips before he buries his face into the crook of your neck. Your arms and his desperately gripping onto each other. 

Later that night you sit him up and bounce on his cock, then he spins you around and fucks you from behind, both diving in between each others legs with your mouths in between those rounds. 

The pleasure turns to sorrow like every other night you and him meet, as you drive away and he rides away. 

*****

He visits you one day. Doesn’t give a damn that he’s broken a previously agreed upon rule to never meet at each other’s homes. It’s just too sweet for what is supposed to be a back-seat-fuck arrangement. But he couldn't wait the extra week to see you, feel you, taste you again. 

On his bike. 8pm. The hills of green and beige fade to floors of concrete, which then build into glass skyscrapers. Bright lights of the big city, busy buzz. Education from world-class institutions, jobs at world-leading establishments. All the good you achieve with your work here and all the bad that goes down over there, your world and his world so far disconnected.

You don’t question how he came to know your address. You don’t fight anything when you let him in. There you stand in your hallway. He makes light work ripping in half the thin layer of silk that you wear as a flimsy excuse for a night dress. You fumble on his many buttons and zips, but when you strip him bare you always effortlessly fall into each other. 

He should’ve left when the rounds were done and your body couldn’t bear to take another orgasm. But you insist he stays. 

“It’s late, really dark,” is your excuse. “Easier if you stay the night.”

So he stays. Wrapped up in each other on the hard wood floors of your hallway, because your bedroom is just too intimate for this thing between you and him. 

The next morning he wakes you up with the tickle of his stubble against your inner thighs and you see him off on your knees, mouth and throat stuffed. 

*****

He's on his bike on the street outside of your apartment complex. 8am rush hour starts to simmer. Can’t ever see himself as part of the sea of sharp suits and pencil skirts rushing to their offices stacked on top of the other.

But he can see himself in this city. He imagines himself turning screws and fixing up vehicles as a mechanic in a decent motor shop. Earning honest money not stained with anyone’s blood or misery. No kutte to work. Just overalls covered in machine oil. And then he sees himself coming home to you. Your apartment in the sky. Maybe someday a home in a green leafy neighbourhood. Garden big enough for Abel and Thomas, and the possibility of other children you and him may bring into the world, to play in.

A life he’s begun to dare dream about. He shakes his head knowing that’s over a thousand miles away from where he is right now. Drags his kutte back on him and secures his helmet and sunglasses before riding back to his world.

Only time will tell what becomes of you and Jax. He doesn’t bring himself to put anything into action, not yet anyway. Right now all he has the heart to do is continue working away in his club and hold out hope for even just a sliver of peace in this life of chaos he’s tangled himself in. Maybe he can take himself and his boys away from it all one day. And maybe you’ll choose to stick around for long enough to be there waiting for him if he ever were to reach this other life.

The End ✨

One final author’s note 😋: So I know the ending is ambiguous as to what happens between Jax and reader, but I wanted to leave it that way because that SoA rewatch has me thinking about an AU where Jax lives on and if in this AU he’d be able to claw the club out of all illegitimate business and if he’d choose to stay at the MC or if he’d leave to live an MC-free life elsewhere. It also has me wondering if he would fall in love with another woman. I have absolutely no idea what I think would happen in this AU so I left the ending of this fic open to everybody’s interpretation of what y’all would think Jax would do 😄✌️

The End End ✨

[spaceorphan18]

Head Over Feet (1/14)

After Kurt and Blaine broke up the second time, they went their separate ways, living their separate lives in New York City. Fifteen years later, a retirement party brings them back together into each other's orbit, with surprising, for both of them, consequences. Are they able to fit each other into their already complicated and messy lives? And are these newfound feelings real? Or just echoes of a past relationship?

Canon Divergent after Season 5.

Ao3 Link

A/N: Yes, I know I have a bunch of other WIPs - and I am still working on all of them! But I’ve been so excited about this one, I just want to get it out there... 

Thanks to @snarkyhag for the beta. :) 

***

Chapter 1: Loser Like Me (Part One) 

Fall 2028

Blaine is dreaming.  It’s all fuzzy, but there are hands… familiar hands that are on him clasping his own, cupping his face, trailing down, down, down to where it feels good.  He begins to feel the warmth spread throughout his body.  He feels good, so good… Lips are against his, rough and hungry, he is enveloped in want, in need… He lets out a groan, letting the pleasure overtake him.  He reaches out, desperate for more, but as he does so, that good feeling starts to float away.  He makes a grasp for it, but it’s no longer there, and he is left cold and wanting more.  

And then his alarm goes off.  

Blaine wakes up hard as a rock.  He can’t remember the last time he had a dream about sex.  Maybe when he had been a teenager? Or possibly college?  But he doesn’t remember any of those dreams ending him with his dick actually aching to fuck something.  

He stares at the ceiling for a good long moment, thinking the urgency will eventually wear off.  He turns his head, slightly, to see the outline of his husband on the other side of the bed.  He doesn’t bother to wake Sean -- not that morning sex had ever been a part of their marriage.  They’re on opposite schedules; the show Sean is doing the costumes for is in the middle of its workshop, and if it gets picked up by a good producer, it could mean big things.  And Sean is cranky in the morning, anyway.  

Blaine can just as easily take care of himself.

He gets up, slowly.  The erection still hasn’t died down, and Blaine begins to wonder if this is even normal for someone his age.  Maybe he should call a doctor.  He laughs to himself.  Or maybe he should jack off and not worry about it.  

He moves off the bed, having to go around it to get to the bathroom.  In the process, he has to step over a huge pile of Sean’s clothes.  Blaine takes a moment to pick them up, and throw them into the laundry basket.  Two seconds, it takes.  Is that really so hard?  

The clothes also smell like booze and cigarettes, which means Sean has been staying out late with the company again.  It’s fine, they used to both go all the time to the afterparties and the clubs, but some time after Blaine hit thirty, he didn’t find them as enticing any more.  Something about feeling almost twice as old as everyone around him killed the spirit.

Blaine gets into the bathroom, turning on the light, and easily stripping out of the boxers that he wears to bed.  His dick is still throbbing to be touched, so he gives himself a few hardy strokes before turning on the water for a shower.  It’s weird, he thinks, as he gets in.  Sex used to be the a staple of his marriage but, as the years passed, he and Sean manage once a week if they’re lucky.  He hasn’t really missed it, or maybe he hasn’t noticed he missed it.  Because getting off with just his hand doesn’t normally feel so good.  

He indulges a little, thinking about that dream, and those hands on him.  Letting someone else take over, take control, take him apart.  He thinks, at first, of Sean, pulling from the catalogue of their sex life.  Sean being the one to hold him, and stroke him, and suck him down.  But as much as he tries to concentrate on his husband, the scene keeps pulling away, and there’s someone else there -- a faceless man with deft hands who knows exactly how Blaine likes to be touched.  

He speeds up his hand, and yet somehow it doesn’t feel like enough.  He braces himself against the tile of the bathroom wall, fucking furiously into his hand until his hips take on a life of their own.   Eventually he comes, jolting hard into his hand.  The orgasm tears through him, and he lets out a near scream that he hopes doesn’t wake Sean.  

It takes a moment to come down, and he leans against the tiles, enjoying the blissed out feeling as the hot water sprays over him.  He’s not sure what had brought all that on but he does feel more relaxed.  He’s been too pent up lately.  Maybe he does need to start seeing his therapist again…

***

On Wednesdays, Blaine only teaches one class and he is back home by noon in time, usually, to make himself lunch before heading out to do afternoon errands (or stay in and grade papers).  Before the workshop started, he and Sean would usually make Wednesday nights their together time.  But those have faded away over the past year or so.  Blaine has gotten used to spending the evenings alone, to the point that when Blaine arrives back at the apartment that afternoon, he’s startled to see Sean there making himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  

Sean stands against the counter, chewing the sandwich slowly as he watches Blaine put his bag and coat on one of the kitchen table chairs.   “You okay?” Sean asks, taking another bite.  A bit of crust lands in his red beard, and he brushes it off and onto the floor.  Blaine shakes his head, now he understands why the floor is always so filthy.  “You’re looking at me as if I’m a stranger in the house.”

“No, it’s fine,” Blaine says.  Maybe it’s not.  It feels, weirdly, like an intrusion on his private time, but the thought is laughable.  His husband is home -- he should be happy.  Blaine begins to rifle through the fridge, pulling out a container of tuna fish to have for lunch.  They could eat together, at the table, like civilized people.  “What happened with the workshop?”

“Remember me telling you about Ashleigh and Karyn and their obsessive ambition to be the first to win a Tony? Or whatever the fuck they’re actually looking for.”

“Yes.” No? Maybe? He can’t keep all of the cast members of Sean’s show straight.  But Blaine doesn’t really feel like listening to a who’s who tangent.  He finishes making the sandwich as Sean explains further.  

“Well, I don’t know how it started, but I know how it ended -- with the both of them in the hospital,” Sean says.  “So with both the lead and the understudy out, the workshop is on hold for a little while.”

“Wait, who was the lead again?” Blaine asks.  Sandwich made, he grabs some chips from the pantry and a bottle of water and heads to the kitchen table.  Sean follows him, leaving his now empty plate on the counter, before taking his usual seat across from Blaine.  

“Karyn,” Sean says, stealing some chips from Blaine’s bag.  “The blonde.”

“Right.”

“So, I guess you have me home for a while.”

Blaine plasters an immediate smile to his face.  He’s not entirely sure how to feel, though.  “Are you still getting paid?”

“Yeah,” Sean grabs more chips.  “Marv’s gotta girl lined up in case it takes longer.  Shouldn’t be more than a week.”  

“Ah.”  

Sean taps his fingers on the table.  Blaine sips from his water bottle.  There’s a siren outside somewhere, and the upstairs neighbor’s dog sprints back and forth, causing the ceiling to creek.  

“I paid the water bill,” Sean says after a long moment.  

“Great,” Blaine says.  “I still say we should get reimbursed for the neighbors tapping into our pipes.”  

“I’ll talk to Greg about it.”

“Great.”

Blaine eats his sandwich in a strange sort of silence as Sean watches him.  He feels like they should talk about something.  What do they usually talk about these days? Work? The apartment? The new musical mini-series Netflix put out?  Sean doesn’t ask how Blaine’s class went.  Blaine doesn’t offer to talk about it.  Nothing really feels like a good conversation.  

Which is why Blaine decides to mention it… “So, I had the weirdest dream last night.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, it was some kind of sex dream,” Blaine says, licking the tuna from his fingers.  “I woke up hard as fuck.”

Sean gives a smirk.  “I can’t tell if this is your way of telling me you want to fool around tonight, or if you’re concerned and want to see a doctor.”  

Blaine laughs into his water.  “I decided I’m too young still to have dick problems, and jacked off in the shower.”  

Sean’s eyes go wide with amusement.  “Shame I missed that show.  If you’re still feeling it, we can mess around after lunch if you want.”

Blaine gives an unenthused shrug.  “I’ve got some errands to run.  Then I’m having dinner with Santana tonight, but if you want to catch the late show, it can be arranged.”  

“We’ll see,” Sean says.  “I told some of the guys I’d meet them out for drinks tonight.  There’s a new bar opening over in SoHo.”

A flash of irritation runs through Blaine.  It’s not the turning down of sex that bothers him.  He really doesn’t want to spend his evening at a bar in SoHo.  He really doesn’t want to spend the evening with Sean’s questionable friends ‘Way-Too-Flirty’ Don and ‘Drinks-Too-Much’ Steve.  He doesn’t even really want to go out, especially when he has to teach an early morning class.  But he’s not there to tell Sean what to do.  

He finishes off the sandwich without a word.  It’s not like Sean feels differently about Santana.  

“You know, speaking of Santana, that reminds me,” Sean says, getting up from his seat.  He goes over to the counter and brings back a red envelope.  “This came for you today -- from McKinley High.”  

Blaine takes it with interest.  He gets mailers from Dalton Academy all the time -- even if he didn’t graduate from there, he had still technically been an alumni.  But something from McKinley?  That just seems weird.  It isn’t the right time for there to be a reunion.  He has no idea what it could possibly be.  

He opens it up to find a black and gold invitation. “Oh,” he says a little fondly as he reads it.  “My old glee club teacher is retiring.  He’s inviting everyone back for homecoming weekend to celebrate.  Cute.”  

Sean grabs at the paper after Blaine lets it drop back to the table.  “Do you want me to come with you?” he offers quietly.  

“Would you want to go?” It’s not often that Sean comes with him on the rare occasions he heads back to Ohio.  

Sean hesitates before he speaks, and snacks on another couple of chips before replying.  “I probably should stay to make sure Marv has a handle on this whole Ashleigh-Karyn thing.  That is, unless you’d like me to go.”  

Blaine stares hard at the paper.  It’s not like he couldn’t go.  He doesn’t have to teach on Fridays, and the school is having a holiday weekend that same weekend.  In theory, he could and it wouldn’t be a problem.  “I don’t even know if I should.”

“Maybe go to see your parents, Blaine,” Sean says.  “It’s got to be at least a few years since you’ve seen them.”

“I saw them last year at…” Blaine considers.  Has time really flown by so quickly? “Huh, I guess it has been at least two since that Christmas we spent in Ohio.” He sits back in his chair to think about it.  

“Hey, Blaine…” There’s suddenly a heaviness in the air.  There’s something behind Sean’s eyes that hadn’t been there earlier.  Something that Blaine catches glimpses of every once in a while.  Something that they’ve been avoiding and, for a moment, Blaine fears that Sean is actually going to bring it up.  The room gets darker, just a cloud passing by the sun, but everything is still -- too still, and Blaine’s heart begins to race.  The moment passes, though, and whatever Sean had been about to say changes.  “I guess talk to Santana about it, and see what she says.”

Blaine stares down at the paper again.  Suddenly, a weekend away from the apartment, away from the city, away from Sean doesn’t seem like such a bad idea.  “Yeah, I’ll do that.”  

***

The fall wind is sharp in its crispness, but it’s still a nice enough evening to go for a run in Central Park.  Three days a week, he and Santana Lopez go out for a jog then grab dinner at a nearby taco truck so they can sit and gossip.  Santana, who’s office isn’t far from where they meet, is already waiting for Blaine when he arrives.  She is stretching her legs, bent over in a V, wearing her usual black spandex pants with a bright, blue bomber jacket that billows slightly.  Her designer sunglasses rest on the top of her head.

Because he has been thinking about high school all day, he can’t help but think that she hasn’t changed much.  Her face has hardened a little with age, but Blaine knows her beauty care routine is much more extensive than his, and he knows how much she spends on wigs and dye jobs.  Today, though, her long, black hair is pulled back tightly in a high pony, amusingly reminiscent of how she wore it in high school.  

“Okay, so I have some hot goss for you today,” she says, immediately after they exchange pleasantries.  She waits for him to do his own stretching, but continues to launch into her news.  “So, you remember how I’ve been endlessly talking about the cute redhead on the floor below?”

“The one who works as a secretary for the greasy lawyer?” Blaine pulls his leg back.  The stretching feels nice, he is glad he is able to get out of the stuffy apartment in some capacity tonight, even if he can tell Santana is a bit more ramped up than usual.  

Santana nods.  “So for weeks now, it’s been flirty glances, and unbuttoning buttons to show off some pretty pricey brassieres, but you know, nothing direct.  Well, today she comes up to my floor, claiming the bathroom is not working in their offices -- and I checked, she was totally lying -- and she’s wearing this tight, and I mean tight, nearly see-through button-down.  With no bra.  She had on no bra.  I could see her fucking nipples, Blaine.”

“The nerve,” Blaine teases.  They begin to walk down their usual path.  They have a good quarter of a mile before they usually start jogging, though they might go the first half of their two miles at a walking pace just so Santana could release her pent up energy verbally.  

“Who doesn’t wear a bra in a professional setting?” Santana continues.  Blaine arches an eyebrow at her.  “Okay, so I have totally done it, but I promise you it was warranted.  Anyway, I think she’s trying to kill me.  I took all of my restraint not to pull her directly into the janitor’s closet and make out with her.  And play with her tits.  I can’t unsee her fucking hot tits, Blaine.” Santana grumbles, putting a fist to her head, as if it’ll magically erase the image.

“You know, you could ask for her number,” Blaine suggests, for maybe the third time since Santana has started talking about the woman.  “Or, you know, find out her name.”  

Santana looks at him sharply.  He knows, she just wants a minute to bitch and revel in her janitor closet fantasies, but it’s not in him not to offer suggestions.  “Her name is Liz.  I at least found that out today.”

“Well, that’s a start,” Blaine offers.  

“Alright, what’s up with you?” she asks abruptly.  “Usually, you’re talking my head off about school, and I’m always having to catch up to you.  You’re trailing me by nearly a foot.  Something’s going on.”

Santana’s senses are rarely off, he shouldn’t be as surprised as he is by it.  He tries to quicken his pace but she is right, he is been in his head all day.  “I’m thinking of going back to therapy.”  He says it simply, laying it out as if it’s another fact, and not something that’s been weighing on his mind.  

She gives him a concerned look.  “Is this a ‘just you’ thing? Or a ‘you and Sean’ thing?”

“A ‘just me’ thing,” he admits.  They are nearly at the lamp post where they usually start to jog, but he’s not feeling as up to it as he had been when he arrived at the park.  “Sean’s staying home for a few days, and I’ve been restless lately…” he doesn’t quite say the things he’s thinking.  “And, I don’t know, I had a weird sex dream this morning.  I’ve been off all day.”

“Well, what does Sean think?”

“He offered to fuck, but I told him I had it taken care of.”

“What, no, not about the sex dream,” Santana stops in her tracks.  They have to wait a moment for an older woman walking a doberman to pass in-between them.  “What does your husband think about you going to therapy?”

“It didn’t come up.”  

“God, Blaine,” Santana says, exasperated.  “Well, if you really would rather spend your evening with me than reconnecting with your husband who is, as you well know, built like a fucking viking, then maybe therapy is what you need.”

It’s more complicated than that.  She knows some of it, but maybe not all of it, and it’s more than Blaine would really like to get into on their fairly public walk through Central Park.  But Santana has also grown to be one of his closest friends and, if nothing else, he can confide in her.  

“I’m going to set up an appointment,” he tries to play it off as just another thing.  She knows better, and gives him one of her infamous staredowns.  “And if it’s something I think I need to continue to do, I’ll keep you informed,” he tries to assure her.  

“You better, Anderson.” Her voice is sharp.  “I may have a cold, dead heart, but I want you to be happy.  And you know I’m always going to be blatantly honest with you, so I say this with all the love I can muster, but I don’t think you are.”  

“I know, I know…” He’s not not happy.  He loves his job.  He loves his little apartment.  He loves being in one of the greatest cities in all of the world.  He and Sean are…  “So, hey, did you get your invitation to Mr. Schue’s retirement party?”  He begins to walk again.  He knows he’s avoiding the conversation, so does Santana.  But she rolls with it.  

“He’s retiring?  Dear god, he’s barely over fifty.”

Blaine lets out a little laugh.  “Well, that’s what the invitation said.”  

“And, fuck, no, I haven’t gotten one,” Santana says.  “Though, it’s been a couple weeks since I’ve checked the mail.  Who sends invitations through the mail these days?  Just start a text chain like a normal person.”

“Would you go?” He asks.  He’s been back and forth on the idea all day.  Does he really want or need to see anyone from high school again?  Possibly?  Would it be nice to get away for a weekend? Most definitely.  Can he really afford to skip town for a little while? That is the big unanswered question.  

Santana bites her lip, thinking it over.  “I mean it really depends on who else got these magical invitations.  Oh, god, will Rachel Berry be there? Please tell me Rachel Berry will be there.  Because I have got to see how little Miss TV-Princess does in a place that does not revolve around her ego.”

Blaine has never had the issues with Rachel that Santana had, but he does remember college.  He does remember Funny Girl.  “Sorry, Santana, I don’t actually have an answer for you on that one.”

Santana throws her hands in the air.  “You keep in touch with everyone, right?  Well, isn’t she part of everyone?”

“I think she’s become a little out of my status level,” Blaine replies, with a smirk.  “Besides, I don’t keep in touch with everyone .”  Truth be told, Santana might be the only person he talks to from high school.  At least on a regular basis.  For all the promises made during the time of staying BFFs forever, real life managed to get in the way of the magical thinking.  

“Alright, let’s work it out, right now, cause this will be the determining factor,” she says.  She pulls at a leaf from one of the trees above her, causing the branch to bounce.  It nearly whacks him in the head, which causes her to giggle a little and shake her head.  “Let’s see… Rachel Berry, possibly.  Said ego might drive her back to the place where it all began.”  

“Sam Evans will probably be there,” Blaine says.  “He does still live in the area.” He and Sam don’t have a lot of contact, but occasionally they’ll do a long distance Fantasy Football thing or chat about a new video game they both own.  He hopes Sam will go - he could use more of that laid back charm in his life.  

“Artie clearly won’t be,” Santana continues.  “I know, because I’m the one who put him on the European press tour for his new film.”

“I doubt Tina will be there either,” Blaine adds.  “She just had her third baby, and she and Ron probably don’t want to make the trip from Boston to Lima with three young children.”  

He thinks of Tina’s Instagram, the only way he really communicates with her, and the constant updates for her hectic life.  She’s happy and looking good, and way too busy to drop everything and run back to Ohio.  Blaine makes a note to give her a call at some point to congratulate her formally on the new baby, even if he had already left a cute note on the Instagram pictures.  

Santana is too caught up in her thought process to say more about Tina.  “Finn won’t be there for obvious reasons.  What the fuck happened to Puck? I doubt he has an address to even send anything to.  Quinn’s too prideful to drag her divorced ass out of Connecticut.  You know she’s already taken a new lover ?  She’s in her mid-thirties, and still hitting up the sugardaddies.  I mean, have some goddamn respect for yourself.”

“Well, Mike’s in Chicago,” Blaine offers.  Mike had been part of the Chicago Ballet for a long time, and had since become a dance instructor.  Blaine had been at Mike’s wedding to his wife, Marie, a couple of years ago, and he’s another one whom Blaine wouldn’t mind seeing again.  Maybe he, Mike, and Sam could have a nice guys’ night out that weekend.  He’ll have to get in touch.

Santana nods.  They walk by a woman sitting on a bench with two screaming children.  Blaine feels bad for the woman, but he and Santana share a look -- both of them glad that they don’t have to deal with that kind of hot mess at home.  

“Then there’s Mercedes,” Santana says, looking up and out into the world.  “Goddess among women.  We do not have the privilege to be in her presence.”  Santana laughs at her own comments.  “Seriously, though, I love my girl, but I don’t judge her for continuing to live her best life.”

“What about Brittany?” Blaine asks, tentatively.  He has no idea if this is a sore subject for her or not because he doesn’t think Santana has brought her up once over the course of their friendship.  

Santana becomes stoney-faced, as if not to give herself too much away.  “No,” she says simply.  “Brittany’s living in some commune in LA where she does Fondue for Two and runs a cat babysitting service.”  

“That’s a thing?”

“In LA it is.”  A fond smile climbs on her lips.  “In any case, as much as I am always up for seeing my girl again, I highly doubt she’ll be back.  I mean, we were still hooking up for a while the few times I made it out to LA, but recently she’s found someone a little more… permanent.  And before you go on pitying me, let me assure you, I am more than fine.”  She’s quiet for a moment as she reflects.  For a person who is almost always open about her thoughts, she’s decidedly reclusive when it comes to matters of her heart.  Blaine knows better than to try to pry it out of her. “Anyway, if we’re going to be upfront about exes, I believe there’s only one person left, if we’re not counting random chicks with mafia dads or weird Irish exchange students.  And I’m sure we both know that there’s no way in hell Lady Hummel is coming back to Lima, Ohio.”

“Oh!” Blaine says, as if it’s a complete revelation.  Kurt hadn’t even entered his mind, and it is surreal to think that his brain didn’t go there first.  

“Oh, please, don’t tell me you actually forgot about Lady Hummel and his heartbreaking ways,” Santana scoffs.  “Pretty sure years of therapy couldn’t undo all the trauma that did.”

She isn’t wrong, and she would know, because she helped pick him up a year after everything had happened.  But that’s the funny thing -- it’s not that he doesn’t remember Kurt.  (God, he remembers all of Kurt.)  He doesn’t remember the person he used to be when he had been with Kurt.  There had been a time when he would have shifted the Sun and the Moon and the entire Earth for Kurt Hummel.  A time when his heart had pointed in only one direction.  And a time so dark that when Kurt had ended it, Blaine didn’t know how he would ever move on.  

And yet he did.  

The person he had been is now such a faded memory he can barely remember what those feelings were like.  Kurt Hummel is just another name from his past, a person who, yes, helped shape him into the person he is now.  But long gone are the emotions once attached to that name.  Funny how things can change.  Someone could mean so much to you at one point in time, and yet after time…

“I didn’t forget about Kurt, clearly,” Blaine says. He grabs her arm, and loops his own through it.  The jog isn’t happening today, and he’s fine with that.  Some days, it’s best just to have the company rather than the exercise.  “I just think you’re right, unless Burt is dying or something.  But doubtful that he’ll return for a silly retirement party.”

“You almost sound disappointed.”

Blaine shrugs, and gives a smile.  He doesn’t know how he feels about whether or not Kurt will be there.  He hasn’t thought about him so long.  But he does know that after all this talk of the past, maybe he is ready to go back and see if anyone else is feeling the same way.  “I think we should do it.  Go back.  I mean, why not?”

Santana shakes her head.  “Oh, this whole idea sounds like the worst, but if there’s a chance I get to make-out with Quinn Fabray again, then I’m in.”

For the first time in a while, Blaine feels a little lighter on his feet.

***

Not a few weeks later, Blaine is on a plane back to Ohio.  

He and Sean talked it over and, while Sean had been technically free to go, they agreed that maybe it would be better if Blaine went himself; the unspoken dialogue being that space isn’t the worst thing they could give each other.  Blaine had not been able to help but be fidgety with his wedding ring during the flight but, intent on giving himself a weekend off from real life, he drowned himself in his favorite podcasts, and had tried not to think about his life in New York.  

The party is on a Saturday afternoon, but he’s there on Friday so to spend time with his mom.  They end up having a nice lunch together, and she takes him shopping.  She’s as feisty as ever, somehow managing to remind Blaine of Santana, and he wonders if she’s always been like that or if that’s a new trait of being in your sixties.  They end up FaceTiming with Cooper and the kids, and Blaine indulges his little nieces by singing them Disney Princess songs.  The whole day weirdly feels like the family they usually are only around Christmas time, but he’s in good enough spirits that he doesn’t question it.  

Later that night, his dad comes home, and they have pizza before his parents go off for one of their social benefit parties they often frequent, reminding Blaine of the old days when his parents were never home on a Friday night.  He doesn’t mind so much because McKinley’s Homecoming Football game is that night.  

His original plan had been to meet up with Sam since Santana’s plane isn’t coming in until tomorrow.  But Sam declined, stating that Mercedes Jones is coming late that night and she needs a ride from the airport.  Sam didn’t ask Blaine to come with him.  Blaine calls up Mike, who is happy to hear from him, and says that he will be at the party but is only going to make the trip to Lima once on Saturday.  He doesn’t bother trying to get a hold of anyone else, and ends up going to the game alone.  

Coming back to McKinley feels like going back in time, and yet the kids running around make him feel entirely too old to be there.  He half expects Sue Sylvester to pop out and start yelling at the cheerleaders, or Mr. Figgins to make some sort of half-time speech, but the world of McKinley has moved on, even if the campus has remained remarkably the same.  The game is fun, but kind of boring, and he’s not surprised when the team loses by seventeen points.  Still, seeing the array of alumni all cheering around him, he feels a strange sort of connection to the place in a way that he really didn’t when he actually went to the school.  It’s a bit surreal.  

Afterwards, not ready to go home to an empty house, he drives around for a bit, until by chance, he drives by Scandals, Lima’s decrepit excuse for a gay bar.  Feeling somewhat amused, a little nostalgic, and a lot in need of a drink, he decides to grab a beer for old times’ sake.  He decides, on a whim, to put his wedding ring in his pocket.  He’s not actually planning anything, but it’s also not like Sean wears his anymore, anyway.  

Scandals is even more in a sad state of affairs then he remembers, even if ‘Funk-It-Up-Friday’ is trying to give the place some of that Mid-Western Charm.  He orders a bottled beer, and sips as he thinks fondly about the time he watched Dave Karofsky try to line dance.  God, that had been so long ago…

“I’m guessing this place rarely sees a man as gorgeous as you.  Mind if I buy you a drink?”

It takes a moment for Blaine to realize the pick-up line is directed at him, but he does instantly recognize the voice.  Much to his shock, when he turns around, he’s face to face with a much older, and yet still dazzlingly magnificent, Kurt Hummel.

[spenciegoob]

Triple Edged Sword Part 1

A/N: Hi ! This is going to be a 3 part mini series and oml I AM SO EXCITED. I haven’t written for 6 years so the updates are most definitely going to be generously spaced out. Anyways let’s get into it.

Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader

Category: Smut.. so smutty, and a dash of fluff

Content Warning: sub!spencer, domfem!reader masturbation (female), penetrative sex, hand job, scratching, hair pulling, slapping

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

Word Count: 3.3k

Part Two | Part Three

____

When Spencer Reid looked at her, his eyes were so kind and filled with so much love for someone that had so much pain behind them. He never thought it was possible to love someone as much as he loved her. His puppy dog eyes served as a reminder to both of them of just how innocent the doctor was.

Spencer hated it. Being the brunt of Derek’s virgin jokes made him want to scream from the rooftops, or a little more civilized, tell him he had a girlfriend.

His girlfriend, however, she loved his curious eyes. The way his pupils would dilate when he looked at every inch of her or his eyes would almost double in size whenever she stripped in front of him. 

It was absolutely infatuating. 

Every time Spencer looked at her, it was like the first time. He couldn’t get enough, and through time he found something else he loved about her body each time he saw it.

He had his doubts for sure, his insecurities sneaking up on him late in the night after she leaves his arms and goes home, but as time progressed, his doubts faded into nothing more than a distant memory when it came to her.

She held the world in her hands, but instead of being selfish and keeping it all for herself, she shared it with him.

Like right now, as she pushed him back until his knees hit the bed and he fell onto the soft cushion with a slight bounce. Already, Spencer was growing hard with anticipation.

“You’ve been a very bad boy today, Spencer.” Even as she scolded him (in the hottest way, may Spencer add), he still looked up at her with the adoration that made it almost impossible to punish him.

Almost impossible.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. Please.” What Spencer was pleading for? Not even he knew, but his right hand going to touch her waist gave both of them some idea.

The involuntary act was just as quickly shut down as it started as she backed away and tutted at him.

“Ah, ah, ah Spencer, that is not how we ask for things.” The faux disappointment on her face only made the pleading look on his deepen.

“I’m sorry, miss, it won’t happen again.”

His apology and admission got him the pleasure of her stepping between his parting legs. Spencer didn’t even realize he was doing it. It was as if his body knew how to react to her trance faster than his brain could process. 

She softly grasped his jaw, tilting his head back so he had no choice but to make eye contact with her intimidating stare. A soft whimper escaped his lips at even the smallest physical contact. Her touch was electrifying, and he simply couldn’t get enough.

“What am I going to do with you?” Her hand slowly left his jaw, meeting the other one at the top button on his work shirt. Her gaze still bore into him as her fingers worked swiftly to remove his shirt.

That’s what it was about her that intrigued him beyond belief. Every move she made was calculated, meticulous in and out of the bedroom. Maybe that was his reason for looking at her with so much infatuation. 

Once Spencer’s shirt was completely unbuttoned, she gave him a form of release when she broke eye contact to stare at his now bare chest. Her eyes scanned every inch of exposed skin.

She loved his body. His frame a sculpture that would put famed artists to shame. Her favorite part, however, was when she dragged her fingernails down his torso.

Starting at his jugular, she lightly scratched all the way down to the waistband of his slacks that were becoming tighter right before her eyes. 

She couldn’t focus on that, however. Her focus was on the small red lines that she left in her wake as she softly clawed at his chest. Spencer marked so easy that she couldn’t stop herself from giving him a new one every chance she got.

She didn't need Spencer’s eidetic memory to know what the scene in front of her looked like. His muscles tense under her nails, a new one each time she inched further down. If she closed her eyes, the feeling could serve as her sight like their own special brail.

But she couldn’t close her eyes, not when she got to stare at those lines.

When she finally reached the end of her journey, she pulled her hand away causing Spencer to let out a whiny moan. The sound was music to her ears, and it almost made her give into him right then and there.

Almost made her give in.

“Not yet, baby boy. You haven’t even gotten your punishment for tonight.” This made Spencer let out another hushed whimper. 

“Please Y/N, I need you.” Again, Spencer reached his hand to her waist, but this time, he made contact.

He expected her to grab his jaw like last time, or even pull away from his grasp, but to his surprise, she did neither.

It wasn’t until Spencer opened his hooded eyes completely to look at her face did she move.

No, not move; pounce.

The second his eyes met hers, she forcefully gripped the hair on the back of his head and yanked back hard.

The sudden contact caused Spencer’s eyes to roll back, and a pathetic moan to leave his mouth that was permanently wide open.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” She asked through gritted teeth. Even she surprised herself at the sudden dominance, but with Spencer in front of her with barely open eyes and an eager mouth, god did she love it. And apparently so did he, but at the same time, only one thought clouded his mind.

He was fucked. So utterly fucked.

“I-.. I-” At his stuttering, she quickly released his hair with the softest push, only to bring that same palm to the side of his face.

The loud SMACK! replayed over and over in his head as his hips bucked up involuntary. 

Oh.

He liked this more than she thought. Sure, they’ve been a little rough in bed before, their roles always the same. She was there to be pleased, and Spencer was there to please, but she didn’t know how far that line went. 

Spencer on the other hand was turned on more than he had ever been. His cock so painfully hard under the constrictions of his work slacks that if he didn’t get some relief soon, he may burst into tears.

Spencer was still facing the left, his eyes closed and trying to control his heavy breathing. That didn’t pass in her book.

She grabbed his jaw again, this time with much more force, and brought their faces inches apart. 

“I want you on your knees at the foot of the bed. Do not take your eyes off the wall in front of you, and don’t even think about touching yourself. Sit on your god damn hands if you have to. Do you understand me?” Her words came out so smooth, the calm before the storm.

Spencer nodded his head in response, but when the grip on his jaw tightened, he squeaked out “Yes ma’am.”

She released him, and immediately Spencer was on the move, crawling to where he was instructed to go. She watched closely, making sure he followed her directions to a T.

As his eyes settled on the wall the headboard rested against, she smiled and called out.

“Good boy.” The name made Spencer’s heart flutter and his cock twitch. Now with nothing more to focus on than the wall in front of him did he start to really feel the effects of his neediness. 

Whatever she did next would be the death of him.

And boy, was he right!

Out of his peripherals, Spencer could see her start to undress herself. Her eyes only left his for a second to pull her shirt over her head, but Spencer didn’t dare use that split second to take a peak. He was already in enough pain shit to last him a lifetime. 

But then she turned around, and he can barely hear the sound of her jeans being unzipped over the blood rushing through his ears. 

‘Oh god, Spencer. Whatever you do, do not look,’ he thought to himself, and continuously repeated as she pulled her jeans down slowly. Bending down all the way, her ass on full display, Spencer could see that she was wearing her dark purple lacy thong.

His favorite.

She wasn’t even facing him. How could she possibly tell if he snuck a glance in her direction. It would be over in a second, like ripping off a band-aid, like pulling the trig-

‘No, she’ll know don’t do it.” Spencer’s thoughts were correct. If he were to look, she would turn around to find him blushing a deep shade of red that spread from his neck to his cheeks, and his eyes fully blown. So, with all of his strength and by the force of God, he kept his eyes firmly on the wall. It never looked so dull until right now.

As she slowly came back to a standing position, she turned over her shoulder to see Spencer demonstrating the most self control she’s ever seen. A proud smirk spread across her face, and she finally stalked her way over to the bed slowly.

Spencer felt his palms start to get sweaty from nerves, excitement, arousal and desperation as her body came closer to his direct line of sight. His breathing had become heavy again, and his cock twitched painfully.

When Spencer had his gun drawn on unsubs, he got tunnel vision, but right now when he needed it, that ability seemed to disappear into thin air.

What a cruel magic trick.

Once she was settled with her back resting against the headboard did she speak.

“You can look now, baby boy.” The sight in front of him almost made him come undone right then and there.

Almost made him.

She was sitting up, her arms on either side of her body, her knees were bent, and her legs were wide open. Spencer could see the wet patch from her gathering arousal on her panties, and involuntarily licked his lips.

“Your punishment is the following,” she started as she slowly hooked her fingers under the waistband of her panties. Lifting her hips to start to shimmy them down her legs, she continued, “You’re going to sit there real pretty for me, and you’re going to watch me pleasure myself. You’re not going to look away, close your eyes and most definitely you are not going to touch yourself. Am I making myself clear?”

He was not going to make that mistake again, so instead of nodding he immediately replied with, “Yes ma’am.”

She balled her discarded panties in her hand, and sat up from the incriminating position. As she shimmied her way over to Spencer on her knees, he gulped in anticipation.

“Open up, baby boy.” If she called him that, he would do anything she ever asked him to. 

Spencer opened his mouth and slightly stuck his tongue out with a small idea of what was going to come next.

Even with the knowledge of her next move, when the lace of her panties hit his tongue, he couldn’t stop the groan that left him at the contact.

“Don’t wanna hear from you no matter how pretty those sounds are,” she seduced as she stroked his cheek.

Once he was now settled with the makeshift gag and clouded mind, she returned to her compromising position, her pussy on full display for Spencer’s ogling.

She started by softly grasping one of her breasts over the thin lace bra. Her head rolled back at the new sensation, a breathy sigh leaving her parted lips. She kneaded the flesh before added her other hand, squeezing both before pushing them together.

Spencer could only watch in awe as she played with herself the way he wish he could right now. The small whimpers leaving his body were muffled thanks to the gag, and she couldn’t hear them over her own heavy breathing.

When she reached her hands behind her back, and unclasped the bra, Spencer had to forcefully sit on his hands to stop himself from touching either one of them.

She was a goddess on full display, her body had to have been sculpted by the Gods above because no one had the right to be so perfect.

Nobody but her.

The same way she had done to Spencer in what felt like centuries ago, she ran her nails down her torso, only this time she didn’t stop. Her fingers slowly met her aching core, and a moan slipped from her lips at the contact.

She kept her touch featherlight, just enough to gather her arousal on her fingertips. She brought her hand back up to her clit and added more pressure as she circled it slowly.

The soft moans leaving her body were enough for Spencer, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the sight in front of him even if he was allowed to. Her pussy was glistening under the soft light from the bedside lamp, her hair was messily sprawled out around her like a halo, and her body had started to get a light sheen of sweat. 

After another minute of teasing her clit, she finally stuck two fingers in her core, her back arching off the bed and letting out the loudest, filthiest moan yet as she did.

“Fuck, baby. It feels so good.” She looked to Spencer to gage his reaction, and found him bright red and hyper focused on where her fingers met her pussy.

Satisfied, she started to slowly pump her fingers in and out of her, curling them to hit her sweet spot each time. Her stomach started to tighten, her impending orgasm arriving faster than usual.

Spencer was a whiny, horny mess on the other side of the bed. He was so painfully hard, and he was sure if he looked, there would be a spot on his boxers from his pre-cum.

Her fingers starting to pump faster, and her other hand gave her breast one last squeeze before traveling down to meet her clit. She rubbed harsh circles in time with her fingers and threw her head back in pleasure as she did so.

“Oh god, I’m gonna- fuck I’m gonna come,” she breathily called out. Her moans getting louder by the second, the coil in her stomach finally snapped.

“Spencer! Oh god!” She screamed as her back arched off the bed, and she came around her fingers. Her finger rubbing circles on her clit started to slow down as her loud moaning turned to heavy breathing.

Spencer’s eyes were almost black as he stared down at her. When she came undone, it was the most beautiful thing in the world to him.

Once her muscles stopped spasming, she relaxed her body and finally looked back at Spencer.

“You did so well, baby boy.” The praise made Spencer’s knees even more weak. Slowly, she crawled her way over to him and removed the panties from his mouth. He tried his best to control his breathing, but each exhale came out jagged and broken.

“Can I touch you now?” He asked timidly and this only made her smile.

“Yes, baby boy. You can to-” She didn’t get to finish her sentence because the second the word yes left her mouth, Spencer’s lips were on hers.

The kiss was sloppy and uncalculated, but there was so much passion and love behind every movement. When she grasped the waistband of his slacks and pulled his clothed body against her naked one, Spencer let out a gasp that allowed her to stick her tongue in his mouth. 

She explored every inch of his mouth with hers and he couldn’t get enough. The kiss was intoxicating, pulling him deeper into her trance.

When she pulled away, biting his bottom lip and pulling it back slightly with her, Spencer let out a whine.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” she said as she pushed his unbuttoned shirt down his arms. Once that was off, she worked on his belt, pulling it out of the loops and throwing it to the floor impatiently.

Once his pants were unbuttoned, she wasted no time reaching in and grasping his cock.

Spencer let out a pornographic moan at the sensation, throwing his head back and closing his eyes.

“What do you want, baby boy,” she asked as she continued her ministrations, slowly pumping her hand up and down. Panting now, Spencer did his best to answer.

“Y-you.. Y/N. I want you,” Spencer whined as he started to pat her arm that was in his pants. He looked back down at her with so much desperation and lust, there was no almost this time.

She gave in.

“Only because you’ve been such a good boy for me.” The praise caused Spencer to whimper, and she finally pulled his trousers and boxers down. His cock sprang free, and hit his stomach proudly. The tip was beet red and pre-cum was slowly dripping down the side. It looked painfully delicious.

“Lay down on you back, baby.” Spencer did as told, his head hitting the pillows and he fisted the sheets.

She climbed on top of him, straddling his hips. When she grabbed the base of his cock, Spencer winced and his hands shot up to grasp her hips. She didn’t stop him this time. She ran his tip through her folds teasing him, the evidence of her previous orgasm spreading around it.

Slowly, she sank down, both of them throwing their heads back and moaning at the sensation. She didn’t stop until she was at the hilt, him fully sheathed in her. She took a minute to adjust before lifting her hips excruciatingly slow.

“You feel so fucking good, baby.” When all that was left was the tip inside her, she slammed her hips back down. Spencer groaned, his grip on her hips tightening. 

Her slow pace continued, teasing him just enough to get him to pat her hips again like he did earlier.

“Please Y/N, please faster.” How could she say no to that tone of voice?

She started to move her hips with feverish intent, both of their stomachs tightening as they slowly ran towards the edge together.

Spencer didn’t know where to look. He could watch the way his cock disappeared into her tight cunt, or the way her breasts bounced in his face in time with her hips, or her blissed out face, mouth wide open and eyes hooded.

All of it brought him closer and closer to the edge.

“F-fuck, Y/N, I’m gonna.. I’m gonna...”

“Me too, baby. Come for me.” With her permission, his hips thrust up to meet hers as he shoots his cum deep in her. The sensation was the final push, and she followed immediately after, milking him of everything he could give.

She collapsed on his sweaty chest, both of them heavy panting, but neither willing to move.

“I love you so much.” She said it so simply, but still it made Spencer’s heart flutter. They’ve said it so many times, but every time he still got giddy.

“I love you too,” he said and kissed the top of her head. They could’ve fallen asleep just like that, because it didn’t matter how sticky with sweat their body was, or the very compromising position they were still in.

They were in each other’s arms, and that was everything for both of them.

____

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[sprnklersplashes]

clean

cw for mentions of suicide, self-harm, death, drugs, and also for making out while naked (but not sex)

Seeing an accident happen in Sunnyvale feels unnatural. It’s like seeing a two-headed deer, or a car flying in the sky. Sam can’t even focus on how terrible it is, or hope that nobody was hurt. All she can think is how unnatural it is, to see such a horrible sight in such a near-perfect place.

It’s the price for a curse breaking, she supposes. The scales of fate are even now.

Her shoulders twitch, her feet move to go over and help, as is her instinct, but before she can, Deena’s hand is on her shoulder, a pained gasp escaping her mouth, that turns into a whimper that almost stops Sam’s heart. Again. She turns, her mouth running dry, and finds Deena’s free hand pressed against her stomach. She remembers, sees it in her mind like a movie, even if the picture is hazy. The tunnels. Her hands, Deena’s throat. Deena’s house. A drumstick breaking over her knee. Deena hitting the floor beside her, and her not caring.

“No,” she mutters. “Oh, no.”

“Sam,” Deena whispers. She sounds so tired, so beyond exhausted, yet she’s still strong. Her Deena. She’s always thought she was tough,everyone did, but now she’s learned she’s tougher than the actual Devil himself. “It wasn’t you.” Sam opens her mouth-to protest, to apologise- but Deena shakes her head, the movement making her wince, and that crooked half-grin she loves appears on her face. She always loved that smile, and would love it now if the situation weren’t so dire. “Don’t even try with me.”

She gasps again, her knees buckle, and Sam gently guides her to the ground, one hand around her torso, Deena gripping her other for dear life.

“We can talk about all that later,” she interrupts. She takes Deena’s face and tilts it towards her, trying desperately to remember her first aid training. Her eyes are clear, or clear-ish, but her skin is ashen and pale and her cheek is clammy against her palm. “Right now, we just need to worry about getting you to a hospital.”

For the first time in a long, long time, she feels like luck or fate must be on her side, because no sooner have the words left her mouth than the siren of an ambulance pierces the air, and a miniature fleet of the white vehicles comes into view. They’re all rushing towards the scene of the accident, obviously, but Sam sees into the window of one. A young driver looks through and her eyes double in size when she sees the pair of them, then triple when she sees Deena. What they must look like to her. They’d look a wreck to anyone, even the lowest of the low in Shadyside, but here in Sunnyvale, where not even the grass grows out of place, she’d wager they’re a scary sight.

Thankfully, this one ambulance pulls up beside them, and the driver calls something into the radio as she jumps out and runs their way. Sam would feel guilty for taking someone else’s help, but as she looks across the road, her guilt eases, for this anyway. There are three ambulances at the scene of the crash, and a siren signalling another’s approach. The lack of emergencies these past 30 years has clearly made them unsure of what to do in this case, and when folks don’t know what to do, they do everything.

“Are you two okay?” 

“She’s hurt,” Sam replies. “Please, please, help her, she’s hurt.” The paramedic runs to Deena’s side, and Sam watches her cringe as she moves her hand away. Sam takes a deep breath and hopes that the lack of practice for Sunnyvale’s medical staff doesn’t have any other consequences. Deena rests her head on her shoulder, and panic flares up in her for a moment before she sees her eyes are still open. Will she ever stop panicking? She’s been doing scared almost her whole life.

“Okay, sweetie,” the paramedic said. “The good news is, it’s not too deep and you got here in time.” The girl gives Deena what is meant to be a supportive smile and shakes her shoulder slightly, keeping her from slipping away. “And we’ll have to get you checked out at the hospital, but I don’t think anything’s ruptured in there okay?”

“Okay,” she pants.

“Good girl. Now, we’re going to get you into the ambulance okay?” She looks over at Sam, seriousness creeping into her face like clouds across a blue sky. “Can you help carry her?” She nods, her grip already tightening. She doesn’t say that she’ll carry her forever if she has to. It doesn’t feel fair to dump that on this poor unsuspecting girl. “Okay, great. On three, right hon? One… two… three.”

Sam hates hospitals. Hospitals mean grandpa forgot to take his heart medication again and it’s her last chance to say goodbye. It means another person was beaten up behind the school, or drank too much at a party, or popped all those pills she can’t name. It means someone has thrown themselves off the bridge because it was the only way out of Shadyside. It means she just watched her boyfriend get stabbed through the heart and is now running from an undead murder, brandishing a knife meant for her.

She hates hospitals, and this is no exception. Even if the news is good.

Deena sits on the bed, her skin as white as the sheets she rests on, her shirt rolled up to show the new scar that graces her abdomen. Right in the side, just above her hip. The doctor found specs of wood in it. Tiny splinters buried in the skin.

“Well, she’s incredibly fortunate,” the doctor says. He talks about her like she isn’t here, and on the one hand that annoys Sam, because it’s almost certainly linked to that ‘Shadysiders are subhuman’ bullshit. The curse may be broken, but assholes are assholes, and a prejudiced town is even harder to get rid of than blood magic. But on the other hand, Deena’s on so much pain medication she might as well not be here. Her eyes are clouded, but not from shock, and she alternates between running her fingers along her new scars and tracing patterns on the back of Sam’s hand. “Like she said, nothing was ruptured, although I’d say you got here in the nick of time. Good thing she patched herself up.”

Deena’s makeshift bandage sits on the table behind her, little more than a bloodstained cloth. Sam can’t bring herself to look at it.

“But I have to ask, Samantha,” he says. She avoids his eyes deliberately, keeping them trained on Deena and her scars. “What happened?”

She considers lying, because she’s too tired and how would she ever explain? How could she explain the hell they’ve been through in the past day? Who would believe her if she did?

She could lie, and maybe she should, but she doesn’t. Because this whole horrible, ugly story began with lies, and continued with them. They lied and lied, and this town was built upon it while Shadyside was ruined by it. It’s over, and she’s making sure it stays over.

“Nick Goode.” She says the words through gritted teeth, against a raw throat. The Doctor shakes his head, as if he misheard her. And Deena frowns, clarity beginning to come to her, silently asking what she’s doing. Sam just takes her hand, a whisper of a smile on her face. This must be what taking revenge feels like. Damn, it feels good.

“What happened to her was Nick Goode.”

Deena is discharged from hospital within a few hours. In that time, Sam gets a few things done. First off, she tells the lady at the front desk to put it under her mother’s insurance. Second, she waits until Deena falls asleep, a combination of her own body and the meds, and slips out to the payphone outside. She slides a quarter in and calls Josh, tells him that Deena’s okay, that she’s with her, that she’s in the hospital, and that she’s going to be okay. She rattles them off like they’re facts for a school presentation and doesn’t breathe until she’s finished, sagging against the wall of the booth. On the other line, Josh absorbs what she said and she said, her nails scratching against her wrist. She expects a colourful array of curse words, or for him to hang up on her without a word. She’d hardly blame him.

“And are you okay?” is what he says instead.

“Um… yeah,” she says. “Heart still beating. Lungs still breathing. And um…. I’m me.” She shrugs and rakes a hand through her hair. “It’s gone. It’s over.”

“Yeah.” He sounds so happy, so triumphant, and she can feel his smile even if he’s all the way over in Shadyside. “It’s over.”

Once those two words had broken her heart, spat at her by Deena in an angry, bitter wave, a final goodbye from the best thing in her life. Now they keep her heart beating, a promise that the darkness that ruined so many lives is gone now. Forever.

Having Deena Johnson in her house also feels unnatural. Like seeing a lion wandering around the mall. She looks so out of place here and well, so does Sam. Because this house, and everything in it, it’s all fake. It was all part of her and her mom’s so-called New Life, out of Shadyside. A Better Life, with a better school and better jobs and better extra-curriculars and better people. Better friends, her mom had said out loud. Better influences, she had said with her face. It was going to be better, safer, happier. Her mom believed it, and for the briefest period of time, she believed it too. Thought that the big house and the red cheer uniform would fix all of her problems.

She was never meant to be in this house, she realises. That’s why it didn’t feel right to her, even when all her things were moved in here. She was always meant to be in Shadyside, not because of the curse not letting her escape. But because of Deena. Wherever Deena is, that’s where she’s meant to be.

“God I need a shower,” Deena announces, her voice half-shaking with laughter. It’s also rusty and hoarse, from screaming and overuse and who knows what else. She holds out her arms, a shaky smile on her face. Her face is streaked with red, her hands caked in dirt, her nails rimmed with grey. Sam looks down and finds her own hands looking similar. Her clothes stick to her body, almost feeling like a second, grimy skin. Her body has been put through everything it can be put through, her bones feel so weary and fragile she fears she could break if she moves too suddenly. It’ll take weeks, months, years to fix herself, if she ever can. But a wash might be a good start.

“Me too,” she says, and she takes Deena’s hand and leads her upstairs.

They shower together, it’s decided with just a glance. Sam isn’t comfortable letting Deena out of her sight for longer than two minutes. It might be over, but they can’t be sure. They don’t know what could be sitting in the darkness, behind the corners, on the other side of doors. If the past days have taught them anything, it’s that nothing is certain. Nothing is set in stone. The curse wasn’t, in the end, but peace isn’t guaranteed either.

So Deena follows her into the little ensuite bathroom, letting out a low whistle as she enters.

“Fancy,” she says. “Like one of those little hotel bathrooms.”

“It’s not that fancy,” she mutters. But it is. Because of Goode. Her house, like everyone else’s in Sunnyvale, is built on the blood of those victims. This house was built some time in the 1920s, according to the realtor. 

Billy Barker. He was 1922.

The pretty house isn’t quite so pretty in this light.

“Hey.” Deena’s hand is on her shoulder, her hair tickling her cheek. Her other arm wraps around her waist and pulls her closer, and it’s only then Sam realises she’s taken her shirt off. Deena rests her chin on her shoulder and she feels, rather than sees, the coy grin on her face. “You need some help?”

She lets Deena pull her shirt off her body, her fingertips leaving goosebumps in their wake. In return, her hands slowly undo the button on the waistband of Deena’s jeans and pull them off her legs as she pulls her shoes off with considerably less grace. In other circumstances, the sight of Deena in her underwear would send her mind straight to the gutter, and she’d take her to the bed rather than the shower. But her mind has been invaded and pulled apart and literally brought back from the dead. So she just pulls Deena’s underwear off her, leads her into the shower, and lets the hot water run off them both.

She hadn’t realised how cold she was until the water hits her, a yelp escaping her body as it does so. It burns her skin, turning it from white to red. Deena’s eyes widen, and her hand reaches up to turn it off, but she just shakes her head, her hand grasping Deena’s. The water might be hot, but she can feel it. It’s the first thing, other than Deena, that she can feel since she first heard her name be whispered in Deena’s room, and so she embraces it. Deena doesn’t question it, an understanding in her eyes without anything being said.

Sam’s eyes roam over her girlfriend’s body, but it doesn’t bring the rush of heat to her cheeks it normally would. Instead all she can focus on is the dirt and dust smeared across her skin, followed by trails of blood. It almost forms a barrier around her body, save for the pristine bandage on her side. Without thinking, her hand reaches out and her fingertips graze the fabric, her touch gentle over the wound.

“You’ll get it wet,” she whispers.

“It’s okay. The doctor gave me a couple more just in case.” Sam nods, but doesn’t look away from it until Deena lifts her chin, making her eyes meet hers. “It’s okay,” she says, more forcefully this time.

“Okay.” She looks at Deena again before lifting a bottle down from the shelf and squeezing  a generous amount onto the palm of her hand, a gentle orange fragrance filling the air between them. “Here.” She rubs her hand over Deena’s shoulder before running it down her side, and watches as the dirt of the past few days begins to strip away. She keeps going, her hand moving across her stomach, over her hip, along her chest, bending down to get her legs. She keeps looking up at Deena, searching for a sign to stop, but she doesn’t get one. She only gets a soft, contented smile, and so she keeps going. She only applies pressure where she needs to, where stubborn bits of dirt refuse to come off. She gets them, and watches with satisfaction as it peels away, revealing the brown skin beneath. She lifts Deena’s hand and turns it over, her fingers pusing between Deena’s, her thumb rubbing at her girlfriend’s wrist until it’s clean again. She takes the chance to press a kiss to the skin, the gesture quick and simple. She smells faintly of oranges and overwhelmingly like her, like the jackets Deena used to hang around her shoulders.

Excitement curls her toes when she thinks about the possibility of wearing that jacket again.

“Here,” Deena says. “Turn around.” Sam does as instructed, and then feels Deena’s hands on her skin; her fingers running down her spine and back up before she pushes her hair off her shoulder and scrubs at the back of her neck, on her shoulders. She hadn’t realised how dirty she was, nor how much she needed this. Not just the wash. Deena’s hands on her body. Not fighting or begging or holding her back. Gentle. Careful. Handling her like she’s something precious, rather than pushing her away. How much she needed to care for Deena too, after everything. To embrace her rather than claw at her neck, not stopping until it snapped. It wasn’t her, Deena said, but she now knows exactly how it feels to have her hands wrapped around Deena’s throat.

She closes her eyes and pretends the water running down her face is from the shower.

“Babe.” Deena’s hands are on her hips, rubbing in slow, small circles. “You okay?” Sam exhales slowly. She doesn’t answer because the word ‘okay’ seems to have lost all meaning now. ‘Okay’ now just means ‘alive’. Not perfect, not sane, maybe not safe, but alive. She doesn’t answer, instead turns around in Deena’s arms. She reaches up to caress her cheek, wiping away the grime as she does so. She still looks the same, despite everything they’ve been through. Wrecked and exhausted and broken, but still her. Still Deena. Still perfect.

“I love you,” she says. Deena smiles, and opens her mouth to say something else, but her lips touch hers before she can. The kiss is desperate, hungry, making up for so many lost months and driven by raw need for both of them. Teeth tug on her bottom lip, a small moan escapes the back of Deena’s throat. Sam tilts her head as her hand comes up the back of Deena’s neck, tangling in her hair. It all comes crashing down, the past days hitting her like a waterfall; everything she did, everything they lost, everything Deena risked, and it just makes her kiss her harder. Like she’ll die if she doesn’t feel her touch again. Their bare legs tangle until they’re only standing up through luck and will power, their hips pressed against each other’s like jigsaw pieces.

“I love you too,” Deena replies when they come up for air. “Here, let me do your hair.”

She turns around as Deena’s fingers comb through her hair, shaking out the knots and the God-knows-what-else. A shiver runs up Sam’s back as she works, and she doesn’t need to turn around to see the teasing smile on her girlfriend’s face. 

“We should do this more often,” she says. It almost slips out without thought. “You. Me. Showering.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Deena replies. She feels the water on her head, followed by Deena’s fingers running through the now-clean strands. “Will you do me?”

She obliges, of course. She delicately works the shampoo through her curls, pausing to ask if she’s hurting her. Deena chuckles warmly and assures her she’s doing fine. Her fingers catch on knots and she undoes them gently, and she rubs and rubs until the blood matting her hair is gone, leaving only soft, glossy curls behind.

While she works, Deena lifts her hand and writes in the steam on the door. She writes an S and a D, and a cross between them. She draws a heart, big enough to capture their two initials. Sam laughs, really laughs, and it feels both wonderful and alien.

“That is so middle school,” she says.

“I think we’ve earned a little middle school,” she replies. She turns around in her arms, the water soaking her newly-cleaned hair. She leans in, slowly, and begins the kiss tentatively, as if it’s their first. Sam responds in kind, too tired to go any further.

Soon, they’ll realise they can’t stay in the shower forever, and they’ll get out and dry off. Sam will hand Deena a sweatshirt and her cheeks will turn pink. Soon they will fall asleep on Sam’s bed, still on top of the covers, their exhaustion finally catching up with them. Deena will wake first, images of Sarah Fier tangled in her mind, so much she needs to say to this girl who lost so much. Then Deena will fall back asleep, and then Sam will wake, a scream caught in her throat. Deena will hold her, and whisper that she’s here, that she’s okay. Deena will doze off, and wake with Kate’s name on her lips this time, and this time Sam will hold her until the tears stop. Eventually they’ll pick a video, something easy they liked in middle school, and watch it on the TV in Sam’s room, bodies pressed together, Deena’s head on Sam’s shoulder, two shaking hands joined atop the covers. Sam’s mother will come in, and bawk at the sight of Deena, and Deena’s chin will raise triumphantly. And Sam will fall in love all over again.

But that’s for later, and for now they just kiss, and kiss, and kiss.

support me on ko-fi

[sashi-ya]

{+18} – Cherry Blossom & Tangerines – Trafalgar Law x Y/n – Part 5

Modern AU. Trip to Jeju Island, SK. No spoilers.

Female reader. No physical descriptions. Everybody is +18, canon ages. Chopper is human.

Tw: NSFW, blindfolding, soft sub/dom, unprotected sex (this is just fiction, pls wear protection). Fluff. A little bit of ZoSan

A/N: I haven’t had the chance to visit South Korea due to Covid, so everything included is pure research. Excuse me in advance if there is something that’s not 100% accurate! Keep in mind is purely inspired ♥

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31059467

Word Count: 4.5 K

» List of parts: {P1} {P2} {P3} {P4} {P5} {P6}«

Chapter 5

“Y/n it's our turn, let’s sing!!” Vivi told me, while pulling me from my arm. “Vivi, wait”, I said. I kept watching how Law was still hugging the girl. “What is it?... Oi!”, Nami said, also witnessing the scene.

“Don’t go, just… wait”, I begged my redhead friend who was ready to kill him. I saw how the mysterious woman and Law laughed together. Zoro didn’t even care, he was more drunk than anything else.

The girl was ruffling his hair, pinching his cheeks. Law didn’t even look at me. I didn’t know if he was just simply so amused about the girl that he simply forgot about me, or, he was doing this on purpose, knowing that I’ll be watching, maybe to let me know he wasn’t going to commit to me in any way.

“That’s it. I’m leaving”, I stated. Vivi, Robin and Nami insisted on me shouting at Torao, but I couldn’t. I was so hurt, and, besides that, I wasn’t even his girlfriend, so I had no right to reproach anything to him.

The girls came with me, and we drove home. The boys didn’t realize we had left until long after we weren’t at the karaoke bar, when Sanji texted Nami asking what the hell had just happened. “Sanji, you should ask your stupid ass friend Torao, what the hell is he doing with a bitch?, plus, go get your boyfriend too, she is right next to him”, Nami said via audio.

Sanji sent an audio back, “Nami-swan! Zoro is not my boyfriend… wait, you were talking about him, right?, whatever, Torao is still with her, I’m gonna see who the hell is she and kick the hell out of stupid Law for hurting Y/n-chwan”.

I drove as fast as I could, at that point I only wanted to bury myself in bed and cry my eyes out. I was silent all the way. My friends knew there was no point in saying anything else, so they just strung along with me.

We got home, and Robin offered me some tea, yet, I politely turned the offering down and headed almost running to my bed. I covered myself up to my face, and pitiful tears sprouted from my eyes.

I heard my cell phone ring several times, I knew it was probably my friends asking if I was all right. But I didn’t have the strength to even see the screen.

“Why did you choose to hurt me like this, Law?” ... I whispered to myself, unable to understand why I was in that position, why after all the romantic stuff he has done for me he didn’t even care I was there…

I reached my phone and simply turned it off, I was fed up with it ringing. Some minutes, perhaps half an hour passed until I fell asleep, crying.

Suddenly, Nami’s loud screams woke me up. “TORAO, WHAT THE FUCK? WHY ARE YOU BRINGING THIS SLUT HOME?”.

I didn’t hear Law’s voice, but I did hear someone climbing the stairs, quickly, almost running.

The door opened suddenly with a loud sound, like someone kicking on it. I was still in bed, and the bang of the door made me take an upright position instantly.

There he was, the villain of my story with tears on his eyes, hopeless, shaking. “Y/n-ya!!! it’s not what you think, let me explain…” “STOP, what type of lie are you going to spit out from your stupid mouth?, plus, what the hell? I heard Nami saying you brought that girl home. Have you been drinking? Are you drunk? what the fuck?” I shouted at him, also crying.

Suddenly, before Law could say anything else, I saw a brunette, tanned, tall girl, with big eyes that resemble Law’s ones. She looked at me, smiling and peacefully said, “Hello Y/n, my name is Lami. Trafalgar, Lami”.

I opened my eyes, and mouth… “Trafalgar?”.

“That’s right! I’m Law 's sister! Nice to meet you! I’m sorry if you got things wrong!” she said to my stunned me. “Oi, brother, she is so pretty!! Even more than in the pictures!”.

“Oh God…”. I was somehow relieved that Law wasn’t flirting with a girl, yet mortified because not only me, but all my friends had called Law’s sister a slut… a bitch.

“I am… I am really sorry… And, uhm, N-nice to meet you…”, I said, wiping the tears on my eyes. “It’s ok, darling! I’m leaving you alone so you can talk in peace, I’ll be downstairs!”. “O-ok”, I said sniffing.

Law slowly approached to the left side of my bed and sat there, next to me, in silence. I wasn’t capable of saying anything to him, either. I had put up a show, he probably thought I was a toxic girl, jealous or even worse things. I had mistrusted him. It was probably the end of something that hadn’t even started.

Suddenly, Law hurled himself on me, hugged me and nuzzled on my lap. “I thought you wouldn’t believe me, I’m sorry, I really do. Lami lives in Jeju and I wanted her to meet you because she is not traveling to Seoul any sooner, we just decided that we will be meeting at the bar so… so you could get to know her”. He said, still with his head buried onto my legs.

“Law…”, I began to cry again. I petted his hair and told him “I am the one who should be sorry. I- I thought you were a bad guy, a typical man that doesn’t care about the girls. I am sorry…”. I felt horrible.

I could hear downstairs my friends laughing, Sanji and Zoro fighting, Luffy shouting. Luckily everybody would make Lami feel comfortable, after all. Law was still sobbing over my lap.

After several minutes I decided to speak up. “Law, stop, you are not the one who should be crying asking me for forgiveness. You did nothing wrong. I was completely mistaken. I hope you will be able to forgive me someday”, I said, gaining composure in order to make things clear.

He sat back, looked at me with teary eyes and asked, “someday? There is nothing to forgive. I want to be with you, I … L…”

“Oi, you two, stop crying, Lami is leaving”, said Nami leaning on the door frame, smiling at us. As she left, and Law wiped the tears off my cheeks, we stood up from bed. I was still dressed so we headed downstairs right away.

“Sis, let’s go, I don’t quite remember how to get your home from here, so you tell me”, said Law. Lami looked at him with loving eyes, and said, “My big brother is always taking care of me, I missed you doc”. Law’s cheeks became red, and he hid under the white with black spots cap he was wearing.

Lami said goodbye to everybody, except me, “she probably hates me”, I thought.

I was going to wish her a good night, when Lami held my hand and pulled from me. “Let’s go sister-in-law, come with us!”. I followed them into the car unsure if Law wanted me there, because he was still embarrassed as hell.

I let Law’s sister sit on the passenger seat, and I sat on the back seat behind Lami. A few seconds after Law started the car Lami said, “Oi, Y/n! did you know that Law has never ever introduced a girlfriend to the family before?”. I choked a little when I heard her say “girlfriend”, and simply chuckled. Law told her to stop, but Lami continued telling me how “emo” he was when he was an adolescent, making fun of his sibling.

We finally arrived at Lami's house. It was a traditional Jeju stone house, with big windows and a typical korean roof construction. On the entrance was a tall guy wearing a cap with “PENGUIN” written on it, waving at us. Law parked the car next to a black Hyundai Ioniq.

“Oi!! brother-in-law!!! How are you? It’s been a year my dear friend!” the guy at the door told Law. We descended the car, and the guy hugged Law in a way “man” do. Lami introduced me to the man, he was his boyfriend, and they had been living together for a few years, and apparently before dating Lami, Penguin knew Law since they were little.

We went inside, and had coffee while chatting about everything. I didn’t feel uncomfortable at any moment, Lami and Penguin were really warm people.

Law’s sister and I headed to the kitchen. It was a perfect opportunity to ask her about their parents so I thought of the best way to bring up the subject. I didn’t need to, because it was the first thing that Lami mentioned.

“Y/n, I’m sure my cold brother didn’t tell you anything about our parents… right?”, she said. I was helping her putting some mochi onto a plate, so I looked at her and said “Not really… At first I thought Rosinante was his father, but then I realized that his surname was Trafalgar, not Donquixote”.

“That’s right, Rosinante is something like Law’s dad. When my brother was 10 years old, my parents passed away in a car accident. They were both doctors, the best ones of this city. Law looks exactly like my dad when he was younger…”, she stopped for a little, and continued, “We stayed with our grandparents at the moment. After two years, Law became really ill and had to be taken to Seoul for some doctors to cure him. Luckily, Rosinante was a volunteer at the children’s hospital where Law was being treated. After six months of intense treatment, he recovered and forged a friendship with “Corasan” who took care of him… Oh sorry, I meant, Rosinante. Corasan it’s just a nickname Law gave him during… the chemotherapy...”, she concluded.

“Oh… poor baby…I’m sorry for your loss too, Lami” I said, feeling a lump in my throat. “Don’t worry, we are all right now, time has passed”, she said, grabbing my hand softly and smiling. She continued, “but let me tell you something, I’ve never seen Law with that type of twinkle in his eyes in the 24 years I’ve known him. He loves you; I can sense that. Plus, when you left the bar earlier, he became so desperate, he was truly worried about losing you”.

I blushed instantly, yet, I was so happy of hearing how he probably loves me that I giggled. And Lami, too.

From the living room we heard Law calling me, “Bab… Y/n-ya, let’s go home it is pretty late”. “Ah… my sweet loving brother and his ways…”, Lami said with a sarcastic tone, rolling back eyes. We both laughed and headed where the boys were.

“Oi Penguin, do you have a bottle of cold water? I tend to get thirsty when I drive”, Law asked Penguin and looked at me with some sort of look I can only label as… horny?. “Right, bro, let me get you one”, said the cool cap guy and headed to the kitchen. “He gets thirsty?” I said to myself a little confused, but dismissed the thought as my attention went to Lami who was showing me a photo of his brother when he was a little baby.

The happy couple invited us to the lantern festival that was taking place the next night at the historical center of the city. They told us to bring all of our friends too. We were excited about it, so we accepted the invitation and left the house.

During the ride along a road by the sea, Law asked me, “Babe, can you please turn the GPS on?, I don’t really know where I am going…”. I searched for my phone in my pockets, but realized I’ve left it at home. “I didn’t bring my phone… give me yours”, I told him. He grabbed his from the black jeans pocket and gave it to me. “Law, your phone is dead…”, I said, trying to turn it on.

“Yeah, my battery died after calling you twenty times when you left the bar…”, he said, kinda joking. “Oh…”, I gasped, and continued, “Well, let me enter the address on the car sat nav”.

I approached my hand to the little screen when Law stopped my hand and smirked. “It would be a shame if the computer wouldn’t work and we ended up lost…”.

“You clearly had this planned, right?” I said arching a brow. “Me, planning things? that’s not something I usually do…”, he said in a sarcastic way, but with a sexy tone that made me somehow fidget on my seat.

I came closer to his face and almost talking next to his ear I said, “Let’s get lost”. Law licked his lips, placed his right hand over my lap and said “Heh, sure… I can’t resist myself anymore”.

He suddenly turned the wheel and took a little road that took us to the beach. Finally, my lover parked the car, luckily it was a deserted zone, a cliff area, and there weren’t any houses or places nearer.

The beach ahead of us was lightened by an intense moonshine, the sea was choppy so the waves hit hard on the cliffs.

Law threw his seat back and patted his lap, “Strip for me, and come here, baby”. “Ah, so we are fucking on the car, nice…” I thought and began to take my clothes off.

“Don’t take that off, yet. You know that little bandanna you have on your head could help us…”, he said to me after I jumped over his lap. I felt a rock hard bulge under my core, he was already so ablaze for me.

He then untied the cloth that was holding my hair, smirked at me, and said “may I?” while covering my eyes with it.

“Lay you back on the steering wheel, baby girl”, he ordered me. I remember instantly how he likes to dominate me, so I followed his order to a “Yes, sir”.

His fingers ran from my mouth to my neck. He kept lowering them softly caressing my flesh. I could barely feel the touch of his fingers over my skin. He wasn’t talking, and I was unaware of what was coming next, I was blindfolded, but surrendered completely to this man.

All of a sudden I felt a cold sensation over one of my nipples, “Uhg…” I moaned, throwing my head back. Then the chilly stinging feeling moved to my other nipple. God, what is that?... and suddenly remember Law asking Penguin the cold water bottle. “Damn you, Law”, I said to myself but only being able to verbalize moans and grunts.

He began to trail an icy path from my breasts to my lower stomach. My heated skin mixed with the cold water that began to melt over my flesh, felt like a sweet torture.

“Your hot body is making the icy water melt and wet my jeans… or is it perhaps your own arousal for your Master, baby girl?”, he said to me, while running a thumb over my clit.

He then penetrated me with two fingers as he only knew how to, took them off and asked me to open my mouth. “Taste yourself, baby girl”, he commanded me, and I opened my mouth and sucked.

I heard - and felt- how he unzipped his jeans, and slowly took his member out. I could feel how he began to softly hit his manhood over my sex. He was playing with it, but my body couldn’t wait for it to be inside of me.

“Is it getting hot in here, huh?” he said and unbuttoned his black shirt. I knew it because he then grabbed my hands making me caress his skin. My hands wandered along his chest, but my mind was only focusing on how much I wanted to be penetrated by this man.

I was drowning in lust, I needed him to do something, but he didn’t. “Law… Sir… What are you doing?... fuck me, I want you to fuck me…”. He laughed, and violently but gently enough he pinched and twisted one of my erect nipples. A strike of intense pleasure hit my center, and it was so unexpected that I only purred at it.

He then ran his inked fingers through my hair and pulled me closer to his face, this time he wasn’t being gentle, he was being rough… and I loved it. “What do you think you are doing? I am the one who gives you orders in here, are we clear?” he said, whispering with a grunt in my ear.

“Y-yes sir, I- am sorry…”, I said, stuttering. “Good”, he said and kissed me. We made out, hard, feverishly. I could feel over my entrance how his sex became even harder.

He suddenly put his hands on each side of my waist and lifted me up a little bit, so I could place my knees on each side of the seat. He used his right hand to guide his pennis inside of me. It was just the tip of it, he was enjoying how I was probably miming the words “fuck me” repeatedly. After a few seconds of torture, he grabbing me again from my waist, pushed me down against his lap. “Ugh..” I said, opening my mouth, throwing my back to the steering wheel, so hard that I made the car horn sound.

I wanted to be penetrated, and he did it so roughly, yet so pleasantly.

I began to ride him, back, forward, up, down, tracing circles with my pelvis. My left knee hit the emergency brake handle, it hurt but I didn’t care. I placed my hands over his strong abs, letting all of my senses focus on the pleasure, imagining the expression he had on his face when I heard him groan.

Law pulled my hair and threw my neck back, again making me hit my back on the wheel, and used his hips to bang me, hard, burying himself into me. Every thrust made my body react with little spams; I was being sent to heaven.

Law untied the bandanna that was covering my eyes, and said in between the thrusts and an agitated voice, “I want to see your precious face when I make you cum”. My eyes slowly returned to its functions, admiring the sweaty thorax of Law, the way his stomach would go up and down picturing his rapid breathing. His face showed a red glowing, he was more than aroused. I was too, and as I reached for climax, placing my right hand over the steamy glass of the car window, Law did too with a hard “Huh”.

He bathed my insides once again. I remained still enjoying the warming sensation inside of me, trying to erase any worry at the time.

Law placed a hand on my back and pulled me closer to his chest, while lying his neck over the headrest of the yellow Sonata.

I rested my whole tired body over his, enjoying the touch of our warm skins, the scent of his body, with my lips wandering along his neck, leaving soft kisses over its skin.

“We should go back home; they might get a little bit concerned…” I told Law, still over him. “Yeah, you are right, let’s go back…”.

It was 4 am so once we got home and opened the door, we entered stealthily. I walked behind Law when he suddenly stopped, and I fell over him. “What is it, Law?!” I whispered, “I don’t know, this is kind of a slumber party…”, he whispered back at me.

Suddenly all the lights turned on. Everybody was sleeping on bare mattresses on the floor of the living room.

Little by little our friends but Zoro and Sanji woke up.

“Oh my god, finally…” said Nami and everyone began to laugh. They weren’t laughing at us, but at Sanji and Zoro who were sleeping cuddled.

Law looked at them and looked at everybody else and said, “Excuse me, is this something new to you? Oi Mugiwara-ya, tell them every time you three get to sleep at home they do the same”. Luffy nodded, still laughing.

No matter how much noise they made, nor Zoro or Sanji woke up, they seemed to be happily enjoying sleeping like this, so we didn’t want to bother them anymore.

“Let’s go back to sleep, guys. Y/n and Law you can sleep upstairs, we left Law’s bed intact”, said Franky winking at us. “Thank you!!” I said, and we went upstairs jumping through the multiple legs of our friends.

We climbed up the stairs, and went into the boy’s room. I was undressing when suddenly Law offered me a big loose t-shirt. “Don’t get me wrong I love your naked body, but what if the boys enter the room and see you naked?”, he said. “Oh, Law, are you jealous? hahaha”, I mocked him. “Well, let's not discuss jealousy…”, he said frowning.

I grabbed his white loose t-shirt with some kind of black power ranger called “Stealth Black” printed on it and put it on, giggling. I could have sworn he was a geeky nerd, and that was the proof.

Law and I jumped into his bed and muffled up with the bedding. He hugged me, kissing my head. “Thank you for making this the best holiday of my whole life…”, he said. “Thank you for paying the bus ticket that time…”, I whispered with my face pressed up against his chest. We both laughed and soon after fell asleep.

I woke up with the sounds of some birds chirping on the window. Law was still asleep beside me, with his ruffled hair, his cheek pressed against the pillow with his mouth open, snoring softly. I couldn’t help but drool over that image, so handsome even like that, the intimacy, the person I wanted to wake up to each morning.

I placed my head over the tattoos of his chest, following with my index finger the lines of ink on his skin. I remained there for a few minutes hearing his heartbeat, drunk of his skin scent.

Softly he began caressing my cheek, still without opening his eyes. He was probably half asleep yet.

I felt a million butterflies trapped on my stomach, I was so in love, I had fallen for this guy, hard. I felt a little guilty, I mean, how was I supposed to fall in love so quickly with a man?... I guess it was just love at first sight…

Law’s hand stopped moving, and suddenly I heard him mumble something like, “Mmmm- hum - I-I- love you Y/n-ya”. I widened my eyes, “did he just say he loves me? “I was completely surprised and even unsure if that was what he said or if it was just my imagination.

Some minutes later, he opened his eyes, slowly. “Good morning, baby girl”, he said, kissing my forehead. I was immobile, watching his face still trying to process what he had just said. “What is it?, are you sleeping with your eyes open? you are gorgeous but that would be a little creepy”, he said, surprised.

“N-No, uhm, I am awake, yes. Good morning”, I uttered. “Are you ok, Y/n-ya?”, he asked with a confused expression. “Yeah, uhm… Law… Do you sleep talk?”, I inquired him. “Oh… did I? I’m sorry... I do, yes. Sometimes. What did I say?”, he said this time with a worried expression. “Oh, no, nothing, I thought I heard something but I don’t know. It’s nothing”, I said, trying to settle the matter.

We remained cuddling up a little bit more, until we heard movements downstairs. They were probably waking up, so I decided to go to my room and get ready for the day.

“New pajamas”, I thought while taking off Law’s shirt. I folded and put it on my suitcase, I wasn’t willing to give it back to him.

I went ahead and showered. I let the warm water bathe my skin while thinking about Law saying “I love you” while he was asleep. Was he really? Did he really feel that or was it just a dream?... I guess I should wait…

After the bath, which clearly made me more anxious than relaxed, I went downstairs to the kitchen where Sanji was already preparing breakfast. I decided to help him with setting the table while chatting about the lantern festival of that night. Nami, Vivi and Robin joined us and were pleased that Lami and Penguin invited us to such a pretty event.

Our last day in Jeju passed with us visiting the Samseonghyeol Shrine, which is the oldest historic site in Korea. That place is considered as the birthplace of three demigods of the island, founders of the Tanma Kingdom that governed Jeju Island before the Joseon dynasty took over.

At noon we came back from the city and began to get ready for the festival that night. I received a message from Lami, “@TraffLami.06 > hello Sis! How is the day going? Is my brother treating you right?. Listen, we usually wear “hanbok” to the festival. If you want to too, you can rent them from a friend's shop. I send the location. See you tonight! ♥”. I got super excited for it, I loved cultural clothing and I wanted to see Law wearing those clothes too. I told my friends and we all agreed on renting one. Law, being the warm boy he was, wasn't so sure about it, but with a little kiss and a little begging I could convince him.

The night came and we all drove to the historical centre of Jeju. The place was all garnished with paper lanterns, string lights hanging from some bridges, lit inflatable displays, food courts, typical music being played that mixed with the buzz of hundreds of attendants that were enjoying the night.

I was wearing a hanbok in yellow and orange tones, while Law used a green and black one. He looked like a typical groom; I couldn’t help but fantasize a little about us getting married someday.

Luffy of course ran to the food stalls followed by everybody else, Zoro went ahead and attacked the stall where they were offering some kind of soju and Law and I waited for his sister and Penguin to arrive at where we were.

Law was more silent than usual and his face showed concerned. I thought at first about him missing his parents or family, maybe the festival triggered some memories, so I held his hand without saying anything. He squeezed my hand, and began to sweat.

“Are you ok, doc?”, I asked. He looked at me, I could sense he got really nervous and finally mumbled, “Y/n-ya we need to talk…” …

Part 6, FINAL

[ssa-sugar-tits]

sweetest sins

summary: spencer reid finds that his ex girlfriend-- who happens to be the chief of police on a case he's working-- is now married, sparking past feelings.

content warnings: lowkey hate sex lol, jealousy/possessiveness, affairs, swearing, fingering, penetrative sex, public sex/risk kink, degradation

a/n: i'm 100% acab, anti-cheating, and condone safe sex but... it's for the porn.

The tangle of wild love and lies between you and Spencer Reid started the way any other day did.

JJ glided past the bullpen humming and announced the always familiar words. We've got a case. It hadn't truly been a day to remember until they arrived at the precinct.

The blonde liason extends her fragile hand to greet you and gives you a friendly yet professional grin, her pearly white teeth sparkling.

"I'm Agent Jareau, we spoke on the phone." you nod and smile. "This is Agent Morgan and Doctor Reid, the rest of our team went straight to the crime scene."

Shaking hands kindly, the agents standing beside you look to each other one another seeing Spencer shake yours without hesitation. He lingers, gaze dropping to the expensive wedding ring on your hand.

Bitter, dark chocolate jealousy is all he tastes.

You turn away and escort the profilers to an empty room.

"It's good to have you agents, you can set up here. If you need anything just let me or one of my officers know." you chirp before leaving.

Spencer's left staring at you as you walk away, watching the way your hair, that he'd give anything to lock his fingers between, spreads on your tight black top and how your legs move gracefully beneath the white skirt you wear.

"You two know each other kid?" Derek questions.

"Something like that." he breathes out, lowly.

Know each other? Loved each other. And never once did he imagine it'd end or that you'd move on so unabashedly. Never once did he think you'd stop loving him.

And you didn't. Contact with Agent Jareau meant you knew the BAU was coming, you knew Spencer was coming. You'd kissed your gentle husband goodbye, knowing you were about to show off how your clothes hugged your curves and how your wedding ring shines like a star on your well kept hand. You'd never worn a skirt that short to work before, it sits mere inches above your knee exposing the skin of your thighs. The skin you wanted his bites of love to be covered in.

You never intended on acting on any old feelings.

"Did you know?"

Speak of the devil. You're interrupted by the handsome doctor's flustered voice and messy curls.

"Know what, doll?" You ask innocently. He shuts the door behind him, carefully as to not bring any attention to your office.

"Is this really what you want Y/N? To taunt me? During a federal case nonetheless."

His voice sounds like heaven rolling off his sweet tongue. Your innocent attempts to rectify the past with jealousy turn to a devious test of loyalty. Loyalty to your husband or Spencer? You're not sure. What you are sure of is the lustful stare in his caramel eyes when you lean forward, giving him a full view of your cleavage.

"What do you want Spence?"

Drops of sweat prick his forehead and his clothes are suddenly much too tight.

"Nothing to do with you," he lies sternly.

You look him dead in the eye as you slide your ring off your finger and let it clink to the floor. Standing slowly, you walk up to him and smirk at his desperately heavy breath. Inches away from his face, you pull him by his jaw and whisper.

"No fun," you pout and trail a finger down his chest. "Come on, know-it-all, why don't you tell me instead. What do I want?"

His hands find their rightful place on your hips and he answers you, playing into your antics.

"You want me to feel bad, like I'm the one that ruined our relationship."

You hum in agreement, your hands playing with his curls as he continues.

"You want me to act like I wronged you which in all honesty would have been more likely. Women are more likely to be loyal to an individual, it's primitive instinct."

He keeps going when you only chew on your red glossed lip in response.

"You want me to pretend we're in love."

That caught your attention.

It's the worst lie he's told if he's going to say he doesn't love you.

"We are in love Spencer." you correct.

"You call this love?" he scoffs.

"I do," you nod, "It just doesn't burn brightly enough for us to be together."

Cradling your hair and stroking the crook of your neck, he looks into your eyes in terror of what hes about to do.

"I don't understand,"

"That's a first." you scoff.

"I thought you moved on," he begs for you to turn away, say you can't do it.

He knows it's wrong, he'd be doing what you did to him.

"I did move on," you confirm.

"Oh." is all he musters before he screams at himself not to give in.

Fuck this. Who can say no to you?

There's a second where he wants to turn away but he cuts away his own chances when he presses his soft, hungry lips against yours. Closing the gap between the two of you makes you fist his button-up and moan deeply into his warm mouth. He lifts you, allowing you to wrap your legs around him as you explore each other's mouths again after so long. A growing rhythm creates wet and lewd sounds while you dance a passionate dance for dominance.

"You are such a liar. I may be the one that fucked up," you gasp between needy kisses, "but you're lying more to yourself than I ever did to you. Saying you don't want me."

He slams you onto your desk, knocking over sensitive case files and decorative frames.

"And what if I do Y/N? That ship has sailed." he growls, once more shoving his tongue blissfully into your mouth as if it's the most delicious taste he's ever had. Pushing him away only to tease him, he bites your lip ravenously as if to tell you not this time. His hands find themselves wandering among your thighs, pooling with wetness already.

"God Y/N, if I knew I still made you such a mess I'd have come running back a year ago."

"Shut up and touch me," you command and he complies, slipping a swift finger inside of your soaked core. You bite the soft skin on his shoulder to stifle a deep moan prompted by his curling fingers.

"It takes an average of 13 minutes for a woman to orgasm, Y/N. The way you're clenching around my fingers makes me think I can get you faster."

"Mm," you cry into his neck as he curls his fingers inside of you like an artist, moving quickly and fucking beautifully. The orgasm comes quickly, so much better than the man you married could ever pleasure you.

"Does that husband of yours get to see you like this? He can't make you cum like I do, can he? You teased me since the moment I got here, answer me."

"Ugh no Spence," you whine pitifully. "Not a single other person can touch me like you do." He smirks, satisfied with that answer and takes his fingers out of you, sucking your dripping juices off of himself slowly.

"Off the desk," he moans, still tasting your cum and worshipping it like a tropical smoothie on a hell hot day. Bending yourself over without instruction, he hikes your skirt up and you shiver at the sound of him unbuckling his belt. A sound you haven't heard in far too long. You yelp when he enters you and sigh in pleasure as you adjust to his length.

"You feel so good Y/N. Even better than I remember," he moans and thrusts slowly, sensually. His hands leave marks on your ass and you push out willfully.

"God," you take in the feeling and then laugh softly. "Don't you have a whatever memory? Shouldnt you remember exactly what this is like?"

Now, you know exactly what his eidetic memory consists of but why not toy with him? As if the risk of getting caught by an entire precinct isn't enough fun. Your inability to stay serious even in a passionate moment like this only irritates him, making him thrust harder and faster into you.

"Is this it? You want me to fuck you harder for being stupid?" He growls, skin slapping louder and louder and you struggle to keep your moans quiet.

"Yes," you stretch out with your eyes closed, unable to form words anymore.

"You are stupid. If intelligence could be quantified, you'd be an idiot." His pace inside of you screams with heavenly pleasure and rage. "A stupid, lying, slut. All you've ever been."

"Mhm, yeah," you babble, never wanting the moment to end.

"Fuck, come for me like the slut you are," he instructs and you let go, moaning loudly. His thumb shuts your mouth, stroking your lips and letting you taste remnants of yourself. Soon after, he explodes inside of you too and fills you with the final act of what you've done.

Panting with your hair sticking out and moistened with sweat, you sit up and pull your skirt back down, smoothing it out. You lean into Spencer's side and sigh.

"I missed you, princess," he mumbles.

"I know you did, Spence."

Hopping off the desk, you fix your hair and stop inches from the doorknob.

"You coming?" you smile, not glancing back at him.

"You forgot your ring, idiot."

Shit. You smile back at him anyway, still bursting with confidence.

"Thanks."

Slipping it back on, you exit the office and join the profilers back in the room. The glances tell you they have a slight idea of what happened.

And the glances fall back down to the ring on your finger.

The glances, the sneaking, the lying.

It's all just part of it.

Part of the sweetest sins you've ever tasted.

~

masterlist

~

[peaceisadirtyword]

Teasing (Modern!Ivar/Reader)

A/N: Hello!♥️ It took me so long to finish this! (it was actually a draft I had forgotten and that I had to rewrite because it was even worse). It’s not my best work and I'm not very proud of this, but I'm posting it anyway. 

This fic is mainly for the lovely  @maggiescarborough​💕 Happy birthday, Sophie! I know I'm late and all of that😅 sorry! but I hope you had an amazing day and enjoyed it as much as you can. I really wanted to write something good for you, but I've been so mentally exhausted these past months that I don’t seem to be capable of writing good things :( anyway, I hope you enjoy it! I used this idea because I thought it was interesting, I really hope you like it♥️ Thank you for reading!

Warnings: smut, mentions of sex and alcohol, Ivar, my writer’s block (I think my block is the longest block on history), if it’s too bad I'll delete it I promise.

Words: 4108 (sorry)

gif belongs to @whenimaunicorn​ 

You had a love-hate relationship with the gym. You liked feeling fit, you liked the feeling after an intense workout, you felt better with yourself and it allowed you to eat a pizza afterwards. But you hated to be sweaty and sticky on your way home, especially when the showers at the gym were fucking broken. 

You nearly moaned in relief when you opened the door to the apartment you shared with your best friend. Her dad had insisted on installing an A/C last year, and even if you were a bit against it (you had spent one entire week bitching about how you were destroying the planet) you couldn't deny that entering the apartment after being walking under the sun for twenty minutes felt like entering Valhalla. 

Leaving your bag next to the door, you took off your shirt, groaning in annoyance and already thinking about drinking the entire bottle of fresh water you had put in the fridge earlier that day. 

But just when you were approaching the fridge, dressed only on your sports bra and the little grey shorts, someone interrupted you. 

"Will you keep stripping for me or should I go back to reading?" 

The scream died on your throat. You jumped, startled, and turned around to see the dark haired, blue-eyed asshole that almost gave you a heart attack. 

He was laying on the couch, a book between his hands and a smirk on his pouty lips that made you glare at him in rage. 

"What the fuck are you doing on my couch? In my house? Who let you in? Where the fuck is Thora?" 

Ivar laughed, shaking his head. 

"She's on her bedroom, with Hvitserk... I wouldn't go in" he raised an eyebrow. 

"What are you doing here?" you insisted, trying to cover yourself with your arms. 

"Didn't she tell you?" he chuckled "We're reforming our apartment, Hvitserk burned the kitchen" he shrugged "So we need to stay here for some days" 

"What?" you blinked. Thora definitely hadn't told you. You could go through some hours with the brothers, in fact you got along pretty well with Hvitserk. But days? That was different. 

Ivar's laugh interrupted your thoughts, making you glare at him again. It wasn't that you didn't like him. Ivar was a complicated person, he seemed to really like to tease you, in a friendly way. You didn't know how, but he always managed to get to your nerves. 

"Aren't you happy with having me here for days? All for you" 

You'd lie if you said his tone didn't make you press your thighs together.

"No" you rolled your eyes, finally opening the fridge to take the bottle out. You could feel his eyes on you as you drank the water "Anyway, I'm going to have a shower"

"Want me to join?" 

You rolled your eyes again, ignoring him as you walked to the bathroom, feeling even more exhausted than when you arrived. 

Ivar confused you. He could be nice, you knew that, and if he was a bit nicer, you would have probably made a move on him. He was the only one of all his brothers that was still single, he was... Really handsome, and the smartest person you had ever met. Maybe, just maybe, you had a crush on him. It was easy to handle it on a nightclub or a pub, but you didn't know how you'd react to his constant teasing at your own home. 

Even if he sometimes flirted with you -or that was what Thora said, you thought he was only messing with you- he wasn't attracted to you. You knew that because he would often go home with girls he met that same night. It was something that drove you mad, he could flirt with you, invite you to a drink, whisper sweet things on your ear as you were already tipsy and giggling, and then, he'd smirk at you and maybe leave for the toilet. When he came back, he had another girl on his arm, and ignored you for the rest of the night. 

When you finished your shower, you put your pajamas on and went out of the bathroom, hoping Ivar was only joking and that they'd go home after dinner. 

Thora was making out with Hvitserk on the kitchen as Ivar watched TV with a bored expression. As soon as she saw you, Thora ran to you, a big smile on her face. 

"I might have forgotten to tell you" 

"Yes, you might" you raised an eyebrow. 

"But it's okay, right? I mean, Hvitserk will sleep with me, he won't eat all the food and we'll be quiet, I promise" 

You sighed. 

"What about him?" you pointed at Ivar, who raised an eyebrow. 

"I'm fine with the couch" he shrugged "And I will be quiet too" he winked at you with a smirk, and you cleared your throat. 

"See?" Thora smiled brightly at you "Everything's fine, and they're buying dinner today, what do you prefer? Mexican or Chinese?" 

You shrugged as she looked around the kitchen for the small paper with the number of the nearest Mexican restaurant, knowing it was your favorite and that they needed to have you happy for the rest of the night. 

"Ivar, are you sure you can sleep on the couch?" Hvitserk sat next to his brother, frowning a bit in concern. Ivar looked bothered with his question, as he clenched his jaw and looked away. 

"Yes, I'm not a baby, Hvitserk" 

"I know, but the doctor said you shouldn't sleep in bad postures, Ivar" he lowered his tone "This couch is amazing for sex but terrible to sleep in" 

You decided to ignore the fact that Hvitserk just admitted fucking your roommate in the same couch in which you took a nap every day. 

"Yeah, Hvitty is right" you muttered, feeling bad for him as Ivar looked to the floor "You won't sleep well in here" 

He glared at you. 

"He's trying a new treatment" Hvitserk explained "This one is a bit more harsh, so he needs to rest well"

Ivar hissed. You knew that his legs were a sensitive topic. 

"You can always sleep on my bed" you muttered "I don't mind..." 

"Are you so desperate to have me in your bed, Y/N?" Ivar smirked again, and you tried your best to avoid blushing as you scoffed. 

"I'm just being polite" you glared at him, making Hvitserk chuckle. 

"Would you sleep in there with me or here?" he asked, shrugging. 

"If you think I like you enough to renounce to my bed for you, you're a bit delusional" 

Ivar smiled, shaking his head.

"Okay, dinner will be here in half an hour" Thora said happily, sitting on Hvitserk's lap "Want to watch a movie?" 

______________________________________

Hvitserk was nice, funny, a really good cook and hot, Thora even said he could give oral sex really good. But his taste in movies was shit. 

That morning when you woke up, you didn't even think you'd end up sharing vegetarian tacos with Ivar and watching Fifty Shades of Grey as Hvitserk and Thora kept making out. It was awkward. Especially when the sex scenes started. 

It was already midnight when the damn movie finished and you could finally get out from that couch, trying your best to avoid looking at Ivar as you took the plates to the kitchen. Thora had a weird smile as she stood up to help you. 

"So, what are you going to do?" she whispered as you put the plates on the sink, raising an eyebrow at her.

"I was thinking about going to sleep" you shrugged. 

"Shut up, you know what I mean" she giggled "You're going to sleep with Ivar, on the same bed... Are you going to finally do it?" 

"Do what?" 

"Do him" she rolled her eyes "Come on, Y/N, we all have eyes and we all can see the sexual tension" 

"There's no sexual tension" you scoffed "He just likes to tease me, he doesn't want to have sex with me" 

"Are you sure?" Thora laughed "You're so cute" she hugged you, making you frown in confusion "Didn't you see how he looked at you the whole night?" 

Yes, you had caught him staring at you more than once. He didn't look away, but instead he smirked and winked at you until you blushed and turned your head to the TV, but you though he was only messing with you, as always. He liked to bother you when he got bored. 

Shaking your head you went back to washing the plates. She giggled again and kissed your cheek before leaving to whisper something on Hvitserk's ear. 

Soon, they excused themselves to go to Thora's bedroom. Hvitserk wished you a good night with a wink and then proceeded to hit Ivar with one of the cushions before leaning in to say something in Danish and chuckling as his brother glared at him. 

As soon as their door closed behind them, you heard Ivar grunting softly as he stood up and approached you with his crutch. He said nothing as he leant onto the counter, next to you, watching your movements in silence. 

"Did you like the movie?" he asked. You turned your head to look at him for a second and your heart nearly stopped when you saw he let his hair down. 

"Not really" you cleared your throat "But it was entertaining..." 

"Yeah, definitely" he held back a smile "Thank you for letting me sleep on your bed" 

It was the first time you heard Ivar saying thank you, and you nearly dropped the glass you were washing. 

"It's nothing, really" you frowned "Why are you being nice?" 

He laughed, running one of his hands through his hair. You tried your best to avoid staring at him. 

"I can be nice" he shrugged. 

"Breaking news" you muttered, raising an eyebrow. Ivar chuckled again but said nothing. 

When you finished, you dried your hands and turned to look at him again. His blue eyes were still fixed on you and you immediately looked away.

"I think I'm going to go to bed" you nearly whispered "I'm tired"

Ivar only nodded, taking his crutch again and waiting until you started walking down the hall to follow you, turning off the lights. 

Luckily, your bed was big enough so two people could sleep on it without touching each other. Even if Ivar was fucking huge. 

"I'd like to have a shower before" he cleared his throat "Could I?" 

He left his bag next to the bed, turning to look at you as you were busy staring at his back. 

"Yeah, sure" you cleared your throat again "There are clean towels on the last drawer" you pointed at the four-drawer dresser. 

He nodded, and you heard him open the drawer as you turned around to pick up some of the clothes you had left on the floor, trying to make the room look a bit more presentable. And then you heard him chuckle and realized you had fucked up. 

"Nice" Ivar seemed to find really funny that you had a vibrator on your dresser. To be fair, you had forgotten you put it in there... And had barely used it "So this is how you can go months without sex"

Blushing fiercely, you snatched the vibrator from his hand and glared  at him. 

"Shut up"

"It's okay, I'm not judging you" he kept laughing, and you held yourself back from hitting him with the toy "I mean, we all have needs, right?" 

You ignored him, turning around again to face the wardrobe as you pretended to be too busy hanging your clothes. You could still hear his laugh when he left the room with the towel on his arm. After making sure you had hidden the vibrator well -you knew he was going to torment you with that for weeks, maybe even months-, you changed into your pajamas. 

____________________________

The bathroom was warm and you could feel the humidity when Ivar finally let you enter to wash your teeth. He was shirtless, wearing only a pair of grey sweatpants. You let your eyes linger on the tattoos that covered both his back and chest, but looked away and pretended to be angry at him as you turned to face the sink and grabbed your toothbrush. 

He hadn't washed his hair, and you had the pleasure to watch how he ran his hands through it and put it up on a bun. Then your eyes travelled down his face and his body, and you frowned. It was really unfair how beautiful he was, especially as he was the biggest idiot you had ever met. God, you hated him. 

As soon as you were finished, you raised your head to look at him again, but instead you found his blue eyes looking at you through the mirror. 

"See something you like?" He raised an eyebrow, that infuriating smirk was still on his lips.

"No" you narrowed your eyes and he laughed again "What's so funny?" 

"You" 

"Will I be as funny when I send you to sleep on the couch?" 

He shook his head and bit his lower lip, approaching you. 

"You wouldn't do that"

"Try me" you rolled your eyes.

"Nah, I don't have to, I know you wouldn't" 

"How do you know it?" You turned to face him, crossing your arms on your chest and staring back at him. 

"Because I know you like me" he shrugged "I can see it"

"I tolerate you" you scoffed "Only because you're my best friend's boyfriend's brother"

"Sure" he smirked again. 

"You're narcissist, obnoxious, arrogant and an asshole"

"You sound like Sigurd" he rolled his eyes. 

"I like Sigurd more than you" 

Ivar smiled again. It was driving you mad. 

"No you don't" he muttered, and suddenly he was really close to you "Shut up now"

You were going to protest, but he interrupted you again. By leaning in and kissing you. 

The kiss was even better than you had imagined. His lips were softer and warmer, and you couldn't help but close your eyes and moan softly as he pressed his body closer to you, leaning you against the sink. He was still leaning on his crutch, but his free hand travelled up your body until he reached your neck, grabbing it softly as you grabbed his shoulders to avoid falling down. Your knees felt weak and it was even worse when he smiled against your lips. 

Ivar broke the kiss for a few seconds, brushing his nose against yours before kissing you again, this time more deeply. You moved your hips against his, making him groan and bit your lower lip. You let out a gasp and frowned, whining in protest when he moved his lips away from yours. They brushed your cheek and his hand moved to tangle into your hair before he moved his mouth down your neck. Your heart was racing as he bit, licked and kissed your neck. 

He kissed you again, softly, almost like he tried to memorize the feeling of your lips against his. You felt dizzy when he finally broke the kiss, you were panting and your face burned. Ivar looked a bit taken aback by his own actions when he moved away from you. The both of you stared at each other in silence. He looked even more beautiful than he did just a couple of minutes before. 

Suddenly, he cleared his throat and turned around, walking to the door and closing it after him. You stood there, grabbing the sink as your legs still trembled and you felt hot. Your face was red, and your lips were pink and a bit swollen. After staring at your own reflection for a couple of minutes, you moved to open the water tap, leaning in to wash your face.

__________________________________

Ivar was laying on your bed. He had his arm under his head and his eyes on his phone. You barely dared to look at him when you entered, going directly to the mirror that stood next to you door to put your hair up on a ponytail. Any of you dared to break the silence, though. 

You climbed on the bed, facing away from him and snuggled under the covers. 

"I'm going to turn off the light, okay?" you muttered, and Ivar hummed. 

Silence again. You moved to hug your own pillow, as you always did, and just as you had closed your eyes and were about to drift off to sleep, you felt Ivar moving closer to you. He touched your waist, startling you. 

"Is this okay?" He asked, softly, on your ear. You tensed up but nodded slowly. He sighed in content and hugged your waist, pressing you against him. His head rested on your shoulder, and you felt his breathing on your neck. Your eyes were now wide open, and your heart started beating faster. 

Then you felt his lips on your cheek and leant onto him, you felt him smile against your skin and it made you smile a bit too. You didn't know what the hell was happening, but you were definitely enjoying it. 

"I might have been wanting to do this for months" he muttered "But don't tell anyone" 

You frowned and turned around to look at him. You were so close that you could feel his breathing on your lips.

"Are you messing with me? Because it's not funny" 

Ivar shook his head. Maybe if the room wasn't that dark, you could have seen him blushing.

"I'm not, I'm being honest now, don't ruin it" he glared at you and you raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, I'm listening" you smirked, enjoying that small amount of power you had over him in that moment.

It was the first time Ivar couldn't find the right words. He bit his lip, feeling stupid as he stared at you, unable to actually put into words what he needed to say. 

"Can I kiss you?" He finally said, frustrated. If he couldn't tell you, he'd show it. 

You held back a soft smile at his words and nodded. This time it was you who leant in to kiss him. He sighed against your lips and his hand went to your neck again, holding you close to him as he bit your lip. 

You moaned into his mouth, making him groan and grip your waist. When he broke the kiss again the both of you were panting and you pressed your thighs together. 

"Gods you drive me insane woman" he growled again, pressing his face against your neck. You blushed and smiled, feeling like a teenager whose crush invited her out. 

"I thought you..."

"Stop thinking" he chuckled "I know what you think, Thora told me" his blue eyes seemed to glow in the dark "You're wrong"

"But you always teased me" you rolled your eyes "You literally flirted with me and then left with some other girl"

"Yeah, that was rude" he cleared his throat "Sorry, I thought you didn't want to... Go home with me... I thought about you when we fucked though, if that counts" 

"No it doesn't" you couldn't help but laugh. 

Ivar smiled softly and kissed you again, this time his hand travelled down your waist, caressing your thigh and grabbing your leg, pulling you closer to him until you straddled him, without breaking the kiss. Your hips moved against his and you could feel his erection already pressing against his sweatpants. 

"Sigurd said you couldn't have sex" you raised an eyebrow

"Sigurd is a fucking idiot" he rolled his eyes, grinding against you, as a way of showing you he definitely could "He's jealous because he knows that even if I couldn't fuck, I'd be better than him" 

You giggled, amused, and leant to kiss him again. Ivar's hands travelled under your shirt and you moaned as he reached your breasts, caressing your skin softly. 

"Let me take this off" he nearly begged you, whispering into your ear, and his tone made you whimper. 

You took the shirt off and tossed it aside, suddenly feeling self-conscious and trying to hide yourself from him. His expression softened, knowing very well the feeling. Ivar, with a softness on his eyes that you didn't know he could show, put your arms away gently, sitting to start kissing your neck and chest softly. 

"It's okay" he muttered "You're beautiful, Y/N, you should know that" 

"I'm not that sure" you smiled as he raised his head to look at you "But thanks" 

"Then I'll tell you until you're sure" Ivar shrugged. 

Your smile widened and you kissed him again, it was like you couldn't get enough of him. His hands caressed your thighs and then his fingers reached the edge of your pajama shorts. Your gasped when he reached your sex, and moaned when Ivar caressed it over your panties, moving your hips to encourage him to continue. 

Ivar was already panting. His mouth felt dry and he had to lick his lips constantly. He let out a groan when he felt how wet you were already, and the fact that it was because of him made him smirk against the skin of your shoulder, putting your underwear aside and pressing onto your clit. You whimpered and your hands grabbed his neck and his arm. 

Ivar's fingers teased your entrance, you moaned and bit your lip, gasping when he pushed one finger inside you, moving it slowly in and out before adding another one. Then he curled them inside you, making you moan louder than before, immediately covering your mouth with your hand. 

"Don't" he frowned.

"But... Hvitserk and Thora..." 

"Fuck them, they're not especially silent, are they?" 

You giggled, but nodded as he kissed your neck again, his lips traveling down your chest until he reached your breasts. The feeling of his fingers thrusting into you, with the palm of his hand brushing your clit and his lips on your breasts was too much, and soon you felt that familiar knot on your lower belly, tightening quickly as you moved against him, moaning. Your legs were shaking around him and he groaned, raising his head to bite your earlobe. 

"Come on, love, cum for me now" 

It seemed that the last thing your body needed was to hear his voice whispering on your ear. You came with a small scream, moaning his name and panting. Ivar looked quite proud of himself when he retrieved his fingers, licking them with his eyes fixed on yours. 

Another kiss. He was so addictive it worried you, would you be able to spend a single minute next to him without kissing him? You only broke the kiss to take your shorts and panties off. Ivar only pulled his sweatpants down enough for him to free his cock. You didn't ask him to fully undress, instead you grabbed his face and kissed him as he pressed his erection against your entrance.

"Slowly, please" you muttered "It's been a while and I think you're a bit bigger than the vibrator" 

Ivar said nothing, just smirked and pressed his forehead against yours. He thrusted into you slowly, moaning softly as you whimpered in pain. 

"Am I hurting you?" He asked, his eyes showed true concern as you smiled and kissed his lips.

"It's okay, don't stop please"

It didn't take long for the pain to fade. This time you moaned in pleasure, and started moving against him. You pushed him so he'd lay down, putting your hands on his chest as you moved your hips up and down. Ivar bit his lip, narrowing his eyes and gripping your waist so hard you were sure he'd leave marks. 

Your nails dig on his tattooed chest as you felt your orgasm approaching, and Ivar moaned your name as your walls clenched around him. He moved his hand to your clit and circled it, making you moan even louder, your legs trembled again and your movements faltered a bit. Ivar kept thrusting into you until you moaned his name one last time before letting yourself go. He came just after you, biting his lip and muttering your name. 

Laying down over him, you kissed his lips one last time as his arms circled your waist. The both of you stayed in silence, enjoying each other's touch and soft breathing, until Ivar turned his head to look at you and smirked. 

"Next time, can we use the vibrator too?" 

_____________________________________

Tags: @mblaqgi​ @alicedopey​ @lol-haha-joke​ @hallowed-heathen​ @naaladareia​ @tephi101​ @captstefanbrandt​ @love-hate-love​ @titty-teetee​ @readsalot73​ @moondustmemories​ @thevikingsheaux​ @therealcalicali​ @chimera4plums​ @blushingskywalker​ @awkwardfangirl02​ @gruffle1​ @justacripple​ @love-dria @heartbeats-wildly​ @letsrunawaytotomorrow​ @inforapound​ @sallydelys​ @hellogabysblog​ @winchesterwife27​ @hecohansen31​ @youbloodymadgenius​ @xinyourdreamsx​ @funmadnessandbadassvikings​ @eteramfools​ @tgrrose​ @flokidottirsstuff​ @lovessce​ @tootie-fruity​ @didiintheblog​ @alexhandersenx​ @belovedcherry​ @fantasydevil2002​

I hope I didn’t forget anyone💞 thank you for reading! 

[serensama]

To Release #4-#7

In my unbridled rage, I started and finished everything- even the two I lost for Jumin and Saeyoung. I specifically apologise for Jumin’s- it’s short and brash and nowhere near to the standard that my original piece had. I poured my heart out into that one... and it’s gone. I do not have the strength to try to write it again. So, instead I offer my apologies. This was written in one sitting with no editing, so this will have typos and missing words and incorrect tenses everywhere. Again. My apologies. 

Jumin, Saeyoung, Saeran and V need to let MC go. 

Years ago, I had asked the amazing @promiscuous-jalapeno to write a HC for me when I was too scared to write my own and she did an amazing job- tore me right up it did. I asked her shortly thereafter if she minded if I tried to do it and she was kind enough to encourage me. Nearly 4 years and I’ve finally done it.

Trigger warnings: Character death, curse words, mild sexual themes, and cancer.

This is for my friend, my sister- Susana. I don’t know how to let you go. But one day I will. And one day I will see you again. Rest well until then dear one.

This is for my baby, my puppy Meiko- run free my little one. I know you’ll be waiting for me too. Keep Susana company and keep her safe until we catch up, okay? Good Boy.

Jumin:

-       They came home from a business trip and MC wasn’t feeling her best, but it was a long trip and she was bound to be tired.

-       Except she was sick for over a week and she was too tired to fight Jumin to not send over the doctor to check her over.

-       It wasn’t good news, but not yet the worst.

-       So of course Jumin sprang into action. He called every doctor he knew and every pharmaceutical company, money was not an issue so he could afford to ensure that MC got the best of care. However he never paid for anyone to assist him in looking after his beloved wife.

-       He took time off work and appointed Jaehee into a temporary role to replace him whilst he looked after MC. From fluffing her pillow to bathing her to ensuring the correct doses of medication were taken on time, no task too menial or below him if it was for his MC.

-       And after a year of treatment, she got better. Things were back to normal, sure she wasn’t as strong as before but she had time to build up that strength. To be stronger than before.

-       Two years passed and her sickness was almost forgotten, except when she wouldn’t wake up one day.

-       Jumin couldn’t wait for the doctor to come to him so in his pyjamas he carried her to the car and drove to the doctor’s house himself.

-       There was nothing left they could do. All treatments exhausted, the cure would end up ravaging what was left of her life.

-       Instead of staying idly by at home she refused for Jumin to take any more time away from his company like he had those years before, she wanted to make sure he could still return to being Jumin even when she was long gone.

-       But he didn’t know how to be Jumin without her anymore. He didn’t know anything.

-       The sickness was relentless this time, only weeks before her body rejected the years of hard work and effort she had given to get better. She was weaker than before. She had no more fight to give.

-       However before she was completely bedbound MC asked Jumin for a favour. To return back to the vineyard he had taken her to back when they were just engaged. She longed to see the sunset amidst all the red and purples. Longed to relive a time when things held so much more promise.

-       How could Jumin refuse?

-       It was a long drive but he quite fancied the idea of spending hours in the backseat with MC just talking to her, playing with her hair, her hands or running his own down her cheeks. Any time with her was all he needed to be content.

-       They were talking, just chatting away, lost in the in between, the mixture of what was memory and what could be… when she slipped away from him. So quietly and gently as was her way, never disturbing him in life… or in death.

-       He held on to her, wishing and hoping to anything that would listen to give her back to him. He would pay any price, do any deed if she would just come back. He didn’t know he was saying these out loud. Didn’t know anything else existed.

-       Driver Kim asked if they should head back or perhaps go to the hospital but Jumin wouldn’t have it.

“Drive on.” “But Mr Han.” 

“I said. Drive on.”

-       And so he did. He drove and he drove and all the while Jumin kissed MC’s brow and let his fingers trace her soft, frozen features. She was still warm. He knew she was gone but… she was still warm.

-       They had stopped for petrol not surprising seeing as they had driven throughout the day and it was almost midnight, he didn’t even know where they were. Nor did he care.

-       Then the door opened beside him.

-       It was cold.

-       Cold air rushed through the car and MC would get…

-       “Assistant Kang.” “Mr Han.” “What are you doing here? It’s late and you’re in your nightgown.” “I’m here to help you Mr Han.” “I am in no need of help.” “Driver Kim called me and told me what happened. Oh Mr Han, I’m so so sorry.”

“I… yes. Thank you. If Driver Han needs to be replaced in order to sleep then please arrange for another driver to meet us here and we can continue on-”

“Where are you going to go Mr Han? You know this isn’t right, you need to take her back.” “Assistant Kang this is above your pay grade.” “She was my friend Mr Han. Not just your wife. You can’t dismiss me for trying to help my friend.” “She is fine.” “I wasn’t only talking about her.” “Assistant Kang-” “Jumin.” “Please.”

-       Jumin stopped and stared at his friend, eyes bloodshot and skin pale. “Jaehee. I … I don’t know what to do…” “Let me help.” “If I let her go now… if we turn around and she goes… I don’t belong anywhere. She was my home. When I got back to that apartment that won’t be home because she won’t be there. I can’t return to C&R because that’s where we worked together. Right now… here… this is all I have left Jaehee.” “Jumin-” “If I don’t leave this spot. I can tell myself that she’s sleeping. That none of this is happening and she’s just sleeping until we get to where we need to go. If I go out there… it makes this real. I’m not strong enough to let this be real.” “…” “I can’t do this.” “…” “I can’t do this without her.” “…” “I’m scared.”

“I know. Me too.” “I can’t.” “But you will, you will learn. We all will, together.”

-        Jumin nodded and allowed Jaehee to help. His hold on MC still as strong as ever. However when the time came for him to let go, to relinquish his grip on her, he learned that he did know how to release her hand… and still remember the feel of her hand in his. He took one last breath of her scent and muttered words of love in her ear once more.

-       In time he would learn to live again, how to function in society and somehow continue on. And perhaps, one day he would learn to exhale and know how to breath again.

-       Perhaps.

Saeyoung:

-       It’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt.

-       That was the saying wasn’t it.

-       It kept replaying over and over in his head as he sat in the ER replaying the scene in his head. Trying desperately to retrace his steps and find out where he went wrong, where it all went so so wrong.

-       It was just a normal afternoon, MC had managed to drag him away from the computer and one thing lead to another and they got into a play fight, nothing out of the normal for them. Rough and tumble play was a great opener for rough and tumble sex after all. She had pinned him down between her legs and he pushed on her shoulder a little harder to try to tip her over and instead of the haughty laughter that would normal bubble out of her mouth, she screamed. Blood curdling. Sweat inducing. Heart drop stopping. Screamed.

-       Saeyoung watched as he could see the visible dip in her collarbone as she rocked back on forth above him with tears streaming her face. The red head scrambled out from beneath her, cursing his lack of grace as he accidentally jostled her, her wails of pain resonating deep within his ears.

-       He could feel the adrenaline start to course through his veins and his thoughts clouding and clearing at the same time. He had scrambled to his desk and found his phone and wallet and pocketed them before carefully helping MC up and escorted her to the car, every movement measured and cautious to ensure the least amount of pain for her. And for him. Hearing her cry out like that… it was the worst kind of torture.

-       So there he was. All alone with his thoughts. His cyclical, evil thoughts.  Finding ways he could have prevented that from happening. If only he didn’t hit her so hard. If only he didn’t work so much and paid more attention to her and… shit.

-       He opened and closed his eyes, squeezing the tears away that came unbidden, staring mindlessly at the speckled tile of the waiting room.

-       After what may have been hours or days, two feet came into his line sight, forcing his eyes to rear upwards to the face attached to the scuffed white sneakers.

-       The doctor in front him continued to talk and he could feel his head nod along at what he thought may have been appropriate times, his words muffled and obtuse. Until the word he hadn’t expected popped up and it felt like it crashed straight into his eardrums and forced his world off kilter. Forcing him further down into his seat as if his spine had melted and settled to the floor.

-       It was just game. Harmless. They were laughing. She was laughing.

-       She was dying.

-       The disease already deep in her system, deep within her. Untapped and unchecked. That was why she was so fragile- he had always known that he had to be careful with her- and he had placed the chink in her brittle armour.

-       The doctor tried his best to prepare him and make him understand that were ways to keep her comfortable until her time would eventually come to pass.

“Weeks… maybe months…”

Maybe.

-       She was so small in the bed. Her arm in the sling and so pale even amongst all the white. The bastards had told her everything as she sat in the room alone and in pain, no one to hold her hand and tell her that everything would work out just fine.

-       He would make sure of it.

-       She offered him a small smile and a playful shrug of her shoulder which earned her a string of colourful language falling from her tongue. He smiled and shrugged back. Small, familiar gestures to offer them both comfort; falling short but the intent warming nonetheless.

-       The doctor said his goodbyes and left the two to their own devices.

-       “I’m… I’m so sor-”

“No.” “…No?” “I don’t have enough time left on this earth for sorry ‘Young.”

“You will. I’ll make sure you’re around until you’re old and grey, giving me more time to apologise for all the stupid things I still have to do with you.” “-‘Young-” “Like, I still need to go skinny dipping at the new waterpark that opened up.” “You promised you were going to do that at night where no children would be witness to your dangly bits-” “Or wear another one of your new dresses and stretch out the arms-” “-I can’t believe you did that, Jaehee bought that last dress-”

“Or throw our kid up in the air and accidentally smash their head into the ceiling.” “….”

“The point is… you’re going to be around.” “I will try.” “No, you will be. I don’t care what I have to do. I’ll contact Jumin… o-or Vanderwood… or a couple of the other agents I used to keep in touch with-” “Saeyoung, no.” “… Surely someone will know a better, more advanced treatment that can give us more time and-” “Saeyoung-” “I might have to do a couple of jobs in return-”

“NO!”

-       Her voice echoed out of the room and into the hall, snapping him out of his musings. “No. No more jobs. No Vanderwood. No agents. Don’t… I don’t want that. I want you. Here, with me. I don’t want you out there doing God knows what that could have you hurt or dying-” “AND I WANT YOU TO DIE HERE? NOW? NEXT WEEK? NEXT YEAR?” he bellowed back, hands shaking the end of the bed, her chart clattering to the floor. “If I can fix this, doing it anyway I can, I will.” “Saeyoung… please…” “I don’t want to hear it-” “Please I’m scared.” “… MC…” “I’m scared for me and for you and… I don’t want to do… do this right now and… I want to go home but I c-cant and-”

-        Her words dissolved into shuddering cries, quickly buried in Saeyoung’s protective embrace. Their squabble forgotten the moment he heard the crack in her voice. Saeyoung tightened his hold on her and brushed his lips against her hair, breathing in her scent.

-       He wouldn’t leave her, however he wouldn’t sit futilely by and just watch the woman who saved him wane away into nothing- not when he could do something about it.

-       After undergoing more tests and meeting after meeting of specialists with their shots and pills and treatment plans- they were finally able to go home.

-       Except for MC, it may have been better to stay in the hospital because for all intents and purposes she was alone. He may have not been going out doing secret missions and getting shot at but he was always at the computer or on the phone, talking in hushed tones that seeped through the walls no matter how low he spoke. Each secretive whisper adding to the loneliness she felt inside her own home. Beside her but not with her.

-       Taking care of her every need but not the one she needed most.

-       Time. More than food, water or air. She needed time with him… and she was running out of it.

-       And he… out of options.

-       No one had anything he could access without going back in deep and to do that meant to go crawling back to… MC would never forgive him… but if she was dead he would never be able to forgive himself.

-       It had been two weeks and she looked like she was stable. This mission would pay well and get the CEO of the best pharmaceutical company in his debt, it would take four days, one week tops. It would be worth it. She would be safe and they would have time together, time enough to waste arguing over this and to move on from it. He would do anything.

-       Saeyoung had purposely planned to leave on a night where Saeran was out with his friends and had waited until she had fallen asleep with her dreams playing behind her eyelids. Saeyoung pressed the lightest of kisses onto her forehead, on the tip of her nose and on her perfect lips. His silent apology for what he was about to do.

-       He picked up his bag and headed towards his garage, thankful that he didn’t have to say goodbye to her lest he lose the will to do what was necessary.

-       Steeling his resolve, Saeyoung took in a deep breath and readied himself for a task he’d have done in the other life he had left far behind. Digging into his shirt he found the crucifix at the end of his necklace, the silver shining even in the dim light of his car. A prayer, a wish, a vow- sealed with a kiss to the cold metal.

-       He was ready and prepared. He was all set to go- what he hadn’t accounted for was a certain blonde haired friend walking up his driveway with a bag of fried chicken to share.

-       “…Yoosung?”

“Hyung? Where are you going off to?” “Wh-Why are you here?”

“I was in the neighbourhood and thought that you and MC Noona would like some company? It’s been a while since I last visited.” “Uh… uh that’s… now’s not a good time right now… I uh… MC’s not feeling well and I’m about to get her some medicine and-” “She’s right.” “Um… what?” “She says nowadays you’re so out of practice, you get flustered when you have to lie.” “What… what are you even talking about? Look I don’t have the time, I need to-” “I don’t know where you’re going. Or what you’re about to do… all I do know that you leaving MC alone now is the worst thing you can do.” “All of you don’t understand that I’m doing this for MC-” “And you still can’t get it through that thick head of yours that you trying to do what you believe is best for MC always leads to hurting her more!” “Could you just get out of the way?” “All those years ago- when you pushed her away, made her suffer all alone- you’re doing it again. She can’t talk to you so she talks to me, to the rest of the RFA. You’re letting history repeat because you think you know what is best and not taking her feelings into account.” “Don’t be ridiculous-” “She’s dying Hyung. The way she talks… she doesn’t have long. Are you really going to spend one second away from her when all she wants is you? Not me. Not anyone else. Just you.”

-       Saeyoung could feel the wall he had built up to cage his emotions slowly crumbling away with each passing second. It was true, he had learned nothing. Making the same mistakes. Hurting the same woman time and again. It was time he made the right decisions.

“So stay. Please Hyung. Don’t do this, not again. She needs you.”

When did you get so smart Yoosung? “Did you bring any of the spicy kind? You know MC loves those the best.”

-       Yoosung smiled and nodded, of course he did.

-       They both went back into the house to find MC sitting up in bed, all bleary eyed and hair sticking up at odd angles.

“… Do I smell chicken?”

-       So they all sat down on the bed, regaling in each other’s company and good food. None of them mentioning the fact that there was a backpack at foot of the bed.

-       Saeyoung made a new promise then and there, amidst the sounds of Yoosung asking MC advice about how to ask one of his LOLOL guild members out, that he would make every last second count and make it worth a lifetime. He would take every chance he could to bring her joy, to make up for all the times he made her sad. In homage for all the times he would never get to make her happy in the future. He would fill her time with laughter.

-       Her descent happened slowly at first, needing to nap a little bit more, the aches in her body happening more frequently. Then as her sickness began to sink its claws deeper into her, the fatigue had her bedridden and the drugs that kept her ‘comfortable’ were slowly getting becoming ineffective. However throughout it all- Saeyoung still made her laugh. Through the pain and the exhaustion, her heart was full. She was not alone after all.

-       They would spend the days snacking and watching anime. Baking cakes for breakfast and having ice cream for dinner. Ordering food at 3am in the morning. Taking long drives out to nowhere and sitting on the roof of his car and stargazing. It was on one such a trip that he knew what their next great adventure should be.  

-       The new drugs she was on… she could barely stay awake. She had mere moments in the day where she was lucid, not enough energy to barely keep a conversation longer than 30 minutes at a time before needing to rest. She was going on without him and there was nothing he could do but…

-       He made one last phone call.

-       She was awake, she knew it- but it was dark… oh that was right… ‘Young had blindfolded her. Where were they going? They were in the car before but she had told him she was tired… she must have fallen asleep and he wanted to keep this destination a mystery… what… what the hell was that noise… “’Young… slow… slow down you’re driving too fast.” “Sorry, no can do MC… I promise, it will be worth it.” “… S’long as you’re being… careful.”

-       A familiar pull drew down in the pit of her stomach as she felt the car lift off the road.

-       The… wait

-       “Young?”

-       Fast. They were going too fast. “Young?!”

-       Her heart thumped harder in her chest, fear coursing through her as she was certain and frail bones could no longer contain the strength of her heartbeat.

-       And then- light- she was so light. Only tied to the world by the harnesses holding her in place.

-       Warm hands unfastened the tie around her head, the light piercing her eyes as they adjusted as quickly as they could. Bright red hair and obnoxious orange glasses, kind amber eyes and smile… such a beautiful smile from the man she loved. Strong arms wrapping around her to hold her close as they swam in the free air of the plane, unbound  from the constraints of gravity.

-       As they came back down the first time MC gasped and clapped in glee, tired eyes gleamed with joy and as she realised just what was happening.

-       “Saeyoung…” “We did baby… we’re at the space station… just like we always said we would be.”

-       Again and again they basked in the feeling of lightness, those snippets of time where they were free of the of the weight of the world and everything that awaited them when they would eventually land.

-       “’Young… we’re flying… we’re flying.”

“… We are.” “’Young… ‘Young…. Flying.”

-       His fingers curled into her clothes as he clung to her, her body so tiny against his and even though she weighed nothing- cradling her lifeless body would forever be the heaviest thing he would ever had to bear.

Saeran:

-       She was just getting a physical because she had gotten a new job.

-       She felt fine.

-       She was completely blindsided by the fact that she had been asked to come in by the doctor who had examined her.

-       Apparently… apparently she had something wrong with her heart. Something she was born with. Largely inoperable and… well it didn’t… it didn’t bode well.

-       She could try some medications to slow down what was happening but…

-       MC told her parents over the phone. She had planned to tell Saeran some other time when she knew how to handle it better, when she could think of a way to make it sound more palatable. But how did you tell the person you loved that you were going to die?

-       No. MC was not ready to tell him.

-       Which of course meant he walked in on her crying to her mother that she didn’t want to die.

-       She didn’t expect him to take the phone and hang up it up. Didn’t expect for him to look at her with wild eyes and limbs shaking, lips pulled tight with worry and blood drained from his skin. She didn’t know what to expect. “Is it true?” was all he could ask, his voice so quiet she could barely hear him. She nodded. “How long have you known?” “Three days.”

-       She didn’t expect for him to throw the phone against the wall beside him as he rushed out of the door, trying his best to ignore her cries of his name. How could she expect for him to handle this well when she couldn’t. MC just slipped to the ground from their sofa and continued to cry on her own, still muffling her sobs for a reason far beyond even her knowledge.

-       He didn’t know what to do. Too many thoughts. Too many feelings. None of them good and all too fast for him to catch between too clumsy hands. He felt as if his skin wasn’t enough to hold him together and he would burst at the seams and still… he would still have too many thoughts and too many feelings.

-       He had to do something. He couldn’t save her. He couldn’t do anything right. But he know so many ways he could do something wrong and he could do those over and over again.

-       He didn’t target anyone specifically. Just some random guy on the street who was yelling at his girlfriend? Sister? Co-worker? He didn’t care. He just had too much pain in his head and in his chest and if he didn’t…

-       He felt an explosion of agony in his fist. He probably splintered a bone or something. Didn’t matter. This pain he knew, this pain he understood and knew how to stow away and forget about. This pain he could handle.

-       So again, one hit then two, until the guy was out cold. He felt someone spin him around and try to subdue him but no, there were too many emotions and not enough skin to contain him. Two guys, then four. Whose blood did he wear on his hands? His own? His foes? He didn’t care. More. He needed more screams that weren’t his own… cries that weren’t hers.

-       Finally someone managed to connect with his eye and he was almost giddy from the sting of their right hook. Yes. Yes. He needed this.

“Saeran! What the hell?” Oh. The actor. Great. 

“Fuck off Zen.” “No. Stop. STOP! What are you doing- hey buddy get off of him I got this handled- why are you attacking these people?” “Fuck them and fuck you. I don’t answer to you.” “What would MC think of this? She’s been by your side and helped you through all these years and you repay her by deciding to on a crazy free for all?”

-       At the mention of her name, a flurry of emotions passed over his face. Anger. So much anger. Until it subsided into a frown, and then a shuddering breath and a chocked sob.

“It doesn’t matter what that woman thinks-” “Woman?!”

“She’s dead.” “What?!” “She… she will be. She’s good as dead. She’s sick. Dying. She’s leaving me behind so … it doesn’t matter what she thinks or does from this point out because.. it’s me. Again it’s just gonna be me so you can go to hell and she can too.”

-       Zen’s eyes softened at the sight before him. Of course. Of course. If MC was his girlfriend and she told him she was going to pass away… well… he couldn’t blame Saeran. He might have done even worse.

“Saeran, I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t want your pity asshole.” “What can I… is there anything…” “Shut up! I was doing just fine without you. Without all of you. Leave me the fuck alone.”

Then why are you crying Saeran. You say all of this as tears stream down your face. “Okay then. Back to it.”

-       Saeran stared at him in shock as Zen put up his fists and crouched down to a defensive position.

“The fuck you doing?” “Fighting you. This was helping you said, fighting me. So come on. Fight me. Hurt me. Whatever. I can take it.”

-       Saeran stared at him as if he were the one in torn clothes and covered in blood.

-       “If this is something I can do to get you back to normal so you can get back to MC and help her, then this is the least I can do. So come on. Fight me.” “N-no.” “Come on man, I’m a little rusty but I can do this.” “I said no!”

-       “You’re hurting right? That’s why you want to hurt others. I get it. I’ve been there. I’ve done this too. Let it out, let it out on me, don’t hurt anyone else. I’m here for you.”

-       Saeran stepped back as he made to lift his hands… only to slump back down at his sides as he began to cry in earnest. His motives easily revealed, his adrenaline whittled back to nothing. Zen straightened up and dropped his fists. “Let’s go get you cleaned up. You can’t go back to MC like that.” “I can’t go back to MC at all.” “Don’t be stupid. That’s where you belong. Hurry up, it’s getting really late now, we can’t have her all alone at home in your neighbourhood. She’d probably be looking for you if you stay out much later.”

-       She was just about to leave when she found him standing at the front door. She had her jacket half on and her keys dangling from her mouth. Eyes puffy, red, sore. Still. Still she worried about him, looked out for him. Saeran swallowed up the regret that bubbled in his throat and stepped forward, drawing the dazed woman into his embrace. “I’m sorry.” “Saeran-” “I… I wasn’t ready to hear about you. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready but… it wasn’t right what I did and I’m sorry. I’m sorry to you and your father-” “-Mother” “Right. Yeah. I’m sorry. What can I do? What can we do?” “… Dinner? Let’s have some dinner first… after that.. I don’t know either.”

-       MC didn’t take the new job that was still offered to her. He didn’t blame her, who would want to stay in an office job stuck doing the same boring thing day in and out when you had only a few months to… well… office work was never his cup of tea in the first place.

-       “Saeran. Let’s go to Japan.”

“Huh?” “And then let’s go to China. And then maybe we can go to Europe… and maybe to South America? Oh and the Caribbean!” “Wha- what are you talking about MC?” “I want to see the world and I want to see it with you while I can. I don’t want the rest of my life to be just going to the doctors and going to RFA meetings. I want to experience everything I can.” Saeran could feel his heart break. This was what she wanted, this was her final wish. He could never deny her this when it was so easy for him to grant.

“Sure MC. Let’s go to Japan. Let’s go wherever you want.”

-       They travelled through sky and through the seas, experienced culture and food and yes they even made a friend or two. However there was no denying, the travel was taking its toll on her. She was fading. She was tired.

“Saeran… I want to show you where I grew up… is that okay? I’d like to go home.” “Uh yes, yes of course. We can go wherever you want.”

-       It was a beautiful town where she had grown up, she often talked about it when he was going through withdrawals or woke up from a particularly nasty nightmare. She would talk about the small city and about the children who would still play out in streets until their parents called them back home. It was idyllic, so picturesque, he had regretted not taking her up on her previous requests to go there back in the past. It was the perfect place for her to choose to die.

-       They had found themselves atop her favourite hill, under a large apple tree she once described as her first friend to him. She amused him with more stories of her childhood and how this tree had been integral to so many of her memories, from seeing her first scraped knee, to her first kiss. She told him of her memories of him and how she had pictured that if they ever did marry, it would be right here underneath its branches, their wedding date carved into the trunk to preserve their story. “….And what would happen after that?...” “…MC?...”

-       Yet another part of her life spent with the tree that only he was able to remember for her. “And then... when our first child is born we’d come back and etch their birthday beneath our wedding date… we would live a life of adventure and… you would want for nothing. We could do whatever you wanted. We could go where ever you wanted. We could do anything MC. Our story would have been… it would have been something amazing.”

V:

-       He found the lump, as so many partners did.

-       She hadn’t felt anything off and was lax in checking and… he was the one who found it. During a time they were stealing so Lucy wouldn’t be able to disturb them. They loved being parents, of course they did but sometimes… it was nice to be lovers and not just parents.

-       When he cupped her breast and squeezed and a sweet sigh came out of her mouth to wordlessly encourage him on and … nothing came… MC opened her eyes and found Jihyun with knitted in concern as he palmed her, concentration on his face born from careful curiosity and not the kind that resulted in her pleasure. “MC… is this… I don’t think this is normal.” “What?” “There’s a lump here.” “That’s not funny Jihyun.” “I’m not trying to be MC.”

-       Tests. Prodding and poking and biopsies and… options. So many discussions about options. The only option was for his wife to live, the mother of their child to live.

-       It wasn’t easy for either of them to explain to their daughter that mummy was sick but MC always managed to find the right words to say. ‘I am going to come right back and everything will be back to normal’ and ‘no honey this didn’t happen because of you’ and that ‘no matter what, your mummy loves you’.

-       The last one, that one sounded a whole lot like goodbye.

-       She didn’t stay at the hospital for as long as they thought and… the prognosis was good. They had caught it and it hadn’t spread… they just had to watch it. Mummy could keep loving Lucy for many years to come. Jihyun had time to learn how to be funny. She could come back home.

-       Seven years. Every year they would test her to make sure it hadn’t returned… it was the final year she was meant to be tested this way… she was home free.

-       Except it wasn’t a lump in her breast. It was a growth in her kidney and in her liver. Further testing proved it was in her lungs and in her bones. In her bones. It had taken root and…

-       Damn it.

-       No. It didn’t matter. She was going to fight, she was going to do everything she could to stay with her family. They hadn’t had enough time together yet and MC was no stranger to doing things the hard way.

-       The second time around explaining it to Lucy was much more difficult. She was older, she knew about the world and the pain it held for so many people. That illness could take people away from you and not just for a month tucked away in hospital… but forever. There was still the “I am going to come right back and everything will be back to normal’ and ‘no honey this didn’t happen because of you’ and that ‘no matter what, your mummy loves you’.  Although this time there was also having to answer, “Mummy… are you going to die?”

-       She couldn’t answer her, not how she wanted to.

-       “I am going to do everything in my power not to.”

-       Jihyun found himself jealous that even then, she always knew what to say.

-       The treatment was… it felt like she was dying. She didn’t know what she preferred. The first round resulted in some bloating and some fatigue, this time fighting the disease left her unable to stomach anything, the feeling of nausea never leaving her. MC could barely keep her eyes open and most of the time she spent with her family and friends was with her fast asleep. Her loved ones having to be content with accompanying her as she dreamed.

-       However throughout all of it, all the pain she endured, she knew she had Jihyun. Jihyun who juggled taking care of Lucy and helping her get to school and help with her homework and spend the rest of his day by her side. He would read to her and bring in his sketchbook to draw her when she wasn’t looking- and sometimes when she was. He would pick up their daughter and let her spend time with MC, to soak in as much quality time they could before taking her home and making sure she had dinner and went to bed before coming back to spend more time his wife, until the nurses would usher him out as he had, once again, stayed past visiting hours.

-       He was the glue keeping them altogether, he was the rock that would prop them all up- steadfast and strong. Unyielding and unnerved. He had faith that it would be alright, she was going to beat this. She had to.

-       Then one day he was told he could not visit her; that she had developed a strong infection and with her immune system so compromised… she couldn’t afford to get any sort of sickness. She couldn’t fight off a cold to literally save her life.

-       They were separated for weeks. Only the sound of her weak voice at the other end of the line to ease both him and Lucy and fell too short of what he would call a cold comfort. He knew all too well how her voice cracked when she lied… and it would always crack when she said she was feeling much better and it wouldn’t be too much longer until they were reunited.

-       When she had finally stabilised enough for him to return, the nurses had urged that it should only be him to visit and that he would need to prepare Lucy for the next time she could come along. He had only wished they had given him the same courtesy.

-       How could she have lost so much weight since the last time he saw her? How could her cheeks have fallen and her skin turn into such a sickly grey pallor that it physically hurt him to look at her- but it hurt even more to turn away. “I’m so sorry Jihyun.” “Why… why are you apologising for?” “I don’t know if I’ll be able to make it back home.” “Don’t- don’t say that. Don’t say those kinds of things. You had a rough patch and you’re fighting through it. Things will get better, they will.”

-       MC smiled at him, the same pitying smile that so many of the nurses and doctors gave him as he walked the hospital halls. “You’re right. Of course you’re right.”

-       Fight with me damn it. Show me that fire. You have so much to fight for.

-       The following day, even with all the preparation Jihyun had tried to give Lucy… their daughter had cried upon the first sight of her mother. MC inviting Lucy to come upon the bed for a cuddle as Jihyun slipped away into the bathroom for him to cry in one of the stalls.

-       He was the rock, their pillar of strength, their anchor. He couldn’t let them see him break down.

-       A week later he found MC awake in her bed, sitting up and writing in a book, her smile weak but true when she heard him come through the door. He placed a kiss on her temple and asked her what she was working on, her smile deepening but the words sealed behind her lips. “Can you please take a photo of me? Everyday?” “But… I don’t have my camera with me.” “Oh… well can you please draw my picture and date it each day?” “Of course.” “But not… not how I know you’re doing it. Don’t make me pretty-” “Now MC you are very pretty-” “No. Not your fake pretty where you draw my position but how I used to look like. I want you to draw me as I am. Truthfully and with no pretence.” “...Why?” “I need you to. Please. For me.” He wanted to scream. “For you, anything.”

-       So he would draw her. Her hair slowly falling away, her body shrinking away to bone all the while as she wrote. She wrote and wrote and slept and threw up and wrote and slept. While he woke up, attended to Lucy, drew MC, cried alone, drew his wife some more and came home sleep to do it all over again.

-       He was burning out. The time pretending to be strong shaving away the layers from him, cutting him down to his last threads. Something was going to give but he couldn’t afford to break down now. Lucy needed him, he was her father. MC needed her, she was his wife and she was sick… he couldn’t be selfish… he could do this. He was their rock, their pillar of strength, their anchor.

-       He was broken.

-       He hadn’t realised how much until he had received a call from Jumin. It was well past 6pm… but how could that have been… he had left MC’s side at 3pm to pick up Lucy from school. Yet there he was, in the car with the key in the ignition, engine still and cold. How did he lose more than three hours? What had happened? Did he fall asleep? Blackout? He didn’t feel rested, he didn’t think he would feel rested even after 20 years asleep. “Jihyun, where are you? What has happened to you?” “Um.. I’m at the hospital.” “MC, is she okay? Has something worse happened?” “Uh no… not that I know… what’s the matter Jumin, how can I help you?” “The matter? Nothing I guess. Lucy’s school called me as no one had come to pick her up and I’ve taken her home with me as I found no one at your house. I thought it best she stay with me in case anything had happened so I could take care of her.” “Th-thank you Jumin. Truly. That was very kind of you and I know you’re so busy lately. I’m sorry to put you out, I’ll come right away-”

“Put me out? No, not at all. I don’t spend enough time with Lucy and I was more worried that I couldn’t find you.” “Thank you Jumin.” “Is there anything I can do to help?” “N-no. It’s fine. We’re fine. Just must have fallen asleep in the car after visiting with MC.” “You’re not alone in this you know? You act as if you don’t have the means to ask for help-” “I don’t need to pay a nanny to look after my child or a maid to clean my house-” “I wasn’t talking about money. You have us. You have me. You are my best friend and I am always here for you, even if it’s as simple as looking after Lucy after school.” “…” “Or sitting with MC after work.” “That’s not necessary.” “Lucy told me she hears you crying at night.” “What?” “She told me in the car on the way back home. That she wanted to know how she could help make you happier. She said that you smile when she’s looking at you but when she goes to bed- she hears you crying. She’s a very perceptive girl Jihyun.” “Oh my god… I had… I didn’t know she could.”

“It’s okay you know.” “What do you mean?” “She also said that she felt a little better when you did… because it meant that she could too. But she didn’t like you crying alone, because she knows you’re pretending to be strong just for her and she doesn’t need that, she just wanted to know if there was something she could do to make you happier.”

-       Jihyun couldn’t help the tears that fell from his eyes and onto his lap. He was grateful that he seemed to be alone in the carpark so no one had to see a man wailing in his car… though he understood that given the location he was probably not the first to do so and certainly not the last.

-       He wept and allowed himself to release his anguish. For an hour, without a word spoken, Jumin let his friend cry and not once did he draw his ear away from the phone.

“Jumin… thank you.” “Anytime. Now, come back when you’re able I’ll have the cook fix you a plate and keep it warm until you’re here. We can all have dinner and you can get some rest and tomorrow, take your time with Lucy at home and I’ll keep MC company until you are able to spend time with her yourself. If you are unable to I will ask our friends to sit with MC. We can all take turns in keeping Lucy company after school too- or perhaps you would let me just buy this hospital and let them move you in and-” “Jumin. No. No thank you.” “Well. The offer is there should you wish to take it.” “You’re a good friend Jumin.” “Of course I am. Now come by, your daughter is monopolising all of Elizabeth the Third’s time and I would very much like to have my cat back.”

-       He was their rock, their pillar, their anchor. But he himself had his own rock, pillar and anchor in each of their friends. In his sweet, kind daughter.

-       MC… would never get better, would never come home. They had accepted that, silently acknowledging that this would be where she had to stay… her condition requiring care that she could not receive at their family home. So he made her room as much of a home away from home for her; filled with pictures and flowers and trinkets that made her comfortable… made him and Lucy comfortable too. It was easier to focus on the person and not the machines hooked up to her when the room smelled like home, felt like home.

-       They were quickly running out of time. She couldn’t sit up on her own, she was in and out of consciousness but still… she wrote in the book as best as she could. So Jihyun would still draw.

-       It was when he was putting the final touches of his drawing one evening before leaving to pick up Lucy from Yoosung’s apartment, that he heard it. The most horrible sound he had dreaded to hear… no more beeps… just one, long, relentless tone.

-       He didn’t get to say goodbye. He didn’t get to say he loved her or that he would look after Lucy. He was so focused on his work and watching the clock the make sure he wasn’t late that he missed her very last moment on earth. He had nodded mindlessly when someone talked to him, he wasn’t paying attention. All he heard was silence.

-       So small and a whisper of what she used to be, her could lift her with one arm though she lay heavy within it, limp and gone. Jihyun allowed his hand to trace over her skin, something she hadn’t really allowed him to do near the end. Too self-conscious of herself to let him indulge in the feeling. The texture was different but the warmth stirring in his heart was the same. This was the face of his wife, her neck, her arm.

-       He was thankful that he had the chance to draw her everyday as she had asked, because his hands would never forget the curves of her face even as they changed through the years. She had become muscle memory. Beautiful to him, in every way and every day he was blessed to spend with her. He was just filled with regret that she didn’t get to hear it from him at the end.

-       He lay her back down, tucking her back under the blankets to prepare her for when Lucy and Yoosung arrived.

-       As he moved the sheets, a book fell to the side.

-       He opened the book to find a page for each day she had been in the hospital. Starting from the first day she was admitted so many years ago when Lucy didn’t really understand what was happening and they were all still counting down the days of her return back home.

“Thank you for letting me be your Mother.” “Thank you for choosing me and Lucy every day and not letting the past dictate your future.”

“Thank you for letting Saeyoung come with some snacks, hospital food, even the fancy kind, still gets boring.”

Each day was filled with one or many things that she was thankful for. Even (especially) on her bad days. Things she was thankful for with him, with Lucy and from their friends. Jihyun flicked through to the final page, dated for that day, a simple line of scratchy writing; her beautiful script changing into plain, almost childlike text with her lack of motor coordination and strength. “Thank you, my love, for seeing past the sickness and seeing me. Every day. Always.”

-       And that’s when he understood, he finally got why she got him to draw her portrait every day. Even through all the pain and suffering, she could find good in the bad. She wanted them all to know that even through it all, she was thankful for them and that it was because of these things that she could endure it. Along with her words, his pictures were a testament of her journey and the role everyone had played in her life.

-       He would need to read a page every day for a long time, perhaps with Lucy or one of his friends- whoever needed this comfort. Knowing his daughter would only be minutes away from having to say goodbye to her mother, he opened up a random page and felt himself smile, even amidst his grief.

“Thank you all for facing the bad days with me, know that even in my sleep I knew you were there with me. Know that one way or another, I will be there with you.”

-       Then he wept with a ferocity he didn’t know he possessed because-

-       MC would always know what to say.

[amydancepants-peralta]

Okay hi! Don’t mind me just jumping back onto my AU wagon with a Bodyguard!Jake fic inspired by The West Wing that absolutely nobody asked for but I couldn’t help but write ... 😎🚨 anyway it’s called let down your guard and you can find it on under the cut or on ao3! 

let down your guard 

chapter one: there’s so much that you just don’t see 

There are a collection of nuclei in the temporal lobe of the brain known as the amygdala, that are best known for their role in sparking the fight or flight reaction in most people when met with emotions like fear.  Amy had read about it once, in a medical journal that she’d found at Rosa’s house (it’s presence on her coffee table, to this day, remains unexplained).  According to the article; once the amygdala sparks, your brain’s ability to retain memory increases, and in hindsight can make a patch of time feel as though it has stretched on forever.

As she stands in the world’s slowest elevator at Medstar Washington Hospital this evening, with her heart smashing against her ribcage and her toes tapping against the faded linoleum floor; Amy is certain that her amygdala has kicked into overdrive.  

Panicking, her frantic mind keeps bouncing around between the urges to run like hell and stay until the bitter end, and it definitely isn’t like Amy because she’s never run away from a fight, but maybe there’s a part of her that already knows that what could happen next has the potential to change everything. 

Her eyes remain glued to the squares inset along the top of the car, their white laminate long since turned a faded yellow; the number eleven scratched out almost to the point of non-existence.  She counts, a slow progression in her head that tries it’s very best at blocking out the thoughts racing around - the thoughts that keep telling her that she might have just lost the greatest thing to happen to her before it could ever really happen - and she can’t bear to look at her watch right now, but she’s positive that three minutes pass before the dim light behind the number four decides to amble it’s way towards five.  

“Shots were fired in a store on 14th Street,” was the message she’d received, a mere half an hour ago (also, approximately the time she’d gotten on this damn elevator).  Boyle’s pale face, and a choked out number.  “Room 9554.”  The rest is muddled - she knows she started running; remembers hearing Terry call out to her departing figure, and she’s pretty sure her purse is somewhere back at the theatre lobby - but there was a force stronger than anything she can label that was pulling her to the hospital, and in that moment Amy had absolutely no intention of stopping.  

The squares for six and seven remains mute yet eight comes to life, and the knots in her stomach begin to clench even tighter.  There’s a mantra that’s been playing in the back of her mind - from the very moment she’d stepped into the lobby and saw Charles make a beeline in her direction - and it takes over any other rational thought as finally level nine lights up, and the doors to her metallic prison slide open.  Please let him be okay.  Please let him be okay.

I don’t know what I’ll do, if Jake is not okay.

The sterility of the ward burns her nostrils and the clack of her heels sound vaguely like the rattling snare drums at the last inauguration, interrupting the otherwise calm environment of the floor as the numbered plaques beside each room begin to blur.  She dodges past nurses, doctors, and patients alike; and she can tell that they recognise her face (which means there’s a very good chance that this will be in the paper tomorrow), but it doesn’t matter that they know her, it doesn’t matter if the press find out about this - nothing else matters if he is not okay - and then finally, FINALLY, the numbers 9544 are before her.  

Her fingers feel limp, but somehow she manages to grip the doorknob and turn - pushing her weight against the wood as though somehow it is the reason she hasn’t been able to get here earlier - and then suddenly the only sound Amy hears is the frenzied heaving of her own breath.

The room is empty, save for a bed in the middle - stripped clean and returned to it’s regular scrutiny from the harsh fluorescent buzzing above.  A clipboard cleared of any history hangs lax from its base, and on the very edge of the mattress sits a leather jacket; the same jacket that had once hung on the back of her apartment door … and the same jacket that Amy’s fingers had gripped the edge of a mere three hours before.  

She feels her stomach drop to her feet, glued to position as her mind moves into overdrive, eyes trained solely on the scene before her as the realisation hits.  

Jake was not okay.  And nothing was ever going to be the same again.    

*

Five months earlier … 

“On to other news.  We can confirm that there has been a surge in counterfeit notes across the nation, with several states reporting projections of significant economic loss.”

Amy pauses as the small crowd in front of her transform into a cacophony of sound, pen-clenched fingers and miniature recorders thrusting towards the ceiling in desperate attempts to get her attention and break their version of the story.  Blinking, she gives them her best I’m not done yet look, and after a few beats the reporters in front of her fall silent.

“President Holt has already been in discussion with the Secret Service, and are confident that the lead they are running on will come to fruition.”

From the back, Matthews from The Sun raises his hand, and Amy gives a quick nod.  “You said there were several states reporting loss.  Do we have an estimation?”

“Presently, the calculations are upwards of 3 million dollars, which - ” she emphasises, as the sea of hands raise once again, “is why there are teams working around the clock to stop the fraudulent currency from getting into circulation.  In the meantime, The White House has released an image of the forged notes,” nodding to her left, Amy waits for the screen beside her to light up, “and the differences are clearly distinguishable.”

The room falls quiet as the reporters all turn their attention to the image, and Amy watches as they all slowly turn back to her with varying expressions of confusion.  Suppressing a sigh, she uses the remote in her hand to zoom in on the imitation of the offical seal, the same one that is on every U.S. dollar bill, and undoubtedly in the pocket or purse of every single person here.  Not a day goes by that she doesn’t wish that Latin would finally wake up from its long nap (or it’s conquiescamus, as it were).  “Pluribus.  There are two Rs.”  She waits a beat, and continues in a dry tone.  “There should only be one.”

To her right, Ginns from The Examiner clears his throat; glancing up at Amy to ensure he has her attention before flipping open his notebook.  The Chicago-born columnist was unashamed in his opinion - as were his loyal followers - and his coverage of Holt’s campaign had leant towards unfavourable.  With a tight smile, Amy swallows the urge to scream at whatever was about to come next.  “Yeah, so - with regards to the Secret Service.  After his inauguration, President Holt elected a new head of the Presidential Detail, a .. ” pausing, Ginns refers to his notes, creasing his brow.   “Rosa Dye-az.”  

Pushing her tongue against the back of her teeth, Amy wills herself not to interrupt and correct Ginns’ pronunciation, waiting for some kind of sign of potential redemption.  Instead, he leans forward and continues.  

“Apart from what has already been published, her history and previous credentials appear to be incredibly difficult to correlate.  Given her obvious reluctance to divulge anything to the American public, and the fact that this role has never been held by a female prior to today, what reassurance can we the people have that Miss Dye-az was the best choice?”

Feeling her back teeth begin to grind together, Amy takes a measured breath before fixing Ginns with a steely gaze.  Questions such as these have been a common denominator since Holt was sworn in over a month ago, particularly due to choosing Olivia Crawford as his VP; and while expected, the overwhelmingly misogynistic responses were beginning to wear thin.

“I can assure you, Mr Ginns, that President Holt’s vetting process for all roles was incredibly thorough - and Ms Dee-az,”  she pauses, raising a singular brow, “remained incredibly co-operative throughout.  We cannot bow to the curiosities of the general public on every request for detail, or we’d never stop.  After all, the public continues to let you write for one of D.C’s most prolific news journals without knowing the details of your Christmas Card list, and somehow the world continues to spin.”

Ginns’ responding eye roll is poorly concealed, and Amy’s fingernails begin to dig into the edge of her podium.  “Furthermore, I would suggest that despite Ms Diaz having a uterus, the bar set by her predecessors will continue to ascend.  One could even argue that the lack of … other certain parts of the human anatomy will only assist in keeping a clear head in the most intense of situations.”

The reporter shifts uncomfortably in his seat, blessedly silent in his rebuttal, and Amy directs the end of her statement towards the rest of the crowd.  “President Holt and his administration are aware that a small percentage of the public lack confidence in the roles he has filled.  Criticism is necessary, and welcome.  But unmerited accusations regarding a person’s ability based entirely on their sex is where he draws the line.”  Slamming the file in front of her closed, Amy takes a step back before leaning closer to the microphone, delivering her final line.  “That concludes the presidential briefing for today.  Thank you.”

Terry hovers by the doorway as Amy exits, his leather yoked suspenders proudly displaying the commemorative pin gifted to him upon being sworn in as the president’s Chief of Staff, and he cocks his head towards her as they move swiftly down the corridor towards Amy’s office.  “Interesting briefing you held there, Santiago.”

“You mis-pronounced psychotic, Ter-bear,” interjects Gina as she passes them both, head already bowed down to her cellphone before either can respond.  

Already feeling defensive, Amy shakes her head quickly, raising one hand to gesture at the room she’d just departed.  “We’ve been fielding commentary like that since the early days of the campaign, Terry.  At some point, we just need to point out the baselessness of their remarks, and remind them that there simply isn’t a place for it in modern society.”

Raising his hands in surrender, Terry shrugs.  “Don’t get me wrong.  Terry hates closed minded attitudes.  As do the rest of the cabinet.  I just find it fascinating to watch how close our new Press Secretary came to literally biting a reporter’s head off.”

“Ugh.  I’m fairly certain it would just pop like a balloon.  Full of hot air and not much else.”

Nodding, Terry points in the direction of Amy’s office.  “You might be onto something there.  Heads up, though - I saw Diaz making a beeline to your office just as you were wrapping things up.”  He pauses, shoving his hands into his pockets while giving her the side-eye.  “Terry wishes you luck.”

Smiling at an intern as they hand her an updated schedule, Amy casts a quick glance down the hallway and grimaces.  “Well, at least she hasn’t gone straight to grinding her axe.” 

“I didn’t see both hands, but let’s assume you’re right.”

Throwing Terry an exasperated glance, Amy bids him farewell before moving towards her office, deliberately taking on a confident stride as she squares her shoulders in preparation for confrontation.  

With her jet black curly hair and the zero fucks aura surrounding her, most members of the team had learned on their own that Special Agent Rosa Diaz was not somebody to be trifled with.  Not meeting until the last couple of months of Holt’s campaign, Amy had spent the first few weeks largely being ignored by Diaz - until one afternoon, when a particularly vocal protester tried to pull Amy in for a debate, only to be met by Rosa’s steely glare and the unspoken promise of worse to come.  She’d muttered, on their way back to the car, that they needed to have each other backs; and over time their working relationship had grown into a something closer to friendship.  

(A friend that occasionally intimidates you with their intensity, but a friend all the same.)

With her trademark leather jacket covering her like a second skin Rosa is easy to point out in the busy walkway, but it’s the two men standing with her that captures Amy’s attention as she draws near.  One was tall with a distinctive profile; the other slightly shorter, and sporting a hairstyle that looked like it could survive a hurricane.  Although the taller one wore shades, Amy could tell that both of them were casing their environment, taking in their surroundings with a stern exterior that gave away exactly who they were.  

These men were Secret Service, and for some reason they were standing outside her office door.

Her curiosity overshadowing the possibility that she may need to eat a slice of humble pie, Amy thrusts the hand still holding the schedule towards the two men as she passes Rosa, giving them her best Suspicious Face.

“Who are those guys?”

“Good morning to you too, Santiago.”  Rosa’s dark eyes follow Amy’s path around to her desk, tilting her chin upwards after a beat.  “My uterus thanks you for it’s shout-out this morning.”

“Ugh, okay.”  Returning her planner to it’s designated top-left-corner position, Amy feels her shoulders drop as she throws an apologetic look at the woman in front of her.  “I know that wasn’t my best work.  But the guy was being a jerk, and I was 100% done with the conversation.”

“No, really.  It’s fine.”  Rosa’s voice takes on no other inflection to demonstrate her approval, but Amy learned a long time ago not to read into her monotone.  “My uterus is a bad-ass.  Definitely tries to punch me from the inside out at least once a month.”  She smirks, a sight familiar to only a select few, and raises one eyebrow.  “Somehow, I still manage to keep the President and all his flunkies alive.  It really is shocking.”

Without invitation, the mystery men have followed Amy into her office, hovering along the outskirts of the room while she checks her messages, listening with half an ear as Rosa continues to go into alarming detail on how she’d personally like to deal with reporters like Ginns.  It’s as the taller of the two reaches out to investigate an award propped up on her well-stocked shelf that Amy finally looks up, dropping the slips of paper to the desk and throwing Rosa an exasperated look.  “Seriously, who are these guys?  And why are they in my office?”

 “Oh, right.  About that.  Amy, this is Special Agent Peralta,” Rosa pauses, thrusting her thumb towards the taller guard in shades, “and this guy is Special Agent Boyle.”  Clearing her throat, she fixes Amy with her typical Rosa’s Way Or The Highway look.  “They’re going to be your new security detail.”

A grinning Agent Peralta throws a tiny wave in Amy’s direction, and she lets out a petulant huff, planting her hands on the empty section of her desk.  “Rosa, we’ve talked about this.  I’m a visible target.  I go out there every other day and announce policies and updates and god knows what else.  It’s inevitable that I end up with a few snarky emails every now and then.  People need a face to complain to, and this guy’s obviously chosen me.”

“Sorry,” Rosa replies, in a tone that suggests that she’s not sorry at all.  “President’s orders.”

Damn it.  With her next refutation dying in her throat, Amy folds her arms over her chest, studying her friend’s expression carefully.  There was a good chance that Rosa was just saying it was presidential orders, knowing that Amy would be unable to resist any directive that came from her superior.  But there was equally enough chance that the request had come from higher up, and refusal of the service would most definitely land her in hot water.  

In other words, Rosa had Amy exactly where she wanted her, and there was not a darn thing she could do about it.  

“Just seems like a lot for a bunch of stupid emails,”  Amy mutters, dropping down into her seat, defeated.  With a furrowed brow, Agent Boyle looks over at Rosa; but before Amy can question it, Rosa perches herself along the edge of the couch.  

“So, Peralta and Boyle will work on opposite shifts and shadow you on your day to day operations.  Additional detail has already been arranged for your home address, and all correspondence will now be cleared through us.”

“I’m also going to need the contact information for any recent or previous relationships you may have had, ma’am,” pipes up Peralta from Amy’s left, breaking out into another grin when she looks over at him.  “Gotta weed this creep out, and you’d be surprised how often they end up being much closer to home than expected."

Blinking, Amy turns back to Rosa, the extent of her security detail only now sinking in.  “A constant shadow and surveillance on my apartment?  Seriously, Rosa … this is all coming from Holt?  Can’t I just change my email address or something?”

A silence falls quickly over her office, and Amy makes special effort this time to take note of the not-so-secret looks the two agents gave each other.  A louder protest is bubbling up through her chest when Rosa stands, her sharply manicured fingers holding a document folder Amy hadn’t noticed until now, and walks towards her.  

The heavy thud of Rosa’s booted footsteps come to a stop at the side of Amy’s desk and she places the file in front of her, leaning in slightly as the folder’s contents become clear.

Photographs.  Stacks of photographs, all of Amy, and all from various parts of her very busy week.  Her heart begins to climb its way up to the base of her throat as the images begin to blur, one shot after the other of an unaware woman as she lunches with friends, visits the gym, drives to her brother’s house and - oh god - even gets changed at home near what she’d always considered to be a relatively protective curtain.  

Leaning in, Rosa’s voice drops to a whisper.  “The boys haven’t seen those last ones, but they know they exist.”  She straightens, returning to her regular volume.  “All of these were on a USB that was delivered to us from an unconfirmed address, and arrived early this morning.  Peralta and Boyle have been pulled in to oversee the operation, and I will monitor from afar.  The detail starts from now, and ends once this Mr Anonymous is behind bars.  Is everyone clear?”

Numb, Amy nods without really understanding, the cotton of her tailored blazer feeling inadequate underneath her fingernails as she pulls the two sides closer together.  She feels foolish for disregarding the warning signs for so long, confused as to how out of all people, she is the one who’s become a target; terrified because if these photographs are anything to go by, she is being hunted … for god only knows what.    

A knot begins to churn in her stomach, and there’s a very good chance that she’s about to be sick.    

“Excuse me, Ms Diaz?”  Ramirez, Terry’s secretary, pops his head around the doorframe, startling Amy out of her spiralling thoughts.  “I’m sorry to interrupt, but you’re needed in the oval office.”

“Alright, I’ve gotta go, the Powers That Be have spoken.”  Rosa mumbles, scooping up the photographs on Amy’s desk and holding onto the file with her vice-like grip.  Noticing the look on Amy’s face, she stops short of her exit from the room, tipping her head towards the two men as they hover by the bookshelf.  “Listen.  I’ve put two of my best men on this case.  Peralta especially, I’ve known since our days at the academy.  They’re not going to rest until we’ve caught the bad guy, and neither will I.  Got it?”

Amy gives her friend a tentative smile, taking her message to heart.  If there was anybody that could shut this mess down, it was Rosa ‘I could kick your ass with my pinky finger’ Diaz.  

With one final glance towards her two agents, Rosa swivels on her heel, leaving Amy’s office in silence.  The sound of one of Amy’s favourite tchotchkes hits the floor, dropping out of Peralta’s fidgeting fingers, and he cringes.  “Yikes.  Sorry about that, it just looked like one that I -”

Jumping out from behind her desk, Amy snatches the item out of the agent’s hands, running the edge of her thumb along it’s familiar curves before carefully returning it to it’s original position.  “Please don’t break my belongings, Peralta.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“If I may, Ms Santiago … what Special Agent Diaz told you was correct.  Peralta and I are here to keep you out of harm’s way, and it’s only going to be a matter of time before we catch him in the act.”  Standing to her right, Amy finds herself surprised at the gentleness of Boyle’s tone, and she eyes him curiously before nodding.  

Leaning his weight against one of the lower bookshelves, Peralta slides his sunglasses off, face turning slightly more somber, and Amy blinks in surprise.  “You have our word.”  His eyes were surprisingly warm, a kind of chocolatey brown that seemed to draw Amy in, and her arms fall away from their defensively crossed position across her chest.  

“Alright.  Thank you.  This is just … a lot.”  Her stomach twists again, and even though this time it feels less like she’s about to be sick, Amy really doesn’t want to take any chances.  “If I leave this office, you two are going to follow me, aren’t you?”

“Just around the perimeters of the hallway, Ms Santiago.  And only Peralta - I’m going to stick around and see if I can trace where these emails are coming from.”  

“Consider me your shadow, ma’am.”  Jake grins, and Amy feels an odd mixture of irritation and anticipation run through her.  “And, look.  I can already tell what you’re thinking.”  Pushing his weight off of the bookshelves, he gestures vaguely with his hands.  “You’re thinking this is going to be all longing glances and secret earpiece conversations … me carrying you in my arms as I race you away from the danger, you running out of planes at tarmacs to give me one last kiss goodbye … you know, all the standard bodyguard stuff.”

Rolling her eyes towards the ceiling, Amy feels a knot of tension leave her shoulders, but she’s not quite ready to laugh yet.  “Yes.  You’re right.  That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

“Knew it, nailed it.  Well I’m sorry to disappoint you ma’am, but this stuff is nothing like the movies.  It shouldn’t really be any more than a few weeks, just need to catch this weirdo out and let the law take care of the rest.”  He pauses, glancing over at Agent Boyle before continuing.  “Which … will be made all the more faster with your co-operation.  Including the details of people who may have had closer access to you than others.”

Sighing, Amy presses the tip of her index finger against the middle of her brow, a nervous tick that has long since become habit.  This guy really needed to stop calling her ma’am.  “Fine.  Teddy Wells was my last boyfriend, but we broke up several months ago.  I highly doubt that he’s the one you’re looking for.”

“We really need to look into all avenues, Ms. Santiago,”  Agent Boyle interjects, and for the first time Amy notices how the beige colour of his tie is almost a perfect match to his skin tone.  

“Fine.”  Leaning down, she scribbles Teddy’s phone number onto a new post-it, thrusting it in Agent Peralta’s direction.  “See for yourself.  Better yet, invite him out for a drink.  He’s got some real interesting stories, especially about beer.  One could almost say, he’s got ‘the cheers for the beers’, you know?”

(She knows that she’s setting Peralta up for a trap, all too familiar with endless nights listening to Tedford ‘Thrills for the Pils’ Wells.  But there was much too much bravado seeping out of every pore of this guy, and he deserved to suffer - if only just a little.)

“Huh, a beer guy.   Noice.”

Amy stifles her grin, tucking her pen back into the pocket of her blazer as she heads towards the doorway, ignoring the echo of Peralta’s footsteps behind hers.  “Now if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen … I have a hundred or so meetings to attend.”

“Just one last thing, ma’am.”  Agent Peralta interjects, and Amy turns in time to watch him drop one shoulder in an obvious attempt at Dramatic Effect.  

The edge of his mouth lifts into a smirk, and the ridiculous sunglasses that have inexplicably returned to his face despite the sunlight pouring in through the surrounding windows (she thinks, perhaps, entirely for the purpose of his next move) slide down his prominent nose.  “No matter what happens, you’re not allowed to fall in love with me.”

The urge to roll her eyes again is almost unbearable, but she is a professional if nothing else, and so Amy puts on her best smile and nods at the suited man in front of her.  

“Won’t be a problem.”

[soft-sunflower]

Flower of Evil- Episode 7 Thoughts

Okay... so what's up with the whole poor Hyunsoo/Heeseong waking up injured, in pain, disoriented and scared? It's okay. JG pulls it off so well, so I'm totally down with it tbh. Poor man... had no idea where he was, saw a bunch of valuable jewelry, was probably gonna steal it, escape, pawn it so he could get some cash and try to find somewhere to try and live. After all, his f'n roommate just tried to KILL HIM for money! But, for real though... the unfather is freaking me out more and more. WHY is he carrying a tray with bloody towels on it and coming to where HS is...? I'm a little weirded out by that. These unparents give me the willies... Especially the unfather.

Okay, so ummm that lovemaking scene? IT WAS FIRE OK. I mean by kdrama standards, that was WOW and ummm... I'm thinking kdramas might be getting a little bit braver, but omg... here's the thing. It wasn't just sex though... Jiwon STILL loves him. Enough that she wanted all of him. She clung to him. Laced her fingers together to hold onto him and the focus on their wedding rings. This happens a lot. I'm seeing the focus on their wedding rings in many of their scenes often. I feel like this carries some sort of heavy significance. You can tell this is so hard for her, because she's not sure if her husband is a killer or not, but she loves him so openly and genuinely that she even cries while making love to him. She wants him, and she wants a reason to forgive him.

Which brings me to the next part I want to talk about. Where HS is waking up after their night of passion. JW is so tender with him, brushing back his hair. I really truly believe her inner dialogue abut him not having a choice was true. HE HAD NO CHOICE! What could he have done with everyone blaming him and dragging him down and trying to place him in a villainous role he doesn't want?? And there are PLENTY of reasons here that we have yet to talk about to forgive him. This man LOVES you. You are his safe place, for starters. I wonder though, when he wakes up and grabs her hand and looks afraid, if he was having a bad dream. He didn't want to talk about his dream when she asked. It was just a dream. Poor HS. :(

My heart ached when he said "it feels like nothing happened... because nothing changed." He looks so heartbreakingly childlike and desperate, because he wants this to be true. He doesn't want anything to change. He LOVES Jiwon and his daughter. He wants their happy home to continue remaining happy and warm and safe and comfortable, but it's slowly crumbling right before his eyes, and I think deep down, he knows it. The truth will always come out in some way, and as heartbreaking as it is for him, it's happening. His wife is onto him, and at this point, he just might be in denial about this.

The accomplice tape unnerves me. I want to know WHO was on that tape, and it's clear that it's unnerving Hyunsoo also. He could hear the clanging sounds in the background... Sounds from his father's shop? Something else? We saw the cymbol from during his exorcism. Is there a chance that the accomplice could be the village head? I don't know. Village Head, teams up with Do Min Seok, helps aid in his serial killings and then after Min Seok's "suicide" (maybe the village head killed him?) takes in the kids and tries to make himself look like a good man when in reality he is not, and then goes and gets himself killed by Haesu? Or maybe there is a third party involved? Ugh I don't know! I do know this. There's more to the village head than meets the eye and I NEED to know what he's done to these people. Also, the way Haesu reacted to the TV station playing it's bit about the village head's murder? The flashback of the murder weapon, skirt and legs? Hmmmm... REALLY fishy, and I've felt off about that girl for a bit now. I THINK she did it...

Okay, the next part I want to go over is Hyunsoo as a child being questioned by the counselor... that child looks absolutely miserable and depressed. If he were my son, I would've had him in appropriate treatment and not instantly believing he's capable of murder. If you notice him, he looks reluctant to answer... almost as if he were FORCED to say he did these things. Forced, brainwashed, threatened... I don't know. Did he throw the dog in a well? Maybe, maybe not, but to me he does not seem the type to do it. The way he answered "yes" did not come across to me like someone admitting to something they did. I feel like he was forced to say he did these things or wanted to do these things OR something BAD happened enough to cause him severe trauma to the point that he DID want to do these things. SOMETHING terrible happened to him as a child.

HOLY FREAKING UNFATHER!!! You're ANGRY that HS didn't kill the taxi driver!? Just like HS said, I thought you'd be pleased... why are you NOT pleased? WHY are you trying to force this poor man into the role of a murderer when he is NOT a murderer!? WHY are you trying to villainize him?? What breaks my heart during this whole entire scene here is that he's furious that HS didn't murder, so furious to the point that he is now threatening HS's family!? WHY!? Telling him he needs to go? Far away?? What exactly DOES he mean by that? And what does he mean by "I'll take care of your wife and daughter forever." What is "the worst possible outcome" exactly?? This man is more horrifying than anyone I've come across in this show yet. You're a doctor and hospital director, so what the literal HELL!? And HS is afraid of him. You can see it all over his face. All he can do is just agree and say he hears him. The unfather has him underneath his pinky finger and he knows it.

Oh CRAP the unstable ungrandma has Eunha!? That's kinda unsettling... and then when the little one starts work on her studies (it's clear she's a highly intelligent little girl since she's a few grades ahead!) the lady goes batshit and rips up her books? WHY? Does this have something to do with her real son, the real Heeseong? What does she mean by "it'll kill you and your mother?" Poor babygirl Eunha... but at least ungrandma take her out for an egg tart to help her feel better, and she is such a good girl. Ungrandma even tries to gently wipe Eunha's face clean of egg tart. That was... rather unexpected and the first time I've ever seen any form of tenderness from ungrandma/unmother. Hmmm... interesting.

OKAY CAN I JUST SCREAM FOR A MINUTE THAT I KNEW IT!!! I KNEW DO HYUNSOO WAS NOT THE KILLER. I KNEW HE WAS PROTECTING HIS SISTER BECAUSE OF IT. I KNEW SHE KILLED HIM. Of course Moojin still wants to place that blame on Hyunsoo and claims she’s just protecting Hyunsoo. I just had this feeling deep in my gut because something felt off about her. However, do I believe she killed in a psychopathic way? No. I don't. I think that village head was doing something terrible to those kids. I KNEW Hyunsoo was protecting his sister, and I knew that his sister disappearing the way she did was protecting him too. They both know what happened and why she killed him. I have my suspicions why too. I could be wrong, but the sister is far too emotional and sad to be a crazed killer, I feel. I think it was self defense or something along those lines. Could be wrong though! Might shock us all!

Jiwon, I get why you're showing him Hyunsoo's bag. I know you're trying to garner a reaction out of him so you can catch him, but you still don't know the truth of it all. You don't know everything or what all has happened to him. I know you're a detective, but stop trying to catch him and try to understand and learn all of his truths and his past before condemning him for something he hasn't done. Yes, he lied to you about his true name for 14 years, and a past that he wanted to keep buried, but you keep getting more and more proof that he was not a murderer and it's him that's showing you this. 

Instead of trying to shake a reaction out of him, continue to do your digging and investigating in secret. And poor HS... his heart is aching and racing and he's going into a bad anxiety attack over all of this. It's clear this poor man has some serious mental health issues going on. Not just a personality disorder, but anxiety and panic, possibly even depression since it was stated he suffered from it as a child... he's losing his safe place. It's slowly burning and about to crash right before his very eyes... Please, Jiwon. Please keep looking. He's innocent. You've got to learn that he's innocent. If anything, Hyunsoo is the victim overall.

The scene with the younger him and his sister... he was able to tell she's feeling anger. I don't think he completely lacks the ability to tell/feel emotions but that they've been so heavily repressed for so long that he's likely forgotten/been brainwashed into becoming unfeeling or not understanding certain emotions. But you can tell in their scene alone how close he is with his sister, and how much he loved his mother and misses her. Do you think he witnessed their mother being murdered? I wonder... The cage in that basement... did he see his mother in there? Was HE put in there? Did his father "punish" him in the basement? Not making him copy stuff, but go inside that cage and be tortured in there by his father? Haesu was eager to tell him "Just respond okay to whatever dad says" so he didn't have to copy the Myeongsim Bogam. I don't think he copied anything. I think he was taken into the basement and bad stuff happened in there and possibly happened in that cage.

Okay... now to the last scenes of the episode... the scenes where Jiwon wants Hyunsoo to come with her to the crime scene. Revisiting his past. The place where horrible things happened to him that has caued him very obvious and severe trauma, the place where his father performed various serial killings, the place where his mother died, all of it... I love Jiwon. I understand what she's doing. I understand her, but I don't like it. She pushed him FAR too hard here. I know she's desperate to get to the truth, but trying to force "Hyunsoo" out of him was far too painful to watch.

Joongi needs to be HIGHLY praised for his acting here. When they go into the basement, it's clear that he's experienced something truly traumatic in there. You see him really start to lose at as soon as she starts playing that tape recorder. A woman humming, a woman who sounds sad and near tears as Jiwon stated. Was this woman his mother?? Going back a few scenes, we see Hyunsoo reacting when the Chinese restaurant owner removes the earbud from his ear. Threatens to break the man's arm. But when you watch him listening, he seems so at peace, calm, quiet and gently smiling. It's clear this is soothing for him. I really believe that this is the voice of his mother singing to him.

When he asks her why she's playing it, he starts to tremble, his voice is shaking and she just keep pushing and pushing... pushing all of his past traumas, heartbreak, fear, everything onto him and this scene alone confirms 100% that he is suffering from SEVERE PTSD. And yet here he is, trying so hard to keep calm and be polite toward her, telling her he'd like to leave. I understand why she's doing what she's doing, but it was too much. I screamed at the screen "STOP HURTING HIM! HE'S HAD ENOUGH PAIN!" The man is a wreck, he's distraught, he's traumatized, he's in pain, and he needs to leave. He needs to get away because this is too much for him. AND JIWON HAS A GUN AND WAS PLANNING TO SHOOT HIM!? OKAY COPPER WTF!?

And here she is continuously pushing him over the edge, pushing him to the brink. Her inner monologue is even "Do Hyunsoo. Show yourself. Make a choice. What you choose today will determine our future." And yes, his hand was at her throat, but he literally just THREW this man into a pit of reliving his past trauma, terrors, horrors, nightmares and was on the verge of completely BREAKING him! I don't know if he even realized what he was doing!? Was reliving being choked so his hand went for her throat? He's WHIMPERING, he looks about to break down into tears, and you see his hand slip to her shoulder and he is now in a full blown panic attack, cannot breathe (can he also not breathe because he was once choked down there? Abused down there? Tortured down there by his father?)

Jiwon. I love you but goodness... He wasn't trying to kill you, woman so put your damn gun away. You literally just threw him into EVERYTHING that could trigger him in the worst possible way without even realizing the damage you just inflicted all over him... This man is in pain. He's in freaking pain. Can't feel emotions my ass. Yes he most certainly can. And he's PLEADING with her. Saying PLEASE let's go. Please get me out of here, please just save me. Jiwon... yes. You were way too hard on him. There are still so many truths you don't know. If your husband was this violent killer like the world has painted him to be, do you REALLY think he would've reacted in the manner that he did?? I mean REALLY? He looked so pale and sickened on the drive home... My heart aches for him. Absolutely and utterly aches.

ALSO MOOJIN KNOWS WHO THE REAL KILLER IS. What's going to happen next!? Haesu is his first love and she just admitted to killing the village head! And now HS needs MJ's help... will he help? He does seem genuinely sorry, to the point that he's given MJ back the tape as well... Will they team up and find the REAL accomplice and get down to the real truth of it all? Also, Jiwon is tracking Hyunsoo... she knows he's at Moojin's apartment now... Ugh. And what is Jiwon burning!? I'm honestly dying to know.

HS knows his wife is closing in on his truths... and he's getting scared now. Because the loving and happy life that he's known now for the past 10+ years is slowly unraveling and he's about to lose it all. I'm praying he doesn't. I'm praying they stay together. I'm praying she helps him and gets him buttloads of therapy and that he gets to stay in his safe place. Cannot WAIT til tomorrow's episode! I can't believe we're almost over halfway through the show already. It's going too fast, but not finding out enough! Haha. Ready for tomorrow’s ep, but that ending caption of them saying their goodbyes as Baek Heeseong and Cha Jiwon stabbed me in the heart. No. Please don’t break up my couple. It hurts. T_T

[judgement-free-sideblog]

Blood, tears and sea breeze

Warnings: ANGST, mental health issues, graphic depictions of violence, blood, cursing, mentions of sexual assault, mentions of sex, substance abuse.

Summary: The not so peaceful town of Broadchurch face dead again, while Alec Hardy continues his journey to redemption will this school teacher be the key to solve the mystery or just another victim of the ever watching evilness that seems to reside in the town.

First Previous Last

Chapter 22: Handkerchief

"Jonathan Norbury arrived at Broadchurch five years ago, to open an electronic shop owned by his father, replacing a mildly successful motorcycle shop" The lawyer had put an unbelieving emphasis in the word successful, you asume it was on purpose to get a reaction from the man being question, and sitting two meters away from Jonathan you knew she was successful in railing him up "He had, by his own account" She pointed at the speaker where they had played one more time his voicemail to Ashley "An unpleasant experience with woman in a bar that inspire him to go to AA, and therefore had a religious awakening that result in meeting Y/N, Y/L/N" you start crushing a napkin you had in your hand, and DS Miller must have seen how nervous you were because she hold on your hand in hers and gave you a little squeeze, "That woman he meet turn out to be your sister, is that correct Mr. Langford" she addressed the man who was completely bsorbed by his own hands.

It had been almost five months since they pull a very wrecked Ashley away from you, five months of endless paperwork, four since you were actually free to walk without a police officer escorting you, and only one since the actual system to punish those responsible for Jonathan was in motion. They even have someone of his first AA group who testified about the drunk girl story, and you suspect it was because of Paul that he came forward, and you were glad to at least still having him.

"Yes" he responded completely uninterested

"Does Jonathan Norbury had any further contacts with your sister after that?" She asked trying to not loose her patience with him and with his attitude.

"No"

"Excellent. Then after he meet mis Y/L/N and start an amorous relationship with her and make your acquaintance did you or your sister ever brought this incident back?" You wanted to look up but somehow your eyes felt glued to your feet. "Or maybe when he proposed to mis Y/L/N after all you were friends since ypur early childhood, surely the dubious past of his partner was something important to discuss with her"

"No, we ... I didn't mention it" he said and you pull all of your strength in looking up, fearful of throwing up when you met his eyes, but you only saw that odd little boy always on the shadow of his parents, and even after all he had done you felt sorry for him, he met your gaze and look aside immediately with something almost as remorse in them "We knew his father threatened him with with stopping his allowance if he stayed with Y/N, and well I hope that if he actually left the store I could bought it back, that's why I asked him to my place to drink a few beers when he and Ash started sha... I mean a relationship" it was like a tap opening, once he started he was unstoppable, and his own attorney was so aware of it that he just kept looking at his phone.

"Ashley ... she began an affair with him, she had worked with Y/N older doctor before, I never really knew how she knew him, but she gave her ruffies so she could sneak out with him."

"So when did you start taking advantage of Miss Y/L/N" the tap was closed. And you held his look, this time you would definitely throw up, but you felt a tingle in the back of your neck, he was looking at you, he didn't think less of you, he had said it over and over again while you were questioned for those exact circumstances, but now his intense look on the back of your head make you believe it.

"I ..." he went silent for almost a whole minute and you thought that maybe he wouldn't answer "After a month or so of their affair, Jonathan asked me to look after her because he was never truly okay with her being drugged... I didn't planned it, but I have loved Y/N since the first moment I saw her, I know that what I did was wrong, but it was the only way she would be mine, I never hurt her..."

"Do you realize that you took advantage of a drugged, mentally ill woman? I'm sorry but I fail to see how just not hitting her or pointing a gun at her is not hurting her"

It seems like his lawyer was about to comment on something but a quick look at the dead glare of the judge made him realize he shouldn't.

"Why did you record her?"

"It was all for me, the editing and the voice came after, when Ashley... she said it would make Y/N look guiltier..."

"Please do continue, what where you expecting to get with all of this?"

"The plan was" Charles had said almost relieved of the change of subject, "Well it was my idea more or less... to pretend Jonathan had an accident on his way to london the day he disappeared, so they collected some of his blood in the week prior to set the scene, Ashley volunteered at a hospital at some point before Uni so she knew how... but he well he found out about me and Y/N and he dump Ashley he was really mad at us" he said, almost like he wouldn't understand why he was so angry with them.

Ashley was useless past that point in her questioning, she seemed incapable of accepting that Jonathan had in fact broken up their affair, that's why she was not at court that day, but at that point Charles seemed completely over with the whole situation and began confessing everything.

"Jonathan had sex with Ashley before she went out with Y/N, I guess he knew she will act ou so he tried to keep her happy for as long as possible... so she would not be suspicious about him. Then he went back to Y/N place to try to explain everything to her, but she was still at work, he call her to break up with her but she stop answering so he left that voicemail, but she ignored him, that's why he tried to stop her from hurting Y/N again... Ashley sent me to stop him from telling the truth, I made him write the letter leaving Y/N... I wasn't completely sober at the time, he had told me that night he saw us that he was leaving with her and I didn't want him to take her away from me, so I took him to his shop... he was very desperate he even tried to convince me to let him go, he said he will give me the shop back..." He said and the knot in your stomach became tighter, the air was no longer filling your lungs "I didn't mean to, but he start saying thos awful things about me... I just... when I realized how hard I was holding his neck he was no longer moving, I tried to give him CPR but it didn't work..."

"Miss Y/L/N you can't leave the room!" you heard your attorney scream far away but you needed air and a bathroom, fortunately there was one very close, you wonder how common would vomiting would be for that to happen, but you couldn't think it trough because another round of retches made you empty the nice breakfast Beth had gave you that morning, after insisting in going to your place at dawn to help you get ready.

When you look up ther was a white handkerchief ready for you, he had followed you with quick and silent steps and was now there doing those perfect little things that certainly made your life easier.

"Thank you" you said embarrassed, and you felt glad that you were embarrassed because you had vomited and not for all the other things.

"Are you okay?... I mean you're obviously not, but I..."

"I'm better now DI Hardy, truly" you said walking towards the sink and opening the faucet to wash your hands "I have read his confession but somehow listening to him made it real... I don't know, I'm being stupid"

"You are not, this would be hard hard for anyone, I have been wanting to punch that bastard for the past thirty minutes" he said and he gave you that almost smile he had, and once again you thought that he may finally kiss you, like he had been doing for the past four months, not like the bathroom in a courtroom was the most romantic of places, but you have wanted that. Again that part of you that just wanted to leave it all behind, that part that desperately wanted peace, that part that hold on to his words on that cell it's only you...

"DI Hardy this is the ladies bathroom!, come out at once, they are waiting" Beth Latimer said opening the door and pulling you out, it was for the best truly, any possible future with him must be at pause until this whole thing would be over, and you were glad to see the annoyance in his face, maybe this time he also wanted something else to happen.

"Are you able to continue miss Y/L/N?"

"Yes, I'm so sorry for the interruption" you said and took your sit.

"Fine, what does miss Langford did after you told him about mister Norbury decease?" She paus as of waiting for you to exit again, but you just shrugged.

"She blamed Y/N for his death, she said she had to pay for it, so she asked me to move the body to her place and she cut him, she put the blood on the floor and the letter she drive to Y/N school and gave her a small dose so she would be conscious but disoriented and left her at the bus stop, when she get home she saw me, she tried to help him, she punched me, and I did what Ashley told me, I gave her the letter and put her ring in one pocket and gave her the bracelet, Ashley said it was important to gave it to her."

You realize the tears in your eyes but this time you could only look at him, there was no room in your heart for anger or hate, there was only pain, even when you could imagine a happier life and a future the pain will be there, for evere and for ever, because you loved Ashley as part of your family, even when she hated you, and you loved Jonathan, his eyes, his bad jokes, even his darkest demons he thought he should hide from you, you loved him more after knowing about them, because it was all part of him and of his heart, his beautiful heart that was no longer with you.

In the end even when they were locked away for ever you would never be happy about it, because losing them would not make you happy, you would never have him next to you in the morning, or a tea with her in the afternoon, and you realized she had won in one thing, she had tarnished all your memories, and you will have to live with that for ever, she took everything from you, even her.

****

"So what about the lipstick, the sex toys, and all the other evidence presented here??" Derek asked looking at the pile of evidence that seem to delivery lead to nowhere. "Was all of this useful in the end??"

"Yes and no." Miller said offering a cup of tea "Langford wanted Y/N to look more guilty making the case apparently hard to make her look less like a victim" so she make everything more complicated than it had to be."

"Well at least it was impossible to exonerate her from Norbury's murder" Harford said putting down the Echo of that morning, the trial had been long and emotional but with good results at least for them as law enforcement. "But I still can't believe they have to wait that long for sentence them for the murder of Y/N parents"

"All on his time I guess" Derek said and took a biscuit from the tray Miller had "The teacher is leaving town after all isn't it?"

"Yeah, Alec... DI Hardy is leaving her at the station, is the best for her I guess" Miller said maybe a bit disappointed since her life had been almost perfect for the past half of the year, after a couple days at he hospital she and Brian have been happy and at peace, she even took a couple days off to go to Scotland with her kids.

She wish the same for him, however she agreed that Y/N was not ready for another relationship so soon, she just hope Hardy would be fine on his own.

***

"You have everything dear?" Beth asked for the twelfth time

"I do Beth, passport, clean clothes, money, everything"

"Fine" she said more sad than angry "You really don't have to go that far to teach, just go to the next city I'm sure the don't know your name."

"I'm pretty sure they do, but hey I will call when I get to London and again when I land in France, I promise" Beth gave her one last hug goodbye and let Paul talk to her.

"Don't" Y/N said before he could start, "None of this, of any of this is your fault, thank you for being by my side, thank you for being in my life. I love you Paul"

"I truly love you too, there is nice congregation in the town you'll be working, I email the reverend and he will look after you" he said happy.

"Thanks dad" she said, but she was way to move to make another snarky remark. "Beth help me with her luggage" he said to left room for her and Hardy to have a proper goodbye.

"Are you planning on kissing me Detective?" She asked out of the blue, just the kind of question and attitude that he had learned to love.

"I..." he thought about not responding but he was sure this may be his only chance and the other were thankfully far apart. "I was thinking about doing it, but now I won't" he said happy to make her blink perplex.

"Well you should rethink that since I'm leaving for a whole semester, maybe I'll found a handsome French village boy and I don't come back" she said playing along.

"That may be good for you" he said killing the joke. "Y/N I'm to old, to sick and too stubborn not just for you but for everyone, when you said you would leave I was sad, but also glad, you deserve to be happy and not going feeling like you have to comeback."

"And what if I want to? What if I'm happy to be with you no matter how old, how sick and how stubborn you could be? That's not up to you DI Hardy... if I come back Alec, it will be because I want it no matter what you or anyone else has to say, I have spent most of my life listening to others, waiting, being cautious I'm done doing that I'm done being afraid" she said and short the distance between the two.

"I can't" he said pressing his forehead to hers, "I love you Y/N, if I kiss you now I would never be at peace knowing you are gone, it will consume me, you are right, you have to leave, I'll be right here, not waiting, hoping"

"You are the worst detective" she said and gave him a kiss on his cheek "and I think I love you too, I promise you I'll see you again" she said and run inside the train the fast that she could so she wouldn't regret her choice. And a few minutes later he, broadchurch, and blue sea sky were gone.

Tag list:

@allonsymexgirl @laciesaito @dazedkrosupreme @timey-wimey-lovi @coffees-and-constellations @acid-gurkerl @moonuvert @tennantious @nonstoplover @locawriter @tf18unipups @dazedkrosupreme

[moscnios]

                                             SEE YOU AGAIN ━ﾞ

⁺◟   CHARACTERS . . .           guido mista           fem!reader

⁺◟   GENRE . . .           angst           oneshot

⁺◟   SYNOPSIS . . .           life is unfair and mista learns that           the hard way after the love of his           life is killed before his very eyes.

⁺◟   CONTENT WARNINGS . . .           graphic descriptions of death ‘ blood

⁺◟   WORD COUNT . . .           2.1k.

⁺◟   COMMENTARY . . .           i used his epilogue outfit because the           purple and blue is SUPERIOR !!! and           deserved more screentime. also i don’t           know what it is about these types of           oneshots like i literally have to hold           myself back from breaking my own           heart.

The sky was various shades of pink, purples, blues, and oranges. They all meshed well together, behind the setting sun and pure white clouds.

The tides from the beach came further than they had all day, the small children running from the water while screaming and cheering. Other children crying and throwing tantrums as since the sun was setting the beach was going to close soon. The smell of the sea had filled the nose of a lone tan-skinned man, setting close by the beach.

The man sat the closest table to the beach, looking out into the sea. Unlike he usually did, the man let his short black hair feel the breeze from the sea. His hat, which was different than the one he wore just a year ago, sat on the table just to the side of him.

His hat had a diagonal grid pattern to it with the front shaped like a purple downward arrow. He wore a turtle crop top sweater, similar to his hat both in color and design. On his legs, he wore tiger-striped leather pants where a short-barreled purple revolver sat in his side pocket. On his feet were dark boots that he bought recently.

Sitting in front of him sat two slices of strawberry cake. One slice sat in front of him while the other slice sat across from him on the other side of the table as if he was waiting for someone. In reality, he wasn’t waiting for anyone.

He had done it ever since last year. He would come to this very seaside restaurant, sit in this very table, and watch the slice across from him while he ate the one in front of him in silence. The staff at the restaurant at first worried for him, but now they had become accustomed to the man’s behavior.

A certain waitress even took it upon herself to plate the slices in two plates, a place a rose and candle in the middle of the table in hopes of making the man feel better, but it never worked.

A lone tear fell from his eye, down his cheek, as his head slowly fell below his head.

From inside his head, he could hear a woman’s voice.

“Giorno, protect Mista!”

Those three words had haunted him since the minute they left the mouth of the woman who had said them.

The love of his life.

( y/n ).

The woman who opened his eyes. Though their first meeting was not ideal, she had changed his life.

She had witnessed Mista kill three men in order to save a woman. When the first gunshot sounded, she immediately ran and hide behind a dumpster. She peered over the side of it, watching Mista shoot the three men with perfect accuracy. Her eyes fell onto the woman who was shaking and in bad condition and how she thanked Mista, meaning he helped her, he wasn’t the one hurting her.

But she also had witnessed him being captured by police. She was one of the few people who had believed in him and wanted him to be proven innocent.

Without a second thought, she had run to a familiar man, the same man who helped her off the street and gave her a home, Bruno Bucciarati and she informed him on the incident, pretty much begging him to help use Passione’s influence to help change Mista’s verdict and help him out of his sentence.

Her pleas did not fall upon deaf ears, Bucciarati had done just as she wished, swaying the verdict and giving Mista on a Stand fit for gunman like himself.

Sex Pistols.

Bucciarati had officially introduced the two one another and had informed Mista if it wasn’t for her, he wouldn’t have known about his incident and wouldn’t have been able to sway the verdict in his favor.

( y/n ), the first of Bucciarati’s recruits. She was one of his neighbors and had often gone fishing alongside him and his father when they were younger. His home was like a second home for her, because she hated being home.

After Bucciarati’s father had passed away, he joined Passione and she had followed him in suit, much to his dismay. She proved herself to be an amazing addition with a Stand with an innocent-looking appearance, but it was anything but that. She was the first to officially join his team, helping him recruit the others.

She is known to be very open and accepting, and Bucciarati’s right hand.

She was.

( y/n ) had passed away a year ago, alongside her teammates, Bucciarati, Abbacchio, and Narancia. Her death had devastated the team, rather what was left of the team, Mista included.

She was the person who Mista had bought the extra slice of cake for.

It was known to the entire team how the two felt for one another. It was obvious. No matter how hard they tried to hide it. The lingering glances, the blushing, the “subtle” flirting, the hand holding and small touches that Narancia would catch, their protectiveness of one another, the way she would play in his hair, their dates to the very restaurant he sat in a year later that they tried to disguise as patrol for Stand users. It was even obvious to Giorno, the newcomer.

Even if it was obvious, neither of them were bold enough to process their relationship publicly.

She was the light of his life and she was taken away from him just as fast as the speed of light.

She sacrificed herself as a decoy against Cioccolata, only thinking of the man she had loved with all of her heart and not about herself.

Weakened, as blood had poured out of the sides of his head, he could not run after her. And that’s when she said her last words.

“I love you, Guido Mista.”

He reached out for her. His eyes were wide as he stared at the sight in front of him. It was as if time had slowed itself, as the scene before him happened slow motion. He watched as the disembodied arm, cut deep into the neck of ( y/n ), slicing through.

Tears had formed in his eyes as he watched her stop struggling, her body just...standing for a brief moment to everyone else, but to him, it felt like an eternity. Her head fell off her shoulders, falling onto the ground, rolling toward him slightly.

Her hands trembled at the sight, his dark eyes looking into the now lifeless dull ( e/c ) ones of his partner. Her mouth was agape, allowing the blood left in her head to drain out. The rest of her body finally fell, blood gushing out of her now open neck.

The first yell for her had been from Number Five, tears flowing down the cheeks of the small entity as it cried out for her as if she could hear.

Mista opened his mouth to scream, to shout, to speak, to whisper, but nothing came out. Streams of tears decorated his cheeks as he crawled to ( y/n ), desperately in hopes that despite how bad the situation looked, she would be okay, she would wake up, this was just some sort of dream.

She wasn’t really gone. There was no way. She was too strong to go out like...this.

After Cioccolata was taken care of, Giorno rushed to heal Mista. The tanned man refused. He wanted to die. He couldn’t live in a world without her.

He didn’t want to live in a world without her.

He held her head close to him, finally finding his voice. He cried for her until he couldn’t cry anymore. He screamed for her till his voice went hoarse. Even then, he whispered until he couldn’t anymore until the words no longer came out and it was just tears. Even if all he wanted was for there to be a way for Giorno to bring her back, he knew that wasn’t possibly. If it was, the blonde would have already done it instead of just standing there and letting him mourn.

As he held her in his hands for one last time, the many memories ran through his head. Her smile, her laugh, just everything about her. One memory in particular that appeared over and over was one where she laid next to him on the beach in the sand, looking at the sunset as she confided in him her past and her hopes for the future.

“I don’t want this life anymore. I want out of Passione. I...I want a better life for myself. I want a job that I don’t have to hide anyone. I want one that I can proudly show off and say that I have. Something cool! Like a doctor or a nurse! Maybe even a firefighter or an engineer! Of course, I’ll have to go to university but I’ve been saving up so I think I have enough to go now. I’m just scared to tell Bucciarati, I just want him to be proud of me...but you’ll support me, right?”

“Of course I will. I’ll follow you every step of the day,” He told her.

But her dreams never came true. She never got to go off to university. She never got to hold her degree, not even step foot inside a university classroom. Her life was just truly beginning, but it was taken away from her in a split second.

When it was all over, ( y/n ) was buried next to Bucciarati on the hilltop of a cemetery, separated from the other deceased.

Mista could not attend her funeral. He couldn’t bring himself to watch them put the love of his life in the ground and cover her with dirt. He couldn’t do it without wanting to jump in after her.

On the day of her funeral, he spent at the seaside restaurant that she adored and where they had many dates away from the team. She had only chosen this place because they served the best strawberry cake and she knew that he loved the strawberry cake.

He listened to the waves crash onto the shore, daydreaming about what could have been. Daydreaming of what it would have been like to have been Diavolo and still have her sitting in front of him with that bright smile of hers. But that was never going to happen.

The first few months of her death, he blamed himself for her death. If he was stronger, there would have been no need for her to protect him and use herself as a decoy. The image of her last moments haunted him to this day. Having to see her decapitated was not an easy sight. Watching her face drop, watching her eyes come lifeless and lose their color.

With the help of Giorno, Mista slowly began to recover and returned to himself, a bit more mature than how he was before. Witnesses the deaths of his friends and his lover had contributed to him maturing.

Mista let out a small sigh, losing his appetite. He pulled out the revolver in his pocket, emptying the barrel, six small entities coming out, and jumping onto the slice of strawberry cake, eating away. All except for one, Number Five.

Number Five, known as the crybaby of the bunch, had simply floated in the air next to Mista, watching its user with sad eyes. The sea breeze blew past, sending shivers down the Stand’s small body. As it shivered, a translucent appeared out of the corner of its eye.

Now sitting across the table was a translucent figure of a familiar woman with a bruised neck, looking at the man across the table with eyes full of admiration and love. A gasp left the entity’s mouth.

Mista picked his head up, looking to Number Five, “What’s wrong?”

Number Five pointed across the table, “Y-You don’t see that?”

Mista followed the entity’s pointed figure, finding nothing at the end, “See what? There’s nothing there. You should probably eat, you’re imagining things. ( y/n ) always did say you had quite the imagination compared to the others.”

The translucent figure giggled.

“M-M-Mista―!”

“I wonder if she’s here right now watching me eat at her favorite place. If I had a second chance I’d yell it to the world how much I love her. I just wish she didn’t leave.”

Her hand caressed his cheek slightly, her touch nonexistent. While it hurt she could no longer touch him and have him feel her, she was happy to just be in his presence.

“I never left, Mista. One day...one day I’ll see you again. Hang on until then, okay?”

⁺◟   BACK TO NAVIGATION . . .

[vesuviannights]

Can we get a number 4 with the bet being between Lucio and Julian towards the MC? I really hope I'm doing this right.... First ask I've ever done.....

Anon #2 I know you said or but WHY NOT BOTH?  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Lucio/You/Julian. Gender Neutral reader (no pronouns or body parts, just nipples). Lemon.

Julian, cocky as ever, makes a bet with Lucio that he can make you come just by sucking your nipples alone. Lucio, always turned on by delayed gratification, accepts the bet and extends the terms. (Told from Lucio’s point-of-view, but still 2nd person for you as the reader).

Featuring: nipple sucking, semi-public sex and masturbation, orgasm denial and edging.

**

“I bet you a week’s worth of orgasms I can make our love come from nipple sucking alone.”

Lucio doesn’t know why he does it, but before he can stop himself a deep snort erupts from his chest and a roll has thrown his eyes off to the side, and he sneers at Julian, “Three weeks says you can’t.”

Julian’s delighted laugh is almost lost to Lucio’s own hurried thoughts, waves of No no no! You absolute moron, three whole weeks?! Why would you even—

Julian’s lips slide against his, tongue tracing the seam of Lucio’s lips and cutting off his partly horrified thoughts. The doctor’s dumbass cocky smirk—one Lucio knows for sure was half-learned from himself—tells Lucio that Julian knows the exact thoughts crossing his debauched mind.

“You’re just a slut for punishment at this point, aren’t you?” Julian murmurs to him. He sighs against Lucio’s lips then catches the bottom one between his teeth, rolling it to earn a delighted little moan.

And as he pulls back and swaggers off toward where you hover at the edge of the room—his eyebrow cocked, hand pushing through his hair, patch pushed up so that he can use both eyes to devour you—Lucio sways on the spot, black spots popping in his vision from the wave of desire that crashes through him.

He tries to rearrange his features into a glare, but he thinks—he thinks all he manages is a flushed pout—

He—

Get it together, stand straight, straight—

I mean, you’re not, but—

“My love! How is our guest treating you this evening?”

How has Jules already made it over there?!

Swallowing the thick lump in his throat—the one that is strangely horny for something that is merely a lump—Lucio slinks over to the columns on the edge of the room, the ones you yourself have been pressed up against by Julian.

The doctor, one arm beside your head, both eyes devouring you, has his knee bent and pressed up into your crotch, the other hand on his lip, and every one of his teeth glinting in the candlelight. Lucio can’t hear a word he is saying, but it’s clear by the crimson flush racing across your cheeks and chest that it is quite possibly Julian’s filthiest and smoothest work to date.

Twenty seconds and already our love is a stuttering mess beneath your wicked gaze and words. I’m not surprised, but couldn’t you at least be a little louder?

As though sensing his thoughts, Julian angles his body just enough to catch Lucio’s eye, the movement revealing Lucio to you. His eyes lock with yours, taking in the part of your lips, the quivering breaths that shake you. Julian—his eyes never leaving Lucio’s—reaches up to push a strand of hair from your face, and is rewarded almost instantly when you swoon and lean into his hand.

That, of all things, is what gets Lucio’s cock twitching, what has him pressing himself closer to the column and barely managing to conceal his shallow thrusts and grinds as he tries to get himself off.

He barely even realises he’s doing it, too obsessed with watching the scene unfold in front of him, caught in the arousal and allure of Julian angling your head so he can tilt his lips against yours, so he can slide a hand under whatever material he can find, making you gasp and part your lips so that he can delve further into your mouth and suckle softly on your tongue.

From the seemingly distant roar of the party, someone calls Lucio’s name, and the slow and delicate waltz between the three of you quickly becomes a near disastrous tango.

Julian yanks you away from the column and walks you back, his stalking strides long and predatory as he moves you further into the shadows and away from prying eyes, but there is nowhere you will be safe from the sounds of your own cries. Lucio follows, darting from column to column, a slip in the shadows, palming himself through the painfully tight material of his dress pants, barely concealing his whines.

When he finds the right shadow and you are unveiled to him again, head thrown back in a half-concealed corner as Julian begins to work your clothes off your upper half, Lucio leans back against another column across the aisle, perfectly in view as he works the buttons of his pants until his achingly hard cock springs free.

Away from the immediate cacophony of the party, he can hear your soft little moans, the sweet coos and amused little laughs as Julian unwraps you with a delicacy Lucio would certainly not have. If he was there, if he had been smart enough to challenge the dare instead of guaranteeing himself three weeks of orgasm denial because of Julian’s talented fucking lips and your overly sensitive fucking nipples, he could have been the one pressed up against you, suckling your neck and bare shoulders, working his way down to those pebbled nipples, causing you to whimper and groan and keen without ever having to touch another part of you.

“No hands, Jules,” Lucio groans out. “Remember the deal.”

Your eyes lift to lock with his, dark and accusing, as though you somehow hadn’t known exactly who had provoked such a wicked attack, and in response he tilts his head back against the cool marble behind him and begins gently thrusting into his own hand, a lazy movement that almost feels like he has already resigned himself to those three weeks of delectable torture.

“Oh ho ho, I remember the deal,” Julian chuckles. “I shall have our love keening and whimpering and sighing without so much as a single touch to anywhere except right. Here.”

Julian’s teeth nip at the skin around your nipples, and when you try to dig your hands into his hair to push him closer—barely seeming to register his words, to Lucio’s absolute delight—Julian snatches your wrists from the air and pins them to your sides.

And that is where his true work begins.

The flat of Julian’s tongue presses against your pebbled nipple, swirling once, twice, three times, before latching on and beginning to suckle. You cry out, a sound matched by Lucio’s own a moment later as he squeezes and milks his cock, his movements quickly becoming more frenzied, more desperate.

And as Julian switches to your other nipple, worshipping it with the same exquisite torture, Lucio swaps his hands, the cool metal of his glove sliding along his cock, drawing whimpers and moans and your name from somewhere deep within his chest, over and over and over again.

“Maybe we can play our own game, my love?” Julian asks, and it’s clear his words are for you. He traces a circle around your nipple with the tip of his tongue, then pulls back to blow gently. You cry out, a wretched sob that is intermingled with his name, with Lucio’s, with something that isn’t quite a please but is the closest you can manage in your current state.

“Lucio is set to lose three weeks’ worth of orgasms, should you come by my mouth on your nipples alone.” Julian switches to your other nipple, repeating his actions, adding in a scrape of his canines that pulls at your taut flesh. “Perhaps if you can come before he makes a mess all over his own hand, you could be the one to tell him no each time we fuck him in those three weeks?”

The greedy little noises are escaping your throat before Lucio even has a chance to comprehend what Julian has said—and your desperate cries of yes, yes, please, make me come, please— make Lucio stutter, make his chest tight.

“That’s not fair!” Lucio groans, and there’s a needy little whine that is so clearly woven between his words that he doesn’t bother to deny it, even to himself.

Julian gives an amused hum around your nipple before pulling back with a soft pop. “Mmmm, neither is using our poor love’s sensitive nipples and inability to resist my devious little tongue in order to amuse yourself at a dull party you threw.”

And then Julian returns to your pebbled nipples, suckling and moaning and humming his approval into them as he lavishes each one with his tongue, with little nips, flicking them with scrapes of his teeth as he drags them down, up, down—

Lucio growls beneath his breath, but his hand and matching thrusts have already become erratic again, gaze locked with yours as he tries to fuck himself to orgasm before you crash over the edge, as he tries to figure out through your gaze and sounds alone how close you are, how fast he has to move, how well he can distract you with his little whines and purrs of your name—

Your first cry tumbles from your lips, followed by the crack of your head as you throw it back against the marble column, every muscle in your body seizing in the throes of your orgasm.

“Yes, yes my love, that’s it, scream for us—” Julian’s teeth catch on your nipple and pull, and like a fucking puppet you keen and crash a second time, thrashing wildly against the hold he still has on your wrists.

With a guttural groan Lucio spills onto his hand, his stomach, his dishevelled clothes where they are gathered around him from where he so hastily pulled his cock out.

He whispers and groans and sighs your name, curses you, praises you, the knowledge that it will be his last orgasm for so many weeks only seeming to drive him harder, make it longer, a much larger load than normal. It draws twitches and whimpers and whines that last long after he has spilled all of his seed, the Count delighting in his post-orgasm torture almost as much as he is enjoying you watching him in his desperation, the humiliation of humping his own hand like a horny fucking adolescent.

The world goes dark as Lucio closes his eyes, shuddering breaths rolling through his body. He pushes the sweat-matted hair from his face with his clean hand, and when he opens his eyes once more, Julian is hovering above him, canines glinting in devilish delight.

“Say a prayer for our poor Count, my love,” he calls softly to you. He carefully pries Lucio’s hand from around his own cock. Julian steps to the side to allow you to see him as he continues to work said cock—now flaccid, limp, spent—with his own hand.

Lucio groans and cries and curses, moans for Julian to stop, paws at the column behind him to try and find purchase as he begins to thrust and grind into Julian’s touch. Just one more, one more, that’s all he needs, please please please—

And it’s over so quickly. Just as his cock begins to stir and twitch back to life, Julian pulls his hand away and beckons you over. Lucio—eyes hazed, jaw tight—watches as you stumble forward, nipples and chest glistening with Julian’s saliva, littered with bite marks and purple-haze bruises from his teeth.

“Would you like to begin his three weeks of torture now by cleaning him off?” Julian questions you. “He has made such a mess of himself.”

You nod eagerly and drop to your knees, and it is everything Lucio has not to curse you out as you—hot little tongue, wicked glint to your eyes—descend on his stomach and cock and thighs, licking and cleaning the come from his skin as Julian leans over him, one hand above Lucio’s head, the other playing idly with the exposed skin of Lucio’s chest.

Because it was his fault, really.

Nevermind that Julian was clearly baiting him from the start.

Nevermind that the doctor’s suave, cocky, dumbass energy had been next-level for the past two days and clearly looking for an outlet and a poor sole to torture.

Nevermind that the moment the words only and nipples and orgasm had left Julian’s lips, Lucio should have known exactly where it would end.

Well…okay, he had known, and whatever cocky dumbass energy Julian held for making wagers and making you scream, Lucio matched in his need for attention and…well, you. In any way, in any shape, in any form, even if that meant watching you suck him off and fuck him and torture him for three weeks without any chance of relief.

Because as much as Julian had manipulated him into making the wager and upping it almost instantly, Lucio had most certainly known what he was doing when he had started fucking his own hand and Julian had suggested it be you who denied him for three whole weeks.

Ripped from his thoughts, Lucio lets out a sharp, keening cry as his abdominal muscles begin to flex and contract. “Ah—AH—”

“Stop now,” Julian commands.

No no no no no—

“Nooo no no no no no no—”

You release Lucio’s cock with a soft pop, and the Count’s jaw locks tight from the effort of not throwing the first of what is sure to be many tantrums to come. He watches as you smile so innocently up at him, following Julian’s silent instructions of gently working his stiff cock back into his pants, then buttoning those pants, and then fixing everything else—the ruffled shirt, the skewed sash of medals, even the locks of hair that had fallen out of place.

“There,” you murmur, before placing a soft kiss to Lucio’s nose. “Much more presentable. Now we’re ready to re-join the party.”

Julian lets out a delighted little moan, his body rolling as he eyes you over, seemingly having forgotten Lucio already as he steps up to you with an easy swagger. “Mmmm, as much as I enjoy that glorious chest of yours, perhaps you should also make yourself presentable?”

To your credit, you only flush a little, and Lucio is left dissatisfied once more, not even able to watch the lovely haze of red as it spreads across your cheeks and chest.

“Ready, Lyusya?” Julian asks.

Lucio rolls his eyes at the name but says nothing, pushing himself away from the column. Julian pulls him in for a slow kiss, one where his tongue sweeps into Lucio’s mouth, where his teeth catch that kiss-swollen bottom lip, pulling tight before stepping away.

“I don’t think we’ve ever tried three weeks of denial before,” Julian comments, almost conversationally as the three of you move back toward the party. “Perhaps we’ll require a chastity cage this time?”

You hum and bounce in delight at the thought, and it’s only this that stops Lucio’s displeased look from becoming a complete sneer and a borderline storm-off.

It won’t be pleasant, with or without the cage, but perhaps…if that is the noise you make for him each time he is denied, and if this is the warmth in his chest he experiences every time Julian’s eyes rake him over like a delicious fucking meal he would devour on repeat for eternity…

Perhaps he can accept the unpleasantness, and the unequivocal and chaotic love it brings him.

**

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